Big Guy (3 page)

I'm just turning onto Walnut Street when a pickup truck cuts me off, veering sharply into my lane. I hit the brakes hard. The car swerves and starts to skid. I'm drunk, I think. I take my foot off the brakes and wrestle the car back under control. I pull to a careful stop at the side of the road. I'm shaking all over, sitting with my head against the steering wheel. God.

Mick Jagger just keeps on singing. I open the door and puke my guts into the gutter. Then I leave the car at the side of the road and walk the last two miles home.

The next day I oversleep. I have to catch a bus to pick up my car. Don't even have time to go online. I show up at work twenty minutes late, with a jackhammer headache and a stomach full of acid.

Francine greets me coldly. She is wearing mint green today. Her thin blond hair is pulled back tightly, penciled-on eyebrows arching above eye shadow the same color as her dress.

“You're with Mrs. Buckley this morning,”

she says, dropping a stack of papers on her desk but not sitting down. “Cleaning. She's been hiding food again and her unit stinks to high heaven.”

My stomach rolls in protest at the thought. “And after that?”

“We'll need help in the dining room. We're short-staffed.” She lifts her chin and, despite being about a foot shorter, somehow manages to look down her nose at me. “I should remind you, Derek, that you are on a probationary period. Further lateness will not be tolerated.”

“Sorry,” I mutter.

I spend a couple of hours picking moldy bits of food out of Mrs. Buckley's radiators and dresser drawers, and wondering if Aaliyah told Francine that she didn't want to see me again.

Mrs. Buckley keeps complaining that I'm trying to starve her.

“You're just like all the others,” she says bitterly. “Everyone wants to get rid of me.” Her faded blue eyes brim with tears.
The desire to defend myself flickers and dies. We sit in silence for a moment, contemplating half a bagel sticking out from beneath a pile of clothes.

“Mrs. Buckley,” I say tentatively.

She looks startled, as if she had already forgotten that I was there. “Yes, dear.”

“Would you mind, I mean, would it be okay if I just ran out for a couple of minutes? To talk to someone?”

She pats her white curly hair. “Of course. I'll be just fine.”

I wonder if she'll take all the food out of the garbage bag and hide it again as soon as I leave the room. “Thanks.”

Out in the hallway, I hesitate. Jesus Christ. What am I doing? But here I am, walking down the hall, knocking quietly on Aaliyah's door and hoping Francine doesn't come by and see me.

“Come in,” Aaliyah calls.

I open her door and slip inside, walk down the hallway to her bedroom. She is still in her pyjamas, lying on her bed reading a book. When I walk in, she puts the book down and stares at me.

“You again.”

I shrug. “I'm not supposed to, I mean, I'm not here to help you today.” I wince at my choice of words. “I mean, Francine didn't tell me to come.”

She just waits.

I turn away and put my hand on the blinds. “You want these open?”

“Yes.”

I yank on the cord, pull the blinds up. Outside, the rain pours down.

“It's the twenty-seventh consecutive day of rain,” Aaliyah says from behind me. “If it rains for two more, it'll be a record.”

I turn slowly back toward her and rest one hand on the edge of her bed. “I'm sorry,” I say. “About yesterday.”

She looks at me steadily.

“When you said you hadn't always been... you know.”

Aaliyah shifts her head on her pillow. “Disabled?”

“Yeah. And I didn't say anything.”

“Yes.”

There is a long silence. I look over at the
dresser but the photograph is gone. “I saw the photo. On the boat.”

“
Carpe Diem
,” she says. She laughs. “There's a certain irony in that, I suppose.”

“Huh?”

She gives a short laugh. “Her name. The boat. My fiancé's boat.”

I'm still staring at her blankly and she shrugs, sighs. “It means seize the day.”

I meet her eyes. “Your fiancé. That was him in the picture?”

“Yes.”

“What...” I falter.

“You want to know what happened? With my fiancé or to me?”

I've never noticed before, but she's got these amazing dark eyes. “To you.”

She studies me. “How come you want to know now?”

I hesitate. “I don't know. I just...I can't stop thinking about it.” I shake my head, my cheeks hot. “It's none of my business. I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing here.”

She just keeps looking at me and there's something like pity on her face.

I stand up and back away slowly. “I'm sorry. I'll go. I just, you know, I didn't expect to see someone young here. I mean, it makes you think, you know? Like...I totally could have crashed my car last night. And I just thought...”

She looks past me, out the window. Her voice is like glass: sharp, fragile, cutting. “You want to know what happened to me. You want to hear that I did something stupid. So you can go on feeling like you're going to be fine. Like it would never happen to you. Like you're safe.”

Outside, the rain pours down. It fills the gutters, streams from the corners of roofs, overflows the puddles in the parking lot below. I want to tell her she's wrong, that's not what I meant, but I don't say anything. I close my eyes, see blackness, feel my heart thudding wildly.

“You'll have to figure out your own life,” she says, “I've got enough to deal with. Nothing personal, but I don't need your crap to deal with too.”

When I leave work at 4 pm, the rain is still sluicing down. I walk out the door and stand in the parking lot for a few minutes, letting the cool water stream down my face, over my shoulders, down my back. If Aaliyah was looking out her window, she'd see me standing down here like a big fat idiot. I shake my head, water flying from my too-long hair, and get in my car.

I log on at our usual time, almost without
thinking about it. Almost forgetting, again, that I have to end this. To tell you the truth, it's kind of weird how easy it is just to pretend that everything is fine.

Until Ethan's message pops up on the screen.

hey there cutie. i printed ur pic and
now i can look at you while we talk.

I feel sick. It's just starting to sink in: I've wrecked everything. Wrecked the one really good thing in my life. Even if the wedding got cancelled, even if Ethan decided not to visit after all...somehow I don't think things could go back to being the way they were. Not for me. I feel like I'm just faking it all now, like I'm pretending to be someone else.

And the worst part is, other than Gabi, Ethan was the only person I could be myself with. Now that's gone.

So I lie, which is something that living with my dad teaches you to do pretty well.

hey ethan. dont let my good looks
distract u from my witty and
intelligent words
no chance. well...sorry, what were u
saying?
ROFL.

I almost smile despite myself. Rolling on the floor laughing.

It couldn't be further from the truth.

The next day I show up to work on time. Francine gives me a curt nod.

“Well, I don't know what you did, but you sure charmed Mrs. Buckley yesterday.”

“I did?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Francine's red painted lips stretch thin as she smiles at me. “So I thought you could do her bath this morning. She's been giving Paula, her regular, a hard time anyway.”

I shrug, trying to act like this personal care stuff is no big deal. The thing is, it weirds me out. Brushing teeth, helping with dressing, cleaning fish tanks, that's all okay. But baths and showers? Well, that's just a bit too personal.

Mrs. Buckley flashes me a sly smile as I enter her apartment. “Derek. You came back.
That's lovely.” She beckons me to come closer. “That girl Paula, she was always bossing me around. Treating me like a child.”

I nod.

“I'm eighty-six years old,” she says. “I'm not a child.”

“No. No, you're not.”

She looks sideways at me. “You won't try to boss me, will you, Derek?”

I shake my head. “No, ma'am.” I've never called anyone Ma'am before in my life. I have no idea why I just said that.

Mrs. Buckley smiles again. “I don't need a bath this morning,” she says.

“Francine said...” I begin.

She gives a little sniff. “Francine. Puffed-up little git. What does she know?”

I shrug helplessly.

“I had a bath yesterday,” Mrs. Buckley says. “Today I'm going to show you some photos.”

I spend the next hour looking at pictures of Mrs. Buckley's life. A small child posed serious-faced with groups of adults. A bride and groom standing hand in hand. A mother with a pair of toddlers clinging to her legs. A cute
dark-haired baby sitting on Santa's lap. An older couple on the deck of a sailboat. That one reminds me of Aaliyah and I shiver a little.

Mrs. Buckley's sharp eyes don't miss much. “Goose walking over your grave?”

I shake my head. “Just cold.”

“Hmm.” She looks at the clock. “You better go. Francine doesn't like it when the care workers overstay their time.”

I look at my watch. Crap. I'm really late. I nod thanks to Mrs. Buckley and run down the stairs, practically knocking over an old man at the bottom.

Francine is sitting behind her desk, drinking coffee. She shoots a sharp glance at me. “Mrs. Buckley give you any trouble?”

I shake my head, deciding not to mention that I didn't give her a bath.

Francine taps her watch but doesn't say anything, just gives me a list of appointments for the day. To my relief, Aaliyah's name isn't on it. Just thinking about yesterday makes my cheeks and neck burn. I don't know what I was thinking, going to talk to her like that.

After work, I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking. Weird things are getting to me lately. Take Aaliyah, for example. And now old Mrs. Buckley and her photographs. They keep popping into my head for no reason. It's so strange that someone can be young and have a family and do all those things and then end up all alone, stuck in a lousy little apartment with bossy care workers and a bunch of old pictures. It's depressing.

I don't want that to be me.

I pick up the phone and call Gabi. She's my best friend, I guess. We don't see each other all that often, but we've been friends forever and she's one of the few people I really talk about things with.

She picks up on the first ring. “Yellow?”

“That's so corny, that
yellow
thing. I wish you'd drop it already.”

She laughs. “Let me guess. My cheerful and always supportive friend Derek.”

“Ha ha.” I clear my throat. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Got a date. Getting together with that barista from Java Joe's. You know, the tall girl with the black hair? The really, really cute one with the eyebrow ring and the gorgeous smile?”

“Uh-huh.” Gabi, unlike me, seems to have no difficulty finding dates. Even the straight girls have crushes on her.

“What's up, Derek?”

I try to sound casual. “Nothing major. Just be good to talk to you, that's all.”

“Uh-huh. Cut the crap and tell me what's going on.”

The thing is, I'm having some trouble talking. There seems to be a golf ball lodged in my throat and it hurts to swallow.
Get a grip, you freaking idiot.

“Gabi,” I say. My voice cracks embarrassingly.

“It's your dad, isn't it? Is he drunk? What happened?” Gabi's voice rises. “Should I come over?”

“No. He's fine. Well, you know. The usual. He's passed out on the couch with the television blaring.” I pause, listening. From the living room, I can hear some reality show host encouraging the contestants to eat cockroaches.

There's a long pause.

“Derek...I can cancel this date if you want.”

“Nah, don't do that.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

Across my bedroom, the computer screen is black and empty. This is the first time in months that I haven't checked my messages the second I walked in the door.

“Okay,” I say. “Tomorrow night. Java
Joe's? Or will you be too busy flirting with your barista if we go there?”

I can picture Gabi nodding, grinning.

“She's not working tomorrow night,” she says. “See you there.”

That night, for the first time since I met Ethan, I don't even turn on my computer. I look at his picture about a hundred times though: that smile, those eyes. Instead of that giddy warm feeling I usually get when I look at him, now I just feel cold and sick.

I can't believe I could've been so stupid as to think this could ever work.

Francine greets me with her tight smile the next morning. “You're seeing Mrs. Buckley first,” she says. “Basic cleaning. She's been hiding food again.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“Then Aaliyah. She needs help getting ready for a lunch date.”

“A lunch date?”

“She's expecting you by 10 am. If you
have time in between, we're still short-staffed in the kitchen.”

“She doesn't like male care workers,” I say.

Francine looks at me oddly. “Well, she asked for you.”

I'm pretty nervous, to be honest. Something about Aaliyah really gets to me. Plus I made such an ass of myself last time I saw her. I shake my head and try to push the memory aside.

Mrs. Buckley is happy to see me, anyway. She pats her white curly hair and smiles at me as if she's invited me round for breakfast. I wish I could just drink tea and let her talk, but instead I tell her that we're supposed to be cleaning up the hidden food.