Besides, I only get five days off and I don’t really want to spend two of them travelling to Montreal.
I do decide, though, that I will see Dad just after Christmas. I call him and he sounds overjoyed to hear from me. I feel guilty that I haven’t been more in touch with him. He said that anytime I decide to come down will be perfect. We settle on the twenty-seventh, and he insists that I stay the night at his place and not at a hotel, which I’ve done in the past. His condo is an incredibly small one-bedroom that has a pull-out couchin the office for when I visit—which isn’t often. When I do stay there, I don’t really sleep. Dad’s condo backs onto a very busy street, and it feels like the whole house shakes when a truck passes. And then there is the heat. He leaves his place at twenty-three degrees and I can feel the sheets sticking to me as I toss and turn all night. But I know he prefers when I stay with him. It’s almost as though he thinks I’m still a kid and I need to save my money and be waited on. I will go and stay with him.
The last few days of work are how they always are at this time of year. Everyone talks about his or her plans for the holidays. I hear of visitors and menus, and from the young patients, of Santa and presents. I suppose they can’t be blamed; Dr. Roerke frequently begins his conversations asking the patients about their Christmas activities. People often ask me as they are waiting to pay, which I find forward. I presume that people don’t like the silence, so they’d rather be pushy and intrusive than quiet and uncomfortable. I’d prefer the opposite.
Patrick and Cindy laugh a lot together, although I think they’re just friends. Dr. Roerke no longer flirts with Cindy, and I have to say, I definitely appreciate that. Deb is her usual cheerful self—even more so at this time of year. She says there’s nothing better than seeing her kids’ faces on Christmas morning. I remember being that child with a smile on mine.
I spend Christmas day just as I would any other Saturday. I get up, do some cleaning and laundry. I even go out for a morning jog. There’s no one around and the streets are bare. I can run where there is no snow and do not feel confined to the sidewalks. When I get back, I decide that today I will have my favourite meals and not worry about calories. I never used to worry about calories or fat—that is until I turned thirty-four. I was able to eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and things just stayed the same. After a while, I started to notice that my shirts were getting a little tighter and that I had to move up a cup size—unless I wanted to look like Cindy and have some major cleavage. So I joined the gym close to my apartment and started going regularly. I was pretty self-conscious at first. Sandy told me ‘no one’s looking at you’, but honestly, the men
and
the women were checking out everyone in that place. Things got much better for me when I decided to bring an ipod and tune out the world around me. Cindy tried to get me to join her volleyball league, saying that it wasn’t competitive and was a lot of fun, but I prefer exercising alone, not as a team. But today, I am not going to worry about any of that. I’m going to have eggs benedict for breakfast and fettuccine alfredo for dinner.
I did all of my shopping yesterday evening, since no stores are open today. I love the fact that I have nothing to do and nowhere to go all day. I can stay in my pyjamas for hours.
Just as I am finishing making my breakfast, I hear a knock at the door. Fuck.
First of all, my eggs and coffee are ready and hot—and I hate when they get cold—and second, I can’t really hide. I’m sure it’s Rosanna or Louis, the super, coming to wish me a merry Christmas. I feel obligated to answer.
I open the door. It’s Rosanna and a young guy, who must be the nephew she was telling me about a few months ago.
“Hi, Rosanna. Merry Christmas.” I try to
I do decide, though, that I will see Dad just after Christmas. I call him and he sounds overjoyed to hear from me. I feel guilty that I haven’t been more in touch with him. He said that anytime I decide to come down will be perfect. We settle on the twenty-seventh, and he insists that I stay the night at his place and not at a hotel, which I’ve done in the past. His condo is an incredibly small one-bedroom that has a pull-out couchin the office for when I visit—which isn’t often. When I do stay there, I don’t really sleep. Dad’s condo backs onto a very busy street, and it feels like the whole house shakes when a truck passes. And then there is the heat. He leaves his place at twenty-three degrees and I can feel the sheets sticking to me as I toss and turn all night. But I know he prefers when I stay with him. It’s almost as though he thinks I’m still a kid and I need to save my money and be waited on. I will go and stay with him.
The last few days of work are how they always are at this time of year. Everyone talks about his or her plans for the holidays. I hear of visitors and menus, and from the young patients, of Santa and presents. I suppose they can’t be blamed; Dr. Roerke frequently begins his conversations asking the patients about their Christmas activities. People often ask me as they are waiting to pay, which I find forward. I presume that people don’t like the silence, so they’d rather be pushy and intrusive than quiet and uncomfortable. I’d prefer the opposite.
Patrick and Cindy laugh a lot together, although I think they’re just friends. Dr. Roerke no longer flirts with Cindy, and I have to say, I definitely appreciate that. Deb is her usual cheerful self—even more so at this time of year. She says there’s nothing better than seeing her kids’ faces on Christmas morning. I remember being that child with a smile on mine.
I spend Christmas day just as I would any other Saturday. I get up, do some cleaning and laundry. I even go out for a morning jog. There’s no one around and the streets are bare. I can run where there is no snow and do not feel confined to the sidewalks. When I get back, I decide that today I will have my favourite meals and not worry about calories. I never used to worry about calories or fat—that is until I turned thirty-four. I was able to eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and things just stayed the same. After a while, I started to notice that my shirts were getting a little tighter and that I had to move up a cup size—unless I wanted to look like Cindy and have some major cleavage. So I joined the gym close to my apartment and started going regularly. I was pretty self-conscious at first. Sandy told me ‘no one’s looking at you’, but honestly, the men
and
the women were checking out everyone in that place. Things got much better for me when I decided to bring an ipod and tune out the world around me. Cindy tried to get me to join her volleyball league, saying that it wasn’t competitive and was a lot of fun, but I prefer exercising alone, not as a team. But today, I am not going to worry about any of that. I’m going to have eggs benedict for breakfast and fettuccine alfredo for dinner.
I did all of my shopping yesterday evening, since no stores are open today. I love the fact that I have nothing to do and nowhere to go all day. I can stay in my pyjamas for hours.
Just as I am finishing making my breakfast, I hear a knock at the door. Fuck.
First of all, my eggs and coffee are ready and hot—and I hate when they get cold—and second, I can’t really hide. I’m sure it’s Rosanna or Louis, the super, coming to wish me a merry Christmas. I feel obligated to answer.
I open the door. It’s Rosanna and a young guy, who must be the nephew she was telling me about a few months ago.
“Hi, Rosanna. Merry Christmas.” I try to
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