Maxine

Saturday Morning – The Morning After

How my eyes adore her and I awake to her and her smile, a comforting picture of Margaret and me captured on a summer day last year. How time flies.

The desire to remain in bed for an eternity consumes me, but my mind subtly reminds me of my mother's impending fate, intensifying the urge to stay cocooned in bed even more. Why does this happen to people? Death?

I hear the rhythmic sound of my dogs slurping from their water bowl, a cadence of slurps and drips echoing through the air. How I cherish those old doggos. They're ancient now, twelve and thirteen respectively.

My bed creaks as I heave myself out of it—an old bed too. Everything in this house is old. My morning steps lead me to the bathroom first, where the cold, pinkish tiles sting my bare feet. As I position myself in front of the, once again, ancient mirror. The reflection reveals a messy girl, a messy person. A sad person.

I brush my teeth with aggression, fully aware that such fervor risks removing enamel. Yet, it's a nervous habit, a compulsion for my mouth to be as clean as possible. My bed may be a mess most of the time, but my teeth are nice and white.

I brush my hair, wrestling with the tangled mess. It hurts as I pull and tug on it. Cursing under my breath, I resist the urge to toss the hair comb away in frustration. Placing it down, I gaze up at my reflection, observing my pale complexion. I wonder why I didn't get more sun during the summer vacation. Margerat's skin, consistently pale, never detracted from her appearance.

Entering the living room, I find my father peacefully asleep on the couch. He needs rest; I want him to fulfill his promise and get better. Consider a rehab center, one that government assistance could cover. If that's not feasible, perhaps a hospital could be an option.

Either way, I hope he gets clean.

In the kitchen, I scan for muffins without success. Turning to the fridge, I find colas, beer, and slightly spoiled fruit. There's milk, just past its expiry, but it seems fine upon inspection. I consider taking a sip but hesitate after another sniff. Maybe not.

Searching through the cabinets, I discover only stale cookies and crackers—no cereal or bread, just a sense of staleness. Contemplating a visit to the grocery store to discreetly pocket some bread and peanut butter or considering Margaret's house, where there's likely food. Hearing my father stir on the couch, I decide to head to the grocery store. I doubt he has spare change, and I don't want to disturb his rest by waking him. Searching the key bowl, I discover a few dimes and a quarter, but it's not enough. In the living room, I find another dollar in a candy bowl filled with inedible, now hardened candy that has aged beyond its prime. So, a dollar sixty-five. Not enough.

I slip the money into my pajama pants and throw on my navy-blue jacket, pulling the fur trim over my head. No ball cap today. Putting on my worn-out sneakers, I exit the house and make my way to the local grocery store. The morning is cold and miserable, with gray and white clouds obscuring the sun, creating a sense of despair in the world. Maybe it's just me.

Walking down the main street, which spans the entire town, cars speed past, spraying water off   impulse and take a leap into a dirty puddle, water splashing up and covering my shoes. Cold and soaked, the water seeps into my socks. I love the feeling.

Reaching the intersection, I turn right, heading towards the grocery store. A young couple embraces in the cold, and a man walks his dog. I'm reminded that I'll need to let my dogs out when I return.

As I pass by the convenience store run by Rajesh, the Indian man, I recall his kindness. He's a nice person who has, on occasion, let me take snacks home for free. After I was caught pocketing bagels, he empathetically said, "I know what it's like to have to steal food for family." Since then, he's allowed me to take bagels and snacks without charge. A nicer person than most.

Walking past the pet store, I'm reminded of the time I stole dog food and bones from there. The experience wasn't as pleasant when I was caught; the treatment was less forgiving. Banned for life. Oh well, I won’t be in this town my whole life. Maybe.

I walk by the upscale vegan grocery store, noticing the security guards and numerous cameras. It crosses my mind that I haven't stolen from there, but I haven't made any purchases either.

In the absence of funds, fad diets become irrelevant. I continue walking, passing the newly constructed gas station that replaced a breakfast restaurant. The attendant is engaged in conversation with someone. The thought of employment crosses my mind. Perhaps I'll apply at the gas station or the vegan store; I haven't been caught at either of those establishments. My previous job involved working for the town as a street cleaner. I cleaned windows, lamp posts, benches, and various other items. One of my workmates was a thirty-year-old woman named An, or at least, I think that was her name. The details escape me. Passing by the homes lining the main street, I notice that many have turned into drug dens. I know this firsthand, having entered one under the pretense of getting free marijuana and beer. The experience was messy, and while inside, I felt a profound sadness. It wasn't just for the state of the place but a fear of what I, or anyone, could become. I see the grocery store just up ahead.

Upon arriving at the mostly empty grocery store, I notice thunder in the distance, prompting thoughts on what we might deserve to face storms. There's a poster on the store window advertising cheaper eggs, and beneath it, a hiring sign catches my eye. Stepping through the automatic doors, I enter the fresh produce section, passing by vegetables and fruits until I reach the back of the store. Here, caution is essential, as management might involve the police if caught, especially with items stashed in my pockets.

Sneaking to the bread section, I grab the most affordable loaf, though still too pricey for my spare change. Checking for onlookers, I discreetly tuck it into my pant waistline, knowing it might get smushed, but food is food. My next move is a quick walk to the condiment aisle.

The shelving in the condiment aisle is well-organized, with ketchup, mustards, mayonnaise, and relish perfectly lined up. Someone did their job well. Continuing to the jams and butters section, I find a variety, including almond butter, peanut butter, raspberry jam, and strawberry jam. Opting for the crucial item, Jif peanut butter, I stash it in the inside pocket of my jacket, ensuring the coast is clear first. However, as I look up, I notice a wide-lens, fish-eye type camera above me. Panic begins to build inside me—a heated kind of panic urging me to leave.

With my items in hand, it's time to leave. I head towards the entrance, which is less guarded. Rushing past a couple shopping in the aisle and through the back of the store, I navigate through the bread and fresh produce sections. Upon reaching the exit, I find the door closed, realizing I need to wait until someone else enters the store. I stand there awkwardly, bathed in the stale light of the bright store. My cheeks flush with embarrassment as I catch an employee staring at me. She stands in the flower section, her hair in a bun, and her face adorned with makeup.

The motor of the front door starts, and the doors slide open as a young woman with tired eyes strolls in. Seizing the opportunity, I run out, leaving the store behind as the cold winds pick up. Time to head home.

As I enter my neighborhood I think of my mother. In a past chapter of my life, I believed in God, a time when thoughts about the afterlife didn't occupy my mind much. The current challenges make me question: if there is a God, why leave us to suffer? My mother's impending death adds a poignant layer, and I'm unsure if I'll see her again in any afterlife. The question of whether to believe in God remains uncertain. Margaret, on the other hand, affirms her belief, sharing it with me weekly.

As I pass Margaret's house, a desire to stop tugs at me, but I remember her family attends church today, and it's best not to disturb them. Arriving home, I spot my dad in the front yard, seemingly exhausted as he bends over to pick up leaves. His worn jacket and worse-for-wear boots catch my attention, sparking the thought that maybe I need to find a way to acquire a new pair of boots. Observing my father, I appreciate his determined attitude today, actively working to make things better as he promised.

"Hey Maxine, where did you go off to?" he inquires when he notices me walking up the driveway.

"The grocery store. I picked up some breakfast," I respond.

"Where did you get the money from?" he questions, bending over with a strained effort.

"My room," I lie.

"No, you didn't. You stole from there," he asserts, stating the truth.

"Well, we need food, Dad," I say as I walk past him and into the house. I can hear him cursing under his breath as he tends to the leaves.

I place the bread in the fridge, next to the rotting fruit. Opening the peanut butter, I indulge in the good stuff straight from the source. The taste triggers memories of mornings spent with Margaret, when her parents would leave us be. We'd watch sitcoms or cartoons while enjoying peanut butter and jam sandwiches. The good ole days.

Licking peanut butter from the old spoon, I savor the taste before placing it in the sink when I'm done. Surprisingly, the dirty dishes are gone; I suppose Dad took care of them.

My dogs are peacefully asleep in their designated corner. It strikes me how simple and unaware their lives are, untouched by the complexities of reality. How I envy them. I pet them, and their eyes widen with innocence as they awaken. Two Retrievers, we got them a year apart through Dad's acquaintance with a dog breeder named John, Seamus, or maybe Andrew. We named the dogs Felix and Patty. I had wanted to call her Mint Patty, but my dad preferred Patty on its own.

"Hey there, puppers. Time to go to the washroom?" I ask them, receiving the expected lack of reply since they're dogs. Playfully, I lift Patty's head up and down, saying, "Oh, I need to pee, Maxine!" in a comical voice.

"I already let them out," my dad startles me, sneaking in behind me. “I fed them too.”

"Oh, okay," I reply with a smile as I continue to pet Patty.

"We need to talk, Max," his voice takes on a stern tone, a departure from what I'm used to. I turn around, meeting his eyes. He looks upset, disappointed even. Whether it's directed at me or himself, I can't quite discern.

"What's wrong?" I ask, mirroring his stern expression. His demeanor doesn't lighten; instead, he becomes even more serious.

"I don't want you to steal anymore, Maxine. I mean, I never should have allowed you to do so in the first place," he says, sighing as he takes a seat on the couch across from our small television. We lack cable, only possessing a DVD player and VHS machine. “Maxine…”

“What Dad?”

“You’re better than this.” He says his eyes watering. He continues.

"I will be going away to rehab, and I cannot leave you alone," he says, fiddling with his thumbs. "So, you will be going to stay at your cousin's house. In the city, in Toronto."

"Toronto?" I want to scream at him. The city? I despise the city.

"Yes, Maxine. Your cousin Abraham, you know? The priest," my dad adds.

"Right, a priest," I reply, looking away.

“Your mother will be there as well.”

I look at him, I can see the awkwardness in his eyes. My mouth gapes a bit, I cannot believe what I hear. “Dad. I can’t do that. Margaret will be upset if I leave town.”

"I know, but I cannot leave you here alone. That's enough of this," he says with a tone of finality. Standing up, he leaves me to my inner thoughts. I gaze down at my dog and can't help but smile.

I sit alone in my room. It's barely noon, but I feel tired. My father informs me that I will be heading to Toronto tomorrow morning. Then, on Monday, he will enter rehab. The hospital is the best option we have.

I look over at the picture of Margaret and me, smiling as if tomorrow will be better than the day before. It's the kind of smile that gives someone hope. I pick up the plastic frame, examining the photograph before putting it into my going-away bag — an exercise bag colored red and black. There are already some clothes in there, but I'll finish packing tonight. I hate all of this. I don't want to see my mother. Period. And now that she's dying, it makes things harder to deal with. I know what Margaret will say: "Use this trip as a chance to make up with family."

I fall back onto my bed, looking over to the empty space where my photo was, and I already miss her. I can phone her while I'm away, but not seeing Margaret will make me blue.

I shut my eyes, readying my mind for what lies ahead. I think of Margaret, her lips. Her smile.

It’s just a kiss away…