Days That End in Y (12 page)

It’s an odd sight: six-foot-tall Denise crumpled on the shoulder of my five-foot-three mother. I stare at them, two
grown women hugging it out in the women’s fitting rooms at the Bay, and I wonder what they’re not telling me.

“What’s going on? What are you going to miss?”

Denise sniffs and runs her fingers under her eyes, trying to mop up the mess of mascara and eyeliner that is travelling down her cheeks.

“Denise got a big promotion,” Mom says. “She’s moving to Mississauga in the fall.”

My mouth drops open so quickly, I can actually feel the joint pop. I probably look like one of those cartoon characters — bug eyes and my jaw dragging on the ground. It takes real effort to close it.

“You never told me,” I say, thinking of all the quality time I spent with her the other day, and she didn’t mention a single word about a promotion.

“I just accepted the job this morning,” Denise says. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and now seems like the right time.”

“What will you be doing?”

Denise tries to laugh, but all that emerges is a shaky, uncertain noise, like a choked cough. “They want me to train salespeople. Can you believe that?”

Actually, I can. “You convinced Dolly to wear lipstick after sixty years of her wearing no makeup at all. Think of what you can teach people who already love lipstick.” This is probably the nicest thing I’ve ever said to Denise. I am rewarded by a fresh bout of wailing and having my face crushed against her chest in a wet hug.

Mom puts one hand on Denise’s shoulder and strokes her hair with the other. “DeeDee, you’ve earned this! Think of the opportunity.”

Denise relaxes her grip to wipe her eyes again, and
I seize the opportunity to wriggle from her grasp. She fishes a Kleenex out of her purse, blows her nose with an enormous honk and says, “You’re right. I know you’re right. I’ve lived here my whole life, and what do I have to show for it? A crappy job, a crappy apartment and no love life.” Denise sighs. “Maybe there’s someone waiting for me in Mississauga.”

Mom smiles. “I know there is.”

Denise manages to get a grip, and the search for my dress is back on. I trail behind Mom and Denise as they sift through discount racks of sundresses. I don’t want to intrude on their time together, especially since it has an expiry date now. I’ve never noticed it before, but they talk in half-sentences, almost like their own language.

“What about—”

“Yes, but the thing—”

“You’re right, it’s too—”

“—fussy.”

“Not like that other one.”

“With the neckline?”

“Exactly.”

The saleslady is smart enough to leave us alone. I can see her watching us from a few racks over, but she has clearly been scared off by Denise’s theatrics. We find a few more options and head back to the change rooms try them on.

My favourite is a white dress with tiny straps that comes just to my knee. I’ve never worn anything so girly before, but unlike that piece of pink frosting I had on earlier, this one looks nice. I know I’ve made the right choice when I see Mom’s face light up as I come out of the stall.

“Well, look at you,” she says. “My young woman.” Then she is overcome by an embarrassing rush of mothering and
kisses my cheek repeatedly. I resist the urge to wipe it off. I admit, I like what I see in the mirror. The dress is white and floaty, but in a summery way, not a princessy way.

Denise is getting teary-eyed again. “You’re just so big,” she says. “When did you get so
big
?” I frown. Would it be so hard to say tall? What’s with all the “big” talk?

Mom twists my hair and holds it at the top of my head. “We’ll do an up-do and get you some nice earrings; you’ll be a stunner.”

Stunner. I’ve never been called that before. I like the way the word tickles the hairs at the back of my neck.

“Wait here.” Mom ducks back into the stall and emerges a moment later in her first dress, which looks very similar to mine: white, knee-length, spaghetti straps. The only major difference is Mom’s is fitted and classic, like something from a black-and-white movie, and mine is only fitted at the top, the skirt loose and breezy. We stand side by side, looking at each other in the mirror. The similar dresses emphasize our differences. Short, tall. Blond, brunette. Straight, curly.

I wonder what she sees when she looks at me. Is she reminded of my father? Does she ever wish I looked more like her? Does she ever think about him? I want so badly to ask, but now is not the time.

I wonder if there will ever be a time.

The saleslady comes in and claps her hands in approval. “How lovely. I know of a couple of wedding parties where the bride and her daughter dressed alike. It makes for a nice picture.”

“You don’t think they look too similar?” I ask.

“I think they’re perfect,” Mom says.

After we pay for our dresses, Mom turns to Denise and says, “Now, shoes!”

“
Shoes?
” I’m not up for another half-hour of trying things on and spontaneous weeping. “Can I go to the food court?” I ask.

Denise frowns. “You just had a snack. You want to be able to fit into that dress, don’t you?”

Normally I’d make a joke. I’ve always considered making fun of Denise to be my job. But the thought of not having her around to laugh at is so startling, I can’t think of a single thing to say. I feel completely thrown, like someone just told me that drinking water is actually bad for you, or England is a made-up place that never existed. Typical Denise: just when we start to get along, she decides to move hours away.

“I think Clarissa has reached her limit,” Mom says. She hands me a five-dollar bill. “Go ahead. Meet us out front in forty-five minutes.”

I hurry away before she can change her mind.

The mall is full of back-to-school shoppers and people looking to escape the heat. I wander in and out of stores aimlessly, enjoying an ice-cold Frappuccino (what my mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her) and not shopping. The back-to-school displays make my stomach turn.

Usually Mom and I do a one-stop, back-to-school shop (binders, shoes, maybe a pair of jeans). Then we have an end-of-summer barbeque with Benji and Denise, followed by my annual back-to-school haircut. School is less than two weeks away, and Mom hasn’t mentioned any of it. I wonder if she’s forgotten in all of the wedding/Denise-moving-away madness. Or maybe, because I’m going into high school, she thinks I’ll be too old. I hope not; I like the tradition. Besides, I don’t feel any older than I did last year.

I veer toward the food court, staying away from anything that looks like it could be used in a classroom. Fries will take my mind off school. Maybe even poutine.

I’m in line, trying to decide if I should get a small or a medium, when I spot Benji sitting with a boy I don’t know. He looks older; maybe he’s a senior. He’s handsome, in a boy-band kind of way, and he’s deeply tanned, with unnaturally sculpted hair. The vee of his t-shirt is a little lower than necessary.

When Benji spots me he looks surprised, then guilty, then waves me over. “Clarissa! Hi.”

“Hi. Who’s this?”

“This is Dean. He’s directing the show.”

So this is the famous Dean. Funny, they don’t appear to be doing show stuff that was so important, Benji absolutely could not miss it.

“Clarissa! It’s so nice to meet you!” Dean stands and gives me a big hug. Even after hanging out with Charity and some of Benji’s other theatre friends, I still can’t get used to how touchy they are. “Benji is always telling me hilarious things about you.”

“Oh, really?” I shoot Benji a look, wondering what exactly he’s telling this stranger that is so hilarious.

“Not ‘ha-ha’ funny,” Benji says, but he doesn’t elaborate.

“So what brings you to the mall?” Dean asks.

“Shopping,” I say flatly, not ready to share my business with this freakishly pretty stranger.

Benji laughs, but it sounds forced. “See? Hilarious!” he says weakly.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the theatre?” I ask.

“No, rehearsal ended a few hours ago, but I had some show-related errands to do, costumes and stuff, and I know that costumes are Ben’s forte, so I brought him along. Now we’re just hanging out, having some ice cream. Want a bite?” Dean offers me a spoonful of vanilla ice cream that is dripping something that looks like melted plastic, but is probably strawberry sauce. I shake my head no.

“Costume design is one of
Ben’s
many fortes.”

Benji blushes, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice. Instead he laughs and says to Benji, “You’re right,
so
hilarious!”

“I can’t believe you went shopping without me,” Benji says.

“I could say the same about you. How do you think I
feel, dragged to the mall against my will, only to find my best friend — who was too busy this morning to help me — having a great time in the food court?”

Benji starts to explain, but I don’t want to hear it.

“It wasn’t my idea, obviously. As you know, I had other plans today, but my mom made me. Denise came, too—” I am about to say something funny about her struggling with the zipper, but then I remember that she’s moving, and the words get stuck in my throat. Again.

Benji looks at me expectantly, waiting for the punchline, but there isn’t one that doesn’t make my throat ache.

“Who’s Denise?” Dean asks.

“She’s Clarissa’s mom’s best friend,” Benji explains, then he actually rolls his eyes, something he almost never does. “She’s crazy. Fun, but totally nutso.”

I am shocked at how casually the insult rolls off Benji’s tongue. Making fun of Denise is my job;
he’s
the one who always defends her. Dean nods like he knows; it makes my skin itch with irritation. He doesn’t know anything about me or Denise. How dare he nod his head! And how dare Benji pretend that he doesn’t come running over when he hears Denise cackling away at the TV!

“She’s more than that! She’s like my aunt. And she’s moving.”

I practically spit the words out. Benji turns two shades paler in shock. I’m a little shocked myself. I’ve never called Denise my aunt before, although that’s basically what she is. Denise has been at every birthday party I’ve ever had, whether I wanted her there or not. She calls to wish us Merry Christmas on Christmas Day, and she’s the one who stayed with me when my mom was in the hospital. Maybe she’s not related to me by blood, but isn’t that what aunts
do?

“She’s moving?” Benji repeats. He looks as stricken as I feel.

“That sucks,” Dean says.

“Yeah, it
sucks
,” I say, thinking this glossy idiot couldn’t possibly know the depths of how much this sucks. I can feel tears starting at the back of my eyes. I can’t believe I’m about to cry over Denise. In the
mall
. I have to get out of here.

“Well, I should go. They’re probably looking for me.”

Dean stands up and looks at me with concern. “Hey, are you okay?” When he touches my elbow I actually flinch. What is with him? A normal person would see that I was upset and leave me in peace.

“I’m fine, but I really should go. Bye,
Ben
.”

***

I’m so angry when I get home that I have to do something or I’ll explode. There are still a few good hours before sundown — I can make it to and from the Lilac Motel if I hurry. I tell Mom I’m having dinner at Benji’s and grab two granola bars to eat on the way. I pack my helmet, the yearbook and bicycle light, and away I go, taking matters into my own hands.

As I pedal to the Lilac Motel, I think of all the rumours I’ve heard about it. Like the one about the old man who died of a heart attack. No one found him for three days, and only then because he had started to rot and the smell caught the attention of someone’s dog.

Then there’s the story about an old medium who lived there years ago. People came to visit her, looking to talk to their dead relatives. She’s no longer there, but the ghosts of the people she contacted still haunt the Lilac’s rooms.

I’ve even heard that the restaurant turns into a seedy club at night. But I’m sure none of it is true. People love stupid stories. Though it is true that the Lilac Motel has been closed down and reopened at least three times, and there must have been some reason for that each time. Maybe there is a tiny kernel of truth in the stories.

I’m feeling chilled, despite the heat and the warm wind I’m creating as I bike along the shoulder of the highway. Think about Bill, I tell myself. Think about your father who came thousands of kilometres across the country to see you.

I don’t see many cars, which is fine by me. Normally biking near cars doesn’t make me nervous, but the cars in town go much slower than the cars on the highway. My bike wobbles a little in the draft they create as they sail by at eighty, ninety, even one hundred kilometres an hour.

One more hill and the Lilac Motel is in sight. Just in
time, too. My calves feel tight, and my mouth is completely parched. There are three cars and a van in the parking lot. One of the cars is black. It looks like the car I saw at the school parking lot, but until I see the licence plate, I can’t be sure.

I’m still on my bike, my left foot off the pedal and resting on the ground. I’m waiting for the traffic to pass so I can rush across the highway. I grit my teeth to keep from screaming in impatience. Where are all these cars coming from? Thirty minutes of almost no traffic, and all of a sudden there’s a mini-rush exactly when I want to cross.

Finally the rush is over, and I pedal like mad across the street and into the parking lot. I cruise by all the empty spots, nearing the little black car, saying the licence plate number over and over again in my head: BKJR 199. BKJR 199. BKJR 199. When I get to the black car, I stop, just to be sure.

BKJR 199. This is it — Bill’s car.

Now what? The parking lot is deserted. Everyone is either in their rooms or in the restaurant. The Lilac Motel is divided into two wings that reach out from the restaurant and lobby in the middle. I guess that’s where people go to check in. Each wing has five purple doors, each with a small window, which I assume means there are five rental units per wing, ten in total.