Kisses

My mother is fighting again. "Listen to me," she says urgently. "You never listen." Her voice rises sharply then falls into the still hot air as we walk into the kitchen, heat-drugged and nervous again. I imagine my father hunched whispering over the telephone in his cubicle at the office. "Don't," he will tell her, firm but kind. "There's nothing wrong. You're imagining again." He was out last night and that is the problem. I heard the soft play of his keys sometime after midnight. And now he is working today, a Saturday. My mother is worried. So am I.

We make our sandwiches quickly, my sister and me, and eat in the living room as quietly as we can.  We rinse our dishes in the sink and curse the noise of the water's strong flow then lay them neatly in the dish rack. My mother is still talking but we choose not to hear. We know the words by heart.

My father is an entertainment reporter for the daily newspaper. He meets famous people, lots of them, some of them women. It has left my mother jittery and cross. She is resentful but eager to please. It is not an easy mix.

My mother curses us with a look and we look away, ashamed. She has an unfortunate face my mother. She is pretty enough, but there is a veil of consternation there, it is there almost always so that a stranger might wonder Why is she thinking so furiously, so hard? What is it that's bothering her?

I follow my sister down the stairs to the storage area of our building where we grab our bikes and head out into the too-hot day. I don't know how I feel about my sister. At 14 she is a year and a bit older than me, but she acts as if it is a lifetime. She is bossy and loud and wonderfully kind. Sometimes I don't want to see her. Sometimes I want to be her.

We cross the main street against the lights and begin to ride along the well-traveled nature trail that shadows the north end of the city. I can measure the time of day by the crunch of gravel right outside my window. Sometimes I sit on the balcony in the early morning drinking milky tea and watching the people as they walk and jog along its path. Sometimes I imagine myself with them, right beside them, keeping pace, sheltered in their soft pffts of breath, strangers but familiar faces all. We ride away from the traffic, city noises beginning to fade. Soon enough we are met with the cool, dark shade of the woods where the trees really begin. Houses back onto the trail here and family life surrounds me. Drifts of conversation. The soft splash of a dive. Laughter. I feel lonely but strangely comforted somehow. I wish I could join them.

The trees have grown at an angle here; they stand crisscrossed, reaching towards one another, an honour guard of green and shade. My father and I walked here one day last fall and we took pictures as the leaves were full with colour. His camera felt weighty and precious in my hands. The photos show a long, seemingly unending path with paintbrush dapples of shadow and sun. In one of them a woman stands at the end of the trail with her dog looking up at her by her side. She seems a long way away but not lonely, protected in some way.  I have hung the pictures in my room and I look at them closely every now and again. They remind me of what is just outside my door.

We follow the path to the cemetery and ride through its ornate old gates. It is beautiful here. There is little sense of sadness. We walk our bikes through slowly, pondering the names, the lives represented here. Edith. Josiah. Gladys. Albert. The monuments are small and large, elaborate and all too plain. Some are growing old, crumbling with the years; others are well tended and almost new. There are many people here today, alone or with family, planting flowers or laying fresh-cut bundles at their feet. I can hear the prayers being whispered all around me.

We stop in the gazebo at the cemetery's border and take a seat on the cool wooden benches. I turn to my sister and don't know what to say.

"Do you think that they'll get a divorce?" I ask her.

"Of course not.  Don't be stupid."

"Don't call me stupid. Why can't you ever be nice? Why do you always have to talk to me that way?"

"I am nice," she tells me smugly. "In fact, I have a surprise for you today."

"Oh God, what?"

"Well if I told you... I'll give you a hint. We're meeting Bobby today."

"Big surprise. We see him every day... Mom and Dad. They fight. Too much sometimes."

"Everyone fights."

"Not the Andersons next door. You never hear them."

"That's because they're old. They're used to each other by now."

"Mom and Dad should be used to each other by now," I say.

"Some people never are I guess. "Listen," she tells me.  "Don't worry. He'll never leave her. He's too much of a baby. He needs someone to take care of him."

"I think Mom needs that too sometimes."

"Yeah," she says knowingly. "That's their problem in a nutshell."

"I don't know," I hear myself say. "Everyone needs someone to look out for them. There's nothing wrong with that. It's like the buddy system."

This makes sense to me, that we all need a shipmate to help navigate the ocean that is life. I wonder if my parents are that to each other, I wonder if they are less than that.

We climb on our bikes again and head into the ravine across from the cemetery. This is my second home this summer. It's where I come when I need to escape, to escape everything. The path is narrow and steep at the outset and my brakes are almost full on as I strain for the sight of walkers coming around the bend. None seen I let myself go as the

pavement turns to dirt and my bike begins to fly. The speed comes powerful and quick, surprising. This is the part I like best and why I come again and again. I love the feel of the ground beneath my tires, dirt then gravel then dirt and sand again. Gripping the handlebars fiercely, I will myself to keep control as I go faster, faster, dodging potholes and branches as they rise up fast before me. I ride flat out, as fast as my legs will take me. My sister is far ahead of me, on her own journey, but I don't care. I am alone here, in my own place, far away from everything.

It is cool here, cool and dark and quiet in the shadows of the tall strong trees. My body is cool and damp with sweat, my mind sharp and clear and calm. I have lost myself again, I have drifted off to a far-away place that is not so easy to find. I stop on the path and allow the stillness of the woods to overtake me. I feel a part of something larger here. If God is anywhere, I think, He is here.

I reluctantly catch up to my sister and we follow the path to a clearing beyond the woods. We park our bikes beneath a tree and sit and wait and say nothing. In a few minutes we see Bobby and his friend Trevor walking towards us. They are jostling each other and laughing and smiling when they see us.

"I'm going to ask one of them to kiss you," my sister whispers.

"What?" I say. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"Because you're just about the youngest old maid in history," she says. "Something's gotta be done. I'm doing this for you, you know."

"I heard that," says Trevor laughing. "Don't look at me. I've got Diana to worry about. She'd skin me if she ever found out."

"What?" says Bobby looking at my sister. "What are we talking about here?"

My sister takes him by the arm and leads him away. They are whispering fiercely, their heads bent close together, and I feel the hot redness of shame gather about my face.

"No," he says firmly. "No way!" and he looks at me then and shakes his head.

"She looks like a boy," I hear him say and I turn around and look at the trees so I don't have to look at Trevor, though I hope he is kind.

"Please," my sister murmurs. "Please? For me?"

He looks at me for a long time then nods quietly and follows my sister slowly back to Trevor and me.

"Ready?" my sister challenges, and I can see she is almost laughing.

"Don't do this," I tell her firmly. "I don't want this."

"Sure you do," she says.

"Let's see you do your stuff big boy," Trevor tells Bobby.

Bobby walks slowly towards me and lays his hand on my shoulder. His skin feels like a cooling summer night against my blouse.

"You've never done this before?" he whispers.

"I guess not," I say looking at the ground. "Not really."

"It's okay," he says kindly. "I'll make it quick."

He takes my chin in his hand and raises it up toward him. I can feel his breath on my lips and the heat of his body just outside range. He is my sister's boyfriend and I have thought of him many times in ways I shouldn't; he is good-looking and sweet, but I never expected this.

"You have to close your mouth," he reminds me.

I do this, firmly, and he lays his lips against mine softly. I feel nothing but a wetness and it is over in a flash. I am hugely disappointed.

"That's it?" I ask.

"What do you want?"

"You can do better than that Bob," chides Trevor. "I thought you were the big stud or something."

"I am," Bobby says looking embarrassed. He looks around at my sister and she nods and he moves forward.

"Okay," he warns me, "If this is what you want."

He kisses me then and there is an urgency to his touch, as if he has to prove himself to all of us. He moves his lips against mine exploring, then runs his tongue against my teeth. He draws me to him fully and relaxes into our flow. I feel a tug down below like I did when I read the dog-eared pages of Valley of the Dolls that was circulating through our junior high, the sex scenes crumpled with use. The kiss goes on for a long time and I don't want it to stop. I have stopped feeling embarrassed and just feel it.

"Fifty-nine seconds," says Trevor proudly.

"Okay," my sister says then. "That's enough now."

Bobby pretends not to hear her, his tongue peeking through my teeth and I rush mine to meet him. My sister is over in a second, pulling us away from each other.

"He's my boyfriend!" she tells me hotly. "Bobby," she says, "what the hell do you think you're doing? You were supposed to be doing me a favour! She's no one's girlfriend, no one's!"

"I thought you wanted..."

"Not like that!" and my sister begins to stomp away, her arms crossed angrily across her chest.  Bobby follows her running to catch up and they argue loudly and I am not unhappy. I know it is unkind but I am glad to have finally  finally bested my sister. I sit with Trevor for a long time watching and listening and suddenly it seems they are finished, they are boyfriend and girlfriend again, just like that, and they walk back towards us, hand in hand, smiling and happy.

"Remind me never to do anything for you again," my sister tells me angrily.

"I didn't ask," I remind her.

We talk for a few minutes, Trevor and me, my sister and Bobby a bit set apart from us and then Bobby kisses my sister gently but quick and hugs her tightly and says he will pick her up after dinner. We ride back quickly the way we came, hurrying towards our parents and whatever awaits us there. We open the apartment door, sweaty and spent, and my father is there, just arrived, his jacket slouched across his shoulder. He is looking at my mother, waiting for something to happen. I think about how some things happen, how you can be surprised by something, almost every day, and about how things begin and how they end. My father touches my mother on the shoulder then and leans down to say something in her ear. She looks up at him with a passion, a passion that is plain and true. I feel the tingle of Bobby's lips against my skin. I look at my parents and wonder how it feels when they kiss, if it is ever like the first time. I smile at them. I am calm. I am almost happy.

Linda Collins is a former book editor, magazine writer and newspaper reporter whose fiction has recently appeared in Wilmington Blues and whose nonfiction has appeared in various Canadian publications including The Toronto Star, Homes, A la Carte, and Toronto Parent. She has two grown children and lives in Toronto.

Email: Linda Collins

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