Page 22 of Your Echo
“You should come to one of my classes,” I suggest, “in case they come back.”
She starts shaking her head, eyes wide. “I couldn’t. I’d do something stupid.”
“You could hide behind a tree and just watch them from there if you want.”
Her face lights up before she realizes I’m kidding and drops down to pick up her spoon, turning away from me towards the sink. She washes her breakfast dishes with lightning speed and then zooms toward her bedroom, mumbling a rushed, “Have a good day,” as she goes.
A rabbit if I ever saw one. My littlelapinof a roommate.
My first class at the studio doesn’t start until four, so I’m spending the day at mymaman’s place. I sip my tea as I make myself some cereal with soy milk and grab an apple from the fridge.
My mom lives all the way out in Pointe-Aux-Trembles, long past the end of the metro line. I get on a bus at the end of our street in the Plateau and settle in for the ride, thumbing through songs on my phone until I find the one I’m using for my advanced contemporary class’s routine. I pick the music apart in my head, pairing it with different combos and leaps. A much as I love teaching the younger kids, the freedom of being able to choreograph for the advanced students is always exhilarating, like getting a blank canvas to draw on instead of a paint by numbers.
Summertime means the kids are off school, which means dance camps at the studio, which means more teaching hours for me. During the school year, the Studio de Danse Centrale only offers evening and weekend classes. The pay is above average, but even so, when I finally moved out of my mom’s place and in with Jacinthe, I had to pick up a cashiering job just to come close to making enough to survive. Things are looking better now that I’m living in the tiny two bedroom with Molly, and I can spare a load of groceries forMamanevery now and then.
I grew up in Pointe-Aux-Trembles, in an apartment building with hallways that always smelled like smoke and old sweaters. Even now, I’ll catch a whiff of a cigarette, or stop in afripperieafter seeing a pretty vintage coat in the window, and the scents will take me straight back to that one bedroom unit with the window that always got stuck. I can still picture the huge suitcase full ofMaman’s cleaning supplies sitting by the door, the ones she used to lug all the way up to Westmount when she had a job cleaning rich English people’s houses.
We moved into a new building afterMaman’sfall. Her disability money was enough to help make a small down payment on a condo, one she could move around in easier, but it didn’t leave us with much else. I lived with her until I turned twenty-three last year, when she practically shooed me out of the house and told me to go have my own life.
I buzz myself in and head to her first floor apartment. I hear her wheel herself over and then fiddle with the lock before the door swings open and she greets me with open arms.
“Stéphanie,ma belle!”
I lean down to hug her and then lead the way into the kitchen. After we moved here, my uncle came down from Rimouski and redid some of the cupboards and plumbing, soMamancould do all her cooking herself. I set the overflowing grocery bag I brought down on the counter,andMamanmakes the clucking noise she always does when she disapproves of something.
“I told you not to do that anymore,ma belle. You need to eat all this, not me! Look at you. You’re working too hard.”
“Maman, I’m fine. I’m actuallygainingweight. Teaching so much is giving me more muscles. My thighs are going to be so solid I’ll look like a man soon. Here, try this.” I grab a cardboard box from the bag and rip it open. “They’re these new protein bars I’m trying. They actually taste good, believe it or not.”
“Stéphanie, things like that are expensive!” she protests, glaring at the foil wrapped bar I offer her like it just said something offensive.
I roll my eyes and peel the foil off myself before forcing her to take it. “Just try it, okay?”
She takes a hesitant bite and agrees with me about the taste.
“How’s work?” I ask her, as I start to put the groceries away. There’s hardly anything in the fridge.
“Comme d’habitude,” she says with a sigh. “Same old, same old.Les connardsare as stupid as ever.”
I grin to myself as I set a carton of milk down. The only time my mom ever swears is when she’s talking about her job as a call centre agent. She works from home, giving technical support for customers of a satellite TV company.
“How hard is to find themauditpower button on amauditremote? If you don’t know what a power button is, you should not own a TV.”
“Did you tell the customer that?” I joke.
“Yes, I said exactly that,” she jokes back. “I said, ‘Madame Brossard, you are an incompetent bimbo and I cannot do anything else for you today. Thank you for calling.’”
“Maman, you did not.”
“You’re right, I did not. I spent twenty minutes helping Madame Brossard find ‘the green button with the circle on it,’ and it brought my average call time up so high my manager had to speak to me about it.”
“Connard,” I sympathize.
Once the groceries are all put away, I followMamanas she wheels herself into the living room. Her desk is tucked away in a corner, headset resting on her keyboard. She’s probably the only person I know who still uses a desktop computer. Back when I was in junior high, she worked for a pizza delivery call centre. I remember her waving me over to come look at the screen of the big, boxy monitor when anyone ordered something particularly weird.
That was ten years ago, and she’s still taking calls for only seventy-five cents above minimum wage.
“Did you get someone in to fix the bathroom faucet?” I ask her, settling down on the sunken loveseat.
