“This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day…”
—HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 3
I gave Mick another chance. He went down on his knees and swore to me that he bought the watch at an antique store on Notre-Dame Street. He said he’d even take me there to prove it. When I said he didn’t have to, he took the watch back to Mrs. Karpman himself—and explained how he got it. How whoever stole it must have sold it to the shop.
Mick left for Melbourne on Friday. We said our goodbyes in the loft. I knew I’d lose it if I went downstairs and watched him step into the taxi. When I started to cry, Mick kissed my tears away. He cried too. He told me we had to be brave, that we’d be together soon. He said he wanted me to come the minute exams are over in June. He said he’d pay for the trip. He promised he’d never hurt me again—ever.
And, for the first time, Mick apologized. “I haven’t been the best man I could be,” he said, “but I’m going to do better. I’m going to work to deserve you, Joey.”
Because Mick had to pay the rent until the end of May, he said I should use the loft. Mom was against the idea until I told her I’d get more studying done. “Besides,” I added, “it might help me clear my head.”
She liked that part too.
Only I haven’t been doing much studying—or clearing my head. Unless bawling counts as a way to clear your head. I didn’t know a person could cry so many tears. Not even William Shakespeare—the cat or the playwright— can cheer me up.
Now Mrs. Karpman is at the door. “Even with two bad ears, I can hear you wailing, Iris. I’ve listened to it nonstop since he left and now, well, enough is enough.” She reaches out with her arm, and for a moment, I think she wants to shake me. I’m relieved when she lets her arm drop back to her side.
“How long did you cry after Nelson died?”
“A long time. But that was different. Nelson was different. Anyway, I’m an old woman and I didn’t come here to argue, Iris. I came to invite you for tea.”
I can’t stay upset with Mrs. Karpman. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you have tea here?”
It’s Mrs. Karpman’s first time inside the loft. “I think he likes me,” she says when William Shakespeare brushes up against her. “Maybe he smells canary.”
Mrs. Karpman has never tried herbal tea. I tell her chamomile is supposed to be relaxing. “Red Rose relaxes me just fine,” she says, but when she tries the chamomile, she says she likes it.
“You get used to it,” she says. At first, I think she means chamomile tea, but then I realize she is talking about Mick’s being gone.
“I haven’t told you yet,” I tell her, “but I’m going to Melbourne. To be with him—and to go to theater school. I’m leaving as soon as my last exam is over in June.”
Mrs. Karpman nearly spills her chamomile tea. “I think that’s an awful idea, Iris. Imagine following some man to the other end of the earth. Especially a man who’s as temperamental as that Aussie.” When Mrs. Karpman calls Mick temperamental, I know it’s because of what she suspects. “Above everything else,” she adds, “a woman needs to be independent.”
I can’t believe it when she says that! “You weren’t independent. And look how well it worked out for you.”
“That’s beside the point. Those were different days, Iris. Few women earned their own livings. We depended on our husbands to support us. If you had a bad husband—one who cheated or beat you”—she watches my face, but I’m careful not to react—“there wasn’t much you could do about it. I was lucky with Nelson. But I’m independent now and I’m enjoying it, thank you very much. Nowadays women can do anything they want. To be honest, Iris, I still don’t trust that fellow of yours. He’s too smooth, and I know he loses his temper, even if you won’t admit it.” She gives me a sharp look. “To me—or to yourself.”
I’m proud for standing up to her. “You can’t keep saying bad things about Mick. I love him and that’s that. If you want to stay my friend, you’ll have to accept that and support my decision.”
When she nods, I know I’ve won my case. “Will you at least promise to send me postcards—and to visit whenever you’re back in Montreal? To be honest, I did hope you and Errol might—”
I cut Mrs. Karpman off before she can finish her sentence. “I promise.”
Mrs. Karpman takes another sip of chamomile tea. “So is he there yet—in Australia?” she asks.
“He was supposed to arrive last night. Our time, that is.”
“I suppose he’s been on the phone with you, acting all lovey-dovey, hasn’t he?”
I give Mrs. Karpman my bravest smile. I don’t want to admit that since he left I haven’t heard a word from Mick.
I serve Mrs. Karpman store-bought chocolate-chip cookies. Before she goes, she pats me on the cheek. “I know it hurts to be alone, dear. But you’re a courageous girl.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course I do. It’s one of the reasons I like you so much.”
I text Mick, but he doesn’t text me back. I know his plane arrived on time because I followed his flights online. It’s a long trip, so maybe he went straight to bed. He’ll text or phone me when he wakes up.
I don’t feel like studying, but when I finally get down to it, it helps. When I can’t read any more about gross national product and how it’s calculated, I take a break to look at theater programs in Melbourne.
There’s a school called the Victorian College of the Arts. It’s part of the University of Melbourne, and it offers a bachelor’s degree in theater arts. I click on the link for the program. There’s a video ad. In it, I see short clips of students doing warm-up exercises like the ones Ms. Cameron uses, and other clips from theatrical performances. Some of the students are doing mime. Others are in musicals. One is of a choreographed fight between a guy and a girl.
The girl is Millicent Temple.
I watch the video five times. Either Millicent is a very good actor or she’s had experience fighting.
It’s impossible to study after that. I keep thinking about Millicent. Did she love Mick as much as I do? No, I think, she couldn’t have. No one could love Mick as much as I do.
My phone rings. It’s my mom—not Mick. I try not to sound disappointed. She says she’s nearby and she’s picked up a vegetarian pizza. “I’d like to come and see the loft,” she says. After our conversation about my dad, I ended up telling her that Mick is my boyfriend. She didn’t take it well. Still, I can tell she’s trying, even though it must be hard for her.
I’m so used to hiding out, I nearly say no. Then I realize that with Mick gone, I can have anyone I want over. And it’s not as if I’m nursing a black eye. “Okay,” I tell her. “It’s apartment nine-oh-seven.”
“By the way, Iris,” Mom says, “I’m not alone.” She hangs up before I can ask who is with her.