I met him in late fall in New York, at a party thrown by what later turned out to be a mutual acquaintance. In March, I introduced Mike to my dad. It was not the reaction I had hoped for, for that same evening, Dad told me that I had to break up with Mr. Norland immediately. He knew very well that I wouldn’t do that. That’s why he started pressuring me, telling me that he would spare no expense or effort to make sure we weren’t together anymore.
And again the war began.
At first, it was all the little things, like zeroing out my credit cards and sounding off that I was no longer his daughter. Then, things took a more drastic turn. My father got Mike fired, from Molose-Hole Construction Company, where he had worked for over a year5, as head of public relations. It was totally expected and in the spirit of my dad, so we weren’t surprised or upset. Mike almost immediately managed to find a job in a small design studio, which was engaged in the design and creation of kitchen sets. Only not in Ottawa anymore, but in Toronto. I, on the other hand, got a job as a secretary in a law office, with Mr. Harry Peterson, a divorce lawyer. Through this job, I learned to make very solid coffee and to be a little more aware of people.
Mike and I rented a small but nice apartment on the edge of town. When we moved in, all we had was a bed and a shabby wood table. But even without looking at all that, we were recklessly happy.
Every day began with Mike and ended with him. I adored him madly, as if he were my air and my universe. I learned how to make his beloved pasta bolognese and long walks in the evening. And everything would have been fine except my father found us. And he did what he always did – he hired people to take me, against my will, back to him. I bit and scratched and even begged them to leave us alone, but they didn’t care.
I wasn’t able to get in touch with Mike until I was in my father’s office. I asked him to give me a little time to work things out peacefully. But Mike said he had to talk to my dad himself. He wanted him to accept our business so we could have a relaxed marriage. But before that could happen, he had to get my dad’s approval. And I couldn’t talk him out of it, which I regret at the moment. But the past cannot be undone, and the mistakes that have already been made cannot be undone.
Mike died, August 28, 2010, at 10:50 p.m. He lost control, the police station told me. His car was found off the road on the way to Montreal. He hit a tree and the forceful impact caused a brain haemorrhage, which resulted in Mike’s death at the scene.
I had to be there to identify him, a few days after he was found. It was the worst horror of my life. To see his unmoving face and know that he wouldn’t look at me again. That he wouldn’t tell me how much he loved me, or kiss me. Without Mike, life made no sense at all. I could stay awake for days at a time, just sit by my bed with his picture on it and sob silently. I wanted to scream from the unbearable pain and longing for him. It almost made me climb the walls.
A couple of times I tried to commit suicide, but every time my father brought me back. When I was already in the clinic, I would open my eyes and see his pale, worried face, which was what I hated most of all at the time. It annoyed me to have someone with me all the time. Whether it was my father, my friends, or my relatives, no one would let me be alone. I knew they did it because they adored me and feared losing me. But I couldn’t live in a world where Mike was no longer there. I couldn’t just rip the love that was hurting my heart right now out of my chest. After another attempt to make ends meet, my father sent me to a private clinic, where I stayed for a little over a year. And then he took me to my grandfather, because he realized that it was still hard for me to forgive him.
There I found peace and practically stopped sobbing at night. The pain wasn’t gone, it was just a reminder that I was still alive, and that I had to go on living, just for the sake of Mike’s memory. On weekends, my grandfather and I would go fishing. The rest of the day, I helped out at the children’s center for the autistic unhealthy. A little later, I signed up for a web design course. And after finishing it I got a certificate and left Devonshire for Ottawa, where I live now. There I got a job and a little later bought my own little apartment.
Dad and I communicated, but not like we used to. I was done blaming him for Mike’s death. After all, he really wasn’t to blame for it. Just then, I needed someone to blame, at least some of the pain I’d felt. And that someone was my father. He knew how I felt, so he took all the heat for it.
At this point in our family, things were slowly getting better. We agreed to a peaceful coexistence, where as much as we could, each of us tried to be less intrusive in the other’s life. From time to time, I did my duty as a daughter and went out with Dad to show all his partners and acquaintances that we were doing fine.
In general, «peace and friendship and bubblegum.
Chapter 3
– Take it, it’s for you.
I handed Frank a box of cookies.
– Tommy. – He pronounced and placed it carefully on the table.
– These are pink cookies. I don’t know if you like them. My aunt brought them back from France yesterday. I don’t really like sweet things myself, maybe you’ll like them!
– Thank you! Are you going somewhere now?
– Yeah, for the fundraiser. I think I’ll be gone until9.
– Shall I call a cab for you?
– Oh, no, you don’t! I’m supposed to be picked up.
Frank looked at the computer monitor.
– Then, totally maybe it’s up to you!?
I leaned against the table and looked at the dark car Frank was pointing at.
– Most likely. Well, I guess I’ll be going, then. And don’t forget the cookies.
– You can rest assured, miss, I certainly won’t forget them.
Cousin Patricia, Aunt Jo’s oldest daughter, came to pick me up. In May, she was supposed to turn twenty305, but because of her short stature and childlike face, she wasn’t supposed to be more20 than that. Patricia, had reddish, naturally curly hair, a firm heel, and a tough temper. She was not one of the people I was intimately acquainted with. I knew as much about her as Mr. President knew about me.
Also, Patricia worked in my father’s company. For more than 12 years, she had been hunched over for him and was probably the only one in our family who never got into scandals. According to Aunt Jo, her eldest daughter, most like a man, because of her own business acumen and rigid ways of working. And it also bothered my aunt that her thirty-five-year-old daughter was still single.
I glanced sideways at my cousin, who was rapidly typing something on her phone as we drove to a fundraiser her mother was throwing.
In general, charity for me is like buying hot dogs for bucks50, but giving for them70. And to do it as if those bucks20 helped change the world. Seriously, that’s exactly how it looks. Until one day you step in someone else’s shit and realize that the good is good and the ugly is still there. And no matter how hard you try, you can never make the world the way you want it to be. So you get discouraged and lose enthusiasm, but you’ll still keep leaving bucks20, because your conscience is clear and you’re morally satisfied.
Now, I just brought with me, just the bucks20. And it’s not because I’m stingy for life. No, it’s not! The reason was more banal than you could ever imagine. It’s just, it was all I had. There were two days before payday, and if this event, say, for example, on Thursday, I would not be stingy, and would donate, his honestly earned three hundred bucks, for such a good cause.
In general, if you’ve