Not Suitable For Family Viewing (3 page)

Friday, 8 p.m.

You, You and Mimi
(rerun)

“Sweet Treats.” Remember when Mimi was a redhead? This early episode is an interesting trip down fashion’s memory lane. It also features a particularly cute cooking segment.

This is an old episode. I know that because there are pictures of me in the opening montage. Mom and me riding a tandem bike. Me getting my hair cut for the first time. That cranky English lady teaching us which fork to use. I forgot I used to be in the opening. When did they change it?

Why?

What did I do?

This must be a Wednesday show. “Eating Like a Birdie” is on. I remember it perfectly. This girl named Mattea Cacchione was a production assistant back then. She was so nice. Anita would bring me to the studio about an hour before start time. Mattea would meet us in the lobby and take me upstairs. They’d put me in my little white chef’s uniform. Annalise would do my makeup and fix my hair. It was bright red and really curly back then. If I was lucky, Mom would get her makeup done at the same time.
Sometimes she was too busy and I wouldn’t see her until my segment came on. I’d be really excited by then. The audience would all go
oooh
when I ran out and hugged her.

Here I am now. I don’t look nervous at all. Funny. I’d be freaked if I had to do it today. Back then it was just natural. My life.

I walk out on set. I have to keep pushing my chef’s hat up out of my eyes. It’s kind of cute. The wardrobe person probably made it too big on purpose. (What was his name? Darryl? Darrin? He acted nice but he wasn’t really. He kept on mentioning my “nice round tummy.” I wonder how he’d feel if I kept talking about his “nice bulbous nose.”)

Mom’s waiting for me on the kitchen set in her
I’m just following orders!
apron. I scramble up onto the stool so I can see above the counter. She says “Hello, Little Birdie!”—something she picked up from Anita—and I say, “Hello, Big Mama!” She pretends she doesn’t like to be called “Big.” How dumb is that? I’m probably the only person in the whole studio who’d think she’s big. I’m about five. Everyone’s big to me.

She asks me what I’m going to cook today. I say, “Peanut butter truffles!” just like Anita and I practised. It comes out “twuffles.” The audience loves it.

The truffles aren’t much more than sugar, peanut butter and chocolate chips. Mom and I each have a bowl and a big wooden spoon. I tell her what to do. She always says, “Yes, ma’am!” or “Right away!” I mix everything together, then take a fistful of dough and roll it into a ball. I’m concentrating. I don’t want to make a mistake. Anita’s told me to make just three truffles, not the whole batch. I’m old enough now to know that you can’t take too long doing stuff on TV. You have to leave time for the commercials.

I push my hat up again. Everybody laughs really hard. (I remember this so well!) I didn’t know why. I look around to see what’s so funny. The camera zooms in on this big smear of peanut butter across my forehead. A chocolate chip is stuck right in the middle. Close-up on Mimi. She’s screwing her face up in this really exaggerated way, like,
Should I tell her—or shouldn’t I?

I’m worried we’re taking too long. Why isn’t she doing anything? She hasn’t even started to roll out her truffles. I say, “Hurry, Mommy, or there won’t be time for our sponsors!” Huge laugh at that.

Mimi jumps into action. She’s being very messy. I don’t understand. She’s never messy at home. She’d be mad if I ever did that. This can’t be good. I’m not sure what to do. The show had just started to get big. Lots of people are watching. People in twenty-three countries worldwide! I know that because Anita lets me watch the show every day while she’s making supper. Mom shouldn’t be making a mess in front of everybody.

I say, “You better stop, Mommy. You’re not doing a very good job.”

I’m surprised the audience laughs at that. Mimi pretends to be hurt.

Even then, I sort of know she’s joking, but I hug her anyway. I love her so much. I don’t want to make her unhappy. I pat her with my sticky hands and say, “That’s okay. Don’t be sad. You can have one of my twuffles!”

The audience does that
awww
thing. I know that’s good.

I say, “Which one do you want?”

Mom says, “Can I really have
any
one I want?”

I give this big, slow nod.

Mom thinks about it for a second, then she suddenly leans over
and licks the dough off my forehead. I’m so surprised my eyes fly wide open like I’m a character in an anime cartoon or something.

Mom goes, “Mmm-mmm good!” and hugs me.

We cut to a commercial. No one can hear her telling me what a great job I did, but I remember.

I have to admit—that was a really good segment. I was so cute! The hair, the hat, the funny voice. It makes me laugh seeing it again.

Then it makes me cry.

Friday, 10 p.m.

You, You and Mimi

Mimi and world-renowned nutritional psychologist Dr. Zita Fenwick-Wilson explore the roots and causes of emotional eating in “Food Is Love.”

I can’t stop bawling. I keep changing the channel but it doesn’t help. Mimi’s on three other stations. What kind of pathetic person is watching this stuff at ten o’clock on a Friday night? I chuck the remote at the TV and get out.

I go to the kitchen. I’m going to stuff my face with something. Nutella. Bagel chips. A row or two of Fudgee-Os. I don’t care. Just something to fill the hole. I pull open a cupboard door. I see the food and I think of “Eating Like a Birdie.” I start crying all over again. I slam the door so hard it bounces back open.

I’ve got to get out of the kitchen before I break something. I make it to the door but can’t go any farther. I don’t know what to do. I look up and down the hall as if I’ve never seen this place before. As if I have no idea where to go.

And I don’t. I’m too scared to move. I’m too scared to even think about moving because I know there will be something somewhere
that will get me crying again. For a second, I consider racing down the hall and locking myself in my room, but even thinking that makes my eyes sting again. I know I’m not safe there either.

I get this picture in my head of the tall blond designer Mom had on that segment “Decorating for Your Teen” and something about that one word—Your—just practically kills me. I slide down onto the floor and bang and bang and bang my head against the wall until I stop thinking about that stuff…

I’m not sure how much time has passed, but I’m calmer now. I have to do something. Mom can’t find me like this. I get up. I go into the kitchen and make sure the cupboard door is closed. I leave one light on, over the stove. Mimi will turn it off when she gets home. (She can’t stand wasting electricity. Viewers would be surprised to see how cheap she can be.)

I go to the TV room. I find the remote I threw and put it on the coffee table. I turn off the television. I line the magazines up neatly. I fold the blanket over the back of the couch.

I wasn’t anywhere else. I didn’t leave a mess anywhere else. I checked. I’m sure. I can go to bed now.

Except that I don’t.

I go to Mom’s room.

Friday, 11 p.m.

Late Night with Campbell Irving

Guest star Mimi Schwartz discloses the almost comical lengths she’s gone to for a little privacy in her floodlit life.

At first, all I do is stand in the doorway and stare. I don’t know why. I just feel like I want to look at it.

Next thing I know though, I’m going through her bedside table, rifling through her closet, checking her medicine cabinet, her desk. I have no idea what I expect to find. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Some clue, I guess.

There’s a folder in her desk with my grandmother’s obituary and my parents’ marriage certificate and my report cards and other documents like that. I don’t bother reading any of them. They won’t have the type of clue I’m looking for. I don’t want facts. I want something real.

Nothing in this room is real. It’s all designer clothing, European face creams, the latest magazines. There’s no Mimi here.

I see that picture of me on her bedside table and pick it up. When they took it, I hadn’t even got braces or glasses or fat yet. I was just chubby. It hits me that this is like some upside-down version of a
“Before and After” segment. This time it’s the “Before” that’s cute and happy and almost pulled-together. It’s the “After” that’s big and lumpy and mad and totally, totally hopeless.

I ram my palm into my forehead and scrunch my eyes closed. I don’t want to remember the last time I was on Mimi’s show but it’s in my head now and it won’t go away.

I was about eleven, I guess. It had been a while since I’d been on-air even then, but Mother’s Day was coming up. I had to make an appearance. The wardrobe people wanted to put Mom and me in matching outfits but it didn’t take them long to change their minds. It was pretty clear that everything that looked good on her was going to look terrible on me.

I had a belly and frizzy hair and bad posture and I couldn’t stop rubbing my nose with the back of my wrist. They made me keep my hands in my pockets and they straightened my hair and put me in black pants and a jacket that accentuated my so-called waist—but none of it helped. Nobody went
awww
when I came on this time. The hour-long special they’d planned of our mother-and-daughter excursion got edited down to a five-minute segment. The producers tried to fluff it up with fuzzy lenses and long shots of us holding hands and Mimi’s sappy voice-over about our special time together—but even then the problem was obvious.

Me.

Big, ugly, awkward me.

Where did I come from? How could perfect little Mimi Schwartz produce someone like me? No wonder she took me off the air. No wonder she sent me to boarding school.

I start making these little shivery sobs, but I bite my lip until they stop. I hold my breath.

Mimi could be home any second. I’ve got to get out of her room—but I can’t. Not yet. Because suddenly I know why I’m here.

I pull the chair out. I check the curtains behind it and the table beside it. I look for a box, a safe, a hole in the floor. I need to find out where that ring came from. I rub my hands over the upholstery and down the legs. I flip the chair over. The cloth on the bottom is beige and rough. It’s attached to the frame with little round-topped tacks. One of them is missing.

It’s as if an alarm goes off in my head. I stick my finger in the gap where the tack should be. I can’t feel anything. I shake the chair. I hear something sliding over the fabric.

I get the letter opener from Mimi’s desk and pry out a few more tacks. I tip the chair again. The corner of an old photo pokes out of the hole. I can’t get at it. I take out a few more tacks. The picture drops onto the floor.

I don’t have time to look at it. I’ve got to fix the chair before Mom comes home. I have to do it right. Otherwise, she’ll notice.

I run for the little hammer Anita keeps in the broom closet. I sort of laugh. There was a segment on the other day about how to reupholster a chair. I remember the guy telling Mimi that you have to pull the fabric tight and tack the centre of each side first. It’s sort of funny—Mom has actually managed to teach me quite a bit over the years. Me and millions of others of course.

I bang in the tacks. I turn the chair over and check to make sure it’s lined up the way Anita likes. I back out of the room, wiping my footprints off the carpet as I go. That’s overkill, I know. Mimi would never notice a little thing like that.

Or would she?

I’m safely back in my room, looking at the photo, when I hear her come in. I’ve seen this picture before, or at least one like it. There aren’t many shots of Mom as a kid. Their house burned down when she was a teenager. They lost almost everything.

This one looks like it was taken on a class trip. There are a bunch of kids leaning against this lady. There’s a boulder in the background and maybe a beach. Most people are laughing, as if the guy taking the picture just mooned them or something. Mom’s off to one side. She’s not laughing, just sort of smiling. She’s either nervous (hard to believe) or the photographer caught her off guard. There are some names on the back of the photo. They don’t mean anything to me. I don’t remember Mom ever mentioning a Tracy-Lynn or a Lenore.

I hear Mom walk down the hall. She stops outside my room. I want to ask her when the photo was taken and why she hid it—but I don’t.

I slip it under my pillow and turn off the light. She knows I’m awake but she doesn’t open the door. She doesn’t knock. After a couple of seconds, she just turns and walks back to her room.

That’s when I decide to go.

Saturday, 10 a.m.

Radio Mimi

In “True or False,” Mimi welcomes family counsellor Deni Ogunrinde, author of
Teen-y, Weeny Lies: Coping with Adolescent Dishonesty.

Hi Mom,

Sorry I didn’t get up in time to say goodbye in person. Gone to Dad’s. You can reach me on my cell. I know you’re busy though, so don’t worry if you don’t have time.

I’m wearing that new shirt you got me in Barcelona. Thanks. I really like it.

See you on the 21st,

Robin

“Hello.”

“Ah…hi. Kelly?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“It’s Robin…”

“Robin?”

“Steve’s daughter.”

“Oh! Sorry. Didn’t recognize your voice.”

“Yeah, well. It’s me all right, ha-ha! May I talk to Dad?”

“You just missed him. There a message?”

“Yeah. I’m supposed to come to your place today—”

“What? Steve didn’t tell me that! He’s on the road! I don’t know what you’d do here all alone with me—”

“Kelly?”

“—I’m teaching yoga! I’m purging! I’ve got to take Bruno to the vet! I’m—”

“Kelly?…Kelly?…That’s what I was calling about. Something’s come up. I can’t come after all.”

“Oh…ah…Really? Too bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe we can set something up for another time, you know, one that’s not so busy.”

“Right. Sure. Well, tell Dad I said hi.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks for calling.”

“No problem. See ya.”

“Peace.”

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject:
So there

Selena

Just so u know, I did get off my ass. I’m at the airport. I’m on my way 2 Port Minton, Nova Scotia. I’ll send u a postcard when I find out who gave Mimi the ring.

Don’t work too hard,

Robin

Message 734

hey anita. i made it c u in 3 weeks R