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It all worked out more or less. I could tell Lids was in pain but the whole time we hummed “Shine a Light” together over and over like a calming mantra and eventually it was done. Although there was quite a lot of water on the floor. After cleaning that up I patted her head a bit, gently, so that her hair would dry faster and we also debated the idea of putting a scarf or something over her head so she wouldn’t catch a cold. But then I told her that her hair would never dry with a scarf on and that colds come from viruses not wet hair. That sounded kind of bossy to me, though, and I told her I was sorry, and she said no, no, don’t be.

Mmmm, I said, sticking my nose close to her head, smells like apples. Then I thought hey, how about blow-drying it dry, and Lids said she didn’t have a blow-dryer. I had wanted to comb it but she said no way. At least it was clean and soft and smelled good.

Does that make you feel any better? I asked her. She smiled and nodded and closed her eyes. It made me feel better.

I asked her if she wanted me to read some more from The Black Stallion and she said no, that was okay, she just wanted to sleep. Then her voice was gone for good, or for the time being. She touched her throat and grimaced apologetically. I said okay.

I didn’t want to go but I didn’t know what to do next. I stood next to her holding on to my prescription and stupid dipping bird. The apple scent wafted up from her hair. She opened her eyes and whispered one word: Travis. And then she pointed at the prescription.

Oh, I said, I have to wait a couple of weeks before the thing kicks in. She nodded and smiled again and then I kissed her on her bright red cheek and said I’d see her soon and that I loved her.

When Lids was in her feeling-good periods we’d walk each other exactly halfway home. Halfway was this spot in an empty lot on Main Street, next to the feed mill that looks like a ship, and on that spot we’d kiss each other goodbye like two French girls, once on each cheek and then a third time.

I left the hospital and trudged towards Main Street and when I got to the halfway spot in the empty lot I stopped and lit a Sweet Cap.

I walked up my driveway and waved to my dad who was warming up his yellow lawn chair for a little highway staring adventure. He lifted his hand like he was pushing against water. Like, rapids.

I was officially on the Pill.

Hey, I said.

Oh good, he said. You’re here. He told me he was planning to take down the badminton net. Since my mom left he’d walked into it about thirty or forty times. He’d just head on out the door to work, eyes down, brain stuck in reverse, and boing…into the net.

Probably a good idea, I said. And I’m thinking of selling some of my tools, what do you think?

Well…I began.

Say, said my dad, could you stomach a walk downtown? Would you be at all interested in helping me buy a suit? Was he on speed?

We had a nice walk to Schlitzking Clothing. We didn’t take the long way. We could hear families in their houses, talking and clanking and playing the piano. We heard an entire family harmonizing to “How Great Thou Art.” I felt like holding his hand but that would’ve been pathetic.

At the red light on Main Street and First my dad looked at me from behind his wall of glass like he was surprised I was still there. Waiting for a different shade of green? I asked him. When we got to Schlitzking Clothing an extremely thin man in a three-piece suit took out a measuring tape and told my dad to stand in front of the mirror. I sat on the floor in the back and looked at the different styles of Stanfields underwear for a while. Then I took out my Pill directions for perusal.

My geography teacher walked out of a changing room wearing a lemon-yellow ensemble that included not one natural fibre.

Oh, he said when he saw me. I stared at him. A couple of weeks ago he’d slammed me into the lockers for not standing at attention properly during the anthem. I’d told him I wasn’t into individual nations, man, and he’d said I was a lunatic.

I looked at his tiny feet sticking out from under all that piss-yellow Fortrel and then I moved my eyes up slowly to his face.

It’s you, I said.

What do you think of this fabric? he asked.

I squinted at him. Why would he ask a lunatic for her opinion?

It’s worsted in such a way that it breathes, I said. You’ll enjoy its versatility.

I went back to my medical information. I learned that my body would think it was pregnant.

There would now be yet another part of myself that would not know what was really going on.

I overheard my dad and Mr. Schlitzking talking. Mr. Schlitzking was stroking my dad’s shoulders from behind and saying eh? Who’s calling the shots now? My dad blinked at himself in the mirror. Let’s take a walk over to the sock table, said Mr. Schlitzking, and my dad followed him to the back of the store where I was sitting. He looked at me like this was all my fault.

Well, he said, I have socks at home.

He does, I said.

No, said Mr. Schlitzking, I mean socks for this particular suit.

Well, said my dad…and then Mr. Schlitzking said: You think they’re not looking at your socks? He rested his chin on his collarbone for dramatic effect and then said: They’re looking at your socks.

My geography teacher came out of the change room wearing a mint-green leisure suit with chocolate-brown outer stitching.

Oh hello, he said to my dad. My dad said hello. Looking forward to the summer holidays? asked my geography teacher.

No, said my dad.

Any vacation plans? asked my geography teacher.

None, said my dad.

The beach? asked my geography teacher.

Never, said my dad.

I tried to imagine my dad at the beach. I saw a man in a yellow lawn chair wearing a black suit and tie and reading Notes from the Underground. He smiled and looked at me. Shall we? he asked.

We went home with a suit and socks he’d never take out of the package. On the way we stopped for an ice-cream cone at the Sunset and sat down at a picnic table next to the takeout window. We were quiet, just licking our cones and staring off at the sky, listening to the crickets.

Nomi, said my dad.

Yeah? I said. He had a grim expression on his face. His brow was furrowed. Yeah? I said again.

You think they’re not looking at your socks? he asked. I nodded gravely. They’re looking at your socks, we said in unison.

On the way home my dad asked me if I minded the way he was. He was mournful like he’d been drinking too much wine which he never did because what would Jesus do without his blood? Sobriety was enough to make my dad’s world spin. I punched him in the shoulder. I sang the whole theme song to The Partridge Family and poked him in the stomach. C’mon get happy. Oh, cut it out, he said. Then we walked in silence. Finally my dad said: Really, I’m not much of a father. No, you are, I said. No, he said. He shook his head. You are too, I said. I dabble in parenthood, he said. No you don’t, I said. Deusant, he whispered. It was his favourite curse. His only curse, actually, but it covered a lot of territory because it meant thousand.

When we got home I gave him the dipping bird and he cleared the spare change off his dresser and put it there, next to a picture of my mother. Well, he said. This is quite a surprise. Thank you very much. Thank you very, very much.