Blind Spot. Priscila Uppal

      Cover

      

      Selected Praise for Priscila Uppal’s Works

      Projection: Encounters with My Runaway Mother

      “Projection proves to be remarkably free of self-pity … [A] raw, passionate memoir, a fierce exercise in family exorcism.”

      — Montreal Gazette

      “Uppal is brave … made of sterner stuff than most; an inspiration to messed-up adult children everywhere.”

      — Globe and Mail

      “[S]uperbly conveyed without any excessive literary artifice … Projection is a book that’s simultaneously cerebral and visceral, and its ardent refusal of any sort of mind-body split — to sacrifice sophistication for sentiment or vice versa — is the sign of an author who has thrown herself wholly into her book.”

      — National Post

      “Incorporating movie and pop-culture references as storytelling devices is what makes this book truly shine … Above all, Uppal is an impeccable writer, deftly infusing complex scenes and emotions with power and weight … a worthy read.”

      — Quill & Quire

      “[A] heartbreaking memoir.”

      —Toronto Life

      “Intimate, sad, probing and self-aware, often very funny logbook of a harrowing encounter.”

      — Literary Review of Canada

      To Whom It May Concern

      “It is to be hoped that Uppal will continue to rival Atwood in productivity and wit. As Shakespeare might have said: Fortune, smile again on lovers of CanLit; grace us with more irresistible stories from Uppal’s unique perspective.”

      — Montreal Gazette

      “Uppal is a deep thinker, capable of carefully peeling back layer upon layer of the human psyche … makes us laugh and cry long after the last page of the novel has been read.”

      — Ottawa Citizen

      “Uppal’s writing bursts with humour, plot turns and insights … Uppal should be congratulated for writing one of the most powerful and riskiest scenes in a Canadian novel … [she] reveals herself as a compassionate and perspicacious novelist whose humanity and intelligence cannot be overlooked.”

      — Globe and Mail

      The Divine Economy of Salvation

      “In its confident voice and its unsparing, concisely powerful narrative — like Margaret Laurence at her best — Divine Economy is an impressive debut.”

      — Globe and Mail

      “A luminous debut … haunting, gripping, and surprisingly nuanced: begins as a simple mystery and turns into a work of great depth and seriousness.”

      — Kirkus starred review

      Dedication

      For Richard Teleky,

      who has been here since the beginning

      Epigraph

      Who, marked for failure, dulled by grief,

      Has traded in his wife and friend

      For this warm ledge, this alder leaf:

      Comfort that does not comprehend.

      — Edna St. Vincent Millay, “The Return”

      Blind Spot

      The Two-Timing Bastard turned left onto Church Street, parked the Ford, and entered the Shoppers Drug Mart. She wanted to follow him but hadn’t packed her wig, and she was still awaiting alterations on her new spring coat. She had decided to stick with the car today, and he usually didn’t make stops. Now she would have to wait, so she turned on the radio and ate a Butterfinger chocolate bar from the stash she shoved into the glove compartment.

      When the Son of a Bitch emerged, she threw the candy wrapper out the window. He was carrying a long white plastic shopping bag that appeared to contain an eight-roll package of toilet paper, two rolls protruding from the top of the handles. She could not detect the brand through the coloured slogan of the drugstore, but imagined it was the one on sale in the front window. She nearly screamed and hit the rental car pedals as hard as she could. The car was in park and the only damage done was to her ankles. As she cursed her cheap heels and her own inadequacy at never having learned to kick properly, the Rat slipped her sight. Restarting the car, she mumbled about toilet paper under her breath. Is he going to wipe her ass for her? she asked the window shield. Look at the Loser with his balding sweaty head and blue uniform jacket. Just look at him out on the streets and in his car on his way to meet his lady love!

      She barely slowed down at the stop sign, even though she knew the woman lived at the Sky Pro apartment building on Jarvis Street, an area she’d never frequented until this last month of spying. Still, she kept three car-lengths away from the grey Ford with the familiar licence plate. Three weeks ago her fingers had lingered on the telephone pad as she decided whether or not she wanted to claim the vehicle had been stolen. She had the whole scene worked out: the police cruiser finding the car at Slut’s place, the fumbling explanations as he tried to clear up the misunderstanding with the authorities, and, of course, the profuse apologies later as she feigned shock. I was worried sick about you, she’d say, her fingernails gripping the sofa chair for balance. Many tears would be shed, and only she the wiser. But she decided it was important to keep a certain distance, at least for now. She didn’t want to catch him before she was ready. She would confront him, but needed to pick the right time for the scene. A scene like the ones she had witnessed in restaurants or shopping mall food courts where dinner rolls flew across tables and hair was pulled, where handbags became weapons and drinks were tossed like acid into stunned eyes. They didn’t shop together and went to restaurants so rarely that she always wanted dessert. One couldn’t cause a real scene after eating chocolate cheesecake. The mood was wrong and her stomach would be bulging.

      Because there is very little free parking on Jarvis Street, she circled the building three times before returning the car, having told the attendant hers was in the shop and she was afraid of subways, what with all the suicides, and not too long ago the story of a man who pushed a woman in front of a car because he couldn’t find a job. At least Scumbag had a job, although he’d worked for the delivery service for the last twenty-five years and had only received one minuscule promotion. That was right after they were married and she had phoned her mother proudly to tell the Nosy Witch she had been wrong for once. He wasn’t lazy. He was just unimpressive, probably stupid, too. At least he had seniority and a health plan. They’d saved a lot of money through the years, although the child benefits had gone completely to waste.

      She knew the woman’s name, or at least her surname. Ms. Fisher. Of course she’s a Ms., she had laughed. Aren’t all Mss. tricky ladies with time on their hands? Clever, oh, very clever, she imagined. A woman with a hidden past and a pink canopy bed and an enigmatic voice on her answering machine: Please leave a message, I so wish to hear from you. One day she even saw her. Someone had called out to her because the Bitch dropped a letter from her mailbox. “Ms. Fisher,” the young gentleman said, reading the inscription, “I think this is yours.” Ms. Fisher wore a scarf around her neck, a lavender rayon scarf, not unlike one she herself sometimes wore. Immediately, she ascertained the woman had strange tastes.