Sibiling Revelry

I gaze over at my mom as she lies with her eyes closed, relaxing in the summer’s heat. Her Danielle Steele novel, sits next to her, untouched. The feathery boughs of the large cedar trees, that surround our back yard, gently bounce, as a sea breeze is carried through the tall old growths. The ocean is so close you could smell the salt air and hear the fog horn but too far to hear the crashing of the waves against the rocky shoreline. My mom whispers “ah, that feels nice” as she exhales deeply, I can see beads of sweat pooling on her chest as she is enjoys a well deserved day off and I think to myself, I wish we could stay here forever, just me and her.

Summers in our quiet fishing village were usually spent engulfed in some level of fog. Especially in August, or Fogust as locals like to say, until the late afternoons when then it would lift, and the curtain of sadness, as I would see it, would be gone and a whole new vibrant reality was in front of us once again. We managed to elude the fog today and since wearing sunscreen was almost always an after thought, we both managed to get some colour today. Mom would say a shade or two darker. Of course, we had the pink and blue bottle with the girl and the dog on the front, stored somewhere in the house, with an SPF and expiration of who knows what and honestly, we didn’t care. Every year, it would get taken out from under one of the bathroom sinks in the house, and packed around throughout the summer but never replaced, because no one was actually wearing enough of it to make it through the whole bottle. Promotion of overall health and wellness hasn’t quite caught on. Mom’s collection of Woman’s World and recipe magazines are littered with ads, depicting fashionable, “pretty” women, with manicured hands, holding slim cigarettes. The tag lines that read “Every inch a lady”. We rarely have sweltering summers and live a majority of the rest of the seasons in rain and more rain. So, when the sun did manage to break through the dense green topography and, lets not forget fog, we rarely were prepared enough to remember to bring it or even put it on and if we were, it 100% didn’t get applied correctly. It would usually get slathered on haphazardly, after we had already been out in the sun long enough to burn, therefore defeating any purpose of sun protection. 

“Je suis si chaud”, my mom exclaims as she sits up. Whenever my mom gets too hot, she appears flustered and looks as though she needs to leave whatever setting she is in, immediately, almost like she suddenly realizes she is claustrophobic and panic sets in. She has the straps of her body suit pulled off her shoulder to prevent tan lines, and as she is stands up and pulls them over her shoulders, I notice the hairs around the base of her neck are dripping with sweat and the parts of her body suit that were light grey, had turned darker from the moisture. I ask if she's had enough of the heat and she says “yes, c’est chaud” as she heads inside. I love how both she and my dad weave in out of conversations using both English and French. I listen intently to the different inflictions and tones, as the sounds seemingly dance out of their mouths creating words that sound familiar but not enough so for me to confidently say it out loud. Although, my parents are fluent, they’ve yet to teach us to speak en Francais. And even though they never may have purposefully taught us, I can still understand what they are talking about. Much to my parents chagrin, as I began to decipher arguments and disagreements; private exchanges in en Francis, were getting harder and harder for them to try and pass by us…or me at least. To my parents dismay, I picked up on more phrases and some of my first French words were of course, curse words. Argent, tabarnak and calisse were my dad’s faves and therefore mine as well.

Mom came back out to the deck and hands me a glass of water and a bottle of sunscreen. Has she forgot that we’ve already been outside in the sun for over an hour, I think to myself? I toss the sunscreen aside and guzzle the water. “Thanks mama”, I breathlessly mutter as I finish the last of the water. She heads back inside to shower and before she closes the back door she says “Remember, Betty will be her in an hour”.

The door bell rang, and I could hear Betty chime “Avon calling” through the door, in her usual, rehearsed tone. My mom welcomed her inside and we head into the dining room. My mom of course has tea and decaf Sanka ready to offer. Betty sat down and began unpacking her tote full of samples and extra catalogue copies. My favourites are the mini lipstick samples and any swatch of perfume I can rub onto my skin from the catalogue. I sit down to the right of her, and began to take her in, starting with her layers of make-up…like some kind of trifle, I think to myself, and wonder what she really looks like underneath it all. Her signature scent was pungent and stung my nose as it seemed to steam roll throughout our home upon her arrival, overpowering the familiar, soft vanilla scent, that normally hugged all the corners throughout our home. 

If she “called” on us on a Sunday, she would be usually be wearing some sort of matching skirt suit, with a thick pantyhose and what I could only describe as ice-cream box old lay dress shoes. She had once announced upon her arrival “not to mind her appearance as she was just coming from bible study at Kingdom Hall”. Any other days she would be wearing my personal fave, which was some version of a matching glam track suit that made that distinct, swish swish, sound with her every movement. As for her hair, it was big and permed gaining her a few inches in height, but the colour changed monthly from dark purple to a deep red and anything in-between. Her ensemble was always topped off with whatever gaudy, mis-matched jewelry she claimed was “super popular at the moment” with the other Avon clients. Her appearance stood out to me, and seemed a lot for every day living in our small to do town, where Birkenstock’s, Blundstone’s and rain-boots were the fashion norm. 

As she would begin her spiel, I was locked and loaded. Taking it all in, the hair, make-up, outfit, spiels and deals; it was a full on activity for this small-town girl. Once she slid this months catalogue over to my mom, I knew she was about to start highlighting all of the things we didn’t have but she claimed we needed. She would lick the tip of her brightly manicured ring finger, before she would flip each page. The combination of the bright nail polish and hand to mouth fixation, drew me in and made me want everything that she circled with her little push top pen. As she glossed over each months specials and all her apparent new “client favourites”, I sat watching in awe as Betty made her sales pitch and mom, and me, fell hook, line and sinker. It was a glimpse into the world outside of our small town. “Fancy” sought after products that our local Co-op or drugstore would definitely not carry. 

She would take extra time going over the kids section. Showing me the latest colour changing green lipstick or Lip-Smackers flavour and pretend to be super interested when she asked which was my favourite. When my mom would get up to get her wallet, signal that Ms. Betty had made a sale, Betty would whisper to me about whatever the latest thing the girl down the street just picked out, in an attempt to persuade me toward the more pricey items. I wasn’t falling for it Betty. My mom returned to the table just as Betty finished showing me the $$$ gold heart locket and then quickly flipped the page to the small section for undergarments. Betty’s glossy nailed finger swiped down the page in an S like shape…until she stopped on the training bra section. “What grade will you be going into in September?”, Betty coyly asks me. Uh oh. I knew where this was going. My face started to feel flush and my palms were sweaty. It was almost, the same feeling as basking in the sunshine with my mom earlier this morning, except now, minus ANY and all happy feelings. Clearly, my face was a visual cue, that I absofuckinglutley did not want to talk about the bra, okay Betty?! Let's move on, abort whatever mission/sale she is trying to make. I haven’t even talked to my mom about bras yet and this scenario was more than my pre-teen brain could handle.

Inside and outside I’m panicking and feel sweat dripping down my back. Thankfully, mom was well versed in my awkwardness, and right before what felt like my heart was about to beat straight out of my god damn chest, she made a quick change of subject, asking Betty what she thought of the bright shade of lipstick she had just tried on, and whether it worked with her skin tone. Crisis, or in reality, very uncomfortable social interaction…averted. Breathe, I repeat to myself, as I try to take shallow inhales and exhales…my chest rises and falls quickly and I feel like I could pass out. I slip out of my chair (literally, slithered down the wooden dining chair I had been sitting on, and went under the table and army crawled my way out and over to the kitchen). I quietly tip toe my way down the hall towards the bathroom and try to calm my RED face. It was the biggest visual cue that ding, ding, ding, I’m literally crawling out of my skin UNCOMFORTABLE, there was no faking it, I couldn’t even pretend to be confident because my face signalled that I was a fake. Why did I have to be so shy? A word I hated but something I’ve grown accustomed to being referred to as. It happened more often than I cared to admit and I had yet to find a solution further than…running away/avoiding and today’s winner: contemplation of jumping out of the bathroom window. 

I closed the lid on the toilet and stood up on top to open the window and leaned my my face up against the screen, just as the sea breeze danced through the cedar again. My mouth grazes the window screen and I could taste the sea salt being carried in by the ocean breeze. A moment of calm. I take in a deep breath and as I exhale, I see a bald eagle swoop down from the darkening sky as dusk approaches. It weaves it’s way through the cedar tree tops, and glides towards the disappearing sunset that’s melting into the too far away to see ocean. 

I slam the window shut, thinking I heard the front door close. I make a thud as I jump down off of the toilet onto the dusty rose coloured carpet, that covered the bathroom and living room floors. I opened the bathroom door and walk down the hall to peek around the corner, just in time to see Betty drive away. Mom walked out from the dining room toward me, with her, “Mon petit toutoune", she coos, as her comforting vanilla aroma encloses around me, and her soft voice begins to bring that uncomfortable, heightened feeling in my chest, back down to a low hum. Without pressing me further on what brought on the tears, she softly asks, if I can go get my brother for dinner, who was down the hill at the playground. I mumble “sure Mama” and head toward the front door; wiping away the last of the tears, for now. 

Our house sat nestled on a hilled cul-de-sac, with towering old growth giants and Salal brush blanketing any space, not taken up by other homes. 1970 Cynamocka Road, the last house on the left, adorned with colourful hanging flower baskets, my dad built for my mom, on the overhang of the wide wrap around porch. The playground was just past the 3 rows of the Whispering Pines trailer park, that sat pocketed to the right, at the base of the hill. Years earlier, we had called row 3 home, living in a renovated a 1956 Western Flyer coach bus my dad had reconstructed into cozy home for the four of us.

I swing the front door shut behind me and make my way over to my bike, that I had leaned against the front porch wall. It was the typical white and pink “girls” bike, in that it was adorned with pink accents, hearts and a sparkly rainbow seat. I loved the feeling of, rubber handle bars when I dug my nails into the groves of the rubber almost as much as I liked the sound of the rainbow coloured bicycle beads on the spokes, as the wheels went around and around. I grabbed the handles and started to maneuver the bike down the wide set, of 5 or 6, steps that descend from the front porch. I push my bike across the gravel pathway that leads to the front gate and out to the road. I push my foot back, on the pedal to brake the bike, as I catch my balance, I push off the ground and start pedalling slowly and then quickly begin to pick up as much momentum as I can as I coast down the big hill, towards the trailer park. I’m going to see if I can make it all the way around to the first row without pedalling my bike at all. So far my brother is the only one in the neighbourhood, to be able to do it or so he claims. I start turning my handle bars towards the right as I approach the entrance to the third row, my wheels are turning so fast that I can’t even hear the beads on my bike spokes anymore. When I hit the first speed bump, my wheels begin to weave and wobble and I almost lose control but manage to straighten out in time for the second speed bump but by the time I hit the third, I’ve slowed down too much to make it up the small slope to the top of the first row. I give in, and start to pedal, eventually having to stand up…it feels like I’m trying to push my wheels through molasses, as I fight my way up, and finally crest the top. No need to mention this ride to my brother. In the distance, just past the last few trailers, I can see the weathered, metal playground.

As I approach, I can see my brother, a few unfamiliar kids, and Ryan-Paul, a kid we knew from the trailer park. I lean my bike against the chainlink fence that encloses the playground walk in. First, I notice Ryan holding one of his pet rats. It’s black and white sleek fur shines in the summer sun, and for a split second I almost think it could be cute but then see the tail curled around his arm. The hair on the back of my neck and arms stand up. I keep my distance and make a B-line towards the swings. I’ll stick with dogs, I think to myself as I pass the rusty, perforated steel merry-go-round, my least favourite at the play-ground. It’s surface is covered in various patches of rust faded paint colours. The various handles to “hold onto” and lean against, don’t fool me.

My brother is crouched down, over a smallish cardboard box, next to the merry-go-round, I’m assuming looking at another rat or I could only suspect, some other equally phobia inducing animal/rodent. I quickly scurry past him, heading toward the swings. I reach out and grab the hot metal chains with my sweaty hands and I can smell the metallic-y scent I hate so much, that reminds me of my moms geraniums. I hold on to both chains and push off of my right foot, hopping onto the hot, black rubber seat. The heat from the summer sun turned the metal and rubber “play” structures into a roulette of injuries. 

I steady my feet on the dirt patch beneath me, with my back to the merry-go-round, I begin push off and pump my legs and as I call out to my brother “it’s dinner time and mom wants us hom…” Before I could even finish my sentence, my shirt collar is being yanked at, and something is shoved down my back. I immediately begin to scream, as claws dig into my back and get caught in my hair. I try to get up off the swing but get twisted in my panic and one foot is caught on the swing, as I fall face first to the dirt. I hear laughter, mixed with my name being yelled, and I scream for my brother. “YOU’RE FINE!” My brother bellows over me, as I try to get to my feet. “It was just Susan…why are you such a baby?!” The words of an older brother, revelling in the victory of petrifying his little sister with Susan, the trailer park pet rat.