Are You Seeing Me? (8 page)

16 November 1996

Perry’s really beginning to “get” some things now. He’s giving out hugs on his own, without any prompting. He’s able to put together the picture exchange cards in a sequence and then say the words if he wants a drink or a biscuit. Occasionally, he’ll sing an entire “Bananas in Pyjamas” song from start to finish. He’s learning numbers, counting in twos and fives and tens. Running around and copying you and the neighbors’ kids when you’re all playing Sticky Glue in the afternoons—that’s the time of his life right now. He’s going good. He’s a lot sharper than people give him credit for.

He sees stuff, too.
Feels
stuff. You agree, Jus? I know extra-keen senses can be part and parcel of his condition, but there are times when it’s something more. Not a “gift” or anything like that—we’re not living in
The Twilight Zone
here. Just more of a connection to the world around him. A deeper connection. Like a couple of weeks ago when I found him lying on his back in the yard. I asked him what he was up to and he started singing the “Shaky Shaky” Wiggles song and patting the grass. And he kept repeating it no matter what I said, as if he were trying to make a point. I didn’t figure it out until the next day when I saw in the local rag they’d been using explosives at the quarry and the reverberations could be felt over a sixteen-kilometer radius. I was gobsmacked. Could he be in tune with something like that? Is it possible? The more I think about it, the more I reckon it’s par for the course. Things most of the rest of the world wouldn’t be aware of—he’s aware of them. He notices them.

Or maybe it’s just what kids do and adults forget.

10 January 1999

This holiday has had its share of firsts. It’s the first time you and your brother have seen Rainbow Beach—the place where, as a young bloke, I learned to surf and got up to some things that aren’t fit to be retold in my daughter’s journal. First time you two have stayed in a hotel. First time—since you were babies, anyway—that you’ve shared a bed. (And I don’t think you want to do it again for a while, hey, Justine? Perry could lift the paint off a low-flying bomber with his snoring.) And I know it’s not the first time, but it seems like the first time I’ve really noticed…I feel happy.

If I’m not mistaken, you guys are happy too. Your brother’s been good and settled here, hasn’t he? I was worried what might happen with him being out of routine and everything being so different. But it’s been a fairly smooth ride. He’s learned some new phrases. (I’m not sure “topless girl” is one I’ll encourage him to use in public.) He loves hopping on the surf mat and riding a wave. And how good was it when he grabbed a piece of the crumbed cod we got from Harry’s off my plate and ate it? Totally out of the blue!

I’ve gotta say, your question at tea did a number on me. “Dad, how come you don’t have another wife yet?” Jeez, eight years old and already giving me a hard time about my love life! My answer last night probably didn’t explain things too well, so I’ll try again here. I’m not against getting properly involved with someone again. Things turned out badly with your mother, but I’m not automatically thinking it would turn out badly with the next woman. It’s possible I could get together with someone in the future. When might that be? I don’t have a clue. Probably not any time soon, seeing as I’m not really keeping a constant eye out. I’ve got more than enough on my plate, courtesy of you two. The Dan Richter Dating Service is a distant last on the priority list. And if somebody did come along…Well, she’d have to be pretty special to fit in with us. I’m not going to let any old scrubber from the street into our little family. You guys deserve the best. And if the best isn’t on offer, then I’d rather go without.

20 March 2001

One night down, two to go. This is the longest you’ve ever been away from us, Justine. School camps in the past were overnight or a couple of nights. Three is hard. We miss you. Perry keeps saying, “Is Just Jeans coming? Is Just Jeans coming?” Maybe he’ll finally have the proper pronunciation of your name worked out by the time you’re back. For my part, this is a good reminder never to take you for granted. The stuff you do around here…it’s just incredible, really. Laundry, cleaning, helping Perry with his homework. And more besides. I don’t know what I’d do without you. But I don’t say that to make you feel guilty for having a little R&R. I’m all for it. It’ll be good for you to be around your friends and doing fun stuff for an extended time. God knows, you deserve it.

In a way, this is good practice for the future. The two boys, playing house, sharing the bachelor pad. At some point in this new century, you’re going to move out and have your own life. And, as much as I’d like to say the same for your brother, as much as he’s improved over the years, I can’t see it happening. He’s going to need some level of support throughout his life. It’s my job to provide it. He’s my responsibility. You might argue with me about that, but it’s true. You are Perry’s sister, not his parent. You love him and I know you always will. But you never need think you are his keeper. As the two of you grow into adulthood, you can walk beside him rather than carry him.

Ah, my little tree frog, all of a sudden it’s the 2000s. I’m not so sure you’re little anymore.

Think I’ll finish here for this entry—I’ve got a whole lot of extra laundry to do, haven’t I?

12 December 2003

Your marks are tremendous, Justine! I don’t think the phone book has as many A’s as you do. You’ve always been a very good student, but this year you’ve taken off. It seems like the further you go in school, the smarter you become. Maybe it’s because you’ve had to grow up quicker than your schoolmates. You’ve missed out on much of the early teenage rubbish due to real-world experience. Or maybe it’s my A-grade Richter genes coming through. My money’s on that.

The sky’s the limit for you, Justine. You can do anything. There are a lot of scared people in this world, due to those lunatics who fly planes into buildings and blow up innocent people and invade foreign countries and make up stories about weapons and refuse to try a little kindness for anyone who’s different from themselves. But you shouldn’t be scared. You’ve got nothing to fear, from anything or anyone. You may not have seen the worst of the world—not by a long shot—but you know struggle. You know that life can be a kick in the guts more often than a pat on the back. And did it get the better of you? Did you end up angry and bitter and hurt? Did you pack your bags, then up and leave, never to come back? No way! You’ve come out of it with an A-plus. An A-plus mind and, more important, an A-plus heart.

Perry’s so lucky to have you as his sister. There are a lot of kids out there who wouldn’t have a twin sister and a role model and a friend all rolled into one curly-haired package. I feel bad for them. I really do. If only there were more of you to go around.

23 April 2005

So, you think we were a bit hard on that scrawny lad you brought home? What’s his name? Paul? That’s right—Paul. To be honest, I thought he got off lightly. I only hinted once that he should change his last name. (Sexton is not a surname my daughter should have any association with.) And Perry only asked him a thousand questions about earthquakes. Master Disaster let him off lightly, all right. Joking aside, Jus, he seems like a good kid. I hope he doesn’t break your nearly-fifteen-year-old heart too bad.

I’m sorry I never sat you down and talked about love and relationships. Not really the done thing with dads (maybe not even single dads). If we had given it a go at some point, what decent advice could I have given you?

Maybe this, I suppose: Know what you don’t want.

Your mother gave me a good lesson in that. After she bailed on us, I had a very solid idea of things I wanted to avoid. There were more than a few things, too. You might say a few too many. Ah, well, I don’t regret being too fussy if it meant you guys stayed clear of Your Mother—Round Two. God knows, I haven’t been perfect as a dad, but I stayed the course and I always tried to put you and your brother first. And that’s going to continue, not because I’m a martyr or a saint or a much hairier Mother Teresa. No, it’s because I know what I don’t want. I don’t want the two of you to miss out on the best years of your life. Or to be in a home where you’re an afterthought. Or to blame yourselves for bad things that happen. Or to think love can’t be trusted.

Love is reliable. You can depend on it.

JUSTINE AND I ARE IN A Chevrolet Cobalt, speeding along the Trans-Canada Highway. So much of what I see is strange. Cars driving on the right-hand side of the road, of course. There are no trailers, just large motorhomes called Winnebago and CanaDream. The speed limit signs are square and don’t have a red circle. The words
SPEED LIMIT
are actually written on them. What is the reason for that? Do North Americans need exact instructions like I do when I’m working at Troy’s car wash and a customer wants detailing? And I am on the driver’s side! There should be a steering wheel in my hands! That wouldn’t be wise. During my first lesson with Justine last year, in the empty car park at the rear of Brookfair Shopping Center, I ran into three trolleys and a traffic island. No lie. Justine said one lesson per year was more than enough.

With all this new information surrounding me, I would be quite anxious if this were a normal day. This isn’t a normal day—this is the start of our big adventure. Ogopogo’s home is our first destination. Thinking about what might happen over the next two days makes the strangeness of the highway shrink until it’s only mildly annoying, like a mosquito buzzing around my head.

I look over at Justine. She is herself—pretty and clever. Her hair is pulled up into a bun and she’s wearing the shirt that has a drawing of William Shakespeare (Justine calls him Bill or Baldy Bill) riding a surfboard and holding a skull. It’s hard to tell what her face is showing about her feelings because she has sunglasses on. I can only see one side of her head because she is watching the road. I guess she is calm and settled, but I could be wrong. I don’t know what she’s feeling inside; her heart could be racing, her stomach might be flip-flopping. You can never be completely sure.

I like observing Justine when she’s doing something important and having to concentrate. I can watch and learn and not worry that she’ll speak suddenly or do something surprising. And she won’t say things like “Focus on me” or “Are you seeing me?” Sometimes I pull faces at her. When she catches me, without looking she says, “You need a makeover again, Pez?” Then I do the stupid duck lips I’ve seen lots of girls doing on the
FAIL
blog.

After three minutes I look away. (It’s creepy if you watch someone for too long, especially a woman.) I pull out the folded road map of British Columbia.

“We goin’ the right way?” asks Justine.

I see a green road sign, then give three nods. “Hope is seventy-six kilometers away.”

“First stop: Hope. I like the sound of that.”

No lie, I think it’s a dumb name for a town. But Australian towns have ridiculous names, too:

Blackbutt
Poowong
Mount Buggery

I start giggling and I can’t stop. When Dad was alive, he said my laughing fits were like having a cockatoo in the house.
Raaark! Raaark!
He said I should wear a yellow rubber glove on my head so I could look the part.
Raaark! Raaark!
Justine and I would flap our pretend wings and Dad would say silly sentences in a parrot’s voice. And we would all laugh together.

Here, today, in our Chevrolet Cobalt on Trans-Canada Highway 1, Justine doesn’t ask me what the joke is, she just joins in. Sometimes I think she’s “extrasensory” like me, or she’s got lots of funny stories in her head. I
love
hearing her laugh. The same as I
hate
hearing her cry.

When we leave Highway 1 and turn onto Highway 5, I’m tired and I want to take a nap. My body has no energy. My brain is packed tight, like the bales of hay at the plant nursery near our house. Justine is not surprised. She talks about jet lag, how it “impairs your functioning” and “makes it hard to concentrate” and “messes with your body clock.” It can even upset your toileting. She says not to worry—it goes away after a day or two, or a week, or, in bad cases, a month. I tell her I’m glad because I don’t need another disability. The one I’ve got comes with a lifetime guarantee, like my hair color and my fingerprints and my excellent ability to make jokes.

When I wake up, we are pulling into the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant called Dairy Queen. In front of us, just past the turnoff road, is a wide river. Behind are large mountains covered in green forest. In my imagination, the houses and the shops and the streets are being bullied; the mountains are standing over them like a cruel gang, attempting to force them into the water. From my research, I know the mountains have been cruel in real life. In 1965, the Hope Slide happened at Johnson Peak, a few kilometers southeast of the town. It buried two cars and a tanker truck under mud and rock that was eighty-five meters deep and three kilometers wide. Rescuers could only find two of the four victims killed. For a while, people thought it had been caused by an earthquake because it registered seismically, but it was just a slip, like the one that trapped Stuart Diver in the Thredbo landslide. As I climb out of the car, I’m not sure if it’s the thought of buried bodies or the cool breeze that makes me shiver. A sudden gust blows the hood of my sweater over my head.

“Welcome to Hope, brother.” Just Jeans smiles and locks the Cobalt, ensuring no one will steal it while we are inside.

THE MENU ABOVE THE COUNTER IS SCARY.

Burgers, chips, salads, a chicken wrap—these are fine. The hot dog is okay, too. I tried a sausage on bread last October at Bunnings. But then I look closer and find lots of confusing details. There is mayo on the burgers. The beef is from the Canadian province of Alberta. One of the sandwiches is “Iron Grilled!” I begin rubbing my hands down the front of my jeans, digging my thumbs in with each stroke. There were a lot of unfamiliar sights on the highway, and thinking about Ogopogo made me feel better—but this is different. This is
food
. It goes into my mouth, into my digestive system and then into my entire body. I need to properly know what I’m eating. What if the mayo gives me an allergy? What if Alberta has mad cows? What if the iron grill allows metal fragments into my bloodstream?

“Perry, you okay?”

I suck the air through my teeth and hunch my shoulders.

“How about you go and sit over at that table near the front window,” whispers Justine. “I’ll get you something that’s okay. Trust me.”

The edges of my vision have rounded and gone gray. It’s like I’m looking through a telescope that has a dirty lens. There are people all around—no doubt they are watching me—the small girl standing beside me in the pink jacket and holding a Barbie in her right hand; the overweight couple wearing shiny belt buckles and cowboy hats; the group of teenagers comparing their tans.

They think I have a problem. They don’t realize they are the ones with the problem—they’ve eaten the food! And it’s too late for them now. One by one, they drop to the floor: first the cowboy, then his wife, then the teenagers. The girl watches the others fall before the pain hits her like a kung-fu kick. She screams, pulls the head off her Barbie and stumbles, smacking her forehead on the edge of the vending machine before going down. The floor is full of dying people now. Twisting, groaning. Foaming at the mouth. They grab at their throats, knowing that’s where the pain is worst, but not knowing why. I know why. The iron grill fragments in the food have gathered there. They’ve come together and bonded, forming sharp metal pieces. Blades. Bulges begin to form in the victims’ necks. They grow larger and larger. And the bigger they get, the more pointed they become. The cowboy woman is the first to have the blade break through the skin—the
pop
reminds me of overheated porridge in the microwave. Others follow. Soon, the tiles are gobbled up by a tsunami of blood. I don’t want to see any more. I don’t want to think about the Dairy Queen disaster. I want to lie down and let all the heavy weights in my head fall through the floor. I want to—

“Pez,” Justine whispers right in my ear. “Keep it together, bud.”

I hold my breath for a few seconds, then focus on my shoes. The blood has vanished. The surrounding floor has streaks and scuff marks and a small yellow sign saying
Caution—Wet Floor.

“Trust me. I got it. Just Jeans to the rescue, hey?”

I turn slightly and command my feet to move. For a long time there is no response. Then they follow my order, stepping once, twice. By the time I sit down at the table, my anxiety has returned to a steady hum. I can process better now.

Just Jeans saves the day again.

I lay my head on the table. Its surface is cool on my cheek.

Just Jeans saves the day AGAIN.

It sucks being a hassle. I want to be brave and strong, like Jackie Chan in
Drunken Master II
when he is attacked by the gang of men with axes. Coping when things get intense is very hard. No lie. All the difficulties crowd my brain and yell and scream and smash into each other. The good things I try to fill my mind with—Ogopogo, for example—they get pushed out the same way convection in the Earth’s mantle gets expelled and causes earthquakes or volcanic eruptions. So then I am caught. I am caught in a tremor, and my sister is the only person who can stop the shaking.

It’s not fair to her. Things will be better when I move to Fair Go. Justine won’t have to save the day anymore. She will live a normal life. She will be free. And I will find solutions to my own problems because I won’t have my sister to rely on. Relying on yourself—that’s what everyday people do; that is what it means to be independent.

Perry Richter saves the day.

That is the future.

Justine arrives at the table, holding a tray. She hands me a basket with my meal arranged neatly inside. “There you go. Chicken strips and chips. No weirdness.”

I poke the food with my finger. It is recognizable. I pick up one of the strips, hold it to my mouth, nibble. It’s good. As I swallow, I turn my head and spy Justine at the edges of my vision. She has her hands fully wrapped around her burger. She also has two napkins placed over the top of the meal in her basket, like she’s performing a magic trick. And it sort of
is
a magic trick—I can’t see any of the food she’s eating. It’s as if the food has disappeared.

“Thank you,” I say, and Justine winks because her mouth is too full to speak.

For a while, we eat and don’t converse. Most of the time, I look outside. The wind is stronger. Leaves of different colors—red, yellow, orange, brown, pink—fly through the air and along the sidewalk. Seven people walk past, all of them wearing shorts, T-shirts and thongs. The river is lumpy. Justine notices me staring at the water.

“Looks full of Ogopogos today,” she says. “All coming to see the town of Hope.”

I wipe my mouth with a napkin, fold it, place it in the basket. “You’re not right in the noggin.”

Justine snorts. She lifts her index finger up and twirls it around her ear to indicate she’s crazy. She crosses her arms over her chest, puts on a stupid voice and says,“Ooh, so many Ogopogos. Get me out of this straitjacket so I can have a swim with them!”

I laugh, and then we go back to being quiet for a while. When we’ve both finished our meals and only scraps of food are left, Jus asks me an interesting question.

“What is it about sea monsters, Pez? Why are you into them so much?”

It’s not something I’ve ever been asked before—not by Justine or Dad or the teachers I had at school. Thinking about the answer takes a few minutes. Justine doesn’t stare, doesn’t repeat the question. She knows I need a moment to think and organize a response. By the time I am ready to reply, she’s cleaned up our table and the rubbish is in the bin.

“There are two reasons,” I say. “The first is because they are excellent at hiding. They’ve survived for thousands of years and no one has caught them. And the second reason is they’ve learned to survive even though the world is confusing and difficult for them.”

Justine’s face changes. Her eyes widen. Her forehead creases. Her lips pull to one side. “That’s…That makes a lot of sense.” Her face changes again. It squashes a little and her mouth stretches. I know this look—Dad used to call it “cheeky chops.” “Hiding, hey? So how come you don’t like Sasquatch and Bigfoot?”

It’s my turn to snort. “They’re not real. They’re just people dressed up in hairy suits.”

Justine dabs her index finger on her tongue and draws a line in the air. “Well played, Mr. Richter.”

I don’t exactly know what that means, or why her voice sounded like a villain on TV. But there’s no time to figure it out—we’re ready to leave the Dairy Queen. And when she puts an arm around my shoulders, I know it’s not something I should be worried about.