My Kind of Woman

12. The Noise

I lay in bed most mornings then, thinking of Mio. Or leaning out of my window in the early hours, doing the same. Mostly I was thinking of ways to fix what I'd undone. I kept cursing and cringing at the idea that I had made her feel uncomfortable with my words - I ended up wishing that I'd never said anything at all. In fact, I felt so embarrassed about the days following that Jackie came to my house instead. Which even my father was surprised about, it being the first time he met the elusive Jackie Reed that I'd mentioned almost daily over the span of a nearing year.

I realised while she was standing in my hallway, slipping off her shoes and shrugging out of her coat, that she looked royally out of place in our thin, rented country house. And I looked scruff standing beside her. I'd only rushed downstairs to answer the door to her in sweat pants and a stretched white top, my hair unbrushed and appearing like I'd been dragged through brambles. She, on the other hand, had her hair straightened to silky perfection and was draped in a dark, fitting coat with a fur collar. Our difference had never been more obvious.

Like her house, mine also had photographs and framed pictures scattered along the walls and on table sides. Except a lot of the pictures hung up were old pictures my mother had painted when I was much younger, and my dad was much happier. I hated them. They weren't really any good - thin strokes of brown for treescapes and green stubble for rockpool and grass. They were of Twin, our town, but I'd never hated looking at the town more, than when I was looking at those paintings. I couldn't wait for the divorce to be finalised. They always reminded me of a certain memory that I'd always hated thinking of.

One where I'm in early middle school. My hair is long, it touches my lower back, and I tell everyone that. The crown of my head is slightly tinged blonde with the summer sun and one of my front teeth is missing from where I went head-first over my handlebars on a Sunday morning. I come through the front door. Someone is crying. It's my mom. She's curled on the kitchen floor, covered in mixtures of paint, hands stained. My dad is crying too. He's kneeling by her, eyes red. He tells me to go to my room. After that, she left home for four months before coming back. They never told me exactly what happened but I could put two and two together, one being her addiction and the other being the state of her mental health.

Later that evening, Jackie and I were sat out on the porch, drinking hot chocolate under the eaves. I'd been thinking about Mio all evening. I think it had made me seem absent. I was staring off down the dirt path out onto the road, where a single streetlamp glowed. It was cold, nearing freezing temperatures, but we were wrapped up in parkas and woollen blankets over our knees. A shaft of moonlight through the wood panelled cover lit out faces in the night; our breath came from our lips in white puffs of cloud.

"What's up with you?" Jackie asked.

"I think I might be evil."

She said nothing.

"Kidding. Of course." I said. "There's nothing up with me."

"You sure? I'm sure I can give you some expert advice." She pressed, sipping from her 'I ❤ Canada!' mug that I'd purchased two years prior in Toronto. That trip was an 'I'm-sorry' from my dad after blowing my savings on my mother after I'd told him not to. It was a lousy trip that didn't half make up for what he'd done - but I pretended it had made it all better.

Maybe Jackie could give me some sound advice. Of course, not in the explicit way I'd wanted, but I could twist my words to make them sound as close as possible to my situation. I opened my mouth, closed it to reconsider and then spoke.

"I think I made a mistake when talking to someone and made them feel uncomfortable." I said. "Now, I'm not sure how to make it better."

"Who?" Jackie asked, and I could see out the corner of my eye how interested she suddenly was. We didn't always talk about feelings with one another, not because there was a lack of trust - more because I was stubborn with how I felt and she was a happy person.