Not Suitable For Family Viewing (8 page)

Monday, 9 a.m.

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Mimi Schwartz’s latest post reveals her tips for reading facial expressions, body language, even fashion choices to find the real person hidden behind the facade.

I should have done this as soon as I noticed it in the library. If the book really is “all about Mimi,” Mom’s bound to at least mention Rosie Ingram.

I turn to the index at the back. Lots of entries for Nelson Mandela, Tom Cruise, Taylor Swift—even the Indonesian lady who does my mom’s facial peels gets three references—but there’s no Rosie.

I feel stupidly disappointed. Ever since I found her little cache, I’ve known Mom’s hiding something. Did I honestly think she was just going to blurt out the truth in her memoir?

Would I even
want
her to? She can’t tell her own daughter but she doesn’t mind confiding in the whole world? How bad would that make me feel?

I can’t let myself follow that line of thinking. I shake it out of my head and get back to business.

Okay. So Mom doesn’t mention Rosie. Doesn’t mean there couldn’t be something else in the book that would help.

I look up
Port Minton
—nothing.

Nova Scotia
—nothing.

Tanner, Whynacht, Carter, Swinamer, hometown, high school
—nothing.

The first hit I get is for
childhood.
She covers it in two pages, right at the front of the book.

I don’t know anything about my birth mother. That bothered me when I was in my teens but, hey, everything bothered me then. Now I see it as a blessing. I wouldn’t be where I am today if she hadn’t given me up. So, thank you, Birth Mother, whoever you are—and sorry about the stretch marks. I hope your life has been as fulfilling as mine.

I was adopted as a newborn by an older couple, Harry and Dora Reiner. Harry had a small electrical business at the back of a depressing strip mall just outside Nowheresville, New Jersey. Dora was a homemaker. It wasn’t an exciting life—but they weren’t looking for excitement.

Harry and Dora were Holocaust survivors who’d lost everything in the war—their money, their home and, saddest of all, their three natural children. What they wanted now was peace.

And, believe me, they got it.

My childhood was nothing if not peaceful. I honestly don’t remember anyone other than the occasional repairman ever coming to our home. It was always just Mom, Dad and me. I didn’t even have any school friends to play with.

That’s not because I was a nerd or a loner or a weirdo—although, of course, I was. It’s because I didn’t go to school. My parents were so worried about “bad influences” in the public system that Mom kept me home and taught me herself. She’d been a teacher in Poland before the war and never lost her passion for learning, so my education didn’t suffer. I can’t help wondering, though—would I have turned into the shameless attention-seeker I am today if I’d had some friends to hang out with back then.

Dad worked long hours. That’s probably why I was the first to notice there was something the matter with Mom. She’d gotten clumsy and was slurring her words. She never complained, but by the time I was fourteen, it was clear she had full-blown ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease). Dad hired a lady to look after her but we couldn’t afford that for long.

When I was fifteen, Mom stopped being my teacher. And I became her nurse.

Don’t cry for me. My mother was the world’s best patient. No matter how bad her day or how unpleasant her symptoms, she’d always dismiss them with a wave of her hand. “Ah!” she’d say with a chuckle. “I’ve been through worse!” I couldn’t argue with her there. Her attitude, her gratitude—her will to truly live!—inspire me still.

The disease eventually robbed her of her conversational skills, but it never diminished her joy in literature. I read to her for hours. Austen, Fielding, Thackeray, the Brontës—I was exposed to more of the classics at her bedside than I ever would have been at school.

That’s not the only education I got at home, of course. I also
had to learn to cook, clean, pay the bills and do Mom’s hair. As she got sicker, I had to learn to give her medicine, change her diapers, monitor her vitals.

And in the end, of course, I had to learn to live without her.

A couple months after she died, our house burned down. We lost almost everything. It could have been the final straw, I guess, and for a while it seemed like it was. Dad and I cried our eyes out. We cursed the world. And then, when we realized that wasn’t getting us anywhere, we moved on. What else can you do? The insurance money was enough for a new little house for us—and a new little nose for me. We settled in. We got back to living.

It wasn’t much of a life for a teenage girl perhaps, but I don’t dwell on the dark side. I thank the heavens and all the gods and goddesses therein that they honoured me with that experience. So what if I never learned how to dance, never had a date! Big deal. I learned self-sufficiency. I learned life is what you make it. And I learned every day is precious.

Nothing new there. Mom—or, more likely, her ghostwriter—stuck to the usual story. Like anybody else who’s addicted to her show, I knew she’d been adopted. I knew my grandparents were Holocaust survivors. I knew their house burned down.

I sort of knew about Mom looking after my grandmother too, although she never made that big a deal about it. I didn’t really think of it as “nursing.” I thought of it more as Mom plumping up Dora’s pillows, getting her medicine, helping out with little things like that.

I flop back on the bed and try to remember what else Mom told me about her childhood.

Blue was her favourite colour.

She never had a pet.

She had lots of cavities.

She was skinny.

Now that I think about it, I’m not sure if she told me those things herself or if I picked them up watching the show.

I
must
know more than that about her childhood. When I was eight or nine, I went through a period where I positively bombarded her with questions. For some reason, I feel vaguely embarrassed even thinking about it. Why? All kids must do that.

Something comes back to me. This image of Mom in her room, getting dressed for some celebrity roast or Broadway opening. I was just little then. I sat on her bed, watching her try on different earrings, fuss with her hair, choose the right shoe. I was so happy, being alone there with her.

I asked her a question. Something harmless—what games she played as a kid, what her favourite dress looked like, I don’t remember what exactly—and she went all Mimi on me. She rolled her eyes, gave this big fake sigh and said, “Why do you care so much about ancient history? Don’t waste your time on that junk. Take it from me, darling. There’s only one reason to ever look back and that’s to see if your pants make your butt look big.”

I laughed—mostly because at that point I was still shocked to hear my mother use a “bad word”—but I knew she wasn’t just being funny. She wanted me to feel ashamed of even being interested in her past.

I must have got the hint because, eventually, I stopped asking.

Did I talk to Dad about his childhood? A bit, I guess. Enough to know that his first girlfriend’s name was Charlene. That he was
arrested for shoplifting at fourteen. That he never got along with his brother. That he stunk at school. (Considering all the drugs he must have done in his rocker days, I’m surprised he could remember that much to tell me.)

I pick up the book and start flipping through it again. I see myself poring over the pages and I have to laugh. I’m just another obsessive Mimi fan, needing her fix.

I come across a picture of Mom when she was a kid. It’s not very good. It’s blurrier than the photo I have, and her left side is sort of cut off. I wonder why she chose this one for her memoir.

Maybe the editor wanted to use a picture of her alone instead of with a group of kids. It makes sense. Mimi wouldn’t have to explain where all those happy, smiling friends disappeared to.

Mimi looks a little older in this picture but that might be because of her haircut. The dorky pigtails are gone and she’s wearing her hair in a bob now. I like the bangs.

I read the caption: “A rare day at the beach—and a rarer snapshot. A house fire when I was in my teens destroyed all my other childhood photos.”

What’s she talking about? There are other pictures of her. I know. I have one.

I’m almost mad. Why would she say that?

Because the picture I found doesn’t belong to her perhaps?

No. I’ve already been down that road. Mom’s room. Mom’s chair. Mom’s ring. Mom’s picture.

So maybe she just forgot she had it.

I don’t believe that either. Mom didn’t go to the trouble to hide the picture and then just blank it out of her mind. That doesn’t make sense.

It’s her picture and she hid it. And I bet she hid it for exactly the same reason she didn’t put it in the book.

I just don’t know what that reason is.

I’m suddenly creeped out. There’s something sort of horrorstory about this whole
hidden picture, fake name, weird little ghosttown
thing. I get a shiver.

I’m just being stupid. There must be some explanation. Keep looking.

None of the other photos jump out at me as anything special. There’s a picture of Mom all bandaged up after her nose job. A picture of the house in Brooklyn. A bunch of photos of me as a baby, but only one of Dad. It’s not even a family picture. It’s that lame one off the cover of his first album,
Rock Hound.
(Did he actually wear his hair like that? Even Debbie would think twice before putting that picture in her window.)

Mimi devotes a whole chapter to her “Fashion Faux Pas,” including the Jessica Simpson get-ups she wore after her divorce and tummy tuck. Nothing seems to embarrass her. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear she really would tell you anything.

Another chapter’s called “My Brilliant Career.” There’s that famous photo of her in the ugly flowered dress with the puff sleeves and the tiny bow at the collar. That’s when she was working at her first on-air job as a book reviewer for the public access station. They still called her Miriam then. A few years later, she moved into news for a while. You can tell she’s in the news department because her suits are dark and her hair is plain brown.

After that, it’s all Mimi. Her hair and clothes are changing faster than traffic lights now. There are a couple of pictures of me on set but most are of her and some famous person. Usually, they’re both
laughing. A few times, though, she’s got this big sympathetic face on and there’s a caption about some new charitable foundation she started. I stare at a photo of her, taken in a Pakistani orphanage. The kids are reaching up to touch her face. They all seem to know who she is—but I sure don’t.

I close the book. I get up and go to the bathroom. I feel better once I’ve peed and splashed some water on my face, but “better,” like they say, is relative. It’s not necessarily good. This whole Rosie/Mimi mess is really getting to me.

If I’m right, Mom must have spent time here when she was young. Someone must have known her. Kay’s quite a bit older than Mom, but maybe she could tell me something about her.

I look out the window. It’s going to be a nice day.

No harm asking, I guess.

I’ll bring the church bulletin down to the kitchen and “casually” flip through it while I’m eating breakfast. When I get to that picture, I’ll say something like, “Hey, don’t those kids look like they’re having fun?” Then I’ll sort of segue into whether Kay knows any of them or their families or whatever. I’ll make it sound like it’s all part of my research. It’s not that crazy. I can get away with it.

Monday, 9:30 a.m.

The Shopping Channel

The worldwide debut of “Radiant,” Mimi Schwartz’s line of morning moisturizers, glow crème and eye dazzlers. Let your true beauty shine through. Be Radiant.

I should have gotten dressed. I should have brushed my teeth. I should have at least picked the crusty stuff out of my eyes.

Instead I just jiggle into the kitchen in my skimpy pyjamas like I’m some Jell-o fertility goddess. It’s too late by the time I notice Levi the Stalker, sitting at the kitchen table, looking right at me, smiling that stupid black-eyed smile of his.

I completely forget about Rosie Ingram.

To my credit, I don’t actually scream this time. I just suck in my breath and hold the church bulletin across my chest, hoping it’s big enough to cover my boobs, and my armpits which I haven’t shaved in, like—I’m serious—eons.

Kay goes, “Morning, Opal! Guess what?” She’s practically singing. “Levi’s got today off so he’s going to take you to Port Minton!”

I do what any reasonable person would do under the circumstances.
I gack like a cat spitting up a mouse carcass. In the time it takes Kay to get me a glass of water, I manage to pull myself together. This cannot happen. There is no way I’m getting back into a car with that guy.

I do that “No, no, I couldn’t possibly” thing, but Kay won’t hear of it.

She keeps going, “It’s no trouble is it, Levi?” and then scrambling around getting a little “picnic lunch” ready for us. Whenever she turns away, I give Levi the evil eye, but he just puts up his hands like this is completely out of his control. He is so irritating.

Kay goes into full Anita mode. She’s sort of pushing me to eat some cornflakes and telling me I should bring my bathing suit and then when I say I don’t think I’m going to want to swim (i.e., expose my thighs), she totally ignores me and says that I should actually put my suit on here because she doubts there’ll be a place I can change at the Port. It’s really hard to get a spoon to my face without unleashing my armpits so I just take a couple mouthfuls, then dump the rest of the cereal out, clean my dish and head upstairs as if I’m going to get dressed or something.

I sit on my bed for a while and fume. I wonder if this is why the lip-smacking girl gets up and out so early? How come Levi doesn’t bug
her
? I mean, okay. Thank you for the drive—“drives,” whatever—and I’m sorry I punched you in the face and everything but will you please just leave me alone?

I’m going to say that to him. I may as well. I’ll be gone soon. It’s not like I’m going to be staying around here, eating at The Dairy Treet and staring at his stupid face for the rest of my life. I’m leaving just as soon as I find a few things out.

Maybe even before.

I mean, why am I hanging around here? Why don’t I take off right now and just hire a detective? That’s the type of thing they do. They’d get this Rosie/Mimi stuff cleared up in no time.

And then sell the story to the tabloids for millions.

Okay. I can’t do that. I made myself a deal. I’m going to stick to it.

I put on some shorts and a T-shirt. I’m all ready to go downstairs but then I change my mind. Anita’s the type who’d actually lift up my shirt to check what I was wearing underneath. I’m not saying Kay’s that bad but I don’t want to risk it. I put my swimsuit on and shave my pits too. I throw the shorts and T-shirt on over my bathing suit. Doesn’t mean I’m going swimming.

I head downstairs. Kay’s going, “Don’t forget to show her this” and “Don’t forget to show her that” and “Make sure she gets in for a swim” and warning Levi not to drive too fast and agonizing over whether four sandwiches will be enough and apologizing for running out of apple juice and throwing in a few more handfuls of fake Oreos “just in case.”

Levi goes, “Oh, stop your worrying” and then, because he’s a total suck-up, hugs her goodbye.

She beams at that. She pushes him away as if he’s stealing a kiss or something and says, “Now, get going, the two of you. I want to wash this floor!”

I do my best to thank her but all I can think about is getting stuck in the van with Levi. I keep remembering the way he and that girl laughed when they made me spill Coke and ketchup all over myself.

Levi opens the door to the van for me—such a gentleman!—and
we take off. I keep waving at Kay until we’re on the road, just so I won’t have to look at him.

Levi goes, “So! Here we are. All alone again.” Ear we ar. All lone agin.

“Yeah. Isn’t that just great?” I say.

“No kidding!”

He’s smiling. I can hear it in his voice. Does he not understand sarcasm or something? I go, “What’s with you anyway?”

He does that “Me?” thing again. I wish he’d just drop the innocent act. It’s getting seriously boring.

I say, “Yeah, you. What’s with telling Kay you’d take me to Port Minton? Why are you doing this?”

He turns and looks at me.

I say, “Keep your eyes on the road, if you don’t mind.”

He goes, “Oops. Sorry. I find you distracting.”

Please. I say, “Quit trying to be cute. Would you just answer my question?”

“I’m not trying to be cute. I just
am
cute.” Oi jes am cute.

I’m not going to respond to that in any way, shape or form.

There’s a pause while he realizes that he’s not as charming as he thinks he is. He clears his throat. “Okay. Why am I doing this? Two reasons. One: Kay asked me to. She’s running that hostel all by herself since Joey died. She needs all the help she can get. So when she wants me to do something, I do it.”

I put my hand on my chest and say, “Well, she must be absolutely delighted to have a knight in shining armour like you to look out for her!”

I can tell I pissed him off. Good.

He says, “That’s not what I meant.”

I go, “Oh. Sorry. I guess it just sounded that way. And number two? What’s your other reason?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I guess I like a challenge. Least I thought I did—until
you
came along. I mean, what’s
your
problem?”

“
My
problem?” I can’t believe this guy.

“Yes,
your
problem. I’m this normal nineteen-year-old male and every time you see me you scream like I’m some crazed perv just desperate to”—he wriggles his neck back and forth—“have his way with you.”

I should have known he wouldn’t be able to resist bringing that up again. Fine. I made a mistake. Score one for Levi.

“So what’s that all about?” he says.

My lips go tight. My chest cramps up. He must think I’m delusional, like I’m under the impression guys can’t resist me or something.

He goes, “Tick-tick-tick. Would you like to use a lifeline?”

Hilarious. He’s putting me on the spot. He’s making me feel bad. I don’t want to talk any more.

“Hunh? What’s that all about?” He says, “Come onnnnn!” like I’m a baby and he’s trying to get me to toddle across the room.

I can’t stand it any more. I blurt out, “I wouldn’t scream at you if you didn’t keep sneaking up on me all the time!”

He gets this look of total shock on his face. He sits there shaking his head, with his mouth hanging open, his eyes bulging. He looks like he should be put in a home and just taken out on weekends.

He says, “You’re some big on yourself, girl. You think I’m spending my days tracking you down? That what you think? Can we please just review the facts? First time,
you
flagged me down.
Second time, I’m up on some frigging jeezly ladder with my earphones in, minding my own business, when I hear this god-awful caterwauling. I didn’t even know you were there until you started screeching! I was forty feet away! What could I possibly do to you? I can’t even spit that far! Then the last time, I’m just walking into The Dairy Treet for a cone…”

“Oh, yeah? Really? The ice cream machine was broken!” I’m an idiot. Why did I say that?

He laughs. “What’s that supposed to prove?”

That you make me uncomfortable. That you make me do stupid things.

“Nothing. I’m just saying.”

“Fine. Mind if I go on?…So, even though,
unbeknownst to me,
the ice cream machine was broken, I walked into The Dairy Treet…”

“With your
girlfriend
…”

Shut up, Robin! It’s so obvious what you’re thinking. Just shut up!

“Krystal’s not my girlfriend! And what difference would it make to
you
if she was?”

He’s glaring at me. That bruise probably makes his eyes look greener than they are. (Mimi’s makeover guy always puts purple eye shadow on green-eyed people.)

“None,” I say. “None whatsoever.” I point at the road. “Now will you please just drive.”

He laughs like I’m pathetic and goes, “Anyway…then you start screaming at me…”

I go, “Because
you
made me spill ketchup and Coke all over myself!”

“Right.
I
made you spill everything…And did I make you throw your french fries at me too?”

I should just shut up. I’m digging myself in deeper.

“Yes! Because you deserved it! You and your not-girlfriend were laughing at me! Then you stood around making fun of me! I could hear you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” I’m not saying anything else no matter what he says.

“You’re nuts,” he says.

“
I’m
nuts
?
I should never have got in this van with you in the first place.”

“No kidding! Well, finally, we’ve found something we can agree on.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. Right. Absolutely. One-hundred percent.” I look out the window. I’m hopeless. Mimi did a show on “Social Ineptitude: The New Plague.” I must have seen it ten times. Did I learn nothing?

There’s this long silence.

He goes, “I’ll take you to the Port just so we can tell Kay we went there, then I’ll take you back. I’ll try to keep my hands off you until then.”

Ha. Ha. “Thank you very much,” I say.

“No problem,” he says. “Believe me. It’s no problem
at all.
”

Levi turns off the highway onto the same road I went down that first night. It looks different. It’s not foggy today. I can actually see the ocean.

We drive a while in silence.

He says, “That over there used to be Port Minton High School.” His voice is totally flat, like he’s some lame cashier at the grocery store asking for a price check.

I’m glad I saw the school already. I don’t have to look at it. I can act like I don’t care what he says. He just keeps up his little tourguide act.

“Most of the houses over there are empty now. Some are used for cottages. City people, you know. They like the view, I guess.”

I just go, “Unh,” and keep looking out at the water. It’s so smooth and blue it’s like an illustration in a picture book. I figure we’ll probably be turning around pretty soon, but the road keeps going and he keeps pointing out more stuff.

When he says, “That used to be the rink,” I can’t help but turn and look. This must be where the hockey team played.

He goes, “She’s alive! She’s alive!”

I sneer at him, then twist around to get a better view of the rink out the back window. It’s made of that ripply metal stuff. It’s red and peeling and kids have tagged it all over the place. You can still see the sign that says Malachi Hiltz Memorial Arena.

I say, “I thought his name was
Enos
Hiltz,” before I remember I wasn’t supposed to be talking to Levi.

“Malachi was Enos’s father.” You can tell Levi was just waiting for an opening to start yakking again. “Enos built it—though I bet his wife made him do it. I understand the guy was pretty tight with his dollars…Hey! You want to know something funny about Mrs. Hiltz?”

“No, not really,” I say.

He mutters something under his breath and then says, “Fine. Suit yourself.”

We head down a hill and a little town comes into view. The word
town
might be a bit of an exaggeration. It’s just a couple of streets down by the water. There’s a great big old blue mansion on the hill that looks like something right out of
Beetlejuice.
Most of the other houses are small, white and boarded up. A lot have these ancient “For Sale” signs fading away on the front yard. Quite a few, though—four or five, say—still have cars in front. There are even some people walking around on the street. I’m kind of surprised.

I say, “I thought this was supposed to be a ghost town.”

He goes, “You did, did you?” and then doesn’t say anything else.

He knows I’m asking him a question. Why doesn’t he just answer it? There’s no way I’m going to beg him. I shake my head and look out the window again.

He does that little chuckle of his and goes, “As a special gift to Kay, I’ll tell you that a number of people still live here. In fact, my family used to live here until a couple of years ago. Most of the people left are too old to move, too stubborn to move or both. Nobody actually works here any more except maybe Albert Ingram. He’s a bit hard of hearing these days but he’s still got a little store. Pretty much only sells milk, matches and…”

“Who?” I go because I can’t help myself.

“Albert Ingram. You heard of him?”

This could be important. I swallow my pride.

I say, “Is he Rosie’s father?”

“Rosie who?”

I go, “Rosie Ingram.” I say the
who do you think?
part in my head.

He shrugs. “Could be. I don’t know. He’s, like, eighty or something. His kids would all be grown by now…Who’s this Rosie anyway?”

Good question. I try to work it out in my head. Rosie could be Albert’s daughter, in which case she actually lived here. But if Albert’s alive, why did Grandpa adopt her? Maybe Albert’s her uncle…

Levi says, “Hellooo? Who’s Rosie?”

I shake my head. “No one. Just saw her name in something I was doing.”

He goes, “What
are
you doing anyway?”

This is getting out of hand again. It’s almost civilized.

I give him my standard answer. Research on the school. Blahblah-blah. I throw the university thing in too, just to make him feel bad.

“
You
go to university?” he says. “Which one?”