So Much It Hurts (7 page)

“Mom.” My voice comes out sharper than I want it to. “I can't go making plans like that. Not with the play coming up.”

This time, Mom bites her lip. “You're right. I'm being a pest. So tell me
everything
…”

I have a sudden urge to check the time on my cell phone. I'm meeting Mick back at the loft at one.

There's no way I'm going to tell my mom
everything
, but I know I've got to tell her
something
.

“I'm really getting into Ophelia's character.”

“That's wonderful,” Mom says.

I'm waiting for her to say what she usually does—that I should probably have a Plan B—but she doesn't. That makes me want to tell her a little more.

“Ophelia is really close with her brother and her dad. So she's super torn when her dad says he thinks Hamlet's totally wrong for her. But the thing is, Ophelia's crazy in love with Hamlet.” Just saying the words
crazy in love
makes me think of Mick and how I'm crazy in love with him. His lips, his shoulders, the way he calls me
Joey
and holds me so tight it almost hurts to breathe.

“It's been ages since I read the play, but wasn't Hamlet bonkers?” Mom asks, twirling one finger in a circle by the side of her head to emphasize
bonkers
.

“He's brilliant, not bonkers. And it doesn't hurt that he's a prince.”

“A difficult prince,” Mom says. “Why is it some women always fall for difficult guys?”

I want to ask Mom whether my father was difficult. But I can't. My father has always been the forbidden topic in our lives. Besides, I already know he was difficult. That's why they broke up and also why I'm supposed to be grateful he didn't make an effort to stay in touch with me. Only maybe what he wrote to me is true—maybe he did make an effort. Maybe Mom blocked it. But why?

Take it from me—we're better off without him
. Mom said that so many times when I was little, I took it for a fact. Now I'm not so sure.

The waitress brings our food. Mom gives me a suspicious look as I break off a piece of toasted bagel and dip it in the runny egg yolks.

“Speaking of princes,” she says, “how're you and Tommy managing? He really is a lovely guy. So respectful. Not at all bonkers, like that Hamlet of yours. I'm really glad you chose someone who's good for you. Some women have such awful taste in men.” I wonder if she's talking about herself. Does Mom worry that bad taste in men is a genetic trait I might have inherited—like green eyes or wavy hair?

I hate disappointing Mom, but I don't want her holding out hope for me and Tommy. “I'm not really with Tommy anymore.” I'm playing with my napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller triangles.

“I had no idea.” This time, Mom does sound hurt. You'd think she was the one who'd just gone through a breakup. “How come?” She leans in a little closer, and I know that if my hand was on the table, she'd be squeezing it. I know Mom wants me to tell her
everything
—the way I used to when I was little. And part of me wants to because it felt good to tell someone everything—to let out whatever was going on in my heart and head. But I know I can't. Not just because things are too complicated right now, but because I'm not Mom's little girl anymore. No matter how much she wants me to be.

CHAPTER 10

“
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.”
—HAMLET
, ACT 2, SCENE 2

I
take off my jean jacket and sling it over my arm. The weather's so mild, it feels more like May than October. I heard on the radio that Indian summer is coming later than it used to. Scientists think it could be another sign of global warming. I wish I could just enjoy the warm air, but I worry about the planet. How will global warming affect my kids? Our kids? I'd never tell Mick, but sometimes I let myself daydream about the children we'll have one day. I know they'll be into acting. I hope they have my green eyes—and Mick's confidence.

There's no answer when I buzz the loft. I'm buzzing a second time when Mrs. Karpman—Mick's neighbor— opens the glass door in the lobby for me. Her eyeglasses are dangling from the end of a long sparkly chain hanging around her neck. With every breath, her scar pulses. “I have something for you, dear,” she says, handing me an envelope. “It's from your friend upstairs.”

“Thanks,” I say as I tear the envelope open. Why in the world would Mick write me a letter? And then a dark cloud crosses my mind. What if he's going back to Melbourne? What if he's already left? The idea of having to live without him makes my arms go limp. But no, he'd never take off without telling me. Never. Katie thinks I've got abandonment issues on account of my dad's having left when I was so little. I remind myself now that Mick is nothing like my dad. Mick would never abandon me.

“What does it say?” a small raspy voice is asking. I've forgotten Mrs. Karpman, who is still standing by the glass door, propping it open with her crocheted purse.

Mick has written to me on a sheet of thick cream-colored stationery. I even love his handwriting—its boldness, the forceful strokes across his
T
s. The letter is only two sentences long, but they take up the whole page:
There's a Diamond taxi waiting outside the apartment
building. Get in it. Your Mick.

I don't even realize I am reading the letter out loud.

My heart swells in my chest at the
Your Mick
part.
My Mick
. I love the sound of that. Who cares that Mick doesn't say please—or that the message sounds bossy?
Get in it.
Mick's not bossy. He's old-fashioned and romantic. He likes to take charge, and I like how that feels. How could I have worried? Am I that insecure? Mick would never go back to Australia without me!

Katie says that in every couple, there's always someone who loves the other person more—but that isn't true with Mick and me. No way. He loves me just as much as I love him. Loving Mick—and being loved by him—makes me feel like the luckiest girl in all the world, ever. Other guys might be handsome or fun or talented or have a great sense of humor or be smart and sophisticated, but Mick's all those things. So what if he's fourteen years older than me? I could never be with a boy my own age. I could never talk to some seventeen-year-old boy the way I can talk to Mick.

Mrs. Karpman is beaming up at me. “That Aussie of yours is quite a charmer.” She says the word
charmer
in a neutral way, as if she isn't quite sure it's a good thing. “All he would tell me is he's planned a surprise for you. I must admit, it makes me miss my Nelson. Not that he was one for surprises. Still, once you get to my age, it's nice to be part of someone's surprise. I just hope he's kind to you, dear.”

“Of course he's kind to me. I've never known anyone kinder.” And because I'm so happy and excited and relieved that Mick hasn't run off without telling me, I hug Mrs. Karpman, hard.

Even her laughter comes out raspy. “Drop by and see me sometime,” she says, her voice sounding even more strained from all the excitement. “I want you to meet Sunshine, my canary. He'd enjoy the company.”

Just as Mick said, there's a Diamond taxi waiting outside. “You Iris?” the cabbie asks, turning to look at me when I get in.

I'm too excited to do anything but nod—and smile so hard my cheeks ache. When I look at my reflection in the rearview mirror, I decide I have never seen myself look so totally, completely happy. Maybe Mick's right. Maybe I am beautiful. There is something different about my eyes. I think it's that I look happier and more confident. It's hard to remember who I was before I met Mick. I was a plant withering on a shady windowsill. Mick is water and sun to me. He's made me come alive in a way I never had before.

The cab is heading east along Côte-St-Luc Road toward downtown. “Where are you taking me exactly?” I ask the cabbie, trying not to giggle. Though it shouldn't matter what he thinks of me, I don't want him to think I'm some silly teenager.

The cabbie meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I'm not supposed to say.”

I feel like a star. If only I could text or phone someone to say how happy I am and how amazingly wonderful and totally perfect Mick is. That's the thing about good news—a person can't help wanting to share it. Bad news is different—at least for me. When there's bad news, I just want to make it go away. Of course, I can't tell anyone my good news. No one is supposed to know about Mick and me. Unless you count Mrs. Karpman.

The cabbie pulls up in front of an expensive flower shop, the kind that sells tall bouquets of exotic feathery flowers. “You're supposed to go inside there,” the cabbie says. “Then we go to your next stop.”

There's a man in a white apron by the refrigerator. He's holding a bouquet wrapped in thick cellophane. “Love your name,” he says when he spots me—and that's when I realize he's holding a bouquet of irises! Pale mauve with slivers of yellow. I take the bouquet and press my nose against a little opening in the plastic wrap. The irises smell like…like…grape bubblegum. I take another sniff.

I can't believe Mick has done all this for me! Me!

Our next stop is a French patisserie on Côte-des-Neiges Road.

What am I supposed to do now? Go to the counter and ask if there's a box of pastries with my name on it? Just as I'm trying to figure out my next move, my eyes land on a wall with a bulletin board. The bulletin board is crammed with ads for concerts and lectures. A string quartet, chamber music, a lecture about grief and another about using tough love on your kids. And now, beside all the ads, I see a photo of Mick that's been made into a black-and-white poster. I laugh out loud when I see it. I can't believe the trouble Mick has gone to, all for me! So what if he won't let me tell anyone about us? This treasure hunt—because now I realize that is what this is—proves Mick loves me as much as I love him. Maybe even more. The thought makes me feel more drunk than when I had that cup of sake on our first date.

The photo must be an old
PR
shot because Mick looks younger than he is now. For a second, I'm wistful. If only the me I am now had known him then—we'd be closer in age and we wouldn't have to keep our relationship a secret. Of course, that makes no sense. I was probably ten when Mick posed for that photo.

On the poster there's a note I know is meant for me. Mick must have come here himself this morning to hang it up. The note tells me to look underneath the small round table at the back of the patisserie. I practically dance over to the table.

I find a large cardboard box with another pale mauve iris fastened to it. Little tears sting the corners of my eyes. So this, I think, is what it feels like to cry from happiness.

When my cell phone rings and I answer, it feels like I'm onstage. Only I'm not Ophelia pining for Hamlet. I'm the lead in a play an internationally acclaimed director has created just for me, Iris Wagner.

I put my bouquet and my box down on the table.

Mick's voice is warm caramel. “Go to the curb outside. And close your eyes.”

I do exactly what he says. I like when Mick directs me.

Even with my eyes closed, I can feel him. First he takes the box and the bouquet from my hands, then he takes me in his arms and spins me round and round, faster and faster. Part of me feels all grown up; another part feels like a little girl. A very happy little girl. A happier little girl than I ever was when I was little.

“Keep your eyes closed, Joey,” his warm-caramel voice whispers in my ear.

Mick leads me back to the cab, and we sit in the backseat, our thighs pressed together. “No, no,” Mick says when I try to open my eyes. He slips his hand under my skirt and runs his fingers along the inside of my leg. I hope the cabbie isn't watching now. I try pushing Mick's hand away, but he won't let me. He presses his fingertips into my skin.

When the cab drives up a hill, I know we must be headed for Mount Royal. Mick insists I keep my eyes closed when he helps me out of the car and afterwards, when we are walking through a park. I have to hold on to his arm so I don't fall.

“All right, you can open your eyes now, Joey.”

We are standing at the edge of Beaver Lake. It's like being in a postcard. The trees in the distance are so orange and red, they look like they're on fire. The water in front of us is dark and has a delicious briny smell. A family of ducks is swimming in our direction. Has Mick arranged this too?

The ducks quack expectantly. Mick opens the cardboard box from the patisserie and takes out a bag of cubed baguette. He's thought of everything—even feeding the ducks. “You give it to them, Joey,” he says.

I feel Mick watching me, and I know that making me happy makes him happy. Which makes me even happier. More than anything else, I want to make Mick happy too. I'd do anything to make him happy. I know his life isn't easy—he has work demands, and then there's all the trouble he still has to sort out with his ex-wife—but I know if I love him right, I can make things easier for him. This is what love is. Putting the person you love before yourself. Sometimes even forgetting yourself because the other person's happiness matters so much to you.

I'm guessing we're going to have a picnic here at the park. We're not the only ones taking advantage of this warm October day. Other couples have already staked out spots under the giant maples; families with small children are fanned out closer to the playground.

But leave it to Mick. He's planned another sort of picnic. One I'll bet nobody else ever thought of. He's rented a yellow plastic pedal boat for the afternoon. We pedal out to the middle of the lake, and again, he makes me shut my eyes.

“Okay, you can look now.”