Are You Seeing Me? (17 page)

“I do now.”

“And you know about neighboring Mount St. Helens and how it exploded in 1980, distributing a drift of ash that reached Australia?”

“That I did know.”

Extrasensory Perry. He has questions, you know. Lots of questions.

He will make his inquiries when he’s ready. And our mother will answer each one. My hope is that her answers will be worthy of his understanding and forgiveness. It’s not as unlikely as it seemed a week ago. He accepted
Lost in Katrina
, even chose it as a source of consolation after the toilet panic. Thus far, although distracted, he’s at least been calm.

Good ol’ Mount Baker.

Lots of questions.

Of course, there is always Mount St. Helens. If it happens, if explosion results…Well, second time around, our mother must do better. She must stand still, even as the ash spreads far and wide.

That’s the answer I’m looking for.

“SO, WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THE boat ride on Okanagan Lake?” asks Leonie.

I wince. Not the question to ask, Leonie. Not at all. I look left into the living room, then at the half-empty bottle of champagne on the table. My mind ticks over, revisiting the drama, choosing words. I shift to Perry.
The Tuxedo
is on
pause
. He’s slid out of the armchair and onto his knees, hands over his ears, his breathing heavy. His gaze is fixed on our mother. It’s like he’s prompting memories, cueing her recall. Remember this? Remember the last time you saw me unravel? I’m older now, but it’s still the same when things go wrong. It’s hard. On me. On everyone.

Leonie is an abandoned ventriloquist’s doll—limp, slumped, mouth open. Understandably, she can’t figure how it all soured in a matter of seconds. Perry was settling in so nicely. Upon arrival, he checked out his room, put clothes in the wardrobe and drawers, found homes on the shelves for all his security items. He ate lunch at the outdoor setting in the courtyard. He listened in on plans for the stay: Whistler tomorrow, PNE the next day. When she let him know the PNE was Vancouver’s equivalent of the Ekka, he clapped his hands and nodded approvingly. And he didn’t bat an eye when informed it would just be mother and son for the show; I would head downtown for some R and R. For the last half hour, he’d been content to play with his iPad and watch Jackie Chan. Now he’s on the verge of coming apart, courtesy of a ten-word question she thought was more innocuous than a falling snowflake.

I gulp some bubbly, clear my throat. Perry, still peering over the edge of reason, has shifted attention to me.

“It’s okay, mate,” I say. “I’m not going to lose it again. I’m just going to tell her what happened.”

“No lie?”

“No lie. I’m just going to tell the story.”

“Ogopogo isn’t around to help me if you cry.”

“You won’t need him, Pez. Promise.”

Perry lifts his hands from his head and drops them by his side. He stays perched on his knees.

“Marc and I are on a break,” I say. I down the remainder of my drink, then refill my glass.

“Is there more to the story?” asks Leonie.

I tell her about our agreement, how I needed temporary distance so this trip could be the sole focus. Then I sketchily detail the calls—at the Pacifica West, on the Coquihalla, the third, backbreaking breach by the lake. I don’t reveal how Marc’s views on this little family reunion paved the way to the parting.

“He apologized for ringing the first two times. Howzat, hey? He
rang
to say sorry for ringing.”

Leonie draws a smoke from the nearby packet, taps the filter on the table. “Yes, that’s bad.”

“It’s complete overkill.”

“Yes.”

I lean forward, elbows propped on the table. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“No?”

“No. You think I’m making too much of it.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to. It’s in your tone.”

“I’m going outside.” Leonie jumps to her feet. The force of the movement rocks the chair. It teeters for an instant on two legs, threatening to topple, then crashes back down into the backs of her thighs. She rides out the clutch of pain, steps away from the table and fumbles with a lighter on the sideboard.

“I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t smoke.”

I move in front of Perry, bend down and cup his face in my hands. “You seeing me, Pez?”

“Yes.”

“You okay if we go outside for a bit?”

Perry checks the wall clock. “It’s eight fifty-one. Why are you going outside?”

“Mother-daughter chat.”

We step through the sliding glass door and into the back courtyard. Standing side by side, we observe the glubbing fountain in the center of the cheap water feature. I know the setup to our story is done. It’s time for the conflict and, one way or another, the resolution.

“I’m sorry,” she begins. “You’ve made a decision and I support it.”

I scoff. “Smile and nod, hey? You don’t get off that easy.”

“I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

“Then do it. Communicate. Don’t cave.” I pick up a withered maple leaf lying on a nearby stone, twist the stem between thumb and forefinger.“We’re grown-ups, Leonie.”

She lights the cigarette, takes a long calming drag, blows smoke out the side of her mouth. “Look, obviously I don’t know Marc from Adam. The little I do know I got from your letters, and from what you wrote he seems like a pretty nice guy. You certainly liked him when you put pen to paper—I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. You wrote about possibly taking the relationship to the next level—moving in together at some point in the future, after Perry was settled. Clearly, the two of you had plans.”

I drop the leaf, watch it float down and come to rest by my feet. “There is potential.”

“And, look, I know things have changed because of the calls. You see him a bit differently now—God knows, I can relate to that. Story of my life in a lot of ways. But here’s the kicker, Justine: he cares. He doesn’t make those calls if he doesn’t care. I’m wondering how much you’ve really thought about that.”

“There’s a big difference between caring and needlessly interfering.”

“Maybe he just needed his hand held. Never needing your hand held, or at least refusing to admit it…I think that’s a hell of a lot worse than needing it a bit too much.”

I fold my arms, nudge a loosened rock back into place with my toe. “You’re talking about Dad now, aren’t you?”

Leonie flicks the spent cigarette onto the pathway and crushes it underfoot. There are a few butts discarded on the ground.

“You knew Dan as a father,” she begins. “He was a great father. From day one, he was smitten with the two of you. He played with you, bathed you. Read to you at night. When he’d come home from work late—he hated the times when he had to work late, just
hated
them—all he’d want to do was talk about his ‘twinnows.’ He’d want to know every last detail: what you’d eaten, how much you’d napped, what sort of poop you’d produced in your diaper. When he went out, he’d always take you two with him, even when you were tiny; he’d lug you around in one of those baby carriers like you were his passport to the world. He took you to the beach, to the playground. Hell, he even came up with an exercise routine using those damn carriers. I was only around for four years, Justine, but I saw enough to know what he was. He was meant to be a dad. He was
born
to be a dad.” She glances at me, ekes out a thin smile. “You don’t need me to tell you that—you knew how good he was.”

I look skyward, then at the back of my left hand. “He was the best.”

She nods. “And as good a father as he was, he was a lousy husband, Justine. I never wrote about it in any of the letters I sent to you—there wasn’t any point. But I think there is a point now, so I’m going to tell you. He had no time for me. All the things he gave to you two—the love, the care, the concern—he tucked it all into bed with his twinnows at the end of every day. He was a lousy husband, Justine. I can say it in 2010. I was able to say it after the divorce, too, when the blinders came off and I saw things more clearly. In the midst of the marriage, though, I was struck dumb. We shared what I thought was love, but then it began to fall apart, week after week, month after month, until it was nothing but an obituary. Actually, not even an obituary: just an obscure moment in history or a boring trivia question.”

I shift my weight, pick some lint off my sleeve, shift again.

“I tried to salvage it. I cooked his favorite meals: veal parmigiana, shepherd’s pie, snapper with slipper lobsters. I always,
always
asked him questions about his work before I launched into my day. I bought lingerie even though I couldn’t stand to look at my post-baby body in the mirror. None of it made a blip on the radar. When I left, I let him have it. It was his fault. He was a shitty husband, he was a heartless bastard. He’d held a life jacket in his hand while he watched me drown. I gave him hell, but deep down, I didn’t believe any of it—I was the shitty one; I was at fault. I’d failed my marriage. Add to that my abject failure as a mother and it was clear what must be done: I had to go away, take my failure elsewhere. Dan would find another woman, a better woman, one he could love as much as his twinnows.” She crosses her arms, rubs the rising goose bumps. “Turned out I was wrong, eh? Dan might’ve been a born father, but he was born to do it alone.”

The sun is almost gone and lights are on in the neighboring townhouses. There’s a chill in the air. It might be the result of the nearby flowing water, or maybe the Canadian summer is ending already. I look over at my mother. She’s shivering, seemingly at the mercy of the cool change. I’m not feeling it. In fact, my armpits and spine and hands share a tickle of perspiration.

“So, Marc deserves a second chance and Dad didn’t,” I say. “Is that the gist of what you’re arguing?”

“I’m not arguing, Justine. You told me not to cave, you said communicate—that’s what I’m doing. I’m not arguing. I’m just saying, that’s all.”

“And what exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying the same thing I said at the start: Marc cares. He’s phoning you up because he cares. And there are worse things in the world than that.”

Yes, there are worse things. You would know, Mum, wouldn’t you?

I hold my tongue and examine the palm of my left hand. When the last cheap jab has cleared from my thoughts, I respond, “This trip is about Perry, not me. You need to ask his forgiveness. You need to win him over. And you need his permission if you’re really going to become part of our lives again. I think you should focus on that, Leonie.” I move toward the sliding door, stop, backtrack. “No offense, but you’re not the one to give me advice about relationships.”

When I reenter the living room, Perry is sitting in one of the armchairs, wearing a blanket like a bonnet.

“I didn’t listen,” he says. “It’s wrong to eavesdrop.”

“Thanks, Pez.”

“That’s why I’m wearing this over my head.”

“Wearing what?”

He pats the blanket, pauses, then laughs. “You got me!”

I smile and suppress a pretend yawn.“It’s been a big day. More adventures tomorrow. Time to hit the hay, I reckon.”

Inside my room, I look out the window at the courtyard below. Leonie is still there. She reaches down, scoops water from the stream and splashes it onto the back of her neck. Then she walks back into the house.

MY NIGHT’S REST IS INTERRUPTED around a quarter to five. After a few seconds getting my bearings, I hear muffled conversation from downstairs. I tie up my hair, put on trackpants and socks, then poke my head out of the bedroom. The light is on in Perry’s room—no signs of life though. I pad past and ease onto the stairs. At the third step, I kneel down and peer through the gap in the handrail. Leonie is doing yoga. She’s chatting with an unlikely spectator.

“Is everything okay, Perry? Do you need something?”

“It’s difficult for me to sleep.”

“Oh. Is your bed uncomfortable?”

“No, my bed is okay, thank you. I’m having trouble sleeping because there is a lot of change happening. Things are different.”

My brother is standing at the far wall, observing with his peripheral vision. He picks up a small crystal object—a Buddha, if I’m not mistaken—from the shelf by his elbow, replaces it, then moves in beside the armrest of the couch. “Do you feel different?”