Be Who God Meant You To Be

Meg's twentieth birthday party is the day before her actual birthday, because Sunday afternoon is an easier time for university students to gather than Monday evening. It is, at Meg's request, small and very casual -- a dozen people, some bowls of popcorn and chips, a cake, drinks, games. There are two rules -- presents can't cost more than $5, and no one is allowed to talk about school.

It's an easy mix of people, most of whom have at least met each other before. Alain and Carrie's boyfriend, Stephen, have been around long enough to know the girls' friends, and Carrie invites Jared and Bill, who live across the hall, so that "the boyfriends" won't be the only guys there. Meg suspects Ed Marriner has been invited to throw him in the path of Wendy, who is more Carrie's friend than Meg's, and who is recently single again -- they are paired for a lot of games. Meg is not sure why Carrie is so determined to find Ed a girlfriend, but she thinks Wendy stands a better chance than Olivia did.

(Olivia's PADJ -- Petit Ami Du Jour, Carrie's term for whomever Olivia is dating at any given moment -- is not invited. Meg isn't sure if that's because Olivia doesn't figure she'll go out with him long enough to bother introducing him to her friends, or if she still feels guilty about Roe-bear, the last of her PADJs who came to a party at their apartment.)

Olivia gives Meg a plastic tiara set with purple "jewels," which Meg is promptly made to wear for the rest of the party. Alain gives her a bright red sports car, all of 6cm long, and reminds her that he did warn her he was going to buy her a car. She gets a book of crossword puzzles from Carrie, a tiny stuffed elephant from her friend Farrah, a magnet of Montreal from Ed, tea and pens and candy and bookmarks. A proper assortment of Under $5 Gifts.

The party runs longer than the "couple of hours" Carrie planned, as heading into the cold and the school week is easily postponed for ordering pizza and continuing with charades and Trivial Pursuit and a viciously cutthroat game of Uno. Meg, by virtue of being the Birthday Queen (crown and all) is empowered midway through to make all decisions about the rules, and how close an answer can be and still be right, and who's cheating at what. She threatens to be whimsical and arbitrary in her decisions, but no one is surprised when she doesn't make good on that particular threat.

The party only starts to break up after seven, and the last guests don't leave till nearly ten (Alain and Stephen, though by then they are no so much guests as clean up help).

All in all, it is a perfectly lovely way to celebrate the end of her teenage years, in Meg's opinion.

On Sunday mornings, Meg gets up early and goes to church. Her roommates don't.

This is hardly a problem; in fact, Meg quite likes her quiet Sunday mornings. She gets up, washes her face and brushes her teeth. Heads into the kitchen, still in bright pink flannel pajamas covered in purple hearts and an old orange sweater that used to be her father's. (She's had the pajamas since she was fourteen, and they're ridiculous and the color is awful but they're so very comfortable.)

She has an hour or so, most mornings, to sit and read and eat breakfast and--

"Hey, I don't want to startle you--"

Meg half-screams in response to the unexpected voice coming from the living room couch and drops the glass she was getting out of the cabinet.

"Shit. Sorry. I just . . . I couldn't think of any way to let you know I was there. Sorry."

Ed Marriner comes into the kitchen. He's unshaven, bleary-eyed, and still in the clothes he had on the night before, when he and Carrie had been working on their lit class project. "Here, let me help you with that," he says.

"Hold on," Meg says. "Maybe you could start by explaining why you're here."

"Well, we're working on this damn project."

"Right . . . "

"Right, and it's due Monday--tomorrow, shit, that's tomorrow. Anyway, it was four in the morning and we were both just too tired to even think any more, and it was four AM and it was too late, or early, or . . . Carrie said I should just crash on the couch and go home in the morning. So I did. And then I heard you, and I didn't know if you knew I was here, though I'm guessing not, and I wanted to make sure you did. So. Good morning. Hi. I'm here."

"Okay," Meg says. "Well, that makes sense, staying here if it was that late."

Four AM is not a good time be out and about in any city, really.

"So, I can help you with this now?" he asks, indicating the glass that's still in the floor.

"Only if you get your shoes first," Meg says. "And the dust pan is in that closet over there. Thanks."

It's really not that hard to sweep up broken glass, and the whole thing would be the work of moments, except . . .

"Ow. Dammit."

Meg resists the temptation to sigh. "Let me see," she says.

Ed waves her away with the hand that isn't bleeding. "It's nothing. I'm just being stupid."

"Yeah, you are," Meg agrees, pulling the first aid kit down from the cabinet next to the stove. "So stop being stupid and let me see your hand."

The cut's not bad, and certainly nothing that's going to require treatment beyond cleaning and bandaging.

"Thanks," Ed says, as she's putting the first aid kit away again.

"You're welcome."

"So I kind of hate to ask this," Ed says, "but is there any chance you're going to make coffee? I mean, not for me, just, you know, general morning coffee-making? And if you are going to make coffee, is there any chance you could make an extra cup? Or six?"

"I don't drink coffee," Meg says, "but--"

"No, don't worry about it," Ed says. "I'm fine. Forget I mentioned anything."

"Look, the coffee's in that cabinet, and Olivia's grandmother's ancient percolator is behind you. Help yourself. I'm going to go, um . . ." change into something other than five-year old pajamas ". . . I'll be right back."

"Thanks."

"Sure."

As Meg heads back to her room, there's the sound of some part of the coffee pot hitting the floor in the kitchen, promptly followed by muttered swearing.

This time, Meg does sigh, and lets herself into her room.

So much for her quiet Sunday morning.

Alain is running late.

He called, about an hour ago, with a hurried explanation that Meg hadn't quite followed -- something about a crisis at Oncle Sylvain's restaurant involving a running late waitress and an omelette and a pigeon, and he'll be there when he can and fill her in on all the details when he sees her.

So Meg, who had planned to be out at noon on Saturday, is sitting on the battered couch in her apartment and talking to her roommate Carrie, who is in their tiny kitchen, making brownies.

And her other roommate, Olivia, who is usually barely out of bed at noon on a Saturday, went out hours ago, with her newest no-doubt-soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, Robert.

"We have to do something about Olivia," Carrie says, when Meg asks her what brought on the baking fit. Because Carrie doesn't cook. And combining Carrie and ovens leads to melodrama, smoke alarms, and tears.

"And you want to feed her?"

"No," says Carrie. "I want to find her a decent guy. Because this guy -- the drummer? Roe-bear? Loser."

"That actually is how the name is pronounced in French," Meg says. "More or less." Carrie's pronunciation had been over-the-top and half-sneered.

"Yes," says Carrie, "and if he weren't from Winnepeg and his last name weren't McCrory, that would be relevant."

"Okay, point."

"So," Carrie continues, putting the brownies into the oven, "we have to find her somebody better."

"And that requires chocolate caramel brownies?" Meg asks.

"It requires opportunity. So I invited my partner for my lit class project to come over here and work today. So they could casually meet. And bond over brownies."

Ah. It all becomes clear.

"And did you tell him he was being set up with your roommate?" Meg asks.

"I might have mentioned that there was someone I wanted him to meet," Carrie says, dropping onto the other end of the couch, wiping brownie batter off her hands with the dishtowel.

"So the brownies are a bribe?"

"Hey, we have to work on the project anyway," Carrie says.

"So what did you tell Olivia?"

"Nothing. She'd never go for it. Thus the casual. How was I supposed to know this would be the first Saturday ever that she was gone by 10AM?"

"Well, you do have to work on the project, anyway," Meg says, and Carrie throws the dishtowel at her.

"It was a good plan. He's a nice guy. If I didn't have Stephen, I'd date him myself. He's smart and nice and funny and charming enough, and even kind of cute, if you like the boy-next-door-type."

Meg is about to point out that she has never seen Olivia demonstrate even a molecule of interest in the boy-next-door type, when there's a knock at the door.

And the smoke alarm goes off.

"You get the brownies, I'll get the door," Meg says.

She promptly forgets about the sorry about the noise and welcome anyway that she had planned. Because she's met the man in the hallway twice before -- once on a sidewalk, once in a foyer.

"Oh . . . my . . . it's you?"

"Yeah," he says. "It's me. Hi. Please tell me you're the one Carrie wants me to meet. Because I've got a line about fate I want to use if you are."

"Um, actually, I'm . . ." Meg trails off as Carrie begins swearing at the still shrilling smoke detector.

And then, of course, Alain arrives. "Meg?" His eyes go from Meg to Carrie's classmate to the direction of the alarm, and then back to Meg. "Is everything all right?"

"Carrie was baking," Meg says.

"Ah, that explains the alarm." The look he gives the other man makes it clear that it does not explain his presence. "Alain Gagné," he says, holding out his right hand. His left, however, comes to rest on Meg's shoulder in a gesture that just manages to keep to the endearing side of possessive.

"Ed Marriner," the other man responds, shaking Alain's right hand with his eyes on Alain's left.

Meg considers rolling her eyes, but instead says, "Ed is Carrie's partner for a project for her literature class."

In the apartment, the alarm finally stops.

"Well, the brownies are a total loss," Carrie announces. "Oh, hi, Ed. Hi, Alain. Are you coming in, or are we all just going to hang out here in the doorway?"

"Alain and I are going to go ahead and go," Meg says, grabbing her bag and her jacket from the hook by the door. "Good luck with the project, and it was nice to have met you, Ed."

Alain continues to frown slightly at the closed door while he helps Meg with her jacket. She starts to laugh as she pulls her hair out from under the collar.

"What?" Alain asks.

"Nothing," Meg says. "You're just cute when you're jealous."

Alain makes a face at her. "That boy is interested in you, ma belle."

Meg shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. It doesn't really matter." She reaches up to rest a hand against his cheek. "Either way, I'm not interested in him."

"Oui, je sais," Alain says.

"Bien." They stand for a moment, and then she lowers her hand to take his. "Et maintenant . . ." she says, " . . . un pigeon et une omelette?"

Alain laughs, and laces his fingers through hers. "C'est une longue histoire . . ."

Just set off and see where you end up.

Meg has thought a lot about Parker’s advice since she agreed to follow it.

She’s also spent a lot of time hoping it will pour down rain this weekend, and give her an excuse to not follow it.

But Saturday dawns one of those breath-takingly gorgeous crisp fall days, and Meg, with a sigh, pulls together the things she needs for the adventure she’s agreed to try to have – a map of Montréal (allowed for emergencies, Parker said), the bus and Metro routes (also for emergencies), one of her ever-present blue notebooks (not previously used and already labeled “Around Montréal,” for note-taking), a small French-English dictionary (just in case) and two pens (one blue, one black) – and puts them in her shoulder bag.

She also resolves that she’s not going to let herself lapse into English today (though, like the maps, it will be allowed in the case of an emergency). She needs to practice. Meg is good with French, but it’s classroom French, and she’s still getting used to the way people actually speak and use it.

She tells her roommate, Carrie, she should be back before dinnertime, and shrugs into her green wool jacket. Meg is very fond of this jacket – she likes it so much, in fact, that she wears it even though it’s one of the things she bought shopping with Kim in Toronto in August. Most of the clothes she bought on that trip are in her closet at home, in the floor, still in the bags. Black gloves in her pocket, cream-colored scarf around her neck, and Meg Ford is as ready as she’s going to get for this.

She swings up to the library first, to return two books she’s done with, and then squares her shoulders and walks out through the gates, making a left onto rue Sherbrooke (recorded neatly on the first line of the first page of her notebook – she won’t use it to find her way back today, that would be cheating, but if she does see something worth visiting later, she wants to be able to find it again).

She’s seen the things along here before, of course, but she hasn’t really paid attention to them. She hasn’t made it far before she sees the sign Musée McCord de l’Histoire Canadienne. Meg hesitates. Parker is not the only person she’s recently talked to in . . . that place who’s given her something to think about. She turns and goes into the museum.

She spends an hour looking around, at photographs and old clothes, silverware and furniture, hunting knives and folk art, jewelry and beadwork. Hundreds of years’ worth of the artifacts of daily life. She leaves with silent apologies to Sam Winchester and a largely unchanged view on the interest of history in general and Canadian history in particular.

She could head up to the park on Mont-Royal from here, but instead she continues down Sherbrooke, stopping once to make notes in her neat handwriting about a café that looks promising. She keeps going until she reaches the Musée des Beaux-Arts and while that’s been on her To Visit list since before she arrived in Montréal, she really doesn’t think Parker meant for her to spend the day in museums. Another note, and then she turns to wander past the shops and restaurants on rue Crescent.

Over the course of the afternoon, she slowly fills nine pages in the notebook – what turns she took, where she stopped for tea and for a slightly late lunch (the first worth visiting again, the second worth avoiding at all costs), stores she wants to come back to browse in, the service times at Cathedral Christ Church so she can go one Sunday morning, the details on a gorgeous blue sweater she sees in a shop window so that she can look for a pattern to make one like it, the name of a bilingual bookstore with a good selection of English language magazines.

She wanders around a square, looking at the statues – a memorial to the Boer war and Robert Burns, odd bedfellows. She stops to ask a man sitting on one of the benches where she is (Square Dorchester, he says, and she writes it down) and gets a mini-lecture on the history of the building across the street (the Sun Life Building, he says, and she writes that down, too), where the Crown Jewels were stashed during World War II. (Meg writes that down with a note to check it, because it sounds like a very odd place to stash them, in her opinion.)

She gets stopped four times and asked to photograph tourists – twice in English and twice in French. Meg assumes she must look like someone who won’t mind being asked to photograph tourists. Or else she just looks like someone who is very unlikely to steal tourists’ cameras.

She stops in the tourist information bureau, spends fifteen minutes talking about hockey with the young man behind the counter (he is, unsurprisingly, a Canadiens fan), and leaves with a handful of brochures and pamphlets on other things to see and do in Montréal.

When she notices the shadows are getting long, she takes a turn that she thinks will get her back to campus and is delighted to find that she’s right. She’s almost back to the gates when someone stops her.

“Mademoiselle? Excusez-moi.”

Meg turns to find a young man about her age. “Oui?”

“Bonjour,” he says.

“Bonjour.” When he doesn’t say anything else, she continues, “Avez-vous besoin de quelque chose?”

“Ah, oui,” he says. “Oui. Ah, quelle heure est-il, s’il vous plaît?”

“Il est. . .” Meg checks her watch. “. . . cinq heures moins dix.”

“Merci.”

“De rien,” she says, and starts to leave.

“Attendez, s’il vous plaît,” he says, and she turn again.

“Oui? Voulez-vous quelque chose d’autre?”

“Non,” he says. And then, “Oui. Peut-être.”

No, yes, and maybe. That seems to cover all the options, if nothing else. “Monsieur?”

“Je voudrais . . . je pense . . . si vous . . . peut-être . . . I don’t think I know how to do this in French.”

“Maybe you should try English, then,” Meg says.

His smile is unexpected and, in a way, kind of dazzling. “You speak English.”

“Yes. Was there something you wanted?”

“Okay, look, I know how this is going to sound, and I really don’t make a habit of doing this, I promise, and it’s not some kind of . . . anything, but I’d really like to photograph you.”

Whatever Meg is expecting, that isn’t it. She’d been ready for him to ask her out (because that, at least, would have been a logical conclusion to his inability to get to the point). But this?

She laughs. “You should have stuck to French. Do you really think line is going to work?”

“It’s not a line. I’m a photographer, or at least, I want to be and you’re . . . you’re luminous, and I really want to take your picture. And I’m really not saying that to get you to do anything inappropriate or anything else, though if you wanted to have coffee or go to the movies or something, sometime, I can’t say that I—”

“Okay, you’re creepy and getting creepier. Next time you stop a girl on the street, you might want to try starting with the coffee and working up to the posing. But my answer to both is ‘no.’”

“But—”

“I’m leaving now. Don’t follow me. Au revoir, monsieur, et bonne chance.”

And she turns and escapes through the gates of McGill, heading for the library to record this, the final and oddest adventure of her day, on the tenth page of the notebook she started filling this morning.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Edward Marriner stands on the sidewalk outside McGill and watches her leave, and thinks that red hair and a green coat and late afternoon sun is a combination he should remember. Which is good, because it’s also a combination he’s not going to forget any time soon.

He stands there until she’s out of sight and then some, so she can’t possibly think he’s following her when he heads for his residence hall, and until a passerby stops to ask him if everything is all right.

“Yes, thank you. Everything is fine. I just met the girl I’m going to marry.”