It hurt. It hurt so much because I thought I was important, but found out that day that I was easily replaceable, just another young girl excited to work at the Gap — I was a dime a dozen. And since I’d always been a perfectionist, always excelling at everything I undertook, failure was foreign to me and I didn’t know how to deal with it.
As soon as I got home, I buried my face in my pillow and cried for what must have been hours.
And unbeknownst to me, Brian’s dad also died that day. He was playing golf with his buddies, and apparently, he just keeled over with chest pain one second, and the next he was on the ground. His friend called 911, and someone else tried to revive him with a defribillator, but it was no use. Joseph Lombardi died at the age of sixty-three.
Despite being one of four kids, Brian had always been very close to his parents. They had him when they were older, his father was forty-three and his mother, thirty-seven, and he was the light of their life. And they were his. He did everything with his dad; guitar, golf, fishing, and hanging out at hardware stores the way women window shop at the mall.
I couldn’t relate because my family and I have never been close. I always felt like the pebble in their shoe, unwanted, annoying. In their defense, because of my high strung personality, I’m not so easy to live with. My two older sisters, Sacha and Anika, were always so perfect; pretty, smart, popular, and most importantly, not mildly insane. By comparison, I’m sure I was a big let-down to my parents. They never said so, but a girl can sense these things. And when my dad left us, it was further proof of my suspicions.
When Brian told me that his father had passed, I didn’t quite react properly. I didn’t know how to. Most people know how to comfort others, say the right things, give a good warm hug. Unfortunately, I’ve never been one of those people — I’m awkward and tense in these types of situations. I can’t deal very well with death and illness. And I also had my own stuff to deal with, and I couldn’t turn to Brian for reassurance because he was grieving. So I pulled away, and so did he. I attended the funeral and the wake, dressed in my best black dress, and held his hand, but I had no words.
Renee was probably the one he turned to. Where was she that summer? She was there, but where? I know I’ve met her before, a long long time ago.
But where? And when?
Part III
Fixation
13
When I finally get to Orchard Heights, I’m not even sure how I made it there. I don’t remember the faces on the bus and streets, the litter on the ground, the noises… things I usually can’t help but notice.
It’s Thursday afternoon, and I haven’t forgotten about my weekly date with Tristan and Trevor. Every Thursday, at four o’clock, we watchSurvivor, recorded the night before. It’s something I really look forward to. We suck on lollipops — no popcorn or potato chips because dinner is around the corner. Brian always cooks on Thursday. Tonight, he’s making burgers and oven fries.
Thankfully, I’m back in time for my date.
As soon as I get home, Tristan wraps me in a hug, and Trevor gives me a “Hey, Mom.” Brian is all smiles when he kisses the top of my head. I can’t quite look at him. I’ve got my blinders on. I know he cheated on me years ago, and despite the nineteen years we’ve shared since, I can’t help but feel angry and confused.
Tristan pulls at my arm. “Let’s go.”
I follow him to the living room, a whisper of a smile on my lips. Despite everything, despite the possibility of Brian and I not being able to pull through this, I know I’ll always have these beautiful boys.
Tristan grabs the crystal bowl of colorful lollipops from the shelf as Trevor sets up the show to play. “What flavor, guys?”
“Green apple,” I call out.
“Cotton candy,” Trevor says.
When Tristan sets the bowl back on the shelf, he purposely doesn’t quite position it right, and he shoots me an impish grin as he does so. God, he reminds me so much of his father when he does that.
I cock a brow in his direction. “Fix it,” I plead.
And he does. He always does. Because he knows that if he doesn’t, I’ll be compelled to get up and do it myself, and then I’ll be cross with him. He’s well aware that his mother is not quite normal.
We settle on the sofa, cuddled close together under a large throw. I bury my face in Tristan’s soft hair. To think, when I first found out I was pregnant, I was terrified. I thought my life was ruined. And now I can’t imagine my life without them.
Brian and I had been together for almost four years when the inevitable happened. We’d been having sex for about three years, and at first, I was on the pill. I didn’t like the pill. I wasn’t keen on the idea of putting synthetic hormones into my body, and I’d started reading obsessively about them on the Internet. Someone with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder should just stay away from Google, in my opinion — it’s so easy to fall down the rabbit hole and literally drive yourself insane. And that’s exactly what happened. Having read that there was a connection between the pill and synthetic hormones and breast cancer, I convinced myself that the risk was just too high. My aunt, my mother’s sister, had had breast cancer, but thankfully she had fully recovered. My research indicated that having a relative with the cancer on the mother’s side meant that the chances of me getting it were higher. I was already at a higher risk for breast cancer, I certainly couldn’t add to that with birth control pills.
Yes, it was completely illogical. I know that now. Yet I never did get over the fear.
I convinced Brian to use condoms, which he wasn’t a fan of, and I was also using the natural cycle method, measuring my temps religiously and jotting all my recordings in a little pink notebook — that part, I loved. My cycle had always been pretty regular so I deemed myself a perfect candidate for this alternative birth control method.
But it was bound to fail at one point. I wasn’t completely surprised when I found out I was pregnant.
It was summertime and I had gotten myself a summer job working at a library, stacking books, and sitting at reception in the children’s department. It was perfect for me — very quiet, not too stressful. The worst thing that could happen was a book falling on a kid’s head — this, I could handle. And I loved stacking the books. The only thing that grated my nerves was when kids haphazardly put them back, in the wrong spots and at wrong angles. Some kids would just throw them on the floor or leave them on the tables or chairs, which I didn’t mind at all because it meant I could put them back myself and restore the order.
I loved my summer job, although I was still eager to start my final year at college the following month. Life was good… Brian and I were happy. Brian and his band did shows on the weekends, and I was always there, cheering them on. He’d sleep late and read the rest of the time. After my shifts, I’d go to his place —he still lived at his mom’s, albeit in the apartment above the three-car garage, and incidentally that’s where his band practiced in the summer (the garage). In the winter, the band had to rent a space because Brian’s mom needed to park her car away from the cold and snow. He’d bitch about it, but it was completely understandable, I pointed out. It was a garage, after all, and his mother owned it. He snickered at that.
