Page 5 of Christmas at the Ranch
Soon, I’m taking my place in the line of treadmills beneath the row of televisions. I increase my speed to a light jog as I gaze at the revolving ticker tape of headlines, weather squares, and local event listings. I usually leave my phone in my locker when I’m at the gym, because I recently wrote an article forChatelainemagazine about the fact that our smartphones are turning our brains into dopamine-addicted mush. Taking a little time without my phone attached to me is just like meditation, I tell myself—which checks off another item on my daily wellness list. Even if watching news channels is probably just as brain-addling as staring at a phone.
I read the subtitles as a red-haired woman, her eyes shining bright blue from the talk-show square, does a segment called “Meal Prep Monday.” She somehow manages to make four complete meals out of one store-bought rotisserie chicken. “Now,thatis going to help us get through the busy holiday season,” the host says. Next, a dermatologist talks about how preventative Botox and fillers are the key to never getting wrinkles.“Ever,” she says, staring wide-eyed into the screen, her forehead alabaster smooth.
I reach up and touch the light furrow between my eyebrows, which I’ve been jade-rolling nightly in an attempt to un-crease. I can tell it’s not working. But I still always say no when my mother looks at the wrinkle and shakes her head sadly, then offers me her next coveted appointment at the dermatologist she and my father both use.
I think maybe it’s because I’m thinking of my parents that I believe I’m seeing them on the television screen—but then I realize it’s really them. It’s a photo that was taken in the fall, at a fundraiser gala for the Art Gallery of Ontario, otherwise known as the AGO. I know because I was there: The long skirt of the shimmering forest-green gown I wore is visible in the corner of the screen before the image flips to one of my father alone, gazing sternly at the camera. It’s his corporate headshot. I remember when it was taken. It felt like he was frowning at me in particular, his only child who refused to take her place at his side.
At first, I assume this is just some holiday society item, until I squint at the chyron running across the bottom of the screen—deepening my furrow, I know—and realize it’s not that at all.
Prominent Toronto Businessman Arrested for Fraud
My heart rate surges and the treadmill beeps frantically. I think I’m hitting the down arrow to slowmyself but have actually pressed the emergency stop button. I yelp and scramble, just managing to avoid skidding off the treadmill onto the floor. It seems like everyone in the gym is staring at me. The receptionist is rushing over to see if I’m okay.
“I’m fine,” I mumble, now feeling as conspicuous as an out-of-place fluorescent pink ornament on the Fit-mas Tree. I step to the floor, where I stand still and stare up at the televisions, horror slowly dawning as the news item flows past.
The North York corporate headquarters of TurbOakes Money Management were raided by police early this morning. CEO Stephen Oakes was arrested, along with Reuben Oakes, his cousin and TurbOakes’s CFO. Both men have been charged with wire fraud, mail fraud, securities fraud, money laundering…
Now, there’s a picture of Cousin Reuben, his smarmy grin causing my stomach to churn the way it always has. Meanwhile, my mouth has gone as dry as an overcooked Christmas turkey.
Then the story disappears and it’s on to the next catastrophes: a staph outbreak at a local nursing home making holiday visits to aging family members a challenge. A shortage of the year’s hottest toy causing a skirmish at a local big box store. I’m still frozen in place. I want to go back to being the person I was five minutes ago, someone whose biggest concern was not wanting to participate in the Fit-mas Tree promotion. Instead, the thoughts careening around in my headare moving faster than Santa’s sleigh. Still, I dutifully wipe down the treadmill I just used because, I remind myself,Iam not a criminal.
But you knew.
I hate my inner voice sometimes. Because in this case, she’s not wrong. I’m shocked that I just saw my father on the news being arrested for fraud. I’m upset. But somehow I’m not surprised.
“Excuse me, are you done with this treadmill?”
A man holding a shiny red Fit-mas Tree ball is waiting politely behind me. I rush past him toward the stairs to the changerooms. Downstairs, I stand in front of my locker and stare at the cool metal. I can hear my phone buzzing inside the locker like an angry bee.
So far, there are ten missed calls from my mother. Then two from my best friend, Lani, and a string of texts from her, too.
I saw your dad on my Apple news alert.
Are you okay???
Call me. I’m here for you.
Various other texts from friends and acquaintances stream in, but I can’t bring myself to open any more of them. I’m getting email notifications, too. When I see the names of a few of my newspaper and magazine editors pop up, my heart sinks even further. I don’t have to open any of the emails to know what they say. My editors are looking for the scoop. Or maybe—and this thought makes me feel worse than I already do—they’rewriting to tell me my byline is no longer suitable for their publications.
I open Safari and type my father’s name into a news search. CBC has the story of his arrest, and so does theToronto Star,TheGlobe and Mail,theNational Post. All of them detail a monthslong investigation, a dossier of evidence. And as I watch, a CNN hit appears. ThenForbes.The story has crossed the border. I click and read. Some reports discuss the victim impact. Retirement funds, nest eggs. All gone.
A tsunami of guilt engulfs me. And shame. I’m a member of the Oakes family, despite fantasies harbored as a teen about having been switched at birth. Yes, I have a trust fund, but I don’t touch it unless it’s an emergency. I donate the interest dividends to charities, work to pay my own rent and bills. My independence, paying my own way, has always meant so much to me.
And it was never enough.
One of the articles is showing the AGO gala photo I saw on the news. There’s my leg again, and the glittering hem of my green dress. I’m in the picture, no matter how much I want to deny it.
Another text from my mother arrives:Emory. This is urgent. CALL ME!
And she’s right, of course. I really should be calling her back, but I just can’t. Not yet. I throw my phone into my gym bag and zip it shut. Then I walk upstairs and nod at the receptionist as she trills out a friendly “Goodbye and season’s greetings.”
Outside, I pull my parka hood up against thewintry blast of air that greets me on Liberty Street. I battle the wind blowing in from the desolate middle of Lake Ontario in December as I walk to my nearby condo-loft.
Suddenly, all my senses go on high alert. And I see it: My mother’s navy Jaguar is pulling around a corner. I duck into an alley, press myself against the wall of a building, and pull my hood tight against my face. I feel like a horrible person for avoiding my mother when my family is completely falling apart. But I stay where I am. I wait, then peer through the faux fur ruff as her car slides past like a shark patrolling the road. Which isn’t fair—she’s not a shark. She’s my mother. But I can’t face her yet, can’t deal with any of this.
My phone vibrates in my bag. I pull it out and read:
I’m at your condo. But I think I see a news truck. I’m being followed. Are you there? Can you let me into your parking garage?
