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  FLUSH

  Copyright © 2017 Sky Curtis

  Except for the use of short passages for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or any information or storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Collective Agency (Access Copyright).

  We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

  Cover design: Val Fullard

  eBook: tikaebooks.com

  Flush: A Robin MacFarland Mystery is a work of fiction. All the characters portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Curtis, Sky, author

  Flush : a Robin MacFarland mystery / Sky Curtis.

  (Inanna poetry & fiction series)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  isbn 978-1-77133-373-3 (softcover).-- isbn 978-1-77133-374-0 (epub).--

  isbn 978-1-77133-375-7 (Kindle).-- isbn 978-1-77133-376-4 (pdf)

  I. Title. II. Series: Inanna poetry and fiction series

  PS8605.U787F58 2017 C813’.6 C2017-900309-7

  C2017-900310-0

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Inanna Publications and Education Inc.

  210 Founders College, York University

  4700 Keele Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M3J 1P3

  Telephone: (416) 736-5356 Fax: (416) 736-5765

  Email: [email protected] Website: www.inanna.ca

  FLUSH

  A ROBIN MACFARLAND MYSTERY

  a novel by

  Sky Curtis

  INANNA PUBLICATIONS AND EDUCATION INC.

  TORONTO, CANADA

  For my family

  1.

  I LEANED OVER THE BATHROOM SINK to get a better look. The sharp edge of the vanity pressed into my hips as I stood up on tiptoe. But the nearer I got to the mirror, the fuzzier my face became. I put on my glasses and looked again. I squinted. I moved my head back to see more clearly. Didn’t help. So, then I cocked it forward. That didn’t help either. I moved my head back and forth, back and forth, trying not to see what I was seeing. As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror I felt like a demented pigeon pecking at tiny morsels of reality. I saw what I saw.

  The evidence was there.

  Last night when I’d brushed my teeth I’d had a fleeting awareness of something not quite right with my upper lip. Something was stuck on it, surely that was all. A speck of food, perhaps. I flubbed it off, reassuring myself it was probably a tiny ink mark from chewing my pen at work, or perhaps a random shred of the dental floss I’d used after my dinner of stringy chicken.

  But I knew as I slipped into dreamland last night that I had purposefully not seen what was clearly there. And now in the light of early morning, when I bobbed my head closer to the mirror and peered at my mouth, I wrestled with my eyes and confronted the truth. I could clearly see a series of little lines, like small railway tracks marking the journey of my life, emanating from the upper edge of my top lip to somewhere under the downy mustache that I periodically waxed. My mouth was a train wreck.

  I, Robin MacFarland, at the age of fifty-five, took a long intake of breath and faced the facts. Fuzzy cheeks. Poor eyesight. And now train tracks.

  I was getting old. The proof was everywhere.

  I took a step back from the vanity, what a misnomer that was, and stood in front of the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door. I gawked at myself in disbelief. How had this happened to me? Inside this mass of flesh I felt exactly the same way as I had when I was twenty. The voice inside my head, yattering away, was the same voice I’d listened to all my life.

  I had heard about a book on the subject of aging with a funny title about necks disappearing and now it had happened to me. And no, it wasn’t funny. Somewhere in the last decade I had completely lost my neck. I wasn’t quite sure where it had gone, but it was no longer connecting my head to my shoulders. In its place was an odd structure that looked like layered folds of meringue. Attached to this sagging mélange were overripe papayas where my upper arms used to be. I twisted my body to look at my back only to discover that splotches of chocolate had been splattered over it willy nilly, a dermatologist’s delight.

  I had become a parody of an exotic dessert.

  Turning back around, my eyes reluctantly travelled from the neck meringue thingy, or whatever it was, downwards. My breasts, those very same breasts that had fascinated my first boyfriend at the age of fourteen for hours, were now like two fried eggs that had slid to the edge of the frying pan and landed somewhere in the middle of my body. My stomach looked like three large scoops of maple walnut ice cream, with the nuts puckering through my skin. Each one of my thighs appeared to be a waffle cone holding up the ice cream, narrowing down to my pudgy knees that were creased with dimples, and giving the effect that they were somehow smiling at me. I was being mocked by my knees, because not only was I old, I was fat.

  But just how fat? I hadn’t weighed myself in years. I nudged the scale with my big toe from the dusty corner of the bathroom into the square of light streaming through the window onto the tiles. I had to use my foot because I had trouble bending over, what with the wobbly jello around my belly getting in the way. That was my first clue that the verdict was going to be very bad indeed. I stared straight ahead as I stood on the scale and didn’t look down until all the mechanical whirring had stopped. I wasn’t cheered by the length of time this took. But finally the scale was silent and I steeled myself to look at the damage. I tilted my head and forced my eyes to focus on the numbers.

  Fuck.

  I weighed more than I did when I was nine months pregnant with my fourth child. One hundred and sixty-three pounds and I was only five feet, two inches tall. Holy shit. Maybe if I cut my shoulder length brown hair into a cute pixie I would lose a pound. Maybe if I dyed it blonde I would lose another. Did blonde hair weigh less than brown? It looked like it might. Lighter, somehow. How much did a brain weigh, anyway? Maybe a frontal lobotomy would help this situation. Would I even miss my mind? I already did.

  What a mess. What was I doing to myself? This was so awful. I perched my ample bottom on the edge of the tub and rested my head in my sausage fingers. Shaking sighs escaped my lips. A single tear slid down my swollen cheek. And then, finally, deep sobs wracked my body. At last, for the first time in six years, I cried. I didn’t get the bag of potato chips from the top shelf of the cupboard. I didn’t stuff handfuls of popcorn into my gob. I didn’t lick the sticky crumbs off the serving platter that had previously held that delicious carrot cake. I simply cried and cried.

  Everything in my life was gone. My husband, the love of my life, well, at least some of the time, had shockingly died in a car accident when I was forty-nine, six years ago, leaving me with four kids, a whopping mortgage with no insurance on it, and six, count ’em, six pets: a hamster, a mouse, a newt, a dog, a bird, and a single fish. Over the years, the sharp stab of acute grief had dulled to a low and constant throb, which seemed to abate only when I was busily moving my hand to my mouth, either with spoonfuls of something sweet during the day, or numerous drinks late at night.

  Oh God, the wine. I was a lush. When had the heavy drinking started? Let’s not kid ourselves, I knew exactly when. It was when the fish died two days after Trevor’s accident. I r
emembered this specific date because of the irony. The fish died, I drank like a fish.

  I gulped for air.

  Not only am I old and fat, I’m an alcoholic as well. A new round of fresh sobs shook my dumpling shoulders.

  Over the past six years, the children had all graduated from university, amazingly, and moved out, also amazingly, each one having partners, all of the opposite sex, how novel, and all sporting tattoos. Five of the animals were now dead, with only cute little Lucky left, constantly, irritatingly, barking for food.

  Like master, like dog?

  For the past two years I had rattled around the enormous house all by myself, doing my job for the newspaper, eating, and drinking. Sure, I had lots of friends, but it always came down to the same situation every night: I was old, fat, an alcoholic, and totally alone. There was no one in the house but me.

  New wails reverberated in the tiled bathroom as this latest revelation sank in. I was all alone.

  Even my work at the paper was a disappointment. I had been walking through the rotating doors of the steel and glass building at the foot of Jarvis Street for almost thirty years and where was I? Had I won any distinguished prizes for insightful reporting? Was I an editor? Was I ever on the front page? No. No. And no. Well, to be fair, did I want to be promoted? No. Well, not really, and I had made that clear: I loved to write, not administrate. Nonetheless, no one had ever offered me a step up. No one. Not even Shirley Payne, my editor and friend, well, a friend as much as a boss could be. Thirty bloody years later and I was doing the exact same job.

  Home and Garden reporter. How fucking trite was that? So much for being the next poet laureate. Or the winner of the Booker Prize. Or the even a bloody writer-in-residence at some obscure university. I wrote about the mundane details of people’s lives. Where they bought their pot holders. Flower shows, for fuck’s sake.

  I was such a failure. As I sat on the edge of the cold tub I heard the word over and over. Fail-ure. Both syllables of the word blew through my brain like the melancholic whistle of a passing train.

  I took a deep breath and counted on my five fingers, bending them backwards as I said each word. “Old. Fat. Alcoholic. Alone. Failure.” I looked at my open palm. “Good job, Robin. Well done, ol’ girl. What a high five.”

  I had hit rock bottom, the lowest of the low. I shook my head, gritted my teeth, and said “shit” about thirty times as I slapped the side of my thigh. I watched in horrified amazement as it undulated like the waves on a beach. Shit shit shit and just shit. Something in me snapped.

  I was so fucking done with myself I couldn’t bear it.

  I heaved myself off the tub, swiped some eye shadow across my red rims, and lumbered off to my bedroom. On the way down the hall, I pounded the wall with my fist, muttering like a mad monkey. Shit, shit, shit. For good measure I kicked the baseboard. I would Vim off the scuff mark later. When I could bend over. I flung open my drawers and dug through the chaos of clothing until I came across a T-shirt and lycra shorts. I shoehorned myself into them, put on my running shoes, thundered down the stairs, and slammed the front door behind me.

  I, Robin MacFarland, was going jogging. I didn’t care if I should be heading off to work. I had had enough. I was going to rebuild my life. Yes, I was. No more old, fat, alkie, failure, for me. No sirree. I would start today. I was going to lose weight. No more cheesies, no more ice cream, no more chips. Not a nibble. I would drink water and eat sliced grilled chicken breasts on salad. I would run.

  Well, sort of.

  I clomped along the sidewalk the best I could, dragging my extra fifty pounds literally behind me. What a fat ass I was. I could feel my face burn a hot cherry red against the fresh August morning air. Icy sweat trickled down my back. My feet thudded hard with every step, but on I went, gasping and wobbling. First it felt like the top of my head was going to blow up. Then my arms were going to drop off. My ankles were bending in at an odd angle. But I wasn’t going to stop. I’d make it around the block if it killed me. Of course it nearly did, so much so that when I arrived home a whole ten long minutes later, I had to sink panting into a kitchen chair as stars swam across my vision.

  But it was a start.

  After my shaky shower and small bowl of oatmeal with fresh blueberries and no sugar, which I pretended to enjoy, I sat in front of my computer and fished around on the internet for a dating site. I was going to be proactive, yes I was. The anticipation of a new beginning filled me with euphoria. No more being alone for me! Finally I found a site that promised peace, love, and happiness. MeetYourMatch.com. Well, I’d be a believer, and punched in my credit card numbers.

  After I was done signing in with my money, I held the credit card in the palm of my hand and tilted it this way and that in a thoughtful daze, watching the little holograph bird flying. That’s what I was doing, flying into a new life.

  I scrolled through the various pages and filled out information about myself: my politics: socialist; my religion: Buddhist Unitarian; my ethnic group: white Caucasian; my two hobbies: gardening and reading mysteries; my health: good but allergic to almonds; my children: four. I wouldn’t lie about this. Anyone who wasn’t scared off by four kids, albeit adults, deserved a test drive. I gaily ticked off boxes that sounded like me, including one that said “mischievous.” It was mischievous that I was ticking off the box when I wasn’t mischievous, right? I bypassed the box that said “social drinker?” and ticked the one that said I never drank. It wasn’t really a lie; I would call my naturopath this afternoon to set up an appointment to get rid of my nightly pesky problem. I was on a roll, baby.

  I then wrote a profile in the hope that it would attract a high achieving, well-rounded, happy-go-lucky but successful kinda guy. I needed someone who could keep up to me because, although I was merely a reporter for the Home and Garden section of the Toronto Daily Express, I had an active mind. It was as active as a pickled mind could be, that was. Shut up, Robin, you’re smart. A thrill coursed through me: who would I meet? What kind of job would they have? Office? Classroom? Car?

  I didn’t care, as long as the fella had a sense of humour, was left of centre in his politics, and was somewhat spiritual. Plus, he couldn’t smoke or be a pro-lifer. Those were deal breakers. He had to have nice skin. Most of his hair. Be thinnish. Fairly up on current events. No weird diseases. Nice shoulders. A great conversationalist. Good singer. Excellent table manners. A humanist. Not a golfer. Or worse, a hunter. And no erectile dysfunction.

  Piece of cake.

  I laughed at myself.

  I ticked off all the appropriate boxes and pressed send. Would I have a date over the weekend? No, I’d turn down the hundreds of requests. It was Friday today and I would not look needy. I would take my time. I wouldn’t rush into this. I would make thoughtful, mature choices. But now it was up to the ether to respond. Who would it be?

  I glanced at my watch. Good heavens, it was nine-thirty. I guess it was a working at home morning.

  I called my editor, Shirley Payne, for my next week’s assignment. “Hi Shirl, I’m going to work from home for a bit today. Whatcha got for me?” I tried to keep my voice upbeat and in tune with my “new me” attitude.

  “Hi Robin, you sound great, really pumped, what’s up?”

  Shirley, on the other hand, didn’t sound great. She sounded like the furnace in an apartment building. Shirley smoked like a chimney. She had been trying to get me to go on a date forever, but had stopped her campaign when I had hissed at her four years ago, “I’m grieving, leave me alone.” The truth was much more complicated, but she’d swallowed my line.

  “Yeah, you might as well know, I signed up on an internet dating site today.”

  “Hallelujah! About time! Nine a.m. and you’ve hit the ground running.”

  Ha ha ha. More like crawling.

  She continued, “You go, girl. But be safe, you hear? Don’t give him your phone numb
er, not even your cell so he can reverse look-up your address. You can do that now, even for cells, did you know? Email only. Meet him in a public place. Don’t bring him home.”

  I could picture Shirley’s short, hay hair, as everyone in the newsroom called it, bouncing as she rhymed off her safety list, cigarette smoke curling around her head. I laughed, “Whoa, hold your horses, I haven’t even gotten an email back yet.” As I was saying this, I checked my inbox on the dating site. Nothing. I asked, “What’s next week’s feature story going to be?”

  I checked the site’s inbox again. Still nothing. What was wrong with men?

  Shirley hemmed and hawed and I could hear the click of her mouse as she zipped through websites, “Well, nothing on the Home and Garden front. There’s no new housing developments, no new condo designers to interview, not even a garden show. Nothing really. It’s summer. Not much happens in the summer. It’s too hot.”

  I dreaded the summer with its slow pace. It had been quiet like this since the beginning of July. I always ended up with the tedious chore of fishing through the paper’s “general” pile of press releases. I resigned myself to doing the job, yet again. “So, you want me to check out the various conventions and events? See if anything sort of related pops?”

  Shirley said brightly, “Great idea Robin, I’ll email you a batch.”

  “Thanks a heap,” I laughed. We both knew this was not the best way to fill the esoteric, award-winning Home and Garden Section. It was true, I had actually won an award for my reporting one year, but I didn’t count it as an achievement. I’d written a scintillating and riveting article on a lily that bloomed only once a year, when the moon was full, for heaven’s sake. “I’ll go through them here this morning and maybe see you this afternoon.”

  “Probably not,” she rasped. “It’s Friday, and I’m going to be leaving early before the traffic builds.” Shirley was one of the lucky ones who had her very own cottage. My kids and I shared one with my parents and my older brother’s family, and that was another frolicking fun story.