The spicy oregano stink of Dad’s version of Mom’s spaghetti filled the house. Tamara shut the door, slipped past the half empty boxes she’d filled at Mom’s, and checked her email. Zero. Daniel was waiting for her to send one, to say she made it all right. But Mom said that hard to get always gets what she wants.

A big green and empty backyard looked back at her through her temporary bedroom window. She imagined the grey and yellow parking lot view from the apartment, the changing patterns of the little cars, the packages that changed hands as dusk hit. She missed the stairwell, playing cards with Daniel, sharing one of his mother’s menthol smokes; each drag like a winter breeze indoors.

Grass? Fresh air? “Boring,” she said to her reflection.

The scar on her forehead was barely visible, but it still hurt. Lucky. That’s what the doctor called a mild concussion from the car accident. Said she had to be careful and take it easy and maybe she’d remember, but who the hell wanted to remember an accident?

“Dinner’s on, Tam!” Dad yelled.

God, she thought, what is this? The Marines?

Her computer chimed. An email had landed. Mom was right again. She smiled, then flipped through a Sandman comic on her new bed until Dad called again.

Yellow light from weak bulbs covered the big, orderly kitchen. She liked his spaghetti better cold and played with it until the steam eased.

Dad’s shirt gripped him tight. He’s too cheap to buy a new one, she thought, admit he’s gained weight. His rough face looked older in this cheap light. “Do any more exploring?”

“Found some whisky bottles and condoms behind the dumpster of the Seven-Eleven.”

Dad’s granite face chewed slowly. “Huh. Made any friends in the neighbourhood?”

“Not yet. Maybe if I hang out at the Seven-Eleven long enough, though.” The granite reddened. She smiled inside. This beat reality TV any day. She ate a warm mushroom. “I’m stuffed. Can I be excused?”

“You should really try to make some friends here, Tamara. This is a nice neighbourhood.”

“If nice means boring.”

“Nice means safe.” She prepared to hold her breath until Dad finished his “I was an orphan in Bonnie Rig” speech. Instead, he said, “This is a good place to come home to.”

Home. Another four-letter word she didn’t say in front of her father. He wanted her to stay put. For good. She remembered overhearing the first counselor, the bottle blond with bad teeth, say that Tamara might run away. Disappear. Unless she had a stable home. Tamara smiled: Mom had told that bitch to go to hell, that she didn’t know her daughter at all. Not Dad, though. Didn’t make a peep.

She forked a pepper. “I liked it better with…at the apartment.” She chewed on the cuff of her long sleeve shirt. “Sorry.”

Dad nodded, took a moment, then spoke. “It’s ok. It’s normal. She’s your mother.” God, he almost sounded like the judge awarding custody three years ago, word for word. “But she’s sick. Until she’s well again,” he smiled, “I guess you’re stuck with me.”

She sighed. “For how long?”

His lip trembled once, but he ate the rest of his dinner in cold silence. The spaghetti she’d been playing with now looked like blood and stringy hair and her stomach tightened. She asked to be excused again. He nodded.

Daniel’s sappy email made her groan. He hoped she was ok. Things sucked now. There was no one to stay out with all night, smoking and talking comics and boo freaking hoo. He asked if she’d borrowed his Sandman volume II, he was scared he’d lost it.

“Borrowed?” It sat on her bed. She touched the scar. Stupid. Of course. She’d borrowed it. She finished the email.

“why don’t you come back to Toronto, just for a weekend, could you stay with your mom’s new boyfriend?”

Todd? Old news after the accident. She hit delete and wondered how many heart attacks Dad would have if she vanished and then reappeared? Would he send her back?

---

Tamara lay the parcel containing Dan’s comics down on the post office desk. She figured he’d like the surprise. “How long will it take for this to get to Scarborough from here?”

The overweight woman with glasses and a bucktooth mouth gawked. “Where?”

“Scarborough. You know, Scarberia? In Toronto.”

“Oh,” she took the parcel and read the address. “A few days. Week on the safe side.”

“Damn, that’s a long time,” Tamara said.

“Not like you’re mailing it to yourself.” She weighed the package. “Five fifty. What’s inside?”

A smart-ass remark almost left her tongue when a question popped out instead. “How long does a letter take to arrive at your own house?”

“One to two days if it is picked up before 3 p.m.”

She paid for the parcel’s postage, a book of stamps, and some envelopes. At home, door shut, she began to write.

Dear Dad,

If you’re reading this, I’m already gone.

Tamara

She smiled at the ambiguity. She could be dead. She could have run away. She could have gone for a donut! She’d spend the day in town, smoking and reading more of Daniel’s comics, then reappear. He’d crack worse than a trembling lip! She’d be on the next bus back home before his last tear dropped!

But Tamara didn’t trust the ugly lady. This had to be perfect. She’d do a test run. She put the letter in the envelope, signed the new address, and slapped on a stamp. She said she was going for a walk, but he was crouched over his desk, typing up reports or whatever, and didn’t hear her. Let’s see if he misses me when I’m really gone, she thought, lighting a cigarette against the wind.

She finished her smoke, found the nearest mailbox, and fired it into the chute. A block away in the shade of a birch tree, some girls in summer dresses, each a different colour, stopped walking and stared. Tamara lit another smoke and gave them the finger. They muttered swears at her as she walked back home.

Days later, Dad knocked on her door. “Tam? Can I come in?”

She had almost finished the Preacher comic she’d found in a box of other comics she must have borrowed from Dan. “Sure.”

He looked awful, almost like the post office troll, and the bags under his eyes were almost blue. “I’ve got some time off this afternoon. Thought you might want to see a movie. We could go to a matinee. Like we did for your birthday.”

She turned a page. “Kinda busy.” She’d noticed yesterday that the mail came around one p.m.

He nodded his head seriously. “Right, right.” Then turned around and left. Face twitching. She closed her eyes against the guilt swelling in her gut, then blurted out, “Maybe we could do it, uh, Friday?”

Dad’s head popped back. “Friday.” He nodded his head, doing some kind of mental math. His face hardened. “Absolutely. Why don’t you pick the film? My treat.” A smile broke through his hard Scottish face before he left. It looked weird. The guilt faded.

Later, she heard the sound of the mailbox’s squeaky hinges. Dad, back at his desk, told her to slow down. She popped outside to see the mailman’s blue and white form jut around the hedges and head for the next house. She grabbed the letters and rifled through them. Bills. A National Geographic magazine. And a plain letter with no name, just an address. She shoved it in her pocket, put the other junk on the kitchen table, and marched to her room to read the letter.

A different envelope. Tougher. A date was branded to the stamp. 12 April 2004. “Postal Troll lost my letter,” she muttered, opening the envelope. She dropped on her bed, reading the first line.

“Mother. If you’re reading this, I’m already gone.”

She read it a dozen times but the stunned sensation never left her face.

“I want you to know that this isn’t about you. I just can’t pretend anymore. It’s too hard. I don’t feel real, but it still hurts. No one thinks I can be sad. No one sees me. Not the way I am. The way I feel. I’m lost in this skin. But it’s just a pretty shell. That’s all everyone wants to see. To touch. But I don’t feel anything good. And that scares me.

“I love you, Mother. But I’m not a toy, or an appliance, or a showpiece. They can’t leave their trophy shelf. I can. Please don’t be too sad.

Love, Emily.”

Chimes rang out of her computer. She ignored the message from Daniel and tucked the letter beneath her pillow and walked through the day in a haze.

She woke the next morning, shivering. She’d dreamed of broken glass and ghosts in mist. She dressed quickly, reading Daniel’s email, and ran into the afternoon sunlight, packages in hand.

The same postal troll stood behind the office desk. She fired off the latest batch of Daniel’s comics Tamara had discovered in her boxes, but wouldn’t give the forwarding address to the old owners of Dad’s house.

Stumped, she walked back home, past the Seven Eleven, her mish-mashed dream following her, a dark memory swirling.

“Hey!”

She’d walked toward the field, behind the Seven-Eleven parking lot, when three girls appeared from behind a car. The summer dress rich kids, Tamara figured. Red, Blue and White. Like a box of crayons. Each of them held unlit cigarettes. “Hey what?”

“You’re the new girl,” said the one in the blue dress and ponytail. “On Twine street? You moved in this week.”

Tamara lit a cigarette and blew a thin stream of smoke into the mid morning breeze. “Yup, Sherlock. That’s me.”

“Oh my god!” said the red one. “Emily’s house.”

Tamara wiped the sweat from her face with her sleeve. “Who?”

“Emily Painter,” said the third, in white. “She was our friend.”

The tone made it clear: Tamara was no Emily Painter. “Oh,” Tamara said, playing dumb. “She move away or something?”

The crayon girls looked at each other. The white one spoke. “She died.”

“You don’t know that!” said the red.

“Where could she be, Samantha? The moon?” said the blue.

“No one found her!” said the red.

Tamara repeated the name in her head, worried she’d forget: Painter, Emily Painter, Emily Painter, Painter, Painter.

“Hey,” said the white, approaching her. “You have any matches? We forgot to get them.”

“Rookie mistake,” Tamara said, then flung them her matchbook.

They lit them eagerly, but only puffed. “Wanna hang out?” said the blue. “We’re going to the mall later.” She handed back the matches.

Tamara took a step back (Painter, Painter, Painter). “Nah. Gotta get home.”

“I told you she was stuck up!” said the red. Tamara flicked her cigarette at her and she squealed. Leaving the crayon girls behind, she realized something. She’d called the house “home.”

Three Painters were in the phonebook. Each time, she asked to speak to the mother of Emily Painter. The last one held her breath for half a minute. “This is Doris Painter.”

“Uh, hi. Name’s Tamara McTavish. I live in your old house and-—” Her mouth dried as the words hung back in her throat. “See, I have something.”

“Yes?”

“Something of your daughter’s. I found it in the house and I’d like to return it to you.”

Heartbeats passed, then. “Fine. Come tomorrow. I’m very busy right now.” She gave her the address and hung up. Mrs. Painter’s voice almost echoed after the call. Tamara found the address on MapQuest. It was not close.

“Tam? Lunch is on.”

She ate the egg salad sandwich and cold lemonade without saying a word, trying to calculate how long she’d be, while Dad read the paper. If her bike hadn’t been stolen from the apartment last year, she’d make it home quick, no sweat. Now, she’d have to start in the morning. But why? Tomorrow. Something about tomorrow…

“Plans for the rest of the afternoon?” Dad said, folding the financial section over and scrutinizing the tiny print.

“No,” she said, nibbling the crust, heart thumping. What was it hiding in her head? She rubbed the scar. Got up, went to the post office—

“I met some girls from the neighbourhood.”

“I hope not by the Seven Eleven.” He raised an eyebrow comically.

She smiled. “They seem ok.”

He smiled back. “Good.”

She told him they had plans tomorrow morning.

“Great.” He swallowed dryly. “But we won’t miss the movie, right?” Dad said.

The movie, she thought, that’s it! She sighed. “No chance.”

“Grand. You didn’t forget, did you?”

She flinched. “No.”

“The doctor said you might have some trouble—”

“I didn’t forget, damn it! I’m not some basket case.”

“I just meant—”

“Can I be excused?” She didn’t wait for a response.

Friday morning began warm and bright. Dad? Long gone. A note on the clear kitchen table said he was at the office, but he’d be back at eleven, and that she should take an umbrella when she went out. Then, PS “I’m sorry.” Tamara crushed the note and tossed it near the garbage. Apologizing? How weak was he? Mom never apologized.

She jogged as the dew began to vanish from the lawn-strips on the sidewalks. When she’d reached Roberts Road, the clouds had thickened and moisture infected every breath. Hugging herself, she hurried, double-checking her back pocket crammed with the address, 243 RR. And the letter for Mrs. Painter. She smiled. She hadn’t forgotten a damn thing.

At 100, the rain sprinkled, at 120 it dribbled and by 200 it smacked her in buckets. Dark thunder kept her running, lungs tense and charred from too many morning smokes. The rain soon eased, blocked by the canopy of large elm and spruce trees on this stretch of the neighbourhood. But her long sleeve shirt was still a hundred soaking pounds.

There was 244 Roberts Road.

“Shit,” she said, listening to herself drip.

A wide front porch and a second story balcony sat before her. The bedrooms had large bay windows. The wet limestone made everything dark and warm and blue. A big crabapple tree stood rooted in the lawn and the rain, now a mist, tapped off of the leaves on to the rich, green lawn. An SUV, covered in rain bubbles, sat in the driveway like a crimson tank.

Rolling up her soggy sleeves, she walked to the grey front door and hit the doorbell. The wood creaked under her feet as she leaned back and forth. A distant sound. Footsteps. Closer.

Opening the door was a woman in a light pink blouse and white pants. Thin. But not jagged like Mom. Elegant. Strawberry blond with a very white face. Queen of the WASPs. “Mrs. Painter?”

“Yes.” Her face barely moved. If she had wrinkles, they were drowning in botox.

“I’m Tamara McTavish. I called yesterday.”

“I remember. You have something of mine?”

Tamara’s lip twitched as this rich bitch gave her an “I don’t have all day” look. Tamara smiled, dug out the letter, and pushed it at the elegant waif. “Enjoy.”

She did an about-face and saw the tree bend against the downpour. The porch had kept her dry and it was a long walk home. A whisper made her turn.

“My Emily.”

Mrs. Painter’s face tensed, stretching near a breaking point. “Oh god.” Her eyes shut and she pressed the paper to her mouth.

“Uh, I’m sorry,” Tamara said. “About your—” a gust of wind chilled her and tickled her throat. A cough crept out. Then another. And another. Her chest raged with tremors and her eyes watered.

“Good god, you’re soaked,” said Mrs. Painter. “Get inside.” Tamara did not resist, chest heaving. Mrs. Painter pulled Tamara through a huge kitchen and down a dark hallway, Mrs. Painter’s low cut heels thudding down the dark, enameled floors. A bright light came on in a rose coloured bathroom that looked brand new. “The towels are there. I’ll find you something dry to change into.”

She closed the door and Tamara shivered. She dug her drenched cigarettes out of her pocket and tossed them and the matches into the garbage, then dried her heavy hair with the fluffy, white towels.

Two knocks. “Dear?” Mrs. Painter didn’t wait for a reply. Her make-up redone, her face firm. “Here. You can’t go home in that.” She offered Tamara a thick, pink sweater.

So Emily was the pink crayon, Tamara thought. Or what her old Crayola packs called “skin” colour. “Thanks, but I—”

“Please?”

She nodded and took the sweater to keep the old lady from crying.

“She was beautiful. Great rider. Top of her class.”

“Grand,” Tamara said, holding the pink sweater. It smelled like expensive perfume.

“Just perfect.” Mrs. Painter gazed somewhere past the immaculate bathroom and relaxed until that old doll face held itself still. “Gerald said we sold the house too quickly, but I didn’t care about the loss.” So that’s how Dad could afford it! “It was too full of…We needed new memories. You know, she was so beautiful…”

Tamara tried holding her breath while this woman spoke of the daughter she didn’t even know. She gasped and sucked in more air three times before she stopped blabbing about riding lessons and awards and other shit that apparently Emily had bolted from into nowhere. Mrs. Painter sniffed. “Sorry, what was your name again, dear?”

“Tamara McTavish.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What an odd name.”

“Not if you’re Ukrainian-Scottish.”

“Well, dear, I believe I owe you a thank you.” Tamara waited, then realized that that was the thank you.

“Oh. Sure.”

“Well, I’ll let you get changed.” She blinked. “Then we’ll do something about your hair.” She closed the door and Tamara dried herself and dropped the soaking, frigid sweater on the ground. But she kept her undershirt on, drying as best she could, before putting on the sweater. When her head went through the hole, Mrs. Painter walked in.

“Well. Don’t you look nice.” She frowned. “Except for that hair. Come on. Can’t have you leaving my house looking like this.” She dragged Tamara into the kitchen, sat her down at a glass table and began to brush out her tangled mane. “You really need a haircut. These split ends won’t heal themselves.”

She gritted her teeth. “Fine. You have the time?”

“Twelve thirty.”

Dad. The movie. She pulled away from the brush and it pulled back. “Ow! Damn!”

“Language, dear. I’m almost done.”

“But I gotta go.”

Her scalp burned as she tried to pull away.

“I said easy, dear.” Tamara covered her scar with her hand while Mrs. Painter finished. Dull pain echoed in her head.

“See,” she said, holding her by the shoulders in front of a giant hall mirror. “Isn’t this better.”

Tamara’s hair was smooth and long and felt like a wig. Mrs. Painter brushed a lock over her scar. “Look, thanks, but I gotta run.”

“Not in this weather. Let me give you a lift.”

“No, that’s ok—”

Mrs. Painter held her hand tight and walked her to the SUV as the rain started to pound. “Don’t worry. I know the way.”

Rain blurred the windows and Tamara, hugging herself in the pinkness of her sweater, swallowed pasty spit. The huge car engulfed her small body. Mrs. Painter babbled but Tamara didn’t hear it. Something tugged on her mind.

Hail hit the window like gunfire and Tamara gasped.

“Rotten day,” Mrs. Painter said.

Breathless, Tamara nodded. Hail kept tapping the glass in sharp rhythms. Harder. Softer. The neighbourhoods melted down and up along the windows. She was boiling. The pink darkened.

“Do you like my house?” Mrs. Painter’s voice warbled.

“Sure.” She kept blinking. But the world was melting in rain outside.

Hail tapped the window so hard she expected cracks. She closed her eyes to avoid it, but mom’s voice ran through.

“Might take my license, but no man tells me I can’t drive my daughter around to look at new houses, because baby when I get that next win we are moving. You gotta be the boss, baby, or else they’ll take it all, like your daddy, and you saw the way the judge looked at me, right, baby? Hey, anything left in Momma’s drink? Pass it here. Careful, don’t spill it! Jesus Christ!”

“Mom, don’t!”

Tamara opened her eyes. Rivers of water dissected the window like spiderwebs of broken glass. She smelt pungent rum. He stomach twisted and blood ran out of her face. Cars rushed passed her head, sending gooseflesh down her spine. She gasped.

“Hard to see the house, all this mist.” Mrs. Painter’s said, driving steady. “Maybe we should go back, wait until it clears.”

Tamara’s head swam in the hazy shapes of the rain until it eased into a fine mist. Where was the house?

“Do you want to go back, Emily?”

Her lip trembled. The car kept moving, inching along the curb. “Tamara.”

“Pardon?”

“My name is Tamara. Stop the car.”

“Are you alright?”

“Stop the car, bitch!” Tamara opened the door before the car stopped and hit the wet ground running.

The mist thickened. She ran across the lawns until she saw the porch. Dad held an umbrella in one hand, a letter in the other.

The letter! She ran, chest heaving. The soaked envelope sat at his feet. “Dad!” Her voice coughed out, weak and tinny. He unfurled the letter. “Dad.” She swallowed the phlegm and pain. “Don’t read!”

It fell out of his strong hands.

She tore off the sweater, undershirt drenched in sweat. “I’m here, Dad! I’m home!”

 

# # #

Flight Risk by Jason Ridler
originally published in the Fall 2011 print edition