First Day

By Jennifer Ellis

This story is dedicated to my Dad, Roger Ellis – and the Gypsies

 

 

 

I didn’t want to go. My sister and I were sitting on the couch silent and sullen.  I surveyed the aftermath from our Last- Night-in-California-Party as my dad packed his carry on with our passports.

“Don’t forget to bring your jackets with you on the plane,” he cautioned my sister and I. “It might be cold when we land in Toronto.”  I furrowed my brow and sunk deeper into the sofa hoping that it would swallow me whole.

I hadn’t been on a plane since the summer of 1987. My sister and I went to Ft. Lauderdale to visit my grandparents; my mother’s parents. My mom was still alive. She was deteriorating from Multiple Sclerosis, and my dad was struggling to keep it together. They all thought it would be a good idea to ship us to Florida while he figured out how to make ends meet, and take care of my mom’s medical bills. No one ever imagined that she would be dead just before Christmas 1989. On the way to the airport to leave for Florida, I’d puked all over my new tennis shoes, and all over the back seat of Grandpa Arties rental car. Almost three years later, I could still taste the bitter taste of fear and bile, as we drove away from 510 Winchester Ave. on the way to LAX.

I somehow made it on to the plane without a repeat performance of the 1987 throw-up disaster. I looked out the window for virtually the whole flight. Until we crossed the border and started to descend. I turned to my dad in a panic.

“Daddy, where are the mountains? I questioned.

“There aren’t any mountains in Toronto, Jen,” my dad gently explained. “Canada has beautiful mountains in B.C., But no mountains in Ontario.”

I turned back to the window and stared down at the foreign flat landscape. And I wondered how I could live without the familiar view and protection of the Verdugo hills.

We landed late afternoon. The line for customs stretched all the way back to the end of the room, and my patience from staring at the sterile orange tiled floor was running out. There was no escaping this room until the stone faced guy sitting behind the partition studied your face and your passport, and asked when your last bowel movement was. Then and only and then you were allowed to officially ‘enter Canada.’  Once we reached the terminal from what felt like escaping the Iran hostage crisis, I asked my dad for some change to get a drink from the vending machine. It cost a dollar ten for a can of Coke that was about the size of a juice box. What a rip off! How dare these Canadians deny my oversized American thirst? I went into the duty-free to inspect the magazine rack. I picked up the latest Teen Beat. Finally, something familiar. As I admired the latest shot of New Kids on the Block from their Magic Summer tour splashed on the cover, I noticed something under the title: “Canada’s #1 Teen Magazine.” I was officially in the Twilight Zone; and there was no hope of escape. No matter how much my surroundings seemed familiar, it was clear I was no longer in Glendale. I wasn’t even in the United States, for Gods’ sake. I was in Canada. This weird place with small and expensive cans of Coke.

My Auntie Penny greeted my sister and my dad and I with a big smile and even bigger hugs.

“Oh my goodness, it’s so great to see you Jen!” Auntie Penny gushed.

“Hi,” I said nervously as she squeezed me hello.

I had never met her, and wasn’t sure about getting hugs from people I didn’t know. But I couldn’t help but feel a familiar warmth from her greeting, and that somewhat eased my new immigrant anxiety.

We got into a taxi and headed to Scarborough to Grandpas house. Our new home. The sky was covered in clusters of grey and white clouds as we headed down the freeway. Auntie Penny called it a highway. Highways were what you drove on heading into the dessert, I thought. I wanted to correct her and tell her that we were on a freeway. I decided to keep my mouth shut when I noticed that this freeway contrasted the chaos of L.A traffic, as we moved down the road without stopping even once. This was definitely not a freeway.

As we turned onto my grandpas’ street I noticed that the trees had stared to turn colour.  Grandpa George lived on a nice suburban street with big houses. No apartment complexes. The houses all had well-manicured, green lawns and perennials in the front gardens. I’d only seen something like that on Who’s the Boss?

As I got out of the car I was assaulted by an unfamiliar wind that seemed to permeate my sweater. I quickly followed Auntie Penny inside and dropped my luggage in the foyer. I was stunned. grandpa’s house had stairs. I remember I’d always wanted to live in a house with a staircase. I always thought it would make me feel rich. I was trying not to show how impressed I was, but I couldn’t wait to brag about my new staircase to my friend Monica. Then a sinking feeling washed over me. Monica was thousands of miles away. Telling her wouldn’t be the same as showing her. I distracted myself from the reality of my new life by imagining that Tony and Angela lived around the corner.

Grandpa received us with warm greetings and his captivating British accent. He looked like the typical grandpa. Bald on the top, white hair on the sides of his head, often donning a driver’s cap and sporting grandpa sweaters. I think he had come to California twice to visit. He bought me a Pound Puppy-which I loved. He had lost his dear Olive, my Grandmother, the same year I had lost my mother. It was a hard time for our family. Grandpa wasn’t in good health. He seemed fine, but he had a pace maker placed in his chest recently and was suffering from heart disease. I wanted to tell him I knew how he felt; that I’m sure I looked fine, but my heart was hurting, too.

That night, as my dad was setting the table for dinner, I opened the fridge to look for the milk, when I was put off by the strangest thing. At the bottom of the fridge were bags filled with a white milky substance. I was totally grossed out. I was convinced it was some kind of IV medication bag for grandpa. There’s no way that was the milk.

“Daddy, I can’t find the milk!” I shouted.

“I told you it’s on the bottom shelf,” he said.

I closed the fridge and stormed into the dining room as my Dad was setting the table.

“Daddy,” I huffed. “All I see is bags of white stuff.”

“Yeah that’s the milk. It’s in the bags,” he said casually, as he laid out Grandma Olives’ china.

My universe imploded.

“What is wrong with this place?!” I fumed.  “How the hell am I going to drink milk from a bag?”

“You’ll get used to it,” he chuckled.

I felt like the Powers That Be were trying to trick me into believing I was still in the United States. People drove in cars, wore blue jeans, spoke English. First with the mini Coke cans and now my milk in bags?  What if I got kidnapped? No milk cartons on kitchen tables so people could see my missing chubby twelve-year-old face, while eating their cornflakes.

That night trying to fall asleep I felt like I had actually been kidnapped. I was in an unfamiliar bedroom, lying in a different bed, with a different blanket. I lay there feeling completely helpless. I turned my head into my first ever down filled pillow, and cried. And cried some more. I wished I could cry enough tears to wash me away back to California, where I was sure I belonged.

Going Home

by Roger Ellis and Jennifer Ellis

God, what a mess! It was 5:30 a.m. and I was scrambling to get ready to leave for the airport after what felt like about five minutes of sleep. The apartment was a disaster. The living room was littered with empty coke cans, half eaten slices of pizza, and half a pint of melted Bryers on the coffee table. I had let the girls have their friends over for a goodbye party. I’d grounded Becky to the apartment for the last 48 hours, to prevent her from running away with her boyfriend.  I was thankful that although Jen was unhappy about this move, at least I didn’t have to put her under house arrest. The kids were sitting on the couch, half asleep and miserable as we waited for Bob. Bob was my former co-worker, and he was going to be picking us up in about twenty minutes in the Snookies’ Cookies delivery van to take us to LAX. I must’ve put over over a hundred thousand miles on that thing. I gathered our passports, my drivers licence, and our birth certificates, and secured them in carry on.

“Don’t forget to bring your jackets with you on the plane,” I reminded the girls. “It might be cold when we land in Toronto.”

I looked down at our tickets. It seemed unreal. Three tickets: LA to Toronto. This was actually happening. I’m going back home. I didn’t really know if this was actually home. But this, where I stood; this wasn’t home anymore.

Bob helped us pile our suitcases into the van. My mind was consumed with a collage of worry. I thanked Bob, for getting us to the airport on time-one less stress for my weary mind, and the kids and I made our way to the plane. I made sure they were settled in their seats, and soon enough we were headed down the runway, and in the air. Well, there you go; just like that, we were gone. I had been living in L.A for fourteen years. I’d spent the last six of them watching Elyse slowly die from the ravages of Multiple Sclerosis. We spent the majority of those years waiting for, and riding on the bus to see her, because our car had been repossessed.  I closed my eyes and tried to meditate. If Elyse were here, she would tell me to meditate. I was really missing my wife.

“Daddy where are the mountains?” Jen nervously inquired as the plane flew over Toronto.

“There aren’t any mountains in Toronto, Jen,” I explained. “Canada has beautiful mountains in B.C., But no mountains in Ontario.”

She turned back to the to the window, looking deflated.

We landed safely in Toronto, and headed to customs. I was concerned about the litany of questions Canadian Immigration officials would ask me. I always felt like a criminal when dealing with officials because I used to look like Graham Nash when I toured with my band Edward Bear, and of course all musicians with long hair and beards were smuggling a few kilos on their way to and from gigs. The Man didn’t like us. And we didn’t like them.

The line was long as I expected, and the girls were tired and hungry. They kept asking when we would be out of the seemingly never-ending line up of people. We got out just before I thought Jen was going to crash through the barrier to look for a Snickers. I gave her some change for the vending machine as soon as we got through, so she wouldn’t have a nervous breakdown.

My next item on the worry list was what it would be like not only seeing my father, but living with him. We had a long history of not seeing eye to eye. He had developed heart disease and had been recently fitted with a pace maker. He needed someone to take care of him. And I needed a new start. I was trying to be hopeful.

As we waited for my sister Penny to pick us up, I enjoyed the crisp Canadian air in my lungs. It was literally a breath of fresh air compared to the stifling smog we were smothered in while living in L.A. Penny arrived with open arms, and we headed to my dad’s house. The carport was adorned with three flags. Canadian, American and the good old Union Jack for Britain. My entire family had immigrated from England. And here I was with my American kids, immigrating back to Canada. It was nice to see that my dad wanted us all to feel welcome. We walked inside 61 Bergen Road, and I hugged my old man. The kids sheepishly explored their new home with my sister, while my dad and I had good chat about the day’s events. Bob Rae had been elected that very day as premier of Ontario. Although my dad and I didn’t always share the same views, we could both agree that Ontario needed NDP party.

That evening as I was setting the table for dinner, Jen was demanding some answers about milk.

“Daddy,” she gasped. “All I see is bags of white stuff.”

“Yeah, that’s the milk. It’s in the bags.” I told her.

She looked like I had told her she had to drink her milk on Mars.

“What is wrong with this place?! she complained.  “How the hell am I going to drink milk from a bag?”

“You’ll get used to it,” I laughed.

There were so many new things for the kids to learn. The metric system alone was going to be traumatic enough. I also had so much I needed to do. The worry chaos was far from empty in my head. I had to get a job, quick. And I had to get the kids in school. I worried for my kids so much, it hurt. They were dealing with the loss of their friends, and all of their familiar places. They had to say goodbye to the mountains, Brand Park, and Marina Del Rey. The girls called it the beach with no waves. All of this after having to say goodbye to their mother. Yes, it was a new start, and although Elyse was with us in spirit, we carried her death with us. As I lay down that night I tried to calm the anxiety that was busy in my head. I couldn’t help but wonder, what would become of us all?  I thought, Jesus – how are we going to get ourselves whole again? Maybe I’ll know when I wake up.