Are You Seeing Me? (4 page)

A DREAM. I KNOW THIS is a dream. That’s as far as my powers extend; I can’t influence what’s happening or call a halt to the scene. Just have to ride along with it, see where it takes me.

I’m aboard a small boat. Land is near. There are palms and ferns and trees laden with coconuts. It’s not anywhere I’ve been in Australia. I’m certain it’s not any of our North American stops.

I drop anchor a short swim from shore, but I stay seated. There is a primal crook of fear tugging at me in unison with the prevailing south wind. I look down at my hands. They’re shaking. And they belong to a stranger. Patches of dark, coarse hair gather above the wrists and between the knuckles. The fingernails are cracked and caked with salt. Blisters and burns wrack the skin. I stare at them until a monstrous roar from the island thrusts me back into the moment.

“I don’t like that.”

My companion has spoken. The voice is unmistakably Perry’s; so, too, is the rocking from side to side and finger flicking. The body, though, belongs to a boy, weathered and sinewy. A lightbulb flares overhead. This is Defoe’s vision. Perry is Xury. I am Crusoe. This is the island landing scene following the castaways’ escape from the Moors. A warped hallucination of the scene, no doubt.

“I don’t like that,” repeats Perry/Xury. “But I have to go.”

“You
have
to?”

“Yes, Just Jeans. No lie, I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because we can’t survive like this. We won’t make it.”

Another bellow thunders out of the island brush. Perry/Xury cups his ears until the echoes die. The color of the river is changing, from a soft turquoise to a rich, almost royal, blue. The tropical, brackish air is cooling.

“Then we’ll go together,” I say.

Perry/Xury refuses, the way my brother is inclined to do when confronted with Mexican food or a slow Internet connection or someone else’s equipment at the car wash: with great, sweeping head shakes. Before I can protest further, he pitches himself overboard. The water swallows him whole, with barely a ripple or a bubble.

I shout his name. Instinct demands I dive in after him. I try to stand and discover it’s impossible. My body is made of brick, backside fastened to the seat with invisible mortar. I am Crusoe and I am enslaved again. Abandoned. I howl for Perry once more, and the reverberations awaken a frightening force on the island. A rumble from the depths of the earth rocks the landscape. Trees shake and fall. Great chunks of rock plunge down the mountainous backdrop. The river darkens to an oily black.

And as the world begins to tear at the seams, a voice penetrates the chaos. “We’re close now. We’re almost there
…
”

I think it belongs to my father.

“WE’RE CLOSE NOW. WE’RE ALMOST THERE. We are only 632 kilometers from Vancouver.”

I blink several times, find a grainy focus. Perry is leaning over me, his stubbly face centimeters from mine. His eyes are wide. His smile is ample. His breath is awful.

“You’re awake now?”

“Yes, yes. I’m awake,” I say, waving a hand in front of my face.

“You were making noises while you were sleeping.”

“Was I?”

“Yes. You were.”

I nudge Perry’s shoulder and jab a thumb in the direction of his seat. He takes the hint.

“One time,” he continues, “I had a dream I was inside an egg. Another time, I dreamed there was a springboard at Newmarket pool and I dived off it for a whole day, like Jackie Chan doing his famous hovercraft leap. I liked those dreams. Did you like your dream, Justine?”

“It was…interesting.”

“Good.” He squeezes one of his earbuds and stares at the compartment above my head. “I imagine I will dream about our trip to North America when I am back home. Actually, I think it is likely I will dream about our trip for the rest of my life.”

He stamps the assertion with a single, purposeful nod and replaces his earbuds. Every few seconds, he quietly announces the kilometers remaining to destination: “Four hundred and ninety-four…487…481…”

I turn away and look out the nearest window. The Pacific Ocean below is vast and open and untroubled.

I hope it is prophetic of the dreams to come.

DESPITE BEING THE LAST PAIR off the plane—Perry needed to do several head counts of his stuff before disembarking—our passage through the terminal is smooth and incident-free. We’ve barely settled in at the back of the long queue at Customs when an attendant directs us toward a newly opened station. I note the others granted special treatment: families, small- to medium-sized children. My overtired mind doesn’t question the anomaly or argue blind luck. Of course we’re special. We’re about as special as they come.

Arriving at the security booth, I’m entertaining further five-star treatment:
Yes, go straight through. No need for passports. We love Australians here in Canada…We know you’ve had a rough flight. We know you’ve had a rough
life.
All those sharks and snakes and rugby players trying to kill
you every moment of the day. Far be it from us to make things more difficult. And here, have this leftover gold medal from the Vancouver Winter Olympics. You’ve earned it.

The Customs officer—Alan Hinton, according to his badge—doesn’t think we’re special. He has severe features and a bald head that is deeply sun-tanned. His expression is a dismal tableau of apathy and distrust.

“You mind telling me what he’s doing, ma’am?”

One glance at Perry snaps me back to reality. He’s lifted the entire earthquake kit from his carry-on. The seismometer is sitting dutifully by his feet. The portable seismograph, replete with buttons and plugs and tiny screen, occupies his right hand. A well-worn notepad is tucked under his left arm.

“Interesting,” Perry says, studying the data. “Not much activity for a region with major fault zones.”

I tell Officer Hinton that all is good and that normal service will be resumed as soon as possible, then give Perry his compliance orders: ten seconds or the kit is gone for the rest of the day. My brother swings into action, piling the equipment back into his suitcase. When the cleanup is complete, he stands to attention like a general. Striving for a tone that’s offhand rather than anxious, I give Officer Hinton some bullet points of explanation:

It’s earthquake-monitoring equipment.

My brother’s obsessed with earthquakes.

He doesn’t really use the equipment.

He has a brain condition.

Officer Hinton gives a shake of the head. It’s a “Now I’ve seen it all” sort of gesture. He hands our documents back and barks for the next people in line to step forward. I mumble a thank-you and hustle Perry through. As my brother passes by the glass panel of the station, he waves to Officer Hinton. There is no acknowledgment in return.

The wait for our checked bags is mercifully short; it is just past 8
AM
Vancouver time when we exit through the automatic doors and out into a mild, gray Sunday that, like its newest observers, appears sluggish and unsure of itself. I suggest a photo to record the moment. Perry is typically guarded—“The flash makes my eyes go funny”—but he doesn’t refuse. I pull him close, lean in, cheek to cheek, and hold my phone above our heads. “Say cheese.”

“Gorgonzola!”

The result is less than stellar.

“Try again,” I say, tightening my hold on his shoulder. “Say cheese!”

“Just Jeans!”

Second time around, the snap is more than money—it is perfect. Our eyes are ablaze. Our grins are starlight. Despite the fifteen-hour flight and lack of sleep, we have been captured at some sort of fission point, the release permitting the very best of our past, present and future to burst through for a nanosecond. As I stand there, spellbound, breathing the gluggy Vancouver air, the photograph materializes in other places, other times.

On my bedside table, keeping watch over a stack of my literary staples: Camus, de Beauvoir, the Brontës, Calvino, Thea Astley, Kate Morton…

Pinned to a corkboard on a wall painted in the Fair Go colors of Queensland maroon and wattle-tree gold…

In a Facebook album, likes and comments in the hundreds…

On an altar, flanked by our father’s urn and a condolence registry…

The images fade as Perry eagerly points at the taxi stand. The cabbie at the head of the queue leans against the driver’s door, smoking a thin cigar. When he spies our approach, he holds the cigar at arm’s length, unsure of its disposal. For a brief moment, he considers his breast pocket. He decides against it. We’re almost at his side when he sighs and drops it on the ground, mashes it into the pavement.

“Let me get those, miss,” he says, pointing at the suitcases and waving the residual smoke away.

He’s an older man, mid-to-late fifties, sporting a neatly trimmed goatee and glasses. His voice is quiet and his accent is undulating. I offer up the bags, state our destination—the Pacifica West Hotel at Canada Place—and tell Perry to hop in the back. He balks at first.

“Are you going to sit in the front seat, Just Jeans?”

“No, bud.”

“Good. It’s not rude to leave the front seat vacant, is it?”

“It’s okay in a cab. And a limo.”

“Which one is this?”

“This is a rickshaw.”

He snorts, takes hold of my hand—middle finger to pinkie—and we climb in together.

In the first few minutes of the drive I soak up the wonder of a landscape demeaned by Google images and
Getaway
segments. The mountains are breathtaking. A gang of peaks—green, without a trace of winter white—stand to the north, jostling each other for the best view of the downtown metropolis. To the southeast, a snow-covered colossus, its girth partially obscured by a band of cloud, marks the horizon with an indelible stamp. The grass is emerald, no brown patches or dead streaks. The foliage on the trees is dense and rich. The peeking-through sun is a paler, more genial version of the Brisbane master I am used to. For every natural nuance I catch, Perry has a dozen more of the man-made variety. The North American names and symbols on the cars. The severe, angled roofs of houses. Bundles of logs in the river. Buses attached to overhead electric wires. The occasional but prominent Canadian flags on shopfronts and billboards and bumper stickers. I feel a temporary stay of exhaustion: it is good to see such acute and complete distinction from the cityscape we know.

“You come from the Land Down Under, eh?”

I clear my throat. “Yes, we do. Picked it in one. You could tell we weren’t from South Africa? Or New Zealand?”

“Or Japan!” cries Perry. “That’s a funny joke, by the way.”

The cabbie chuckles and nods. “Good one!” He spies me in the rearview mirror. “I’ve gotten pretty good at telling you folks apart, especially seeing as there’s so many Aussies here. In Whistler, for sure. And Tofino.” He holds his hand up. “My name’s Jim. Jim Graydon. I like to introduce myself when there’s international folks sharing a ride.”

“Justine Richter.”

“And my name is Perry Richter. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

The left side of Jim’s face crumples. “Ooh, Richter. That’s a name that still hurts in this town. I don’t know if you know, hockey is superclose to being religion here—”