Authors: Whitney Boyd
I can handle it. One day at a time.
Not until just before dawn do people sleep best;
not until people get old do they become wise.
—Chinese Proverb
Chapter Ten
L
aw school was hard work. Articling was a nightmare. And yet now I understand why I slaved over the books for seven years straight and why I would do it again in a heartbeat if I had to. Manual labor makes my back ache and my fingers smell like latex gloves. Not to mention that this house is even bigger than the city-sized monstrosity that Drew’s parents own. Who knew there were houses this big in Calgary?
When I got to the address in Pump Hill, I met the realtor who showed me the cleaning supplies, handed me a list of tasks to get done and said, “In case this wasn’t clear on the phone, you are paid by the job, not the hour.” I should have walked right then and there. Because it’s four and a half hours in and I’m only part way through the list.
1. Vacuum every room twice.
2. Disinfect carpet in master bedroom (which makes me wonder . . . is this where the person died? This is an estate sale after all. Terrifying.)
3. Clean bathroom; scrub tile, showers and toilets.
4. Add salt to the indoor pool filters (which I do by going down into a super creepy crawlspace in the basement and squeezing between the furnace and the sauna heater. At least there were no cobwebs. I draw the line at fighting spiders.)
5. Deep clean kitchen. Self-clean the oven, disinfect each cupboard, and scour the fridge and freezer.
6. Wash the windows. No streaks.
And that’s as far as I’ve gotten. I haven’t had the heart to look at the remainder of the tasks. It is much too depressing.
Drew had better be worth it, the sane part of my brain growls, while the stupid in love part begins tittering like a schoolgirl at the mere thought of him. I hate being a Gemini. Gemini’s are the twins in Greek mythology and I often feel like my rational self is at odds with my illogical, superstitious side.
My cell phone buzzes, interrupting my thoughts. I climb down from the step ladder I am using to wash the high parts of the windows and reach into my back pocket. It’s my mom, caller ID proclaims.
“Hey Momma,” I say, squatting on the floor to ease my aching back.
“What are you up to today?”
“I’m actually working. I got a job cleaning a house that a private realtor is trying to sell. I’ve been here most of the day.”
“So you haven’t found a real job yet? No interviews?”
I squeeze the phone between my shoulder and ear and pull my hands out of the rubber gloves, one finger at a time while I talk. “No, I had an interview the other day, but things went downhill when they asked about why I left Carter Clinton. My horoscope warned me about this, though. It said that I would soon face a crossroads and if I wasn’t careful I would end up on the wrong path.”
My hands are finally free of the gloves and I rub my eyes. At the other end of the line, my mother sighs. “Sweetie, when are you going to get over this? You are probably the only intellectual in the country who believes in astrology. I don’t understand how you can be so knowledgeable and yet rely on something that has no verifiable scientific basis.”
My mom is a doctor at the Rockyview General Hospital and has always been adamant that hard work is everything. There is no such thing as luck, except that which you create for yourself based on your intellect, your work ethic and your determination.
“Just because there is no proof that it’s real doesn’t mean it isn’t,” I say, echoing a familiar argument we have at every family gathering. “I can’t see your brain, but it doesn’t mean you don’t have one.”
To her credit, my mother chuckles. “You remind me so much of my mother. Your Grammy Krause was a cantankerous, superstitious old German who instilled in you and your brother way too much of her outdated belief system. Did I ever tell you that she thought that rainwater found on tombstones would cure freckles? She rubbed grave water all over your body when you were three years old in an attempt to get rid of your freckles. I came home from work and found her right in the middle of it. You were standing in the bathtub and she had this grody old jar full of water from a tombstone.”
I stare at the reflection of myself in the now-shiny window I’ve been scrubbing. I have more freckles than the Milky Way has stars. Looks like the grave water didn’t work out so well. “Okay, so maybe that was a disturbing and epic fail, but some of the things she taught us were legit.”
My mom is on a roll. “Grammy didn’t kill spiders because it was considered bad luck. So instead, she would put a glass jar over the spider and keep it locked away until either your dad or I got home from work and then we’d have to kill them. There were overturned canning jars all over the house during the summer. You and your brother would decorate them with markers.”
I vaguely remember those jars but until now I never knew that was the reason behind it. And, no offense to Grammy, but that does seem a little ridiculous. “Maybe she had acute arachnophobia and that’s why she didn’t kill them,” I offer, but my mom ploughs ahead.
“Every time it rained with the sun shining, she would hide in the basement because of some German folklore that sun showers make poison fall from heaven. I remember when you were born Mother wouldn’t look out the window for six weeks while holding you because she felt that cars driving by would take a bit of luck away from you.”
She makes my Grammy sound like a crazy person and I feel a hint of shame. This isn’t what I sound like, right? I mean, my superstitions may not be scientific fact, but the evidence behind them is sound. Why else would my life have been so cruddy ever since Drew dumped me? Why else would I have been fired for no real reason?
“Well, I’m not that extreme,” I mutter, more to myself than to my mother.
“Let’s change subjects,” my mother says brightly. “No more talk of these silly notions. I have next week off from the hospital and I was hoping you and I could go visit your brother in Lethbridge together. What do you say?”
Next week I am in Victoria, winning back the love of my life. “I’m actually going out of town with Josh.”
“Josh?” My mom’s voice perks up about three octaves. “I really like that boy. Where are the two of you headed?”
I pull the phone away from my ear. She made no attempt to hide her joy. She’s always had a thing for Josh. During his undergrad he had minored in Health Sciences, so he and my mother have plenty to talk about whenever they see each other. Which typically happens every few months when his fridge is empty and I’m going home for family dinners. It seems like he’s hungry every time I tell him my mom’s cooking.
“We’re going to Victoria,” I confess, deciding on the spot that honesty is the best policy when it comes to my mother. She has a sixth sense whenever my brother or I try to lie. Plus, the truth is better than her jumping to conclusions about me and Josh. “Remember Drew who I dated a few years ago?”
“Drew, Drew, oh yes, the boy you brought camping with us in Yoho and he couldn’t handle using an outhouse.” She chuckles at the memory. “He plugged his nose and acted quite the little diva before his intestines forced him in there.”
“Okay, well that’s not the most flattering memory of him,” I admit, “but he was a really great guy overall, and I’m going out to Victoria to see him.”
“And you’re bringing Josh?”
“He wanted to come,” I say defensively.
“So what made you decide to see him again? I didn’t realize you two had stayed in touch.” Her words are innocent but her tone is accusatory. Honestly, mother’s intuition can be a scary thing sometimes.
I grind my teeth and then blurt it all out. “You’re going to berate me again, but ever since we broke up, my life has been cursed. Everything was so much more promising when we were together, and now if only I can find him again, I know my life will get back on track. It’s destiny.”
I squeeze my eyes closed and wait for her to explode. There is a long, drawn out pause and then the questions come. As a lawyer, I should be prepared for this, however I am usually the one verbally attacking, not being attacked. I brace myself for the onslaught.
“You haven’t spoken to him in years?”
“No.”
“How do you know where he is?”
“His mom told me.”
“And he’s single and wanting you back in his life?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of single or sort of wanting you back?”
“Single.”
“How can you be ‘sort of’ single?”
“He’s engaged. But I am going to stop the wedding, because we are soul mates. We belong together and he and his fiancée do not.” I blink back tears. Do not cry. Do not cry. No argument with my mother was ever won by giving in to my emotional side.
“Charley, beliefs are fine, as long as people who believe in God or a Supreme Power or whatever still use their brains. But when you start acting impulsively based solely on what you think is fate or your destiny, and you forget to think, then you are in trouble. This is a bad idea.”
“Thanks for supporting me, Mom.” Time for this conversation to end.
“I’m not supporting, not even sarcastically. Don’t do it.”
“I appreciate your point of view, but I gotta go.”
“Seriously, listen to your mother! Why are you ignoring me? This is good advice.”
“Love you, Momma. Talk to you when I get back.” I hang up quickly and resume spraying Windex on the front windows with a vengeance. Okay, so she didn’t quite get it. But if my Grammy was on one end of the spectrum when it comes to fate, my mother is the exact opposite. She is too much like Josh . . . but at least Josh is supporting me in this.
All my life, deep down, I’ve known there had to be more out there, some power outside of our own control. Call it superstition, call it God, call it Providence or karma or whatever. I know it’s real, even though my mom laughs it to scorn. And when this thing with Drew pans out and I show her all her little green eyed, black haired grandbabies, she’ll take it back.
She’ll see.
Deep doubts, deep wisdom;
small doubts, little wisdom.
—Chinese Proverb
Chapter Eleven
T
he rest of the week passes quickly. I receive three hundred dollars for completing my cleaning job (even though it took me thirteen hours) which is exactly enough to pay for my rent for the next month. Josh works fifteen hour days in preparation for our trip and I hardly get the chance to talk to him at all. Heather is the exact opposite and spends her time giving me manicures, trimming the split ends off my hair and forcing me into every single article of clothing we own between the two of us to figure out what I should pack.
Before I know it, it’s Monday and Josh and I are scanning the signs above our heads and attempting to locate baggage claim in the Victoria International Airport. I poke myself again to make sure I’m not dreaming then follow Josh down a flight of stairs to a room full of circular conveyor belts.
The flight itself was very generic—nice flight attendants, a horrible snack of salted pretzels (Really, does anybody actually enjoy pretzels? Anyone?) but I can’t stop thinking about that one little thing. It happened while Josh and I were waiting for our flight. We were still in the Calgary airport, had found our terminal and made it through security with no problems. We were seated, waiting to board. I was edgy, a little tired of waiting and had started a game with Josh.
“Truth or dare,” I said. He had gone for dare. I told him to hold his breath for two minutes. (All right, kind of a lame dare, but I didn’t want us to get booted off our flight by security). He had done so, just barely, even though his face turned red and his eyes watered. We went back and forth for a few minutes, basically throwing the truth option aside and daring each other to do random things.
After I sang “Twinkle, Twinkle” and received a lot of odd looks from people passing by, I had grown flushed. I went to the bathroom to splash a little water on my face and when I came back, Josh kind of reached for my hand.
It wasn’t the act itself that was strange. We’ve held hands before, I’m sure we have. I’ve grabbed his arm and held his hand when it’s icy out and I’m wearing heels and stuff like that. I’m a bit of a touchy-feely girl and so it is natural for me to have physical contact with the people I am close to. It was more the way it happened.
He reached toward me and I almost felt like he was my boyfriend. It was strange, like if I held his hand it would signal that we were dating, the way it did in junior high. I had jerked my hand away and kind of laughed it off, “Watch your hands,
garcon,
” I joked and slapped it without intending to. But then his expression of guilt made it worse.
I quickly changed the subject and a few minutes later we boarded the plane and nothing more was said of the incident. But I couldn’t get it out of my head. What
was
that?
“Found it,” Josh proclaims proudly and I am jerked back to the present. “I knew I could get us here without asking anyone.” We are in the huge baggage claim area, a wide open space with a bit of a draft and those big carousels that rotate your luggage for you. There are lines of carts for people with too many bags and a sign pointing down the room farther for oversized luggage.
“I would be proud except it didn’t take that many navigational skills. I mean, there are signs with little stick men holding suitcases every five feet,” I tease. See? The thing back at the Calgary airport is a non-issue. Totally forgotten by both of us.
He laughs and I continue. “So what are we going to do after we check into the hotel?” I am itching to explore this place. Strange that I have backpacked with my family and friends through every inch of the Rockies, done road trips across Eastern Canada through Ontario and Quebec and even camped for a few weeks on Prince Edward Island, and yet have never made my way to the opposite side of the country where Vancouver Island lies.
“Well, why don’t we get cleaned up and then hit the streets? I haven’t been here in years and would love to walk around all the silly tourist spots.” Josh is as big a nerd as I am.
“Excellent.” My face splits into a smile and Josh puts his arm around my shoulder and squeezes it tight while we wait for the carousel to spit out our luggage. A few of the other passengers from our flight gather nearby and a cute, elderly woman who we had spoken to briefly on the plane edges up to us.
“Are you two sweethearts here for vacation or do you live here?” Her voice creaks and she adjusts the large, beige purse on her shoulder while she speaks.
“Vacation,” Josh says and I bob my head politely in agreement. It’s more of a rescue mission for my sanity, but that wasn’t one of her options.
The old lady nods enthusiastically. “Is it your honeymoon?” Her voice takes on a wistful tone. “My honeymoon was delightful; it’s something you will never forget. Although, since we are from here, we went to the Queen Charlotte Islands. You two are going to have such a wonderful time.” She beams at us and her wrinkled face glows with memories of happier times.
My face heats up and I instinctively step out from under Josh’s arm, shaking my head, ready to tell her that no, no, absolutely no, we are just friends and that’s all we ever will be. I wonder if Josh is as mortified as I am. I remember once someone thought he was dating a friend of ours in law school and he got super awkward and couldn’t make eye contact with her for weeks. And he vehemently denied any feelings for her and up and down swore that it was not the case. I hope he doesn’t make this into too big a thing.
To my surprise, however, Josh smiles at the lady and says, “Our honeymoon will have to wait. My friend is here to meet up with an old boyfriend and I’m just along for the ride.” No awkwardness. No fervent rebuffs. Odd. Maybe Josh is maturing.
Right then the conveyor belt turns on and everyone presses closer together with their eyes peeled for their belongings. “Well, that’s a shame,” the old lady says. “You seem like a charming couple. And it’s such a lovely tradition for newlyweds to come to Victoria and stay at the Empress Hotel. It’s historic and romantic.”
“That does sound nice.” Josh touches her arm gently and smiles. “I’ll have to keep it in mind one day. Thank you.”
“Th-thank you,” I echo, still taken aback that Josh was so offhand about the whole thing. Seriously, so unlike him. It must be because the woman is elderly. Josh is always very polite to seniors. That’s it.
Josh wishes her a good day then we spot our luggage. Josh effortlessly grabs both bags and within a minute we are free from the crowd of passengers. He places them down and looks over his shoulder. I turn to see what he is looking at, but it’s just our fellow passengers, nothing noteworthy.
“What’s up?” He has piqued my curiosity. Maybe he found a cute girl or something. The thought makes me relieved.
“Wait one sec.” Josh leaves me with his bag and hurries back into the throng. I am confused until a moment later he emerges with a bulky, purple flowered suitcase. The elderly woman we had spoken to trails along at his heels, thanking him for helping her pick it up. “It was so heavy and moving fast,” she repeats over and over. “I couldn’t get a good grip on it. Thank you for rescuing me, thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome. I was glad to help.” He seems embarrassed at her gratitude.
“You are a sweet boy.” She looks at me. “If your reunion with the old boyfriend doesn’t work out, at least you won’t have to look very far.”
I make a noncommittal noise, Josh tells her goodbye again and we turn toward the exit. “I think she has a bit of a crush on you,” I tease, nudging him with my shoulder bag. “I bet if you marry her, she’ll bake you brownies and cakes and all kinds of delicious things. Since you’re always hungry, why don’t you go for it?”
Josh pretends not to hear me. “La-la-la, are you still talking?” he jokes.
“In all seriousness,” I add, “that was really nice of you. Nobody else even noticed her struggling. You really are a great guy.”
Josh shakes his head. “I didn’t do much. I saw she was distraught and having difficulty getting that suitcase off the belt and figured she needed help. Besides,” he nudges me in the side as we go through the sliding glass doors, “she had our honeymoon planned out. It was the least I could do.”
Honeymoon joke. The hand thing that I can’t forget.
“Right.” I laugh uncomfortably and we wheel our suitcases outside into the muggy, salty air where we get in line for the Akal Airporter shuttle, a bus that will take us downtown to our hotel.
It is about an hour later when we finally arrive at the Grand Pacific. I doubt it would have taken us this long if we’d driven ourselves, but the bus stopped about nine times to unload passengers and pick up ones to bring back to the airport. Out the dusty bus window I spot our destination. It is a striking hotel, modern and elegant that overlooks the harbor and the entire downtown Victoria area. My jaw drops slightly and I look at Josh in concern. “We can’t afford this place,” I hiss under my breath so the other passengers don’t overhear. “This must cost a fortune.”
Josh pulls me to the side so some of the others can get past us and says simply, “I told you not to worry about the hotel before we left and I meant it. So don’t worry about it. If I want to spend money on my friends and have a nice place to stay when we go on vacation, then let me. Not another word.”
“But—” I begin until he cuts me off.
“But is another word. Shush, woman! Not another word.” We climb off the bus, grab our luggage and while the five or six people around us scatter and make their way into the hotel, Josh points out a huge family of ducks walking on the cement near the front lawn. “See? What other hotel would have a duck family? We have to stay here.”
“Look how cute they are!” I abandon my suitcase and take a few small steps toward them, careful to go slow enough that they don’t get scared. There are seven little yellow ducklings, a brown mother and the handsomely colored mallard father. I turn around to see if Josh is watching them, and am discomfited to note that he is watching me instead.
I straighten up and clear my throat. “Ahem, well, maybe we should go get checked in.”
Josh nods but his eyes have taken on a strange, wistful edge. “You’re right, let’s head inside.” When I look at him again, his eyes are back to normal. I must have imagined whatever I thought I saw. Just like I imagined anything more with him reaching for my hand. Geesh, Charley, get over it. Stop being ridiculous.
It’s all in your head.