Are You Seeing Me? (25 page)

I’M DONE NOW. I NEED TO REST.

Our trip is done too. We’ve arrived at…well, here. In a few short moments, brother and mother will stand at the foot of my hospital bed. Three remnants of the Richter family: separated but together, injured but healed, directionless but moving on. Spared by Fate. And all of it just as we’d planned.

Yeah, totally.

I let my head fall to the right. The seismometer sits watch on the bedside table. With the last threads of energy in my body, I want to reach out and touch it, tap into its secrets. What information does it hold? What will it reveal as the dawn becomes the day? Only Master Disaster knows—or, at least, retains the capacity to know. That’s as it should be. The future is best kept in his hands. He is quite capable.

Floating now.

Floating toward sleep.

Toward night.

In the past, I scoured the dark for revelations. No more. Every epiphany I ever sought has been exposed, not by the night sky above my head but by the shifting earth beneath my feet.

I hear footsteps on linoleum. I think it’s linoleum. Maybe it’s sand. The door creaks open and the footsteps close in. I smell the print of a new book, taste cigarette smoke. I can’t see, though. Can’t focus. Sleep is taking me away, but it’s okay. I know they’re present.

Love is reliable.

Everything is still.

1 October 2008

This is the last entry, Justine. We’re still a few weeks away from your birthday, but I want to give you this journal first thing in the morning. Actually, I
need
to give you this first thing in the morning. I’m not feeling too good, Jus. Stuff is slipping away—fast. Reckon I’ll be knockin’ on the pearly gates sooner rather than later. I’m ready. I hope you are, too. I think you are.

There are two things I want you to know. The first is that I love you and Perry more than I can say or write or even breathe with these jiggered lungs of mine. I loved you, Jus, from the second you were born. From the moment the nurse put you into my arms and you looked up at my ugly mug with those searching eyes. And nothing’s changed since. That’s the way it’s stayed. If any father has loved his kids more during his time on this earth, then I tip my hat to him.

The second thing is about your brother. We’ve talked a lot and I know you said you’d take care of him. And I’ve got no doubt in this world and the next that you will. To me, Jus, your word is as solid as steel. But here’s the thing: I want you to take care of yourself too. I want you to find the middle ground, where you’re not just keeping him happy but you’re creating some happiness of your own. That was the way I tried to be over the years. I hope that comes through when you read this journal. Perry was never a chore to me. Master Disaster was never a weight on my shoulders. I never felt I was denied anything because he was my son. I had it good. I had it bloody good.

Life is short, my little tree frog. Make it your only complaint when all is said and done.

IN 1989 AUSTRALIANS GAVE MONEY and food and furniture and toys and even themselves to rebuild the devastated city of Newcastle. The governments helped too—for every dollar that was donated, they gave one as well. Within a month, 14,000 people had received assistance. Within nine months, almost $4.5 million had been distributed to the victims. Following the 2004 Indian Ocean catastrophe, the public in the United Kingdom responded with £330 million (almost US$600 million); the amount averaged out to be around £5.50 (US$10) from every person in the nation. The awful 2008 tragedy of Sichuan Province saw everyday people from all over mainland China dig deep into their pockets at special booths set up in banks, schools and near petrol stations. They also donated blood, their generosity causing long queues in most of the big Chinese cities.

Vancouver is rallying and rebuilding now. Not as much as Newcastle or Aceh or Sichuan, but enough to have the community working together. That includes me—I’ve been helping to get Mum’s home back to normal. There was no major structural damage to the townhouse; the load-bearing walls were okay, and the foundation slab didn’t crack or break. It was mainly the stuff inside the house that didn’t fare too well. I was responsible for quite a few of the fixes—clearing the living room floor; shaking out the rug; moving the fridge back into its proper position; putting the pictures back up on the sideboard and the piano; ensuring all the pieces of the shattered mirror in the bathroom were picked up—even the slivers—so no one would cut their feet. Off my own bat, I also made sure all the lightbulbs were working, because I don’t like the dark. I was able to complete all these tasks independently.

At this moment, I’m finishing another job, an easy and comforting one, and the last on the long list: car wash. Gray Ford Taurus. It belongs to Mum. Following the quake, her car was covered in dust and particles from the roof (I imagine it looked a bit like the ash of Mount St. Helens). Once everything in the house was rebuilt or replaced or put back pretty much the way it was, I was able to give the car my full attention and washologist expertise.

Now, it’s done. I stand back and assess my work. Spotless windows, good body shine, tires look almost new again. The swirling scents of wax and environmentally friendly detergent tease my nose. Given that I didn’t have my usual equipment from Troy’s, the Taurus has come up quite well. No lie.

I wring out the sponge and empty the black water into a nearby drain. A cool wind whips through the townhouse parking lot, ruffling my damp T-shirt. The leaves of the cherry blossom tree overlooking the complex have changed color again in the last ten days, from orange-red to brown. They’re falling, too, creating a scrabbly carpet on the pavement. It’s funny—they clung to the tree during the earthquake, but now they’re letting go. Mother Nature always decides when the time is right.

Back inside the house, I peel off my T-shirt, drop it in the brand-new washing machine. I stretch my arms, my neck, my back. A yoga routine would be good to help my out-of-practice carwashing muscles recover. Entering the living room, I figure Extrasensory Leonie must’ve read my mind. She’s in the center of the room, performing
Garudasana
, Eagle pose. The mat under her feet—I chose it. It wasn’t handmade in an ashram. It cost thirty bucks at Open Space in the village. I got one for myself too.

Looking over the open space remaining here in the room, I don’t think there’s enough for me to pose along with Mum. I don’t want to crowd Marc—he’s standing on the stepladder, attaching L-brackets to the top of the bookshelf. Just Jeans is reading
The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz
in the armchair, reclining with the footrest out; maintaining this position is crucial because she still needs to limit the strain on her chest. Oh well—no yoga for me just yet. There’ll be plenty of time later tonight. And in the ten days before Jus and Marc and I fly back to Brisbane. And in the two or so months before Mum arrives. We can do routines together using Skype.

I sit down at the dining table and watch the quiet scene, like a seismologist carefully considering the data at his disposal. Even though the trio is busy doing their own thing, they’re also comfortable sharing this space. Some quality time in the Ne’er Go residence has brought them closer together in more places than the living room. They don’t notice me watching them—I like that, the chance to observe without conversation or questions. And what do I see? I see a happy ending, like
The Forbidden Kingdom
final scenes when Jason returns home after ending the Jade Warlord’s reign of terror. Of course, it’s not really the end—Jackie Chan’s blooper reels during the credits of his films show there is always more to the story. Someday, this calm and peaceful sight before my eyes will be a nice memory in the backs of all our minds. Things will get shaken up again, broken into pieces, and we will need to put it all back together the best we can. And we will, because although we can’t rely on a stable, predictable Earth in the years to come, we can rely on each other.

That is the future.

That is today.

As Perry says,
We can’t live in a world of one
, and that’s particularly true for an author writing a novel. I’d like to sincerely thank the following people for helping me bring this story together: my beautiful wife, Wend; my twins; the Brothers Groth; Mum and Dad; the Fraser Clan; my agents, Tara Wynne and John Pearce; Zoe Walton, Catriona Murdie and the Random House team; Ruth Linka, Sarah Harvey and Jen Cameron at Orca Book Publishers; Claire Kamber; the BCLC Bandwagon; “Legend Hunter” Bill Steciuk; Daniel Defoe; and the great man himself, Jackie Chan.

I couldn’t have done it without you. No lie.

Originally from Brisbane, Australia, Darren Groth now lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with his Canadian wife and thirteen-year-old twins. His books have been published on both sides of the Pacific and include
Kindling
and
Most Valuable Potential
, which was short-listed for the Queensland Premier’s Literary Awards—Young Adult Book Award. The 2014 Australian edition of
Are You Seeing Me?
was recently selected a 2014 Book of the Year by Booktopia and a 2015 Outstanding Book for the International Board on Books for Young People (IBBY) collection.

Darren has appeared at numerous literary events, including the Byron Bay Writers Festival and Brisbane Writers Festival. He has been a guest speaker, workshop and master-class facilitator and writer-in-residence for literary organizations, writing groups, schools and libraries, and has written articles for publications including
The Courier-Mail
,
Writing Queensland
and
Mamamia
. For more information, visit
www.darrengroth.com
.