‘Do you ever get to talk to Ted on Facebook?’ she wants to know.
This catches me by surprise. Do I tell her that I have tried to initiate contact, but he hasn’t replied, at least not yet? ‘Not really,’ I write. ‘I guess I’m more than happy to admire from a distance.’ If not a geographical one– that’s the bit I leave out.
‘He has completely forgotten who his original fans are.’ Layla really is on a roll. ‘The ones that gave him support and cheered him on when he was doing stand-up in front of twenty drunken college students. Because we know who he really is and what he’s all about. What, he thinks that now Hollywood is coming he can put all of that past into a neat little box and pretend he is some kind of overnight success? It’s actually vile.’
Naomi has finally responded to my email and suggested catching up over a glass of wine in a bar in Leslieville. This feels, weirdly, like it has the energy of a first date. What sort of first impression do I want to make? Do I want to be friend material? Do I want her to think I’m interesting enough to introduce to the people in her wider life? I wantit to look as though I am together, but not too together. I decide to wear a dress with a leopard print Peter Pan collar, with a beehive copied straight from a YouTube tutorial. Feminine, but playful, and hopefully attractive in a nice, non-threatening way.
Naomi arrives wearing a black DKNY dress and cape. She uses a cane to walk, which she does slowly and with deliberation. Her lower leg appears pinned in several places, and her legs streaked with scars and burns. Does she not feel the November cold? Everything about her, from her auburn curls to her rounded cheeks, is soft and cuddly.
‘Hey, Mama,’ she coos gently as though I am as familiar to her already as a much-loved family member. The word and the warmth make me fall into her arms, sobbing. Being called ‘Mama’ is just too much. The name I wanted for myself but cannot have.
She smooths my hair over with shushes.
‘You’re here!’ she says, a little too loudly, a bit too excited. She shrugs off the cape as she adjusts herself on the barstool. ‘Sorry again about Edmonton last week. Just… couldn’t be helped.’
Naomi appears to know the waiter, although he isn’t what you’d call warm towards her. She orders Sémillon without even looking at the menu, or at him.
‘The whole bottle?’ the waiter asks, just to make sure, though he seems to know the answer already.
‘The whole bottle,’ Naomi affirms, sing-song. ‘And what are you having?’ she says, turning to me. ‘Just kidding.’
What must it be like to have your step-brother become famous? To be adored and anointed by the Hollywood gods as some sort of deity? Her demeanour tells me nothing. She certainly does not give off any kind of famous vibe, oreven a famous-by-proxy vibe. I have a thousand questions about him clawing at the back of my throat, but they’ll have to wait.
‘So! What brings you to Toronto?’ she asks.
‘Well, I’ve come for an extended holiday,’ I tell her. ‘Just taking a bit of time out of my regular life. Figuring out next moves, you know?’
Naomi nods. ‘I can’t imagine wanting to live my life anywhere else if I lived in London. It’s such an awesome town.’
‘That’s true, but everywhere in Stoke Newington just reminds me of… her,’ I say. This is only a half-lie.
‘I get it,’ Naomi notes, immediately softening. ‘I guess for the same reason I stay here. Because I can’t bear the idea of going anywhere else, really. The memories. They’re all over every part of the house, the neighbourhood…’
‘Your girls are so beautiful,’ I tell her, truthfully.
‘So beautiful,’ she affirms. She doesn’t think to ask how I know this. ‘They just… broke open parts of my heart that I never even knew were there, you know? I was just always in work mode, all about the hospital, and I thought that would be my life forever. The mom thing was a big surprise to me. But I was really, really good at it.’ Her voice wobbles, and she drowns it with a big mouthful of wine.
‘I know, but you know what, Naomi? You are still a mum,’ I say, giving her forearm an emphatic grab. Even as I’m saying it, I half envisage her telling Ted about me later– this sage, emotionally intelligentbeautyshe’s just met. ‘In fact, you’re probably more of a mum than most regular parents. They might not be here but you have probably parented them more powerfully and protectively, even if only for a short time. Your babies aren’t in your arms, butin the purest sense of the term, you are still a mother. All this sadness is just… love in another form.’
I couldn’t even tell you where this stuff even came from in the moment, and as it escapes me, I falter a bit.Bit much.Yet it turns out that ‘laying it on too thick’ amounts to ‘just about right’ in this particular set of circumstances. Naomi gratefully puts her swollen fingers down on my hand that’s still resting on her arm. I note more scars– scars all over, Jesus– and feel sympathy pains shoot down into my shins.
‘God, you’re so strong,’ I tell her.
‘You know something?’ Naomi says, sniffling. ‘I dream of the day when I never again have to hear someone tell me I am strong.’
She’s not being mean. Instead, she gives me an ‘if you know, you know’ smile.
‘I deliberately gave the girls the kind of names where they could pick what they wanted to call themselves when they were older,’ she continues, holding the wine glass so the wine cascades in one neat glide down her throat. ‘I always wondered if Elizabeth might become a Liz, or a Betty, or even a Beth. Same with Catherine. We called her Kitty, but she might have become a Katie or a Cathy or maybe stayed with Catherine.’ She lets out a deep sigh.
My chest is hammering.
‘What was your little one called?’ Naomi asks gently.
‘Luna,’ I tell her. My nose starts to burn up and I try and sniff it away.
Naomi takes my hand. ‘It’s tough, I know, I know.’
As we talk and drink from the bottle of wine, I notice that Naomi is a full glass of wine ahead of me. She’s drinking with huge gulps, almost breathing it in as much as drinking it.
