Mitochondrial Curiosities of Marcels 1 to 19 Page 3

  With the class nicely traumatized, Riddell, DNA earrings twirling, comes over to Paige and me and puts her hand on my shoulder. I almost start bawling. ‘Girls, I’m surprised you’re here,’ she says, and I say, ‘Yeah, you have no idea, Ms. Riddell, how surprised I am.’ Paige gets all huffy and wants to talk deadlines but Riddell says, ‘Mercy, Paige, I hardly think we need discuss that today.’

  Paige is all, ‘But Ms. Riddell, I need to start an independent project on mitochondria, I’m researching – ’

  ‘Shuddup! I’m totally into mito, too!’ I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Mercy,’ Riddell says. ‘Well then, excellent, yes, do work together on this one, yes, I do see you’re not comfortable but that’s hardly the point of projects, is it, Paige?’ Riddell gives me a good-for-you pat, makes sure we’ve got all the assignment info and goes off to stop the back row from starting another fire. ‘You are so unstable,’ Paige hisses.

  What are mitochondria, I wonder, and smile at her. Something to do with cells, something about power. Something to google when I can’t think of anything interesting to do.

  Going to English feels excessive, as it so often does after biology, so I hit the library. Fresh hell. I’m deep into etsy.com and in comes my tortured English teacher, Mr. Trenchey, with my tortured English class. He doesn’t say hello, just raises his eyebrows and clutches Death of a Salesman tighter to his chest. Blayne sits beside me and stares at my breasts like Blayne does, a total perv, and I slump low enough to graze the keyboard, A) to stop thrilling Blayne, and B) because, god, Trenchey is talking about transformation yet again. ‘That’s what I must see on your assignment,’ he says. ‘How did this book transform you, show me how you changed.’

  He hovers over Emma B’s Corset Creations webpage and says, ‘Maybe you can explain how this is related to Arthur Miller because I can’t see it.’

  ‘Arthur who?’

  He sighs and keeps standing as if I should apologize or confess. Teachers are so needy. And I think, nothing personal, but my dad died last week and he was an oppressed working-class male too. Out loud, I say, ‘Sorry.’

  Lunch is lonelyville. All the way down the hall it’s Hey Erin, Hey Marney, Hey Daniel. Only I am heyless. I spend Leonard’s last toonie on Cheezies from a machine, hoping Paige will appear to disapprove. She never wastes money because she’s saving for orphans in Rwanda, so far $1,200.

  I squeeze by the indie girls when I smell Santini. He marinated in aftershave extra long this morning because, whoa, really bad. The girls are running.

  ‘Dree, so glad to find you.’ I get that imploding feeling and think he’s sad for me. ‘Dree,’ he says, hands out, palms up, like he does. ‘We need to see you in my office.’ We.

  ‘Actually, Santini,’ I say, ‘I’ve got this appointment.’

  ‘No, Dree, let’s check in, please. I’ll take this.’ He takes my craft bag and goes ahead, very un-Santini-esque. No rapport-building chat about knitting, no slowing down to my troubled-teen shuffle.

  ‘Can you slow down?’ I say. Santini wears platform shoes, totally cute, and cargo pants with great big side pockets that bulge with what? Sandwiches? Extra shoes? Because, honestly, they’re extreme.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘we’re a little short on time.’

  ‘Actually, Santini.’ But he’s already a step ahead of me. I don’t suspect anything because I trust him. The last time we met, he said, ‘Dree, your version of success might look like failure to others,’ and, ‘Dree, that’s okay, even if other family members succeed in the conventional way.’

  ‘So, Santini, you’ve got a perfect sister too?’

  ‘Millionaire brother. Santini Delis?’

  ‘OMG, Santinti. My father adores Santini salami.’ It was a bonding moment.

  So I don’t think anything of those two wes until at his door, he says, ‘Mrs. Johnson came to chat with us.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m not here to judge you,’ Rita says. ‘But I want that key back.’ She wears unflaky brown clothes and sits by the window all perfect posture. Rita keeps saying she’s not judging, I keep saying I’d rather stand, and Santini does his best by validating. Mostly I stare out the window at a plastic grocery bag impaled on a dead tree and wonder why Rita calls Santini Roger and Santini calls Rita Mrs. Johnson.

  ‘Excuse me, Roger, I do know, without question, that Dree has something that belongs to me.’

  Santini tries. I’ll never forgive him, but he tries. ‘Mrs. Johnson, let’s validate what you’re both going through. Dree, perhaps this book can help, please – ’

  In my peripheral vision, I see The Grieving Process on his desk. And, weird, beside it, the small shiny book I saw in Rita’s purse. Heavenly Riches. It takes willpower to keep staring at the tree.

  ‘Dreeee? Dree, are you with us? How can I support you here?’

  Rita says she knows exactly what I’m going through, actually holds her hands out to me, reaches to touch my arm. You’d like to rip out my lungs, wouldn’t you, Rita?

  ‘Dree, this is not a courtroom,’ Santini says.

  ‘I’d rather stand.’

  ‘So, Dree, I’m noticing that Rita, Mrs. Johnson, and I are doing all the work here.’

  ‘On what?’ My first eye contact with Santini. Fuck you, it says.

  ‘Dree, give me my key back.’

  ‘What key, Rita?’

  ‘You have to understand that Leonard is still very connected to me.’

  ‘So ask him where your key is.’ I sound ruthless but I know the optics are bad: red face, shaky legs, compulsive twisting of hair.

  ‘In your bag, honey.’

  The honey does it. I take a step forward and dump my bag onto Santini’s desk. Eyeliner, dead orange, Kleenex, wool and tampons fall out. Santini flinches and rolls his chair back. Deal with it, I think, and throw the empty bag onto Rita’s lap. ‘Oh, I bet Dad’s real impressed with you now.’

  Rita pats the bag inch by inch. Very creepy.

  I focus on the poster above her head. Riches from Heaven: A workshop with Master of Abundance Jojo Bunting.

  ‘I’m not feeling comfortable with this, Mrs. Johnson. We need to honour personal – Dree – please, this book – ’

  They both stare at me full on, intensely checking for cracks, then stare at the poster too. Santini turns back to me and shrugs, all isn’t this awkward.

  Rat-faced coward.

  ‘Fine, Dree, we can wait.’ Rita looks at him looking at me. ‘So you’re coming to Jojo, Roger?’ she says.

  OMFG. Roger? They yoga or whatever together? I take the book Santini’s put down and take the other one too, as in, oh, I thought you meant both of them.

  But he doesn’t notice or does and says nothing. ‘I feel totally violated,’ I tell him as Rita hands me the bag. Santini closes his eyes, possibly getting ready to apologize. I slip out door and run like hell.

  Finally, the main doors clunk behind me. On the smokers’ bench, I tug on the leather cord to check the knot, leaving the key under my sweater. Thank you, fashion gods, for making me wear my one and only turtleneck today. I vow to be a better human someday.

  Who cares if she knows I’ve got it. If the delinquent count is low at the downtown library, I’ll get a spot on computer row and get the key pic on my blog toot sweet. In fact, if she sees it, excellent. As long as she can’t actually rip the thing off my neck, it’s all good.

  I’m too pumped to wait for the bus, which is only marginally faster than walking anyway. What I also need to do at the library is check the Dante statue because Leonard once rammed a clue in his nose. It was hell getting it out. Who knows, maybe Dante’s chin is hollow too. Then I need to sit on our bench, close my eyes and laugh with him at the sound of the toilet flushing which is the loudest sound anywhere on the main floor. Enough said.

  Reincarnation of a Salesman

  The North Pole’s melting, everybody’s medicated, but what are your goals? They can’t stop saying it. From Grade 4! Your goals. Y
es, we are the damned. Yes, we’re trapped. But do the characters of the obsolete books we’re supposed to read have to be? No, they do not.

  Circle of Life Bowl

  1. Take one outdated book (guy goes on quest, guy becomes manly man, guy offs himself after failing manly-manness, et cetera).

  2. Rip into tiny pieces.

  3. Add enough water to cover the paper, and soak overnight.

  4. Add two cups of shredded newsprint, more water. Boil, then simmer for two hours. Add water as needed to keep things sludgey. Turn off heat and leave to cool.

  5. One cup at a time, throw sludge in blender and pulse until pulpy. Throw pulp into big bowl.

  6. Add 3/4 cup of white glue to pulp and mix with hands.

  7. Press mixture into wire strainer, making rim a bit thicker. Roll an orange inside if you want it nice and even. Leave to dry overnight and next day, if necessary.

  8. Carefully press outside of strainer to release bowl.

  9. If you want it to last a while, coat with varnish.

  Four

  I am one with Greyhound. The entire universe has shrunk to one sound, and, people, it’s not ohhmm. In fact, it’s nyrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

  rrrrrrrnyrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnyrrrrrrrr

  rrrrrrrrrrrnyrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. My head vibrates against the window of seat 26a, hoping for a reboot. My frozen feet jiggle in the aisle. The rest of me is slung like a large sea mammal, glad for two seats to myself and hoping that the cancer I’m getting from bathroom chemicals will be painless and fast. Paige is sixteen rows ahead. She’s homicidally pissed. This morning I came between her and sainthood, which is pretty much like throwing yourself between a lion and its dead gazelle.

  The Rita debacle gave me a week at home. Santini called Joan, probably averting his gaze from the tampons I left on his desk, to say something about me needing time to process, grief is different for everyone, yes, Paige seemed to need to be at school, but I de finitely needed a bit of personal time, he was very concerned about pushing me too hard at this point et cetera. Joan went unhuh, un-huh for the entire call while rolling her eyes. After hanging up, she repeated everything while mimicking his slight lisp, which was more alarming than funny. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘One week.’ So, thank you, Rita. One whole week to process. So much less hellish than school, even with Joan ripping the curtains open every morning to say, ‘Paige has been up since seven. You’ll feel a lot better if you get moving.’

  I spent the week in bed, reading Heavenly Riches, talking to Leonard and building Abundance Receptors. When you’re really really tired, not much is embarrassing. Even Jojo Bunting. I mean, what if she can give me access to Dad? I have to make sure Rita doesn’t know anymore about Leonard contact than I do. Anyway, according to Jojo, I’m totally evolved, since there are only five steps to full evolvedness and Four is ‘Follow your heart not the rules.’ Step Four’s story is about someone maxing out their credit card to go to New York then becoming filthy rich, which is the same, sort of, as maxing out your mother’s credit card to almost go to Toronto. So what if Jojo Bunting has terrifying hair and unspeakable makeup including lipliner? She understands me.

  Given the situation, it took an entire day to imagine ‘the divine source of wealth,’ as in Exercise Two of Step One, ‘Seeing is believing: What does God look like?’ But I got a clear picture, totally, of Interac machines spitting out twenties continuously. A circle of them. The next day I jumped ahead to Step Five, ‘Your Divine Offering,’ which is all about getting rich by giving exactly the right thing to exactly the right person. I couldn’t figure out who or what, so I made a portable altar out of a cereal box.

  Joan left me alone after work because she had to call everyone she knew plus some she used to but hadn’t talked to in a decade. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ she said to everyone. Leonard must have loved all the attention. He must have really loved it when she said he was completely normal when she met him. Right. Because what Leonard told me when I asked about the hospital was, ‘Don’t ask me about that place, Dree. We were all nuts and some of us were evil.’

  The Nuthouse was Leonard’s name for the Timbley Psychiatric Facility, where Grandma Giles and most of the adults in Timbley, apart from farmers and ranchers, work. Joan was the youngest-ever manager of Laundry Services and Leonard was an orderly and they met in Laundry. Grandma Giles has worked in the finance department forever, now in the new hospital but before in the totally Gothic old building. It closed down because of asbestos but still sits on top of its little hill with the circular driveway in front and grounds where patients sometimes wander off.

  On Saturday morning, Joan remembered I existed and sat on my bed to say meatloaf. ‘I’m making meatloaf tonight.’

  ‘Joan, relax.’

  ‘Acting like him is not going to bring him back,’ she said. ‘Time to get up.’ Joan can’t stand stillness, especially in people. She leaned down to pull on some wool that was tangled in other wool and clothes and lifted the whole thing. ‘How can you live like this?’

  Paige stood in the door, so contained she looked varnished. ‘Mom, I need a ride.’

  Joan ignored her, so we’re talking desperate to make me move. She went for a new wad of clothing. ‘After all, it wasn’t a complete surprise, we knew he had a bad heart, we knew it was a matter of time.’

  Whereupon Paige twittered and tapped because her needs are always more important than anyone else’s. ‘Mom, I have to be there at 10, at 10, at 10, Mom, and it’s 9:48?’

  Here’s where Joan generally said, Calm down, Paige, I’m coming. This time, she stood, up, grabbed Paige’s Virgin Mary statue and batted a crumpled Kleenex off the dresser with it. Holy blaspheme. ‘You know what, you two?’ she said. ‘I need time to process too.’

  ‘Wow. Because you haven’t been so far?’ But it didn’t matter what I said, because Paige detonated. ‘Hello? Correction? Inner-city people are waiting for my help? People neeeeeeeed me.’ The way Paige said need made me think of major organs being sliced open.

  Before she left the room, Joan pointed at Grandma Giles’ photo and said, ‘You’re going to Grandma’s. Get packed.’

  ‘Relax!’ I yelled back at Paige. ‘They’ll be there next week.’

  ‘Mom! Not me, I’m not going, I’m not – ’

  ‘Paige, please.’ Joan’s voice sounded underwater. ‘I need the house to myself for a couple of days.’

  ‘What did I do?’ Paige wailed like Joan had abandoned her on a mountaintop, then unleashed in my direction. ‘Stop looking at me, stop smiling, don’t you dare touch my hair products.’

  ‘As if, Paige.’

  ‘I know you want something,’ she screamed. How tragically true. So I packed and she bellowed.

  And now we’re finally passing the last stretch of big-box stores, almost on the highway. The balloon milkshake on top of Wendy’s is the only break from poles and boxes. Ugly ugly ugly.

  Okay, Dad, seriously. According to Jojo Bunting, Spiritual Guide for your second wife, my school counsellor, and now me, you can de finitely hear me. Seriously. Anyway, if you heard Rita, not that she wasn’t lying, you can hear me. ‘I know you’re around,’ I whisper against the window. And not just because of Step Three, ‘Connecting to your Spiritual Guide.’ There’s Dadness in the air. It’s like someone phoning and you know who it is and they haven’t said hello yet. I can maybe almost hear your voice, Leonard. Maybe you’re waiting for me to get to Timbley for some reason.

  ‘OMG, Leonard,’ I say out loud. Look. Our own flesh and blood, making mitosis flashcards for herself on a Saturday morning. Paige does this porcupinesque thing with her hatred, shoots it out in all directions. It should be an Olympic event. Really, I feel hatred pierce my chest sixteen bus rows away from her. And I still haven’t recovered from the first blast at close range this morning, when we were standing in the bus-station lineup and she said, ‘I fail to believe that you’d deprive poor people.’

  ‘You fail to bel
ieve? You cannot be fourteen and say fail to believe,’ I said, trying to funny her up a percentage point. But she seized, completely seized, as in stared at her biology textbook like it might otherwise mutate, and acupuncted me with hatred. This caused serious brain injury. How else could I have said what I said next: ‘GMAB, Paige, as if it’s about them.’

  We’re never satisfied ’til you are says the side of the truck driving beside us in the next lane. Everything’s misty in that afterlife kind of way. For sure, spirits are zooming through the bare trees and following the sign to merge. You can practically see them trying to pass each other, trying not to look competitive, like bicyclists in the river valley. What would be great, Dad, is if you could make Mulhurst, Next Exit say Don’t worry, Dree, I’m here. That would be excellent, but, frankly, any kind of sign will work. The silent thing really sucks.

  Oh, right. Abundant universe. No prob. Look. Hay bales. Way to go, hay, with adding colour to the landscape even if you’re brown. And bales, excellent uniform roundness. Plus, actually, a nice family memory. Really, we had this happy moment on our way to Pigeon Lake once. I said, ‘Hey, I love those hay bales, they look like erasers on top of brand-new pencils.’ Leonard said, ‘You must use really big pencils.’ Joan said, ‘Haha, very funny, you two. Oh look, Paige is sleeping.’

  Remembering makes me even more tired, weighs me down so I feel nothing but heavy. Finally, from far away, I hear his voice. There he is, calling me, looking around, and I yell, ‘Leonard! Dad, Dad!’ He sees me too, he waves one hand like crazy and uses the other to carry something, a big garment bag he can hardly wait to show me. ‘Dreebee, look at this,’ he says when he’s close. ‘It’s got pockets for everything.’ And he unfolds the bag to show me rows of zippered compartments. He has index cards and cds, and he has stamps and his swim pass, elastic bands and paper clips. Finally he says, ‘Dree, what’s wrong?’