Andy

By Nadia Pace

Andy is a modern woman who has been accepting of her family and friends for far too long. She is reasonably happy with her boyfriend and her job, but this is about to change. Andy is thrown into a role that is unfamiliar and uncomfortable; she must rescue her brother and rely on a man that is brutish and arrogant. Andy is completely out of her element and must break away from the mold that she has forged for herself. Andy will doubt herself and her ability to survive in uncomfortable situations, but in the end she will come out stronger and wiser. But will she find her brother? Will her love life improve? Will she become the person she always dreamed of being?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9780228860716

Nadia Pace

NADIA PACE lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, with her husband. She has written children's and adult poetry books, and a children story book. She has now challenged herself to a short fictional novel. If you would like to comment on this book you can contact her on Facebook.

Book preview

Andy

Nadia Pace

Andy

Copyright © 2023 by Nadia Pace

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

The people and places in this book do not relate to anyone or any location in my life. Read the story Andy as a fictional story only.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-22886-070-9 (Hardcover)

978-0-22886-069-3 (Paperback)

978-0-22886-071-6 (eBook)

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Introduction

The world is a dangerous place.

Tread carefully. There are charlatans, liars, cheats and magicians among us all. Perhaps not; that could all be in my wild imagination. One’s cavalier attitude will not help you survive if such things exist; you must be resourceful, thrifty and always on the sunny side of the sheets. Being naive and innocent will not get you sympathy, but who needs that when your world shatters out of control? That is the question at the back of my mind as I google search for a big part of my life that is absent. I shouldn’t be teasing my brain into thinking a computer has all the answers or even if it can sympathize with me. Like a person hanging onto a rope over quicksand, my life is running out of hope; all I have is the slim possibility that a computer can fix my problems.

Chapter 1

Foul moods occur because of weather, lack of sleep, hunger or cohabitating with another person. Monday is the worst day of the week because you realize you have four more cruelling work days. You think Friday is a million hours away, and the computer is attached to your feet like a jet pack. Sometimes you’re flying high with accolades. Next thing you know, the boss fancies someone else in the company, and there promoted. The jet pack lands in Antarctica and you are freezing mad. You’re constantly trying to disguise your disappointment with projects and suggestions which fall on deaf ears, so you skate along as if nothing in the world bothers you, knowing deep inside you despise the whole system. But what else is an aging girl to do?

Weekends are precarious; you would like the time to be exclusively yours, but chores and demands from family or friends block your plans. Then there are commitments you thought you could handle; in the end, you face them with resentment and regret. Then there’s the alone time you cherish with every breath you inhale. Left alone too long, you wonder about travelling, going somewhere warm or going clothes shopping; these thoughts become real depending on your earnings.

Thrift stores were only on my radar once I met a middle-aged lady at the apartment mailbox. Charlene greeted me with a bubbliness and joie de vivre seldom seen at four-thirty.

Charlene introduced herself and said. Want to go thrift shopping this Saturday after we’ll go for coffee?

I had never shopped at a thrift store, so I said sure. Charlene and I get along because I don’t ask her about her life; she never asks me about mine. That’s the way for a relationship to last. On Saturdays, we explore the sidewalks of junk or wade through flea markets and second-hand stores, hoping to find the elusive antique that guarantees at least a couple hundred thousand. In the winter, no matter the weather, we still get out and shop. Springtime is a junk collector’s dream, and Charlene and I have spent the best time discussing why someone throws away an excellent item. You may have the same junk at home. People went to Sally Ann thrift stores as early as the 1950s. Original thrift stores were to raise money for charities or non-profit groups; today, there’s an endless rack of clothes and paraphernalia donated to stores for many needy causes. Searching google can usually tell you whether you’re holding crap or a precious heirloom.

Charlene is a skilled shopper. For example, she sees a dress size fifteen and tells me to try it on; I look in the mirror and wonder if I’ve gained that much weight.

Charlene then says. Andy, that’s made in Spain. Try a size twenty.

I say. Why size twenty.

She says. Little people live in Spain.

I look at Charlene and wonder if she’s kidding or telling the truth.

Charlene tries on clothes over clothes and makes me take a picture of her in her new outfit. I show her the photos, and we laugh; laugh so hard everyone in the store wonders what’s up with those girls. Jocularity is the best medicine for the soul; my soul needs laughter. Some customers would move away from us others would smile and say. Having a good time, are you? Perhaps they thought we were a bit looney.

Sometimes a cashier asks Charlene, What will you do with that dress? It’s rather big for you, don’t you think?

Charlene would reply nonchalantly. My husband loves to wear loose dresses to bed, it makes him feel sexy, and sometimes we get in the dress together, and well, you know the rest, don’t you?

The clerk blushes, shoving Charlene’s purchases in a bag, and never comments the next time we come into the shop. Charlene bought clothes in any size and colour, then took them home and remade them to suit her body. I thought about doing that, but I never sewed and had no interest in learning.

Charlene would hem my pants and repair some of my dresses. When she brought them to my apartment, she would say. Do you like my new skirt? Andy, you’re the sun and the moon.

Before I could say a word or give Charlene money, she was sashaying down the hall, hips adorned in a long, brightly coloured Boeheim dress. I couldn’t wait for a call from Charlene. She would always pick me up and make me feel special and needed. Charlene was a private person; I don’t know if she had a husband or, for that matter, any siblings. There were no surprises in our conversations and no gossip. It was mostly about climate change, inner-city crimes and poverty. I don’t know what she did for a living, and I have yet to ask. Charlene is my perfect stable, private friend, my only friend.

But for now, I sit at my office desk eating homemade pasta salad, minding my business as my hips and ass lethargically spread ever more expansive. I think about my boyfriend Kevin and how we are cohabitating for three years on love no bigger than a baby toenail clipping. Gross but accurate. We constantly fight about breeding, he wants children, and I don’t. Kevin is so self-centred the bulk of caring for a child would be my duty; I could feel that in my bones. I knew he loved me, but he was a guy that needed a Mother, and that is what I was most time.

People say children make it all better. No, they don’t; if it weren’t good before children, it would be even worse after children. Trust me, couples fight because we are programmed to walk on this planet as independent beings, and when someone comes along and tells us what to do, marriage becomes a job, not a union of two loving soul mates. A baby is not a puppy you put in a cage when shopping; it needs more than feeding and walking once a day. The Mother’s responsibility is the new bundle of joy nine times out of ten. I’m not disputing the fact there aren’t great single Fathers in society today doing outstanding work raising their children; I’m saying it’s a big commitment for anyone. As time progresses, the cuddly, cute, intelligent child changes into an adolescent, and they defiantly try the love nest. Teens are overflowing with hormones and striving to be on their own, so we are back to the beginning of walking on our own as they walk out the door.

Experts say divorce is better than hearing parents fight all the time. I cannot comment objectively on that statement because I wouldn’t be here without fighting. I’m positive my parents had an exhausting battle over absolutely nothing, and conception took place; today, they call it makeup sex. Kevin and I hardly fight, and I am too tired of the drama, so I stay silent. When there’s an argument, I walk away and return, acting as if nothing has happened. It’s the ignore syndrome, which means if you forget a problem long enough, it usually goes away; by the way, that’s not a scientific fact; I just made that up. Arguments can fester, and when the time comes to address the problem, all hell breaks loose, or one partner silently walks away for good.

Now you have a little look into my personality. I’m opinionated, vindictive, shy and lonely as hell.

My parents were old-fashioned; divorce was never conceived or even mentioned. They were obligated to fulfill the marital contract. They lived together until their personalities became replicated; developing the same peculiarities and even finishing each other’s statements. They agreed on most things but loved to argue on trivial matters, even in front of the mailman, neighbours and strangers on the bus. Their advantage to discussing was no one came over to borrow sugar, a lawn mower, or a snake for a clogged drain. Their repetitive battles were over the cleaning schedule, water use, where the money was going, and who was cheating on whom. Cheating with them was who had more free time than the other. Time is a precious commodity when striving to be a millionaire before fifty-five. Hell of a goal, I say.

My two brothers and I did the chores, grocery shopping and cooking. Our parent’s needed their time to argue. They weren’t physically abusive and provided us with the basic needs of survival while slowly draining each other’s energy as we ran around trying to look normal.

I asked Mom one day why they fought, and she said. It’s cheaper than therapy, and we get all the old stuff out of our system.

At ten, I thought old stuff meant junk in the house, so I asked. What old stuff?

Mom said. Dad and I didn’t have ideal childhoods, and I had a miserable Mother, and your Dad had a mean Father. When we got together, we swore never to hurt you, kids. So you run along and keep doing what you’re doing, and your life will be just fine.

I had no idea what Mom was saying. Growing up without direction is like making a cake and throwing all ingredients into a bowl, never measuring a single one. The predictable outcome will surely fail, but it could be just fine.

Our parents didn’t know us, and fine is not how I would describe our lives. Our Mother, Marie Allison Burnham, was a high school teacher. Her appearance fits the profession perfectly. She has long golden brown hair in a bun at the back of her head. Her greenish-coloured eyes could pierce through walls. Her statue was as straight as the edges of a Kleenex box. Mother’s discipline and determination reminded me of a 1940s nun supervising her gaggle of uniformed pupils under the watchful eye of the abbess. When Mom smiled, it was for the school photo or to tell Dad she made the perfect lemon loaf. I accepted her demeanour because what else did I know?

Dad’s name is Bruce Collin Foster, medium height, has a muscular chunky body, wavy blonde hair and brown eyes. He has a dowager hump on his back caused by constantly bending over a computer. He wears glasses and is always searching for them under the tables, on the tables and in every jacket pocket in the house. Nine out of ten times, his glasses are in the upper left pocket of the shirt he is currently wearing.

I asked Mom one day. "Where was Dad born?

She hesitated, and then said. The United States.

I know that, but where exactly in the United States? I said with calm frustration.

As Mom swishes a dish towel above her head, she says. Doesn’t matter; he left home at ten, stayed with an owner of a garage, then joined the military. That’s all I know.

What garage?

Andy, Tines Service Garage off some route I don’t know, interrogate your brother, not me?

You mentioned the Military?

Andy, I have pies in the oven. Please, your constant questions are making me anxious.

Occasionally I heard Dad say odd words such as program, ops or specialty. When you’re young, you don’t care what your parents do; they’re a means to recreational activities, shelter, food and some form of love. What bothered me the most was their silent killer attitude erupting unannounced at any moment of the day. If Mom spied a dish not cleaned or put away, she would throw it out the back porch smashing it to bits, saying. Die, you bastard.

Coming in from the garage, Dad would repeat the exact phrase each time. Did your Mother kill your grandmother again?

It became a family joke only shared with my brothers in the upstairs closet. The strange thing is we never met our grandparents or any other family relative, and as it goes, we were too afraid to ask where they were. I made up a story; if anyone asked where my relatives were, I said. They died in a house fire in Canada; that’s all I know.

One day just before Christmas, Dad had a load of wood delivered. Mom wanted the front room fireplace to work because she thought it would look rich and classy. The wood was too big for the small fireplace; consequently, Dad chopped it into pieces no bigger than a wooden spoon. He worked from six till midnight. From my bedroom window, I watched Dad. The scene reminded me of a train going and going, only stopping when it derails. Mom was happy. She lit the fireplace, and when the wood ran out, she boarded up the fireplace and never spoke about wood again.

I asked Mom why Dad cut the wood into such small pieces. She said. Each time he swings that axe, he envisions chopping off his Father’s head. Your Father’s mind is hard to tolerate, and one must have patience.

Later I learned Dad had only patience regarding his research in astrophysics and computers.

After chopping up, wood Dad looked exhausted from slaying invisible God knows what’s. His behaviour was like an ant building and building, then finally going underground. I knew times would be stable when Dad whistled tunes, felt Mom’s derriere, and bought various old computer parts.

Dad was always quiet and gentle, but the episodes of irrational behaviour were unexpected and nerve-wracking. There wasn’t a machine he couldn’t take apart and put back together; a part broke in the forty-year furnace or dishwasher, he just made a new part. Cha Ching fixed. He loved cars, and our backyard housed two classic cars, one Aston Martin and the other a Porsche. They were not for driving, and Dad took them apart and put them back together again just for the hell of it. My oldest brother Philip inherited some of Dad’s traits but never had the same kind of drive or intense concentration.

Dad focused on the extreme. The house could be falling around us, and he would still not move except to turn a page in his engineering digest. For example, in grade twelve, we drew pictures of human organs; my mark was six out of ten. I asked Dad to draw the human heart for me. That was a big mistake. I should have printed and traced a copy of the heart, and voila it. But no, I didn’t. We sat at the kitchen table for three hours, and I endured his consistent chatter.

The lecture began. The heart is no different than any other pump. Stuff comes in, and stuff goes out. Look at that muscle and realize it must deliver blood to all body parts. The arteries and valves are an engineering feat. If you look at things differently, they become clear in your mind. Did you know an adult’s heart pumps two thousand gallons of blood daily? Humans are unaware of that fact; aren’t we an amazing machine.

After that, I earned an eight out of ten on most anatomical illustrations. It was hard for me to stay focused during science labs as the boys twirled around and around on their lab stools. Their tight jeans and muscular asses were my constant distraction. Mom was glad I made it through high school without becoming pregnant. My aunt was pregnant at fifteen, and we heard about that at least three times a week. At University, I studied behavioural science and math. I diagnosed Dad as an idiot savant. Today they use slang terms such as nerd, spacey, or just out there.

When I called Dad, I had to ask for Mr. Foster. I wondered for many years why I couldn’t say. Is Dad there? He was my Father, after all. My older brother Philip never went by Foster; he preferred Dude, Linus or Bro."

Dad spent most of his younger years outside grooming, pruning and planting in our one-acre backyard. When he got older, he spent quiet time inside. For us, that’s when the nightmare began. Philip and I wore slippers and moved as if we were downhill skiing. Mom and Dad argued, and things heated, which usually resulted in Mom in one room and Dad in another. It was a standoff for a few weeks until a well-dressed man came to the house asking for Dad. Mom was in a tither. She graciously showed the men into the basement. If a favourable deal occurred for one of Dad’s inventions, he was all smiles and hugged Mom and said he was sorry. That money secured marital bliss. We were too young to understand what Dad was talking about when he discussed his inventions.

Sometimes three or four suited men came to the house. Mom constantly paced the floor, saying. "He’s asking for more money; the man couldn’t negotiate