So Much It Hurts (6 page)

Mick nods. “That's my Joey.”

“He needed to know your name.”

Mick has stretched out on the floor to do his morning push-ups. “My name?” he says, without looking up from the floor. “What for?”

“He says my passport might not be enough. He's going to fax us a letter saying he's authorized you to take me over the border. To see him. Because I'm still a minor.” I whisper that last part. I don't want to remind Mick of our age difference.

I hope Mick won't be upset that I've given his name to my father. But Mick doesn't seem to mind. He's finished his push-ups and is stretching out his calves. “It's probably a good idea,” he says, stroking his soul patch. “I gather he knows a thing or two about rules and regulations.”

I don't mention Katie's birthday party until Mick's had his tea. He doesn't want me to go. “Just tell her you're too busy. Tell her you're working on your lines tonight.”

Mick is making French toast, sprinkling it with icing sugar.

My cell phone rings. The call display says
Mom
. “I'd better get it,” I tell Mick.

“Hi, Mom,” I say. Then I yawn into the phone.

“What's up?” I can't help assessing my own performance. Convincing. A seventeen-year-old girl just waking up on a Saturday morning at her best friend's house.

I put my hand over the phone so Mick won't hear her asking if I remembered to floss last night. “Why are you whispering?” she asks.

“Katie's parents are sleeping in.” I'm surprised at how easily the lie comes to me. I'm getting used to lying to my mom. It's another way my life has changed since I met Mick. “Love you, Mom.” That part, at least, is true.

Mom sighs on the other end of the phone. “Love you, dolly.” I hope Mick didn't hear that.

I've been at Mick's a lot in the last two weeks. The fact that we get along so well in such a small place proves how amazing we are together. We haven't had a single fight. And I'm not going to fight about Katie's birthday.

Still, I feel guilty about missing it. “I haven't missed one of Katie's parties in ten years! I hate to let her down.” I make a pouty face, which works when I want something from my mom, but it doesn't work on Mick.

“Stop pouting,” he tells me, and his tone is firmer than I'm used to. “Don't you see, Joey? You've outgrown Katie. You're going to need to let some things—and some people—go if you want to keep moving forward in your life. You want to move forward, don't you, Joey?” Mick moves in close when he asks me that.

His dark eyes lock on mine. Mick says life is all about moving forward.

“Of course, I do. It's just…”

“Just what?” I hate that he sounds impatient. I want the gentle Mick back.

“Just nothing.” I cut my French toast into perfect squares. For the first time since we've been together, I don't know if I can tell Mick what I'm thinking. What I'm really hoping for. I know he's got lots on his mind. He's been on the phone nonstop with his lawyer in Melbourne; they're trying to reach a settlement with Nial's mom about child support. Mick also has to decide whether to take a directing gig here in Montreal. “The work's not nearly as prestigious as the stuff I've been doing in Australia,” he explained to me last night. “I need to think about what's best for my career, but let's just say Montreal has its perks.” When he said that, he reached under my T-shirt and into my bra and tweaked my nipple. He tweaked a little too hard, and when I put on my bra this morning, my nipple still felt tender.

I haven't told anyone about Mick and me. There've been a couple of times when I wanted to tell Katie— mainly so she wouldn't keep thinking I was such an innocent. But there are people who know—or who must be figuring it out. Like Mrs. Karpman, the elderly woman who lives in the apartment next to Mick's loft. She has a pet canary. I know because I hear it chirping when she lets herself in. “Nice to see you again, dear,” she said when we bumped into each other in the hallway yesterday. Her voice is low and raspy, and there's a scar on her throat. She must have had some kind of throat surgery. Her hearing is bad too, because she wears hearing aids in both ears, and when I speak, I see she's watching my lips.

“Mick…” I reach out across the narrow table for Mick's hand. This isn't easy for me, but I need to be able to tell Mick how I feel and what I want. “Would you come with me to Katie's party?” I ask in a small voice. “Please.” No pouting this time.

Mick gets up from the stool he's been sitting on. The more time we spend together, the better I'm getting at reading his moods. It's another sign of how close we are. Now I can see the weather on his face has changed, gone stormy. “Iris!” he says so loudly that even if Mrs. Karpman hasn't put in her hearing aids she will hear him, “what's wrong with you?”

I don't know what to answer when he asks me that. “There's nothing wrong with me,” I start to tell him—but as soon as I say it, I know it's not true. It was stupid of me to ask him to come. I know how important it is to Mick that we keep our relationship a secret. “It's just…just… well…Katie's been my best friend since second grade. Couldn't we just drop by? We could say we ran into each other on the str—”

“No!” Mick's eyes are flashing in a way I'm not used to. In a way that makes me nervous. Instead of being quiet, which would probably be smarter right now, I keep talking. I can't help it. “I mean…we are together…aren't we?”

I don't know why Mick is getting so angry. I reach for his shoulder, thinking that will calm him down, but it doesn't. It makes things worse. Mick shrugs me away. For some reason, I notice his nostrils. They are flaring like a horse's. Then, out of nowhere, Mick extends his forearm and punches the wall between the kitchen nook and the window.

I shudder. If I'd been standing just a few inches closer, he'd have hit me.

“Mick! Stop it!” I'm shouting now too and crying at the same time. I'm too upset to think about Mrs. Karpman.

Mick's hand is swelling up. The poor guy! What if he's fractured a knuckle or his wrist? I need to get him some ice right away.

There is an ugly fist-size hole in the plaster. I close my eyes so I won't have to see it.

Mick's cell phone rings. “Damn it to hell,” he mutters. I rush to the kitchen for the ice. Mick is checking the caller
ID
on his phone. “It's the lawyer again,” he says. “I need to take this.”

His voice is totally normal when he answers the call. How can he turn his emotions on and off like that? “Chuck,” he says evenly. “Give me a minute. I want to take this call outside.”

I stuff the ice cubes into a plastic bag. Mick grabs the bag from me without a word and walks out the door.

The loft feels eerie without Mick. I throw out my French toast. I'm not hungry anymore.

I remember seeing a hammer in one of the drawers in the kitchen. There are two framed prints on the wall behind the sofa. One's a line drawing of the Bonsecours Market in Old Montreal. The other is more abstract— bright orange lines intersecting with pale blue ones. I'll take the one of the Bonsecours Market and hang it over the hole Mick's fist left in the plaster. Then we can pretend this never happened.

CHAPTER 9

“Beware of entrance to a quarrel…
”
—HAMLET
, ACT 1, SCENE 3

W
hen I go home the next morning, I'm surprised to find Mom sitting on our livingroom couch, wearing her velour housecoat and sipping green tea. Lately, the Clear Your Clutter Closet Company has been so busy that Mom has been working weekends too. She isn't good at turning down jobs. Maybe it's because, from what I understand, we were seriously broke after she and my dad split up. It took her years to pay off the debts he'd left, and I guess she got into the habit of working hard. I worry about Mom getting run-down. But there's a plus side too: she works so much she hasn't noticed how little time I'm actually spending at home.

“Hey, you're home.” I hand Mom the newspaper, which I've brought in from the porch.

Mom removes the thick elastic band that's keeping the newspaper rolled up and pops the blue band into the cup she uses for collecting elastics. Then she taps her cheek. It's something she's done since I was little—her signal that she wants a kiss.

Even though I'm not five anymore, I kiss her. For the first time, I see myself playing the role of devoted daughter. Which feels a little confusing. I've always been devoted to my mom. But things feel different—I feel different—since I started lying to her and since I've been in contact with my father.

Mom's face smells lotiony. There are new lines over her lips and by her eyes. “I had a last-minute cancellation,” she tells me. “One of my clients' cars needs a new transmission. They're going to hold off on redesigning their closets till next fall. To be honest, I'm great with it. I need some downtime. And this way we can spend the day together, Iris. How 'bout breakfast at our bagel place? And a
DVD
tonight? Like old times.” She must catch me biting my lip because she adds, “Unless you've got other plans, sweetpie.”

I could object to being called
sweetpie
, but I don't. “I can do breakfast, but then I need to get back to”—I pause to give myself time to get my story straight—“to school. For rehearsal. And I promised Katie I'd sleep over tonight.”

“But you slept there last night.” Mom's voice is neutral. Not hurt. Definitely not suspicious. Even so, I can't help feeling guilty.

“Things get kind of intense, Mom, when you're in rehearsal.”

“I know they do. And I respect that you work so hard. Really I do. But you do seem to be doing an awful lot of rehearsing for a high school production…” Mom lets her voice trail off. She knows this is a sensitive subject for me.

“It's more than a high school production, Mom. Ms. Cameron says she's making a point of treating us like professionals. So we can get a feeling for what acting is really all about.”

“All right, Iris. I respect that. I think it's great that you're learning so much from Ms. Cameron. Hey, before I forget to ask—how was Katie's birthday bash?”

When I hear the word
bash
, I can't help picturing the hole Mick made in the wall. I try to push the thought as far away as I can. I don't want Mom to see it on my face. “Amazing.” Short answers make lying easier.

“D'you want to have some green tea or should we head right out for those bagels?”

“We should probably get there before the line gets too long.”

Mom tightens her housecoat around her waist as she gets up from the couch. Then she runs her hand over my forehead. “You're gorgeous, Iris, but I have to tell you—you look a little stressed. Maybe it's all that rehearsing.”

There's already a lineup when we get to the bagel place, but because there are only two of us, we don't have to wait very long. A woman sitting by the brick wall waves. Mom did her closets two years ago. “Hoarder,” Mom says under her breath. “One of the worst cases I've ever seen. She's got ten years of newspapers piled up in her hallway. You have to walk sideways to get to her kitchen.”

I peek over my shoulder at the woman. Her hair is stylishly cut and she's laughing at something her friend just said. I'd never have guessed she's a hoarder, which goes to show how little you can tell from looking at a person.

“Do people ever ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement?” I ask Mom when we're seated across from each other. “Like a lawyer or an accountant?”

Mom's laugh has a tinkling sound. When I was little, her laugh made me laugh, but now I look around at the nearby tables, hoping the people sitting at them are too busy eating to notice it. “It'd probably be a good idea for some of my customers,” Mom says. “But it'd be awful for me. I'd have nothing to talk about. Except you, of course.” Mom takes my hand and squeezes it. I want her to let go—it's embarrassing to be seventeen and holding hands with your mother in public—but I know if I shake my hand loose, it'll hurt her feelings.

Thank God Mom releases my hand when the waitress comes over. I make a point of asking the waitress how she's doing. I also take the napkins and cutlery she's carrying and put everything in the right spot. I know how tough it is to stay on top of things when a restaurant gets busy.

“Thanks,” the waitress says. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I know she knows I'm a waitress too. It's like being part of a secret society. Freemasons have a secret handshake; waitresses help each other with cutlery.

Mom points to the bottom of her menu. “We'll have our usual. Scrambled eggs with sesame-seed bagels. Toasted. Fruit salad instead of home fries. Please.” Mom hands the menu back to the waitress.

My hands are in my lap now—safely out of Mom's reach.

“I'll have poached eggs, not scrambled, please,” I tell the waitress.

“Sure,” she says, scratching something out on her pad.

“Sweetpie!” Mom says. (The waitress gives me a sympathetic look.) “Poached eggs? Since when do you like poached eggs?”

“I guess I'm in the mood for a change. Besides, I'm starting to like poached eggs. I've been eating them at”—lying is harder than acting because you have to make up the script as you go along—“Katie's.”

Mom's not good with change, even if it involves eggs. I think if she had her way, she'd keep me a little girl forever. Not because she doesn't want me to grow up and have my own life; I think Mom just got used to having a little girl around for company.

“Iris,” she says, “why don't we plan to come here for breakfast every single weekend? If we did it first thing on Saturdays, I could still—”