Chapter 5

Afternoon. A reapplication of sunscreen, physical and chemical, which I can already feel melting in the light. I'm standing outside Mother's apartment, gripping the basement box. Staring at her doormat, which reads Wipe Your Paws. On either side of her front door, pots of spiky plants and flowers assail my eyes with their bright shades. Don't want to go in. Want to check back into the pink hotel. Lie down in a dark room watching Marva videos until I fly back to Montreal. Three days from now. But the flowers need to be watered, don't they? And her cat, Anjelica, needs to be fed. Her things need to be sorted through, packed. The place needs to be cleaned up, fixed up, Chaz said. Before I can sell it and get out of here. Never come back again to this sunny place she loved despite her enmity for the sun.

Took me a while to get out of the Jaguar. Stared through the windshield at the chrome cat on the hood in mid-pounce, practically ablaze in the light. What happened to you, Mother? I asked the cat. Did you fall down some well of madness? Am I following you now into the dark? The cat just shone there quietly like a sphinx.

From outside, the apartment looks impeccable, like Mother herself. Windows sparkling. Flowers bright. The place seems alive, awake, even. Like she might still be in there, she never fell from the cliff. Can't I picture her inside, singing to herself right now? At her vanity table, maybe, before her three-paneled mirror. Smiling as she powders her face with her little white puff. Strangely, I hear music then. Coming from inside Mother's place. Doesn't sound like Mother's music though. Not the édith Piaf variety. This is heavy, loud, psychedelic-sounding. And then I notice that the plants have already been watered. The soil in which the roses grow is black and damp and slick. The pots are going drip, drip onto the concrete floor of the veranda. I put down the box and grab one of them—a heavy pot, just in case—and open the door, already unlocked. Oh, I'm awake now. Heart beginning to pound. Potted plant raised.

Inside, the music's so loud, Mother's windows seem to tremble. No one in the bright living room apart from Anjelica on the couch, licking her paws.

When I get to the kitchen, I scream.

There by the sink stands a man with his shirt off. Bopping his head to the earthquake of sound.

For a minute I watch him, transfixed. The pot must have slipped from my hands, because there is a crashing sound. He sees me standing there in the shattered clay. He smiles. Lowers the volume on a little speaker on the table. "Hey," he says. "You must be Belle. Nice to meet you."

I just stare at him.

"I'm sorry for your loss," this man says. He reaches out his hand. I stare at that, too. On his wrist is some sort of braided leather bracelet. Two black twisting cords. A feeling in my body. Coursing through it. Not the first time I've encountered a half-naked man in Mother's kitchen. Not the first time they've known my name, said it's nice to meet me while I just stood there like a psychopath. I almost expect Mother to come sauntering in now in one of her silk robes, glowing from sex and reeking of smoky violets. Oh good, looks like you two have met.

The man reaches forward and hugs me. Suddenly I'm enveloped in hard, beach-scented flesh. I can feel him patting my back with a large, friendly hand. There, there. He really wants me to feel this, but I'm rigid in his embrace.

"I'm sorry," I say. "Who are you?"

He pulls back, still gripping my shoulders with his very warm hands. "I'm Tad," this man says softly.

Tad, I think. Of course he is. Did Mother ever mention a Tad?

"I clean your mother's windows," Tad says. "I water the plants and things too. Do a bit of landscaping." He waves a hand vaguely at the rosebushes outside. I stare at tall, broad, shirtless Tad. Leonine hair. Tanned torso. Impossible biceps covered in oceanic tattoos. Apart from the tattoos, all of Mother's favorite man-traits.

"My mother's dead," I say, a little shocked at myself.

But Tad just nods somberly. "I know," he says. "I'm so sorry." He's got a beer in his hand now. "How are you holding up?"

"Fine, thank you." I nod. But there's a crack in my voice. My lip twitches. I look away.

"Cool," Tad says. "I lost my father a while ago. And that really knocked me out." He shakes his head. Dirty-blond hair. Sandy, really. "So I get it. You can just tell me to fuck off if you want to."

He pauses here. I should say, Of course not. Thank you though. Sorry about your father. "Don't fuck off," I say.

"Honestly?" Tad says. "I just came over today because I didn't know what else to do with myself, you know?"

On the table, I notice two roses floating in a martini glass filled with water. Tad must have done this. Clipped the flowers and set them afloat in the glass. There's a bowl full of floating roses on the coffee table, too. Also Tad's handiwork. Mother hated roses, I could tell him. For as long as I can remember. She even used to be allergic. I'm still allergic to cheap apologies, easy bribes, she always said. But shouldn't Tad know that? I try to imagine him clipping the roses, whispering to them, perhaps. Cupping them in his hands like baby birds. Setting them afloat in a bowl to die. I'm going the way of roses, Belle.

"And I didn't know if anyone else was going to water the plants and the bushes," Tad is saying. "And I didn't want them to… you know…" He lets the word die hang in the air, unspoken.

"I appreciate it, thank you. I was actually coming by to start packing up." Your cue to leave, Tad, but Tad just looks at me. He puts a hand on my shoulder again. Squeezes meaningfully without breaking eye contact.

"That fucking sucks," he says. He walks over to Mother's fridge and opens it. Reaches down to the bottom shelf where there are a row of beer bottles gleaming. When did Mother start drinking beer? Beer, she'd mutter if it was offered, making a face. I just don't get it.

He opens a kitchen drawer—he knows which drawer, I notice—and grabs the bottle opener. I watch his biceps come into relief as he cracks open the bottle. Some faint stirring of lust visits me briefly like a ghost. He hands me the beer. Clinks his bottle against mine. "To Noelle," he says. The sound of Mother's name in his mouth conjures her up briefly again. Silk-robed and smiling in a light that loved her. I watch him take a long sip. I take one too. It's surprisingly refreshing. Crisp. I gasp in spite of myself.

"I didn't come to the party," Tad says. "No disrespect to your mom or anything."

What party?I think, then realize he must mean the funeral.

"I'm just not really a death person, you know."

"Right."

"Also, I don't really dig her crowd." He frowns as if recalling something deeply unpleasant. I think of Mother's crowd. Mostly wolfish gentlemen of a certain age and their wives. Sylvia, of course. That strange woman in red outside.

"But I paid my respects, in my way," Tad says. "I want you to know that."

"Thank you," I say. I wonder what this looks like, Tad paying his respects. Tad on his knees in a room decorated with conch shells, maybe a framed poster of white stones on tilled sand, lighting some sort of scented candle. Tad at an outdoor tiki bar, raising a beer to the bloody sunset. Taking a somber sip. It tastes bittersweet.

"Did a one-man paddle-out just yesterday," Tad tells me.

"Really?" A surfer. Of course.

"It was amazing. I could feel her energy out there, you know? All around. Big-time. There was a seagull flying around and around over my head." He raises his index finger, making it spin. "A dolphin even came up out of the waves and sort of smiled." Now his hand is a dolphin's beak rising out of the imaginary waves. "And the waves were just… perfect." He drops his hand and sips his beer. "Pretty sure that was all your mom saying hey."

"You think so?"

"Oh yeah. I could feel it. Right here." He pumps a fist gently against his left pec and I immediately drop my eyes to the shattered pot at my feet.

"That's nice," I murmur. When I look back up, I see he's now seated on my mother's red velvet sofa. Reclined. At ease. His feet on the glass table. One foot jittering like it's on speed.

"Sorry, do you mind?" he says. "I'm just a bit wiped out from all the landscaping." He pats his taut, bare stomach. Anjelica, Mother's very white cat, immediately leaps into his lap and settles herself on his crotch. "It was a hot one today. I'll finish this and be on my way, okay?"

"Okay," I say. I'm just standing there staring at him, at Anjelica purring on his crotch. She looks fiercely content. Her blue eyes, just like Mother's, half closing with ecstasy.

"I'll just roll this here and smoke it outside." I watch him pull a tin of tobacco from his pocket, careful not to disturb Anjelica. Clearly they've done this dance before.

"So what's your plan, anyway?" he asks me.

"My plan?" I watch his tongue lick the white rolling paper. So tenderly.

"For the place. Are you selling? Are you staying, you think? Going back to Canadia?"

"Canada," I correct.

He smiles. He knows it's Canada, he just made a little joke, see? Lighten the mood a bit. How old is Tad? I wonder. He looks a little younger than me, but definitely in his thirties too. Very Jesus-y.

"I'm selling," I tell Tad.

"Why sell? If it were mine, I'd hang on to it." He grins at me.

"Because my mother spent all her money on bullshit," I say. I look right at Tad when I say this. "I have to sell the place if I want to crawl out of the black hole she dug for herself."

Tad looks unfazed. He nods philosophically. "You could also Airbnb it. That's what a lot of people in Eden are doing these days."

"Eden?"

"That's the name of this complex—you didn't know? I guess your mom bought it after you left. Yeah, Eden. Not a lot of people live here anymore. They rent out their places. It's an old building, you know? Run-down. Shitty pipes and appliances and fixtures. Things not really working the way they used to. But." He gives me another sly grin. "The view's spectacular. That's the thing."

Then he looks out the windows. Freshly wiped down by him, by Tad. He's inviting me with his glance to look at his handiwork. Window renovation, I remember Chaz said.

I don't look out the window. I just keep staring at him manspreading on Mother's couch, her cat rubbing whorishly against his crotch. He's slung an arm around the cushion like he's holding her ghost.

"If you fixed it up a bit," he says, "you could really cash in. You have to fix it up anyway, right? To sell it, I mean."

"Yeah."

"Pretty big job to fix it up. You have any help? I'd be happy to—"

"I don't need help," I blurt out. "I mean, I appreciate it. Thank you, Tad." Even his name on my tongue sounds like it's mocking me. "But I can manage." I hate the way I sound. Prim as my borrowed sack dress. A theme park princess talking to a troublesome guest. A shopgirl dealing with the FedEx guy. There's a little curtsy in my voice. A clicking shut of a door. A drawing down of a shade over my life, my soul.

He smiles at me slowly.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just that you look like her. In some ways. In a lot of ways, actually. I didn't really see it at first." I can picture Mother smiling at this. She's more exotic-looking, of course. That dark hair. That golden skin, so jealous. But we have the same bones, don't we, Belle? And she'd pat my shoulder, squeeze my chin between her fingers. And whoever we were with, usually a man, would be forced to agree. The same bones. Oh yes. I see it.

Tad sees it. He's grinning widely. What does he see exactly?

"We're very different," I say to Tad.

His placid gaze offers no response. He finishes the rest of his beer, sets it on the table. "Well, I'll leave you to it." He rises from the couch to the great consternation of Anjelica, who jumps away from his lap with a screech.

"If you change your mind about needing help." He pulls a card from his pocket and hands it to me. Tad Olsen. Landscaper. Window Washer. General Handyman. In the corner of the card, there's a little illustration of a smiling merman. He's holding a squeegee in one hand and a pair of gardening shears in another. The merman has chin-length hair like Tad.

I watch him walk to the front door. Suddenly, I feel afraid. I don't want to be alone in Mother's place. "Tad?" I say. And again, I hate the way my voice sounds. This time like a hand reaching out. Grasping for something solid in the dark.

"Yeah?" He stands at the door and looks at me questioningly. Waiting.

Ridiculous to ask him to stay. This man I don't even know. But something about his eyes, the way he's looking at me. It takes me back to my nine-year-old body. Standing in the dark hallway of our old Montreal apartment. Watching from the shadows as Mother entertained whatever man in the living room. Men who looked like Tad. Sometimes they'd notice me standing there in the hall. Their eyes would meet mine and my body would freeze, I'd catch fire. Usually they'd turn right back to Mother after that. But sometimes they'd keep looking at me curiously, even kindly. Some might even wave. That your daughter? they'd ask Mother. And Mother would frown. Belle, go back to bed.

Don't be silly, the man might say. Let her come out and say hello. And he'd smile at me standing there in the dark. Hi.

And I'd fill with warmth. My heart would open stupidly, only to be broken later. Hi.

Tad will be one of those. He'll be a waver. He'll be a smiler. He's smiling at me now. "Yes, Belle?"

Then I notice the mirror behind Tad, on the wall above Mother's couch. A crack right down the middle. Just like the one in the bathroom. Just like the one down the hall. And in this mirror above the couch, I see the wall of them behind me. Each one with a crack in its face.

"What's up with the mirrors?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"The cracks? The cracks all down the middle?" And for a second, I feel crazy. Like maybe I'm the only one who sees them.

"Oh, those," Tad says. "Yeah, I kept trying to replace them. But your mother said it was no use. I still tried one time when she was away. But the crack was back the next time I came. Like I hadn't done anything. Weird. Something to do with the air? The building settling, maybe?"

"The building settling?"

"Sure. All buildings have energies, you know. This one has some energy, let me tell you. In fact, I think it was having a bit of an effect on her. Your mother."

My heart skips. "An effect on her? What do you mean?"

"It's hard to verbalize it. Language feels so meager, you know? In the face of certain things?"

For a moment, I picture him gripping a tambourine. "Can you try?"

He shakes his head. "Oh man, listen to me talking my shit. Energy. What do I know, right? About life or death? About anything, really?" He tucks the rolled cigarette behind his ear and smiles. "I'll get out of your hair now." And in spite of myself, I picture Tad's fingers combing through Mother's dark red hair.

"Oh hey," he says in the open front doorway, "thought you were moving out?"

"I am."

He points to the box outside. I forgot about it when I heard the noise, which I thought was an intruder. Which turned out to be Tad. Grinning at me now.

"Looks like you're moving in."