Only the Good Die Young

Chapter 6.1

The clouds drench me during my morning walk to school, which means it must be Monday. Groggy women and men sitting in parked cars listlessly chew their breakfast donuts and sip coffee from insulated Tim Hortons paper cups as rain spatters on their windshields. It's another beautiful day in sunny Vancouver.

Every week I purchase a lottery ticket with change that my mom leaves around the apartment in an effort to pay off my $27,000 debt. It's not legal because I'm under eighteen, but most cashiers either think I'm of age, or just don't care. I haven't purchased a ticket this week, so I step into a Mac's Convenience Store and walk to the small wooden stand that houses Lotto 6/49 cards and golf pencils. I mark a card with 6, 7, 16, 17, 27, and 29. And 5 for the Bonus, of course.

I join the line at the counter and skim the front page of the Vancouver Sun on display. There are the usual articles about crime rates, domestic abuse and meaningless, borderline obsessive-compulsive numbers about the Vancouver Canucks: shots on goal, total penalty minutes, save percentages, power plays killed. Mom told me that in the 1990s the Canucks lost game seven of the Stanley Cup finals against some American team and a riot broke out downtown that caused over a million dollars in damage. What a bunch of sore losers.

I haven't read the paper since Mom and I moved into Veronica's house back in Toronto. But there's a good reason.

Mom was worried Bill would find out where we had gone and didn't want me to leave the house without her. She had taken an extended leave of absence from the library, and I started to go stir crazy. Veronica had a brand new baby grand in her living room, and practicing was the best way to take my mind off what had happened. One morning, as I was working on Mendelssohn's Song Without Words, I saw a parka-bound paperboy through the bay window. He shuffled through the snow, tossing wrapped copies of the Toronto Sun at the front doors of the neighbourhood.

"Paper's here," I said, hearing a thud. I unlocked the front door and brushed the snow off the rolled-up paper that had landed on Veronica's wicker Welcome mat.

"Anything interesting?" called Mom, sifting through a stack of cardboard moving boxes that we had left in Veronica's hallway. I closed the door and took the paper to a sofa in the living room.

The front page had a picture of the Toronto Maple Leafs leaping over the boards in the Air Canada Center to celebrate an overtime victory against the Montréal Canadiens.

"Just hockey." I flipped through the pages and read a letter in the advice column: Dear Abby: I am dating a man I never could trust. He cheats so much I'm not even sure the baby I'm carrying is his. What should I do?

Signed, Confused.

Dear Confused: I'm afraid I don't know what to say.

Signed, Abby.

Garfield ate his millionth plate of lasagna and the latest SUNshine Girl ruffled my feathers. Her name was "Lynzey" (who would name their child that?) and she wore a microscopic black jean skirt and matching tie-front shrug over a bra that pushed her fake breasts into orbit. The caption read Lynzey is a baseball fan who one day hopes to become a successful model or actress. In her spare time this 21-year-old brunette loves to dance and cook. Did she miss the whole feminism movement?

Still – and I'd never admit this – I'd love to have a body like that.

After reading an article on dating lessons to be learned from celebrity breakups, I flipped to the classified section. Maybe there'd be an ad for a second-hand Steinway.

The headline In Memoriam blared at me, next to a line drawing of a dove with wings spread. Between a pair of black-and-white photos of a young girl with braces and an elderly man with a moustache was a photo I recognized instantly, even though I didn't believe my eyes. My mother stood in a white veil holding a bouquet of roses. Bill had been cropped out. Beneath her name was a column of text.

In Memoriam

BRADSHAW – Catherine Anne

Survived by her beloved daughter Rebecca, Catherine passed away peacefully on Sunday at the age of fifty-five years. Hearts are heavy with sorrow at her passing, and her smile and laughter will be missed. A tree will be planted in Toronto's High Park in living memory by Rosar-Morrison Funeral Home & Chapel,

467 Sherbourne Street.(416) 924-1408

Mom walked into the room. "Anything interesting?" she asked, flipping through a recently unpacked photo album that was covered in dust. "Look," she said, pointing to a picture of me descending a playground slide, "can you believe you were that small?"

"No," I said, and closed the paper hastily. My hands were shaking and I wanted to vomit.

"What is it?" she said.

"Nothing," I lied.

"Rebecca," she said, and held out her hand. I passed her the newspaper. All the colour drained from her face as she read.

"He's sick," I said.

"He could have at least got my age right," said Mom, trembling. "I'm fifty-two."

"Do you think he'll try to hurt you?" My stomach churned.

"I don't know, Rebecca." She tried to hide her fear, but I could see it in her eyes.

I followed her out the back door where she threw the paper into the trash. When she came into the house I hugged her for a long, long time.