Coming Home

For some reason I had decided to keep in contact with the girl from my high school who had been my nerd accomplice trying to create the remedy for becoming invisible. Since those day that we had managed to keep an A average and had planned to become script writing partners to score an Oscar while also being two of the thinnest people to manage to stay grounded in a wind storm and manage to be invisible most times except when it was really necessary, we had managed to grow enough to remember the need to sidestep for survival. Sinead and I had opposite views of returning to that place that haunted my dreams. She wanted to return to show them the exact reason she’d joined an after-school science program with the nearby university and I didn’t care for them to know that I’d become a graphic designer, complete with the artistic glasses and clothing from the cute unique shops in downtown Montreal.  I really didn’t want to return to that slow paced small town in Ontario to see what had happened to anyone who had ignored me or went out of their way to draw attention to the person who they referred to as Skeletor.

When I entered the gym, I realized the graphically basic invitation that said “Lou Ow” with the picture of Lou Diamond Phillips dressed hula attire was an ode to many girls’ high-school celebrity crush and a luau  so I now understood why I was getting a lei from what looked like the prom Queen the year we graduated. I averted my eyes and thanked her.  The playlist went from a mix of early ‘90’s tunes with a Hawaiian one plunked in it. Sinead, who had endured renditions of Nothing Compares all through our time in that place, was ecstatic to worm her way through the entrance and see who she could find. Somehow, they’d managed to get a liquor license in a school and instead of having a flask to embolden the mixers they had a bar tender. It all still looked cheap and like a school with some economical décor, but the vodka and cran took the edge off.

“Hey. I remember you. You were that girl who did that painting that the school paid like waaay too much for and hung in the library,” he said with his uncanny ability to not remember his classmates.

“That was Sheryl Richards. We both went to OCAD, but unfortunately she died two years ago in an accident right near your Dad’s dealership.”

“Oh, too bad. Definitely too bad.” He took a long slug of his drink and tried to find a way to escape. I recognized him immediately because he had the same look when any teacher asked him to give an answer that was more academic than his self centered personal opinion that was meant to appear intelligent but bordered on craving acceptance.

“Brandon Landers. What are you up to?”

“How’d you know me? Well I must have left an impression on you in high school for you to remember me.” I probably added a little glare at the end of my eyeroll. He took a sharp breath and continued, “I took over my Dad’s car dealership and have stepped it up. I own a property over on Wellington, it’s bigger than the one that I started out with, the market……..”

I glazed over and didn’t realize that after what seemed like half and hour that he’d asked me a question.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I really don’t remember you, are you married to someone who went here.”

“I’m Layla Anders.”

“Skeletor?”

“You got it.”

“Life’s treated you well, you’ve got that artistic thing going on, that’s why I thought you were Shirley.”

“Sheryl.”

“Yeah, well I see no ring, we should grab a drink or dinner sometime.”

“I don’t think so, I’m heading back to Montreal soon, back to my apartment that I share with my partner.”

“Oh. I get it.”

I could see where his pea-brain was going, “my partner’s name is Patrick. He does media for the Canadiens. He’s got that chromosome.”

“I don’t know about that. It is the Habs.”

“It is. Well, take care. I see Shannon. I’ve got to say hi.”

I had had a very peripheral relationship with Shannon. When we were in middle school, I’d been wise cracking enough to make her think I was cool, but quiet enough for the teacher to not know that I was cracking jokes. She had been cool in a badass way and smart as a whip but had chosen to hide it in her anger that surfaced once we entered high school.

“Shannon, hey. How are you?”

She stared at me until something hit her, and she realized who was talking to her.

“Layla. Hey!” She hugged me.

“How are you? Still in Montreal?”

“Yeah, I’m still doing graphic design and have my paintings in a small gallery.”

“Cool. I have the one I bought from that show in T.O.”

“Thanks.”

“Have to support my peeps.”

“What’s new with you?”

“Divorce. Single Mom. I’m going a little nuts with that, but my sanity is at work. I have a great department, but there’s always that nervousness in insurance when they restructure. So, I’m doing my best to learn everything and stay on top of it all. I’m enjoying getting out because I hate the inside of the hockey rink. Other Mom’s pretend they like it, but it’s only something I say within earshot of my son. Do you have kids?”

“Um, no, just a dog. I guess kids weren’t in the cards for me, but you’re making me feel a little better about it.” I said laughing. I didn’t want to get into the amount that I’d tried and the money that I’d put into IVF. It really wasn’t a reunion topic.

“No, kids are great,” she said with a voice that rose to a Mariah Carey key.

At this time Sinead popped into the conversation. Sinead, of course, had found the buffet table and it looked like she’d stolen a platter or at least took one of everything to try. She pretended that some of it was for me, but she could eat as much as those people in eating competitions and still keep her tiny frame.

“Hello, Dr. O’Reilly.”  

“Have you changed your professional name to your married name or kept your maiden name?” I asked.

“Shut up.” She said with a spring roll in her mouth.

Shannon looked puzzled.

“I use my maiden name still. You know that.” She glared at me.

“I’d be Dr. Brain if I used Jarrod’s name.”

We all cracked up.

“You should just use it. It would be like some sort of Patch Adams type laughter therapy for patients,” Shannon said.

“I’ll keep O’Reilly.”

“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days,” we heard to our left. We turned to see that familiar face who had tortured everyone equally for those five years we were there. Shannon being part of his group wasn’t immune to the chiding of Nick Dillon.

We all had the same disgusted look on our faces as we turned and edged our way away from the still vertically challenge douchebag that had haunted my dreams even in university because he popped up at the golf course I’d worked at each summer I came home.

“Hey ladies, c’mon. We’re all adults and have matured since those puberty driven days.”

“Only you were full of hormones,” Shannon replied sharply.

“Well,” he started but switched his tune when he saw her face, “I’ve changed. I know I was horribly rude during those year and none of you escaped the ass that I was, so I apologize.”

All of us stood staring from one to the other. None of us knew what to say even though it was refreshing to see someone acknowledge their poor behaviour.

“Thanks Nick. It’s good that you can address that,” I said as I accepted his words.

He looked like I’d given him a treat for good behaviour. “I’m glad you accept my apology because I know that I probably should just take that mic and do it, but it’s better to do it to the people who really deserve it.”

“Well, it’s good to hear.”

“I won’t make this more awkward than it needs to be and get back to my wife over there. It’s sort of date night since we normally are home with our four kids.”

We watched him walk back to a woman who was about a head taller and had a few pounds on her husband who still had his athletic frame.

“That felt like some sort of group retreat if I say so myself,” Shannon assessed. “I think his wifey might actually be the person behind his amendments. She’s kind of pushing him towards Dallas, remember how Nick tortured Dallas?”

I remembered shy Dallas Allen and watched as his familiar shade of red returned as Nick and he made up for all the transgressions from years gone by. Shannon was right; Nick had turned this into some sort of AA experience of amendments or a Leadership convention that allowed everyone to address their problems.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Sinead prodded.

“I’m here more as a plus one. It’s not the worst thing in the world. It’s more of a test of survival.”

“You’re like a grumpy old man who won’t admit the obvious.”

“Just call me Walter.”

“Alright, Walter. I need another drink.”

We went off to the bar and took in the lights reflecting off the walls and tiki décor and enjoyed another platter of food together and the happiest part of the night was leaving that repressive building and heading back to my parent’s place to relive the sleepover one more time.