Call Me Mimi Read online

  “Girls, I’m sure your parents are very proud of you.”

  I knew Maman was. I never told her what I faced at St. Mary’s, but I’m sure she recognized that it was hard for me – she’s very smart about most things. But I guess her dream involved giving me a shot at a world populated by the Fine Old Families of Montréal and I wasn’t going to be the one to disillusion her. She had put her whole life on hold to give me what she considered my biggest chance. But big as I was, I had grown to feel like an invisible half-person. On the way to the Queen Elizabeth Hotel in my green pouffy dress, my feet pillowing up between the straps of my pink sandals, I had played my favorite game: Is that man with the briefcase my father? What about the one with the folded La Presse? Or the one looking at his reflection and picking his teeth, God forbid? I wanted to know. I needed to know.

  Mr. McTavish took three small steps back and then a giant step forward. “It’s time to introduce a lady who has been a model of leadership and school spirit throughout her academic career. Please welcome Macy Moore!”

  Everyone applauded as Macy climbed the steps leading to the stage, except Mrs. McKnight, who was rolling her eyes and sipping from her punch glass. Macy may have been gnashing her perfect white teeth over Dorian, but she looked serene and gorgeous. Mean and gorgeous.

  “Thank you, Mr. McTavish, and what a great tie! Ralph Lauren?” Mr. McTavish turned red and backed away. (Good thinking, Mr. McT. Don’t turn your back on her.)

  “Hi, all! We have a special treat for you tonight. It’s a pleasure to host this year’s St. Mary’s Academy Awards. And to do so, please welcome my cohost, Akila Molson.”

  Same thing. Clap clap clap clap clap clap.

  “What an honor to be up here with our queen, Macy, ohmigaaaaaawd!” Akila trailed off into a squeal. (I wanted to yell, Quick, someone, get the fire hose. But of course I didn’t, and Akila more or less composed herself.)

  Our uniforms were supposed to free us from fashion rivalries and make us feel equal. That’s rich. All the uniform code achieved was elevating accessories to objects of veneration – your identity was created by your shoes and handbags.

  “Our first award is for handbags,” Macy announced. “Who had the hottest handbag during the last school year? Our finalists are Alice for her red Hermès, Muriel’s Birkin bag, and, of course, Christianne, who blew us all away with her Dooney & Bourke….”

  The Prom Night awards covered shoes, cufflinks (we wore shirts, remember), earrings,stockings, hair bands, everything except our kilts, jackets, shirts, and ties. Despite the shrieks of the presenters and the winners, it was stunningly dull. I should have stayed home and listened to my Céline Dion CDs. When I listen to them, I don’t care about what I look like, or fingers pointing at me, or people making jokes they think I don’t understand – her music makes me free.

  I still remember the first time I heard her voice. Maman and I were in the mall, I was maybe seven years old, and it was wintertime. Maman was looking to buy a TV – our first – and on all the screens in the store, there she was: a thin silhouette moving like a swan, her hair floating in the air, and a crystal voice dancing on panpipe music on the Titanic. The next three or four minutes were the most moving, inspiring, electrifying, and troubling of my entire life. Something had shifted in my heart, but I couldn’t express it with words – it was the same feeling I had when I learned how to read my very first sentence in grade one and could understand the meaning of it, like eating a crème brûlée when the sky above your head is bursting with fireworks and possibilities.

  Finally, after many false starts, Mr. McTavish was able to grab the mike. “Well done, girls! That about wraps it –”

  Macy took the mike from his hand. “There’s one more category,” she said firmly. “Perfume!”

  “Ohmigawd, no kidding!” said Akila, as if Macy were about to announce a cure for AIDS.

  “This is the last award. The finalists for the most unforgettable perfume are – ohmigawd – Akila for Calvin Klein’s Euphoria because it’s really feminine, me for Christian Dior’s Diorissimo because it smells like carnations, and,” she paused for effect, “Mimi!”

  The crowd stamped and whistled. I looked around, confused.

  “For Preparation H!”

  At first, all that registered was my name. The pain followed. I felt as if someone had skewered my heart with two long knitting needles. I stuffed my hand in my mouth to make sure that no sound could seep out and ran as fast as I could. Everyone was looking at me. If Mr. McTavish said anything above the din, I didn’t hear it. My pink high-heeled sandal snagged on the rug and broke. I limped into the luxurious women’s washroom and huddled on the floor of the handicapped stall.

  “Mimi? Mimi?” I felt a hand on my shoulder. I tried to hide my face because I knew my mascara had made black football-player smudges under my eyes.

  “Please, leave me alone …,” I said.

  “I’m so sorry. That girl is so mean! She’s always been mean, and there’s nothing any of us can do to change it.”

  I recognized Mrs. McKnight’s voice. She must have crawled under the door. She was on her knees, rocking me like a baby.

  “Why?” That was the only word that came to my mind, and I said it into Mrs. McKnight’s shoulder over and over. “What am I going to do? Everyone saw me run away and fall.”

  “Well, you don’t actually have to do anything. The disc jockey’s started and everybody’s dancing. You can just leave. But I won’t let you. I want you to wash your face, go back to that ballroom, and ask for the apology you so royally deserve.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Not only can you, but you will. Give me your hand!”

  “No, please!”

  “Look, Mimi. If you leave this school knowing just one thing, it should be this. I know those girls have colluded to make you miserable. That’s done. But don’t be part of the plot. Don’t let other people define who you are! You have to write your own story if you are going to be truly happy in this life. Now haul your sorry self on up.”

  She helped me pull off my other sandal and hoisted me to my feet. She ran water in the sink and washed my face with one of the hotel’s scented fake-cloth towels.

  With every wipe and pat, Mrs. McKnight grumbled her outrage. “Spoiled brats! And they look ridiculous. ‘Look at me, Akila! I’ve got breasts!’ ‘Me, too, Macy. I’m so empowered. It’s not about attracting males, no, no, it’s about taking control of my own, like, destiny.’ ‘Yeah, like, doesn’t that make me special?’ And that wimpy, boot-licking McTavish….” When she was finished, we both plunked down companionably on the marble floor.

  It was the first time I’d ever heard Mrs. McKnight say anything like that. I loved it and wanted more. She smiled and I laughed with relief.

  “Oh, look at you, laughing now. I wanted to hear that laugh so badly, dear. Those girls don’t deserve a single one of your tears.”

  “You’re right.” I wiped my nose on my bow.

  “I’m no fortune-teller, but there are some things I can predict. I have a hunch which of you has a shot at calculating pi, or helping to save the rainforest, or addressing the United Nations in a closed session, or negotiating a peace treaty in the Middle East, or discovering a cure for gingivitis, or just being a good, caring adult. And my money’s not on Macy or Akila.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s hard to do any of that stuff when you’re fixated on text-messaging your friends about a pair of shoes you have to have and choosing the right facial exfoliant. Or you’ll just die, ohmigawd.”

  I laughed again, and so did Mrs. McKnight.

  “Are you ready?” She was struggling to her feet.

  “For what?”

  “For your punch-up with Macy.”

  I looked up at her as she held out her hand to me.

  “I’m just kidding, honey, although it’s not that I wouldn’t love to see it. Seriously, I want her to apologize to you.”

  “Mrs. McKnight, I just want to go home.”

  She must have recognized the mulelike quality I could summon for such occasions because she said, “I can’t force you to do something you don’t want to do. Do you need a ride?”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  We went out a side exit so I wouldn’t have to face anybody. Mrs. McKnight drove me home in her old blue Toyota. She had the radio blaring “Come On (Let the Good Times Roll),” and we didn’t even try to talk.

  aman was hovering at the door, a mug of hot chocolate in her hand, as I turned the key. Her eager face sagged as she studied mine.

  “What happened? Your eyes are red. And where are your shoes?”

  “Maman, just leave me alone, s’il te plaît.”

  “Mimi, talk to me. Dis à maman. It breaks my heart when I see you like this.”

  I couldn’t bear her pain as well as my own. I ran down the hall to my bedroom and closed the door behind me. Her tired voice followed me. “I’m here for you, Mimi, and I always will be. We’re a team, you and me!”

  I unzipped the green dress and it fell in a puddle at my ankles. I turned to my mirror, half-naked. I stared at my straight straw hair, the scars left from my bout with chicken pox, my legs, my hips, by big butt, my stomach, my breasts, and my face, as if they belonged to someone else. I looked like a middle-aged woman who had let herself go – my maman, in fact. Every part of me was extralarge. She and I were two super-dressed extralarge pizzas – the kind that could feed ten thousand. There was flab under my arms and on my butt. I had two chins. I looked like a Cabbage Patch Kid, but not as cute. I touched my breasts and my belly. The flesh felt like Jell-O – it moved around, and I could squeeze it with my fingers.

  “Where do you come from, you bouncy castle?” (The inflatable toy – the bouncy castle at day care had been my favorite place in the whole world until I outgrew it.)

  Was my father fat like me, or was he slim? Were my father’s eyes blue like mine? Did he have other children, and did they look like me? Had he been a med student who needed money to pay his tuition, or some lazy jerk who couldn’t be bothered getting a real job? What does it matter, if you’re too chicken to try to find out?

  I thought of Mrs. McKnight’s laugh. She would hate this scene.

  “Okay, Mimi, snap out of it! You’re a smart person. If you could just get over worrying about what other people think of you, you could do anything. Don’t let anyone mess with your talent or your heart.”

  I took stock. Maman had handed me a life, but I hadn’t used it yet – it was still in its plastic wrapping. I was making the girl in the mirror cry. That infuriated me. Suddenly, I was tired. I fished around for one of my fantasies, but I couldn’t conjure up Céline, or the queen, or the beauty pageant. Quit it! Nobody’s going to live your life for you. You are the biggest coward in the whole wide world. If you’re so obsessed with your father, go find him!

  PRACTICAL MIMI

  Is now the time to mention the practicalities? This is why I couldn’t find my father.

  I had just graduated from high school with a fistful of acceptances to good universities. I’d narrowed it down to McGill, so I could live at home. Why pay for housing?

  The sperm bank was in Toronto and the idea of traveling far from Montréal terrified me. People might laugh at my English or at my size.

  Maman would never let me go.

  I unbuttoned my Persian-kitten pajama bag and shook out my nightgown. It had ruffles and buttons all down the front (I suspect it was actually for nursing mothers), and the soft cotton always gave me a little shiver of pleasure. I opened the drawer of my bedside table and ran my fingers over my stock of chocolate bars. Aha! I believe Madame will be having a Hershey’s this evening! I’ve learned not to feel guilty ever since I read that dark chocolate has more antioxidants – they destroy free radicals that can damage cells and contribute to disease – than red wine or berries.

  I pulled back the comforter and arranged the pillows. But, oddly enough, something stopped me before I could unwrap the candy. An unfamiliar voice had stirred in me: Mimi, put that chocolate bar back! I did as I was told and slept for twelve hours.

  hen I opened my eyes, the sun was beating in through the window. I could hear the midday sounds of the street. Maman was sitting on my bed, a forced smile stretching her cheeks.

  “How are you, chérie? Sleep well?”

  “Okay. Comme ci comme ça.”

  “I made crepes for breakfast. Do you want them with the works? I’ve got sour cream.”

  I wanted to tell her, Maman, look at me! Do you really think I need more fat? but I never “talked fat” with her. She always rewarded me with food when I was a kid. As far as I remember, she put honey on my pacifier and, later, gave me Little Debbie snack cakes after school every time I got an A+. And I got plenty of them.

  “What’s wrong, Mimi? Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?”

  “Maman, can we not talk about it?”

  Maman shifted her bulk and the bed creaked. She was the size of a Smart Car, but she hadn’t always been overweight. I’d seen pictures. She used to be normal. I was too, until I turned twelve and went from what the kids called carpenter’s delight, flat as a board, to a ship with a huge prow. All this happened when Maman had slated me for Greater Things at St. Mary’s. I guess the apple (or is it the apple strudel?) doesn’t fall very far from the tree.

  “Mrs. McKnight phoned. She told me what happened.”

  I covered my ears with my hands.

  “Mimi, please, écoute bien.”

  I couldn’t help it. I crossed my arms and looked at the ceiling, wishing her to vanish.

  “Mrs. McKnight told me that the girls were mean to you and –”

  “Please, Maman! I don’t need you to tell me what they did. I was there, remember?”

  Maman took me in her arms, and I could feel her tears dampening the top of my head.

  “I’m so sorry, chérie,” she said. “It’s all my fault. There is so much I couldn’t give you, but I wanted you to have a real chance.”

  “It’s okay, Maman. Ça ne fait rien. I guess there are mean girls everywhere. They aren’t the ones that stuffed me full of food. I managed that myself.”

  She smoothed my hair.

  “Maman, there’s something I want to tell you.” The room, with its pink striped paper and posters of Monet’s Water Lilies framed in silk, seemed stifling and small.

  “Oui, chérie?”

  “You know I love you, right?”

  “Okay, what’s up?”

  I didn’t really have a plan until I started to talk, and then it fell into place, as if I had been thinking about it for months. “I want to go to Toronto for the summer.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “To find the donor.” (I never used the word “father” in front of her.)

  “But what about your plans for the summer?”

  “Maman, my plans consist of pouring coffee at Herta’s and reading ahead for my courses. I can pour and read in Toronto.”

  She picked at the crocheted throw at the foot of the bed. “I don’t understand. Why is finding him so important to you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because with it being just you and me, I’m scared about what would happen if you were gone. That would leave me with nobody. Grandma and Grandpa died when you were sixteen, and you don’t even talk to Tante Amélie.”

  That was the best I could do. In truth, I didn’t know why. I just knew that I felt like I was scrambled inside and that I had to take a step outside of this room, this life, if I was ever going to put myself in order.

  She stood up and looked at me as if I were a stranger.

  But I was on a roll. I couldn’t stop myself. “Why don’t you ever talk about Tante Amélie? What happened between you? She’s the only family you have left.” Tante Amélie was a subject almost as sensitive and off-limits as my donor-father.

  “You are the only family I have left, Mimi, and that’s always been enough for me. I thought it was enough for you too.”

  “There’s got to be more than this.”

  Maman had the day off. The discussion went on and on, right through the day-long, end-of-term sorting out of school artifacts – the kilt with its ink stains, the report cards, the essays. We’d be talking about safe things, like what to keep and what to ditch, and then the subject would resurface.

  “You can’t go to Toronto. There’s crime there. Besides, all they speak is English.”

  “Je parle anglais (sort of). That’s why you sent me to St. Mary’s, remember? And it’s not like there’s no crime here.”

  “What would you do? I can’t afford to support you. Everything I have saved up is for your tuition.”

  “I’ll get a job.”

  “I know! What if we go there together and spend a week sightseeing? That’ll be a nice change.”

  “Why? Pourquoi?”

  “Because you can’t go there alone. Don’t you read the newspapers? Girls get kidnapped by crazy people.”

  “The whole point is for me to go alone. I have to try my wings.”

  Maman finished taping up a cardboard box and was writing MEMENTOS – MIMI on it with Magic Marker. “Is that from a song of Céline Dion?”

  Later I found her sitting at the kitchen table. Everything was clean and shiny and white and ordered. She had put freshly cut tulips in a vase. Her eyes were puffy. She started in again.

  “You have everything you need right here. You can work just down the street, and you can read all you like without a thought about laundry or groceries, just your books.”

  “I need a break. I don’t want books, I want people.”

  “Do you think that things will really be different there? People can be cruel, you know.” With her finger, Maman traced a flower on the linen placemat in front of her.