Three Little Words (4 page)

“Too much partying,” Caleb says when Sid asks where they are. “Fariza had a bad night. Megan had a hard time calming her down. None of the usual stuff worked. They finally got to sleep as the sun came up.”

Sid feels guilty—maybe it was a bad idea to let her listen to “Bad Moon Rising.” She sure didn't need to worry about any more trouble finding her. He's about to ask Caleb what brought Fariza to the island, when he hears Chloe's voice coming from the downstairs bathroom. Suddenly he remembers that they had made plans to go to the lake today. Start early and spend the day there. He hasn't felt like drawing lately and he hasn't been to the lake since Fariza arrived. He needs a day off.

The song Chloe is singing is not one he knows. Her taste in music had shifted recently, from angry indie bands to something he can only describe as girly. Her iPod is full of stuff he doesn't recognize.

“You're a musical dinosaur,” she had told him recently.

“Fine by me,” he replied. “I always wanted to be a velociraptor.”

“More like a diplodocus,” she said. “You know—a big dumb vegetarian who likes the Beatles and James Taylor and Simon and Garfunkel.”

He goes upstairs to his room and changes into some blue board shorts he bought for two bucks at a yard sale. He drapes a threadbare Batman towel over his T-shirt like a cape and goes back downstairs. No Chloe.

“You ready yet?” Sid bangs on the bathroom door.

“Chill out.” Chloe's voice is muffled. “The lake's not going anywhere.”

“But the sun is,” Sid mutters as he puts water bottles and power bars in his pack and then slips on his Vans.

Lately Chloe has been spending a lot of time fussing with her hair, checking her eye makeup, applying lip gloss every five minutes, it seems. Their trips to the lake used to involve five minutes of preparation: bathing suits under shorts and T-shirts, towels, sunscreen, water, snacks. Stuff everything in a backpack. Jump on their bikes. Things are different now. Not bad; just different.

When Chloe finally emerges from the bathroom, she is wearing the smallest bikini Sid has ever seen. He looks away, startled by the sight of Chloe's breasts, which are barely contained by tiny triangles of what looks like the crocheting Megan sometimes does on winter nights. Chloe has clearly gotten over her childhood hatred of her body. She still calls herself the Polish Peasant—she's short and strong, with a round face, brown eyes and thick dark hair—but she laughs now when she says it. She calls her mother and grandmother the Polish Princesses: high cheekbones, long legs, full lips, straight blond tresses. When she turned thirteen, Chloe got something her mother and grandmother didn't have: big breasts and a high round butt. Or, as she calls them, B&B: boobs and booty. Almost overnight, she shed her oversize T-shirts and baggy sweats in favor of mini-skirts and tank tops, but Sid has never seen her in anything as revealing as the bikini she has on now. It occurs to him that over the years, Chloe's bathing suits have gotten smaller and his have gotten bigger. Right now he's grateful for his baggy board shorts.

“You like?” Chloe twirls around as if she's in a ball gown. Her butt is bursting out of another microscopic cobweb of material. Caleb coughs and goes to the kitchen.

“Uh, sure,” Sid says. “Don't you want to put on a T-shirt or something though?” He can't see how it would be comfortable to ride for half an hour over the bumpy island roads clad only in what is essentially a sexy doily collection.

Chloe laughs. “That's why I have this,” she says, slipping on a sheer flowered tunic that barely covers her butt. “I got it on eBay. Isn't it awesome? It's Tory Burch.”

“Tory Burch. Wow.” Sid has no idea who Tory Burch is, but he knows he's supposed to be impressed. “Those too?” he asks, pointing to Chloe's feet. Her flip-flops have big pink flowers between the toes.

“No, silly. Old Navy,” Chloe replies. “Five bucks. And yeah, I know—not good for a long bike ride. I brought these.” She holds up an ancient pair of Tevas. “I'm not a complete idiot, you know.”

“Never said you were,” Sid replies as they head out the door to their bikes.

Hear Me Out

W
hen Sid and Chloe return at the end of the day, hungry and sunburned, a car Sid has never seen is in the driveway. It's an ancient red Ford Woodie in mint condition, with the words
Windfall Woodworking by
Phileas Phine
painted in curving white script on the side. What kind of people name a kid Phileas? Sid wonders as he puts his bike in the shed.

“Awesome car,” Chloe says when he comes out.

“Probably another kid,” Sid says, although he can't imagine why someone with a car like that would be delivering a child to Megan. Usually social workers drive drab, dusty sedans—silver or beige. “You coming in?” he asks Chloe.

“Nope,” she says, hopping back on her bike. “Gotta shower. My hair's a disaster. Me and some of the girls are going to town tonight. Craig's driving. Wanna come?”

“I don't think so,” Sid says. “Thanks for asking though.” He can think of nothing he'd enjoy less than a night in town with that asshole Craig and a bunch of giggling girls. Chloe's girlfriends are okay, but he can never think of anything to say to them. He doesn't watch the same movies or listen to the same music. He doesn't own a cell phone—service on the island is spotty at best—or have high-speed Internet access.

“Call me,” Chloe yells over her shoulder as she rides off.

Sid climbs the steps to the front porch and pauses with his hand on the worn brass doorknob. After a day in the sun with Chloe, all he wants is quiet and solitude, but if there's a guest in the house or a new kid, he's going to have to suck it up. Megan raised him to be polite.
You don't have to say much
, she told him over and over when he was growing up.
But you do have to be polite.
A firm handshake is good, mumbling and staring at the floor is bad. Ignoring people is the worst. Maybe today he'll be able to get away with a quick hello and a dash up the stairs to the shower.

As soon as he opens the door, he has a feeling he's not going to get his shower anytime soon.

“Sid?” Megan's voice comes from what used to be the dining room, and is now what Caleb calls Megan's War Room and Spa. Part office, part craft room, part retreat. If Megan is in there with the door shut, she is not to be disturbed unless the house is on fire. Usually the door is open, as it is now.

“We're in here, honey,” she calls.
Honey
? Definitely something going on. Megan hasn't called him honey since he was six.

When he walks into the dining room, everyone stands up, as if he is a visiting dignitary. There are only three people in the room—Megan, Caleb and a middle-aged man who is now moving toward Sid with his hand outstretched.

Sid shakes the man's hand—firmly, but not too firmly, as Caleb has taught him—and steps back. “Where's Fariza?” he asks.

“Napping,” Megan says. “She had a bad day. Sid, this is Phil. He's come up from Victoria to see you.”

“Me?”

Megan nods.

“Why?” Sid turns back to Phil. “I don't know you, do I?” He looks at the man more closely, searching for something familiar. Phil is short—maybe five foot five—and muscular. He's wearing a tight white T-shirt and soft loose jeans, the kind with a loop to hang a hammer. He is completely bald. Sid suppresses a laugh. Phil looks like Mr. Clean, if Mr. Clean had been put in a hot dryer.

Phil clears his throat, and Sid realizes the man is nervous. More accurately, Sid is making the man nervous. This happens rarely enough that Sid almost enjoys it, although he feels kind of sorry for the guy too.

“Phil has something to tell you, Sid,” Caleb says. “Why don't we all sit down?”

“I'll get some tea,” Megan says, rushing out of the room.

Now it's Sid's turn to be nervous. He sits on the edge of one of the dining-room chairs, suddenly aware that his board shorts are still damp. He can't imagine what this stranger wants to tell him. Well, that's not exactly true. He
can
imagine it. He's been imagining it—and dreading it—for fourteen years. His very own Darth Vader moment. A strange man turns up and says, “Sid, I am your father.” But surely there would be something—even something small, like an unnaturally long big toe or a crooked incisor—that Sid would recognize. He glances down at Phil's beat-up Nikes. No help there. And Phil isn't smiling as he sits down opposite Sid and clears his throat again.

“It's beautiful up here,” he says. Sid nods. “Great place to grow up, eh?”

Sid nods again. Sweat has started to bead up under his hairline and trickle down his back. He itches to jump in the shower and stay there until this midget disappears. Megan comes back into the room with a tray full of tea things. Phil dumps some milk into his tea; Sid takes a swig from his water bottle.

“Do you remember your mother?” Phil asks.

Sid shakes his head. “Not really. Just her hair.”

“Her hair was beautiful,” Phil says.

“Was?”

“She shaved it off a few years ago, when she started to go gray.”

“Oh.”

“Not very talkative, are you, son?” Phil says.

“Nope. And I'm not your son. Caleb's my dad.”

Phil puts down his mug and sits back in his chair. He exhales forcefully, like one of the sea lions on the rocks in the cove. A very small sea lion.

“No, you're not my son. And I know Caleb is your dad. I'm a friend of your mother's, of Devorah's.”

“Did she send you?” Sid croaks, his mouth suddenly dry.

“No. I don't know where she is.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I thought she might have come here. Looking for you.”

“Why now?”

Phil shrugs. “She went off her meds, started talking about you a lot. Then she took off. But Megan and Caleb are pretty sure she's not here.”

So go away, Sid thinks. Leave us alone. But part of him wants to know what this man can tell him. Needs to know, in fact.

Megan reaches out and rubs his shoulder. “I know this is a lot to take in, Sid. Why don't you go and have a shower, take a little time. Phil's going to stay the night. We'll have lots of time to talk.”

He smiles at her gratefully and leaves the room. When he comes down an hour later, Megan is in the kitchen with Fariza, who is standing on a stool, licking cake batter off a spatula. Caleb and Phil are nowhere to be seen.

“I sent them to the store to get some ice cream for the cake Fariza and I made,” Megan says. “Figured we could talk a bit before they came back.”

“Okay.” Sid leans his back against the counter by the sink. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Are you ready to hear about your mother?”

“I don't know. I guess so.” Sid watches Megan's face, hoping for some clue, something that will help him figure out what to feel. Besides confused and frightened and a bit angry.

“It sounds like she's had a lot of problems. Mental health problems,” Megan says.

“You mean she's nuts. That would explain a lot.” Sid sounds bitter, even to his own ears.

“Well, it would, actually,” Megan says. “Phil says she was diagnosed as bipolar years ago, but she'd probably been sick a long time. Certainly since before you were born. She's been better since she's been taking meds, more stable.”

“Until now.”

Megan nods.

“And he thinks she'll come looking for me,” Sid says.

Megan nods again. “Maybe. But there's something else.”

“What?”

“She had another child thirteen years ago. Another boy. His name is Gawain. She left him on his own when she disappeared. And now he's gone too. Phil is very worried—about both of them.”

Sid turns to look out the open window over the sink. There is a hummingbird at the feeder, and he can smell the sweet peas Megan always plants right below the window. “I have a brother,” he says without turning around.

“A half brother, yes,” Megan says.

“A missing half brother. No father. And a crazy mother. Great.”

Fariza hops off her stool and drags it over next to Sid at the sink. She climbs up beside him and reaches up to pat his cheek. She starts to hum “The Farmer in the Dell,” and Sid smiles faintly and hums along.

At dinner, Phil seems reluctant to talk about Sid's mother and half brother. Maybe it's Fariza's silent presence; maybe it's Sid's refusal to broach the subject. At any rate, they talk about other things: fish farms, deforestation, the latest round of government cuts to social services. Phil talks about his passion for exotic wood. He only works with wood from windfalls, and he talks about wood the way other men talk about luxury cars or women. He tells them his car's name is Miss Havisham, after a character in a Dickens novel. Turns out Phil is a Dickens freak: his cats are named Dodger, Fagin and Smike.

“You got any pets, Sid?” he asks.

Sid shakes his head. “Allergic.”

“Like your mother,” Phil says. “She always wanted a cat, but they make her sneeze.”

“And she probably would have forgotten to feed it,” Sid mutters. It comes out meaner than he meant it to.

Phil stares at him, as if seeing him for the first time. After a long moment, he says, “Do you want to know about her, or have you already decided to hate her?” When Sid doesn't respond, Phil gets up from the table and starts clearing the dishes.

Megan glares at Sid. “Phil, please sit down. Sid, there's no need to be rude. I know this is hard, but I think you should listen to Phil. Fariza and I are going to clear up the dishes. You men can sit on the porch and talk—or not.”

“Sorry,” Sid mumbles, more to Megan than to Phil. He hates disappointing her. But what more does he need to know about his mother? She's crazy, allergic to cats and she abandons her children when she feels like it. Even if Phil finds her, she's not someone Sid wants to know. But his brother—what was his name? Gawain. Maybe that's different.