The last part, set to “Our House,” by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, was about their growing family. It showed Mom nursing me, Dad giving me a bottle, my first steps. School concerts, the three of us skating at Robson Square.
But the bulk of the last segment was about Maxine. At the playground, opening presents on Christmas morning, playing at the beach.
When it was over we were all crying, even my dad.
“That was beautiful, Petula,” Mom said.
“I wanted to show you that you’ve had a really good life together,” I said.
They glanced at each other.
“What?”
“We were waiting for a good time to tell you,” Dad said.
The dread I’d been feeling since they first walked through the door grew to soccer-ball size in my stomach.
“Your mom and I decided a while back to have a trial separation,” Dad said.
“Trial,” Mom added. “Nothing set in stone.”
“That’s right. This isn’t a divorce. It’s a break.”
I didn’t stick around to hear any more.
—
I fast-walked down the street and didn’t even realize till I was two blocks away that not only had I forgotten my rape whistle, I’d just crossed at a crosswalk without looking left or right. That’s how mad I was.
I was furious with them but also with myself. You’ve been slacking off around the house for weeks! If only you’d stayed vigilant!
“Petula!” Dad’s voice. I picked up my pace. But Dad is a runner, and he easily caught up with me. He put a hand on my arm.
I turned around and punched him as hard as I could in the chest. My keys were between my knuckles, so it hurt. “Ow!”
I punched him again before he grabbed my hand, forced open my fingers, and took the keys. “Stop it. Just stop.” He held my wrists so I wouldn’t hit him again. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. But, Petula, it’s been a long time coming. We’ve been trying to make this work for a while.”
“Have you? Have you really?”
“Yes. We have.”
“How, exactly? How, exactly, have you tried? By never being home? By spending evenings and weekends at the office?” I was so mad, I was shaking.
“I did my best. We did our best. That’s why we started seeing the marriage counselor.” He let go of my wrists and looked up at the night sky. “You have to believe me when I say that neither of us wanted this to happen. We held on for as long as we could.”
Don’t cry, don’t cry, said my inner voice.
I started to cry. “I tried so hard to make things work.”
“Sweetheart. Why should you try to make our marriage work?”
“Because it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t made that stupid wolf suit, we’d be fine, everything would be fine—”
Dad gripped my shoulders. “Listen to me. Are you listening? You are not responsible for Maxine’s death, or the state of our marriage. Do you understand?” He shook me a little too hard. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mom and I were supposed to take Maxine to the new Pixar movie that day. Remember? Instead I saw an ad in the newspaper for a sale at Skip to My Loo, the bath shop. I told Maxine we’d take her another day. When we left the house, she was so upset. That was the last time I saw her alive.” Now my dad was crying, too. “A new shower curtain and towels. That was my priority. I think about that every day.”
I hadn’t remembered any of this. “Dad, that’s ridiculous. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know. On good days, I know. But, Petula, the same holds true for you. You have to believe me when I say it wasn’t your fault, either. We’ve never blamed you.”
That just made me cry even harder.
A couple walking by with their dog stared at us, trying to gauge if I was in any sort of trouble. “Keep walking!” I shouted.
“I’ve been a lousy father to you since Maxine died. I know that.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I’m going to try to do better from now on.”
“By leaving?”
“Crazy as it sounds, yes. I think your mother and I might do better if we’re apart.”
“You used to love each other so much.”
“We still do. But we can’t look at each other without remembering, without feeling this tremendous weight of sadness.”
“You might be just as sad apart.”
“Yes.”
“Or sadder.”
“Yes. But that’s something we need to find out.” Then Dad did something he hadn’t done in a long time.
He pulled me into a hug and held me tight. “You’re the reason we stuck it out for as long as we did, sweetie. You’re the reason we almost made it to twenty.”
Maxine visited me again in my sleep.
We were back in our old apartment. I found her sitting on the living room floor, doing one of her favorite large-piece puzzles. I was flooded with happiness and relief.
But this wasn’t cheerful Maxine.
This was full-on tantrum Maxine. When she saw me she launched herself at me, her face beet red, her little fists flailing.
“I’m sorry, Max. I’m sorry.” I could hear a ping in the background as she hit me. Then she started scratching my face—
I woke up. Heavy rain was pelting the window. Ferdinand was sitting by my head, batting at my nose with his paws. Memories from last night washed over me. Ugh.
Another ping. It was my phone.
I had a series of texts from Jacob.
Raining on the mountain.
Heading home early.
You around?
I typed: Yes. Back when?
Couple hours. How’d the surprise go?
AWFUL.
So sorry. Home by one. Come over?
OK.
I put down my phone. Anne of Green Gables and Stuart Little were at the end of my bed. I sat up and lifted them onto my stomach. Stanley wandered in and joined the rest of us. They were probably hungry, but they knew they had a job to do, and that was to comfort me.
I lay back down and petted all four of them. Letting myself just be sad.
—
I was forced to get up an hour later when Ferdinand barfed up an enormous hair ball on my duvet. I cleaned it up and made a quick run to the kitchen to feed the cats, grabbing myself two bagels and a banana at the same time. My parents were nowhere to be seen, thank God. I just could not handle seeing them.
I showered. I got dressed. It was still only eleven-thirty. So I went online.
It had been a few weeks since I’d uploaded Cataptation to the pet food contest. Last time I’d checked, our video was buried deep among the other entries and had only one hundred twenty views. I decided to have another look.
I found our video immediately. It was almost at the top.
I had to keep looking at the number. I was sure I was adding an extra zero. But no, the figure was correct.
Forty-two thousand, two hundred fifty-six views.
A lot of people had voted for it. It was currently in third place.
I did a happy dance around my room, almost stepping on yet another of Anne of Green Gables’s stealth turds, tucked underneath a pair of my discarded socks.
—
Serge the Concierge was on the phone when I entered the lobby. He smiled and waved me up.
Miranda answered the door. Her purple glasses magnified her eyes, and it looked like she’d been crying. “Jacob’s in his room. He’s— He may not want guests.”
“Oh. He told me to come over.”
She gave a sort of vague nod, and walked with me down the hall. Jacob’s door was ajar. He sat at his desk, staring into space.
“Jacob, Petula’s here.”
He stood up and smiled. It looked forced. “Hey.”
“I’ll leave you two alone.” Miranda slipped away.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.
Just tired.” We sat down on his bed. “Tell me what happened last night.”
“Long story short? They’re separating.”
“Petula. I’m so sorry.” He pulled me to him and held me close for a long time, stroking my hair. He was wearing his green sweater, and I felt warm and safe as I breathed him in.
“I need to tell you something,” I said into his sweater.
“Shoot.”
“A couple of weeks ago I entered our Cataptation video into that pet food contest.”
He grew still.
I looked up at him. “I know you asked me not to. But, Jacob, the prize is a lifetime supply of cat food. That would be huge for my family. And get this, it’s in third place! We have over forty thousand views.”
His face was a blank.
“Please don’t be mad. This is good for you, too. People love it, Jacob. They love your work.”
“Wow.”
“I know, right?”
“I was so clear.” He stood up.
“Jacob. It’s a hit.”
“My name is on that film.”
“Exactly. Isn’t that the point? Don’t you want your work out there?”
He ran his good hand through his hair. “I want you to take it down.”
“What? Why? I don’t see what the problem is.”
“Just do it, okay?” I’d never seen him this angry.
But I was angry, too. “In case you weren’t listening, my parents are separating. They already struggle to make ends meet; now they’re going to have to pay for two apartments. If I win this contest, I’m saving them at least a hundred bucks a month. So, no. It’s my video too, and I won’t take it down, especially since you can’t even give me a reasonable explanation!”
He stared at me, hard. “I think you’d better go.”
I stood up. “Oh, trust me, I’m going. Call me if you decide to stop being a dick.”
As I walked out, I noticed a new letter sitting open on his desk.
I was a mess of emotions when I got home. Jacob and I had never fought before. It was like I’d seen an entirely different person. And I didn’t like what I’d seen.
My parents forced me to eat dinner with them. I hardly touched my food. They tried to involve me in their discussion about “next steps.” “Your dad’s going to move out at the end of the month,” Mom said.
“I’ve rented a place that’s very close by,” Dad added. “You’ll have your own room there, too, of course.”
I could barely process their words. They exchanged concerned glances, and when I asked if I could be excused, they said yes.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I take down the video? Jacob was so obviously upset.
I went on YouTube and found Cataptation. Even if I wanted to delete it, I didn’t see how I could. It was part of the contest. It had also been shared a lot.
This time I noticed the comments section.
I scrolled down and read some of them. A few people thought the video was stupid. A few animal rights activists thought it was pet abuse.
But most people thought it was hilarious.
Do one based on a Dickens novel!
Hope this one wins!
I beg you, do Lord of the Flies!!!!!
LOL, this is funnier than Maru!
The Dumbing-Down of North America Continues.
This was written by someone with the username Herbie_the_Love_Bug. I wondered if it was Mr. Herbert.
Is the director the same Jacob S. Cohen who went to Northwestern Secondary in Toronto?
This was written by a shirlest123. There was an option to respond to the comments, so I replied with my username, which was, unimaginatively, “PetulaDeWilde.”
Yes. Did you go to school with him?
I scrolled through some more comments; then I watched a few of the competing videos. The whole time I kept checking my phone, hoping Jacob would call or text to apologize.
But there was nothing.
Jacob was a no-show on Monday. I told myself I didn’t care.
I was at my locker just before lunch when Koula barreled up to me. “So? What happened? I tried texting you yesterday, like, twenty times.”
She had. I just hadn’t had the energy to respond. “They’re splitting up.”
“Oh, crap. Sorry.” She gave me an awkward pat on the shoulder. I closed my locker and we started to walk down the hall. “If it’s any consolation?” she said. “There are perks. I speak from experience. Two Christmases. Two Easter baskets. And before my mom kicked me out, my folks competed for my affection all the time. Latest iPhone, clothes, concert tickets—I got a ton of cool stuff.”
“Um. Well. Great to know.”
We reached the cafeteria doors at the exact same moment as Rachel.
Since our craft fair outing, Rachel and I had been friendly. But we hadn’t gotten together again, either.
“Petula,” she said. “How are you?”
I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears.
—
Rachel pulled me into the closest girls’ washroom. By some miracle it was deserted. “What’s wrong?”
I told her about my parents. “And Jacob and I had a huge fight.”
“What? You didn’t tell me about the fight,” said Koula. She’d followed us in, and she pushed closer to me, trying to edge Rachel out.
Rachel just maneuvered around Koula and wrapped her arms around me.
Koula glared at her. She pried one of Rachel’s arms away and wedged herself in, putting one arm around me and one around Rachel. “Group hug!” she shouted, just as a ninth grader entered, took one look at us, and backed out the door.
—
Jacob texted me just before math.
Sorry for being such a jerk. Want to explain.
Good.
Can I come over after school?
Yes.
—
Mom’s shoes were by the door when I came home. I didn’t shout out a hello, but she must have heard me anyway. A moment later she appeared in the foyer, holding Alice.
“Tula, I really wish we could talk.”
“We will. Just not now, okay? I’m tired. And Jacob’s coming over.” I pulled off my sneakers. “I forgot to tell you. I’ve found a forever home for Pippi.” I didn’t tell her about the name change.
“Really?”
“Koula, from my art therapy class. She’ll pick Pippi up on the weekend.”
“That’s great news. Thank you.”
I went to my room and closed the door. I couldn’t concentrate on homework, so I went online and brought up our video. Perhaps if Jacob could see some of the comments, it would give him a different perspective. Ferdinand wandered in and hopped onto my lap.
I saw that I had a reply from shirlest123.
No I didn’t go to school with Jacob.
My son did.
He killed my son.
Goose pimples sprung up on my arms.
What on earth was this person talking about?
Then I saw the link.
Shirlest123 had attached a link.
www.torontodaily/localheadlines/fatalcrash/4u384
I hovered my finger over it. Was it a joke? A virus?
I clicked.
Tragedy for Northwestern Secondary
Students and staff are mourning the death of one of their classmates in a car crash on icy roads north of Toronto on Thursday. Family members confirm that Gordon Esterhasz, 17, died in the single-vehicle crash. Two other boys, including the driver of the vehicle, are still in the hospital but are expected to survive. Their names have not yet been released.
The boys were members of the Northwestern Warriors varsity basketball team and were on their way home from a tournament win when the crash occurred. “Gord was a terrific kid, just loved life,” said Northwestern principal Jennifer Podeswa. “We’ll be bringing in grief counselors to help students cope with this tragedy. Our thoughts and prayers are with Gordon’s family, and with those of the boys who remain in t
he hospital.”
Police won’t say whether or not alcohol was a factor in the crash.
I didn’t understand. None of it made sense. Jacob’s friends were Randle and Ben. They’d been hit by a drunk driver.
I Googled “Gordon Esterhasz.” The first article to pop up was an obituary.
It is with great sadness that the family of Gordon Jonathan Esterhasz announces his sudden passing at age 17 in a motor vehicle accident. He is survived by his loving parents Shirley and Gordon Sr. and siblings Ellen and Todd. Funeral services will be held at Whitehills Chapel on March 28, 2:00 p.m. In lieu of flowers the family would like donations to go to Mothers Against Drunk Driving. Gordy, you will be sorely missed by countless aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, and grandparents.
Shirley and Gordon Esterhasz. Shirley Esterhasz. S. Esterhasz.
Shirlest123.
I didn’t hear the buzzer. I didn’t hear my mom let him in. I only heard him when he was right behind me. “Petula,” he began.
He stopped when he saw Gordon’s obituary on my computer screen. There was a long silence.
“I was going to tell you. I came over here to tell you.”
“I don’t understand.” My words were sluggish, like my mouth had been shot full of novocaine.
He stared up at the ceiling. Then he looked me in the eye.
“I was the drunk driver. I’m the one who killed Gord.”
I felt dizzy. I gripped the arms of my chair. “So, Gord Esterhasz…”
“Was in the car with me. Along with Frankie Goorevitch. My best friends.”
“But…you said their names were Randle McMurphy and Ben Willard.”
“I lied.”
My brain could not compute what he was saying. Ferdinand sat on my lap, purring loudly, oblivious.
“I’ve wanted to tell you so many times.”
“Tell me now.”
—
And so he did. Parts of his original story were true. There’d been a basketball game, near Barrie, Ontario. Gord had driven them up in his mom’s station wagon.
But there were parts he’d made up. Parts he’d left out.
They were invited to a party after the game. Jacob and Frankie had just wanted to head home. But Gord wanted to go, and it was his car. So they agreed to go for an hour.