1. the Snitch
“Did you know that Dunc took money every single morning?” Her cheeks flushed with power, the tattle-tale gene deep in her DNA.
I looked up, but not at her, maintaining a neutral posture. Why — after all these years — was the sibling rivalry still so default in her nature I wondered. It was as if forever stuck in a 6-yr-old’s howl over the other receiving a slightly larger scoop of ice cream.
“Every morning,” she continued. “He would take a toonie from your pile of change, Dad, and buy himself a Slurpee.”
My husband, too long removed from insult, also keeps his reaction close.
“He took the money and bought a Slurpee before he came to the bus stop, and then he didn’t even share it with me.”
Ahh! I smiled — recognizing the true insult — and found my retort at last.
“Well, he’s still getting you back for not sharing your Halloween candy,” I offered, knowing that this would cause a reaction. Knowing that one can never unhear a bell struck too close to the heart.
2. the Thief
Light-fingered, though not quick enough to avoid my sister’s pointed glare, I palm the toonie and run out the back door. The reliable bustle of a midweek morning continuing to shield me from my mother’s detection.
Perhaps she doesn’t feel particularly territorial over the loose change in the container under the phone. Not my change; not my problem, I think she might say, probably believing that if her husband truly valued the accumulated change he would keep it as tightly gripped as his mobile phone, or the TV remote.
“What’s your problem?” I snipe to my sister at the bus stop, the gap ever-widening on the sidewalk between us. “You’re stealing from Dad. It’s not OK and I’m going to tell them.” she proclaims, tossing her head to catch the morning light off her self-administered first-born halo.
The bus arrives and we board with the other kids from our block. No one speaks, and I purposefully choose a seat away from her and slump into my headphones.
Is it stealing?, I briefly ponder. Give me a break. Who cares about $2? I reassure myself and let the heavy metal fury in my ears further obliterate the spinning of my moral compass, knowing that my inherent charisma from being the most privileged kid in North Vancouver will protect me from any actual punishment.
When we get off the bus to walk the rest of the way to school I look up when she calls out “See ya later Fump.” I push my hands deep into my jeans and scowl at the childish nickname, but still carry its protective warmth all the way through first class.
3. the Bank
The clock radio barely gets half a verse of Livin’ on a Prayer out before I switch it off. I know all about Tommy’s troubles anyway; he’s gonna make it, I swear. My body moves autonomously through the dark room, careful not to wake my sleeping wife, curled into a small comma on her side of the bed. Hot water punches my closed eyelids until they open as I shave in the shower and feel my mind sharpening.
Another workday morning, another ironed shirt, another kiss on the forehead of my still-slumbering partner. By habit I whisper “bye honey, love you,” ignoring the tired frown that crinkles her brow at the disturbance. It’s my ritual, though, as I walk through my silent home, repeating the love intrusion onto both of my children before gathering myself at the kitchen counter.
A quick look out the window is inconclusive as to the weather. It’s too early to see if the November day will be high cloud, drizzle or impenetrable rain. This time of year is so hard. The SAD light waiting at my desk not up to the task of lifting the gloom from my heart.
I fumble around in the change container under the phone, thinking an extra treat at lunch might give me something to look forward to, but only see quarters and dimes. I coulda sworn I dumped a couple bucks in there a day ago, but there’s no time to waste. I’m out the door, into my car and chugging forth in and around my commuter comrades.
My mind starts to spin up work scenarios as I weave through traffic, pre-gaming conversations and challenges. My wife says I worry too much about things that will likely never happen, but she didn’t grow up always needing to plan for disappointment. I’d rather be prepared.
It’s probably the kids taking my change, I conclude as I change lanes. I should tell them to cut it out, but the thought immediately dissolves into the drowsy rhythm of the windshield wipers and becomes lost to a buzzing melody emanating from within.
Take my hand and we’ll make it, I swear
Whoa oh, livin’ on a prayer
4. the Witness
For a few glorious moments I have the house to myself. The kids both bolted out the back door for their bus a couple minutes ago; Dunc in the lead, full of sullen angst; Ali just behind, scolding him about something. It’s a lifelong role to be the big sister, or little Mama, as we call her. I guess it never gets old to be able to punch down a level. I should tell her to lay off while her brother is in his peak testosterone years, but she is in her “don’t listen to anything your mother says years”, so I know it won’t be heard.
She’s not wrong. It’s true Dunc has to be heavily prodded to do his share of their household chores, taking 45 minutes to wash the dishes (while simultaneously watching videos on his phone.) The headphones are always in; creating a shield that keeps him in, us out. The brother that once begged to play with her now a mute housemate she only sees at the dinner table.
It’s tough work with siblings. How do you keep a bond as life progresses? Those memories of building forts with the living room cushions and complaining about having to wash the deck together will inevitably fade as life goes on. I wonder what they will remember ten years from now? Twenty? Have we done enough to cement them together?
He thinks I haven’t noticed the pilfering of the change from under the phone, but in truth I just don’t care. Someone told me once that it’s best not to sweat the small stuff with kids, and I figure we’ve done a good enough job raising them that this tiny subterfuge against his Dad won’t be a major. Plus, I remember how awesome it was to buy candy or Slurpees at that age. Small acts of rebellion build character don’t they? Even if they might rot teeth.
I admit I wish they showed more appetite for adventure. Both kids seem more comfortable at home than I ever did. I couldn’t wait to get out of my house and away from my boring small town life. Maybe that’s why I stepped into the first guy’s car that could drive me away from it all. Can’t blame a girl for wanting to get some miles under her feet.
A familiar caw outside brings me back to today, as I stand at this kitchen counter surrounded by all the comforts and busyness of my life. I see my dark love, my backyard crow Zane strutting on the patio railing and smile to myself, grateful for the visit. As I lock the back door to head to work, I drop off a few crushed-up peanuts for him, hoping that my gifts ensure our bond always remains strong … stolen toonies long pushed out of my mind.
Artwork credit: the Toonie series, Alison Farrer
