Jilly-Bean (Jilly-Bean Series # 1) (3 page)

“Hey, this is my taxi,” she protested.

The young man, who was carrying a heavy-looking knapsack, edged away from the cab and brushed her shoulder with his bag as he turned around. “Oh, sorry! Sure, go ahead. I can get another one.” Her eyes were drawn to his lean, athletic build and his teeth, which flashed white and looked flawless. He held the taxi door open for her as she stood on the busy pavement, regarding him doubtfully, maybe looking helpless. Her mind had gone blank; but then, regaining her composure, she exclaimed, “I'm sure you'll have no trouble at all.” Hastily she grabbed her bag, climbed into the car, settled herself in the back seat and proceeded to slam the door shut. She gave the driver her destination, 35 Baby Point Crescent, but then quickly rolled down the window as the harsh smell of his cigarette hit her nostrils, mingled with spicy curry. The driver, a thin middle-aged man, swept around the curb to make a U-turn, barely missing a fire hydrant; and she saw the intriguing young man still standing on the curb, staring back at her. Their eyes met again for a split second, and in that instant she pictured herself with this young man, whom she had never met before, walking hand in hand beneath a canopy of crab-apple trees in full bloom. She saw it all quite clearly. She felt his kiss, his touch. Then a warm breeze wafted through the open window and drew her out of her reverie. She glimpsed a quick flicker of a smile on the corners of his mouth. He nodded to her, and she raised a slightly trembling hand to wave back, smiling. As the taxi rolled away down the street, she turned back once more and saw him still staring avidly after it. The smile faded from her lips; she shook her head and tried to convince herself it was all nonsense. The whole thing was absurd, irrational— just her imagination running wild. She had been reading too many trashy novels.

Cars were stalled for several blocks as they waited for the lights to turn. Jillian stared vacantly at the traffic and the roads crossing each other like a maze, still thinking back to the young man. She smiled uneasily, leaned back against the vinyl-cushioned seat and listened to the taxi driver go on about the stresses and trials of being a cabbie; he actually had a Ph.D. in his home country, but here in Canada the only job he could get was driving a taxi. His English was too poor, he supposed. A look of sorrow had spread over his weary face. He was a friendly sort, she thought, perhaps a little lonely, looking at her through his rear-view mirror as he talked about his life back home in India. She watched the windshield wipers wagging back and forth as the windows and streets were doused with a spring shower that seemed to have dropped from a blue sky. Then she looked more closely and realized that there was just a small patch of blue sky; the rest had turned grey. The shower proclaimed that life was hard.

Twenty minutes later, the taxi turned off the Expressway at the South Kingsway and began climbing up that winding tree-lined street to the part of Bloor Street West that the locals called simply 'The Village'— a small community within the City of Toronto. Most of the homes in this part of the city had been built in the 1920's and had a quaint middle-class charm. The meandering Humber River ran along one side— flowing down from its headwaters in the Niagara Escarpment, collecting various tributary creeks and streams now mostly turned into storm sewers, until it emptied into Lake Ontario.

Whizzing quickly through the Village, her taxi passed a peaceful scene of wet roads and cast-iron streetlamps, with a sprinkle of pedestrians leisurely walking hand in hand while others sat in groups at outdoor cafes and restaurants. The homes stood within comfortable walking-distance of boutiques, specialty shops mainly featuring Ukrainian and Polish fare, cinemas and restaurants. As the taxi continued on its way, she caught fleeting images of windowsills brightened by blue and yellow pansies in terracotta flower pots and elderly ladies dressed in black, hunched forward, cleaning up the dead foliage and debris of the winter. Spring in Toronto could be so unpredictable: it could still snow as late as April, when the trees were already beginning to bud with a bright green haze; but then the next day, rising temperatures could melt the snow to a mushy slush, and house windows would then be flung open to release smells of stew, pizza and fish. Spring was never a proper season, only a brief stop-and-start transition from winter to summer. The rain had finally stopped.

The taxi approached Jillian's home on Baby Point Crescent. It stood on a half acre of land in an old neighbourhood of single-family homes, set well back from the main road at the end of a long driveway that swept in a wide semicircle to the front door. The driver turned off the meter.

“How much do I owe you?”

The driver swung his head back and replied, “Twenty-five dollars.”
She paid him. He looked ashamed, and she wished him well and urged him not to give up in his search for a better job. They shook hands vigorously. She walked away from the car and did not look around until, after what seemed a long silence, it began to roll away. She looked up at her home. It was a large house. The front was flanked by three old silver maples, whose trunks were thick and gnarled. The land to the rear was a ravine of trees and marshland. As a child, Jillian would often secretly crawl out her bedroom window at night onto a small balcony on the slate-shingled roof and gaze far off at the CN tower and all the downtown skyscrapers along the horizon; the lights from the city would gleam with the stars and the moon clear across the trees in the Humber ravine.

Her parents had bought the house 32 years before, when grass three feet high and overgrown weeds had covered the lot, while most of the neighbouring ones had manicured lawns. The property had been tied up for years as part of a disputed estate, and its run-down condition was what had enabled the young couple to afford it. Damp had spread through the whole house; the roof and walls had begun to rot from neglect. Her parents had bought it just in the nick of time, before it collapsed. Jillian recalled stories of how they had stood knee-deep in the tall weeds, scratching their heads, staring in disbelief at a garage whose roof had sunk under the weight of a tree that had sprouted inside and reached a height of three metres. Nightshade creepers and Boston ivy had run riot over the house walls, sinking their roots into the porous brick and mortar. Untended, nature finds her way into any available crevices and cracks.

As she walked briskly along the path, a warm breeze picked up, and the heady scent of lilies suddenly became overpowering. She glimpsed a blur of Shasta daisies, irises and Campanula bluebells lined in rows, frequented by bees and white winged butterflies that floated through the air like gauze, drifting from one flower to the next, gathering pollen, as petals spilled onto the pavement and scattered in the wind. Her tread was light and quick as she came up the front steps, then took firm hold of the doorknob and turned her key.

Silence reigned except for the grandfather clock with its long golden pendulum ending in a large moon face, which swung slowly and gracefully, its rhythmic ticks filling the house like a heartbeat. She noted with relief that the time was only 11:25 a.m., well ahead of her job interview. Wondering if anyone else was at home, she called out, “Mom, Dad,
anybody
here?” A black dog stirred uneasily as it pricked its ears forward; its tail thumped a few times on the wooden floor, and then suddenly it jolted up and came running through the French doors from the dining-room, leaping and skidding as it rushed about the living-room and finally jumped up onto Jillian's waist.

“Molly!” Jillian shrieked with glee. “Down, girl!”

But Molly went on sniffing and licking Jillian's hair and face with her warm wet tongue. Her melancholy eyes peered so close, her furry face soon went out of focus.

“Molly, girl,” Jillian cooed as she put out both her hands and buried her face in the dog's rich black fur, pressing her cheek firmly against her body, which smelled of grass and outdoors. She hung up her coat in the hall closet while Molly trailed close behind, tail whipping back and forth as Jillian rushed up the stairs and placed her knapsack on the floor by her bed. She took a quick look around her bedroom with its high ceiling in cheery-yellow paint and white-trimmed walls. Every article evoked a part of her childhood universe. Perched on the dresser was Socks, her favourite teddy bear, well worn over the years from many hugs. On the bed was the colourful handmade quilt her Aunt Jean had given her for her eighth birthday and on her desk were medical encyclopaedias and other books piled one on top of another; everything was in its proper place. She quickly changed into her dress clothes for her job interview, raced down the stairs and out the front door and briskly walked to Bloor Street.

Her steps were more of a dance than a walk as she made her way along the sidewalks through the Village on that warm spring day. The pavements were crowded with young mothers pushing baby strollers and others carrying fruits and vegetables; some still wore thick wool sweaters, not knowing what the weather might do from one minute to the next. She herself was wearing a brand-new dress and shoes and carrying a matching clutch from Banana Republic, stopping every once in a while to admire her reflection in the store windows. Her thoughts were on the job interview at 1:00 PM with Ms. Bradshaw, the head of human resources at the Toronto General Hospital. She needed this summer job to help pay for her two semesters at Queen's University. Sure, her parents were going to pay for a large chunk of the tuition fees and also the rent; what decent well-to-do parent wouldn't? They couldn't expect an eighteen-year-old girl to pay ten thousand dollars for tuition fees and books, could they? Well, her dad had just recently made “a killing,” as he called it, in the stock market, an easy $200,000 in one afternoon! He was always following the latest stock craze, trying to find investment opportunities. Her thoughts were in a whirl when a figure suddenly stepped out from one of the stores and nearly collided with her; it was Andrew Waits. For a moment he squinted at Jillian in the bright sunshine without seeming to recognize her. Shiny-faced Andrew, staring at her as if she were an alien from another planet! But then his face brightened and approached hers as if it were the most natural thing to do. They were now standing on the pavement as people walked by, perhaps mistakenly thinking they were boyfriend and girlfriend. Andrew was smiling straight into Jillian's embarrassed face. She did feel something for him, but how she disliked any outward show of affection— from him especially. It was too real.

“Jillian! I hardly recognized you.” He was looking her up and down.

Her hair was shorter, much shorter than the waist length she had been wearing it at since fourth grade— a blunt cut with the bangs longer in the front— and her clothes were casual dress, not her usual jeans and T-shirt. “Oh, I'm just going for a job interview. I have to look presentable, you see. My hair— ” Jillian was rubbing the back of her neck as if it were sore. “It's a different look.”

“It makes you look— older,” he said, smiling.

Jillian gave a little shrug and looked away. “It's not what I'm used to.”

“So, where are you off to?” he asked in a low voice.

“Oh, I have a job interview at the Toronto General Hospital for the summer, but I still have some time. Wanna join me for a coffee?”

She noted Andrew's breathing had suddenly grown shallow and quick. “Is everything all right?”

At first he said nothing, but just stood rigid, staring at her, as if he were suddenly tongue-tied. “Oh— oh yeah, I'm fine. H-how did you find out about the job opening?”

“The Canada Employment Centre” she answered, giving him a quizzical look. “Care to have a coffee with me?” He smiled and nodded. They fell into stride together along the sidewalk and decided to have a coffee at the Coffee Tree café, which was known far and wide for roasting its very own coffee beans daily and sending the aroma wafting throughout the neighbourhood. Not surprisingly, the place was crowded with young people and seating was limited. The young woman behind the counter smiled at Jillian and Andrew in a friendly but harassed way and handed them their drinks and pastries. Then they sat on high stools in front of a large open window, watching people stroll past.

“This neighbourhood never changes,” he remarked after a while.

She was looking at him sidelong and taking little sips of her tea. “Well, I've changed. I'm older, and so are you.”

“Yeah, I know. It just seems like last year we were starting high school, and here we are— graduates. Scary.”

“I still feel the same. It's still me in there,” she pointed to her head: “ Jillian at age nine, Jillian at age five. I'll probably feel the same when I'm fifty.”

“You're going to Queen's, right?”

“Yup.” She was smiling at him.

Andrew took a swig of coffee and stared at his plate as if contemplating things. “I'm taking a year off to do volunteer work in India. I need to experience something more than just Western materialistic civilization.”

“No way!” She was astonished. Andrew Waits' parents were rich, and she knew he had been accepted into an Ivy League school in the United States. “When did you decide this?”

“I've been toying with the idea for a couple of months now. My parents fully approve.”

“Really?” Jillian looked at him closely.
He must be keeping something back,
she thought. How could his father, a cardiologist at Mount Sinai Hospital, approve of this sudden change of plans? “When will you be going?”

“September. I told my dad that I didn't want to wake up an old man like him one day and find out I hadn't lived. I'd like to have fun while I'm still young. When I think of the four years of my life I spent in high school, I'm amazed I didn't go out of my mind. I need to travel— get away from here, see the world! Just for a year. I promised my mom and dad that.”

“Ah, these visions of freedom you have, Andy. You're such an idealist.”