Are You Seeing Me? (5 page)

“Ice hockey,” clarifies Perry.

“Yes,
ice
hockey. We got a trophy called the Stanley Cup. All the teams in the National Hockey League play for it. Our team—”

“The Vancouver Canucks,” asserts Perry.

“That’s right. The ’Nucks made it to the finals of Lord Stanley back in 1994. Lost to the New York Rangers. Broke our hearts.”

“I read somewhere there were riots afterward, yes?” I ask.

Jim nods. “I wasn’t driving a cab back then. Glad of that.” He points to a small mascot he has hanging from the rearview mirror. “Olympics this year showed we’ve grown up a lot. None too soon, I might add.”

“Did a man called Richter start the riots?” asks Perry. “Is that why the name still hurts in these parts?”

Jim laughs. “No, the Rangers had a guy called Mike Richter in goal. He was good. Too good.”

“The man who invented the Richter scale in 1935 was Charles Richter. That’s fifty-five years before I was born.”

Jim’s mouth purses for a few seconds; then he shrugs. “I don’t think this town has any argument with Charles Richter, young man.”

“He’s dead.”

“We’ll forgive him for that.”

“My dad’s dead too.”

The levity falls off Jim’s face like a poorly attached prosthetic. It’s time to step in.

“Uh, Jim, my brother has a brain condition that can cause 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—”

“Hold that thought.” Jim digs around in his khakis, pulls out a small card and passes it back through the gap in the front seats. I immediately recognize the graphic—the ubiquitous single blue jigsaw piece. I read the text. It’s a reasonable facsimile of my rote spiel.

“My boy—he’ll be eleven in November. Third kid, only one from my second marriage. I was forty-four when he was born. Crazy, eh? Never thought I’d be a father again at that age. Never thought I’d be a ‘special’ dad either.”

His hand trembles slightly as he takes the card back and tosses it onto the dash. He jiggles his head and pulls his shoulders back. Outside, a pale, wizened theater—the Metro, according to the sign—slides by on the left. It says three more chances remain to see Agatha Christie’s
The Unexpected Guest
.

“My boy loves hockey, especially goaltenders,” Jim continues. “He likes the equipment. I got him the full outfit, pads an’ skates an’ all. He doesn’t play, just wears all the gear. And he loves the different painted masks the pros wear. It’s kinda nice he’s into goalies, ’cause two of ’em set up a support group for kids like him. Olaf Kölzig—used to be between the pipes for the Caps—he was one. Byron Dafoe—I think he was the other one.”

“Defoe?” I ask.

“Yup.”

“His name is Defoe?”

“I think it’s spelled with an
a
…
Dah
-foe. They’ve raised a lot of money. Got a lot of other sportspeople involved.”

Jim pauses, allowing a thoughtful silence. A bookshop called Characters catches my eye among the boxy procession of mom-and-pop stores. I smile. Sums up this taxi to a tee. On cue, Perry pokes me in the shoulder and indicates, via a series of facial contortions, that I should look out his window. The bus traveling alongside displays advertising for the Pacifica West Hotel. Every image, every loop and embellishment of the copy’s font, communicates luxury.

“That’s our first stop, isn’t it, Justine?” he whispers.

“Yeah.”

“And wealthy people go there, yes?”

“I reckon they probably do, yes.”

I wait for an additional poser. It doesn’t come. Perry hums a tune from one of his video games and resumes the role of spectator. I’m glad. The question of where the money came from for this trip has a simple answer: Dad’s life insurance. The slew of inquiries from Perry that would inevitably follow?
What’s life insurance? How do they work it out? Is it like a lottery draw? Is there death insurance?
Not so simple to address those.

We cruise through intersections both chronological (41st, 33rd, 28th) and colonial (King Edward, Balfour, Angus). Properties with giant ramparts of hedge offer a brief glimpse into a world of money made beyond life-insurance payouts, courtesy of the driveway gates. A critical mass of unfamiliar banks and Asian restaurants and specialty shops with
Barn
in the title kicks in at 16th Avenue and carries through to the waterfront.

As we motor across the Granville Street Bridge, Perry leans into the middle of the passenger space and peers through the windshield. High-rises abound. He claps his hands. “Could we view the Qube building?”

“The what building, Pez?” I ask.

“The Qube building.
Q-U-B-E
, not
C-U-B-E
. It’s a different spelling.”

Jim whistles in approval. “You done some research about this town, eh?”

Perry nods. “The Qube was built especially to be earthquake-proof. It has a large concrete post in the center, and the building hangs from cables attached to the concrete post, so it appears as if it’s floating in the air. It’s thought to be safe, even in an 8.0 shake.”

“Earthquakes your thing, young man?”

Perry looks at me, seeking permission to deliver what we refer to as an “expert ear bashing.” I nod.

“I like earthquakes,” he says. “My father called me Master Disaster. But I have other favorite things. I like creatures from the sea that are considered myths. The Loch Ness Monster, the Bunyip in Australia. We’re going to Okanagan Lake to see the famous one there—the one called Ogopogo.
Ogopogo
means ‘lake demon’ in Canadian Aboriginal language.

“I’m very interested in Jackie Chan and his movies. He’s incredible and does all his own stunts, which is unwise because the outtakes of every movie show him getting hurt over and over again. I think the old Chinese movie
Drunken Master II
is his best one, but I enjoy
Rush Hour
and
Shanghai Noon
as well.
The Karate Kid
—that was stupid. Jackie Chan doesn’t perform karate. He’s a kung-fu master.
Rumble in the Bronx
is excellent! And it was filmed in this city of Vancouver. No lie.

“The subject that I’m expert in is, of course, earthquakes. I have a seismometer and a seismograph, so I collect my own data. I’ve researched the biggest quakes in history. The one in Valdivia, Chile, in 1960, was an unbelievable 9.5 magnitude. To date, it is the biggest quake in history, although there could have been similar ones back in the time of the dinosaurs and during the first millennium. No one can say for sure. And I know about the San Francisco, California, earthquake in 1906 and, of course, Haiti this year. Over three hundred thousand people perished in Haiti. The one in Newcastle only killed thirteen people, but it is the only Australian quake in which people have died. And I know about the earthquake that occurred on Vancouver Island too—it was a 7.3.”

Jim taps his hand on his thigh and whistles. “Wow. You’re a supersmart guy, all right. I got a lotta questions I’d like to ask you. But I think there’s something you oughta see first, eh.”

Jim points to a building ahead. I’ve never seen a photo of it—didn’t know of its existence until five minutes ago—but I know I’m gaining an eyeful of the Qube. It’s a peculiar sight: a steel-and-glass hulk hovering six meters or so off the ground while the unseen cables above keep it fastened to its concrete core. Perry’s in heaven. His mouth is agape. His hands are clasped together under his chin. He’s a kid at a divine magic show. God has decided to try His hand at illusionism in downtown Vancouver.

“That’s something, isn’t it?” says Jim. “Hasn’t been tested by a big shake yet.”

Perry wriggles free of his awe to respond. “I read on Wikipedia that geologists are predicting a 37 percent chance of an 8.2-plus event and a 10 to 15 percent chance of a 9.0-plus event in the Pacific Northwest sometime in the next fifty years.”

Jim shrugs. “Bah, bring it on. We don’t mind a scrap. Like the economic meltdown—a real eleven on the scale, that one. They say it wasn’t as bad here as down south, but hell, I’m still havin’ to drive a cab on weekends.” He catches my eye in the rearview mirror and smiles. “You gotta do what you gotta do, eh? Specially when someone in your family needs you to step up.”

We take several right turns, doubling back from our Qube detour, then swing around a bend that skirts the Vancouver Convention Centre. An elegant mirrored tower and an assortment of expensive cars signal our arrival at the Pacifica West Hotel. A split second after he puts the emergency brake on, Jim is out of the car and unloading our gear. When a valet wearing a gray tunic and top hat approaches, Jim holds up an index finger. The valet stands post at a respectful distance, shifting from foot to foot. Jim lowers his hand and extends it toward me.

“Miss Justine, even though you’re a Richter, I hope you enjoy your stay in our beautiful city.”

“Thank you, Jim. We will,” I reply. “And all the best to your son. He’s pretty lucky to have a ‘special’ dad.”

Jim inhales sharply, then doffs an imaginary cap. He turns to my brother. “Take care of your sister, young man.”

Perry nods emphatically, then resumes his study of the large canopy shielding the Saabs and the Audis and the BMWs from the threat of Vancouver drizzle.

Jim Graydon smiles, waves and moves in behind the wheel. As he pulls away from the curb, I see a lit cigar lodged in the corner of his mouth.

A BROKEN PROMISE AWAITS AT CHECK-IN.

“There is a phone message for you, Ms. Richter.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“A gentleman called.”

“What?”

“A gentleman called from Australia.”

“You’re kidding.”

The figurine-like Asian clerk retrieves a piece of notepaper from beneath the desk and passes it over. It’s from Marc.

Can we talk? Just a quick call.

Perry, returned from his observation of a three-stories-tall totem pole in the lobby, stares at me with brow clenched. “What are you reading?”

“A phone message.”

“Who called you, Justine?”

“Marc.”

“Mark Arm? The lead singer of Seattle grunge rock band Mudhoney, who were popular in the nineties?”

“Funny. No, Marc Paolini. Protagonist in Justine’s version of
Sense and Sensibility
.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Perry moves closer and adopts a hypnotist’s tone. “I don’t understand your face at the moment, Justine. Are you angry? Sad? Confused?”

I scrunch the paper into a ball, stuff it into the hip pocket of my jeans. “It’s my ‘Let’s go get room service’ face.”

On the way to the elevator, to prevent any further explorations of my face, I ask Perry about the totem pole. He launches into a recount of the stacked carvings, their colors and the animals each represents. He argues they’re a lot easier to understand than a human expression.

I nod on cue to keep my brother talking and off the scent of my own thoughts. Marc phoning the hotel is something I hadn’t expected. We had a deal—for the duration of this trip, we would be
incommunicado
. No emails, no phone calls, no Facebook. Not even a postcard.

He’d asked if I would miss him. I’d said I would miss his sleepy eyes and strong shoulders. The Friday night “freak show” movies and Sunday-morning omelets. I would miss his impromptu gifts, his spontaneous kazoo serenades. He would never be very far from my thoughts. It would be tough to lose connection for two weeks, but it would resume easily enough when I returned. The same couldn’t be said for my relationship with Perry. How it had been since Dad died—some might argue how it had been for nineteen years—would never be the same after the trip. This was precious time, deserving of my full and undivided attention. This was Pez and Just Jeans time. The last time it would ever be
just us
.

You can handle a fortnight without me
, I’d said.
You know the saying: absence makes the heart blah-blah-blah.

Marc had nodded, assured me he would comply.
It’s okay
, he’d said with a forced, faintly sulky smile.
I know I’m not the only man in your life.
He’d withheld his usual array of affections, preferring a dutiful hug and a kiss on the forehead. He’d done the same at the departure gate.

And now he wants to talk.
Now
. At the very time I need him to be strong and secure enough to stay out of the pool, he sprints in from the change rooms and dive-bombs the shallow end. What is so important that it can’t wait? I have a hunch.

The Appointment.

We don’t see eye to eye on that one. He thinks I should avoid it and come home after the Seattle leg of our trip.
What’s the point?
were his exact words during our most recent argument.
Do you really think it’ll make a difference? Actually, skip that. Do you really think it’s
deserved
?

Marc reminds me of Dad in that way—people are people, and that’s the way it is. If someone wronged you, hurt you, let you down in ways unimagined, don’t dwell on it. Don’t try to explain it. You might fool yourself into thinking they can be different, or that time or money or distance or therapy can magically transform their
DNA
. Just move on as they stand still.