‘Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven.’ counting down in your head calms you down. The sight of chocolate across the cheeks of your three year old shouldn’t cause a panic. You stare at her in the rear view mirror. The words of something serious and fatherly begin to form, but your mouth goes slack. ‘Three, Two, One.’You decide this isn’t panic. But maybe it’s fear. Maybe you should down-grade it to just a worry. But because your ears are throbbing and you feel tight in the chest it probably is fear. But an old fear. A memory fear which you can’t place. Your wife is in the passenger seat. You should talk. You should check to see if she bought the chocolate bar. But you know she didn’t. She’s a doctor. Sugar is devil food for her and she keeps it under strict control, not a total banishment but you only eat chocolate in the den, at night. May be pull-over the car and have a learning talk. But you keep driving. Think it through. Calm down first. The traffic light up ahead is turning yellow, a chance to take a minute and figure out why your your teeth are gripped in a lock-jaw and the sound of your heart is banging in your ears. Let your thoughts refocus. The ear thing is something that you’ve had most of your life on and off. Your ears had begun to bang and throb back when you were a kid growing up on Aaron Avenue in Ottawa. It’s cold there in winter, so sore ears are not unusual. You remember explaining to your friend that it’s not the outside, its in the inside of the ear. ‘Oh sure,’ said your friend Peggy Bonapache, ‘it’s actually your neck that causes it. It’s the muscles in your neck that are getting tense and spreading to your ears.’ You remember that Peggy Bonapache would become a massage therapist later in life. So it doesn’t surprise you that in her brain all issues would be caused by something in the muscles. ‘You just need to wrap your head with a scarf, like this,’ she said and demonstrated how to cinch a long girl scarf into a sort of ear turban. But this wasn’t something your 11 year old self wanted to do. ‘Naw,’ you say. ‘But thanks’ At that time you had started to go into training for the military. In your kid brain the military seemed like a good option for the future. Who knew about the Russians back then anyway. It could go nuclear. You could save people and seriously increase your pocket money. So you couldn’t wear head scarf. You needed to get in shape, that was all. A little kid in second grade had actually called you fat. But kids that age would say anything.

The lights up ahead are turning red and you’re slowing the car to a stop. You check your daughter again in the rearview. You can see she’s obviously loving the chocolate bar, focussed like a shark on a big piece of something fleshy. But she stole it. There’s no other explanation unless someone creepy bought it for her, which is just not possible. The beating in your ears is dying down. The light turns green. Stealing is something that will need to be talked about. Steal a chocolate bar today without repercussions and it could slide into something else bigger next time, a behavioural issue, even a lifestyle, then prison. You’re the father. The authority figure. Just like your father was to you. And then it hits you.

It was the winter of 1982 and the night your Father called from Egypt you were eleven years old. Your Mother had taken the call and you heard her say, “He doesn’t want to speak to you, because he’s afraid.” Your mother wore her comona and with curlers, her usual night-time regime. “He says that where you come from they cut off people’s hands if they steal.” You felt the beating in your ears. You were standing half in and half outside of the living room. You were part there with your Mum but you could easily slip back into your bedroom where the door was ajar, a quick glance and you could see the book on your pillow.You had been reading a series of books about three investigators, kids that solve stuff about crimes.. You wanted to be an investigator at that time, instead of the military maybe. Which made the idea of you stealing all the more of an outrage, to be suspected. Your mum turned to you in a serious way, her hand over the receiver, “He wants to talk to you,” she said. ‘No mum, this is all a serious mistake of justice.’
‘Then you can tell him that.’
‘Hello,’ you said into the receiver imagining your Father in some Egyption hotel room in his undershirt with a circling fan over head.
‘Michael,’ exhaled your Father. He was smoking, you could tell that right away. ‘Yes Dad.’ He was about to say something else, something serious which he wouldn’t be able to take away after. If he said something, that always became the law and couldn’t be taken away, even if he was proved wrong afterward, which happened alot. ’It wasn’t me,’ you’d said. ‘This is all a big mistake. It was Richard Bradley and David Gladman. I’ve been framed,’ you said.
‘Son.’
‘Yes Dad.’
‘Stealing is wrong. Your mother and I forgive you. But you are not to do it again. Do you understand.’
‘I understand, but.’
‘Just... don’t do it again.’
‘Ok’
‘And son, you will be going back to the pharmacy with Richard and return everything and apologize.’
You pushed your tongue hard against the ridgy bit at the roof of your mouth and stay quiet. You were thinking of the pharmacist. a scary looking man with wire framed glasses. Your mother took the phone back to speak to your father. You stood there meaning to listen, but your thoughts were still picturing the pharmacist, He had the kind of sharp nose and slicked back hair that a carnaval spooky house manager might have. The last thing he needs is a kid stealing toys from children’s area. He probably doesn’t even know there are toys in the pharmacy because he dealt with people who were dying who needed their medicine. You might be going to jail. You might keep your hand from being cut off because this was Canada, but you’d have a criminal record at the very least and forget about ever becoming a detective. This stealing incident was the kind of thing that could ruin a kid. It gave you panic feeling that just sat there until it turned into fear, the kind of fear that goes inside of your bones and turns into old cobwebs. ‘Why is he in Egypt anyway you said as your Mum put down the phone. ‘Because your Grandmother has died. You knew this already, but it seems to you that he should be her in Canada to talk to the pharmacist if he wanted to. ‘Was she Muslim,’ you said. ‘No she was Christian like us’
‘He should be here. Or why aren’t we there. It’s too cold. It’s too cold here.’

You put the car in gear and drive through the intersection. You look over to see your wife. She’s fast asleep. Getting married is the best thing that has happened to you. Sure you would probably have gone to Vegas a few more times and been able to drink more beer, but she’s loving wife, and a great mum. You tell everyone that she’s a doctor. You find it just slip into conversations because you’re proud. She takes care of you and the girls. The ear thing is one small example. She’s explained that it’s a capillary constriction. It causes pain due to any increase of blood flow to your inner ear. It makes sense. She’s recommended more exercise. You don’t take this to mean she thinks your fat. Sure you’re a bit overweight. But this is ok too. ‘Lucky,’ you say to yourself.

You know you’re lucky because when you were a kid growing up in Ottawa you came to learn what a girl could do if you weren’t careful. Like getting kicked in the balls. You don’t remember the name of the girl who kicked you the first time but you still remember the letters AC/DC scrawled across the back of her jean jacket. She was way tougher than you. It would be until you were at least 16 before you could be at the same tough level, may be ever. You realised later that you should have talked to her, recruited her to your side in a reverse psychology detective way that you’d been reading about. Instead she kind of kicked off a trend. Some time later you came to school wearing a jock. You wanted to make a point mainly, but you hadn’t thought it all through. The plan backfired and led to more kicks aimed at your crotch. You were wearing a jock but it still hurt, alot.

Girls confused you. Some seemed soft and caring. Others not so much. It was important that you understood better. A detective needs to understand motives and personality types. Besides you might be having sex soon. You’ve even heard that two kids in grade 8 had been caught in the gym equipment room naked. You needed to be better prepared. It turned out later through a later investigation that most of the girls that kicked you were discovered smoking cigarettes on the roof of the school. This seemed like evidence of something about them, but it still didn’t explain why you had been targeted. The morning after talking to your Dad you found yourself looking through the school bus window. You were watching what looked like an argument between the Mrs. Hayley, the school bus driver and a man standing next to a blue El Camino. He was accompanying a girl you recognise as being from the 5th grade. The El Camino is the kind of car that is half truck, half car. It’s one of the vehicles that you’d decided is mainly used by criminals. The man had a beard and sunglasses and his angry words came out of his mouth in tufts of steam in the winter cold. The bus driver is wearing a bandana on her head and has her own angry tufts of steam to contribute to the air. She took the girl by the hand and marched her stiffly to the curbside and guided her gently onto the bus.

The girl sat down beside you. You decided that this was going to be a good opportunity, as good as any opportunity to get to know girls more. And since she’s a grade higher than you, she would be easy to avoid you in case she decided you were stupid or suspicios. ‘Did you hear that two kids were caught in the gym’ you said, wanting to get right into talking about important things. ‘Caught doing what,’ said the girl. ‘Oh just goofing off,’ you said realizing any mention of naked grade eight kids would sound creepy, especially as you realise that she was wearing a nice patterned dress, and her fingernails were perfectly pink and white, and her pencil case looked like it had been through the wash. You thought that her mum would have made sure she was taken care of and looked after. That’s what girls need you thought. You don’t even have a pencil case and you haven’t washed your hand since yesterday. ‘Mums are good to have a round you,’ you said changing the subject to something you knew more about and how your mum had promised you pizza for dinner later. When you noticed that the girl hadn’t responded, you looked over to see that her head was looking down. Her dark hair concealed her face, but you knew she’d heard you. When she turned to you, her eyes were wet and her mouth turned in a sad way. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My Mum is cherished by me.’ The girl turned her head again to her pencil case. This was something to think through, carefully. “Cherished.” Not a word you’d hear kids say, ever. You knew when people got married, they might say, “cherished. The priest would say it at the wedding or when someone dies. But you hadn’t known anyone to die or what was said for sure, except on TV. Your detective mind turned over the thought until you come to think that maybe the girl’s mum might be in some sort of trouble, why else say, “cherished”. This worried you and caused you to say, ‘I love my mum too.’ You wanted to solve the puzzle, but you were also afraid of uncovering something that the girl might want secret. ‘Is your Mum ok,’ you asked unable to help yourself from saying something. ‘No,’ she said. The two of you sat in silence for a long time. You watched the bus pass through neighbourhoods blanketed with snow. You wanted to close the case. You had begun to wish you weren’t such a good detective. So to settle it you said, ‘She’s in the hospital’. You said it in a way that didn’t need a response. But the girl turned to you. The tears were gone now. ‘My mum is driving the bus,’ she said and smiled. ‘I’m Maria.’ ‘I’m Michael.’
‘My Mum’s name is Sandra.’
‘You mean Mrs. Hayley.’
‘No, she let’s me call her Sandra’
You look over to the bus driver, at her orange bandanna and then out the window. ‘Was that you’re Dad,’ you said.
‘Yeah’.
‘He drives an El Camino.’
‘He loves that car more than anything.’
‘He looked really mad.’
‘Yea he’s supposed to be getting my mums medicine for her pain, but he can’t afford it. He says the Church isn’t helping him anymore.’ You thought of what it would be like to have pain that needs medicine and what it would be like to need something from an owner of an El Camino. ‘Do you think he’s a criminal,’ you asked. Maria looked away quickly, back to her pencil case. You realised this was a stupid thing to say, that there must be many law abiding El Camino drivers. Maria said, ‘I don’t want to talk about him,’ The two of you remained quiet for the remainder of the bus ride.Maria said goodbye to you as she got up to leave and you thought maybe she would talk to again.

You had sat on the green bus seat wondering what to do with the things you’d learned. You should do something you thought. You felt it was wrong to suggest her Dad was a criminal, even if Maria's reaction had proved that he probably was, that’s why she didn’t want to talk about it. You sat there long enough to be the last kid on the bus. The others had filed out and entered the school yard on the other side of the chain linked fence. You conjured up in your mind the kind of sadness you might have if you lost your Dad, if he got put into an Egyptian prison because he was Christian. You wondered what it would be like if your Mum had to go to hospital, what it would be like if your mum fell down the stairs and died. The thoughts frightened you, but you allowed yourself to feel it, until it began to fade.

‘Hey slow poke.’ The bus driver, called you from her driver’s seat up front. ‘Don’t want to go to school today.’ she laughed. You got up. You felt funny, heavy and slow. You stopped next to the bus driver, Maria’s mum. You wanted to say something. You looked over to her sideways. You looked at her headband that sat tight over a scalp where there should be hair but you knew there wasn’t any. You knew this meant she had the cancer. Her skin seemed tight pulled over a thin face. You think you should say something, you wanted to say something, but you looked away. And then the worst thing which could have happened, happened. Hot tears began to form in your eyes. There was nothing to stop it. Your sight blurred. You still wanted to say something but you can’t, not then. You turned to leave. ‘Hey there.’ Marias mum had you gently by the arm. You’re Michael she said. You wiped your eyes and refocused on her face. She had a mum face, soft, and concerned. She was thinking of you and not for herself, not her pain. ‘I’m sorry, you said. ‘What are you to be sorry for’
'Because your husband doesn’t have your medicine.
‘Is that what Maria has told you.’
Yes,’ you said, embarrassed. You wanted to leave, but you also felt that you should stay, maybe five more seconds or maybe ten seconds. ‘Well, he’s not my husband,’ she smiled. ‘Not anymore. We forgive people who disappoint us don’t we, you thought of your Dad and nodded slowly. ‘And when the times comes we let them go.’ You thought of your mum at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’m sad that you are in pain,’ you said. Maria’s mum smiled. ‘You can let that all go too,’ she said and opened the bus door. ‘I’ll be just fine.’ You stepped down the and out of the bus. You walked through the school gate and past a group of children taking turns sliding across a patch of ice that’s formed in the grass, and past a circle of girls who shift their eyes in your direction. One of them had the letters AC/DC scrawled on the back of her jean jacket. Something had happened on the bus that morning. Something that was big. Somehow you knew it was big. If you knew what it was you’d do something about it.

One of the girls shouted over to you, ‘Nice snow pants.’ For most kids, snow pants were out by grade four. So she was making a clever observation. But the truth was, your Mum was afraid of Ottawa winter. She was worried you’d die of leg freeze without the snow pants. Walking past those girls you realised that it’s easy for people to throw insults from inside a pack of friends. To be cruel to be smart or whatever. But if they stopped to think for a second, really think about the things most everyone carried inside them. Things that you feel but are hidden away. Then maybe things would be different. Maybe that was what you uncovered on the bus. And now, you could do something, something just as big.

______________________________

You pull the car into your driveway. You pull the emergency brake up. You see your daughter asleep in the backseat. Your wife stirs. Her bag props open. Inside next to her change purse and some lottery tickets you see a red wrapper that reads, ‘Kit Kat’.