Sticky Notes Page 5

  “I have to be at work soon,” she said.

  “Took a Saturday shift?” asked Aunty.

  “Yes. I thought…but now I’m not sure…” Mom glanced back toward the family room.

  “Well, you’ve got time for a cup of tea. I’ll make it. You go call the taxi company.” Aunty handed Mom a piece of paper. “Pretty sure this is the company. If not, just call them all. Whoever it was will sure as hell remember this fare!”

  Someone did remember the fare. Mom told them all about it. Dad had ended up so far from the supermarket he walked away from that she couldn’t work out how he got there. He must have taken the footbridge that crossed the highway, and he must have moved fast. It never occurred to Mom, or Aunty, that he would take that footbridge. It should have. He was walking home. Not to his home now, but to the house he grew up in.

  “Oh my God,” Aunty said.

  Dad had told Foster stories about the little house he grew up in. It was always full of people. His brothers and sister were older than him, so their friends were always around. He said it was one of the last houses he knew of that had a combustion oven, so it was hot inside during summer. It was on those broiling summer days that he and his elder brothers would walk the long way from their house to the river. There was no highway then, and no footbridge. When they got there, they would swim and pick fat bearded mussels off the rocks, which they took home in buckets of briny water. Grandma would throw them in a big pot with just a smidgen of that brackish river swill, and they would sit in the backyard and suck them out of their shells with nothing but a little salt and lemon juice.

  “Sometimes,” Dad had said, “you’d get some of that silky tuft from the shell stuck between your teeth, but we didn’t care. They were so sweet. Better than lollipops!”

  Dad had been wandering down the street only a couple of blocks from his old house when the taxi driver saw him. He had stopped and asked if Dad was all right. “I thought he’d been the victim of a crime,” he told Mom. So the driver had put him into the taxi and was going to take him to a police station when Dad gave his address. It wasn’t until they were well on their way home that Dad became angry with the taxi driver for taking him so far out of his way. No amount of explaining on the part of the taxi driver could calm Dad. The taxi driver told Mom he hoped he had done the right thing. Mom told him she was very grateful.

  “He was going home for mussels,” Foster said. Aunty smiled.

  “Well, I haven’t spent nearly enough time with my brother lately, so I think I’ll stay for a visit while you’re at work if that’s okay,” she said. Then, getting up so fast her chair scraped across the floor and almost toppled backward, she said, “Shoot, I didn’t lock the front door when—”

  “I did,” Mom said. “And thank you.”

  That night Foster and his dad helped Aunty make dinner. They sat around the kitchen table and grated carrots and opened cans of tomatoes, and Aunty made a big pot of meat sauce that filled the house with the fragrance of home. And for the first time in a long time, Dad told a story. He told the story of the river and its lavish harvest of mussels in shells as black and shiny as ebony armor. They colonized the crags formed by dragon talons and birthed the pearls that adorned the sea princess’s crown.

  Dad missing, even for such a short period of time, suddenly made those funny things he’d been doing lately less funny. Things like putting his clothes on inside out. Or storing fruit in the oven. Things they would usually tease him about, things they all giggled about and tried not to take too seriously, suddenly became suspicious signposts on the road toward Dad possibly making a break for it again. Mom wouldn’t leave Dad at home alone with Foster when she had to go out, so Foster was roped in on drives to the shops, drives to the pharmacy, drives to the library. Anytime Mom faced the possibility of having to get out of the car and leave Dad for even a minute, Foster became the wingman, the babysitter. He resented it. Dad seemed blissfully unaware of any change in the behavior of those around him, and Foster resented that too. Mom said that trying to get Dad in and out of the car—and trying to get him to follow her around—was excruciating. She actually used that word on the telephone to someone. She said it was worse than dealing with a toddler.

  Foster had gotten lost once when he was little. He hadn’t realized he was lost at first. They were all at the Big Shops, as Mom called them—a complex as vast as a town, where you wouldn’t see the sky for hours. For all the space inside, Foster always felt like he was being squeezed out of it by limbs and music and walloping voices, all competing for air and legroom. Foster used to like the Big Shops, before he became old enough to have to wait in the car with Dad. He liked all the voices and the rushing around. It was what he imagined the inside of a beehive would be like.

  Foster remembered not being terribly concerned when he did realize he was lost. In fact, he hadn’t even registered it in that way. He had felt utterly blameless. After all, his mom had lost him. It had taken only a moment. He had turned away from them to follow the foghorn bellow of a child being denied something she wanted, and when he turned back, the bottom immediately in front of him was neither Mom’s nor Dad’s. He instinctively had taken a step backward, having an inkling this sort of closeness to strangers was not okay, and then watched as the strange bottoms walked away, leaving a hole in the crowd empty of any clothing he recognized. He had spun around a few times, and then, completely confident that his parents would find him and find him quickly, taken the opportunity to wander.

  He hadn’t noticed the time passing at first. There were lots of things to see. When a lady had leaned down next to him and asked, “Are you lost?” he had told her “No” without hesitation. His first feelings of concern had coincided with feeling hungry. It had been a long time since breakfast and they were going to have lunch at the Big Shops. It was then he had decided to change his approach to the situation, and rather than just looking at all the things there were to see, he would also start looking for his parents. Anger hadn’t taken too long to settle in after that. They had lost him and clearly weren’t looking very hard for him. Maybe they had decided to have lunch before searching. Maybe they hadn’t even realized they had lost him. Maybe he had turned invisible.

  His strolling had given way to trotting, then running. He had started pushing on people to get them out of his way. He had wanted to go back to the place the strange bottoms first appeared, but he had wandered far enough away to not even be sure of the direction. He had pressed his back up against a shop window, just outside the pounding drive of the foot traffic, when he had finally seen Mom striding toward him, using her hands to part knots of shoppers, his dad only steps behind her.

  It was the relief he felt at seeing them that allowed him to recognize how frightened he had been. His palms had been slick on the window glass. He had been smiling when Mom finally reached him. Still smiling when she had gripped him by the upper arm, hoisted him to his tippy-toes, and slapped him hard across the backs of his thighs.

  Foster remembered the humiliation to this day. The rest was just a blur. His dad quickly stepping in, his mom’s tears, her apology, the looks on people’s faces. Being pulled through the crowd like a naughty boy. Because his mom had lost him.

  And now that Mom had also lost Dad, Foster was being treated like a naughty boy again. Get in the car, sit in the car, wait here, don’t argue, I won’t be long, I’ll be right back. It wasn’t fair. She said he was too young to leave at home alone, but Foster suspected Dad was too crazy to leave alone in the car. He was even being treated like a naughty boy by Miss Watson from next door. And all because this was all so “excruciating,” whatever that meant.

  Foster began to hope his dad would try another escape. He was even tempted to provoke it and go with him. Dad had proven he was capable of finding his way home. So maybe this time they could stay away just a bit longer, long enough perhaps for Mom to be searching in the dark. They could watch for headlights coming their way and then dive into shrubs to avoid detection.
That would be a real adventure. Foster wouldn’t be invisible anymore, not after a thing like that.

  “Wait here. I’ll be right back,” Mom said, cracking the car windows a bit and locking them in.

  Dad immediately started trying the back doors. Rattle-thump. Rattle-thump. Foster knew where the child lock was. He knew how to unlock it. He imagined Mom coming out of the pharmacy and finding the car empty, just like she deserved. The thought pleased him.

  Instead he got onto his knees and swung around to face his dad, who was still wrestling with the back door handles. He said, “It’s all right, Dad. Want to play a game with me?”

  “Hiya, Fossie!”

  “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with…”

  Aunty always believed that Dad had married down. Foster didn’t know what that meant, but he had heard it said. He heard Aunty say it to someone he didn’t know at a Christmas lunch once, and he heard Mom repeat it to Dad in an angry way. Foster always imagined “down” to be a place, a destination, so he assumed Dad had gone down somewhere to marry Mom, down to a place Aunty clearly didn’t like. But Dad had married Mom in a church. Foster had seen the pictures. And everyone liked church. Except Aunty, apparently.

  They didn’t go to church very often. Mainly Christmas and Easter, or if a baby was born and had to be blessed. That’s why they went to church on the day Dad wet his pants. Someone Foster didn’t know had had a baby, and in Foster’s family, they got babies blessed lickety-split. At least that’s what Dad used to say. “Get that kid in a font fast! Lickety-split!” Mom would laugh. When Foster had asked what the hurry was, Dad said the family threw so many bad seeds that they had to get the finger of God on board as soon as possible. Mom said, “Malcolm!” in a shocked way, but she was still laughing. Foster didn’t understand the whole gardening reference, but he laughed too. And Dad winked at him.

  Getting ready to go out took longer than it used to, and Foster was relied on to get ready without much help because Mom had to help Dad. Foster didn’t mind. He liked getting ready to go out somewhere special. There was a tasty anticipation in it. They hadn’t been out all together for a while now, unless it involved Dad and Foster staying in the car, so Foster was excited. Mom didn’t seem excited.

  Their bedroom door was shut, but Foster could hear them. Dad had been looking forward to getting the finger of God on the baby for weeks now. Every time Mom reminded him of the upcoming event, Dad would hear it as if for the first time and be very pleased. He would ask whose baby it was over and over and Mom would tell him again and again, each time with the same enthusiasm. But now it sounded as if Dad didn’t want to get dressed. Foster could hear Mom pleading with Dad, a brittle edge of frustration sharpening her tone every now and then. Foster had been ready for a while, sitting at the kitchen table making little creases in the skin of an apple with his thumbnail. Mom walked in looking pretty. Foster thought she always looked pretty, but on occasions when photographs might be taken she arranged her hair on one side like a curtain of ribbons to gently rest against her bad eye. She smelled of hairspray and Red Door. That was her perfume. Sometimes, just lately, Foster would quickly squirt himself with it before he left for school so he could smell Mom all day.

  “You look lovely, Foster,” she said. “Very handsome.” Then she pulled her phone from her handbag and left a message for Aunty. She said they might be late.

  Foster’s thumbnail had just penetrated the apple skin, something he avoided at all costs because he didn’t like the sensation and it made Mom angry, when Dad appeared in the doorway. Mom’s back was to him so Foster saw him first. Foster started to giggle.

  Dad was wearing a pair of novelty Christmas socks he’d been given two years ago by Santa. He only wore them at Christmas. They had all sorts of shiny bits on them, some of which hadn’t fared too well in the washing machine. They weren’t pulled up properly either and gathered in loose folds around his ankles. Other than that he was completely naked.

  “Mom,” Foster said, “Dad’s got his Christmas socks on.”

  Mom turned around and immediately dropped her phone into the bowl of cornflakes that had been sitting on the kitchen table since yesterday morning. Mom didn’t clean up as much as she used to. The milk had mostly been absorbed, leaving a kind of papier-mâché mulch in the bottom of the bowl. Foster watched Mom’s phone sink a little before leaning forward and peeling it out of the curdy cereal.

  “Malcolm!”

  “My clothes were itching me,” Dad said, just as Mom’s phone began to ring. It didn’t sound right.

  Foster picked some wet cornflakes off the screen and answered. “Hello?”

  Mom stepped across to Dad and gently took his elbow with one hand, awkwardly screening him with the only thing readily within reach: a tea towel.

  “Malcolm, where are your clothes? We have to leave soon.”

  “Mom, it’s Aunty. She wants to know how long we’ll be.”

  “Where are we going?” Dad asked.

  “To church, Malcolm. The baptism.” Mom began easing Dad out of the kitchen and back toward the bedroom.

  “Dad has taken all his clothes off,” Foster said into the phone.

  “Who’s getting baptized?” Dad asked.

  “Well, he’s got his Christmas socks on,” Foster said.

  “Pippa had a baby,” Mom said. “So you must get dressed.”

  “My clothes were itching me.”

  “Then we’ll find you something else to wear. You’ve been looking forward to this, Malcolm.”

  “Aunty’s coming over!” Foster called as Mom rushed down the hall with Dad.

  “Oh, just tell her we’re not going!” Mom called back.

  “We’re not going,” Foster said. Then, “Sorry, Mom, she’s already hung up!”

  “We have to go!” Dad said. “Better get that kid in the font lickety-split!”

  “Call her back, Fossie! Tell her we’re not going!”

  Foster scrolled through the contact screen on the phone. He blew into the little hole on the bottom of the phone where the charger cord went and it exhaled a tiny mist of moisture. Then he shook the phone and touched the screen to call Aunty.

  “Aunty? Mom says we’re not going. Can I come with you?”

  Aunty didn’t say much. When Foster hung up, he called out, “Mom? Aunty said a bad word!”

  Everyone was quiet in the car on the way to the church. It was the sort of quiet that felt like it should be filled. Aunty drove and Mom and Dad sat in the backseat. Foster got to sit in the front a lot lately. Sitting in the front used to feel like a treat; now it felt more like a penalty. The backseat used to come with conversation and games. The front seat came with instructions like “Get in” and “Seat belt.”

  When Dad started humming a tune into the tight quiet, Foster considered joining in until Mom patted Dad’s wrist and gently shushed him. That was another word Foster had heard a lot lately. Shush. They used to sing and tell stories in the car, but lately Mom’s tolerance for voices dropped off the moment they left the house. Foster thought it was unfair to make everyone shush just because Mom was embarrassed to be out with them. She seemed to feel voices in her skin. They made her fidget. There was a lot of shushing and shuddering, which made Foster want to deliberately read road signs out loud. When they rounded the final corner and saw the church up ahead, Aunty began to chuckle quietly under her breath.

  “What?” was all Mom said.

  “He’s still got his Christmas socks on,” Aunty said.

  “Don’t talk about him as if he’s not here,” Mom replied.

  “Hey, Malcolm!” Aunty adjusted the rearview mirror and tapped it with one finger. “Malcolm! I said you’ve still got your Christmas socks on!”

  Foster turned in his seat and could just see a ring of bright red sequins below the cuff of Dad’s trousers. He couldn’t understand why, but it worried him.

  “I couldn’t get him to take them off,” Mom clarified.

  “Apparently!�
� Aunty said.

  They were late, so everyone had already gone inside. Foster was about to get out of the car when Mom grabbed the back of Aunty’s seat and leaned forward. She brought her mouth parallel to Aunty’s ear and said, “You think this is funny?” There was a strange break in Mom’s voice.

  Aunty turned her head slowly toward Mom. Foster noticed that their noses were almost touching. He felt a tightness in his chest. He opened the car door and was about to slide out when he realized his seat belt was still on.

  “Yes,” Aunty said. “Yes, I do. And you had better find your sense of humor too.”

  “You two look like you’re about to kiss!” Dad said loudly, unbuckling his seat belt.

  Mom was halfway out of the car when she stopped and said to Aunty, “I know what you think of me.”

  “Maybe we should go home,” Foster offered.

  “Fossie, get out of the car,” Mom said as she slammed the door.

  The church was cool and dark and full of whispers. Foster could smell the old wood beneath his feet. He had on his good shoes, which clacked deliciously into the frigid air. He wanted to follow those little echoes all the way to the front and sit where he could see, but Aunty jostled him into a pew at the back almost immediately. Foster, taken by surprise, gripped the end of the row. It was so shiny with lacquer that it made a squeaky noise as his hand skidded along it. He was plonked into place by a hand on his shoulder, Aunty blocking all escape by taking the end position and dropping her handbag on the kneeler. Foster creased his face up and emptied his lungs like angry bagpipes. Aunty leaned over and said, “Come on, Fossie. Don’t be a thundercloud.”