matter her history, Marlene figures a guy will always treat you better. She’ll go to the longest line in the supermarket just to deal with a guy.
“ George! George has had it with you. He’d have kicked you out a long time ago except he likes Samantha. He thinks she’s cute. Lucky for you.”
Marlene’s mouth hardened. “That is lucky,” she said. If she’d been a cat, her tail would have been switching, hard.
My lungs clenched.
“If I have to speak to you again, no more chances!” Nadia gave me another gruesome smile before she hurried away, her tough little legs zipping down the hallway.
I made a beeline for my room.
Marlene followed me. “ George thinks Sammie’s cute! Isn’t she cute with those trashy tight jeans painted on her teenaged ass? Cutest thing you ever saw.” Then she stormed into the kitchen and slammed things around in the sink.
“What do you figure that little bitch meant by that? You and George spending time together these days or what?”
I came out and stood in the kitchen entrance. “No. I told you—he’s a drama coach. He gave me his business card because he thinks I should be an actress. He thinks I’m interesting.”
“I’ll bet,” she said. “I’ll just fucking bet. Maybe cute Sammie could haul her interesting ass in here and clean up the kitchen!”
I’m standing in the phone booth now. I have to call one of them and I don’t know which one first.
I stick in a quarter.
Seems to ring and ring forever.
Finally, “Hello?” Her tone sounds urgent, as if she’s been interrupted in the middle of performing brain surgery.
“Mom? It’s me.”
She breathes out a bitchy kind of disgust. I can almost hear her lip curl.
“What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
“You tell me,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“ Excuse me? ” she mimics.
“What are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”
“You think you’re going to run off with him and just leave me here in the muck? You and Freddy. What a laugh.”
“Freddy?”
“The index card!” she says. “I found it, smartass. In the living room. Think you’re so damn smart. There’s code scratched all over it—I can read it.”
I stand in the phone booth, rain dribbling down the outside of the glass as I try to put it all together. The thought of Freddy’s face up-close makes me want to puke. Then the index card flutters through my brain onto the couch: me in the living room, calling all over town. I forgot to put the card back. It probably slipped down between the couch cushions.
“I called him because I was looking for you .”
“See how far you get!” She hangs up.
Leaning in the phone booth, I watch little rivers run down Kingsway. Brown puddle-waves splash the sidewalks as cars rush by.
THIRTEEN
“HAVE I REACHED Samantha Bell? Hello, Samantha, this is Jean White calling. I’m a counsellor from Oak Shore Mental Health. We’re calling to let you know that your mother, Marlene, was admitted here three days ago. I understand you are no longer living at home but we thought we should be in touch.”
“Mental health? Is that like … an insane asylum?”
“No, not quite like that.” Her voice reminded me of a school secretary’s: stick-up-the-butt polite. “Your mother’s been having some troubles so she has a bed here until she’s feeling better. If you’d like to see her, our visiting hours are 1p.m. to 4 p.m.”
I’m sitting outside the main building now, on one of their benches, staring up at steely block letters over the doors: O AK S HORE M ENTAL H EALTH . It was easy to get to by bus. Right off Willingdon Avenue. Which is peculiar when you think about it. Willingdon is a pretty busy street. I thought when people had nervous breakdowns, they needed somewhere a little more quiet.
The place doesn’t look that bad. It’s not a giant cement psychocentre, with bars on the windows, the way you see in movies. Looks more like an old elementary school, stucco and wood.
I told
“ George! George has had it with you. He’d have kicked you out a long time ago except he likes Samantha. He thinks she’s cute. Lucky for you.”
Marlene’s mouth hardened. “That is lucky,” she said. If she’d been a cat, her tail would have been switching, hard.
My lungs clenched.
“If I have to speak to you again, no more chances!” Nadia gave me another gruesome smile before she hurried away, her tough little legs zipping down the hallway.
I made a beeline for my room.
Marlene followed me. “ George thinks Sammie’s cute! Isn’t she cute with those trashy tight jeans painted on her teenaged ass? Cutest thing you ever saw.” Then she stormed into the kitchen and slammed things around in the sink.
“What do you figure that little bitch meant by that? You and George spending time together these days or what?”
I came out and stood in the kitchen entrance. “No. I told you—he’s a drama coach. He gave me his business card because he thinks I should be an actress. He thinks I’m interesting.”
“I’ll bet,” she said. “I’ll just fucking bet. Maybe cute Sammie could haul her interesting ass in here and clean up the kitchen!”
I’m standing in the phone booth now. I have to call one of them and I don’t know which one first.
I stick in a quarter.
Seems to ring and ring forever.
Finally, “Hello?” Her tone sounds urgent, as if she’s been interrupted in the middle of performing brain surgery.
“Mom? It’s me.”
She breathes out a bitchy kind of disgust. I can almost hear her lip curl.
“What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
“You tell me,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“ Excuse me? ” she mimics.
“What are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”
“You think you’re going to run off with him and just leave me here in the muck? You and Freddy. What a laugh.”
“Freddy?”
“The index card!” she says. “I found it, smartass. In the living room. Think you’re so damn smart. There’s code scratched all over it—I can read it.”
I stand in the phone booth, rain dribbling down the outside of the glass as I try to put it all together. The thought of Freddy’s face up-close makes me want to puke. Then the index card flutters through my brain onto the couch: me in the living room, calling all over town. I forgot to put the card back. It probably slipped down between the couch cushions.
“I called him because I was looking for you .”
“See how far you get!” She hangs up.
Leaning in the phone booth, I watch little rivers run down Kingsway. Brown puddle-waves splash the sidewalks as cars rush by.
THIRTEEN
“HAVE I REACHED Samantha Bell? Hello, Samantha, this is Jean White calling. I’m a counsellor from Oak Shore Mental Health. We’re calling to let you know that your mother, Marlene, was admitted here three days ago. I understand you are no longer living at home but we thought we should be in touch.”
“Mental health? Is that like … an insane asylum?”
“No, not quite like that.” Her voice reminded me of a school secretary’s: stick-up-the-butt polite. “Your mother’s been having some troubles so she has a bed here until she’s feeling better. If you’d like to see her, our visiting hours are 1p.m. to 4 p.m.”
I’m sitting outside the main building now, on one of their benches, staring up at steely block letters over the doors: O AK S HORE M ENTAL H EALTH . It was easy to get to by bus. Right off Willingdon Avenue. Which is peculiar when you think about it. Willingdon is a pretty busy street. I thought when people had nervous breakdowns, they needed somewhere a little more quiet.
The place doesn’t look that bad. It’s not a giant cement psychocentre, with bars on the windows, the way you see in movies. Looks more like an old elementary school, stucco and wood.
I told
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