Belinda's Rings Read online

  But you have a Chinese last name, Ricky said. See, he just doesn’t let up. It’s like he’s too dumb to get how annoying he is. I could feel my cheeks getting hot. Other people were starting to look.

  That’s only ’cause my dad was born in Malaysia. I don’t even live with my dad, okay? Christ, what’s with the twenty questions?

  Whoa, tou-chy, he said. Held his hands up like he was surrendering. As if I was some kinda bank robber just ’cause I didn’t want to answer a bunch of questions first thing in the morning. As if it made no difference, what’s the big deal, what does it matter that I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing corduroys OR the colour pink, I don’t speak a word of Chinese, my hair is always clean and it’s brown not black, not to mention I think hair scrunchies are butt ugly.

  Fine, I said. It came out really loud, and everyone looked. I stood up. Slammed my textbook down on the desk for effect.

  You wanna know what I won? I yelled. I won fifty thousand bucks! I threw my hands up in the air like I was tossing confetti.

  Ricky’s eyes went all wide. He started kind of half-smiling, like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not.

  I won — a platypus! I won a lifetime supply of candy! There — are you happy? I put this big fake smile on.

  My homeroom teacher — Mr. Steeves — called it an ‘outburst.’

  Would you like to tell me what brought on that little outburst? he asked me in the hall. I told him I was stressed out, that Ricky was bugging me.

  He kept calling me by the wrong name, I said. It’s Gray, not Grace. I prefer Gray. I asked Mr. Steeves if he could change the attendance sheet, change my name to Gray so he wouldn’t forget when he called my name. I just hate it when I get called the wrong name, I said. I just do.

  But that wasn’t really the reason. Even if I tried to explain it, Mr. Steeves wouldn’t understand. Really, I was only trying to be funny. Some people had laughed. But it was like this quiet kind of laughter, like the same kind of laughter you’d hear the times when Ricky said he didn’t get it. And after a couple of seconds I sat back down at my desk and didn’t feel much like fake smiling anymore. At that point I got this sudden feeling that I just wanted to go home, really bad. I’d been wearing the same green hoodie with torn cuffs for the last two days because Mum hadn’t been there to harass me about laundry. I hadn’t really realized until then that the hoodie fit me like a potato sack, and the fabric on the sides was starting to pill so that it looked like a cat had been scratching at me. I thought about standing up and walking out, but I’d never done anything like that before, and besides, I hate it when people get all dramatic.

  That evening I went rummaging through Mum’s old clothes from the ’70s and found this tube shirt with little frilly sleeves that hung off the shoulders. The thing was so stretchy that when you held it up it looked like only a five-year-old would fit into it, but when I put it on it hugged me really well. It had orange and yellow stripes going across it. I thought it looked cool and retro, and it was tight enough that the stripes curved around my boobs and made them look perky.

  The next morning was Friday, and I was up really early, before my alarm went off. The sun was just coming up by the time I’d gotten dressed and washed. I’d even put some mascara and blush on. I learned how to apply blush years ago when I watched Mum practicing on Wiley. It was when she first got her job with Merle Norman and she had to pass a bunch of tests to be a Certified Makeup Artist, Mum’s terminology. See, they have this hierarchy at Merle Norman where the older married ladies get to do all the fun stuff like applying makeup and piercing ears and building towers of eyeshadow boxes. They make the younger girls, the ones who only work after school and during the summer, sit at the cash register and Windex the vanities. So Mum had to prove to the biddies who’d worked there for twenty-odd years that she was worthy of powdering faces and curling eyelashes. The funny thing was she was really nervous. She practiced every night for more than a week before she was ready to do the makeup tests at work. Toner all over, two dabs of concealer under the eyes and blend, curl the lashes and give two coats of mascara (brown for the blondes, black for the brunettes), ask for a smile and swirl blush on the apples, swipe to the cheekbones and ta-da. I’d get all those stupid phrases stuck in my head listening to Mum chant to herself while she carefully grazed Wiley’s eyelashes with the mascara wand as if it was covered in hydrochloric acid.

  Swuuuurl the blush, she’d say to herself, making little circles on Wiley’s cheeks. And swipe. Jess once asked her if she’d ever thought of practicing on us, because wouldn’t that make a lot more sense?

  Wiley’s got the cheekbones for it, Mum said. And besides, you girls are too young to be wearing makeup.

  Wiley was a good sport about it ’cause he was still Old Wiley back then. He just sat there trying to watch TV out of the corner of his eye while Mum had her face right in his, peering at each and every lash to make sure the mascara was even. He came out looking like a drag queen every time ’cause Mum kept putting on way too much of everything, just lemme even it out. One time, when Jess and I had been out somewhere, we came home to the sound of Mum squealing with laughter. We found them in the kitchen, Mum keeled over laughing with tears in her eyes, and Wiley, his face all made up, standing in a pair of Mum’s pink high heels with a purple feather boa wrapped around his neck. He was wearing these old denim cutoffs and one of Mum’s silk blouses patterned with flowers.

  Hey, Jess said, pointing at Wiley’s boa. That’s from my old Halloween costume! We both burst out laughing, and Wiley strutted around talking in a high-pitched voice while we laughed with Mum until our stomachs ached, and finally Mum said, Oh dear, oh dear, I’m just no good at all.

  She ended up passing the tests anyway, but only ’cause they weren’t really actual tests, just something the Merle Norman ladies did to keep themselves busy. Good thing too, ’cause I don’t think New Wiley would’ve been much fun to practice on.

  Mum had never shown me how to apply makeup but I thought I did a way better job. Granted, it was pretty easy to look better in makeup than Wiley. I stared at myself in the mirror for quite a while. I thought I looked pretty good wearing the stretchy shirt. With my eyelashes all curled and darkened and my cheeks pink, I looked like one of those go-go dancers from the old New York night clubs. I did a go-go dance for myself and wished I had a pair of leather knee-boots. I was pretty sure that people at school were going to notice I looked different, say things like Wow, did you get a makeover?

  On my way down the stairs, I ran into Wiley. I think I jumped a little bit because it was the first time I’d seen him off the couch in three days. That and he was smiling up at me like he’d just found the Land of Narnia. His eyes were practically twinkling.

  Jesus, I said, what are you doing up so early? I had stopped on one of the middle steps, and Wiley was standing three steps below me.

  Early? he said. It’s six-thirty, and it’s a beeeeeautiful day. You look nice.

  Thaaanks, I said, eyeing him like Sherlock Holmes. He looked wired, as if he had an electric current flowing through his veins. All of a sudden I wanted to cover my bare arms and shoulders. I tugged the shirt down to cover the sliver of stomach skin that was peeking out.

  What the heck is up with you? I said.

  Wiley chuckled in that if only you knew kind of way. What’s up with me? he asked. Life! he said, sweeping his open palms around the stairwell. Life is what’s up with me!

  Oookay, I said, pushing past him down the stairs. I need breakfast, I told him.

  Wiley followed me into the kitchen. I wanted to tell him not to follow me, but it just seemed weird. I couldn’t think of a good reason why he shouldn’t follow me in his own house. I just had this funny feeling in my stomach, like something bad was going to happen, which didn’t make much sense ’cause I’d lived in the same house as Wiley for seven years and never felt that way before.

  Don’t you want to hear my resolution? he asked.

  Umm, I dunno, I said. Do
I? I opened the pantry and started looking at the cereal boxes. I knew I wanted Cap’n Crunch but I didn’t want to have to look at Wiley so I just kept tapping my finger on box after box, pulling them out a little bit and then sliding them back in.

  Well, Wiley said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. I thought you’d be happy to hear that the self-pity ends here. I’ve resolved to stop being ruled by your mother’s whims and just start living for me. He plonked his finger down on the table.

  Good for you, I said. I hoped that keeping my back to him would make the sarcasm even more obvious.

  No, no! he said. I swear! Enough feeling sorry for myself. I shouldn’t have done that to you and Jess. His voice was all wistful and even though I wasn’t looking at him I could tell he was hanging his head like a bad dog.

  What about Squid? I said.

  Yeah, he said dreamily, Squid too. You know what? His voice brightened up again.

  I shut the pantry doors, turned around and looked at him like Jesus Christ, what now?

  I’m gonna do something nice for him, he said. I’m gonna do something really nice for my son. He deserves that.

  Yeah, I said. Well.

  Wiley nodded, as if I’d said something worth agreeing to. Then his eye caught the frilly sleeve of my shirt.

  What are you wearing? he said.

  It’s just one of Mum’s retro shirts, I said.

  Wow, he said, looking me up and down. A lady already.

  I giggled and immediately wished I hadn’t. It was a reflex. When I was younger Wiley used to call me such a lady whenever I made gross burps or spilled food all over the front of my shirt. I could tell he secretly loved it so it always made me giggle. But it wasn’t funny when it wasn’t a joke. It made me feel like crawling into myself and hiding.

  I ran out of clean clothes, I said, looking down at my crossed arms.

  You look so — happy, Wiley said. Healthy. His whole face broke into a cartoon grin. I’m happy for you, he said. I’m happy that you’re happy.

  Whatever, I said. I have to go to school.

  But you haven’t had breakfast, he called after me. I was already halfway up the stairs. I didn’t hear him following behind me so I went to Squid’s room first. Squid was still in bed, and he’d thrown the covers off onto the floor and was spread like a starfish. His pajama shirt had ridden way up to his armpits so his bare tummy was sticking out. The rays of sun coming through his curtains landed right on his belly, making it look white and smooth as a freshly baked sugar cookie.

  I didn’t really know what I was doing in there. I didn’t want to wake Squid up. Instead I sat on the end of his bed and watched his night-light slowly fade out with the rising sun. And I thought about how Squid used to visit the furnace in the basement whenever Mum turned the heat up, wasn’t afraid of the fire and noise like most little kids. The first time I showed him the furnace I made him kneel in front of it and watch while I ran upstairs and cranked the heat. I expected to hear a scream and the patter of little feet, but he was totally silent. I found him still kneeling, peering in through the furnace slats at the pilot flame.

  Isn’t it spooky, I said.

  The fire is blue, he said, as if nothing that’s blue could ever be scary.

  VI

  THE TRAIN RIDE FROM the hemline of London to Salisbury was three hours of rolling fields dotted with grey cities like lingering fog. Though she’d traveled this very route twenty years earlier, the landscape seemed entirely different to Belinda. Quaint thatched-roof cottages stood like dusty museum artefacts, remote and inhuman. When she was a child, the cottages were everyday fixtures as much as petrol stations. She never questioned the significance of the roofs or the little straw animals perched atop their peaks like beacons. An owl lived on one street, a squirrel and a pheasant on another, an ominous blackbird with one brown eye on the house up the hill. Only after she moved to Canada did she learn that each animal represented the thatcher’s signature — a symbol of his ability to master his medium. Belinda allowed this idea to resonate in her mind with images of swathed crop circle grasses, wondering to whose mastery they bowed.

  Belinda had never wanted to be a mother. It was the men who had wanted children. With Dazhong she had agreed because it felt like the next step. She was twenty-one and couldn’t envision an alternative to motherhood. Wiley had wanted one of his own; a mini-Wiley to play with, like a doll. But Sebastian looked everything like Belinda. Even his eyes, although Wiley’s blue in colour, were the exact same walnut shape, and fringed with the same long, dark eyelashes, as Belinda’s.

  Some time after Sebastian’s birth, Belinda admitted to herself that the decision to have children was almost always motivated by selfishness. Children were a way to feel useful, and she had admittedly enjoyed feeling useful for some time. It was satisfying to know that someone needed you deeply in order to survive. But the satisfaction had long since worn off, and she had become nothing more than a faceless provider.

  Of course, now that she’d had children she had no regrets. Misgivings, perhaps, about how they would turn out. Jessica and Grace were so restrained and unconfident, and Sebastian wasn’t nearly restrained enough. What had she done differently? During Sebastian’s tantrum phase, Wiley preached about discipline from his high horse of inexperience. Nothing wrong with playing it rough every so often, show them who’s boss, he’d say. Belinda had outlawed spanking after the incident with Grace, and it had been a regular point of contention that simmered between herself and Wiley like a thick soup, wafting occasional reminders under their noses.

  You know how I feel about spanking, she’d said, for the dozenth time. And anyway, it doesn’t work. He thinks it’s funny.

  That’s because you don’t mean it, Wiley said, pointing a finger between her eyes.

  So I’m supposed to batter my child with passion, is that it? Belinda said.

  Well, it worked for Grace, he replied, and immediately looked sorry.

  Belinda gave him a look that said watch it. That was different, she said. I told you we’re not talking about that. Ever again.

  Yeah, fine, Wiley said. But remember, Jess had the same problem as you.

  Belinda did remember. It had happened when Sebastian was two and Jessica was looking after him while Belinda and Wiley were out for an anniversary dinner. Sebastian had thrown one of his signature temper tantrums because Belinda wasn’t there to put him to bed. She resented Sebastian’s fixation on her as much as she resented Wiley’s unsolicited advice; as far as she could tell, she hadn’t done anything to provoke either. In those days, even going out for dinner meant dragging a train of guilt along, because conditions had to be perfect for Sebastian to go to sleep at bedtime without a fight. As the routine normally played out, the television would be turned off at eight o’clock and Sebastian would sit at the piano bench with Wiley. He was allowed to listen to Wiley play one song (usually ‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn’) while he drank his special milk, which had been warmed (not too hot) in the microwave with a dollop of vanilla extract. Then Belinda would lead him up to his room, make him climb the stairs on his own to tire him out. She’d sit on the edge of his bed and read to him from a book while he twisted his tattered blankie around and around his wrist until its tight coils spiraled all the way up his arm. When his eyelids finally drooped shut Belinda would set the book down and rub circles into his back. The circles needed to be smooth and even or Sebastian would moan, flip over, and flick his eyes wide open in defiance. To keep herself from falling asleep she made a silent game out of it, trying to draw the circles perfectly round and smooth, applying the same degree of pressure over Sebastian’s back as it rose and fell with increasingly broadened strokes. Sometimes the lower half of her body would go numb under the strain of keeping her movements exact. She counted each complete circle until she reached one hundred; only then was it safe to consider making her exit. If she lifted her hand too quickly he would jolt awake, so Belinda had developed an art of gradually lessening the pressure with each sw
eeping revolution until her hand just barely brushed the surface of Sebastian’s pajama shirt.

  The elaborateness of this process often left Belinda feeling mournful. She’d allow her palm to drift off Sebastian’s back like a sail catching the wind, and in her drifting hand she imagined herself, untethered, white and floating in no particular direction. Nobody else could ever possibly understand this ritual; it was knitted between Belinda and Sebastian, an unseen umbilical remnant. It was a suffocating obligation.

  Naturally, Jessica’s efforts to mimic the routine failed miserably. Sebastian had stood in the kitchen and screamed until his knee-locked legs trembled and his special milk was puddled between his feet. Jessica had tried to carry him up the stairs but he wriggled free and scurried back into the kitchen, his socks sopping up the milk and wiping it across the floor.

  He’d gone straight for the utensil drawer and pulled out a steak knife, and when Jessica came ripping into the kitchen after him he threw the knife at her. The blade only scraped her arm, but Jessica took it personally, as she always did. She told Belinda she hadn’t known what else to do; he had an evil look on his face, as if he’d wanted to kill her. So she whapped him on the bum. And Sebastian just stood there. She spanked him again, harder, and he growled. Like a wild dog, Jessica had said. When she started to cry, he laughed.