The Book of Living and Dying (4 page)

Even the doctors at the hospital seemed somehow drawn to her. The questioning look in their eyes. The way they said hello. Like they’d been waiting to see her. Counting the minutes of their day to the time when she’d be in it. She had accommodated them in the beginning by taking care of herself, making sure she was presentable when they were due to arrive. It gave her a thrill at first to think about them thinking about her. Until later on, when things got bad and she found she just didn’t care about anything any more, especially the desire of doctors.

The bell on the restaurant door jingled abruptly and some students bustled in. Must be on spare, Sarah thought. Lifting the cup to her mouth, she rested the rim against her bottom lip, breathing in the warmth of the coffee without drinking. She let her eyes relax, the words of her journal blurring like ink in the rain. She thought about seeing Michael again, thought about how she would arrange it. Sipping the coffee
at last, she let the warm liquid pool at the back of her throat before swallowing. She would see him soon, she decided; she would see him tonight.

Sarah moved along the street, past the bakery and the shops full of “old-people” clothes. Past the city hall and the police station, ducking through alleys where she could to avoid attention. She followed the street to the south end, with its squat bungalows that all looked the same. Dirty windows, aluminum siding, tarpaper, chipboard, asphalt shingles, forgotten dogs on short chains, neglected children with snotty noses and messy hair. The low part of town. That’s what her mother called it. Sarah walked by all of it toward the old stone bridge that arched over the railway tracks to the train station. At one time her mother would have been furious if she’d known Sarah was there. But she didn’t know. And she would never know about it, or the place Sarah called her “secret spot.”

Her sneakers slipped over the gravel as she navigated down the hill to the right of the bridge, one hand skimming along the ground for balance. At the bottom, Sarah skidded to a stop. Stepping gingerly onto the train tracks, she advanced like a tightrope artist, arms held out at her sides, toes dipping dramatically, one after the other, as she moved along the rail. When she reached the abandoned boxcar she jumped to the ground. The car was covered in tags and graffiti, the worn letters of
Norfolk Southern
faded to a broken outline.

Checking up and down the tracks to make sure she was alone, Sarah pulled herself into the boxcar. It seemed as black as a cave after the glare of the sun. The smell of piss and stale beer caught in the back of her throat as she waited for her eyes to adjust, then glanced quickly around. No ghosts. The floor was littered with the usual trash: bits of crumpled newspaper, discarded bottles, cigarette butts.

It was dangerous to hang out at the tracks, she knew that. There was that girl, last summer, raped beneath the bridge. Someone from one of the other high schools. Alone, after dark. Sarah never went to her secret spot at night after hearing that. The boxcar was close enough to the station to be safe during the day when the workers were about. Yet there was still a certain thrill in being there, even in the daylight. It was quiet. It was quiet at the cemetery, too. She liked to hang out there as well. Not for bad reasons. To look at the flowers and read the headstones. Sometimes she would gather pieces of tombstones that had been knocked apart by vandals and try to return them to their rightful places. She felt oddly close to people there. It was peaceful.

A bundle of old papers functioned as a makeshift cushion in one corner of the car. Sarah sat down. The boxcar seemed lonelier than usual in the filtered light. She couldn’t help wondering if John’s ghost could find her there, if it would stalk her like a poltergeist. There were movies about things like that—ghosts following people everywhere, moving from town to town. She loved John, though. Would he really hurt her? Her mind skipped over the surface of reason like a pebble. Maybe ghosts were devoid of emotion, she thought. Or maybe they haunted people because they couldn’t help it, because they were drawn to life the same way a vampire is drawn to blood. Because vampires, even when they love
someone, have to fight the urge to feed on human flesh. But it was no good to think like that. She was just freaking herself out.

A cigarette was what she needed. It would help her to relax. Leaning against the wall of the boxcar, she opened her purse and searched around for her lighter and cigarettes. Marlboros. John had gotten her hooked on the brand when she was fifteen. He used to sneak her cartons that he bought at the duty-free whenever he would cross the border. Hiding out in the shed, he showed her the proper way to smoke so she wouldn’t do it “like a girl.” Now it was part of her, a habit she couldn’t break, out of deference to him. It was their ritual, and they had found ways to get away with it as long as they could.

It was more of an excuse just to get outside at first, huddling on the small patch of grass behind the hospital, the occasional shared experience with some other prisoner who had managed to escape the nurses’ tyranny. Then it became an imperative, the only bit of familiar in an otherwise foreign world. Until the craving for nicotine was subsumed by sheer exhaustion and finally, the absence of desire altogether.

Sarah straightened the crumpled packet. Would Michael approve of her habit? She thought about Donna, calling him Mortimer. That made her laugh, in spite of herself, and she suddenly wished that Donna were with her, playing hooky in the boxcar. Donna would chase the ghosts away. She would make jokes about it and play it down so that Sarah could just let the whole thing go. She decided that she would tell Donna about John, the first chance she got.

A sharp tap on the pack of Marlboros produced a cigarette. Sarah shook her disposable lighter, then struck the flint wheel with her thumb. The flint sparked several times before the flame finally shot up, flickering blue and orange in the diffuse light. Mesmerized by its hypnotic dance, she imagined herself inside the flame, the chaos of molecules colliding, the fire folding and unfolding, consuming the bone. It lapped greedily at the end of the cigarette as she drew quick puffs, the tobacco glowing a brilliant orange by the time she released her thumb from the flint. Taking a long drag, she held the smoke in, then slowly released it, the smoke rising over her top lip and up into her nostrils the way John had taught her, like a fugitive spirit escaped and devoured.

The nicotine worked its way swiftly through her veins, delivering its calm. Sarah reached into the small pocket at the front of her knapsack and pulled out a neat bundle of photos. These were her favourite ones, the ones she kept with her always. A silver paper clip and a slip of folded newsprint protected them. She unwrapped the bundle. A ten-year-old John laughed back at her, the photo slightly blurry and yellowed around the edges. But there was no mistaking her brother’s smile. Her three-year-old self beamed up at him standing in the middle of a blue plastic wading pool in a pink bikini, tummy bulging out. John, shirtless in cut-off jean shorts, his hard little body all bones and sinew. Her mother and father lounging in aluminum deck chairs on the grass behind the pool. And always the mystery girl standing in the background. Who was she? An aunt, an older girl from the neighbourhood? Sarah refused to ask her mother about it. That would have meant they’d
actually have to talk to each other. She would rather figure it out herself; it was her little mystery.

In every picture, the girl’s face was obscured by sunlight, the details erased in the glare, her features always blurred, hidden. There was something familiar about her, though, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The smile? The clothes? The way the light seemed to radiate from her and no one else?

When she was finished with the photos, Sarah carefully placed them in order before wrapping them back in the paper. Securing them with the paper clip, she returned them to the pocket of her knapsack, then stopped to massage her temples lightly. The aspirin hadn’t worked. She would have to take more. She inspected her cigarette. Nearly finished. Tapping another from the pack, she lit it off the butt of the first, then extinguished the spent cigarette on the floor of the boxcar, flicking it adeptly against the wall away from the newspapers. She practised blowing smoke rings, the undulating white hoops suspended like questions in the still air, expanding, curling, dissipating. She thought of Michael sitting in class. Was he thinking about her? Her face flushed at the thought of it and she wondered at the depth of her emotions for him. It was quite fascinating, really, how she was drawn to him in a way that she couldn’t understand or explain, as though every atom in her body longed for union with his. It had been like that from the very first, when she’d seen him standing outside the school. She couldn’t convey this to anyone—especially Donna, who had taken an instant dislike to him, as if Sarah’s interest in Michael were somehow a threat to their friendship.

Sarah envisioned Michael leaving class, imagined him
walking along the street, past the library toward home. That was how she would do it. She would wait behind the library, then follow him. When it was safe, when no one else would see, she would catch up to him. She drew the smoke deep into her lungs and exhaled, the smoke billowing in a satisfying plume in the air.

E
xcept for a few students loitering in the alley, the schoolyard was empty. Sarah leaned against the library wall, hidden in the afternoon shadows. From where she was standing, she could see two sets of doors. There was a strange electricity in the air. The maple trees quivered with the weight of it, anticipating the bell, the ring splitting the silence at last. The doors to the school flung open and a stream of students poured out. Girls in low-cut jeans, hoop earrings, their long hair flowing, the sex of them available like supermarket oranges. Boys in baseball caps and skater pants, wrestling, laughing, jockeying for supremacy. Donna appeared at the far doors. Stopping to light a cigarette, she forced the other students to course around her. She took her time, adjusted her jacket, blew smoke like a signal into the fall air. Sarah couldn’t help laughing. At least Donna didn’t disappoint.

When she had made her point, Donna finally walked down the stairs and into the alley, taking the shortcut to the main street. Going to the Queen’s for a cup of j, no doubt. Biding her time until something of interest came along. She
slipped behind the school and was gone. That’s when Sarah noticed Michael. He was already a block from the school walking past the library on the other side of the street. How had she missed him? His long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, knapsack slung casually over one shoulder. He wore an ankle-length khaki trench coat, combat boots, black pants. Controlled anger.

The bird scrambled frantically in her chest. She waited, counting beats until Michael was several blocks down the street, then stepped out of the shadows to follow.

Michael walked toward the tracks. Sarah held back, careful not to get too close, even though she was uncertain about what it was that she was afraid of. Being seen with Michael? Running into someone she knew? The wind picked up, the trees quaking in response, shaking their colourful leaves like medicine rattles. Michael responded in kind, releasing the tie holding his hair, his raven mane flowing in the breeze. How magical he looked—and wild, Sarah thought. As marvellous and mythical against the backdrop of derelict south-side houses as a winged horse. People watched as he walked by. Not boldly, but circumspectly, and with great interest. He seemed aloof to their attention, like a king, walking as if the world were laid out for his purpose alone. This made Sarah even more intent on knowing him, on getting closer.

Watching him walk over the bridge, she jumped behind a row of bushes when he glanced in her direction, then waited until he reached the other side of the tracks before crossing the bridge herself. As soon as he reached the park, Michael dematerialized behind a stand of pine trees.

Sarah trotted along the sidewalk, waiting for several breaths behind the trees, then moving into the park. Scanning the stretch of green, she could see the boathouse
perched on the edge of the pond near a small concrete dam. There was a low, red-brick building that housed the public washrooms, always closed or under surveillance, and rows of empty cages that had once held peacocks and other exotic birds. In every direction, hydro wires sliced across the sky, crisscrossing and knitting together at several giant towers beside the dam. A ten-foot-high chain-link fence stood sentry around the towers, the regulation red lightning bolt sign threatening trespassers with immediate electrocution. Behind the towers stood the faded tents and food stands of an uninspired and weary fair, the rides frozen against a backdrop of grey. But Michael was nowhere to be seen. Sarah stood searching the horizon when a voice broke the silence.

“Why are you following me?”

It was Michael, staring at her from among the pine trees. She flushed with embarrassment, having been caught. “I wasn’t spying on you or anything.”

He looked at her skeptically.

“I—I just wanted to know where you live,” she confessed.

“Why didn’t you just ask me?”

Why
hadn’t
she just asked him? She wasn’t even sure herself. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I guess I was being nosy,” she said, trying to recover her cool.

He didn’t answer, but came out from the trees and began walking across the park. Sarah padded after him. They walked in silence, she too flustered to attempt conversation, and then strangely, profoundly enervated.
It’s the power lines,
she thought,
draining my energy.

“Your dad’s a prof?” she ventured, a tone of apology in her voice.

“Is that what your friend told you?”

“Who, Donna?”

He stopped short, aware of her deceit.

“Um, yeah, Donna said so, about your dad, I mean,” she stammered.

“She’s a real ace, isn’t she?” he said. “A real private eye.”

She couldn’t believe Donna was getting her in trouble again. Her fidelity to her friend quickly vanished. She wanted to blame her for everything, then felt immediately ashamed of herself for that. “Why do you stare at me in class?” she impulsively demanded, reversing the attack.