Truth and Lies by Norah McClintock Page A

My legs were shaking as I made my way to the door. I passed a display of lollipops. I imagined sweeping the whole bunch of them to the floor. My arm twitched at the thought. But I didn’t do it. No way was I going to give Mr. Kiros the satisfaction of having a genuine grievance against me. I left the store without saying a word, without looking back.
    I’d been planning to go to Pape Library when I finished work. It was the closest. But I was so angry about what had just happened that instead of turning south when I got to Pape, I just kept walking, crossing Carlaw and Logan, passing Chester, heading for the viaduct.I was waiting for the light at Broadview when I saw her go by. Jen. She was sitting in the front seat of her father’s BMW. Her dad was driving.
    Jen.
    Used to be her green eyes would sparkle at me and I would think of emeralds. Imagine that—jeez, me, a guy, and I’d look into those eyes and all of a sudden I’d be thinking of lame stuff like emeralds.
    Used to be she would wrap her arms around me and lay her head against my shoulder and I’d inhale the flower-and-freshness smell of her long blond hair and feel it tickle my arms.
    Used to be I’d see her down a hallway at school or across the street in the neighborhood and she’d see me and, like someone had thrown a switch, a smile would light up her face.
    Used to be.
    She didn’t even turn her head now. I saw her framed in profile in the Beemer’s front passenger-side window. Then she was gone.
    The light changed. I couldn’t move. Jen still had that effect on me. I’d see her and it would hit me again, hard, like a hook to the belly—she wasn’t mine anymore. She had been and then, I wasn’t even sure how I’d managed it, I had lost her. I knew she was gone. I knew there was no hope of getting her back. I knew it. But knowing didn’t stop the ache I felt every time I saw her. It didn’t keep her face from appearing in my room at night when I’d just got into bed—the worst time of the day, the timewhen I realized I wasn’t in my own house anymore, Billy wasn’t downstairs anymore, nothing was the same anymore. That’s when I’d see her. And I’d think, If only … Then I’d think maybe there was something I could do, some way I could show her that I’d changed.
    I’d been so close. I’d had a chance less than a week ago. Had it and let it slip through my fingers. I’d come out of an arcade on Yonge Street, blinking in the afternoon sun, and I’d seen a vision. At least, I’d been pretty sure at the time that it was a vision. It happened sometimes. Happened to everyone.
    Once when I was twelve, I was down on Queen Street East in the Beach with Billy. Billy went into a store to get a coffee. It was a Sunday in the summer, so Queen Street was crowded with tourists and shoppers from all over. They were coming both ways on the sidewalk, wave after wave of them, heads bobbing, faces distorted by the heat that was rising in ripples from the black asphalt and the dark sidewalk. And there, right in the middle of a wave, almost knocking me off my feet with her smile, was my mother. Somewhere deep in my brain I knew it wasn’t possible, she couldn’t really be there. But I saw her. She was smiling at me and coming right at me. I started toward her. One of my feet actually left the sidewalk—I’d been going to rush into her arms. Then the world shifted or came into focus or the bubble popped or I woke up from my dream—whatever it was, disappointment and bitterness swelled through me, and I knew it wasn’t her at all. I blinked and peered atthe woman coming toward me and wondered why I had ever thought it was Mom. The woman, who was getting closer and closer and then who passed me, oblivious to me, didn’t look anything like my mother.
    I thought I’d seen Billy once too. I’d been walking home from