So Much It Hurts (13 page)

I wish I could be more like Katie. I've never seen her hesitate when it comes to choosing chocolate bars or ice cream. Katie's already been accepted into the Artistic Makeup program at Inter-Dec College.

Our guidance counselor, Ms. Odette, isn't much help. Besides handing me a packet of brochures, she gave me an online aptitude test that showed I had a talent for languages and communication but that I was also good with numbers. “What about accounting, Iris?” she'd asked me, which made me want to strangle her. Me? An accountant? I don't think so.

When I told Ms. Odette I want to be an actor, she said I should follow my heart. But in the next breath she advised me to be practical. “In this day and age, Iris, a woman needs to be independent and able to support herself.” I nodded my head, but all the while I was thinking that I didn't want to end up like Ms. Odette. She might be independent and self-supporting, but she wears way too much perfume and has a permanently sour look on her face—as if she thinks life should have treated her better than it has.

Of course, Mom's all for being practical. I still haven't found a way to talk to her about my father; talking to her about school is easier. “I'm not saying you're not talented,” she told me over dinner last night, “but in my opinion, acting is more a hobby than a career.”

“What about Meryl Streep?” I asked, knowing she's Mom's all-time favorite actor.

Mom sighed. “Meryl Streep is Meryl Streep,” she said, as if that explained everything. “How about a little more pasta?”

I try writing a list of pros and cons. That was Ms. Odette's suggestion. But it doesn't work. When I start with a list of pros and cons about the private college, both sides have the exact same number of points. Rather than helping me clarify my thoughts, the way Ms. Odette said it would, the list only makes me feel more distressed. I hate myself for being so indecisive!

William Shakespeare is sitting next to me on the couch. I wish he'd tell me what to do. I scratch the orange triangle over his nose and he makes a contented purr. Sometimes I wish I were a cat. Then my biggest decision would be whether to sit on the couch or by the window. Knowing me, I'd have trouble with that too.

“At least I didn't have trouble choosing you,” I tell him. And then I remember the afternoon we got him and how Mick pointed out that William Shakespeare chose me. It's a wonder, I think, that I was able to choose Mick. But then again, I didn't have much choice about that either. Mick's right: we were destined to be together.

But what college am I destined for? And what program? Why shouldn't I follow my dream? Then again, what if I don't make it as an actor? Most people don't. What then? I feel dizzy from thinking so hard. Where is destiny now that I need it?

I am rereading the brochures—it must be the fifteenth time—when Mick comes in. “What's for supper?” he calls out. “I could eat a horse.”

“I forgot all about supper. Sorry,” I add, not because I really am sorry (why do I have to be in charge of supper?) but because I don't want to set Mick off. The negotiations with Nial's mother haven't been going well, and Mick's been on edge. When I try asking him about it, figuring he'll feel better if he talks about what's bothering him, he shuts down like a department store on a Sunday night. “I don't want to talk about it, Iris,” he says, and his dark eyes narrow as if he thinks I'm somehow part of the problem.

“I guess I'll make an omelette,” Mick says. He doesn't sound like he wants to.

“That'd be great.” I'm starting to like cooking—especially for Mick—but I don't always feel like it. “I'm kind of stressed about the college applications. I need to get it all done by next week. Katie's already finished.”

“Katie's an idiot.”

I know Mick's saying that because I told him how all Katie cares about is doing makeup and going clubbing. I've decided it's okay if I complain about Katie but not okay when Mick does it. It's one more thing I don't say. I could keep a list of all the things I've stopped saying around Mick. That list would be longer than the pros and cons I was working on before.

Mick's in the kitchen. I watch him crack six eggs into a plastic bowl, then whisk them together. I love his shoulders. He must feel me admiring him because he pauses as if he's posing for a photo.

“I hate making big decisions.”

Mick turns away from the egg bowl. “It's clear to me what you should do.”

“It is?” For the first time all afternoon, I feel my body begin to relax.

“Absolutely.” I love the certainty in Mick's voice. If only I could be more like him. Confident, certain about things, in charge of my own life. Strong. “You should go to that private college you've been talking about. In Creative Arts.”

“Ms. Odette thinks I should be an accountant.”

“Ms. Odette should have her head examined.”

I laugh when Mick says that.

“If you're determined, Joey, and if you put in the time to hone your craft—really hone it—then I know you'll make it as an actor. In fact, I guarantee it.”

“You do?” I know Mick can't really guarantee I'll make it as an actor, but I also know he's right about being determined and putting in the time to hone my craft. I'm so lucky I've got him to talk to. And that he believes in me. I don't know how I'd manage without him. But I don't want to think about that. I don't ever plan—not ever—to be without Mick.

I recycle the other brochures, keeping only the one for the private college and the Creative Arts program. I'll fill out the application form after we have Mick's omelette. The whole apartment smells delicious.

I feel as light as a fairy in one of Shakespeare's comedies. My decision is made. So what if I didn't make it myself?

CHAPTER 18

“He took me by the wrist and held me hard…”
—HAMLET
, ACT 2, SCENE 1

M
ost days after school, I go to the loft. If Mick's not at a meeting, we get a couple of hours together. Weeknights, I sleep at home. If I didn't, Mom would get suspicious. My single bed feels sad and small.

All week I look forward to Saturday. We spend all day together and at night we fall asleep, our legs tangled together, William Shakespeare curled around my head like an orange fur hat.

When I let myself in this Saturday morning, Mick is on the phone. I can tell from the clipped way he's speaking that he's talking to his lawyer. “That's ridiculous,” Mick says, scowling into the phone. “I'll never give her that. Never. No way.”

When I wave at Mick, he doesn't bother waving back. It's as if he hasn't even noticed me come in. William Shakespeare must be hiding. The cat is as sensitive to Mick's moods as I am.

Mrs. Karpman is in Toronto. I take her key from the kitchen drawer where I left it for safekeeping. At least Sunshine will be glad to see me.

The canary chirps when I come in. I change his water and add seed to the plastic dispenser. Even though Mrs. Karpman said I didn't need to change the wax paper at the bottom of his cage, I do it anyhow, sprinkling the fresh paper with gravel. When I do, Sunshine swoops down to the bottom of the cage as if to show me he's grateful that it's so nice and clean.

I've never seen so many knickknacks as in Mrs. Karpman's apartment. It turns out she doesn't only collect porcelain teacups and salt and pepper shakers. She's also got a shelf full of thimbles and two shelves of eggcups. Who ever heard of an eggcup collection? If she ever did move to Toronto, she'd need an extra moving van for her collections.

But though the apartment is crowded with her stuff and smells of mothballs, there's something surprisingly peaceful about being here. Maybe it's Sunshine's chirping or maybe it's the spirit of Mr. Karpman, but when I sit down in Mrs. Karpman's velvet armchair, I relax in a way I can't seem to relax at home or even at Mick's.

When I think of Mick, and as if on cue, I hear his voice booming through Mrs. Karpman's wall. “No way!” he's saying, and then I hear a thud. My shoulders stiffen. I hope Mick has just banged down the phone and not punched another hole in the wall. And I hope William Shakespeare isn't freaking out.

I don't want to go back to Mick's straightaway. I should give him time to cool off, calm down after the conversation with the lawyer, but the thought of William Shakespeare, who startles when he hears a loud noise, makes me go back a little sooner than I want to.

I wish Mick didn't have such an explosive temper. That's the right word for it:
explosive
. And it's hard to know what'll set him off. I know it comes with being passionate and creative. Mick gets upset because he cares so much— too much, maybe. I could never be with someone who wasn't passionate and creative or who didn't care too much. Even if that someone never lost his temper or raised his voice or put his fist through a wall. I know I'd be bored to death with anyone but Mick.

I let myself back into the loft as quietly as I can. I'll just check on William Shakespeare. Maybe I'll make some tea. Mick likes tea in the morning. He says it's bracing—whatever that means. Two spoons of sugar, no milk. I drink mine that way now too.

At first, there's no sign of William Shakespeare. I think of calling out for him, but even that might upset Mick if he's still angry.

Then I catch sight of William Shakespeare's orange tail. He has crawled under the bed, but he seems to be considering coming out now that I'm back. “Hey, William Shakespeare,” I say under my breath, and a small paw emerges.

Mick is at the table, tapping furiously at his laptop.

“Sorry,” I say.

“What are you sorry for this time?” he asks, without looking up.

“I'm sorry things are going badly with the lawyer. I'm sorry you're upset.”

“That lawyer is an asshole. I hired him to work for me, not
her
.” The angry way he says
her
makes me feel a little better. Sometimes, when I'm in my own bed at home, I worry that Mick might get back together with Nial's mother, for Nial's sake. But Mick could never go back to someone he hates so much. So passionately.

“How about a cup of tea? Two spoons of sugar, no milk.” My voice rises on the word
milk
. I sound like some lady on a
TV
commercial for margarine or paper towels! It's because I want to fix Mick's mood, but I don't know how.

It's a crisp, sunny February day. The cold spell we've had all week has broken. With the temperature hovering around zero, it's a perfect day for a walk on the mountain or maybe a drive to the Laurentians. There, Mick and I wouldn't have to worry about running into anyone we know. We could just be ourselves and not have to hide who we are to each other. But now isn't a good time to mention going for a walk or driving to the country. I reach for the teapot. Even though Mick hasn't said he wants tea.

“Don't talk to me as if I'm a child.” When Mick says this—out of the blue—I'm so surprised I nearly drop the teapot.

My mistake is talking back to Mick. I should've waited for his black mood to pass. For the sky inside his head to turn blue again. “I wasn't talking to you like a child. I only asked if you wanted a cup of tea. I thought it would help calm you down.”

“Calm me down?! You think a bloody cup of tea with two sugars and no milk”—Mick is imitating me now, the way I sang out the words before, and the imitation is so good, it makes me cringe—“will calm me down?! You have no idea what I'm going through. No idea at all!”

“I do. I swear I do.”

I've just stepped on a land mine.

Without thinking, I raise my elbow so it covers my face.

“What do you think I'm going to do, hit you, Iris? Is that it?”

Oh no, I think. I've made things even worse by covering my face. Why am I such an idiot?

“No, I don't think that,” I say, and I realize I am cowering too, like William Shakespeare under the bed. I don't know what to do to get Mick to calm down. I don't know where to go to get away from his anger. I have nowhere to go.

What happens next happens so quickly it's hard for me to keep track of what is going on. To process it. Mick grabs the neck of my T-shirt. “Let go,” I say. “You're hurting me!”

Mick is so angry he's sputtering. All the while I'm thinking he isn't really angry with me. I haven't done anything wrong. Just offered him a cup of tea. If only I hadn't shielded my face with my elbow. I insulted him by doing that. So I let my elbow drop back down. I do it slowly, so Mick will notice. “Calm down, Mick. Please, calm down,” I say, my voice starting to break. “Please!”

Mick's eyes are cold as marbles. I watch his fist coming through the air like a baseball. This time, there's no wall behind me. I try ducking, but I'm not fast enough. Again, I get the weird feeling that part of me is watching from a distance. That I'm both the actor and the audience. That my mind manages to duck in time but not my body—and my mind is somewhere up near the ceiling, watching the terrible scene unfolding below.

Mick punches my right cheek. The pain is so sudden and intense, I crumple to the floor, doubled over. The inside of my head is ringing. How, the part of me watching from a distance wonders, can flesh ring?

“You had it coming, Iris.” His voice is coming from far away. Why isn't he calling me
Joey
the way he always does?

Besides the terrible pain in my cheek all the way up to my right eye, I only know one thing: Mick sounds calmer now. Much calmer. Like himself again. And despite the pain, I'm glad the storm is over.

CHAPTER 19

“…I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king
of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.”
—HAMLET
, ACT 2, SCENE 2