In the kitchen her mother stood behind the speckled white and gold laminate countertop and butted out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray positioned next to a bottle of scotch and a half-empty glass.
“Your father’s downstairs.”
Colleen knew she should acknowledge the bottle of scotch and the fact her mother was drinking during the day, which she never did; daylight drinking was Peter Kerrigan’s province. She knew this, and yet she didn’t want to say,
Why are you drinking, Mummy
? The whole room looked like a stage set, the props arranged just so, for maximum effect, and way down deep inside Colleen’s stomach curled a teensy worm of contempt. All that drama, it got tired after a while, and seemed cheap.
“Do you want help making dinner?” Colleen asked.
Her mother lit another cigarette. “What makes you think I’m going to make you and your father dinner?” She blew the smoke from the side of her mouth and screwed her eyes up as she did.
“You don’t have to make dinner.”
“Well, thank you, Your Highness. I’m delighted to have your permission.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” When her mother was sour and snide like this, Colleen knew it wouldn’t be long before she really blew up. Her mother was never really satisfied until everyone felt exactly as she did. Colleen didn’t want to feel like her mother.
“How
did
you mean it?” her mother said.
“I just meant that if you’re not feeling well, I can make dinner.”
Colleen’s mother knocked back the scotch in her glass and poured more. “What makes you think I’m not feeling well? Do I look unwell?”
The turquoise kitchen walls reflected coldly in the light from the overhead fixture and her mother’s skin looked clammy. “You look fine,” Colleen said.
“Then why say I’m not feeling well?”
“Mum, I only meant—”
“Oh, I know what you meant. You need somebody to take care of you. Everybody needs somebody to take care of them, don’t they?” She reached over to a bowl of onions sitting on the counter and picked one up. “Fine. I’ll make the dinner. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Sit and keep me company like a good daughter. You can pretend to be a good daughter, can’t you?”
For a moment Colleen thought her mother might throw the onion at her. She sat. The brown plastic of the chair seat squeaked.
Colleen’s mother opened the Lazy Susan and pulled out a big wooden cutting board. She slammed it on the counter before
reaching into a drawer and snatching a large butcher knife from the cutlery tray. She hacked at the onion without peeling it. She put one hand on her hip and with the other she whacked and whacked at the onion, sending pieces flying everywhere.
Bang
! went the knife on the wooden board.
Bang! Bang! Bang
! From the corner of her eye Colleen saw Pixie slink from her bedroom and huddle by the stair railing.
Don’t come down, puppy, don’t come down
. The knife was very sharp and the smell of onion was bitter in the air.
“How’s that? No, we need something else, don’t we?” She spun round to the refrigerator, the knife still in her hand, opened the door and grabbed a bunch of carrots. She threw them on the counter. They hit the remains of the onion and onion bits fell to the floor. “What about this?” She held a raw chicken aloft. “Chicken!
Brak-brak-brak-brakkkkaaaa!”
She made chicken noises and then laughed in that madwoman way she did sometimes, the laugh that warned Colleen the funnel cloud was forming. Then she threw the chicken to the floor and stalked out of the kitchen.
Colleen grabbed the chicken and tossed it into the sink. She had to do this right away, she thought, because she didn’t know what would happen next, and if things went really bad she’d forget about the chicken and Pixie might eat it and chicken bones would kill a dog. She knew this was an odd thing to be thinking and that it was odd she had time to think it. Her mother’s crazy chuckle slipped around the corner. In the sink the chicken looked obscene, its legs flopping, the hole in its middle gaping. Time had slowed down, as though folded over on itself.
“Hey, Peter!” her mother yelled. “Peter, come here and tell me what you want for dinner! Peter!”
Colleen followed her mother and found her standing at the top of the stairs leading to the landing where the door to the garage, Colleen’s playroom and the powder room her father used were, and past that the second flight of stairs that led down to the television room.
“Brak-brak-brakkkaaa
! Come on, Peter. Come and get it!”
Colleen’s father appeared on the landing and looked up at his wife standing above him, waving a butcher knife. His face was grey except for red patches on his neck and under his eyes. Colleen couldn’t tell if the patches, especially those on his neck, were just from fear or if they were marks of some earlier violence.
“What are you doing, Deirdre?” he said, and his voice held something like awe. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Come and get it, you chicken. Come and get it, big spender!”
She stepped down two stairs, jabbing at the air with the knife. With her left hand she gripped the banister, as though for traction, and her knuckles were white and purple.
Colleen locked eyes for just a second with her father, and then he bolted out the door to the garage, not even bothering to close it behind him. Colleen assumed her mother would go after him, but Deirdre Kerrigan turned and walked toward her daughter. Pixie barked and dashed down the stairs from the upstairs hall.
“Do you want it? How about it?” She moved her arm sinuously, making the glinting blade move like a snake. “Do you want this?”
Colleen backed up, Pixie beside her, barking.
“And your little dog too,” her mother said, and laughed at her own joke.
Colleen lunged for the front door and pushed Pixie out in front of her. “Come on, Pixie. Run!” They ran down the steps, across the driveway and around the corner of the house.
Her father leaned against the brick near the garage’s side door, doubled over, his hands on his knees.
“Daddy!”
She wanted to throw herself in his arms, but he stood up and held his hand out, warding her off. He looked past her, the fear still in his face.
“Is she coming?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out his keys. “I was coming to make sure you were okay. You go to a friend’s house or something, pet. I have to go out.”
Go out
? “Where are you going?”
He walked back into the garage.
“Where are you
going
?” she cried after him. He couldn’t be leaving. He couldn’t leave her, not with her mother like this. He wouldn’t.
The garage door opened and then she heard the car door close and the engine start up. She walked back around to the driveway. Sure enough, there was the car, the white Skylark with the red interior, backing out onto the road. She watched her father drive away.
Pixie whined and nudged her leg. “Okay, puppy, okay.” She
stroked his head and he mouthed her fingers, not biting, just holding on. Colleen turned and saw her mother in the master bedroom window over the garage. She had a cigarette between her lips. She, too, watched Peter Kerrigan drive away, and then she looked down and smiled at her daughter. A second later the curtains closed and Colleen was left standing in the driveway.
Colleen was glad she hadn’t taken off her coat when she came in the house. Where should she go? She realized she was shivering. In fact, her teeth began to chatter and she knew she would, if she gave herself half a chance, start crying. She would not cry. She would not. She’d go to the park. She’d sit on the swings or on the bench and she’d wait until it was late at night and then she’d go back to the house and see if the car was back in the garage. First, though, she’d go down to the gas station and get some chips and cookies for supper.
“C’mon, Pixie.” She tucked her hands under her armpits as she walked away. She didn’t look back, and slowly the chattering and shaking subsided.
S
tanding in the toilet stall, Colleen realized she probably wasn’t going to be able to will herself insane right here and right now, although she acknowledged the possibility remained on the horizon. She stepped out of the stall. As she moved, she noticed the bottom of her left pant leg was soaked in vodka and cranberry juice. She looked up just as the other woman exited her stall. It was Diane, of the expensive burgundy boots, the dove-grey wrap-dress and perfectly tousled hair. The smell of alcohol wafted round the bathroom like a malicious spirit.
They don’t call it “spirits” for nothing
.
Diane blushed. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Of course. I’m fine. Absolutely fine. I’ll clean that up if there’s a broom or something. Silly carrying salad dressing in my purse. I just picked it up at the market and didn’t want to lug an extra bag around, you know?” The vodka sloshed against the inside of her skull and she realized full well she was talking too much, but maybe, just maybe, she could walk out of this bathroom and Diane wouldn’t say anything to C&C and Colleen could go back to taking that stupid fucking test.
Diane washed her hands at the sink. “Don’t worry about cleaning it up. I’ll call down to Maintenance.”
Why would she call Maintenance?
Colleen thought she should wash her hands as well. That was what one did. That was what well-mannered people did. She pumped the soap dispenser, but it was empty. She pretended it wasn’t and rinsed her fingers under the water.
Diane pulled a paper towel—just one—from the dispenser and carefully dried her well-manicured hands. “I think I should tell you,” she said as she tossed the used towel into the bin, “I’m a C&C placement officer. I was assigned to work with you.”
Colleen’s stomach pinged. “Lovely. I’m almost finished the tests.” She reached for her own towel as Diane stepped closer to the door.
Diane looked at her watch. “It’s nearly three. Perhaps it would be better if you came back tomorrow. You know”—she crossed her arms and looked down for a moment, then up again—”perhaps you should come back when you’ve given this some more thought—when you’re … refreshed.”
Colleen stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Diane’s gaze was level and she looked as cross as a schoolmarm, but just a little sad too. “I have a sister with a drinking problem.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She got sober, though. She went to AA.”
“Good for her.”
“Perhaps you should try going to a few meetings.”
“I appreciate your advice, and if I had a problem with alcohol,
I’m sure that’s the first place I’d go. However, I think it’s presumptuous”—
Did I slur on that? Did I say “prezuptious
”?—”of you to say something like that to a perfect stranger in a prefeshonal … professional setting. I’ve had a bad day is all. A very bad day.”
Horrified, she realized she was crying. Hot, stinging tears oozed from her eyes and dripped off her chin. She slapped at them with the palms of her hands.
Diane was looking at Colleen, her lips in a little moue, her head cocked, her brow furrowed. She placed her hands in the prayer position, just under her small sharp chin, and opened her mouth to say something.
Colleen pre-empted what she presumed would be the woman’s self-satisfied pity. “Oh, to hell with it,” she said, and hurled herself toward the door. Diane hopped aside, her hand to her throat.
In the hall, Colleen realized she’d have to go back into the office and get her coat, her lovely red coat. But the hallway seemed at an odd tilt, and she put her hand against the wall to steady herself. Panic rose in her chest like a black eel, slithering and squirming. She had drunk too much, had slipped over the line and was in real danger of careening out of control. She could fall, or pass out. She closed her eyes and for an instant it was impossible to tell what was up and what was down. Behind her, the door to the washroom opened, and she knew Princess Diane was about to parade her perfection up the hall, tossing judgment like coins to beggars.
Holding onto the wall, Colleen ducked round the bank of elevators into the hall beyond the C&C offices. Safely out of sight, she
leaned back and tried to breathe deeply. It wasn’t the drink, was it? This was an anxiety attack. Oh, the humiliation. It rose up in waves, along with the alcohol fumes. She looked around her. She stood in front of a dentist’s office—Dr. Lipshitz—
what kind of name was
that
for a dentist
? Now she was laughing and crying at the same time, although laughter was definitely winning, which was a good sign.
After a few minutes she began to feel better; her chest was less constricted and the hall wasn’t doing the old dipsy-doodle anymore. She could go back and finish the test probably—but she wouldn’t, would she. Look at this place. The linoleum was stained and peeling in spots. A dead ficus tree rotted in a chrome planter by the dentist’s door. The glass shades of the overhead light fixtures sported a spatter of dead flies. What kind of a job would she get from an agency housed in a dump like this? Another cheap lawyer’s office in need of a fast typist, or some executive looking for a body to sit in front of his door while his secretary was on vacation lest an empty desk indicate how unnecessary the position was. Maybe she’d get lucky and work for a few weeks at some dismal, third-rate marketing agency and they’d want to hire her full time at less money than she made at the university. Lucky her.
This was not the new start of which she had dreamed. She was wasting her time. It was only the shock of the day that had led her here at all. She should give herself a few days to figure out her next move. Something in the film world, perhaps, or the music business. She’d enjoyed working in a music management office back in 1985, even if the boys in the band were divas. Tony
Madison, that was the name of their manager. He’d liked her, and told her when she left to go back to the university (so sure she’d get her degree that time around) that he’d be glad to have her back if she changed her mind. There were people in the music business who would remember her. Maybe she could get a job in a recording studio.