single night after that. So donât be sad, okay?â
âOkay,â I said. And when I closed the door on the station wagon, I didnât feel any sadness. I felt a certainty that it would be fine. It would have to be. For the first time in my life, my mother had watched me cry, had hugged me tight, and had told me she loved me, all without a tear in her eyes. If my mother, of all people, couldnât find a tear for this occasion, then her leaving couldnât be so sad at all. And yet something in my chest ached as I watched her drive away.
After leaving Momâs house and driving to Conception Bay South, Paradise, through St. Phillips, and up to Portugal Cove, I find myself back at the garage. Itâs like the car drove me on its own. I donât remember the decision to make my way here, to not go to my house. But Iâm not surprised. I know my house contains only empty bottles, while at the garage I have a not-so-secret stash. It sits in a place of honour, next to âthe cure.â
âThe cureâ â Dadâs nickname for the contents of the third drawer in a battered four-drawer file cabinet in his office â a forty-ouncer of Canadian Club Whiskey and four lead crystal glasses. I never saw him pour out more than two glasses at a time but Dad was a better-safe-than-sorry kind of guy.
âCure for all that ails you,â Dad would say while he raised his glass whenever he drank the cure in my presence. The first time he gave me a drink, I was seventeen years old.
Iâd had an awful experience that day. Lying under a fish truck in the heat of August, trying to remove the starter, I heard something drop on the floor next to my head. I didnât think much of it until I heard another thing land on the floor, then another and another. I felt something cold land on my hand and saw something white fall on my cheek. Its coldness didnât startle me, or its colour. It was its movement that caused me to flick it off, turn sideways and see what it was. I pushed my creeper out from under that truck so fast, I heard whizzing as I passed the back tires. Iâm not squeamish, but when I looked down and saw what peppered my body, my hair and the floor below the truck, I screamed.
My movements in the garage that day have been forever referred to as the Maggot Dance and never a Christmas party passes without at least one performance of the hopping and squealing I did that day. Every time a new mechanic comes to work, he is warned to check for dead cats under the hood before he gets under any vehicle.
After I showered off the remnants of the little creatures, Bryce told me Dad was waiting for me in the office. I went in there with some hesitation, fearing that he might be angry, that I may have embarrassed him. Instead, his smiling face and two stiff drinks of whiskey greeted me.
âA day like this calls for the cure,â he said as he handed me a drink.
âFor the love of Jesus, donât tell your mother,â Dad said as I sat down.
I winced with that first taste of whiskey. I drank the full glass, cringing with every sip, while Dad laughed.
âYou might be a rum girl,â Dad said.
And he was right. Next to âthe cureâ I keep a bottle of Bacardi Dark Rum so I can have a drink if I need one. No one is allowed to touch the other bottle in the drawer, the one thatâs two-thirds full and smeared with greasy fingerprints.
I donât even bother with a glass before I chug down a good hard slug. The office is dark and I decide itâs best to keep it that way. I consider that I should do something worthwhile as long as Iâm here. I donât like wasting time at work and it seems insane to sit here at midnight, drinking in the dark.
This is it. I have to change things and it has to start now. I have to work out how to go forward. Maybe itâs as simple as making one stepâturning on the light. I just have to turn on the light and I can
âOkay,â I said. And when I closed the door on the station wagon, I didnât feel any sadness. I felt a certainty that it would be fine. It would have to be. For the first time in my life, my mother had watched me cry, had hugged me tight, and had told me she loved me, all without a tear in her eyes. If my mother, of all people, couldnât find a tear for this occasion, then her leaving couldnât be so sad at all. And yet something in my chest ached as I watched her drive away.
After leaving Momâs house and driving to Conception Bay South, Paradise, through St. Phillips, and up to Portugal Cove, I find myself back at the garage. Itâs like the car drove me on its own. I donât remember the decision to make my way here, to not go to my house. But Iâm not surprised. I know my house contains only empty bottles, while at the garage I have a not-so-secret stash. It sits in a place of honour, next to âthe cure.â
âThe cureâ â Dadâs nickname for the contents of the third drawer in a battered four-drawer file cabinet in his office â a forty-ouncer of Canadian Club Whiskey and four lead crystal glasses. I never saw him pour out more than two glasses at a time but Dad was a better-safe-than-sorry kind of guy.
âCure for all that ails you,â Dad would say while he raised his glass whenever he drank the cure in my presence. The first time he gave me a drink, I was seventeen years old.
Iâd had an awful experience that day. Lying under a fish truck in the heat of August, trying to remove the starter, I heard something drop on the floor next to my head. I didnât think much of it until I heard another thing land on the floor, then another and another. I felt something cold land on my hand and saw something white fall on my cheek. Its coldness didnât startle me, or its colour. It was its movement that caused me to flick it off, turn sideways and see what it was. I pushed my creeper out from under that truck so fast, I heard whizzing as I passed the back tires. Iâm not squeamish, but when I looked down and saw what peppered my body, my hair and the floor below the truck, I screamed.
My movements in the garage that day have been forever referred to as the Maggot Dance and never a Christmas party passes without at least one performance of the hopping and squealing I did that day. Every time a new mechanic comes to work, he is warned to check for dead cats under the hood before he gets under any vehicle.
After I showered off the remnants of the little creatures, Bryce told me Dad was waiting for me in the office. I went in there with some hesitation, fearing that he might be angry, that I may have embarrassed him. Instead, his smiling face and two stiff drinks of whiskey greeted me.
âA day like this calls for the cure,â he said as he handed me a drink.
âFor the love of Jesus, donât tell your mother,â Dad said as I sat down.
I winced with that first taste of whiskey. I drank the full glass, cringing with every sip, while Dad laughed.
âYou might be a rum girl,â Dad said.
And he was right. Next to âthe cureâ I keep a bottle of Bacardi Dark Rum so I can have a drink if I need one. No one is allowed to touch the other bottle in the drawer, the one thatâs two-thirds full and smeared with greasy fingerprints.
I donât even bother with a glass before I chug down a good hard slug. The office is dark and I decide itâs best to keep it that way. I consider that I should do something worthwhile as long as Iâm here. I donât like wasting time at work and it seems insane to sit here at midnight, drinking in the dark.
This is it. I have to change things and it has to start now. I have to work out how to go forward. Maybe itâs as simple as making one stepâturning on the light. I just have to turn on the light and I can
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