Intermittent Odysseys

T

he room I grew up in is an affront to the eyes.

It’s like stepping inside a Barney the Dinosaur skin suit. The walls are suffocating under too many coats of purple paint. Green highlights—my sheets, desk, and rug—bring the picture together. I don’t know what the fuck mom and dad were thinking. If it was funny, or quirky, or what.

I heave my suitcase onto the bed. Avril Lavigne and Ashlee Simpson bear witness to my struggle, trapped lifelessly inside crinkled posters by the door. Stuffed animals are littered around the room, but a bear and a frog enjoy the perks of a little girl’s favouritism as they lay on the bed. Regardless, they suffer missing eyes or cut stomachs teeming with stuffing guts, same as the rest. All of them looking like they’ll come to life at night and slide the edge of a knife across my throat.

The photos show us spanning across time, as Vincent Gallo might put it. From when we were flubby-cheeked harbingers of chaos to edgy teenagers with shitty haircuts and a wardrobe pulled out of a My Chemical Romance music video.

The winter sun shines brightly through the window and onto me. It makes apparent the chip marks on the wood of the sill, where I'd practiced popping open beer caps as a sophomore. A nice party trick to impress some aspiring frat boys. Atop the sill are framed photos of Sarah and I. Snaps of us at Niagara Falls and on our trip to Dubai. The photos show us spanning across time, as Vincent Gallo might put it. From when we were flubby-cheeked harbingers of chaos to edgy teenagers with shitty haircuts and a wardrobe pulled out of a My Chemical Romance music video. Mom and dad never wanted to be in the sillier photos, but we preferred it that way. It always felt like the world was just us, anyway.

Up to a point, at least. The photos’ chronology stops sharply after Sarah went off to Kingston for uni. Now, it’s been years since we took a photo together. I see her face pop up on my feeds every now and then but, mostly, I just remember her as I see her in these frames.

A familiar voice sounds out from the door. “Nadia?”

I turn around.

“When did you get in?”

“Hey, mom,” I say. “Just now. You should keep the door locked, by the way.”

Mom’s wearing a patterned shawl over a purple long-sleeve and loose black pants. Her eyes are wide and inquisitive. She has this resting expression of innocence but also like she’s always expecting you to say something, which I usually won’t unless I have to.

“How was Vancouver, baby?” she asks. She moves toward the bed and hefts my suitcase off, dusting my sheets with sweeps of her palm. “Cold, yeah? All the water. You wore your layers, yes? Did you see the Science World? How was work? Lots of movies you worked on? How—”

“Mom,” I say, thrusting my palms at her to stop the barrage. “It was fine.”

She struggles to form a smile. “Well, I am sorry it did not work. Remember, I said that Ethan boy was not good.”

I rub my eyelids. Just the asshole’s name gives me a migraine. Ethan. Ethan who had “connections” in film. Ethan who got himself kicked out of UBC. Ethan who had us on eviction notice and kept it to himself. Ethan who always bought his fucking clothes two sizes too big so he looked like a hash dealer from 2006.

“Mom, I’m beat. Can we catch up later? I’m gonna take a nap or something.”

“Yes. Okay.” She walks slowly to the door and grips the knob. “So you know, we will have people over tomorrow. The Rowlands did a party last month, so it is our turn now.”

“Right,” I say, shrinking into bed. “It’s not for me, is it? This party?”

“No, no. Not to worry. Everyone will be excited to see you, though. Been long time.”

I grunt. “Is Sarah coming?”

Mom seems confused by the question. “No. It is not that big a deal.”

“Right. ‘Kay.”

“I am making mujadarra for tonight. Get rest now.” She closes the door behind her.

I throw an arm over my eyes, trying to block out that damned sunlight.

Two children wrestle fiercely on the end of the couch.

If I was their mother, I’d tell them it’s a bad idea—grappling each other like that by a glass coffee table. Alas, their mother is downstairs sipping red wine and chatting it up with the other neighbourhood moms. I grab my vodka soda and leave the kids without an audience.

I descend the second-floor landing into a cacophony of conversation, from which I can’t surmise anything even remotely intelligible. The women are huddled in small groups across the kitchen, clouded in a light haze of steam curling up from the food on the stove. Eyes jut quickly but sharply between groups, because proximity is no deterrence for petty gossip.

The men are sprawled across the living room, or the “lounge,” as dad would prefer to call it. The TV emits '80s rock and disco to soundtrack the guys’ discussions of things they don’t understand. Politics, the economy, their children. They all choke the necks of their beers and sink into the couch cushions. A couple of them have retreated to the backyard deck for a cigarette.

My parents stick out among these crowds. Their assimilated fashion sense and dialects fail to draw away from the darkness of their skin and natural otherness.

“Nadia!”

Mom’s shouting at me from the kitchen. “Can you open the door?”

Over all the noise, I can hear the high pitch of the doorbell ringing.

“I think it is Jacob!” mom shouts.

Jacob? It sure as hell better not be Jacob. I break through the kitchen crowds and find mom. “You invited Jake?”

The ladies around her go quiet. Mom grabs me by the arm and drags me out of the circle.

“Yes, Jacob is coming. Open the door, please.”

“No, I’m not getting the door. How come the door isn’t unlocked all of a sudden? Why would you invite Jake?”

“Unlocked? Do you want the kids to run out? And of course I invited Jacob. He’s very respected. An MP, you know? It’s a privilege for him to come.”

I scoff. “Yeah, nice of him to pause his debates on speed bump placement to show up.”

“We do a little more than that, Nadia.” Jake appears behind us, laughing, and puts a hand on my shoulder. My entire body cringes. “I’m no ordinary city councillor.”

Some guest let him in. What kinda guest answers the fucking door? Assholes.

Mom’s fawning over him already. “Jacob! Thank you so much for coming. Do you need anything? Where is Heather? Oh! And the baby?

Probably off getting another nose job, or doing whatever it is mean girls do after they get out of high school. Hell, that’s allI remember her doing in high school, too.

“I’m fine. Thanks, Mrs. Arif. Heather’s at home with the kid. Figured the wails of a newborn might put a damper on the mood.”

“Nonsense! They are welcome anytime. Oh!” She turns toward me. “You remember Nadia, yes?”

He gives me a cocksure grin and says “Of course, I do. Hey, Nadia, how’s it going?”

“All right,” I say. “Tell me—you wear that tie so tight because you wanna hang yourself? Or is it just a kink?”

“Mostly the former, but I hear that’s common among new dads.”

Asshole.

Mom laughs but her large eyes dart nervously between us. Dad manages to sneak into our little circle, breaking it open to insert himself. He towers over us. He’s pudgy but his height makes it hard to tell without looking at his face. His cheeks sag like sandbags, and his eyes are burrowed deep.

Dad stretches his hand out and gives Jake a firm handshake. Jake tries not to wince.

“Good to see you, Jacob.”

“Likewise, Mr. Arif.”

“Would you like something to drink? Let’s get you settled in.”

“That sounds good to me.” He turns to us and says he’ll see us around.

Mom smiles politely until Jake and dad are swallowed by the crowd. Then, I bring my face close to hers. “I cannot believe you invited him.”

“It’s okay, Nadia. We are family here. Have a little fun.”

She leaves me with that.

I stew in useless angst for a minute before trying to find a seat in the living room. I settle on the end of a couch, where my appendix feels like it’ll burst as I’m crushed between a broad-shouldered guest and the armrest. Sinking into position, I look blankly at the floor, taking occasional sips of my drink. The seconds creep by, each of them making their presence known to me. Each one of them a little weight that drags me down deeper into this couch until the cushions consume me fully and I can’t breathe but at least it’s quiet.

When eternity finally comes to an end, the men disperse. They hoist themselves off the couches with both hands and move out of the room as a pack, almost mechanically. Jake sees this and decides to rob me of my short-lived bliss. He unbuttons his coat as he takes a seat next to me. I inch further into the armrest, which has now imprinted itself into my side.

“It’s a nice party,” Jake says.

“Yeah. Thanks, I guess. I don’t know. I didn’t really organize or setup or anything.” I thumb the rim of my cup.

“No, I know. I was just saying. It’s good to see you again, too. It was nice having you back from Toronto. And then you left for Vancouver. But, hey, you’re back again.”

I finish my drink and crush the cup in my hand. “Yeah. Look, Jake, I don’t wanna be a bitch or anything, but I’m a little too drunk and a little too weirded out to be talking to you right now.”

Jake drops his composure. He leans back into the cushion. “What’s weird, Nadia? We dated back in high school. Hell, you broke up with me.”

“Well, it doesn’t feel like too long ago. I come back here and everything’s just how I left it. Everyone’s the exact same.”

I take the subsequent lull of silence as my cue to leave but, before I can get up, Jake says, “I like things how they are. They’re going well. And everyone’s happy.”

I laugh. “Happy? My ass.”

Mom calls from the kitchen. “Nadia? Can you fetch the boys? Dinner’s ready.”

“I don’t know where they are!” I shout back.

She steps into the living room. “Well, can you find them?”

“I think I saw them go outside,” Jake says, looking at mom and then back at me.

“Wow!” I say, doing my best Owen Wilson impression (which is wasted on this crowd, by the way). “Thanks, Jake.”

At the door, I grab the first sweater on the stairwell banister and find a pair of slides that dwarf my feet. Stepping outside, I catch a familiar scent. The guys are huddled on the driveway, passing around a couple joints. Dad’s among them and he’s the only one that doesn’t look up. Everyone else goes silent when they see me. I feel like Tom Cruise when he stumbled into that sex cult in Eyes Wide Shut.

“Mom says dinner’s ready,” I say.

The group cheers. One of them says, “Fuckin’ finally,” and stamps out his joint.

Another is about to do the same but, first, he looks up at me. “Did you want a hit?”

Everyone turns to me again. I’m drunk enough to say, “What the hell?” with a grin that’s only ever gotten me into the fun kind of trouble.

I descend the porch steps and pinch the joint between my fingers. I take a long drag, urged on by the crowd. Dad looks at me from the corner of his eye, keeping his head forward.

I exhale and drop the joint on the pavement. “Let’s go,” I tell everyone. “Before mom kills us.”

Mom lays out the table. Lasagnas, pot roasts, and soups. A strange assortment of foods that would never come out of our kitchen on an ordinary night.

The last addition is a bowl of mashed potatoes. Before it even touches down, I’m filling my plate with a little bit of this and a little bit of that. The scents are full and flavourful, and I’m so goddamn hungry that I couldn’t care less about all the eyes on me.

Mom waits for me to fall back into my chair before throwing her hands up and saying, “Enjoy!”

This cues the chatter, which starts up immediately. The guests shout over one another; their stories and anecdotes overlap. Mom and dad are seated at opposite ends of the table, giving the occasion a sense of royal formality. Mom muses about about how much she adores this oak dining table, the chandelier that hangs above it, the wallpaper that encompasses it all.

“Nobody has a dining room anymore,” I hear her say. “They are left in the past. Shame.”

As I scarf down my plate, the stout, chubby man to my right tells me his name is Pete and asks me what I’m up to these days. I stare at him while I chew faster and try to gulp down a mouthful. I give a polite smile and say, “Well, I’m 26 and living with my parents so, evidently, not much.”

This catches the attention of an older—and drunker—man to my left. He rests his arm on the back of my chair and leans in close. A tangled scent of Coors and chicken wafts from between his teeth.

“It’s not so bad,” he says. Pete and I look at him. Then, he adds, “Living with your parents, I mean. Lemme tell ya, my folks were still around, I’d be clinging to their basement like it was ancestral ground.”

He turns his head away to let out a rolling burp, which I’m admittedly impressed by and I let him know it. The progress on my plate slows down as we shoot the shit about the job market and big city life. I catch brief glances of Jake, who trades them with me from across the table. He has effortlessly captured the attention of several middle-aged women, and he manages them like a crowd of reporters. I see his lips move in response to their inane questions, but his eyes will drift in my direction on occasion. He gives me these strange, warm smiles, like he’s proud of me for indulging the drunken ramblings of guests.

Whatever. I smile back.

The drunken man, whose name I think is Randall, shouts to dad, who’s in the middle of another conversation. “You must be proud, Arif! Two beautiful, ambitious daughters!”

The compliment makes me shift in my seat, and my appetite dissipates. Dad grunts, barely audible. He doesn’t look over. Another voice chimes in from I’m not sure where. “What about that other daughter? What’s she up to? What was her name?”

“Sarah!” mom answers. “What a wonderful girl. We are so proud. She works in a law firm in New York. I forget the name, but she tells us it is very prestigious. She did her law degree at Queen’s University, and Nadia was always so smitten with her that she was going to do the same in Toronto!”

Suddenly, the table’s attention turns to me. Not much to see here. I flunked out of UofT before I even breathed the air of that law school. It was practically a lifetime ago. I don’t know why she’d bring it up. The first time I made the long walk of shame home.

I don’t know how I feel but I feel my food coming back up. Everyone’s quiet and dad just emits a singular, echoing chuckle.

The voices start to grate at my ears. “My kids—they’re coming up on 20 now—so aimless! I don’t know what I’m going to do with them. It’s good to see young women with such bright futures ahead of them.”

From one end of the table: “Well, one out of two’s not bad.”

Heads turn toward dad, who doesn’t even look up after his remark. I turn too, shaking slightly. I don’t know how I feel but I feel my food coming back up. Everyone’s quiet and dad just emits a singular, echoing chuckle.

I toss my knife and fork against my nearly empty plate. It clatters and Randall and Pete jump in their seats like pussies. I push my chair out and go upstairs. I don’t know what the fuck I was doing down there anyway. Like I don’t have better shit to do.

I ascend past the second-floor landing, where the two child luchadors have fallen into a deep slumber, one atop the other. Quickly, I shut myself in my bedroom and take a seat at the foot of the bed.

Tears claw their way out of my eyes. Immediately, I pull my sleeve down past my wrist and rub them away.

I want to run somewhere. Anywhere but here.

I get only a moment to myself before Jake steps into my room.

“Get out,” I say. “Seriously, get the fuck out.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just closes the door slowly behind him and takes a seat next to me. Nervously, he wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer. It’s a sad excuse for a comforting gesture.

“Your father’s a little old-fashioned,” he says. “He just doesn’t know what the world’s like for us today. I see it all the time in people I talk to. It’s not their fault, y’know? Just ... products of a time. Their time.”

I shove his arm off. “So it’s my fault, right? ‘Cause I flunked out of school? ‘Cause I ran off to the coast with a fucking deadbeat? Maybe this room’s the furthest I’m ever meant to get away from you people.”

He rubs his palms and looks down at his hands. I look at him, and I know he can feel me looking. He’s dropped the politician’s disposition. His posture’s slumped, and I see a bit of the Jacob I remember. The one that knew his fucking place.

In one quick motion, I grab him by the chin, turn him toward me, and bring his lips to mine.

He recoils. “Jesus Christ, Nadia!”

I give him his chance to speak. He holds his peace.

I kiss him again and he kisses me back.

Jake rubs his eyes open and inches up against the headboard.

My chin is buried between my raised, bare knees. His breath quickens as he comes to.

“Shit,” he says. “Shit, what time is it?”

“We were only out for a couple hours. Party’s over, though. Everyone went home. Thank God.”

“Oh, no,” he says, grabbing a fistful of his tousled hair. “Heather ... ”

The moon is bright outside the window.

Jake jumps out of bed and rummages through the clothes at the foot of the bed. He pulls his pants up, leaving his belt unbuckled and clattering while he fails to button his shirt up properly.

I reach for my bra. Remembering what time it is, I stop and dig through my suitcase instead, coming up with an oversized Siouxsie and the Banshees shirt Ethan got me. I get back into bed, sitting cross-legged.

Jake’s breathing hasn’t slowed. He keeps finicking with his shirt buttons until he’s exasperated and turns around to face me. “Dammit, Nadia!”

I look at him. “Did you need help with that?”

“No,” he says quietly. “No, I don’t want you to fucking touch me.”

“After what we just did? I think we’re a little past touching.”

“Shut the fuck up! You hear me? Just shut up.”

“I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, but you can leave.” I point him toward the door with an outstretched arm.

“Yeah,” Jake says. “Yeah, I’ll leave. Because I’ve got a wife and kid to go home to. Responsibility, Nadia. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? No! Not Nadia. She just does whatever the fuck she wants because she knows mommy and daddy are going to be right here when she comes running back.”

He looks at me like he wants to hit me, but I’d like to see him fucking try. I move down the bed and closer to him.

I grit my teeth. “You are so pathetic, Jake. Giving me fuck-eyes all night and then talking to me about your slut wife and dumbass kid. Your high school sweetheart gives you a peck on the lips and within the second, you’re whipping your dick out.” He looks at me like he wants to hit me, but I’d like to see him fucking try. I move down the bed and closer to him. “That’s the problem with this stupid town and these stupid people. You guys never move on. Stuck in the same circles, the same jobs, the same lives. All of you—just gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe.”

“Whose shoe?! We’re just living our lives, Nadia! Like you’re free to live yours.” His face has turned red. With his hair a mess like it is, he looks like he’s on fire. “Tell you what, you should be grateful for this town. Taking you in like it has. Clearly, there’s nowhere else that will. Go on, point me to a corner of this world that is yearning for Nadia Arif to grace it with her presence.”

“Right, and you’re so—“

“You’re a storm, Nadia! A fucking hurricane! And no matter where you go, you always circle back around here.”

He leans against the wall and massages his forehead. Drenched in the seeping moonlight, he looks like he’s posed for a renaissance painting. Really, he’d be a waste of the paint.

“Word of advice?” he says. “Or, maybe a request, I don’t know. Next time you make one of those grand odysseys of yours? Make it permanent.”

I wait for a moment because if he interrupts me again I might just kill him. Then, I say, “Weren’t you leaving?”

He looks at me in disbelief, as if there’s something left unspoken. He scoffs and leaves the room. This fucking guy. I follow and lean over the railing of the second-floor landing.

Below, Jake grabs his coat off the stairwell baluster. He slides into his loafers and quickly shuffles out the door.

Mom’s working her way through the mountain of dishes in the kitchen sink. Dad’s reclined on the couch, in the dark, as the news prattles on. They both look back at me. I dig deep in their eyes for shame or disappointment, but I come up short. All I find is fulfilled expectation. Monotony.

I look away and retreat into my room.

I swipe my phone off the nightstand and take a seat again at the foot of the bed. The phone is heavy in my hands and I don’t know what I want to do with it. Just that I have to do something. Eventually, I scroll through my contacts.

I look at the photos on the window sill.

The phone rings a few times before a voice on the other end says, “Hello? Nadia?”

It’s hard to hear her over the background noise—jubilant shouting and blaring music—but I can make out enough to put the words together.

“Hey, Sarah. Yeah, it’s me. How are you? Uh, how’s New York?”

“Good,” she says. “Uh, yeah. No, dude, give me a second, I’m on the phone. Yeah, no, it’s good. Um, what’s up, sis?”

“Sorry, it sounds like you’re out. I just wanted to ask, real quick—I’m at mom and dad’s, again, by the way—do you think I could stay with you for a bit? I just wanna—“

“Ah, shoot. Sorry, sis. I already got a girlfriend crashing at my place. It’s not that glamorous, though.” She laughs. “Trust me, you’re not missing much.”

“Oh, yeah, no problem.” I let out an involuntary, shy laugh. “Sorry to bother you. Sounds like you’re having a good time, though. I’m happy for you. Just sick of this room. Looks like a fucking eggplant, remember?”

“Oh, come on,” she says. “You begged mom and dad to paint that room for you.”

My mouth falls slightly agape while I untangle the memories. “I-I don’t think—“

She says something but it’s drowned out by the noise. I’m not sure if she was even talking to me. Then, she hangs up.

I fall backward into my mattress and wish I could fall further. My feet dangle and knock rhythmically against my suitcase.

I close my eyes and all I see is purple.