Are You Seeing Me? (6 page)

Dad liked to compare people to presents:
You can change the paper and the ribbon and the card, but you can’t change what’s inside. And what’s inside—maybe you want to keep it, maybe you want to throw it away.

Marc doesn’t want us unwrapping what awaits in Vancouver. Sorry, hon. Some people in this world are prepared to give a bad gift a second chance.

Approaching our room on the sixteenth floor, I hope extravagance will ease my mind. One step inside the door brings it home—the suite is a designer version of Ali Baba’s cave. Perry and I stand rigid in the center of the room for ten seconds or more, silently drinking it in. The windows extend from floor to ceiling and serve up 180 degrees of water-and-mountain panorama. The TV is not much smaller than our Brisbane fridge. The only item missing from the bar is a cocktail waiter. I think to myself:
This is wrong. We are misplaced. We are the jigsaw piece separated from the puzzle for which it was designed, trying to fit where it doesn’t belong.

“What do you think, Pez?” I murmur. “Bit better than the old holiday house at Rainbow Beach?”

Perry offers three big nods. “Is this what Fair Go will be like?”

“If it is, then I’m coming with you.”

“Really?”

“No. I’d cramp your style.”

Perry ponders my meaning, then shrugs and walks out onto the balcony. He returns thirty seconds later, clenching and unclenching his hands. “You can see Stanley Park from the deck. Some of the scenes in the
Twilight: New Moon
movie were shot there. No lie. I didn’t notice any vampires. But I did see a cruise ship at the dock—Holland America. I also saw a man walking along the pier, talking on his phone. He climbed into a red-and-white aircraft and took off, no passengers on board. Maybe he was learning to fly. Or maybe he stole the plane.”

“That’s great. You want to check out your room, see if it’s got a butler or something?”

Mention of the phone guy reminds me of Marc’s message. A little temperance has entered my thoughts. We are novices here—all of us—Marc especially. A girlfriend minus a family, save for a special-needs twin brother—it would be a shock to the system for anyone. Until my appearance on the scene, Marc Andre Paolini had enjoyed something of a sheltered ride. The baby in a tight-knit family of five; parents living, present and lovingly married for twenty-nine years; two older brothers who looked out for their “Marky Mark” during school and university. By any definition, Life had been kind to him, patting him on the head and whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

In this idyllic existence, would he somehow have accumulated the real and lasting experience of being alone, of having loved ones unreachable? Not that I’ve seen. We are polar opposites on that count. Father passed, mother gone, brother like sand falling through fingers. My nineteen years can be measured by the spaces and the silences of my relationships. It’s been standard for me, and it’s black to Marc’s white. We are a new version of
Sense and Sensibility
.

Close and Closeted
.

“Okay,” I mutter, inspecting the landline phone for messages and finding none. “One call we can overlook.”

After a token effort to unpack, we doze, me in the bedroom and Perry on the couch.

18 January 1993

I think we’ll go somewhere fun tomorrow—just you, me and Perry. Maybe Redcliffe. Go and have a paddle on the beach there. Grab a Bubble O’ Bill afterward. Well, not for Perry, of course. He’s a Chicos man. Yeah, a trip out of the house for the three of us is the ticket. Give us all a chance to take a deep breath.

Justine, I don’t know how much of last night you will remember when you’re older. If it does grab hold in your memory, know that it wasn’t your or your brother’s fault. Mum’s not coping real well with Perry’s tantrums. She sort of relies on you to be the good girl all the time, which is unfair. You’re not even out of diapers, for crying out loud! Last night I didn’t get home until the fireworks were pretty much over. (Jeez, I wish I hadn’t got stuck on Hale Street. I might’ve been able to stop it from getting out of hand.) But from what I gather, Mum got hit. It was an accident—Perry threw his head back while she was restraining him and he hit her in the mouth. That did it. She was bleeding, she was upset. She felt like nothing made sense and that everything was falling apart. She took it out on the toys and the walls.

Anyway, it’s a new day. The screaming has stopped. The tears gone. The busted stuff will be fixed. And maybe Mum, with a bit of space, a bit less hurt and a bit of twenty-twenty hindsight, might have a clearer view of the world.

Maybe she’ll begin to admit the truth about Perry. Blind Freddy could see that what he’s got isn’t going away. It’s not some phase. It’s not a speed bump he’s run into. It’s the way he is. The way he’ll continue to be.

It’s not him, but it’s
in
him.

I’M WOKEN BY STREAMING SUNLIGHT and the grunts, whips and various other sound effects of kung-fu fighting. The portable
DVD
player sitting on the desk has
Rumble in the Bronx
showing, volume turned to the max. The movie has arrived at its infamous scene, where Jackie Chan jumps from a bridge and onto a passing hovercraft—the result in real life being a broken ankle.

“Perry?”

My brother is not in his usual position—leaning forward, face less than a handspan from the tiny screen.

“Pez! Where are you, mate?”

Several more shouts and a search of both room and balcony deliver nothing. My heart feels a small squeeze of panic. Skewed thoughts spawn and multiply. He’s taken off, on his own, in a strange city. He has no money, no phone. He’s lost. He’s freaking out on some street corner. Ohmygod, Perry! Jesus! Did you really need basic instructions tattooed to your forehead? Don’t leave the hotel without me, don’t leave the room without me, don’t do
anything
without me.

I snap the band at my wrist. The kneejerk, bad-voice-in-my-head stuff isn’t helping. Like Dad used to say:
Think it through before you throw yourself or somebody else off the Story Bridge.
Sitting down at the desk, I try to tune out the anger and fear. I need to think logically. Perry wouldn’t have left on a whim. He’s not an absconder—never has been. He’s also conscious of others, the fact they have thoughts and feelings and physical responses influenced by his actions. You wouldn’t ever say he’s fully empathetic—he’d be here in this room if he were—but he’s certainly not oblivious to needs beyond his own. And, in the end, he is a grown man and he does think for himself. It’s why he had final say in the Fair Go decision. It’s why he’ll have the right to veto anything proposed at The Appointment.

My rational self is validated during the third inspection of Perry’s room. A sheet of paper with Pacifica West letterhead pokes out of the top pocket of his carry-on.

I am going to the pool, Justine. I didn’t want to wake you up, so I left this note. It is provided so that you know where I am and you won’t worry. Remember, too, I am an excellent swimmer.

Perry Richter

When I arrive at the pool, Perry has the entire facility to himself. He’s making the most of it—running in from the side and leaping feetfirst into the water.

“You missed the hovercraft,” I say when he surfaces.

He stares blankly at me for an instant, then smiles. “Ha, you are joking!” He lifts his foot out of the water and points to his ankle. “Didn’t break!” He vaults out of the pool and stands in front of me, hands on hips. It’s eerie how much he resembles Dad, with his slicked hair and broad chest and loud boardshorts. And his feet—wide as they are long. Feet like that keep a person fastened to the earth.

“You found my note,” he says.

“Eventually.”

“What do you mean?”

“It took a long time to find it, brother. It wasn’t in the most obvious place.”

“But I wanted to make it easy, so I put it where my togs and towel were packed. I enjoy swimming…I thought you would remember.”

“I didn’t forget you enjoyed swimming, Pez. I just didn’t know you’d
gone
swimming. When I woke up and you weren’t around, I needed that info fast. It would’ve been better to put the note on my bedside table or maybe the desk. Not in the place where your gear was packed!”

He doesn’t get the reasoning; it’s like a trapeze just out of reach, brushing his fingertips with every swing through. He walks forward, avoiding eye contact. He wraps his arms around me and squashes me against his wet body.

“Are you making a mountain out of a mold hill, Just Jeans?”

“No. Are you seeing me, Pez?”

“Yes, but I honestly think this is a mold hill.”

“It’s not.”

“A tiny little hill covered in mold.”

“For God’s sake, Perry, it’s mole!
Mole!
”

“Mole?” He pulls back and peeks out of the corner of his narrowed eyes. He makes a show of examining the skin on his arms and shoulders. Torso and legs. Inner thighs.

“Before you drop your pants, Dr. Joke, I’ll tell you exactly how it went down,” I say, dabbing at my jeans and T-shirt with a towel. “When I woke up and you weren’t there, I was very worried. Then, when I found your note and saw you here at the pool, I was very relieved. And now I’m back to normal.”

“You mean happy?”

I wipe the water from his forehead. “Sure, why not.”

He nods, gives me a hug, then throws himself into the deep end, shouting some form of kung-fu battle cry.

WE STAY AT THE POOL until late afternoon. I split time between watching Perry’s indefatigable stuntman act and reading
Robinson Crusoe
. Lazing in a lounge chair, absorbing the pleasant but stunted rays of a tepid Canadian sun, the castaway’s plight makes me feel small and blessed. The mold hills of Justine Richter’s world don’t seem so scary next to island isolation. The new beginnings of the next month don’t measure up to a proper tale of base survival. I run a hand over the paper-back’s front-cover image of footprints in the sand. Yes, I can read Defoe and count myself lucky. But could my brother say the same?

I watch him perform a mock news report on the miraculous discovery of Ogopogo in the Pacifica West pool, and then my thoughts drift. Fleeting pictures of a marooned Perry in the Fair Go Community Village take hold. His clothes are torn and dirty. His face is sunburned bright red. He has a beard down to his belt line. He’s killing goats and building a shelter and figuring out which plants he can eat. He’s a ragged Extrasensory Perry, Master Disaster with an edge. I laugh—a hollow rasp that comes from a place of disquiet rather than mirth—and set the book down on the concrete. I tell my brother he has five more minutes.

Back at the suite, I surf the net on Perry’s iPad while he watches
The Tuxedo
. There are a few diverting articles from the major daily,
Vancouver Sun
, and several more from something called
The Tyee
. A story about a former hockey player’s charity golf tournament reminds me of the conversation with Jim Graydon. I google Byron Dafoe. The article references are many and varied—most stem from his playing days, some highlight his fundraising work—but it’s the photographs of him decked out in his goalie gear I find particularly fascinating. The size and volume of the equipment is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The leg pads are like mattresses. The upper-body protection puts the Michelin Man’s bulk to shame. I think back to Graydon’s mention of his son—he wears all
that
and he doesn’t even play? It strikes me that there may be some symmetry in this scenario—a disabled child donning the ultimate armor as his everyday wear. He might even be able to dole out some comeuppance to the bullies with the big stick he carries.