The Figgs, page 12
“So, what does investigative counselling mean?”
June heard the rotational hum of the microwave and wondered what Randy was making. A stack of clean baby-laundry teetered on the arm of the couch. She zipped Jaxx inside a fleece sleeper and thought about Derek’s story of Vanessa bringing a knife to school.
Randy hovered in front of the microwave. “Tom pretended to be me?”
June placed Jaxx in the cradle. “Yes.”
“Maybe it really was for the mural,” he said. “I do remember seeing it when Derek graduated. I’m sure there was a big knife on it. And it was signed. Vanessa’s name was in black uppercase letters at the very bottom.”
Was it written backwards? June wondered, looking down at Jaxx. Randy removed whatever it was he’d put in the microwave.
June bit her nails. “Think we should talk to her about it?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing. And it was years ago. But if it really bothers you…” He dug at his teeth with a fork. “Call her and ask.”
June dialled Vanessa’s number. “Hi, it’s Mom. Do you have a minute?”
“A minute, yes,” Vanessa belted from the other end of the phone. “I’m just about to go into Starbucks.”
“Remember that time you brought a knife to school in Grade 11?”
There was a long pause. “What are you talking about?”
“When you brought the knife to school and you paid your brother to pretend he was Dad when the principal called.”
“Did Tom tell you that?”
“Actually, Derek mentioned it.”
“Well, tell Derek to fuck off.”
June expected her to hang up, but she didn’t. She added, “It was for an art project.”
“That was the only reason?” June switched to speakerphone so Randy could hear.
“What are you implying, Mom?”
Someone frothed milk in the background.
“I just wanted to make sure that it was for the mural and nothing else.”
“Like?” Vanessa asked.
“Like hurting yourself…or others,” June said.
Randy made a stabbing gesture.
“Randy,” June scolded. “Are you still there, Vanessa?”
“No, I’m stabbing someone with a knife. Can I call you back?”
“Vanessa, I needed to check. Two hundred dollars was a lot of money for you back then.”
“Yes, but if you found out, you would have grounded me, and it was the same week as the Fall Out Boy concert. And besides, I only ended up paying him fifty.”
Randy made a face suggesting this was reasonable. “That was nice of Tom.”
June threw a cushion at him.
“You wanna know why I only paid him fifty?”
“No.”
“Because I covered for him that time you found weed in the car.”
“I don’t recall finding weed in the car.”
“Because I said it was lettuce.”
“Lettuce?”
“Yes, and you were mad because you made that rule about no eating in the car.”
“That was weed?”
“You let it go because you were so proud I was eating salad.”
June sighed and hung up without saying goodbye. She tossed her phone on the couch.
“I remember thinking that. And I went out and bought a bunch of salad dressings.”
“Yes, and they all expired.”
June bent over the cradle, traced the outline of Jaxx’s mouth, and smoothed down a few pieces of stray hair.
Randy rinsed a plate in the sink. “I’m going to spend some time looking for Fergus.”
“I’ll join you in a few,” June replied. “I told Derek I would look after the baby tonight. I’ll bring Jaxx down and put him in the swing.”
June sliced an apple and slid pieces into Jerry’s cage. The bird was on his trapeze. He was sweet natured, good for Vanessa.
“I see you,” June whispered through the metal bars. Jerry bobbed his head and June felt melancholy, knowing Vanessa would take him when she went.
Jaxx woke up four times in the night, causing June to question whether she was dying. The fatigue was unbearable. Even though she was still in bed and Derek had taken Jaxx for his morning feeding, she felt like she’d spent the last eight hours doing rigorous exercise with her eyes taped open. She pleaded, “I need to sit down.”
“June,” Randy said. “You’re lying down.”
“Yes…am I?” She moved her arms through the space around her. Yes, she was still in bed. She could barely lift her head in the direction of her husband, and when she did, she saw his bare, virtually hairless, white bum. It disappeared in a blink beneath a pair of underwear she’d bought him at Marshalls. He was into his reserve underwear — an indication she had not kept up with the laundry. His boxer briefs had a rubbery sheen that made her think of Cher. And they were so tight, despite being labelled extra-large. His crotch resembled a balloon animal.
“I kind of like these.” Randy adjusted his package and squatted.
June dropped her head back on the bed. Her thousand-pound head. The pillow puffed up around her.
“Now, I’ll be taking Jaxx for a walk this morning,” he said matter-of-factly. “And you will be going to the spa.”
She lifted her head again. Randy was pointing at her. His hair hadn’t been brushed, and it reminded her of the quiet Joy of Painting host she used to watch on PBS. She wondered what happened to him. His large hair and soothing voice. His trees that appeared from nothing. She closed her eyes.
“June, did you hear what I said? I said you were going to the spa.”
She shook herself out of her stupor. “Yes, I heard you.”
He was still at the end of the bed, looking intense in an Inigo Montoya sort of way.
“And I’m so grateful,” she added. “Really, I am.”
Randy placed his hands on his hips in satisfaction and smiled until she could see the gap from his missing tooth on the upper left side of his mouth.
“And that’s not all. Earle and I have arranged for you and Birte to go together. She’s picking you up at ten and then you have lunch reservations after.”
June smiled, though the thought of Birte driving made her anxious. Birte was a drive-talker. Constantly trying to make eye contact with her passenger instead of looking at the road. And because she drove a Smart Car, with essentially nothing beyond the windshield, June always felt like they were going to hit whatever was in front of them. Randy crawled on the bed, now wearing a pair of awful cinnamon-coloured pants he’d bought on clearance and a black compression-style shirt athletes wore under their gear. He hovered over her, a heavy-breathing bear, and kissed both cheeks. “Have a lovely time.” His breath smelled like an old man’s bathroom.
June waved him off and remained in bed for another hour, not moving, as though she were having a CAT scan. She imagined her brain would look like a sea cucumber if it were examined right now. As ten o’clock neared, she finally got out of bed and forced herself to do jumping jacks, the way Randy used to when they were first married. Dressed, she ate a croissant at the window, flakes of pastry sailing to the floor like ticker tape.
Birte arrived just after ten and parked on the grass. “Sorry!” she said. “I almost had it and then poof! I’m on the lawn.”
“It happens.” June buckled her seatbelt.
Birte ate a miniature log of carrot cake, its plastic wrap wedged between her thighs. From the radio, someone was delivering a monologue on a controversial new pipeline.
“So, we’re having massages first and then pedicures.” Birte looked over at June and then swerved to avoid a plastic bag.
June tensed.
“I haven’t had a massage in ages.” Birte licked icing off her knuckle. “At least not at a spa. Earle and I take turns giving each other massages at home. We use a timer to keep it fair.”
June pictured short Birte straddling Earle’s expansive bare back, like a toddler on a horse.
“So, how’s little Jaxx doing?” Birte asked.
“He’s wonderful,” June gushed. “He’s alert and growing and sleeping really well. Except for last night. Lord have mercy, he was up every couple of hours.”
“And how’s Derek coping? Is he doing okay?”
“For the most part. Though he’s back to work today.”
“At the depot?”
“He’s learning to install kitchens with a friend of Vanessa’s.”
Birte said, “Darn it. I had some bottles to return.”
“I think it will be good for him.”
Birte pulled into the spa. It was in a strip mall flanked by a Subway and a hemp shop. The reception area was decorated with cat statuary. A Gregorian chant hummed from a speaker fixed to the ceiling.
The receptionist handed them each a clipboard, followed by a robe and a pair of flat flip-flops. Birte sent hers back.
“I have my own,” she sang, waving a sandal she pulled from her purse.
June never thought to bring sandals. The receptionist showed them to the women’s change room and a second waiting area that looked like the Clue library. There were built-in bookshelves, wing-backed chairs, and fancy water jugs with things floating in them — mint leaves, strawberries, lemons, and cucumbers. Birte filled her glass with the cucumber water and sat in the chair closest to a bowl of wafers.
“Ooh, look.” She set a wafer on the arm of her chair. “The Canterbury Tales.”
“I hate Chaucer,” June said. She placed her mechanical pencil down and took a wafer.
“Didn’t your father love Chaucer?”
“Yes,” June replied, her mouth full. “And it probably wouldn’t have bothered me so much if he didn’t always refer to him simply as Geoffrey, like he was our neighbour.” June circled an area of the lower back on her massage questionnaire.
“My father was never much into literature.” Birte used her robe to wipe sweat from her glass. “He read Norwegian science journals.”
“You know what else my Dad loved? America’s Funniest Home Videos. That’s all we watched at the hospice. Vanessa would sit on his lap and he’d try to braid her hair. He did a better job than I did.”
“I bet you he loved that.”
June dropped her pencil. “Birte, what do you think about adoptees searching for their birth parents?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it makes sense for medical reasons.”
“Only medical reasons? What about just to know where you came from?”
Birte twisted the tie of her robe around her finger. “I guess it depends on what the person wants to do with the information. Some birth parents don’t want to be contacted so if the purpose is to have a relationship with them, it doesn’t always work.” Birte sipped her water suspiciously. “You’re not thinking of searching for your birth parents, are you?”
June put down her questionnaire. “You know I said I would never look for them. But lately…”
Birte waited.
“Lately, I’ve been thinking I might want to.” June exhaled. “Birte, I don’t really know who I am.”
“None of us do.” A massage therapist with a sleek ponytail entered the library and asked Birte to follow her down the hall. Birte took another wafer, tightened her robe and placed a hand on June’s shoulder. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
June filled a glass. What if Fergus had no desire to meet his birth father? It would break Randy’s heart.
A massage therapist introduced herself and summoned June into a room at the end of the hall. She left June to undress and hide under the covers, taking the clipboard and questionnaire with her. June hated this part, because they always gave her too much time. She was already in a robe. Why did they always think it took eleven minutes to remove the robe and climb under the sheet? Did she look older than she was? Decrepit?
With each passing second she became more aware of her nakedness. The spreading of her body across the table, like batter in a pan. And the longer she lay there, the creepier she felt. What the heck was the massage therapist doing out there? Eating a ham sandwich? Spying on her through a crack in the wall? She stared at the ground through the face hole. Somewhere there was a speaker on the floor and the monks were chanting about meatballs. The massage therapist knocked.
“I’m ready.” June was impatient.
Heather, the therapist, applied light pressure to June’s upper back. “Let me know if anything feels uncomfortable.”
But everything was uncomfortable. Her hips and cheekbones felt like arrowheads against the table and she was annoyed with Birte for acting like medical concerns were the only legitimate reason for an adoptee to seek out her birth family.
“How’s that feel?”
The room smelled like lemongrass.
“It’s fine,” June said, but it wasn’t. Heather was sort of pinching the back of her neck the way one might pretend to pull off a child’s nose. She clenched her teeth and focused on the hotel-like carpet below.
“You’re quite tense,” Heather said.
June thought Heather’s voice was too soft. Melted ice cream. She wanted to plug her ears, but she was instructed to roll over onto her back. Heather tried to help by lifting June’s legs like she was newly paralyzed and in rehab. On a shelf of neatly rolled towels was a decorative gold cat with one paw up like it was waving. June wanted to break its arm. Heather pressed down on her shins. June jumped.
“Too much pressure?” Heather withdrew her hands.
“Sorry,” June said. “They’re really sore.”
“I didn’t see that on your questionnaire,” Heather said. “They weren’t circled.”
She moved behind June and cupped the back of her neck, pulling her head away from her body. Decapitation. It was the first part of the massage that actually felt good, and June closed her eyes. She thought of ET, his long neck and phonograph-shaped head, and she wanted to go home. Instead, Heather gave June a finishing shoulder squeeze and sent her back to the library. Birte was sprawled out on a chair, balancing a glass on her stomach.
“I could fall asleep,” she sang through a yawn. “That was so relaxing.”
June loosened her robe and sat across from her. “Randy has another son.”
Birte, who had closed both eyes, opened one of them and sat upright. She waited for more details.
“He’s older than Tom,” June added. “He was given up for adoption.”
“Well,” Birte stammered, “that’s news to me.”
June looked at her friend. Her cheeks were petal pink, her blond hair a sweaty mess. Birte ate a wafer out of discomfort.
“You already knew, didn’t you?” June slumped in her wing-back chair.
“Yes,” Birte confessed. “But I only found out yesterday, and it was by accident.”
“Randy told you?”
“Earle did. Randy had asked him the name of our dentist.”
“Why, who’s your dentist?”
“We go to twin brothers. Harold and Herman. Randy asked if there was someone named Glenda that worked there. Do you know that they were born almost two hours apart? Herman’s older. I don’t like him as much. He’s allergic to latex and uses these funny-tasting gloves, plus he drives a BMW, which makes me think I’m getting ripped off.”
“Glenda was his son’s birth mother.”
“Randy mentioned that. He said that you suggested he search for her in order to find him. What was his name?”
“Fergus,” June said. “At least that’s what they think.”
A pair of aestheticians arrived and escorted them to a white room. Blue water gurgled from the footbaths at the base of the chairs. They were ushered to a panel of polish and told to select a colour. June chose beige and climbed onto her assigned seat. “I worry Fergus will reject him,” she said.
Birte held up a bottle of coral polish. “It can happen. Remember Ruby from water aerobics? She spent ten years looking for her birth parents. Unfortunately, her mother had died of cancer, and when she finally tracked down her father, he refused to meet her. Said he was dying of cancer too and didn’t need any more trouble.”
That was another thing that kept June from acknowledging her beginnings. Her adoption, like Ruby’s, would have occurred at a time when such arrangements were secret and dirty and sacrilegious. Like prohibition. “That’s sad.” June said, conflicted by the pleasure she felt of having her heels buffed.
By the time the pedicures were finished, June didn’t want lunch. She’d eaten a dozen wafers. She shuffled to the reception desk in her disposable flip-flops. Birte, out of breath, treaded behind, her feet rolling over the edges of her leather sandals.
Twenty minutes later, they were spread out on either side of a booth designed for parties of six. June pointed at a quesadilla on the menu. Birte ordered a cheeseburger.
“Isn’t young love wonderful?” Birte’s earrings dangled while she raved. Tiny chandeliers.
“Sure,” June agreed, but she wasn’t picturing young love. She imagined Birte straddling Earle for a back massage, the egg timer from Birte’s kitchen, with the googly eyes and feet, watching from their bedside.
“Sweet. Innocent,” Birte mused, stirring her water like it was a fine cocktail.
The only young love June was aware of was dirty and raw and full of disappointment. Derek slip-sliding on the counting table. Vanessa doing lesbian things, which she knew little about but assumed were damp and involved rubber toys in video game colours. And God only knew what Tom did. Young perversion, she thought. Not love. And when she did consider love, she thought not of herself and Randy, young and clean under the covers, but of Glenda and Randy, who were younger and had more hair to get lost beneath.
Birte’s hamburger arrived lopsided and wet. She immediately cut it in half and took a bite.
“There they go again,” she said.
June turned around to see what Birte was talking about. She expected a train of Chili’s workers to emerge from the kitchen to wish someone a happy birthday. Instead she saw Marissa nestled under the arm of a man with biceps the size of coconuts and a T-shirt so tight that, even from a distance, June could see his pierced nipples. He picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth like he’d just eaten someone for dinner. Maybe it’s not Marissa, June thought, but resting on a sports bag beneath the table on feet crossed at the ankles were the same black Converse sneakers with neon orange laces June had seen under Marissa’s bed at the hospital. That was a week ago. One week? Nine days? She suddenly couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t she remember? Was she having a mini-stroke, or was this the beginning of dementia? Her quesadilla was now on the table, and she had no idea how long it had been sitting there, or who served it. The guacamole was missing. Had she already asked for it? Should she ask again?
