Girl on the Other Side Read online

  Gross, Frog-face has crap on her hands!

  I take a deep breath and open my eyes. The smell of the apple shampoo is almost fresh enough to wake me up … almost.

  “Sorry, Chels,” I say, forcing my fingers to slow down.

  She frowns at me to let me know that I’m not quite forgiven. A moment later, however, the frown is replaced by a wide-eyed stare.

  “Lowa, why’s the watew diwty?”

  I look down and see a murky brown cloud spreading slowly through the bath.

  Oh my God!! Cody pooped in the tub!

  “Everybody out!” I yell, grabbing the girls under their arms and pulling their slick bodies out onto the bath mat. I grab Cody last and plunk him right onto his potty, maybe a bit too roughly because he starts to cry.

  Chelsea and Allie stand dripping and shivering on the bathmat while I drain the sewage out of the tub. Cody is still crying. Sure enough, Chelsea joins in too.

  “It’s okay guys … it’s okay,” I say, trying to make myself heard over the wailing while I rummage under the sink for the Lysol. I know I’m not convincing because they keep crying. I want to cry, too, but that would just make this worse. Allie tries to help by singing a wobbly version of “Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” but for some reason it just makes them cry louder. Out of the corner of my eye, I see our pet rabbit Peter hop by the door to investigate all the noise. But he quickly hops away when he sees the pandemonium in the bathroom. Smart bunny!

  “Lora?” a weak voice floats into the bathroom from down the hall. “Whaz going on?”

  It’s Mommy — the crying must have woken her up. And she’s slurring her words again. That’s never a good sign.

  “Errything all right in there, Lora?”

  My eyes take in the scene in front of me … the sobbing kids, the dirty bathtub, the puddles on the floor.

  No, I want to scream. No, nothing’s all right! Nobody understands what I’m going through. I need someone to come and take care of me!

  As much as I want to let those words out, I clench my jaw and hold them in. If Mommy heard that, she would drag herself out of bed and come to check on us — something I know she isn’t strong enough for.

  No, it’s just easier to try and handle it all on my own.

  I take a deep breath and wipe at the tears that are welling in my eyes. I remember when my mother was so vivacious and full of life. And now it’s like that person is gone forever. I take another deep breath and shout out a big lie.

  “Yes, Mommy. Everything’s fine!”

  I wait for an answer and am relieved when none comes.

  She’s gone back to sleep. Finding energy I didn’t think I had, I quickly clean the tub, refill it with fresh water, and stick them all back in. The warm water works its magic and calms the little ones right down. The splashing and giggling begins again. I glance over at my watch and sigh wearily.

  9:34.

  Dear God — it’s going to be another late night.

  April 11

  tabby

  To celebrate my fifteenth birthday, David and Catherine make a reservation at their favourite Italian restaurant, La Scalinata, which, of course, is the fanciest one in town. My parents live by the motto: if it’s not expensive, it’s not worth it. If they had asked me, I would have chosen something more casual. But, naturally, nobody asked me. Not that I really care. I’m just excited for my present. I’ve been looking forward to this birthday for a long time.

  This is the year I’m supposed to inherit Grandma’s pearl bracelet — the one Grandpa had given to her on their wedding day in the place of a ring. They were living in Poland then, and it was the same bracelet his own grandmother had left it to him when she’d died and it was really, really old. The bracelet had meant so much to my grandma. The only times I ever saw her take it off was when she was letting me try it on. I remember loving the way the cream-coloured pearls slid like marbles up and down my small wrist and how, when I stood by the window, the tiny diamonds on the clasp would catch the sun and reflect little pinpricks of light off the walls.

  Every time I tried the bracelet on, Grandma would tell me a story about Grandpa. How they got married when they were both just eighteen and after only knowing each other a month. How Grandma was so shy the first year of their marriage that Grandpa used to make up love songs on their piano to win her over. How, after that first year of marriage, the Nazis invaded Poland and they were forced to go into hiding in a neighbour’s cellar, where they lived for five years. Grandma’s voice always lowered to a whisper when she talked about that time in her life. Like a part of her still worried she’d be discovered if she made too much noise.

  Down in that awful cellar, Grandpa had sung the love songs to her in soft whispers so he wouldn’t be overheard. She told me that during those long, dark years, that bracelet and Grandpa’s songs were her only reminders of the beauty and light that still existed in the world. Those two things gave her the hope she needed to keep going every day until the war was over.

  Grandma always cried happy tears when she talked about Grandpa. I wish I’d had the chance to know him, but he died long before I was born. She left me the bracelet in her will and Catherine had promised I could have it when I turned fifteen. Today is the day. Even though it’s a cold night, I make sure to wear short sleeves so I can show it off. I can’t wait to see it again. I’ve made myself a promise to wear it every day … just like Grandma used to when she was alive. Back then, Catherine used to drop me off at her house to get rid of me on weekends when Nanny wasn’t working. Grandma always tried her best to make me forget that I was being dumped there. We used to cuddle in her bed with a bowl of popcorn and watch movies for hours. And she always stocked her house with cookies and candy and let me eat as much as I wanted. And she would brush my hair until it shone and braid it just like she wore it when she was little and tell me stories from the “olden days.” I miss her so much. She was the only family member I ever had who really, truly loved me. I can’t wait to see her bracelet again. It’ll be like getting a little piece of my grandma back.

  We all arrive at the restaurant separately. Although David offered to pick me up on his way from the office, I refused and took a cab instead. I hate riding in his Bentley. It’s so pretentious. Of course, he has to drive the most expensive car anyone in this town has ever seen. It’s embarrassing how much he likes to shove his wealth down other people’s throats.

  Catherine is late, as usual. That means that David and I have to actually talk to each other. Not an easy thing to do, considering the fact that we have nothing in common. My father’s a strung-out workaholic. He’s spent virtually every waking minute of the last fifteen years building up his business into the most successful law practice in town. Sometimes entire weeks go by when I don’t see him. I didn’t realize he actually lived in the same house as me until I was six years old.

  I stare across the table into the green eyes that are so exactly like mine. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and glances away. A second later, he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He clears his throat, checks his Rolex, and adjusts his tie. I should probably say something and help him out. But I don’t. Watching him struggle is sort of fun, in a mean, sadistic kind of way — like torturing a spider by pulling off its legs.

  After a minute he opens his mouth again. This time, he comes up with this gem:

  “Um … so how’s school going this year?”

  I sigh and roll my eyes.

  “Like you really care?”

  He frowns.

  “Believe it or not, I do, Tabitha. Look, I know I haven’t been around very much lately….”

  I pick up my menu and pretend to start reading.

  “Yeah, right …”

  There’s a long silence. I glance up and see that his face has turned a bright shade of red and his eyes are bulging with anger.

  “Please don’t speak to me that way,” he whispers, glancing around to make sure nobody is listening. “I’m still your father and I
deserve some respect.”

  I snort and raise my menu up to my face, blocking him out of my view. Suddenly, a rhythmic clicking breaks through the white noise of the restaurant. I don’t even have to turn around to know it’s Catherine. The sound of her shoes on the tiled floor is a dead giveaway. She always wears the highest heels she can squeeze her feet into. And I mean always. Even if she’s just heading out to the bank or to the mailbox.

  I turn around just in time to see her click up to our table and glide into her seat.

  “Happy birthday, darling!” she says, leaning over and kissing the air beside my cheek. Then, reaching into her Louis Vuitton purse, she pulls out a white envelope and hands it to me. I take it and carefully feel around inside the envelope for the bracelet. It only takes a couple of seconds to figure out it isn’t there.

  “What’s this?” I ask with a frown.

  Catherine laughs. “It’s a cheque, you silly girl! I didn’t have time to go to the store. But I thought you’d like this better, anyway. Now you can choose anything you want.”

  I shake my head. “But … no … what about the bracelet?”

  Now it’s Catherine’s turn to look confused.

  “Bracelet?”

  “The pearl one … Grandma’s. You know, you promised I could have it when I turned fifteen.”

  Catherine tilts her head back and laughs. “Darling! I’m sure I never made a promise like that. That bracelet is an antique. It’s far too valuable to hand over to a child.”

  “But, she left it to me in her will. She wanted me to have it.”

  “It’s in our safety deposit box for now. You’ll get it when you’re ready. Maybe when you’re twenty.”

  My chest suddenly starts to hurt. It feels like someone is vacuuming out my insides. Pushing away the pain, I rip the flap of the envelope open and look inside. Catherine isn’t joking — it is just a cheque. Not even a card. I stare down at the numbers until they turn blurry and I can feel the sting of tears behind my eyes. I bite my lip hard and will them not to fall. No way am I going to let her see me cry!

  Shoving the envelope into my coat pocket, I stare down at my shoes while I wait for the tears to evaporate. I can see the outline of my butterfly ankle tattoo through the thin material of my stocking. I got that tattoo last year. Brandi, Dylan, and I snuck off to an ink parlour in downtown Toronto. I didn’t ask my parents because I was sure they’d be upset. Tattooing is against our religion. Technically our family is Jewish — even though we don’t really practise much. We almost never go to synagogue and my parents didn’t seem to care when I dropped out of Hebrew school and decided against a Bat Mitzvah. But still, I was pretty scared of what they would say about the tattoo. It was a total sin in the Jewish religion — something about defacing the body. I was also nervous about catching a horrible disease from the needle since the only place to accept my fake ID wasn’t exactly the cleanest tattoo parlour in the city. In fact, the nervousness was worse than the pain of the needle. I snuck home that day feeling like a total criminal.

  But that was last winter. Catherine and David still haven’t noticed.

  Jerks!

  When the waiter comes, I quickly scan the menu for the highest-fat food I can find. Damn my mother and her stupid rules! Tonight, I just want to piss her off. I don’t even care if I get fat. In fact, maybe that would be a great way to hit her where it hurts the most. I can’t imagine anything worse for her than having a fat daughter.

  “I’ll have the fettucine alfredo, please,” I say, staring right at Catherine as I order. “And, could you ask the kitchen to make that with extra sauce? Thanks.”

  Catherine frowns. That is, she tries to frown. She’s had so much Botox injected into her face that it’s hard for her to muster up much expression anymore. Talk about “defacing” your body! She thinks nobody knows she’s had work done. I’ve even heard her bragging to friends about her “natural” beauty. But I know better. I’ve seen her hurrying home to rest after her various peels and injections and treatments. If she’s a natural beauty, then I’m Marilyn Monroe.

  “And you, madam?” asks the waiter, pencil hovering above his pad.

  “Green salad, dressing on the side. And the grilled salmon — no potato, just extra vegetables.” Her words are clipped and stern. She’s royally pissed.

  The waiter scribbles the order onto his pad, then turns toward David.

  “And you, sir?”

  “Veal Marsala with baked potato,” he orders, handing back his menu.

  Catherine’s shooting me a bitchy glare from across the table. I shoot it right back at her. The waiter turns to leave.

  “Sorry … just one more thing …” I say, holding up a hand to stop him. “Um, I noticed you have a chocolate cheesecake on your list of specials. I’ll have that for dessert.”

  “Certainly,” he nods and scribbles some more.

  “Á la mode.”

  Catherine gasps. The waiter spins around and scurries back to the kitchen.

  Once he’s gone, David clears his throat and pulls at his tie. Over the top of his collar, the veins on his neck are bulging through his skin like long, blue ropes.

  “Ahem … well, Tabitha, as I was saying before … I know we haven’t been around much lately. Unfortunately, it’s not going to change any time soon. There’s been a lot going on at the office. Some people have been asking to see some of our old files and your mother has been helping me try to sort it all out. And I’m afraid this could go on for a while yet … just so you know.”

  I shrug. “So somebody wants to see your files. Why is that a big deal?”

  David and Catherine exchange glances.

  “It’s absolutely not a big deal,” he replies, shaking his head. “It’s just going to take some time to get everything straightened out.”

  I watch in amazement as the veins in his neck bulge bigger and bluer until I honestly think his head is going to explode right then and there. Something’s wrong. I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up — like a window has opened and a cool breeze has blown over my head.

  “You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?” I ask, suddenly serious.

  Catherine leans forward and points a perfectly manicured finger at me. “Of course your father’s not in trouble,” she hisses. “And we’re both working our butts off to make sure it stays that way.”

  “For God’s sake, Catherine!” David growls, pounding his fist down on the table.

  “I don’t get it,” I say, shaking my head. “What’s going on with you guys?”

  “It’s nothing for you to be worried about,” David replies. “Your mother, as usual, doesn’t know what she’s talking about. But I do expect you to keep this quiet. This is a private family matter. Don’t go talking to your little friends about it.”

  Now he’s pointing his finger at me, too. God, these two really deserve each other.

  “And don’t talk to Beth about it, either,” Catherine adds, reaching for her water glass. “That girl’s got a big mouth!” She takes a long sip; the ice cubes clink against the crystal glass like little jingle bells. “I mean, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come home and found her on the phone, gossiping with her friends,” she continues. “Honestly, you’d think we were paying her to talk all day.”

  I bristle at the mention of Nanny.

  “She’s not gossiping with friends …” I shoot back. “She’s on the phone with her family in the Philippines. It’s hard for her to be so far away … she misses them.”

  “I don’t care if she’s on the phone with the Queen of England. All I know is that if she spent as much time doing her job as she does talking on the phone, maybe our house wouldn’t be falling apart.”

  David runs a hand through his thinning hair and sighs.

  “Ladies, please. Can we get back on topic?”

  We both ignore him.

  “Falling apart?” I reply. “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s a dripping fauc
et in your bathroom. Apparently this has been going on for weeks and nobody bothered to tell me about it. I only discovered it when I went looking in your bathroom for my hair dryer.”

  “That’s my fault, not Nanny’s.”

  “No, darling … she’s the employee, not you.”

  Our meals arrive before I have the chance to reply. God, these two are so selfish! And immature! How can I be related to them? I pick up my fork and twirl my fettuccini around and around until it rolls up into a big, creamy ball. Then I look right at Catherine and shove it into my mouth.

  “Mmmmmm …” I purr, lapping the gooey sauce off my lips. I’m trying my best to pretend that I’m enjoying the pasta, but really it’s pretty vile. I haven’t eaten anything this fatty in years, and desperately want to hurl it up into my napkin. But that would just make my mother happy. So I keep eating.

  Unimpressed, Catherine turns away and ignores me. I hear David’s BlackBerry buzz under the table. Pushing his chair back, he pulls it out and starts scrolling through a message. Of course, Catherine takes the opportunity to pull out her BlackBerry and begin typing an email. Suddenly, I feel very alone. That’s when the white noise of the restaurant separates and for a moment I can hear every other conversation around me very clearly. Like one of those freaky optical-illusion puzzles that seem jumbled up, but when you look carefully enough you can see the picture hidden in the chaos of swirling colours.

  The blonde lady with the glasses at the table beside ours is talking about her day.

  The grey-haired fat man at the table behind ours is gushing about some hockey team.

  The middle-aged mother in the red turtleneck at the table across from us is laughing and telling a story about one of her kids.

  I look around me and see plush chairs, twinkling chandeliers, smooth linen tablecloths, beautiful couples, and nice families. Everything and everyone around us is so civilized and normal … and we’re so pathetic and fake. I look down at the creamy white noodles in front of me and feel sick.