Are You Seeing Me? (21 page)

“WHEN YOU LEFT OUR FAMILY, did you leave because of me?”

I ask the question three seconds after sitting down on the bench again. Leonie almost drops the seismometer as she’s handing it back to me. “I didn’t leave because of you. I left because of me.”

“I have an excellent imagination, but my memory is very good too. I was a problem child. A big problem child. Breaking toys and screaming and hitting and kicking. I hurt you.”

“No. You didn’t.”

I look her over. “Your right foot is bouncing and your earlobes have turned red. You are not sure.”

“Yes. I am sure.”

I frown and twist my lips, but I don’t want to say she is not telling the truth. “Dad never said I was a ‘problem’—he used to say I was a ‘handful.’ What would you say I was?”

“I’d say you were…challenging.”

“Challenging? That’s similar to ‘problem.’ And more accurate than ‘handful.’ I think I was two hands at least, maybe a foot as well. I was a problem child. A big problem child.”

“I left because of me,” she repeats. “I felt it was all too much, and getting away was the only real solution. I thought it would make everyone’s life easier if I wasn’t around. That might’ve been true for your dad—we didn’t get along very well. But you and Justine—me becoming a ghost, letting you down, not being there for you as you grew up—that was a mistake. A terrible mistake.”

Leonie slides off the bench and onto her knees, facing me. “Can I take your hands?”

I hesitate, then offer them up. Her fingers are thin and rough. The skin on her index finger has a yellow-colored stain. She’s trembling.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I know I can’t possibly make up for the past. But this could be the start of a new future, if you want it to be.”

I roll my shoulders and begin to hum. I don’t want to look in her eyes, so I stick to staring at our intertwined fingers. “It’s all too much and getting away is the only real solution,” I say. “That’s how I feel quite often. I think we have that in common.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do. In fact, if things had been reversed back then—if I were the mother and you were the child—I think I would’ve made the same mistake. So, really, you’re not the only one.” I take my hands away and cup her face. “Are you focused?”

“Yes, I am focused.”

“Are you seeing me?”

“Yes, I am seeing you.”

“Good.” I nod three times. “You should come back to Australia.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I do. No lie.”

She makes a sound, sort of a cough mixed with a sigh. “Perry, I don’t know what to say. Thank you, son. Thank you for being…better than me.”

“You’re welcome, Mum.” I lean toward her. “You are crying. Are you glad or sad?”

“Glad,” she replies.

I WANT TO BUY A SNACK and see the sand-sculpture exhibit before leaving the PNE. We stop at a stall on the sidewalk. The man behind the counter has some sort of shiny stone in one of his front teeth. I scan the chalkboard menu, then choose a bag of mini-donuts. Mum hands over the money.

“Are you getting anything for yourself?”

“I’m good.” She smiles. “I am
Ananda Balasana
. The Happy Baby.”

I get a picture in my head of my mother wearing a diaper and sucking her thumb. I snicker and bite into a donut.

“Do you go straight to the Fair Go residence when you get back to Australia?” she asks.

“Not immediately. I think I will head there in four to six weeks.”

“That’s too soon.”

“How do you mean?”

“We talked about it last night—you’ll be gone by the time I catch a plane over.”

I shake my head. “I won’t be gone—I’m just changing where I live. I will still be in Brisbane, not on the other side of the world.”

“True.”

“Are you afraid I won’t want to see you?”

“No. It’s just…I’d love to think we might live under the same roof sometime. But that’s not taking you into consideration. You have every right to be independent.”

“So does Justine.”

She looks at me, waiting. Maybe she thinks I am joking. “Justine?”

“Yes. She has a right to be independent too.”

“But she’s been going it alone since Dan…since your father passed.”

I wipe away the sugar stuck to my fingers. “No, she’s been my caregiver all that time. That’s not right. Things will be better when I move into Fair Go.”

“You mean better for your sister?”

“Of course. Justine won’t have to save the day anymore. She will live a normal life.” I take a mouthful of a new donut. “Things didn’t happen exactly the way I thought they would in Seattle, but that’s okay. Justine is free now.”

Mum pauses and I keep chewing. The bearded Carnie Schwarzenegger in charge of the nearby dart throw shouts at us.
Come and see if your aim is true! Burst a balloon—everyone walks away with a prize!
I tell him no thanks, I don’t need a prize. We keep walking.

“You planned what happened in Seattle? The whole runaway thing—you did that on purpose so that Justine would definitely want you to move out?”

“Correct.”

“And she would be free of
you
?”

I clap my hands. “You figured it out! You should be called ESL—Extrasensory Leonie! That’s a pretty funny joke, by the way, because ESL stands for English as a Second Language.”

“And she has no clue about any of this?”

“Of course not.”

“No clue about how you feel?”

“Well, Just Jeans knows I love her.”

The conversation seems to have made Mum move quicker. It’s like she walked onto one of those moving walkways at the airport and I’m still on the carpet, falling behind. She gets six or seven paces in front, but still she doesn’t slow down.

Hey, Mum! Wait for me!

I attempt to shout the words. Nothing comes out. I have only air in my throat. I try to get my feet moving quicker, but they are not listening. In fact, they are not moving at all. They are stuck.

And there is a weight on my head and neck and shoulders, pressing down on me as the earth rises up.

THE WHITE PAPER BAG IS on the street, tipped over on its side. Spilled donuts lie in the gutter. My backpack sits on the pavement, leaning left, the main compartment open and gaping. Farther away, the PNE rides are starting to have problems. The Hellavator is listing to one side. The arms of the Sizzler are wobbling. The hiss of the Crazy Beach Party has turned into a metallic roar. Worried shouting fills my head, but it’s not coming from people taking the rides or watching from the ground. Not yet.

Two pairs of women’s shoes appear in front of me. Behind one of them is a set of small wheels belonging to a stroller.

“Are you okay?”

I’m on all fours. Mum had a yoga pose like this:
Adho Mukha Svanasana
, Downward-Facing Dog. This is not relaxation though. This is the complete opposite.

“Do you need some help?”

I rock forward and back, moaning. I can feel my cap hanging off my right ear. Grit is lodged under my fingernails. The street is like hot coals under my hands. There is only pavement in front now—the women and the stroller are gone.

It’s all too much

And getting away

Is the only real solution

I manage to look around for an instant. She is sitting on a bench, off to the side. Her head is down, and her lips are moving. Her hands are crossed in her lap. I think they’re shaking.
Don’t be frightened, Mum. Yes, the Pirate Ship is doing full circles and the Vomitron has actually turned to vomit and the wind from the Hurricane is knocking down trees and throwing benches into the air. But there aren’t any blood-smeared tissues here. No bruises. Be brave and strong, Mum. Leap forward and wrap your arms around me. I promise I won’t scream or throw my head. I promise I won’t hurt you the way I did before. I’m not four years old anymore.

A pair of white Asics and blue Vancouver 2010 socks are in my sight line now. I moan and rock.

“Anyone belong to this guy?”

Murmurs, mutters. Then a clear voice. “He was here with a group of other retards.”

“No, he wasn’t. He’s here on his own.”

An arm gets placed across my shoulders. The world splits in two. I lurch forward onto my elbows, press my forehead to the pavement and squeal. I collapse onto my stomach. The hot street muffles my cries and fries my skin. One by one, the cages of the Zipper get crushed by a giant fist.

The Asics have been replaced by a pair of pale feet in sandals. A hand prods my elbow with a plastic cup filled with water.

Are you focused?

“Maybe it’s heat stroke.”

Are you seeing me?

“Bah! It’s a damn sight hotter at the Red River Exhibition in Winnipeg and there are no folks going belly down in the street there.”

You should come back.

The old Coaster—the only ride left standing—begins to shudder. The shaking builds and builds until the wooden structure can’t stand the pressure. Posts split in half. Boards fly through the air. The tracks collapse, one by one. Crashing and smashing onto the ground. Sending great puffs of dust high into the sky. And when all the tracks have fallen, when it seems like no other destruction can happen, the wreckage of the Coaster explodes. The
whump
lifts the earth under my chest. The fireball consumes all the debris and the rubble and the screams of the frightened people. Then it’s closing in on me, melting my skin and torching my bones until there’s nothing left but—

“EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME!”

“Who are you?”

“I am his…caregiver.”

“His what?”

“He has a brain condition. It causes him to get upset in different places and circumstances. He, um, he has trouble with people—mixing with them and communicating with them—and it sometimes results in—God, how did she say it?—inappropriate behaviors.”

“Where the hell
were
you?”

“I was away. But I’m here now. I’m here.”

I CAN SPEAK AGAIN. PHRASES. They’re tectonic plates, shifting across each other, making the needle on the graph dance.

“Too much pressure, too much buildup. Something has to give…”

“Perry, it’s Mum. Can you hear me?”

“We’re shaking…breaking…”

“Are you hurt, Perry? Can you get up?”

“We weren’t prepared for this. We weren’t ready for this.”