Big Guy Page 2

  More than friends.

  To tell you the truth, I’m pretty crazy about this guy. Did I already mention that?

  I log on to msn and there’s a message from Ethan.

  hey derek. i’m at work— booorrrrrring.

  boss keeps hanging around so can’t

  surf. might actually have to work if u

  don’t get home soon, lol

  I grin. Ethan’s working part-time as a research assistant, inputting data for one of his mother’s professor friends. He’s doing grade twelve too—he thinks I should go back and finish, but I’d had enough.

  hey, I type. just got home.

  how was first day?

  I think for a minute. Then I type

  definitely weird

  tell me more

  I love this about Ethan—he’s really interested in stuff. I mean, everyone would ask how your first day was, but it’s just to be polite. Not Ethan. He really wants to know.

  th boss francine is scary nurse-typ

  with those scary white shoes, u no?

  lol. and?

  a lot of lipstick

  ha ha. i mean what did u do?

  i helped some lady have a shower

  u didn’t

  did yeah that’d be weird

  I feel a twinge of guilt talking about Aaliyah like this, but I push it aside. Another message pops up from Ethan.

  derek—gtg

  And he’s gone. Just gotta go. Not love ya or later babe or even L8R G8R. Nothing remotely affectionate. Instantly my insides are tight and squirming and I’m wondering what’s wrong. Maybe he was just in a hurry. Maybe his boss walked in. And he messaged me to find out how my first day was. He wouldn’t do that if he was about to dump me, right? If he was losing interest?

  I hate this. I hate how one stupid little conversation that isn’t even about anything can send me over the edge and turn me into a stupid fat seething mass of insecurity. Before Ethan, I was fine. Eternally single, maybe, but fine. I had friends. I wasn’t on the edge of panic over a missing word.

  The thing is, even though it’s all online and it’s only been a few months, it’s already kind of hard to imagine my life without Ethan in it.

  Chapter Four

  I’m still sitting there, staring at the screen, when another message pops up.

  u still there?

  yup, still here.

  I rub my hands over my face, relieved and a bit embarrassed. God, I’m glad Ethan has no idea how pathetic I am. Has no idea how crazy in love with him I am.

  my mom just phoned and guess what?

  I shake my head. Here I am panicking and he was just talking to his mom.

  ok what?

  i have amazing news...

  I’m grinning as I type.

  u r such a tease. what news?

  my sister ‘s getting married in february...

  woo hoo

  wait, this is good. th weddings in

  kitchener. that’s close to you rite?

  I’m grinning so hard it hurts. I feel like my heart might explode.

  hell yeah. like a half hr drive

  we’re gonna actually MIRL

  Meet in real life. My fingers are flying over the keys.

  brilliant. can’t believe it

  me neither

  To actually be able to see Ethan, to meet him, to touch him and hold him and...

  And my heart practically thuds to a halt in my chest as I remember.

  That photo I sent him. That’s who he thinks I am. That’s who he wants to meet. Not me. Not this version of me.

  I can’t meet him.

  I sit for a few minutes, just staring at the screen. A message pops up.

  u still there?

  I know what I need to say:

  Ethan, I don’t think that’s a good idea.

  In fact, I’ve been thinking maybe we

  should just forget about the whole

  thing—but I can’t.

  I can’t do it.

  I can’t bring myself to end it yet, even though I know I will have to.

  I start typing.

  yeah still here. just surprised. Wow

  u sure? u wondering if I’m really a

  creepy 40 yr old perv?

  I wish that was what I was worrying about.

  no I googled u months ago. found you

  soccer team picture from 10th grade

  remember?

  uh huh. i look better now

  can’t wait to see u

  and? wink wink

  yeah that too

  I am grinning again, playing around, almost forgetting for a moment that none of this is going to happen. Then it hits me again like a wall of ice, hard and cold and inevitable. God.

  I can’t tell him not to come. I can’t do it.

  And I know I don’t have a choice.

  I stare at the computer for a few seconds, trying to find it in me to keep chatting and goofing around like everything is okay. Like nothing is wrong.

  The front door opens and slams closed.

  ethan? I type, my fingers suddenly slow and awkward on the keyboard. dad’s home. ttyl

  I grab my leather jacket off the back of my door, check that my car keys are in the pocket. Time to go.

  Dad glares at me as I walk by. “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  He snorts, turns on the television and sits down on the couch. Conversation over. He’s never been a big talker, but since Mom took off it’s like he’s forgotten how. Fine by me. When he does talk, it’s usually just to give me a lecture.

  Down at the bar—the only one in town—I see some of the guys I went to school with. Mason and Todd. We used to work together at the A & P.

  “Hey hey,” Mason drawls, lifting one hand in a mock salute. His red hair is buzzed short, his large nose still red from a bad sunburn a few months back. “Come and join us, big guy.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, okay.” Everyone’s called me that since about sixth grade. I’ve always been tall. Since I got fat, though, I’ve started to hate that nickname. I slap some money down on the bar and carry a pint over to their table. Technically, I’m underage, but no one ever gets ID’d here.

  Todd’s girlfriend is with them. Carrie. She’s tiny and sharp-featured. With her puffed-up hair and startled brown eyes she looks like one of those toy poodles.

  She loops her arm through Todd’s and smiles up at me. “Hey, Derek.”

  Todd puts his beer down and looks at me, thick eyebrows raised. “So,” he says, “I hear you got a new job.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  I shrug. “It’s okay.”

  “Okay? You give up a chance to bag groceries with us for a job that’s just okay?” His skinny face is creased with laughter. “Come on. What do you have to do? Help people with Old-Timer’s find the dining room?”

  I nod, take a long drink of cold beer. “Yeah, basically.” I glance around and my eyes fall on the pool table. I dig in my pocket and come up with a dollar. “Who’s up for a game?”

  The evening passes in a blur of jukebox oldies, rounds of beer, games of pool won and lost. Thoughts are bouncing around in my head: Ethan. That photo I sent. His plan to visit. And that woman, Aaliyah—I keep thinking about her too, wondering what happened to her. I order another beer and push the thoughts aside. When we finally stagger out into the rain, it’s past midnight. A river of brown water rushes along the gutter and I swear aloud as I step in it, soaking my foot to the ankle as I fumble to find my car keys.

  “You sure you’re okay to drive?” Todd asks me.

  “Fine,” I say.

  Todd looks worried and glances at Carrie, who is clinging wetly to his arm. “I didn’t realize you had your car, man. You had a lot to drink. I mean, you know, you don’t usually...”

  I sit down heavily in the driver’s seat, start the car, flick on the wipers. “It’s cool. I’m fine. Give you guys a ride if you want.”

  Todd looks at
me, brow furrowed. Then he looks back at Carrie. “No, we’re good, we’ll get a cab.” He waves. “All right, big guy. See you.”

  I head straight down King Street, through downtown. Traffic is a snarled mess. Half the streetlights aren’t working, and power seems to be out in some parts of town. I turn on the radio, sing along to an old Rolling Stones song, my voice loud and out of tune, joining Mick Jagger’s as he belts out “Paint It Black.”

  I’m just turning onto Walnut Street when a pickup truck cuts me off, veering sharply into my lane. I hit the brakes hard. The car swerves and starts to skid. I’m drunk, I think. I take my foot off the brakes and wrestle the car back under control. I pull to a careful stop at the side of the road. I’m shaking all over, sitting with my head against the steering wheel. God.

  Mick Jagger just keeps on singing. I open the door and puke my guts into the gutter. Then I leave the car at the side of the road and walk the last two miles home.

  Chapter Five

  The next day I oversleep. I have to catch a bus to pick up my car. Don’t even have time to go online. I show up at work twenty minutes late, with a jackhammer headache and a stomach full of acid.

  Francine greets me coldly. She is wearing mint green today. Her thin blond hair is pulled back tightly, penciled-on eyebrows arching above eye shadow the same color as her dress.

  “You’re with Mrs. Buckley this morning,”

  she says, dropping a stack of papers on her desk but not sitting down. “Cleaning. She’s been hiding food again and her unit stinks to high heaven.”

  My stomach rolls in protest at the thought. “And after that?”

  “We’ll need help in the dining room. We’re short-staffed.” She lifts her chin and, despite being about a foot shorter, somehow manages to look down her nose at me. “I should remind you, Derek, that you are on a probationary period. Further lateness will not be tolerated.”

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  I spend a couple of hours picking moldy bits of food out of Mrs. Buckley’s radiators and dresser drawers, and wondering if Aaliyah told Francine that she didn’t want to see me again.

  Mrs. Buckley keeps complaining that I’m trying to starve her.

  “You’re just like all the others,” she says bitterly. “Everyone wants to get rid of me.” Her faded blue eyes brim with tears. The desire to defend myself flickers and dies. We sit in silence for a moment, contemplating half a bagel sticking out from beneath a pile of clothes.

  “Mrs. Buckley,” I say tentatively.

  She looks startled, as if she had already forgotten that I was there. “Yes, dear.”

  “Would you mind, I mean, would it be okay if I just ran out for a couple of minutes? To talk to someone?”

  She pats her white curly hair. “Of course. I’ll be just fine.”

  I wonder if she’ll take all the food out of the garbage bag and hide it again as soon as I leave the room. “Thanks.”

  Out in the hallway, I hesitate. Jesus Christ. What am I doing? But here I am, walking down the hall, knocking quietly on Aaliyah’s door and hoping Francine doesn’t come by and see me.

  “Come in,” Aaliyah calls.

  I open her door and slip inside, walk down the hallway to her bedroom. She is still in her pyjamas, lying on her bed reading a book. When I walk in, she puts the book down and stares at me.

  “You again.”

  I shrug. “I’m not supposed to, I mean, I’m not here to help you today.” I wince at my choice of words. “I mean, Francine didn’t tell me to come.”

  She just waits.

  I turn away and put my hand on the blinds. “You want these open?”

  “Yes.”

  I yank on the cord, pull the blinds up. Outside, the rain pours down.

  “It’s the twenty-seventh consecutive day of rain,” Aaliyah says from behind me. “If it rains for two more, it’ll be a record.”

  I turn slowly back toward her and rest one hand on the edge of her bed. “I’m sorry,” I say. “About yesterday.”

  She looks at me steadily.

  “When you said you hadn’t always been... you know.”

  Aaliyah shifts her head on her pillow. “Disabled?”

  “Yeah. And I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yes.”

  There is a long silence. I look over at the dresser but the photograph is gone. “I saw the photo. On the boat.”

  “Carpe Diem,” she says. She laughs. “There’s a certain irony in that, I suppose.”

  “Huh?”

  She gives a short laugh. “Her name. The boat. My fiancé’s boat.”

  I’m still staring at her blankly and she shrugs, sighs. “It means seize the day.”

  I meet her eyes. “Your fiancé. That was him in the picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “What...” I falter.

  “You want to know what happened? With my fiancé or to me?”

  I’ve never noticed before, but she’s got these amazing dark eyes. “To you.”

  She studies me. “How come you want to know now?”

  I hesitate. “I don’t know. I just...I can’t stop thinking about it.” I shake my head, my cheeks hot. “It’s none of my business. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  She just keeps looking at me and there’s something like pity on her face.

  I stand up and back away slowly. “I’m sorry. I’ll go. I just, you know, I didn’t expect to see someone young here. I mean, it makes you think, you know? Like...I totally could have crashed my car last night. And I just thought...”

  She looks past me, out the window. Her voice is like glass: sharp, fragile, cutting. “You want to know what happened to me. You want to hear that I did something stupid. So you can go on feeling like you’re going to be fine. Like it would never happen to you. Like you’re safe.”

  Outside, the rain pours down. It fills the gutters, streams from the corners of roofs, overflows the puddles in the parking lot below. I want to tell her she’s wrong, that’s not what I meant, but I don’t say anything. I close my eyes, see blackness, feel my heart thudding wildly.

  “You’ll have to figure out your own life,” she says, “I’ve got enough to deal with. Nothing personal, but I don’t need your crap to deal with too.”

  Chapter Six

  When I leave work at 4 pm, the rain is still sluicing down. I walk out the door and stand in the parking lot for a few minutes, letting the cool water stream down my face, over my shoulders, down my back. If Aaliyah was looking out her window, she’d see me standing down here like a big fat idiot. I shake my head, water flying from my too-long hair, and get in my car.

  I log on at our usual time, almost without thinking about it. Almost forgetting, again, that I have to end this. To tell you the truth, it’s kind of weird how easy it is just to pretend that everything is fine.

  Until Ethan’s message pops up on the screen.

  hey there cutie. i printed ur pic and

  now i can look at you while we talk.

  I feel sick. It’s just starting to sink in: I’ve wrecked everything. Wrecked the one really good thing in my life. Even if the wedding got cancelled, even if Ethan decided not to visit after all...somehow I don’t think things could go back to being the way they were. Not for me. I feel like I’m just faking it all now, like I’m pretending to be someone else.

  And the worst part is, other than Gabi, Ethan was the only person I could be myself with. Now that’s gone.

  So I lie, which is something that living with my dad teaches you to do pretty well.

  hey ethan. dont let my good looks

  distract u from my witty and

  intelligent words

  no chance. well...sorry, what were u

  saying?

  ROFL.

  I almost smile despite myself. Rolling on the floor laughing.

  It couldn’t be further from the truth.

  The next day I show up to work on time. Francine gives me a curt nod.

&nbs
p; “Well, I don’t know what you did, but you sure charmed Mrs. Buckley yesterday.”

  “I did?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Francine’s red painted lips stretch thin as she smiles at me. “So I thought you could do her bath this morning. She’s been giving Paula, her regular, a hard time anyway.”

  I shrug, trying to act like this personal care stuff is no big deal. The thing is, it weirds me out. Brushing teeth, helping with dressing, cleaning fish tanks, that’s all okay. But baths and showers? Well, that’s just a bit too personal.

  Mrs. Buckley flashes me a sly smile as I enter her apartment. “Derek. You came back. That’s lovely.” She beckons me to come closer. “That girl Paula, she was always bossing me around. Treating me like a child.”

  I nod.

  “I’m eighty-six years old,” she says. “I’m not a child.”

  “No. No, you’re not.”

  She looks sideways at me. “You won’t try to boss me, will you, Derek?”

  I shake my head. “No, ma’am.” I’ve never called anyone Ma’am before in my life. I have no idea why I just said that.

  Mrs. Buckley smiles again. “I don’t need a bath this morning,” she says.

  “Francine said...” I begin.

  She gives a little sniff. “Francine. Puffed-up little git. What does she know?”

  I shrug helplessly.

  “I had a bath yesterday,” Mrs. Buckley says. “Today I’m going to show you some photos.”

  I spend the next hour looking at pictures of Mrs. Buckley’s life. A small child posed serious-faced with groups of adults. A bride and groom standing hand in hand. A mother with a pair of toddlers clinging to her legs. A cute dark-haired baby sitting on Santa’s lap. An older couple on the deck of a sailboat. That one reminds me of Aaliyah and I shiver a little.

  Mrs. Buckley’s sharp eyes don’t miss much. “Goose walking over your grave?”

  I shake my head. “Just cold.”

  “Hmm.” She looks at the clock. “You better go. Francine doesn’t like it when the care workers overstay their time.”