Are You Seeing Me? (16 page)

“I would like to know her name. If I know her name, she won’t be as much of a stranger and then I won’t be as nervous.”

“Yes.”

“And I didn’t ask you about it every half hour these last few days, did I?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Did you forget?”

“I didn’t forget, Pez.”

A hush settles over us. I have nothing else to say. Jus stays silent until we see the giant white columns of the Peace Arch and the lineups for the Canadian border crossing.

“I know I said I’d tell you on the drive back,” she says, scrunching her eyes tight for a second, then opening them wide. “And I don’t want to break my promise. I just think…it’s been a long day, mate. A lot has happened—too much. That’s on me. I just think you need a rest.
I
need a rest. The day doesn’t need to get any longer.”

“I don’t understand, Justine.”

She sighs. “I’ll tell you all about my pen pal tomorrow, bud. After we’ve had a good night’s sleep. The sun’ll come up and it’ll be a whole different day. We can start fresh.”

Justine squeezes my shoulder, then resumes her previous tapping rhythm, this time on the dashboard. I nod, slowly. I count the cars in the border lineup once, twice. After the second count, I reach over and collect my seismometer from the backseat. It’s the first time today I have held the small dome. It feels good, smooth and comfortable in my hands. I place it between my feet. It will remain there for the rest of our drive, until we reach our hotel. I might even keep it on the bedside table tonight.

THE SOUND IS COMING FROM THE ¡PAD.

A mix between a siren and a phone ring.

I pause Jackie Chan mid-kick in
Supercop
and make my way to Justine’s hotel bedroom. I turn the doorknob very carefully and push the door open, maybe thirty centimeters, enough to fit my head through the space. Even with the outside light sneaking in, her room is dark. Dark and quiet. Except for the snoring. I can just make out Jus: lying flat on her back, her left arm bent over her head, her right arm flopped out over the side of the bed. I smile—her “sleepy monkey.” Dad called it that. He said an earthquake wouldn’t wake her when she was in that position. I don’t think that would be true—unless it was minor, maybe between 3 and 3.9 in magnitude. I close the door and return to my room.

Opening the iPad, I recognize the sound—it’s a Skype call. Justine loaded Skype on here a few weeks ago in preparation for my moving out. She has only added two contacts so far, the first being her own. Unless she’s phoning me from her dream (she did say she’s been having some crazy dreams), it’s the second contact on the line.

Marc.

I stare at the green button that will answer the call and load the video connection. It pulses like a toxic bubble. I narrow my eyes to slits so they don’t begin to hurt. Why is he calling? It’s over—Just Jeans was very clear, even from the perspective of a disabled person having a meltdown. She said this was too much to handle. She said she didn’t need the extra aggravation. She wanted Marc to leave her alone. She had no clue for how long. I’m confident three days is not long enough.

The siren ring is like a sharp pencil poking my eardrums. I turn the volume down but the green bubble doesn’t shift, doesn’t fade away. Could I just ignore it? It might ring all night. Marc might’ve fallen asleep at his computer, the mouse still in his hand. If that’s true, the only way to stop the call is to answer and wake him up. And whether he’s asleep or not—it’s highly unlikely given it’s close to 6 PM back home—it’s good manners to acknowledge someone you know when you see them in person. Of course, I haven’t seen him in person yet, but I know his face is waiting behind the green bubble.

I press the button. The circling arrow appears. Marc Paolini—the man who needed to be a boyfriend, not a hero—travels halfway around the world in three seconds and enters our hotel room.

“HEY, PERRY.”

“Hello, Marc.”

“I figured if I got an answer, it would be you. Thanks for picking up.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I realize it’s late there…What is it? Midnight?”

“Twelve-oh-nine.”

“Is Justine awake?”

“No.”

“Okay, good. I’ll keep this short and to the point.”

“Sure.”

The resolution of the picture is a bit fuzzy, but it’s still obvious Marc doesn’t look so hot. There are bags under his eyes. Lots of spiky stubble on his chin and cheeks. His hair is sticking up like he’s in an electrical storm. In the bottom right corner of the screen, I can see a beer bottle that looks empty. Marc could do with a visit to the Urban Rest Stop.

“You’re actually the one I wanted to talk to, Perry. Well, you’re the only one I
can
talk to now, thanks to my stupidity.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so I squeeze my hands into fists and think for a few seconds about Ogopogo in his lair under Rattlesnake Island. I’d like to collect my seismometer from the bedside table, but it is rude to just get up and walk away in the middle of a conversation. Watching it with my peripheral vision—that will have to do.

“I just wanted to apologize…to you, Perry. Justine has told me in the past how you lose it when she gets upset. No doubt it would’ve been real hard for you the other day. That was my fault, all my fault. I’m sorry for the pain I caused you. Very sorry. I hope, you know, we’re still cool.”

I examine the evidence. Yes, Marc’s
ridiculous
phone call at Okanagan Lake made Just Jeans cry and caused me to have one of my worst meltdowns in a long time. But it also resulted in me seeing Ogopogo and figuring out how I could set my sister free, although it didn’t work out exactly as I’d planned. In the end, just as much good as bad, maybe more.

“I think we’re still cool, Marc.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“For real?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not joshin’ me? I know you’re like Jackie Chan—pretty good with the jokes.”

“If I was joking, I would’ve said you weren’t forgiven until you stopped wearing cologne.”

He nods, gives a tiny smile that lasts a nanosecond. “Cheers, Perry. Your forgiveness is important to me.” He leans in. I can almost trace the red lines on his eyeballs. “One thing before I let you go. I would appreciate it if you could keep this conversation between the two of us and not tell Justine. I’m not talking to you now because it’s a sneaky way to stay in touch with your sister. I’m not ignoring what she said. I just felt I needed to make amends with you. That’s all. If we could leave it at that, I think it would be best.”

“Sounds logical.”

“Okay, great.” He runs a hand through his electric hair. “Righto, then. I don’t want to keep you at this time of night. Thanks again, Perry. I won’t be Skyping you again, or anything else. Not until—”

“Until Justine is finished with you leaving her alone.”

“Yeah. When she’s finished. When I’ve earned some of her forgiveness. Okay, take care, Perry.”

“Take care, Marc.”

“I hope your time in Vancouver is…I hope it’s all good.”

“We’re meeting Justine’s pen pal tomorrow.”

“Ah, pen pal…I hope it goes well.”

“Thank you, Marc.”

“Goodbye, Perry.”

“Goodbye, Marc.”

I turn off the iPad, shut down
Supercop
and climb into bed. I look forward to the time when Jus is finished with Marc leaving her alone and he’s earned some of her forgiveness. He may not come back as a soul mate or a boyfriend, maybe not even as a Skype contact.

A pen pal, though. That could work. Jus does like having a pen pal.

18 November 2007

I was staring at a blank page for a long time before writing this. It’s almost three o’clock in the morning. You and Perry are sound asleep. Neither of you seem to have been disturbed by my swearing, my pacing, my talking to myself or my crying. I’m thankful for that. My wish is that the two of you have the best sleep you’ve ever had, full of the greatest dreams the universe can muster. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, given what’s in store when the sun comes up.

I’ve got cancer, Jus. Bad. Probably about as bad as you can get it.

I got the confirmation today. It’s in the pancreas and it’s advanced. I’d had this ache in my guts for a while that would also give my back hell from time to time. Thought it might’ve been all those years in the workshop catching up with me, or maybe an old surfing injury. I’d been losing a bit of weight, too (I remember you’d mentioned it a few times).

I went to Dr. Gerschmann a couple of months ago for an initial checkup, so she sent me on to the oncologist. He did some tests and they turned up a whole mess of tumors. Gave me the news this afternoon. I asked him if they could do anything about it. Anything at all. Before he could answer, I launched into telling him about your great-aunt Megan’s breast cancer, how it had been aggressive, how they’d given her less than 50 percent chance, how she was in remission and still well and truly kicking around now. I’m a single dad and I got twin kids, I said. One who’s seventeen going on thirty, one who’s seventeen going on ten. There’s got to be something you can do. I can’t be leaving them alone. The doc said they’d do chemo, but it would only be to “improve quality of life and gain a modest survival benefit.” I asked him what the hell that meant. He gave me six months and a brochure on coping with a terminal illness.

God in heaven, how am I going to tell you, Jus? And Perry. How am I going to make him properly understand? And how will he take the news? What’s he going to do? Get upset? Get all confused? Will my Master Disaster just keep looking at his earthquake books like he didn’t hear a word? I remember when your mother left, you took it upon yourself to explain it to him. You were four years old. That’s not happening this time.

I just looked at the clock again. It’s almost six. There’s a peep of light coming through the window. My head is a spinning top. My hands are cardboard cutouts. The cancer’s eating away at my insides like a Tassie devil.

I hear feet moving in Perry’s room.

THE FIRST CONTACT—THE ICEBREAKER (OR perhaps Arctic shelf-breaker would be more accurate)—was a sixteenth-birthday card. The words are still fresh:

Wishing you and Perry every joy on your special day. If you have any interest in writing back, please send to the address on the envelope.

I really hope you do.

Your mother, Leonie

I did reply. It was a book report on my life. I described my best birthday—my thirteenth—spent riding the roller coaster at Dreamworld and surfing a Boogie Board on the waves of Burleigh. I told her I’d read
The Handmaid’s Tale
in eleventh-grade English. I wrote about Perry. His typical days at school, his typical evenings at home. His success at riding a bike and his failure to understand personal space. His willingness to try fish for the first time at Rainbow Beach.

My second letter was a carbon copy of the first. News, insights, anecdotes. No queries or speculations. No reference to the monstrous white elephant straddling a dozen years and the blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean. I imagine she was surprised (and probably relieved), but she had to know an envelope stuffed with reckoning was inevitable. I mailed it six weeks later.

I got my answers.

It’s time for Perry to get his.

As we step onto the crossing, headed for the front entrance of River Rock Casino, I try to gauge my brother’s state of mind. He’s the same as this morning. When I told him my pen pal just happened to be our long-departed mother, his response was not what I had imagined:
Rice Bubbles are called Rice Krispies in North America. I think the Australian name makes more sense.

He’s similarly detached here on the cusp of this earth-shifting moment. The large revolving door providing entry to the casino is much more interesting—it has people-sized plant arrangements in its design. And the speed of its rotation, though not fast, has him considering the implications of a misstep. Right now, there isn’t room in Perry’s head for feelings on what is about to transpire. I’m sure he has them, though. I think he packed them in the backpack, along with the seismometer and Ogopogo and
Rumble in the Bronx
. They’ll be taken out in due course.

Emerging from the doorway, I scan the foyer. Can Leonie pick us out of a crowd? I provided photos—the most recent from a few months ago. There are plenty of people around, young couples that could conceivably be mistaken for us. I note one pair standing at the nearby information map, studying passersby; they’re definitely looking for someone. The girl looks the part: she’s around five-seven, early twenties, better figure than mine. The bottle-blond bob doesn’t fit with the images sent though. The guy…He looks nothing like Perry. Not that Leonie would have much of a clue anyway. None of my snaps gave her a decent idea of his appearance. He was always looking down or looking away or holding something in front of his face.

Can our mother find us?

Can we find her?

Ninety-eight…ninety-nine…one hundred. Ready or not, here we come!

We stop and I check my watch. Six minutes to ten. The bleeps and buzzes of the slot machines continue to spill out of the entrance. Bells ring, announcing a win for some lucky punter, but no shouts or whoops or cheers follow. A sign near the ATM says
Know your limit
.

The clone couple at the map continues to search the space. They turn slightly left, where carpeted corridors lead to a side entrance. A burst of recognition strikes the girl. A man wearing a turban and a business suit meets her advance, and the trio plunges into a clumsy, chattery, happy group hug. Something about the scene triggers a voice inside me, sharp and insistent:
Turn around, walk to the parking lot, drive your brother back to the hotel. Offer apologies by phone, send regrets through the mail.

I elbow the thoughts aside and urge Perry—suspiciously eyeballing a rack of
Moose on the Loose
T-shirts at a nearby souvenir shop—toward the Guest Services desk.

And then I see her. Dressed in some sort of poncho. Headband. Sunglasses. Her face is too far away to match with my mind’s images, but details aren’t necessary. It’s definitely her. She gathers up a couple of books from the small table in front—one spills out of her faltering grasp and crashes to the floor. She kneels down and retrieves it. When she stands back up, we’re mounting the small staircase. Now she sees me, recognizes me. She lifts her sunglasses to her forehead. The look on her face says, “You got me.” She raises a hand, gives an abbreviated wave. I wave back. I tug Perry’s elbow, but he’s brought the seismometer and seismograph out of the backpack and is gathering data. We mount the final step as an automated voice shouts, “Jackpot!” followed by the sound of coins toppling into a catch tray.

“HOW ABOUT A HUG.”

She searches my face, peers into my eyes. “Are you sure?”

I take the backpack from Perry (he’s still analyzing the data) and put it down in front of me. It’s like a chock holding my feet in place, preventing me from slipping. “I think affection can be shared between pen pals.”

The label is a blow to her, but only a momentary one. She leans forward and wraps her arms around my neck. I bring one hand to the small of her back, no other contact. The awkward embrace lasts a few seconds before I tap her, indicating time is up for pen-pal affection.

“I don’t think Perry’s keen on physical contact at this stage,” I say, smoothing my top. “Fair comment, Pez?”

He stuffs the seismograph in his back pocket, places the dome on the floor, then unzips the backpack. He takes out Ogopogo and tucks it under his arm. “I don’t like to touch strangers. You are my mother, but I consider you a stranger at the moment. I really don’t know you well enough yet.”

Leonie nods, gives a thin smile. “Of course.”

The dialogue stalls for a few seconds. Leonie takes off her poncho and folds it over her arm. She’s quite a yoga advertisement, our mother: arms toned, stomach flat as a board. Her posture is perfect. Given the chance to trade bodies with her, I wouldn’t hesitate. From the neck up? Another story. She looks wrung out, spent. Her eyes are heavy, perhaps weighed down by the bags under her lower lids. Her top lip has a crop of deep wrinkles. The hair pinned under her headband is dull and brittle. The combination of hoary features and awesome body is unsettling. She resembles some cautionary tale from Homer or Ovid—a poor victim of the gods, cursed with an eternal contrast of youth and age.

Perry stares at his interlocked hands. Another jackpot announcement drifts across the foyer. Leonie points to the books in the crook of her left arm.

“I’ve got something for you,” she says too quickly, too loudly. She hands them to me. “It was pretty clear from your letters that you love novels—thought you might like a Canadian classic. Mordecai Richler. And you mentioned Perry’s into hurricanes in a big way.”

“Earthquakes. He’s interested in earthquakes.”

“Oh.”

I hand the copy of
Lost in Katrina
to Pez. He places Ogopogo on the floor by the seismometer and thumbs through the pages.

“I’m sorry, Perry. I can take it back if you would like a different—”

“Some American people have said Hurricane Katrina was worse than the earthquake in Haiti,” he says. “It’s not true. There were hundreds of thousands of people killed in Haiti, not just thousands. And the earthquake provided very little warning, whereas many people had warned the us government about the city of New Orleans flooding and they didn’t listen. I think the only people who believe Katrina was worse are American. They’ve probably never visited Haiti or even seen the devastation on the Internet.”

I can sense Leonie looking my way, seeking some sort of guidance. I keep reading the back cover of
The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz
.

“Um, yes. You’re probably right, Perry. Would you like me to return it?”

He closes the book, leans it against the seismometer. “Thank you, I would like to keep it. I think there will be an interesting story and a lot of interesting information in
Lost in Katrina
.”

“Okay then. Awesome.”

He raises a thumb in an exaggerated fashion, then points to the Washrooms sign. “Excuse me. I’ll be back shortly.”

He hesitates for a moment under the arch, unsure which corridor matches the sign’s arrow. Then he walks on, obscured from view.

“Does he need help?” asks Leonie.

“He’s fine. He gets weirded out if he has to use gross public toilets. Porta-potties—he hates them. But hey, who doesn’t?” I close the novel. “He’s quite capable.”

She nods and watches as I stuff Ogopogo and the two books into the backpack. “He seems to be handling this situation pretty well.”

“We came prepared.”

“You mean the stuff in the bag?”

I zip the bag shut. “Among other things.”

“So you told him about me?”

“Of course.”

“How did he take it?”

“Snap, crackle and pop.”

“What?”

“Better than I thought he would. He wasn’t angry or scared, didn’t get upset. He accepted it—the reality of it, not so much the implications. Maybe Extrasensory Perry had a little inkling of news on the way before I told him. You never want to underestimate him in that regard.” I steal a peek at the arch. No sign of a return yet from the toilet. “He has questions, you know. Lots of questions.”

“That’s fair.”

“He wanted to know what I thought.”

“Did you tell him?”

I scoff. “No way. None of this is going to come from me—it’s going to come from you. He deserves the same courtesy I received.”

“Absolutely. He does. I didn’t mean to imply that, you know, you had to or anything.”

I wave dismissively and scan the foyer—the cavernous ceilings, the stately curved escalators. “This is more like a cathedral than a casino. How come you wanted to meet here?”

She shrugs. “No special reason. It’s about halfway between my place and where you guys were staying in the city. And I know River Rock.”

“You gamble a lot, then?”

“Sometimes. Not a lot.”

“Often enough to feel comfortable here.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not really built for comfort.”

Perry appears in the walkway, rubbing his hands on his thighs. As he moves in beside us, it’s clear he’s agitated.

“Troubles in the bathroom?” I ask.

He nods.

“Let me guess…hand dryer?”

He nods again. “It was very loud. Like a leaf blower. I don’t think I’ve heard one like that before, in Australia or North America.”

I pick up the seismometer from the floor. “Need this to help out?”

He shakes his head. “I think I’ll have the book instead.”

“The Newcastle earthquake one.”

“No, the brand-new book. The present from her.
Lost in Katrina.
”

Leonie throws me a glance of…I’m not sure what. I think she’s a bit stunned. Intrigued too. And is there a small sense of satisfaction? If there is, it better be smaller than the odds of a win in this casino.

“Okay, then.” I extract the hardback, hand it over. He opens to a random page and holds it close to his face. “How’s that?”

He bounces the book up and down. “It smells very good,” he says, voice muffled by the fan of pages.

“We’re going to leave now. Are you right to head back to the car?”

“Yes.”

As we move in silence toward the parking lot, bells and whistles split the air. Another jackpot has landed. It’s only an impression, but it seems there’s a lot of good fortune in the building this morning.

FOLLOWING LEONIE DOWN THE 99, an earlier statement drowns the song on the radio.
He seems to be handling this situation pretty well.

Perry’s handled squat. He’s still engrossed with everything but the situation. On the way out of the casino, he pointed out the Canada Line and went to town on a 2009 tragedy at Walt Disney World in which two monorails collided and a twenty-one-year-old driver was killed. Passing under the digital signs displaying US border information, he wrote down the various wait times and delays. And, at this moment, he’s thoroughly impressed with Mount Baker, standing imperious and white-capped on the southeastern skyline.

“You know it’s a dormant volcano, don’t you, Just Jeans?”