Few Kinds of Wrong (6 page)

Getting out of my car, I wave to Mom's next-door neighbour, Ray Chafe. The sky is threatening rain. You can smell the dampness in the air, but he's mowing his lawn again even though he probably did it yesterday. He mows no matter what the weather, waters the lawn at the first sign of it not being saturated, fertilizes, limes, spreads manure on his lawn, even tried kelp once. They say fences make good neighbours, but I can guarantee that kelp and manure make for bad ones. Since his wife died, he's gone onto mowing other people's lawns and Mom's is always manicured.

The bungalow is yellow and white with a veranda and four steps in front. Purple and pink flowers hang in baskets along the front of the veranda. I'm pretty sure they're real because Mom never puts them out until at least the second week of June. She swears that summer in Newfoundland doesn't begin until that last frost in June and she's usually right.

I put Mom's coffee on top of mine, freeing one hand to open the front door, trying not to knock off the flowery wreath hanging in the centre.

“Hello,” I shout as I walk in the porch. The smell of apples and cinnamon comes out to meet me.

Mom walks around the corner and gives me a peck on the cheek, then wipes off the lipstick she inevitably leaves there. Mom believes everyone needs lipstick. Over the years, she has started to rely more heavily on other makeup like concealers and wrinkle-hiding foundations. I rarely see her now without her face on.

Most people refer to Mom as “small” or “tiny” but she calls herself petite. Short and thin, she could still manage to buy clothes in the girls' section except she swears there's nothing there suitable for a woman of her age so she gets everything tailored to fit her right. Her short hair is kept trim and chestnut brown with a monthly cut and colour.

“Hello,” Mom says, taking her coffee. She takes a big sip then pulls a sliver of hair behind her ear.

“I see Mr. Chafe is mowing again.”

Mom nods.

“And your lawn looks good too.”

“He did that yesterday.”

“I'm telling you, he wants to mow more than your lawn. You should watch out for him.”

“Oh, Jennifer, ”Mom says. She smiles and there is something in it that makes my heart hurt.

“You baking a pie?”

“No.” She bends to pick something up but straightens up again and turns to me. “Do you want me to make you a pie?”

“No, just smells like apples and cinnamon.”

“Oh.” She chuckles. “Plug-in air freshener. It's nice, isn't it?”

“Yeah.”

“You want it? I can get another one.”

“No, no, that's okay. ”My mind goes to the overflowing garbage and bag of jeans and vomit back at my place and I'm tempted.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure. I don't want an air freshener. Honest.”

My words are meant to curtail a long back and forth of
please take it
and
no, that's okay,
but I think I miscalculated my tone and Mom's smile leaves.

“Thanks, though.”

Mom nods. “You coming in?”

“Nah, I thought you said you'd like to go to a movie.”

“I was thinking we could go to that new movie with that guy in it. You know, the one you like,” Mom says as she puts on a pair of shoes then straightens up the remaining pairs on the shoe rack.

“No, Mom, I don't know. Which one? I like most of them.”

“That cute one.”

I roll my eyes. “Doesn't narrow down the Hollywood acting scene much.”

She snaps her fingers. “He used to be in that show, the one with Sarah in it.”

“Sarah who?”

“You know, Sarah from
The Young and the Restless
.”

I connect my TV and movie dots, trying to remember what Sarah looks like, what other show she was in, who starred with her in it, and then come up with the answer. “Benjamin Ritchie.”

Mom smiles. “Yes, him. Just like I said. Anyway, want to see that movie?”

A film about a guy who holds a prostitute hostage, tortures her, then ends up falling in love with her over sexual toys. Not exactly a great afternoon with Mom.

“Not really. How about that new one with Kevin Costner?”

“Don't like him, ”Mom says, shaking her head. “There's a book launch down at the Anglican Crypt. We could go to that.”

Yes, and I could poke sticks in my eyes.

“Our book club is going to read it so I wouldn't mind seeing the author.”

“How's that going? The book club. You like it?”

Mom smiles. “Yes, I do. It's fun and I like getting out and talking to people.”

“That's good. The book launch sounds great,” I say.

Two hours later, I, and the four other people in attendance at the crypt, have listened to the most boring reading in the history of the world and Mom and I are sitting in a Thai restaurant. Mom decided she wouldn't cook today and was dying to try this restaurant.

“When did you even know there was such a thing as Thai food around here?” I asked Mom when she first suggested the restaurant.

“Someone at the book club told me,” she explained.

I almost collide with a knee-high elephant statue just inside the entryway. The thin lanterns hanging from the ceiling don't throw much light, and since it's raining outside now, there's not much light coming from the windows. We forego the cushions and low tables and pick a booth on the side of the restaurant. We are barely seated when two brightly coloured drinks come to our table.

“Compliments of the manager,” the pimply-faced
waiter says as he spills some of my drink while setting it down. “Oops, I'll get you another one.”

“That's okay,” Mom says. “It was just an accident. And please tell the manager we said thank you.” She looks so proud that someone gave her a drink. I don't want to tell her it's just a promotional thing new restaurants do for new customers to keep them coming back. No different than the complete car wash we give a first-time customer at the garage.

“I'm not sure what to order,” Mom says.

I have to admit I'm not much help. The dishes all sound so unfamiliar:
Goong Hom Pa, Pla Lad Prig, Peek Gai Yad Sai,
Tom Yum Koong
. I can't even guess what they are. I have no reference to guide me. High school French won't help here. I can't even place the rich smells permeating the restaurant. Strong spices, peppers, a hint of lemon maybe, fish, and some other mysterious scents make my mouth water.

“Excuse me,” my mother says while waving at the waiter. “Could you help us with this menu?”

“Allow me,” a gentle voice comes out of nowhere from behind Mom.

“Oh, Petch,” Mom says. “Thank you so much for the drinks. You didn't have to.”

Petch? How does Mom know anyone named Petch? Her most exotic adventure in life was going to a luau party at the Skinners' house.

“My pleasure,” this man says, taking my mother's hand and bending to kiss it.

Mom smiles, not just with her mouth but with her whole face, lines I haven't seen in a while forming at the corners of her eyes. I clear my throat and she looks to me, pulling her hand away.

“Petch, this is my daughter, Jennifer. Darling, this is Petch. He's in my book club.”

“Hi,” I say as he kisses my hand too.

“Charmed,” he says.

He is short and dark-skinned. His cheekbones are high and gorgeous. Dark eyes twinkle with a smile, but his eyes are no longer on mine. They are focussed on my mother and I don't like the way they look.

“Excuse us, Petch, but we're having our supper,” I say.

“Jennifer,” Mom says. “Petch is only saying hello. He owns this place and he can help us with the menu.” She turns to him and says, “Would you, Petch?”

He sits down, takes the menu, leans into Mom and starts to explain all the food. Watching her talking with him, laughing at his lame jokes, touching his arm as he speaks, I feel a distinct hatred for Petch rise up in me, and an increasing dislike for Mom. She's flirting. Say what you want about her but she is flirting. I want to reach out, grab her and run out the door before this can go where I think it might be going. I'll also need to lock her in the house, just to make sure she doesn't attend this book club anymore.

“Well, that sounds great, doesn't it, Jennifer?” Mom says.

“Yeah, sure.”

“We'll have that.”

“I shall make it with my own two hands.” Petch kisses Mom's hand again.

“Yes, you seem pretty active with your hands there,” I say. I grunt as Mom's foot makes contact with my calf.

Petch says goodbye and Mom sits quietly for a minute, lining up her fork with the top of her napkin. I'm just about to break the silence when she beats me to it.

“You were very rude, Jennifer. Petch was just being nice.”

“And you. You seemed pretty nice too. I could go home if you two want to get a room or something.”

“How dare you?” Mom says, slamming her hand down on the table. Glasses shake. Forks and knives clink. People at other tables turn to stare.

“I think it's pretty obvious what was going on. I don't think acting all coy and innocent is going change how pathetic you looked.”

“Pathetic? Is that what I am?” Her eyes look sad and I remember seeing that look so many times over the years.

No, not pathetic, I want to say. I want to tell her I didn't mean it, to make that hurt look go away.

“Yes.”

She takes a deep breath in and I watch her struggle with the tears threatening to come out. Such a crappy thing to be a weeper, your emotions always betraying you — voice breaking, eyes filling — all when you don't want them to.

“I think we should go,” Mom says.

“No, you stay and talk with Petch there. Have dinner with him. I'll go.”

“I came here to be with my daughter, not Petch.”

“Oh, it just so happens that the first time we go somewhere other than the Bagel Cafe in months and it's the very restaurant your new boyfriend owns.” I lean in closer and whisper, “How could you, Mom? Dad's not cold yet.”

Mom moves her drink around a little and looks past me when she speaks. “I think you're right. Perhaps you should leave.”

“Fine.” I stand up and bang my knee on the edge of the table. “With pleasure,” I say through clenched teeth.

“And I think he's well past cold,” she says. “He would be so ashamed of you now.”

This isn't where I wanted the day to go, and as I walk out the door of the restaurant, I wish I could have said something different, had any control over my idiotic mouth, but it seems like she is betraying my father, our family. I can't feel comfortable with this new Mom. For a brief moment I envy her and how she can smile so easily, seeming to feel it and not just go through the motions of showing teeth and turning up her mouth. I wonder if I will ever feel a smile again.

4

T
HE DAY WHEN
Nan kept turning the dials on her stove while trying to change the radio station, the damage to her house was mostly just from the smoke. The call that afternoon from Nan's neighbour changed things, and we all knew right away that Nan would never live alone again. Mom was the perfect daughter-in-law and told Dad that Nan could stay with them for as long as was needed.

Dad, who still believed Nan was just a bit forgetful, looked wary of it all. I didn't doubt Dad's opinion, but the smoky house meant Nan couldn't stay there for a while anyway, so I thought, Why not let her go to Mom and Dad's house? I promised I'd come by and help out when I could. Dad reluctantly agreed while Nan held firm that she was not leaving her house. That was until Dad got stern with her, and Nan, as everyone did when Dad got stern, relented.

“Won't be so bad,” Dad said to Nan and Mom at once. The irony of his words would become evident much sooner than we could imagine.

The first night Nan stayed at my parents' house, I decided to go home with Dad and see that Nan was settled. Dad and I arrived home a little after eight and Mom's tear-stained face met us at the door.

“I don't know what to do,” Mom said, looking past me and searching Dad for something, her eyes roaming his face. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“What?” Dad said.

“Your mom. ”Mom started to cry but continued to talk, sobs making her words incomprehensible as she shook her head.

“What's wrong with her?” Dad asked, running through the kitchen without taking off his boots.

Mom buried her face in her hands. I reached out to touch her, comfort her, but decided to go with Dad and see if I could help him.

Walking into the living room, I saw Dad crouching over Nan, who was on the floor, curled in the fetal position, rocking back and forth. A mournful, muted wail came from somewhere around her.

“Mom?” Dad said in a feeble voice I'd never heard from him. I just
stood there, staring at him. I didn't look at Nan, tried to pretend that sound wasn't coming from her.

“Dad,” I said. “What's happening?”

I waited for the inevitable reassurances, for him to tell me it would be fine, to explain what was going on, to touch Nan and make everything okay. He just shook his head.

Mom came in and I suddenly felt like I had left myself, as if I could see all of this happening outside my body. I watched me standing helplessly, Mom behind me crying while Dad kneeled next to his moaning mother, his trembling hand stretched out to touch her, hovering just inches above her. I wondered what stopped him, why his hand remained so close to her without making contact.

“Jack, what should I do?” Mom spoke through sobs.

He didn't answer. His hand slowly moved closer to Nan. He exhaled, seeming to deflate before me, then closed his eyes. Waiting for half a breath, he put his hand on Nan's arm.

The room exploded. My seventy-six-year-old grandmother, weighing all of 110 pounds, hurled herself at her son with the fury of flames surging through a dry forest, hitting him over and over, all while she screamed obscenities at him. Words not meant to come from her mouth came out and slapped us all. The house filled with violence as Mom and I ran to help Dad, to try to get her off him. Her rage turned on Mom for a second but soon went to me.