Are You Seeing Me? (18 page)

“Yes, for sure. Maybe not as much as you. But, yes, definitely I feel different.”

He gives three of his big over-the-top nods. “The readings certainly indicate things are different.”

“Readings?”

He points toward the upstairs rooms. “From my seismometer. The ground is shifting, I reckon.”

The surrealism of this scene is not lost on me. It’s just after five in the morning, eighteen hours or so behind Brisbane time; I am huddling on the steps of a townhouse on the outskirts of Vancouver, Canada, spying on a chat between my runaway mother and extrasensory brother. Leonie Orr, whom I know from photographs and fan mail, who took off while we were dreaming four-year-old dreams, who threw us in the too-hard basket. Our mother: no longer running away, now settled, still, present. Our mother, the grown-up.

We’re all grown-ups, Leonie.

“Would you like a drink, Perry? Or something to eat?”

“No, thank you.”

“Would you like something to help you sleep?”

“Like milk?”

“Sure. I have other stuff, too. Stronger stuff than milk.”

“Medication?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t take medication. Only Tylenol if I have a headache. Dad said I never needed medication. Just Jeans agrees.” He bends down and runs a hand over the smooth rubber surface of the yoga mat. “I think I’ll stay up, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” Leonie glances at the staircase. I shrink back. “Do you…do you want to talk?”

“About what?”

“Well, I understand there are things you want to ask me.”

Perry stands to full height. He directs his gaze to the bookshelf in the corner of the living room. He makes a pair of fists, as if he’s trying to squeeze the questions from the palms of his hands. My heart is jumping. My mind is a whirl. Of the thousand and one answers my brother deserves, which will be the first?

“Can you show me how to do some of your exercises, please?”

Leonie is as surprised as I am. She leans to the right, attempting to catch Perry’s eye. “Are you telling another good joke?”

“No.”

“You really want to learn some yoga poses?”

“Yes.”

His eye is still elusive, but there’s no doubting the conviction in his voice. Leonie retrieves a second mat from behind the armchair and lays it out next to hers. Perry positions himself beside her and reties the cord on his pyjama pants.

“Before we start, can I ask why?”

“Why what?”

“Why you want to learn some yoga poses.”

Perry blinks several times. “I am taking an interest in what you like to do. That is good social skills and helps build good relationships. It’s what grown-ups do. Do you agree?”

She nods in reply. “Yes, it’s what grown-ups do.”

LEONIE TEACHES PERRY A SERIES of stretches called Sun Salutation
.
Before performing the exercises, she gives him some background to the routine—its origins in praise of the Hindu sun god and how it is part of a Hindu person’s daily chores. In response, he shares the scientific skinny on the sun—its chemical composition, consisting largely of helium and hydrogen; the temperature, coming in at a balmy six thousand degrees Celsius; and the life cycle, counting down to the ultimate demise in around five billion years.

“It will change from a yellow dwarf—what it is now—to a red giant, and its diameter will probably reach Earth. If anyone is still here, they’ll be burned to ashes.”

Leonie informs him there will be Canadians tanning right up to the end, and he commends the attempt at comedy with a spontaneous round of applause. Then they begin the movements—mother demonstrating and son copying. Perry’s enthusiastic and eager to learn the original terms, repeating them after he’s performed a pose. I’m surprised by Pez’s efforts—he’s no stringbean. For a guy of strapping build, he shows a pretty decent level of flexibility. A prayerlike stance progresses into raised arms, forward bend and all fours. When they arrive at a prone position—a pose Leonie calls the Cobra—Perry doesn’t arch his back or lift his chin. He stays flat on the mat, head sideways, right ear to the floor, like an Indian scout from an old-time Western. Leonie asks him if he’d like some help, then suggests physical assistance: bringing her hands up under his armpits and lifting him into the pose.

“Are you okay with me touching you?” she asks.

Pez grunts—it sounds like “Go ahead.” Leonie kneels beside him, hands at the ready. She’s hesitating. I lean into the rail, thrumming with suspense. Physical contact is a big ask for Perry, but it’s clearly no picnic for Mum either. I can see memory is weighing upon her. That or something else. Guilt, maybe. She reaches forward, tremors in her hands. The rest of her body is tense, reluctant. Her arms slide through the spaces between Perry’s burly shoulders and the mat; his armpits settle in the crooks of her elbows.

“Is that okay?” she asks, voice cracking at the final vowel.

There are no cryptic grunts this time. His response is clear. “Yes, Leonie.”

Her name. It’s the first time he has used it, first time he has viewed her with something other than curiosity. I hold the rail so I don’t fall down the stairs.

“Would you like me to help lift you into position?”

“Yes. If you would like to.”

She heaves her arms back. Perry levers his chest off the mat and curves his spine in yoga-textbook fashion. “You should try to look up at the ceiling rather than sideways.”

He smiles. “Are you afraid of being bitten by the Aussie cobra?”

By the third run-through, Perry knows the routine and is posing independently. They perform side by side in silence, bodies stretching and flexing in unison. I watch several more poses, resisting the urge to demand more conversation—ideally, on a topic more substantial than yoga terminology—then steal back upstairs. Inside my room, the sun is streaming through the window, awakening to the first day of the rest of its five-billion-year life.

DESPITE THE INTERRUPTED SLEEP, I’m fresh and alert guiding the Cobalt along the Sea to Sky Highway south of Squamish. Leonie, in the passenger seat, holds an unlit cigarette in her fingers. Perry’s crashed in the back, head drooped forward, snagged seat belt preventing any butting of the headrest.

“You guys were up early,” I say. “You have a chat?”

Leonie half-smiles. “We did talk. Mainly about the sun.”

“Really?”

“Perry wanted me to teach him some yoga, so I showed him
Surya Namaskara
. He repaid the favor by telling me about how the sun is a superlarge ball of awesomely hot gas. Then we did the routine for a good half hour or so.”

“Wow, that’s great!”

“He told me he was taking an interest in what I do. He said it’s good social skills, helps build good relationships.”

“Sounds like him,” I say, adjusting my sunglasses. “He’s certainly making an effort.”

We stop in Squamish and eat at a restaurant called Naked Lunch. Perry and I share a number of jokes and one-liners: the customers are drop-ins from a nudist colony, a chef in his birthday suit should be careful with hot plates and sharp knives, “tips” for the service staff could take on a whole new meaning. The laughs between us come thick and fast.

“You two are so good together,” says Leonie. “So in tune with each other.”

“We are twins,” I reply.

“Are we?” adds Perry, holding his stomach and wiping a tear from his eye.

“You sure are,” continues Leonie. “You are
Namasté
, the palms of two hands in perfect symmetry.” She runs her straw down her glass, drawing a line in the condensation. “It makes me a bit sad to think the two of you will separate when you return home.”

Like a glass knocked off the table, my good humor plummets, shattering into pieces. I ask a passing waitress for our bill. Pez says nothing—it appears Leonie’s lament went right over his head. He’s still got the giggles.

“Tell me more about this Fair Go place,” says Leonie. “Are there plenty of activities?”

I press an index finger onto her lunch plate, lifting away the leftover crumbs of panini. “Activities? Jesus, it’s not a Contiki tour, Leonie.”

“I know. I just meant…I meant—”

“Services?”

“Yes, services.”

“They’ve got prevocational opportunities and paid ‘job’ work. That happens during the week. They offer all sorts of stuff: woodworking, arts and crafts, landscaping,
IT
, care for animals. They have stuff specific to the campus too: kitchen work, cleaning, recycling, basic handyman maintenance.”

She turns to Perry. “Are you interested in any of those?”

“Not really.” He’s noticed the change in my demeanor. Consequently, he’s serious now too. “It’s good to try different things.”

“That’s true. But it would be nice if there were some choices you liked already.”

“I s’pose. Maybe they will have yoga.”

“He knows he might not get to do the same things as before,” I say.

“The woman director said they could provide some car-wash responsibilities for me,” adds Perry in a loud, authoritative voice. “And first aid. I might be able to assist in teaching some of the other residents.”

Prompted by Perry’s volume, an elderly couple, seated at the adjoining table and festooned in cycling spandex, glares our way. I engage them with a smile.

“My brother has a brain condition that causes him to feel anxious or upset in different places and circumstances. He has trouble with people—mixing with them and communicating with them—and it sometimes results in inappropriate behaviors. I appreciate your understanding and patience.” I join my hands together in front of my chest. “And if you don’t have any understanding and patience, Mister and Missus Tour de Pants, then hop back on your bikes and bugger off.”

They turn away, hunker down over their blts and mutter a few choice words about the “Australians ruining Whistler.” Leonie mouths the word
wow
. I counter her praise with a shrug.

“It’s important to be ready for stuff that happens in public. People treat disabled adults a lot different than kids.”

The theme of preparedness continues on the way up the mountain. Perry crashes again, and I take the opportunity to speak candidly. I plunge into the PNE trip tomorrow and the laundry list of challenges my mother will have to deal with. Places, people, sights, sounds. “Be aware of how he’s coping,” I say. “Look for signs that things are starting to go sideways. We saw them briefly at the casino, and again last night during the Okanagan recount: nervous flicking, fast breathing, putting his fingers in his ears, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs, a gradual lowering of himself toward the ground. If any or all of these are happening, it is crucial to distract, redirect. Get in his face. Tell him to look at you, to focus on you. Ask him if he’s seeing you. If that does nothing—if the words are going in one ear and out the other—then use one of his comfort items to snap him out of it. Put it in his hand. Drop it at his feet. Hold it against his skin. And please, try to use an item that’s right for the moment. If there are creeps hanging around, stay away from some of the less age-appropriate items. He doesn’t need any extra embarrassment.

“Stay close,” I add. “He’s having to cope with a lot. I really underestimated that in Seattle.”

She nods and vows to remember all I’ve said. And I don’t doubt her promise. But remembering is a lot easier than doing. Doing is hard.

Like staying.