toward her home.
It had been one of those days, starting from when she’d got up to find her roommate’s dog, Diefenbaker, had torn the insoles out of her shoes. The right one was salvageable. The left one, not at all. And who knew there was a metal bar just above the soles? She hadn’t until she’d seen it for herself. With no time to stop and buy an insole, she’d put two socks on that foot and, planning to run out at lunchtime and buy new shoes, hoped for the best.
That idea went out the window when her sister, Mariah, turned up before the clinic even opened.
“I need your car,” she said, making it a demand, rather than a request. “I have an appointment at ten on the other side of town.”
“Use Mom’s, or Dad’s.” Yet, even as Sara tried to be firm, she knew it was probably a losing battle. “I have stuff I have to do at lunchtime.”
“Dad’s gone to Clinton to work, and Mom has some errands to run, so I need your car.”
Sara’s heart sank. Although her dad was a semi-retired farrier, “going to Clinton” usually meant more drinking beer than actual work, especially on a Friday during the London harness racing season. Not to mention the fact that Dad was notoriously horrible about getting people to settle their accounts. Even if he did work, he’d probably never see a dime.
And despite their perennial need for money, Mom didn’t have the heart to nag him about his lack of financial acumen.
Mariah turned from demanding to wheedling. “I’ll get it back to you before lunchtime. This is really important. A job interview.”
“You could take the bus, you know. There’s plenty of time.”
“Not when I have to go home and change first. I’d need to take two buses, and it looks like it’s going to rain. I’d be a mess when I get there, and it might cost me the job.”
The thought of one of her sisters being gainfully employed was a heady one, given their propensity for drifting along, doing as little as possible to get by.
“Okay.” Even as she capitulated, Sara knew she shouldn’t. “But, seriously, I need it back before lunch. I have to get new shoes, and I promised to check in on Nonni too.”
Mariah wrinkled her nose, one corner of her lip curling.
“I don’t know why you bother. Aunt Jackie is there all the time with her, and she was always so mean to you. You shouldn’t waste your time on her.”
Sara hadn’t argued the point. Mariah was right about how cruel their maternal grandmother had been to her adopted grandchild, but whatever Sara did for the now senile old woman had nothing to do with Nonni. She was helping her aunt and mother, who had given her nothing but love and acceptance her entire life.
“I promised I’d go, so make sure you bring the car back on time, okay?”
“Sure, sure,” was her sister’s response but, up until the time Sara’s shift ended at four, she still hadn’t returned it.
Then Cyndi, their younger sister, had started calling and texting at about eleven, as usual wanting Sara to intervene in one of her interminable arguments with their mother.
“She won’t listen to me, Sissie.” Sara knew there was nothing but trouble ahead when Cyndi used that particular nickname. “I can’t get into the culinary course on time if Mom and Dad won’t pay for it now.”
“I’m not getting involved, Cyndi. Sorry.”
“But if you tell Mom it’s a good idea, she’ll listen.”
Sara actually didn’t think it a good idea for Cyndi to sign up for yet another course, when she’d failed to finish either of the other two she’d started over the last three years. Yet her saying so would only make Cyndi dig in her heels.
“Listen, why don’t you save up some money and take the course the next time it’s offered? That way you don’t have to depend on Mom and Dad to be able to do it.”
Cyndi didn’t even dignify that suggestion with an answer, just moved on to the next plan of attack.
“Couldn’t you lend me the money? It’s only two thousand dollars.”
Only? What world was Cyndi living in that two thousand dollars wasn’t a lot of money?
“Firstly, I just made my student loan payment,” Sara told her. “I don’t have any cash to spare. Secondly, saying you want to borrow it really doesn’t fly, since I don’t see how you’d pay it back.” Not wanting a protracted argument, she finished up with, “I have to go back to work. Talk to you later.”
Undeterred, Cyndi sent so many texts, the tone increasingly desperate, that Sara had ended up turning off the ringer on her phone.
To make it all worse, the freezing cold January rain and ice mix Mariah had predicted had waited to start until Sara was standing at the bus stop. With the exception of her jacket, all the rest of her winter gear—boots, gloves and toque—was in her car. After all, she hadn’t expected to have to take the bus or walk to get home.
Really, though, she shouldn’t be surprised. Her family, sisters in particular, seemed to feel it was Sara’s responsibility to do whatever was necessary to make their lives more comfortable, and Sara let herself be a pushover.
She remembered when Mariah had been born. Sara had already been seven when her mother had got pregnant, despite the doctors saying it would never happen, and she’d been so excited to go from lonely only to big sister. When the baby had come home, she’d eagerly helped her mother and father, and somehow it seemed she’d never stopped.
It often felt there was no time for herself, to work toward her own dreams and goals. Being viewed as an easy mark was one thing, but when you added being caught in a tug of love between Cyndi and her mom, and looking after Nonni, it often felt like too much. The emotional strain and financial pressure had stressed her to the point of a functional gastrointestinal disorder. Sometimes just seeing one of her family members’ numbers pop up on her phone made her stomach roil and burn, her teeth clench.
That wasn’t something she shared with her family, though. Since childhood everyone had commented on how independent and reliable she was, and, as she finally opened her front door, Sara reflected that there were far worse ways her family could think of her.
Her relief at finally getting home evaporated when, calling out to the French bulldog jumping up and down in the kitchen, she saw the note from her roommate.
Sara, going to be late. Walk Dief for me.
Not even a “please” or a “thank you.”
But it wouldn’t be fair to take out her bad mood on the dog by refusing to walk him when he’d been locked up by himself all day.
“Well, Dief, since I’m already wet, we might as well go for that walk now.”
And she had to giggle when, hearing her say “walk,” the dog danced on his hind legs, turning in circles.
After changing into a pair of dry sneakers, Sara let him out of the kitchen and hooked his leash to his collar.
