My Former Self (2 page)

Summer 1989

I
sit here in my room, daydreaming again. I find it so fascinating to picture my life in ten or twenty years. I imagine what I will look like, if the years will be kind to me. Will I have trouble losing weight after having kids, like my mom did? Of course I picture myself married with kids. I wonder what my husband will look like, if I know him already, or if I’ll meet him in the future. This dreaminess can go on for a long time, but I have to stop myself. I have to get ready because we are going for our family photo today. It was a gift my brother bought my parents for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. He is in university and has a part-time job, so he can afford it. I’m told it was pretty expensive as he hired the top
photographer in Lindsay. But no expense is too great for my parents, especially after my brother has given my parents a lot to stress over in the past four years.

Jeremy never did well in school. The fact that he was accepted into a university at all—even if it was Carleton (a.k.a. “last chance U”)—was surprising. It’s not that he didn’t try—he did; he just didn’t do well. He’d study for hours and then come back with poor grades. My dad would just shake his head, and we all knew what that meant. He thought Jeremy’d be stuck in his current job for the rest of his life, flipping burgers at Joe’s Fine Eatery. There was nothing really fine about Joe’s. Most of the food was the premade, prepackaged, deep-fried garbage that sold so well in our little town. But then Jeremy would go back to his room to study for the next possible pop quiz. It was kind of a cycle that I just wanted to end, and it did in the summer of 1987 when Jeremy got accepted into general arts at Carleton University. I remember that it was summer because he was on a waiting list. I think none of us—including my brother himself—ever believed he’d actually get accepted. So when the letter arrived in late August, notifying my brother that a few more spots had opened and he was being offered one of them, we were all flabbergasted, especially my mom. She started crying and hugging him, calling him her baby, which I had never seen her do before. So he packed up shortly thereafter and moved to Ottawa, coming home holiday
weekends and in the summer, where he continued to work at Joe’s.

I have always looked forward to when Jer would come home. He is such a positive and modest person, and he has a way of making everyone laugh at the idiosyncrasies of life. He doesn’t really look like any of us and has often suspected that my parents secretly adopted him at birth. He’s got dirty blond hair, while the rest of us are brunette, and he is nearly six-foot three, noticeably taller than anyone else in the family. I hope the photographer will take special care while placing us for our picture, otherwise Jeremy will have more ‘proof’ that he’s not a Daverin.

I really, really don’t want to go and pose for who-knows-how-long in Riverwood Park, where it’s thirty-one degrees outside. But my parents are touched by the gift, and they want to use it while we’re all at home. I would rather be doing something with Amanda or Kaitlyn. They are my best friends and we see each other almost every day in the summer. If one of our families decides to go on vacation, we’re usually allowed to invite someone along with us. Kaitlyn, however, doesn’t really go on family vacations. Her mom and dad split up when she was in elementary school—long before I knew her. Her mom has different boyfriends all the time and Kaitlyn is able to go out whenever she wants. I think that’s great, but she seems to look sad when either Amanda or
I go on a family trip. We don’t really ever hear about her father; I think he’s non-existent in her life and has been for a long time. Today they are going to the beach, with Neil, Darren, and Greg—guys we often hang out with. I told them I couldn’t go, but hopefully I can meet up with them afterwards.

After fixing my hair, trying to make my bangs stick up to look fuller, I am finally ready. I spray what seems like an entire can of Finesse on my hair and I am all set to go. I just need to grab a bite to eat to tide me over until I’m able to eat again.

Uncle Jack is sitting in the family room. I am a little surprised to see him. He is not really my uncle, just our next-door neighbour, who hangs out with us since his wife left him. I’m not surprised to see him sitting there—he often is in our home—but I am surprised he is here on picture day. Surely he won’t be in the picture.

“Hey, Tonya. You look absolutely beautiful!”

“Thanks. I think Mom and Dad are still getting ready. We’re going to have a family portrait taken today.” I say it as matter-of-factly as I can so that he is well aware.

“I know. Bob and Sharon asked me to be in it with you guys. I said no at first, but they insisted. They said I’m part of the family.” He says it almost as though he
is looking for confirmation. As he is speaking he opens his hand to offer me a mint.

“Oh, that’s great,” I say, taking a mint, though I’m not sure I’m convincing. Don’t get me wrong, I like Jack. He is a loyal friend to the family, and he would do anything my parents asked of him. It’s just that after a while it gets a little annoying always having a neighbour in our house, at our holiday dinners, and on our family vacations. Jack has two children of his own, but he doesn’t see them too often. Penny, his ‘bitch of a wife’, as my dad once referred to her, took the kids and left. I don’t know the whole story, but some of the details that I’ve been able to piece together are that she wanted more out of life than he did. She wanted to travel; she wanted to go out at night and not stay home, sitting on the couch watching TV. She wanted a new man, too, I guess, because shortly after she left Jack, she was seen in town with another guy. I had seen this guy before at Joe’s, when we’d go at the end of one of Jeremy’s shifts. He had a motorcycle, multiple tattoos and long hair, and he was often smoking when I saw him. I couldn’t imagine anyone finding him attractive, but I overheard my mom once say that he must make up for it in other ways. I didn’t really know what she meant at the time, but I think I do now.

“Okay, everyone,” Dad shouts. “Let’s get in the car. We have to be at the park by eleven and it’s ten to, now.”
Then he notices Jack. “Hey, Jack. Do you want to drive with us or meet us there?”

“I’ll meet you at the park. I have a few errands to run afterwards. I brought my cooler and filled it with water and colas for the kids—it’s pretty hot out today. See you there.”

“Thanks. Kids, let’s go!” Dad rarely gets mad at us, but he doesn’t have much patience for tardiness. He once told us that people who are late are egotistical—they think they are worth waiting for. That has always stuck with me, and I try not to make anyone wait for me.

“I’m ready, Dad. Sandy,” I call to my younger sister, “come on!” Sandra is eleven and in sixth grade. She’s a funny girl and makes us all laugh. Sometimes she gets in trouble at school because she makes the entire class laugh. One of her teachers, Mr. Keddy, called home a few times, saying that she needs to take science more seriously. He said that when he’s trying to teach important concepts, she makes jokes and is clearly not paying attention. My parents talk to her and tell her that class is not the appropriate place to make jokes, with which she agrees. It lasts for a week or two, and then there is a poor test result sent home to sign or another phone call.

“’Kay, I’m done. Look at me!” Sandy has obviously had fun with Mom’s makeup.

“Sandra! What on earth have you done to your face?” Dad is trying not to laugh. He probably would have if he weren’t feeling rushed for time. “Go wash your face quickly and get back here!”

So, by 10:55, we leave to go get our family portrait done. I can see that my dad doesn’t really want to talk on the way. He knows we’re going to be about five minutes late, and it is visibly upsetting him. My mom touches his back and says, “It’s okay, Bob, Jack’s there. He’ll tell him where to set up everything.”

Mom is right; when we get to the park, Jack is there talking to the photographer about lawn mowers. The one thing I can say about Jack: he can talk. To anybody. About anything. I have actually always admired his ability to converse with complete strangers. Within minutes, it seems like they’re old friends. You would think he’d have more people to hang out with, but no, he’s usually always with us. Today I am somewhat relieved, however, because otherwise my father would be quiet and bothered, which is how he gets when something has set him off.

The photographer is a middle-aged man who wears his pants way too high, in my opinion. My sister and I giggle about this for a little while until Mom gives her stern don’t-you-dare-make-me-talk-to-you-here look. So we wait patiently until we are positioned for our picture. Dad and Mom are at the back with Jack, and my
brother is beside Jack. My sister and I are in the front. We put on our fake smiles for what feels like an eternity. I am hot and in a dress that my mom insisted I wear—definitely not my choice. I would have been perfectly fine in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I keep reminding myself that I am doing this for my parents.

Finally, close to one, the photographer says he thinks he has some really good shots, and we’re done. Mom suggests we all go out for lunch, sort of as a celebration, although I have no idea what we are celebrating: Jeremy passing all of his courses at university, Uncle Jack finally running the 5k without stopping, my sister making it to junior high, Dad fixing the washing machine last weekend? I have no clue, but we all know that if my mom suggests it, it is more of a demand. Telling her that I’d rather be with my friends would not go over well. I’ll have to bite my tongue and feign happiness for a few more hours.

Fall 2010

B
y the time I get to the coffee shop, the line is out the door. Luckily the rain has subsided, and it’s not too cool outside. I wait patiently for my turn, but I find that the smell of the coffee, my earlier-than-normal wakeup time, and the slow baristas are making this wait excruciating.

Finally, I am next to order. Unfortunately, I know the barista who will be serving me. Her name is Tasha. We went to high school together. We never hung out in the same circles, so now we just pretend that we don’t know each other. She looks at least ten years older than I do—at least I hope I don’t look her age. She was quiet and plain in high school. I don’t think she ever went to
one party that I did, if she even went out at all. I find it strange that our lives are now connected in this small way after so many years. There are not many people from high school that I see nowadays, and her presence gives me a queer feeling. I am sure she remembers me, but she doesn’t let on that she does. I guess that is what people tend to do to avoid awkward conversations.

“Hi, a vanilla bean latte, extra hot, skim milk, please?” I try to sound chipper, although I feel anything but this morning.

“No problem.” And within five minutes I am out the door and off to work.

As I am walking on Bank Street, a car stopped at the red light catches my eye. When I look at the driver, I can’t help but reminisce. The driver has to be in her teens and the others in the car with her are roughly the same age. They are laughing and talking. Maybe it’s because I just saw Tasha, but I’m reminded of my early high school years, and the times when I’d be driving somewhere with Greg or Kaitlyn. We just had fun being young and innocent. We laughed about nothing, but it’s the simplicity that I fondly remember. Although the people in this car are strangers to me, they remind me of the feelings of carelessness which we used to possess. Then, we wanted to be older and more mature. Now, I’d give anything to be back in those days without a care
in the world. But reality sets in and I am here walking alone, carrying a coffee, and heading to work.

Luckily, my extra hot latte stays that way until I arrive at work, where I sit and enjoy it before the office is open to the public. I am the first to arrive, as usual, and I enjoy the time alone.

Next to come in is Cindy. It looks like she didn’t get to bed until late, and seeing that, I am even more thankful that I decided not to join them last night. If I had gone to bed late and been up early, this day would seem like an eternity. I try not to let her know that she looks exhausted. She cares a great deal about her appearance and preens throughout the day. I once heard her say that she pays over two hundred dollars at the hair salon every few months. I spend a total of ten dollars for a box of hair colour, and I can’t imagine spending that kind of money on my hair.