Let's Explore Diabetes with Owls (16 page)

“But it wasn’t
me
who shaved it,” the woman said. “It was somebody else!”

“A stranger shaved your cat?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” the woman said.

I eventually re-created the missing two months, printed them out, and placed the finished diary in my locked cabinet beside the 136 others that are shelved there.

“What should I do with these things when you die?” Hugh asks.

The way I see it, my options are burial or cremation. “But save the covers,” I tell him. “The covers are nice.”

As for seven-year-old Tyler, who knows if he’ll stick with it? A child’s diary, like a child’s drawing of a house, is a fairly simple affair. “We went to a castle. It was fun. Then we went to a little zoo. That was fun too.”

I thought my account of August 11 would begin with an accident I’d had at the castle. We were in the formal gardens when I took a wrong step and fell down before a great number of people, one of whom shouted—making me feel not just stupid but stupid
and
old—“Don’t move him!”

My face burned as I picked myself up off the ground.

“That happened to me not long ago,” Pam said, trying to make me feel better.

“It’s what you get for horsing around,” Hugh scolded.

Tyler said simply and honestly, “That was really funny.”

I pulled out my notebook and wrote—as if I would possibly forget about it by the following morning when I’d limp to my desk—“Fell down in garden.” I was mentally writing the diary entry, the embarrassment I felt, the stabbing pain in my knee, the sound of my body skidding on the gravel path, when we entered the castle’s petting zoo and I saw something that moved my fall from the front page to the category of “other news.” The place wasn’t much: some chickens, a family of meerkats, a pony or two. In one large cage lived a pair of ferrets and, next door, some long-haired guinea pigs. A woman and her two sons, aged maybe five and seven, spotted them at the same time I did and raced over to get a better look. The younger boy seemed pleased enough, but his brother went bananas. “Jesus!” he said, turning to look at his mother. “Jesus, will you look at those?”

I pulled out my notebook.

“What are you writing down?” Tyler asked.

“Have you ever
seen
guinea pigs so big?” the boy asked. “I mean,
Jesus!
”

The woman offered Tyler and me an embarrassed look. “You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name like that, Jerry. Some people might find it offensive.”

“Christ Almighty,” the kid continued. “Someone should take a picture.”

Writing about it the following morning, I’d recall how incredulous the boy had sounded. Yes, the guinea pigs were big—like furry slippers, sizes nine and ten and a half. They were hardly gargantuan, though. Had he possibly confused them with hamsters? The look on his face and his unexpected reaction—evoking Jesus as a weather-beaten adult would—were remarkable to me, and standing there in that dinky zoo, my knee throbbing, my little notebook firmly in hand, I knew I needed to keep the moment forever.

I said to my father yesterday afternoon, “Do you fancy my new jumper?”

When he answered, “Huh?” I was like, “‘Jumper?’ It means ‘sweater’ in England.”

“Right,” he said, adding that it was ninety-two degrees out and that if I didn’t take it off I was guaranteed to get heatstroke or at least a rash, and wasn’t that the last thing either of us needed at a time like this?

“Ninety-two degrees or not, I still think it’s the most brilliant jumper I’ve ever seen,” I told him.

My father made some joke about giving it an IQ test, but honestly, by that point, I’d stopped listening. We were in the driveway at the time. He was watering his dried-out hydrangeas, and I was sitting on the bonnet of the car, just waiting for him to call it the hood or some such thing. He’s so stupid, my father is. My mum wasn’t much brighter, but now that she’s dead I’m just trying to concentrate on the good things, like how she paid for me to go to England with my school’s history club. I’m not a member—it’s actually one of my worst subjects—but the adviser, Mrs. Carkeek, let me come anyway because she needed a minimum of twelve students and only had eleven after Kimberly Shank got a B in German and tried to kill herself. It was my first time out of the country, and it really opened my eyes to what stupid cunts the people are here in the United States.

“How can I be a cunt when I’m a guy?” Braydon Hoyt asked when I saw him at the funeral on Tuesday. He didn’t know that the word means “idiot,” so the more times he asked, the more of a cunt he became. (And to think I once dated him!!!) The problem with Braydon, and with all American blokes, really, is that they’re so literal. And it’s not just me who thinks that way. Fiona, who’s my best mate in England, said that except for me she won’t go anywhere
near
an American because they don’t know what irony is. She and I met outside the Globe. Mrs. Carkeek had taken the group to see
The Temptress,
I think it was, but the play was so bloody boring I snuck out at intermission. In front of the theater is a walkway that faces the river, and that’s where I met Fiona. “Fag?” she asked.

That’s how I got practically addicted to Mayfairs, which, unfortunately, you can’t get in the States. I ask everywhere, and people look at me like I’m crazy. “Blue box? Big picture of a diseased lung on it?” You can’t find Walkers Prawn Cocktail crisps here either, which is another thing Fiona turned me on to. She and I talked for almost ten minutes before she realized I wasn’t English. “Wait a minute,” she said. “
You’re
a Yank? Really?
You?
”

At first she was thrown by the way I talk. I don’t notice it myself, but according to Dad and everyone at the funeral, I completely picked up an English accent during the week I spent there. “It’s not just that though,” Fiona said. “It’s your Union Jack jumper, your Doc Martens, your whole way of being.”

By this she meant my attitude—the way I can look at something and automatically see that it’s complete bollocks. Fiona has that same ability, and we agreed that it’s a double-edged sword. “I mean, sometimes, McKenzie, don’t you look at all these stupid gits and just wish you could be that easily satisfied?”

It was crazy how much the two of us had in common. Both of us love London, for a start. She wasn’t born there but moved from Coventry when she was fifteen to live with her granny in Barking. I think “granny” is absolutely the most brilliant thing ever to call your grandmother, but unfortunately it doesn’t work in the United States. My mum’s mother just wants me to call her T.J. “I’m sixty-two years old, for God’s sake,” she said on Tuesday when I saw her at the funeral. “I’m young and I’m active, and if you ever call me that again, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.” I’ve never seen her so mad. “And don’t tell me that in England the soap is called ‘chuff’ or something, or I’ll wash it out twice.”

My other grandmother—the one on my dad’s side—had a stroke last winter, so I honestly don’t know what she said when I called her granny, but she didn’t look too happy about it. She’s out of her wheelchair finally, but if it were up to me, I’d put her back in it. My God, was she slow—took her twenty minutes to get from our sofa to the loo. That means “bathroom” in England. Our ground-floor loo has an old person’s bar next to the toilet. Dad put it in at Easter when Mum got really bad, and I told him I’m not going back in there until he takes it out again.

“Why?” he asked.

“It makes me feel like I’m in hospital,” I told him.

“In
a
hospital, you mean,” he said.

Six days earlier I’d had the same conversation, but in the other direction.

“My mother’s been in the hospital for almost three weeks now,” I’d said to Fiona.

And she said, “‘
In
hospital.’ We leave out the ‘the’ here.” She offered me another Mayfair. “So what’s she in for?”

“Cancer of ovaries,” I told her.

The Globe was on a Thursday. On Friday we took a day trip to Oxford, which the history club wankers practically wet themselves over, and just as we returned to London, at half six English time but twelve thirty in Missouri, my mother died. We were scheduled to fly home on Saturday, so rather than ruin the rest of my trip, my dad didn’t tell me until we saw each other at the airport. I actually can’t stand anyone in the history club so didn’t really mind that they saw my stupid father weeping like a girl at the baggage claim. I said to him later in the car, “Do you have to be so
American
about this? I mean, really. It’s not like you didn’t know it was coming.”

Something Fiona had noticed and I completely agree with is that people in the States are entirely too sentimental. They really will cry at the drop of a hat, partly because they’re babies and partly because they’re too attached to things. Not me, though. “Keep calm and carry on,” that’s my motto. I bought a mug that says so, and it’s absolutely the only thing I’ll drink my tea out of. I’m mad for tea.

Due to the jet lag, I was knackered out of my mind for the funeral. Not that it mattered, really. Like I wrote to Fiona, it was absolute rubbish. There I was,
dying
for a Mayfair, while all these people who hardly even knew my mother came up to say how much they were going to miss her. If I had a dime for every time I heard “Look how big you’ve gotten!” I’d have enough for a first-class ticket back to London
and
a whole year’s rent on a flat.
Two
years’ rent if I shared it with a flatmate.

After the funeral, scores of perfectly dreadful people came by the house. Luckily my grandmothers were there to help. Well,
one
was a help, the other just sat there like a toad and blinked. I only had a few chances to slip away, and when I did I went to my room and checked to see if I’d gotten any e-mails. I’ve written Fiona eighteen times since returning home but haven’t heard anything back quite yet, probably because she’s uncomfortable. English people are completely different than we are, especially about money. While Americans are all “Look what I’ve got!” the Brits are a lot more British about it, a lot more stoical and private. It wasn’t easy for Fiona to ask me for that loan. The whole subject was a complete embarrassment for her, I could tell. Especially given that she was so much older than me, in her thirties at least, not that that makes any difference. Due to my maturity, I have all kinds of older friends, or could if I wanted to. Fiona walked me to three different ATMs in order to get the money—so while the history club was at the Globe, being tourists, I was seeing the
real
London and falling desperately in love with it.

I was hoping that after graduation two years from now I could go to college there, but it turns out I’m already in college. Brits call high school “college,” and what we call college they call “uni.” Fiona says it’s strictly for gits and arseholes, but at least it would be a foot in the door. My father won’t like the idea one bit, but he’d better start getting used to it. He’s too preoccupied to realize it now, but in a lot of ways, I’m already gone.

There are plenty of things I take for granted, but not being burglarized was never one of them. Whether I was in a good neighborhood or a crummy one, in a house or apartment or hotel room, every time I walked in and found my dresser drawers not emptied onto the floor, I would offer a silent, nondenominational prayer of thanks. I honestly believed that my gratitude would keep me safe, so imagine my surprise in late November 2011, when someone broke into a place I was renting with Hugh and my sister Gretchen and stole my computer bag.

I thought of my laptop—a year’s worth of work, gone!—but my real concern was my passport, which had been tucked into an interior pocket alongside my checkbook. Its loss was colossal because it was my only form of ID, and also because my Indefinite Leave to Remain sticker was in it.

This is the British equivalent of a green card, and getting it had not been easy. Before Indefinite Leave I’d had visas, and those had taken some effort as well. The rules have changed since I first applied, but in 2002 it was possible to qualify as a writer. All I had to do was fill out a great many forms and prove that I had published a book. Hugh, by extension, was granted a visa as the boyfriend of a writer. This meant that when crossing into England, I would be asked by the border agents if I wrote mysteries, and Hugh would be asked if his boyfriend wrote mysteries. No other genre was ever considered.

We had to renew our visas every few years. This involved going to the dismal town of Croydon and spending a day in what was always the longest and most desperate line I had ever imagined. It was also the most diverse. I thought I was good at identifying languages, but it turns out I know next to nothing.
Surely they’re making that up,
I’d think, listening in on the couple ahead of me. The woman, most often, would be dressed like the grim reaper. Her husband would wear a sweatshirt with a picture of a boat or a horse on it, and the two would be speaking something so unmelodious and dire-sounding I could not imagine it having the words for “birthday cake.” If Hugh and I were denied extensions of our visas, we would have returned to Paris or New York, while they’d have gone back to, what? Beheadings? Clitoridectomies? What they had at stake was life-and-death. What we had at stake was Yorkshire pudding.

The nuisance of visas and having them renewed was something I left to Hugh, who’s a whiz at that sort of thing. There was nothing the authorities demanded that he couldn’t locate: our original birth certificates, a hank of his grandmother’s hair, the shoes I wore when I was twelve. People think it’s easy to leave home and resettle in another country, but in fact it’s exhausting, and purposefully so. The government’s hope is to weed out the lazy, though all it really eliminates are those who can’t afford an immigration lawyer. Had we not been native English speakers, and had Hugh not loved the challenges, we’d have hired one as well. As it was, we renewed our visas the requisite three times and then applied for Indefinite Leave. Aside from the mountain of paperwork, this involved reading a manual called
Life in the UK
and taking a subsequent test.

Hugh sat for it on the same day I did, and we spent weeks in the summer of 2008 studying. During that time I learned the difference between the House of Lords and the House of Commons. I learned that in 1857 British women won the right to divorce their husbands. I learned that people below the age of sixteen cannot deliver milk in the U.K., but I don’t think I learned why. It was just one of those weird English injustices, like summer.

Before taking the real test, I took the fake ones provided at the back of the study manual. “What do people eat on Christmas?” was one of the questions. Another was “What do you do on Halloween when someone comes to the door?” It was multiple-choice, and possible answers included “call the police” and “run and hide.”

I laughed, but these weren’t jokes. If you were from Chad, you’d likely freak out when children with panty hose over their heads showed up at your house demanding that you give them candy. As for the Christmas-meal question, do I know what they eat in Nigeria for Eid-el-Kabir or in Beijing for Qingming?

Another of the test questions asked why great numbers of Jewish people immigrated to the U.K. in the early part of the twentieth century. I don’t recall all the possible answers, but
A
was “to escape racist attacks” and
C
was “to invade and seize land.”

Hugh and I took our tests along with a dozen other foreigners, and though they didn’t give us our grades, I’m pretty sure I had a perfect score. He missed a question about the cost of eye exams for people over sixty but otherwise got everything right. Our Indefinite Leave stickers were nothing much to look at—just our pictures surrounded by stamps and seals—but still we gazed at them for hours on end, the way you might at a picture of the baby you birthed upside down in a burning house after a difficult seven-year pregnancy. While juggling knives.

The next step is to get our British passports, though it’s not necessary. As it is, Hugh and I can live and work in the U.K. for the rest of our lives.

I had my Indefinite Leave for four years before my passport was stolen. The theft took place on Oahu. Telling people this erases the sympathy I get for being burglarized, so I’m always inclined to leave it out. Then too, there seems nothing specifically Hawaiian about it. There are only two places to get robbed: TV and the real world. On television you get your stuff back. In the real world, if you’re lucky, the policeman who responds to your call will wonder what kind of computer it was. Don’t let this get your hopes up. Chances are he’s asking only because he has a software question. The officer who responded to our call was prompt but not terribly reassuring. “Yeah”—she sighed, looking at the spot where my stolen property used to be—“we get a lot of burgs in this area.”

That’s how lazy she was—couldn’t even squeeze out the extra two syllables.

There was an oceanfront park a quarter of a mile up the road from our rental house, so after the police left I walked over with Gretchen, convinced that in one of the trash cans I would discover my computer bag. The laptop would be gone, I figured, but surely I would find my passport. It’s crazy how certain I was. Gretchen and I looked in one trash can after another, and just as I started searching the bushes, I realized how big the world is. You’d think I might have noticed this before, perhaps while on a twenty-three-hour flight from London to Sydney, but the size of a planet doesn’t really strike you until you start looking for something. It could have been anywhere, my old passport, but in my mind’s eye I saw it on a scratched-up, glass-topped coffee table, the surface of which was dusted with meth.

I suppose the people who steal from us could be decent and well intentioned. The things they take while we’re out working—our watches and cameras, the wedding rings passed down by our great-grandmothers—they’re all going to feed a sick child or to buy a new hip for a colorful and deserving old person. That, though, would make things too complicated. Much simpler to do like I did, and decide that these people are scum. Your stuff was sold off for a bag of dope, and while you lie awake, turning it over in your mind, your thief is getting high somewhere in front of a stolen TV. Remorse? His only regrets are that you weren’t away from home longer and that you didn’t have better things.

I have it on good authority that in the days before DNA testing, a great many burglars used to shit on their victims’ beds or carpets—this as an added insult before heading back out the window or whichever hole they’d crept in through. That they could defecate on command like that, and solely for spite, further illustrated their depravity in my book.

My computer was stolen at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning, and that night I had a reading in Honolulu. Several stars from the crime series
Hawaii Five-O
came backstage before the show and were infinitely more helpful than the real police officers I’d dealt with earlier in the day. “The first thing we need to do is set up a reward,” said the actor who played Detective Lieutenant Chin Ho Kelly. I’d never spoken to anyone so handsome, and said in response, obviously dazed, “You’ll be my what?”

Hugh, Gretchen, and I stayed on Oahu for another five days, and afterward, with me using my police report as ID, we flew to Los Angeles, where I secured a new passport. The picture in my stolen one wasn’t half bad, but in the new one I look like a penis with an old person’s face drawn on it. I could have had more photos taken, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. This was the new me, post-theft—all my youthful optimism gone, filched by some drug addict in Hawaii. Every time I looked at my horrible new passport, I thought of him and wondered what he was up to. The person I pictured was in his mid-to-late twenties, with a vibrant tattoo on his neck—something classy, perhaps a scorpion waving a joint. He was like a paper doll I would accessorize with whatever I found irritating that day: He texted during movies. He ate at Chick-fil-A. He put glitter in his thank-you letters, and when you opened them the damn stuff got all over everything.

I often wondered if my thief had ever been caught. If he’d spent time in jail, who had bailed him out? His mother? His girlfriend? I figured he was straight, since a gay person, or even a bisexual, would have also taken my rubberized canvas tote, which was right next to my computer bag and which prompts compliments like you would not believe.

In early December 2011 I flew back to London. Border agents in France don’t care who comes into their country, but in England it’s a different story. “What are you doing here?” they want to know. “What are you
really
doing here?” Indefinite Leave put an end to these questions, but now, without it, I was back to square one, treated like a lowly visitor.

“How long will you be in the U.K.?” asked my Heathrow border agent. “Where are you staying?”

I explained my situation, and after asking me to step to the side, the man carried my passport into an office and looked me up on the computer. It confirmed my Indefinite Leave, and I was free to go. No problem. Returning from South Korea a month later, I had the exact same experience. Then I took the train to Paris, and on my return I got a female border agent who really laid into me. “Why haven’t you gotten a new Indefinite Leave sticker?”

I reminded her that the process takes a great deal of time. It involves surrendering your passport—a problem, as I’d been traveling nonstop for work.

She crossed her arms. “What do you do for a living?”

I told her I was a writer, and she said very sternly that I could write at home.

“Well, not about
South Korea,
” I wanted to say, but it’s pointless to argue with people like her, so I just stood there, shaking.

“I don’t even have to let you in,” she hissed. “Do you realize that?”

I cleared my throat. “Yes.”

“What did you say?”

I felt the people behind me watching, and sensed them thinking, as I often do,
What’s with the troublemaker?
“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

It seemed she wouldn’t be happy until I was crying. “Yes, I realize you don’t have to let me in.”

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more foolish than I did at that moment. Who was I to feel at home in another country, to believe that filling out forms and scoring high marks on a test guaranteed me the same sense of belonging I take for granted in the United States? Had a border agent
there
given me trouble, I might have gotten frustrated, but I doubt that my hands would have shaken, or that my voice, after climbing another three octaves, would have quivered and broken, leaving me to sound like Snow White with Parkinson’s. “But…,” I wanted to say, “but I thought you
liked
me.”

“Walk this way.” The woman lifted herself, muttering, from her chair, and as she left her booth, I glanced at her belt, expecting to find scalps swinging from it. Grabbing my bag, I followed her to an office, where one of her colleagues looked me up on the computer. My passport was stamped, and after ten minutes spent sitting on a bench and thinking about my thief, I was free to go. Hugh suggested I’d simply gotten the wrong border agent, but the experience was so unsettling that after returning to London I had him complete the paperwork for a new Indefinite Leave sticker. The forms were sent, along with my passport and a sizable check, to the British Home Office, and after a week I received a letter saying that they’d gotten my envelope and should hopefully get back to me within six months.

I said to Hugh, “
Six
months?”

“That’s at the latest,” he told me. “For all you know, it could come next week.”

I sent off my passport at the beginning of June, and when, by mid-July, it had still not been returned, I had to cancel a reading in Italy. When it did not come by the end of July, I had to forfeit a nonrefundable Eurostar ticket to France. Nobody likes having a problem, but having a convoluted, bureaucratic one is even more galling. When I explained it to people face-to-face, I would see their eyes glazing over, and when I explained it over the phone, I could feel them turning on their computers and checking their retirement accounts.

Without my passport, I was stuck in the country I had immigrated to. And all because of some drug addict in Hawaii. While he got high on the beach, I endured one of the wettest, coldest summers on record. Growing up in North Carolina, I got my fill of hot, sticky weather. Ninety-degree heat does nothing for me—I hate it. A little warmth wouldn’t have hurt, though, a couple of days when I didn’t have to wear both a sweater
and
a long undershirt, these beneath a hideous plastic poncho. I honestly hadn’t known it was possible to rain that much. It was so bad in West Sussex that baby birds were drowning in their nests. Even frogs were dying. Frogs! Our Italy trip was to be a reading with a few days of vacation tacked on. But instead of driving through the Piedmont with Hugh and our friend Eduardo, I walked the roads surrounding our house, wearing knee-high Wellingtons and watching as bloated slugs floated by.