Detached (4 page)

It was only the second week of grade eleven when the principal called to tell me Anna had skipped a class. I didn't think it was possible and said there must have been some sort of mistake. I trusted Anna. She'd always been a responsible kid. Even when she was in the primary grades she was level-headed and honest. But when I called her cellphone and she didn't pick up, I started to worry. I immediately assumed the worst — that she'd been in an accident. Then I talked myself down to the possibility she was just feeling sick. I called the house but there was no answer there either. That's when I decided to leave work early and go home. While I drove, all sorts of terrifying thoughts went through my head and I prayed she'd just skipped class to hang out with her friends. By the time I got home I didn't care what her reason was for missing class, I just wanted to know she was safe. But she wasn't at home and it was only one-thirty. I realized she wouldn't get home for at least another two hours.

My initial instinct was to sit on the front lawn and wait, but even to me that seemed unbalanced. So I decided to put myself to work trimming the rose bushes at the side of the house. It had been too long since they'd had any real attention and I'd been meaning to rescue them for weeks. I was in the basement looking for the garden shears when I discovered Anna's bridge painting wrapped in plastic and tucked behind an old dresser. Questions landed like bombs around me: Why was it hidden down there? Why did she want to hide it? Why had she lied to us? What else had she lied about?

I wasn't mad so much as mystified about why she'd hidden the painting in the first place. It was one more thing I had to figure out, so I hauled the painting upstairs, unwrapped it, and set it by the front door. I hoped when she saw it her expression would give me some answers, even if she wouldn't.

It was almost dinner by the time she got home. By then all the gardens were in order and I was sitting on the stairs petting Sherlock. When she walked inside I said, “The school called and said you missed period three. I thought maybe you were sick.”

“I'm fine,” she said but she looked annoyed to see me there beside her painting. It was just a quick flicker in her eyes, but I saw it.

“Are you sure?”

“I didn't mean to. I was working on a sculpture and lost track of time.”

“I knew there must have been a good explanation. But I was worried. You didn't answer your phone.”

She pulled her cellphone out of her pocket and rolled her eyes. “Crap, I forgot to turn it on after first period. Mrs. Galloway doesn't let us have them on in class.”

“Don't let it become a habit. Your academic classes are just as important as your art classes.”

“I know. I'll be more careful from now on.”

“Now about this painting,” I said in what I hoped was a lighter tone. “I thought you said you gave it to Mrs. Galloway?”

“I just didn't want you to make a big deal of it. I don't think it's that great.”

“But it's fantastic! I hope you don't mind but I want to hang it in the dining room. I'm going to take it and get it framed.”

“Whatever,” she said and tried to step past me to go up the stairs.

“Hey.”

She turned back but didn't look at me.

“Is everything okay? I mean, you seem a little distracted lately. Is there something I should know about?”

“Everything's fine. I just don't like that painting as much as everyone else does. I'm sure I have a better painting in me somewhere.”

“I'm sure you do too. So everything's okay?”

She nodded.

“No troubles with your friends?”

“I'm fine.”

“Any troubles with a boy?”

“No. I'm fine. I'm sorry I worried you. I really just got caught up in my sculpture.”

“You'll talk to me if you have a problem?”

“I promise,” she said and headed up to her room.

My husband brought me to my senses later that evening when he saw the painting in the entrance.

“I thought she gave that away?” he said.

I was leaning against the wall beside it.

“I thought so too until I found it downstairs behind Joe's old dresser.”

“Odd.”

Men can be so understated.

“Did she say why she put it down there?”

“She said she didn't like it.”

“So what's it doing here?”

“I'm going to get it framed and hang it in the dining room.”

He raised his eyebrows at me. “Why do you want to do that if she doesn't like it?”

“Because it's a beautiful picture and I want to show it off. I think Mom would have loved it.”

I stopped talking when he put his fingers to his temples and said in a quiet voice, “Oh my God.” The colour drained out of his face. I looked around to see what was wrong.

“I just got it,” he said.

“Got what?”

“What it's a picture of.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at the girl. Which way is she facing?”

I looked at the angle of the river, at the skyline beyond the bridge. I closed my eyes and tried to put myself there.

“Southwest, I guess.”

“And what's southwest of the West River Viaduct?” he prompted.

“Downtown.”

“And what connects downtown to the viaduct?”

“River Road.”

The thoughts were slow to form in my mind. I felt the shock before I actually made a conscious connection in my mind. Then I gasped out loud. The girl on the bridge was looking across the ravine to where my parents' car had been forced off the road and plunged into the river.

 

By some miracle the bridge stopped haunting me, even though the urge to escape living didn't. If anything, I was deeper down the hole and the beam of light shining in on me was getting smaller and dimmer. How could I not feel worse? What seemed like the perfect ending was beyond my grasp. I might not have been so worried, but I saw a girl on a talk show that same week. She had no legs and only one arm. She'd lost her limbs and almost her life when she'd lain on the subway tracks and waited to be crushed to death. Something went wrong. She said a guardian angel was protecting her, and, although her body was terribly mangled, she was left alive. She never lost consciousness, even after the subway passed and she saw her leg lying a few feet down the tracks. She was in the hospital the better part of two years, had to have multiple surgeries, skin grafts, and extensive physiotherapy. But she said she's never been so full of life, so full of happiness. She said she finally has a sense about the meaning of life. When someone asked her why she wanted to kill herself in the first place, she said she'd wanted to escape the memories of her childhood. That made me feel like a fraud because I don't have a good reason, not one I can explain anyway. Aliya always tells me I have the perfect life, but that just makes me feel double defective because I should be grateful and I'm not, or I can't be. I'm not sure which it is.

If there's one thing I know without a doubt, it's that I don't want to end up like that girl. I'd rather suffer through my aimless life for another seventy years than be the object of pity and speculation. I couldn't imagine facing my friends after failing, especially if I went and lost half my body. I know getting mangled wouldn't help me find a purpose or bring a smile to my face. But I'm happy for her, I guess. I mean, I don't resent her happiness just because it escapes me. Maybe if I did hold a grudge, maybe if I did get mad, maybe then I'd feel more alive than I do right now. Feeling anger or hate would at least be feeling something. Sometimes I check my own pulse, just to convince myself I haven't slipped away into the blackness yet.

Anyhow, I figured that girl's mistake was hanging her legs over the metal track and that if she'd just stood to face the subway train, she'd have been crushed to death the way she intended. Either that or she would have been smashed into a million bits. Whatever. The end result would be being dead.

Then it happened and an idea got stuck in my brain again. It repeated itself over and over, a persistent nagging that told me there was no harm in going to look. There aren't any subways in our city or any train tracks near my house, but there's a busy highway where transport trucks speed past and my brain told me it made sense to check it out, in an academic sort of way, to see if it was possible for a person to get in front of a speeding truck without screwing it up.

Luckily, the expressway that circles the perimeter of the city runs two blocks behind my school. So one day in early September I planned to go off property for lunch. I packed a sandwich and a drink. I even threw in a dessert, just to make the outing legitimate. I was at my locker, putting the lunch bag in my backpack, when Mariam found me.

“What are you doing for lunch?” she asked when she saw me getting ready to go out.

“I felt like getting away for a while, you know.”

“Where to?”

“I dunno. Just for walk around. Maybe find a sunny place to sit and eat.”

“But they're starting intramural volleyball today.”

I knew I should say something like “sweet,” but all I could force myself to say was: “Oh yeah? Good luck.”

“You're not signing up?”

“My wrist is still bothering me from when I fractured it last year. Mom and Dad want me to give it a rest this fall.”

“I didn't know you hurt your wrist?”

“Yeah, I slipped on a rock one weekend down by the river. I didn't need a cast but it still hurts,” I lied.

“But I don't want to go all by myself!”

“Aliya will be there too. You won't be alone.”

“But it won't be the same without you.”

“I'll come to cheer you on,” I said with as much sincerity as I could fake.

“You're so sweet!” Mariam said and wrapped me in a quick hug. Then she bounced off down the hall. Mariam has enough energy for three volleyball teams. I don't understand how one person can contain so much life. I could live a week off the few bits of DNA she leaves on a cafeteria chair.

I walked out of the school and down the street. I heard the traffic whining on the highway as soon as I turned the corner. There were other kids on the street too. Some were heading to restaurants for lunch and others to their homes. I live thirty minutes away by bus so it isn't possible to go home and back in one lunch hour.

The sun was out and the air warm for September. It felt like the middle of summer and I was hot in my jeans. Still, I walked on and listened as the roar of the highway traffic grew steadily louder. I found a path that led between two rows of houses and stopped at the bank overlooking the highway. I scrambled over the wooden fence and found a few small trees to sit under.

I unwrapped my sandwich and chewed slowly. It tasted like paper, but I swallowed each bite with a swig of juice. Eighteen wheelers ripped past so fast I could feel the breeze on my face. Trucks and cars, vans and motorbikes — they all whizzed past and I sat unnoticed. I imagined a truck plowing over 120 pounds of flesh, like a giant raccoon that wandered onto the highway by accident. The thought of so much blood made my stomach clench and I took a gulp of air.

Next I thought about Kyle and the way he'd come to the art exhibit with Aliya. They spent so much time together I sometimes I thought they were, like, a couple. But then sometimes it seemed Kyle liked me. That was the impression I got at the art exhibit anyway. I thought he had something he wanted to say, until someone came along and started to talk about natural-fibre brushes compared to nylon fibres. That's when Kyle took off. I don't think he has much patience for talking art supplies.
What would Kyle think if I was dead?
I wondered.
Would he even care? Would he crumple to the floor and cry the way Joe did when my grandparents were killed? Would he forget to eat or shower for months on end, the way my mother did?
I seriously doubted it, but part of me thought he'd be pretty shaken up. I mean, hey, I'd be shaken up if one of my friends died. I was when Granny died, that's for sure.

I don't know how long I sat there watching the traffic. I was almost in a trance when I noticed someone beside me. It was a man wearing an orange and yellow vest and carrying a garbage bag. He had a long pointed stick in one hand.

“Odd place to eat your lunch,” he said.

Not another jogger
, I thought before I turned to see who was talking.

“I guess.” I crumpled my sandwich wrapper into a ball. “I'm counting cars for a math project. Probability. It's hard to explain.”

As usual I was impressed with my ability to think fast and deliver a perfectly believable lie.

“Well, I appreciate you not littering.” He nodded at the wad of plastic wrap clenched in my hand. He had a crooked smirk on his face, like he was waiting for me to say something funny in return.

“No problem. I hate when people litter.” That part wasn't a lie.

“You and me both,” he said and stabbed at a candy bar wrapper with his stick.

I watched him for a minute and he started to whistle. It surprised me because I expected him to be annoyed about having to pick up other people's garbage.

“Do you do that every day?” I asked.

He was circling around me, adding candy bar wrappers and coffee cups to his bag of trash. I hadn't even noticed I was sitting amongst so much litter.

“Most days.” He smiled. “Some days they have me cutting grass. Or plowing snow in the winter.”

I was stunned. Here this poor guy was out picking up garbage and whistling show tunes at the same time and it didn't look like he had the slightest urge to throw himself in front of a speeding truck. In fact, he seemed oddly happy.

“What did you say you were doing here again?” he asked.

“Math project. Statistics.”

“Statistics and probability at the same time? They sure teach complicated math these days.”

“I know. It's just about killing me.”

I winced at my choice of words and he lowered his eyes at me.

“Stick in school is all I can say. Especially if you don't want to find yourself picking up garbage like me.” He laughed and stepped into the ditch. A transport truck roared past and his ball cap tumbled off his head. He stooped down and picked it up.

He turned and called to me, “You better do your math project up the bank a bit. This is restricted access down here. That's why they put that fence up. They don't want people and pets wandering out onto the highway and getting killed.”

“Good point.” I picked up my backpack and said, “See you later.”

I climbed the steep embankment toward the fence. Before I hoisted myself over, I turned and watched the garbage man against the backdrop of speeding vehicles.

It was a lot harder getting over the fence from the highway side because the ground was lower. I had to try twice before I could pull myself high enough to rest my shoulders over the top. Then I kicked against the wooden slats with my feet. I landed back on the sidewalk with a thump.

“Anna?”

Without even seeing who had spoken, I recognized Kyle's voice and my heart did a series of tumbles.

“Hey, Kyle,” I said as cheerfully as I could manage, while my mind raced with possible explanations. Inside though, I was panicking.

“What were you doing down there?”

I barely heard the question I was thinking so hard, but it didn't matter. There was only one question he could be asking.

“Oh. Uh, my brother moved last weekend and lost a box of stuff off the truck. I thought maybe that guy might have seen it.” The lie dissolved on my tongue like a spoonful of ice cream.

Kyle looked over the fence at the man picking up garbage and nodded.

“What are you doing here?” I asked quickly before he could ask another question.

“I have period-three lunch and I live down the street.”

I followed his gaze to the new subdivision behind me, the kind where the houses are packed in like kernels of corn on a cob.

We stepped into rhythm together on our way back to school.

“Don't you have period-two lunch this term?”

“Yeah. Why?”

He pulled a cellphone from his pocket and checked the time.

“You're late,” he said.

“Crap. I must have lost track of time.”

“On the side of the highway?”

“Yeah, I was thinking about a new painting.”

Kyle looked down at the highway again, then at the overpass in the distance. He probably thought I was some sort of bridge-obsessed freak.

“Either way, you shouldn't go down there, you know. Especially at night. My cousin was hitchhiking along a highway at night and a truck hit him. The driver didn't even know he'd killed someone, thought he'd hit some garbage on the road. It wasn't until he got home and saw the blood that he called the police and they found my cousin's body in the ditch. He probably didn't even see it coming.”

“Oh God, I'm sorry to hear that,” I said.

“I was only a baby when it happened. But at least he didn't cause a huge pile up,” Kyle continued. “I mean, if the driver had seen him and swerved, it could have killed a whole bunch of people.”

“That would have been pretty awful.”

When we got to school we said goodbye and headed in different directions. I walked to my locker and thought again about the busy highway. The idea that a desperate person could cause an accident and kill innocent people didn't sit well with me. If there was a God and I had to meet him, explain to him why I took my own life, I sure didn't want to have to be responsible for any other lives. I mean, just because I wanted to die didn't mean I wanted anyone else to get hurt. I still had a conscience. I wasn't a total sketch.

I was just closing my locker when Aliya walked up.

“Did you go out for volleyball?” I asked.

“They ended up cancelling intramurals today. The gym is set up for an assembly. What happened to you, anyway? You missed class.”

“Just walked around and stuff. Lost track of time. I hope they don't call Mom. She'll freak.”

“Was Kyle enjoying the nice weather too?” Aliya threw back her head and laughed, then leaned close to me and started singing, “Anna and Kyle, sitting in a tree.
K-i
-
s
-
s
-
i-n
-g.”

“Whatever. I just ran into him.” I kept my cool, but my hands started to sweat. I was afraid my lies were about to collide.

When I got home after school and saw Mom's car was already in the driveway, I knew I was in for it. But when I walked in the house and saw my bridge painting leaning against the living-room wall, I wanted to turn and run. Of course I couldn't because Mom was sitting right there on the stairs waiting for me. Sherlock left her side and came to me. I patted his head absently. I looked at the painting and cringed, then I dared to look at her. She had that expression on her face, the one that means I'm in for a long talk and she's expecting a lot of good explanations, not excuses. I knew the smartest thing to do was wait for her to start the conversation. So I stood there with my head down, like a dog that's been scolded.

“Your principal called. She said you ditched period three.”

Kaboom! Mom likes to get right to the point.

“I'm sorry,” I said. It's always good to start off with an apology, never a defence. “I didn't mean to miss class but I was working on a sculpture at lunch and lost track of time.”