To the Booters, Campies and Corpies who keep me sweating, laughing, cursing and crying—you’re all bananas. Never change.
To Ben Redhead, the valves of my heart. Thank you, and keep writing.
To my parents, Viv, Steps, Flashes, in-laws and all the littles, thank you for this big, ridiculous family. G&G (&G), I wish you were here to see this (sorry for the language). And to Derry, Risa and Morgan: you are my fortress. Nothing I am or do is possible without you.
Guy. As always, thank you for letting me close the door, and for listening, and for believing in me. I love you, Itch. And will still most likely kill you in the morning.
Finally, Northumberland County, with all your freaks and geeks…Cold Water couldn’t exist without you.
REGAN MCDONELL studied poetry at the University of Victoria with Patrick Lane and Lorna Crozier, then promptly put the pen down to pursue a career in textile and graphic design. Now Creative Director at a Toronto-based marketing agency, Regan spends her days designing apparel for kids and her nights writing fiction for teens. She has no pets or children, but she does have a bass player, and is auntie, oba and tädi to four surprising, funny little humans. She also leaves love letters on subways for strangers to find.
This is her first published work. For more information, go to www.writerregan.com.
ONE
“I’m wet,” a voice whimpers in my ear.
My eyelids snap open as my head jerks from the pillow. Evan stands beside my bed, hair disheveled, naked from the waist down. Chicken legs shivering.
“What?” I blink, trying to clear my head.
“I’m wet.” Now the tears come.
“Evan!” I grab his wrist and drag him, wailing, toward his bedroom. “Not again!”
In the early-morning sun filtering through the blinds, Maisie is still asleep in her bed next to his, curled up with a matted lamb. I strip the blankets and sheets from the mattress, cursing under my breath. I fling everything in a pile at his feet.
“Disgusting,” I say, eyeing the foul wet circle. Rounding on him, I bring my finger right up to his pale face. “Tonight, you’re wearing a pull-up.”
“No! No diaper!” He sobs harder now.
“Yes, diaper!” I snap. “If you act like a baby, you have to wear a diaper.” Maisie stirs in her bed, makes a chirping sound and rolls over.
Evan gives up arguing now and shivers, tears running down his cheeks. He scratches at his peed-on legs. He looks so pathetic, I start to feel sorry for him. I check the clock for the first time. Mickey Mouse’s hands tell me it’s 6:15 AM. I was cheated out of an extra fifteen minutes of sleep.
“C’mon,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him to the bathroom. I mop him up and find a clean pair of underwear. The plastic garbage bag I always put under his sheet has slipped to one side in the night, so I scrub his wet mattress for a minute before giving up. What’s one more stain at this point? He waits on the sofa in his Batman underwear while I wake up Maisie and get started.
Breakfast. Shower for me while they’re eating. Lunches. I lay their clothes on the sofa and let them watch some alphabet cartoon while they dress themselves. That gives me ten minutes to get myself ready. Right before we leave, I try to wrestle a brush through Maisie’s straggly mess of cinnamon curls.
She shrieks, trying to writhe away. I clamp my hands on her shoulders and push her back down. “Sit still! You want to look like a hobo on your first day at a new school?”
She gives me a dirty look but gets her shoes on when I tell her to. I help Evan into his.
“All ready?” I say, trying to sound more cheerful. Evan nods slowly, and Maisie just stares. “Okay then.”
I lock the door behind me, and we shuffle to the end of the hall. The elevator smells like piss again. I blame the loser on the floor below us, who roams the halls in his bathrobe half the time.
“Don’t touch anything,” I tell Evan and Maisie, making them stand on either side of me. This place is even more of a dump than the last, and that’s saying a lot. In the lobby we follow a worn path across the dirt-colored carpet to the main door and step into the bright September sun. Once outside, Maisie perks up and starts to tell me about her dream, which involves a farm.
“I got to ride the pony as much as I wanted,” she says, skipping over the cracks in the sidewalk.
I pick up the pace. Evan almost runs to keep up, two fingers gripping my belt loop. We follow the sidewalk to a strip mall half a block away, stopping in front of a rainbow-striped sign: Little Treasures Day Care. Someone has thrown a rock through the corner of the sign, so the r in Care doesn’t line up anymore.
Mrs. Carrigan, the owner, smiles at me as I push through the streaked door. I nod at her and crouch to help Evan take off his shoes and sweater, which I drop into his cubby. Then I corner Elaine, who runs the three-to-five-year-old room. She reminds me of a donkey, with her flat, tawny hair and the way she brays at the kids. Evan’s only been coming here a week, and I already know Elaine’s useless. Government subsidy covers most of the day-care fee, but it still feels like we pay too much for this place.
I get straight to the point. “Can you make sure Evan comes home in the right socks today?”
“Those were his socks.” She frowns and pulls her head back, which gives her about four chins.
“My Little Pony?” I say, eyebrows raised. “I don’t think so.” Without waiting for
