Westlake Soul (15 page)

And I
needed
this. I don’t care if it’s sentimental bullshit. I needed—more than ever before, and if only for a heartbeat—to exist in a world where everything was perfect, and where Yvette loved me. Imagine the cracked window repaired. Better yet, imagine it replaced with stained glass. A sheet of light and colour. You don’t just see through this window, you
experience
it. I could feel the pine needles beneath my feet. Smell the wild forest. Hear Alicia play. Taste the food that Johnny served. Yvette in my arms—
in my arms
. Holding her, kissing her. The moon pouring onto us. Her eyes changed from blue to green, then back again.

Virtual reality. Just like dreaming.

Healing.

I snapped, regretfully, out of it, but stronger, into a reality that I would never—
could
never—invent. My broken body propped against pillows. My wall of achievement, gathering dust. The sound of Yvette’s Beetle pulling into the driveway.

10:28 AM.

Dr. Harvey Dent (or Dr. Two-Face, if you prefer, and I think that seems more fitting) told my parents that I wouldn’t feel any pain while I slowly starved to death. He said I’d simply, and peacefully, fade away. No doubt this made Mom and Dad’s decision a mite easier. Anything that is easier is good for them, I suppose, and they’ll never know any different; I can’t contradict Dr. Two-Face by communicating the incredible pain I’m already feeling. My parents will witness my deterioration—they’ll listen to my scratchy breaths and wipe the blood from my lips—but all the time they’ll be unaware that I’m screaming inside.

Dr. Two-Face is wrong. It hurts. So much. Already.

I thought Yvette’s hair would still be wet from the pool, or that I’d smell the forest on her skin. It took a few moments to adjust to seeing her dressed in plain work clothes with her hair tied back. She looked in on me briefly before having coffee with my parents (Dad had taken the morning off work), where there was little of the small talk one might normally enjoy over a mug of joe. It was quickly to business. Dad and Mom confirmed the decision to remove my PEG tube, and Yvette told them what to expect in the coming days/weeks. I will become drawn and pale. Will lose body mass rapidly. My skin will dry and flake away. My hair could thin and fall out. There will be bleeding from my eyes and mouth as my mucous membranes dry up and crack. My breathing, toward the end, will be rapid and grating.

“It’s going to be difficult,” Yvette said. “Upsetting.”

“Dr. Kellerman told us that Westlake wouldn’t feel any pain.” Mom looked into her coffee. “He said it would be peaceful.”

“I’m a trained healthcare professional, not a doctor,” Yvette said. “I can’t comment on Westlake’s condition, or whether or not he feels pain. It may well be peaceful for him, but it certainly won’t be for you.”

“We understand,” Dad said.

“And you know that his feeding tube can be reinserted,” Yvette said, “if you have a change of heart?”

“Yes,” Dad said.

Mom nodded.

I’d spent some time thinking about my PEG tube, and how its removal was a symbolic gesture—an underscoring of my parents’ decision more than a discontinuance of life support. They didn’t
need
to remove it, after all; they could have left it dangling from my stomach and simply discontinued my feeds. But there’s a psychological edge to not having anything through which to feed me (even though, as Yvette said, the tube could be reinserted at any point). Removing it cemented their decision. But more, it stated that they didn’t believe I would recover. The equivalent of a trainer throwing in his boxer’s towel.

I’m still fighting, though, despite it being hard. Probably impossible. And yet, no harder than seeing my parents lose hope. I admit to a moment’s panic—assailing their minds in an effort to divert their course of action. Forget empathy and understanding. Disregard what I said about needing a deadline. I leapt first into Dad’s mind and directed my flashlight through a fog of ones and zeroes.
Dad, it’s me, Westlake . . . don’t do this. Please don’t give up on me. . . .
I heard my words echoing off his wall. That insurmountable barricade of reason. He frowned, as if he were trying to remember something, and swirled the dregs of his coffee. Nothing more. I recalled the time they’d forgotten about me—left me on the rear deck as night fell. I’d rapped on Dad’s mind then and gotten a similarly vague response. It was the same now; I was left outside and night was falling. I flowed then into Mom’s mind, screaming her name, knowing she wouldn’t hear me. Ever get the feeling someone is watching you? That’s what Mom felt. She looked up from her coffee, glanced over her shoulder.

“What is it?” Dad asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

I slipped from their locked-down minds and returned to my mountain. A sheer, demanding climb.

“Okay,” Yvette said.

Mom and Dad stayed in the kitchen, silent, clasping hands, while Yvette removed my tube. It only took thirty seconds. There was no melancholy soundtrack. No angry mob protesting outside, waving placards with LET WESTLAKE LIVE emblazoned on them. It was all rather unspectacular. Yvette merely snapped on her gloves and pulled the tube from my stomach (excruciating pain as the bumper securing the tube from inside passed through the stoma, but I didn’t even flinch). There was a spurt of blood and gastric fluid that Yvette quickly wiped away. She then covered the open hole with gauze and surgical tape, and that was it. Job done. She disposed of the detritus, and I looked at her as the pain (all too slowly) faded. It struck me as cruel that she should be so beautiful—that she had gone from starring in my virtual reality, a source of strength and inspiration, to being the one who had finalized my parents’ loss of hope. It would have been easier if she’d looked like a wicked stepmother.

Okay, that’s not fair. My parents—following numerous consultations with specialists—had requested Yvette perform a duty as a healthcare professional, and she had done so. Nothing wicked about that. But I couldn’t get over her detachment. This was the same woman who had touched my trophies, rubbed calamine lotion into my burned skin, and trailed her finger through the strip of hair beneath my bellybutton. Always with such compassion
. Everybody thinks he is broken, but he is still intact
, she had said to her mother. Yet she had discontinued my life support with cold efficiency. She hadn’t even looked me in the eye.

I know that such detachment is necessary, but I wonder how much of the pain I felt when she removed my PEG tube was emotional. It had burned, and hurt more than I thought it would. Also, despite my gift for perfect recollection, Yvette is drawn differently when I think about those thirty seconds now. Her softness is blurred. Her eyes are blank, neither blue nor green. This is my doing, of course. My emotion. I appear determined to soften my disappointment by recreating her as Atropos. A woman of grim duty who, with her abhorred shears, severs the thread of life.

And really, what was I expecting? That melancholy soundtrack? Her tears falling on my chest, warm and fat, like summer rain?

I should learn to keep fantasies in my mind.

Either way, it is done. No more tube. No more nutrition or hydration.

“Let’s hope it’s quick,” Dad said.

I’m on my own.

I have spent the last thirty-one hours fighting my condition. A relentless battle that brought no gain. Time to sleep, and hopefully rest. Find a dream with no fight, no pain, and no Dr. Quietus. Tomorrow I’ll do it all over again.

Before I sleep, though, I’m just going to hang a while. Endure the pain. Niki is sitting in the Mork chair, doing something out of character. She’s singing. Loud and unabashed. Bob Dylan’s “I Shall Be Released.” So apt I could cry. At least it’s not “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.”

I listen. Unresponsive. My throat dry and sore.

Her voice carries me. Like the sweetest arms.

She finishes. Sits silently.

I think I should close my eyes. And I do.

I haven’t forgotten about Wayne. I’m still going to get that son of a bitch.

Four days since my life support was cut off. I have spent most of that time fighting. I have rebuilt the Soulmobile, and drive regularly through the motor cortex, leaping chasms like frickin’ Knight Rider, crashing into weakened buildings that separate in spinning pieces. Pedal to the metal. Nothing but speed. I have discovered new terrain but it is just as barren as everywhere else. I drive until the tires are smoking. The headlights uncover a lifelessness that could be measured in light years. One time I popped the hood and ran jumper cables from the battery (a billion volts—that sucker is
juiced
) to deep in my brain: the thalamus—a kind of signal box for sensory and motor function. I gunned the ignition. There was a bang and a curl of blue flame. I expected my body to jerk upright in bed, eyes wide and alive. Returning to the groovy room, I found nothing but a breathing corpse with dry blood on its lips.

I find thin relief in my daydreams, and rest in what sleep I manage to get, which isn’t much. It is broken by pain. My muscles ache from
trying
to work. My stomach, which I imagine hissing and bleeding like a collapsed lung, stages violent demonstrations from head to toe, toppling cars and throwing petrol bombs. My throat is so dry I can feel the lining crumble as I breathe.

My family are doing their best. Staying as strong as they can. There are fewer tears now that they have made their decision, but the distress is a storm. They just want it to be over, and who can blame them? Until then they exhibit cracked smiles and operate on 3% of the iceberg. They’re aliens in pretty skins. I float with them sometimes, and study their distraction. Dad is trying to carry on as normal, but keeps missing the mark. Little things. Pouring milk instead of cream into his coffee. Backing the car into the garage door. Too many to mention them all. Niki is out most of the time. Or sleeping. When she’s home (and awake) she’ll often sit in with me. Curled into the Mork chair, like a chick in an egg, reading something for school or—her new thing—singing. It’s crazy how much she loves me. I always knew it . . . but I never really
knew
it, you know? Mom is a cardboard cutout with a distant expression, placed randomly around the house. She graduates, occasionally, to animation, and with short-lived gusto. I watched her drop and do three push-ups on the kitchen floor, then fill out an online application to appear on
Mantracker
. She vacuums in bursts. Designed a tattoo.

And then there’s Hub.

He’s just so sad all the time. Pooches around the house, eyes down.
It’s like he knows
, Dad said to Mom over dinner. No appetite. Not a flick of the tail. He’s like a different dog—hasn’t said more than a dozen words to me since the tube came out.

Not cool, dude
, I said to him.
I could really use your support.

I know
, he whined.
But I’m not there yet.

He’s such a tragic little character. The quintessential pining dog.

Yvette comes every day. Other than not feeding me or having to change my man-diapers, her duties are pretty much the same. My condition is monitored and documented, and I usually get a sup of fresh air while my bedsheets are changed. I’m shaved, washed, and dressed in clean clothes—not for comfort, but to keep my deteriorating body from smelling too bad. She talks to me, like she used to, as if nothing has changed. Sometimes she strokes my hair.

She still stars in my daydreams, and I still wish she were mine. Yeah, for all those lovelorn reasons (I may be wilting, but I can still
feel
), but also because the one man who
is
with her—who can share himself and accept the things she shares—does not deserve her.

I’m not the only one in need of a saviour.

She came in with bruises on her arms yesterday.

It’s difficult to equate this bruised girl with the detached, assertive woman who removed my life support. Shit, everybody is multifaceted. It’s the reason Dr. Phil can’t count all his money. I just wish Yvette would rotate the geometry of her character and show Wayne the strength she shows me. If she would, the bruises would stop.

But she can’t. Or won’t. Which is why I need to step in.

I don’t have much time between work and rest, but I give what I can, and have seen Wayne continue his acts of unkindness. Nothing as brutal as punching her in the eye. A cruel word here. A sneer there. One time he flipped the bird behind her back for no reason other than that he’s stupid and mean. On another, he wiped a booger on her pillow. So much anger inside him. I know because I
felt
it—a cold and solid block of anger. He either doesn’t know how to deal with it, or doesn’t know it’s there.

I follow Yvette. I lay on her like a blanket and try to absorb her unhappiness, that I may spirit it away to wherever I am going. And, like Wayne’s anger, I can feel it. Pebbles of discontent. I gather what I can, but it’s not nearly enough. Prevention being better than the cure, I follow Wayne, too. In glimpses. All I can stand. I ride shotgun in that APPETITE FOR CONSTRUCTION pickup and study the man behind the wheel. His aura thumps as darkly as the music from the stereo. The muscle in his jaw jumps as he grits his teeth. Over and over.

Wayne lives in a two-bedroom apartment in Mathias. I thought it’d be a rundown shithole, but it’s actually clean and modern. Real hardwood flooring (son of a bitch always kicks his boots off at the door), a sixty-inch 3D TV, a closet full of cool threads. I guess he’s not
always
a thug. Doesn’t mean he’s not always a fucktard. He just knows when to keep it hidden. Like when he’s working. I have to admit, he knows how to run a business—works hard and has a knack for keeping his customers happy. When not banging his hammer or spending time with Yvette, Wayne pumps weights, plays hockey, and hangs with his buddies. He watches UFC and goes to strip clubs. Just an all-Canadian guy, but with a thick strip of meanness.

I can’t watch him with Yvette all the time, but with every slight I have heard, every upturned lip I have seen, I feel my emotion swell. It’s exhausting, but I fight. I gauge his biofield and draw from it, computing the minutia, recreating it inside me.