Jilly-Bean (Jilly-Bean Series # 1) (11 page)

“Andrew, tell Matt I'm not a mouse,” she pleaded laughingly.

“I'm sure you could do that for yourself, Jillian,” Andrew replied in a serious tone.

Her smile faltered as she stared back at Andrew.

Matt carried her through an arching stone doorway, framed on the outside with Boston ivy, and set her down in the quad; there knots of other couples were chatting, smoking and looking out into the night sky. She paused to look back through the vestibule to one door of the great hall, still rosy with light; the music, the talk and the laughter floated out and into the night. Her heart was beating strangely in her chest; she felt a gentle pressure as Matt encircled and firmly gripped her waist with his hand; she looked up to see the dim outline of his head and shoulders against the darkness and caught the flickering intensity of his smile. Then he leaned over and whispered words just barely audible as his warm breath touched and tickled her ear: “How about a stroll along Philosophers' Walk?”

“What's that?”

“It's a path between the university buildings, flanked by big old trees. It's a nice walk.”

“But— ”

“But what?”

“The grass will be all damp,” she argued anxiously.

“You won't get your feet wet. The path is paved,” he insisted.

She tried to break loose from his grasp, but he wouldn't let go. “I won't bite,” he persisted. She looked up at him and smiled. He took her hand and led her out of the quad by another door, then right out of Hart House and headed off down Philosophers' Walk.
At first she kept her head lowered, staring at the ground as she walked, not wanting to look Matt straight in the face. She felt shy. But then she glimpsed up curiously at him and saw his gaze resting thoughtfully on her in a deliberate searching way and it seemed quite clear to her that he had been staring at her all along. Just then, a flock of birds— starlings?— broke out of one of the trees and flashed black overhead. Their forceful wings and excited loud cries startled them. Jillian had the palms of her hands pressed tight over her ears as they both ran down the path towards a bench.

“Those crazy birds nearly gave me a heart attack,” he exclaimed. But within seconds, he had his arm around Jillian and was sitting very close. She wondered, half in a panic, if he was about to kiss her. She was sitting so close against his warm body; waves of new emotion washed over her. Was this what it was like to be in love? Moments later she surrendered, almost too easily, laughing yet almost crying, as he pulled her down to the damp grass beside the bench into his waiting arms. From somewhere close by came a chirp of crickets, hidden amongst the bushes. The kiss came suddenly. It felt like nothing she had expected— wet, as if her mouth had got caught in a trap. It was different. It was sudden. She felt a moment of panic; her feelings were in turmoil; yet in that brief instant, she felt a comingling of desire and excitement - that she mistook for love.

A warm hazy breeze was blowing as the girl walked down a tree-lined street in a dress of white lace. Pink cherry blossoms were falling invisibly from the sky onto her shoulders, onto her hair and along the path. Birds were singing; it was spring, and the air had a misty feel, while the sun cast a pearly glow. She was thin and demure and held herself upright, almost rigid, scarcely casting a glance to the right or to the left but always looking straight ahead at some indeterminate spot on the horizon— facing the future. Jillian couldn't clearly see the face but knew it was her own. She was the main character in this dream. Her friends were looking on, mouths gaping, in wide-eyed disbelief as she approached. The dress came into focus, elaborate in detail, embroidered with pearls and rosebud appliqués and sequins. Was she a bride; and if so, whom was she marrying? The answer to this question was not even clear to Jillian. A veil suddenly appeared over her head and trailed down to her feet. There were whispers and laughter, distant hollow sounds and voices that seemed to emanate from a cavernous place, echoing in her ears, “The bride is late.” And like one of those incomprehensible shifts in scenes in a movie, suddenly she was looking straight down into a church; it could have been St. Michael's Cathedral. In the front pew, along with a few dignitaries, she caught sight of her parent's solemn, anxious faces. The high altar glittered with gold and was lit with rows of candles and adorned with an abundance of flowers such as daisies, lilies and yellow roses. In the centre stood a priest, austere in his ceremonial robes, reading the sermon in a language that might have been Latin; standing at his side was a shadowed figure that she could not identify for certain. She looked towards the back of the church and saw many anxious waiting faces. Then she looked up to the gallery, and there mounted on the wall was a large round-faced clock; the red second hand was quickly marking time's rapid advance while the minute hand appeared stopped. According to the clock it was twelve noon. The notes of a large choir sounded, but no one was there; the music was coming from an antique wooden gramophone that skipped and crackled as the needle made its bumpy way around the crevices in the vinyl. Although faint and dream-like, the sound was a beautiful rendition of
Pachelbel's Canon:
angelic voices reaching notes so high she could never have dreamed possible.

At the rear of the nave, a side door slowly opened and a shy timid girl with long flowing hair entered. Gradually and carefully she made her way up the centre aisle, but there was some confusion; heads were looking up to the gallery. The gramophone needle was skipping, playing the same note over and over again. People began to murmur; there were whispers and laughter. Jillian began looking frantically about the church, wondering what the commotion was all about. Then a high shrill voice, sounding very much like her mother's, called out sharply
“Do you mean to sleep all day, Jillian? Jilly-Bean?”

Ruth Crossland's voice travelled up the stairs: “Jilly-Beeeen?”

After waiting a few moments she rapped lightly on the door, then turned the knob. Her pallid apprehensive face peered into the dim bedroom, which smelled of stale socks and perfume, and whispered “Jillian?” Her eyes darted quickly around the room as she stealthily and quietly made her way in, careful not to trip on the books and shoes that were scattered about, and picked up stray pieces of clothing that had been thrown haphazardly on the rug the night before. She placed these articles on a side chair, went to the window and drew aside one of the heavy curtains to let in the morning light. She then tugged to open one of the casement windows, just a crack, to let in the fresh ravine air. She cast an awkward glance back at her daughter, who was still sleeping at 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning. No sound or discernible movement came from underneath the covers. Nothing.

She walked over to the dresser and glanced in its mirror at her own reflection; she adjusted a loose strand of hair that had fallen over one eye, revealing a raised forehead of small worried lines and creases. She had a worried expression on her face, as if expecting the worst. Her image was subtly blurred and ghostly due to watermarks on the inside of the mirror; the antique repairman she had consulted had told her that there was no way to clean them and re-silvering the mirror would be far too expensive. The dresser was from the 1930's, considered an antique now, purchased at a country auction in Stoufville long before Jillian and Adam were even born.

Lying on the dresser was the necklace that her daughter had worn the night before; rays of morning light hit the beads from different angles, radiating deep yellow and blues. Beside it were pictures carefully preserved in silver metal frames: photographs of Jillian suddenly three years old again, running barefoot through grass and purple cornflowers that towered like trees high above her head, not even stopping to pose for the picture, her face turned away from the camera.

The bed creaked. Now there was some movement under the bedcovers.

“Time to get up, Jilly!”

No answer.

“Jillian, don't you think it's time you got up?” and then she added with an ironical note, “The day's almost over, honey.” She looked anxiously over at the bed: “How late was it when you got home?”

Jillian blinked her eyes open. Bright sunlight was pouring in from the windows and through eyes still half shut she saw her mother standing by the dresser, her dark hair and form outlined by a white diffused light from the window.

“What time is it?”

“8:30 a.m. Time to get up.”

Jillian sighed heavily and sank back down onto her pillow. She was worn out from her dream and its unsatisfactory conclusion. She turned over abruptly and pulled the covers over her head. Her voice sounded weak and strained, “It's too early, Mom.”

“Nonsense! What time did you get in?”

“Mmmm ... very late.”

“Some fellow with a deep voice rang up twice within the last hour; said he wanted to talk to you but didn't leave a name. I said you were still asleep, and who would call at such an ungodly hour? I didn't want to wake you, considering the late hour you got in last night.”

Jillian's eyes popped open. Her heart was racing and she immediately identified the caller as Matt. But how had he known her number? Did he know her last name too? How? It seemed a bit forward of him to ring her up so soon. She felt that she was losing control and being dragged into something she wasn't prepared for. Certainly she was not ready for romance; that was supposed to come later, much later. She wanted to stay true to her ideals. She was now sitting up in bed with her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin resting on her knees as she murmured vaguely, not meeting her mother's gaze, “The caller didn't want to leave his name or number?”

“I'm sure whoever it was,” replied her mother reassuringly, “will call again.” She walked over and sat by the edge of the bed. “Did you have a nice time last night?”

For a moment Jillian's mind was blank, but then the events of the evening raced through her mind. Matt had kissed her. Oh geez, how had she let that happen? Had she drunk too much? Could she really tell her mother about her encounter with Matt, the evening, the kiss? Her mother would not understand or, even worse, would leak it out to friends and relatives. She could just see her Aunt Jean's beaming face as she found out, her hands clasping for joy:
“Oh, Jilly-Bean has a boyfriend?”
She turned to her mother and said seriously, “It was all right, I guess.” Then she saw her mother's face turn quizzical, with raised eyebrows, and she had to laugh. She tried to keep her voice calm and steady as she cast her mother a furtive glance: “Well, what else do you want to know, Mom? There's
nothing
to tell. Absolutely nothing.”

Her mother shrugged and got up: “Come down for breakfast as soon as you're ready, Jilly-Bee,” she said, then closed the door behind her.

Jillian went over to her dressing-table and disrobed, alone with her body, observing herself a little too closely in the mirror.
White, thin, childlike still. Yes, just little ol' me: Plain Jane Jillian.
She was flat-chested with no curves.
A carpenter's dream.
She felt an instant of bewilderment. But she was hopeful. Her journey was just about to begin.

She walked into the bathroom, filled the tub with hot water and lay in it, while the steam from the water rose up past her head and dampened the walls and the mirror. She dunked her head beneath the water, letting it gently wash over her as her limbs lay level and floated submerged with only her nose and mouth above the water, and took rhythmic breaths. Her body lay submerged and motionless, cut off from the world outside. In her head he could hear the pounding of her heart. She listened for sounds and could hear the clank of the pipes and the noise of creaky floorboards as a single pair of slippered feet shuffled down the stairs and into the kitchen, followed by the sounds of cupboards and drawers slamming, pots banging. This was the all too familiar clatter in the kitchen as she followed the progress of breakfast being made by her mother: stooping over the stove, wearing her saggy purple robe, ankles swollen from water retention and the effects of menopause. It was hard for Jillian to believe her mother had lived through the bra-burning seventies, political marches, the Beatles, Joni Mitchell and Woodstock. Despite strides in the so-called feminist revolution, her mother had decided early on that she wanted to be a stay-at-home-mom.

“But Mom, you really should do something with your life. What did all that energy and discontent get you?”

“I'm a mom to two wonderful kids. That's the best thing that could ever have happened to me.”

Well, so much for a pricy education! From the kitchen wafted the smell of frying eggs and burnt toast.

There was silence, except for the gentle clink of forks on plates, as her brother and dad were busily eating their breakfast in a room off the kitchen called the sunroom. It had windows extending from floor to ceiling overlooking the back garden and was crammed with childhood portraits on the walls. Jillian was leaning on her elbows, avidly watching her father and brother eating their eggs. Adam picked up a greasy egg and slipped it into his mouth, chewing it reflectively, and then glanced up from his plate at Jillian, who started.

“What?” he asked. “What are you looking at? I'm hungry this morning.”

Jillian smiled, shrugged indifference and poured some more tea from the pot she was carefully holding, not lifting her gaze from her hands, while Molly sat next to her on the floor shredding a stray Kleenex that had fallen off the table. Carefully setting her teacup down, Jillian announced, “I've got great news! I got the job at the Toronto General Hospital.”

Her father glanced up from his plate. “Congratulations! That's wonderful, Jillian. What's the job?”

“Helping the nurses in the geriatric ward,” she replied.

“Well, somebody has got to do it. That's why it's a summer job,” Adam quipped, grinning.

With a deep sigh, her father reached for the
Globe and Mail
and turned his gaze to the front-page headlines: “Global Warming: Environmental Changes Ahead.” Seismic disturbances of up to 7 or 8 degrees magnitude were being registered in various parts of the world. The Gujarat earthquake had registered 8.1 on the Richter scale, killing 20,000 people, and another one had followed in El Salvador. Signs for sure, but who would take them for portents of a worldwide catastrophe? Could these devastating natural events be the work of an angry God, a supernatural being, or were they just natural phenomena?