Moondance (9 page)

Michael opened the journal carefully and felt a window between two
worlds opening around him. He began to read.

An hour later, he turned to the last page, the day before his father died. He remembered the day so clearly — the day that marked the end of his childhood. As he read his own words, scrawled in the haste of youth, he glimpsed that part of himself that he had left behind, the part that had trusted, the part that hadn’t been afraid to dream the biggest dream, the part that was innocent and open, with the expectation that the world was a friendly place: the kind of innocence that hadn’t even
imagined
pain as a way of living. His own innocence scared him, charmed him, drew him in. It was like visiting a long-forgotten love. He felt euphoric, light-headed.

He took the journal upstairs to his study and sat at the computer. He ran his hands over the keyboard as if it was a new lover. He typed three words, slowly and precisely. He typed them again, his gaze just above the screen, experiencing his tenuous attempt at creation as an unsuspecting fifteen-year-old child would experience it, then as a man betrayed by his wife, then as a bemused adult plagued by visions and finally, as if a silent audience were watching him. He typed over and over as though, by typing these words, he could elicit information from an invisible source, the same one whom he knew would guide his actions if he allowed it.

But I’m afraid
, he typed on keys that were deaf to his words.
But I’m afraid
and like the message that he typed, but did not see, neither did he receive an answer.

Some time later, he went for a bike ride until his lungs screamed, his legs burned, and the visions inside him dissipated. He returned, showered, and crawled into bed. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. The hours had slipped by like minutes.

He curled up under the covers, his body a dead weight of exhaustion. He buried his face in Lara’s pillow, smelling her scent and wishing she was here with him. He thought how she looked at night while she slept, understanding that at some point she would leave him again. As he lay there, he fantasized about it, as he had done for years, imagining what it would feel like, picturing her face for the last time, before she walked away. He imagined his face tucked into her neck, and her body cradled into his, feeling so solid, so real, yet filled with smoke, the stuff pipe dreams are made of. He imagined their new family and finally, he envisioned what it would be like to be alone.

He cried, imagining her softness as he held her, controlling his breathing as he imagined not wanting to wake her, the feel of her shoulder under his lips, her back pressed to his chest, their legs interlocked as they had been at night for so many years.

He wept, not because of Lara, not because of his fear of being without her, but because he knew now that losing Lara was no longer his greatest fear.

It was what was inside him that scared him most of all.

chapter 11

AT ROTMAN, MOST ASSIGNMENTS involved analyzing real-life business cases, a method originally established by Harvard business school. First year included core courses on organizational behavior, economics, marketing, accounting, finance, statistics, and operations. The pace was intense and students learned the discipline and efficiency to scan, absorb, interpret, analyze and produce recommendations, then move on.

To manage the workload, groups organized in various ways. Some-times, two to three people agreed to take care of one assignment, and the balance of the group another. Or, if the assignment was a big one, they’d work together, dividing the project up into stages of research and writing. Then there what was known as “graph girls” or boys whose job it was to take data and present it in graphical form. A ten-page mba paper often meant ten pages of writing, with thirty pages of graphed appendices.

Althea, Trisha, Hermann and Tony got to know each other during orientation. In the first week of full-time classes, they were joined by Celia Thom. Celia had a psychology degree, with a minor in fine arts and had just moved from London, England. She immediately embraced the role of devil’s advocate and Althea liked her.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Celia said, leaning forward, looking at Hermann who had been speaking. They were huddled in a meeting room around a small table, trying to come up with their approach to an organizational behavior project — a major assignment worth sixty per cent of their mark. It was eight thirty at night and they had been there since two in the afternoon.

“You don’t think it makes sense because I’m suggesting we follow a process,” Hermann bristled. “It’s the only way we can get this done on time. This isn’t a piece of art, for fuck’s sake.”

Hermann and Celia were like oil and water. Celia’s eyes flashed and her voice dropped.

“It’s not the process I object to, Hermann. If you had been listening to me, you’d realize that I just don’t want to make a final decision on the approach before we do some of the basic research.”

“But we have to decide now. There’s no time,” Hermann protested.

“So we build the decision into the process,” Celia said.

“I don’t think —” Trisha started, and Hermann got up from his seat and paced.

“No, nobody here is thinking!” He looked around the group. “I can’t work like this! How the hell did you people even get into this program?” The silence was palpable. Trisha spoke.

“Hermann, don’t make this personal,” said Trisha, who had taken on the role of peacemaker for Group D. Tony sat silent. Whenever conflict arose, Tony refused to engage. Hermann’s voice rose.

“I’m so sick of this shit!”

“Look,” Althea said. “We have to make this decision, but for tonight,
let’s move on, okay? We’ve been at it for over five hours.”

“You always take her side.” Hermann flicked his eyes angrily between
the two women. “This is bullshit.”

Althea sighed. “I’m seeing
both
sides, Hermann. Micro is due tomorrow. Can we agree to disagree on OB for now, and move on to micro or we’ll be here all night.”

“I agree. Let’s move on,” Tony said. It was the first time he had spoken in the last hour.

Hermann looked at Tony, his eyes blank.

The group broke up just after midnight. Their microeconomics paper was due the next day. They decided that Tony would finish writing and Hermann would produce the graphs. Both would email their sections to Althea, who would edit the paper, proofread it, assemble it and hand it in.

For all Hermann’s rigid attitude, he could be counted on to meet deadlines. Trisha, while a peacemaker, had also turned out to be the procrastinator in the group. As for herself, Althea discovered that she was a bit of a control-freak. It was difficult letting others do work that she’d get graded on, even when the ones doing the work had more experience in some areas than she had. She just wasn’t as vocal about it as Hermann.

“See you guys,” Trisha said, heading with Tony toward the parking garage. Althea and Celia walked outside.

“I’m too hyper to sleep,” Celia said. “Do you want to get a drink? I have really good scotch.”

• • •

ALTHEA AND CELIA SAT sprawled on pillows on Celia’s living room floor, sipping Lagavulin, a peaty single malt.

“You do have good scotch. And on a student’s salary, no less.”

“One of my indulgences.”

Celia popped a CD into her stereo and the sounds of jazz filled the room. Althea listened for a moment, and couldn’t place it.

“Who are we listening to?”

“Michel Petrucciani. French pianist, died a few years back. A tragedy. I never got to see him play.” Althea looked at Celia more closely — long shiny black hair, creamy skin and walnut eyes. Her accent was what Althea would call international.

“My step-father was a jazz musician, a pianist. Also cornet, when he was younger.”

“Really? My mother was a classical pianist. I picked up my jazz habit from my boyfriend, Tomas.”

“Paris? I thought you were from England.”

“I went to school there. My mother was French. My father is Japanese, runs an export business.”

“Where is Tomas from?”

“He’s from exotic Mississauga, so he’s a Canadian suburban boy. We met while he was in London doing his masters in European art history a few years ago. He’s doing his doctorate now, and will move back to Europe eventually to finish school and probably to teach. He hasn’t made up his mind. He’s considering his options.”

“He’s why you came to Rotman.”

“Guilty as charged. When I’m finished, as long as everything’s good, we’ll move back together. What about you?”

It took her a few seconds to realize Celia was asking her about men.
I’m still here
, the voice said.
Think I’d let you off that easy?

“Me? Let’s just say up until three months ago, I was in a long-term relationship. He ended up fucking my best friend. They’re together now.” Althea’s stomach flipped and
fell. She heard the edge in her voice and immediately regretted her words.

“I’m so sorry.”

“No, listen, I’m sorry, I never should have mentioned it. I’ve only told one other person, my mother Sophie, who is more of a friend.” Althea’s face felt heavy. Shame spread through her body.
She shouldn’t be dumping it on Celia
.

Celia’s voice was soft.

“After my mother left, things got a bit fucked up for a while as well.”

“Left?”

“We knew she was manic depressive, but she had a psychotic break. We couldn’t find her for a while. I was very angry, took it out on my father. Blamed myself. Did a lot of drugs. I understand anger.”

“How long ago was this?”

“I was thirteen when it happened.”

“And now?”

“She’s institutionalized in France. We’ve spoken a few times and I’ve been to see her but —” Celia shrugged. Althea was transfixed by Celia’s story. She seemed so together.

“My father died when I was two years old in a car accident. And my older brother. I was the only one that lived. I don’t remember either of them.”

“That’s rough.”

“Are you on good terms with your mother? When she’s well?”

“We’re okay. She can’t handle much.”

“How does someone get over something like that?”

“Well, first I did a ton of therapy. Then I got my own psyche degree which I thought would help, but —” Celia shrugged, smiling. “I’ve also since read a ton of self-help books and have explored some holistic stuff which did help. With time, a lot of time, I chose to forgive her and I also chose to stop taking it out on my father — and myself.”

“I know someone who’d be cheering you right now. Her name is Michelle. I’ve known her since high school.”

“And?”

“Let’s just say she and I argue a lot.” Althea felt as if the room was closing in. It felt hot and she could barely breathe.

Celia’s voice was gentle. “We all gotta find our own way, right?” she looked at Althea’s glass. “Like a top up?”

chapter 12

ALTHEA HANDED IN THEIR
microeconomics paper the next day, and burst out of the Rotman building on St. George Street feeling dizzy and wound up. She walked quickly, with her face up, watching her breath, while a fine white mist settled unevenly on the pavement. It had rained earlier and the water kicked up around her ankles as she walked.

Her mind whirred. This morning, she woke up feeling stuck, a grey fog clinging to her shoulders, pulling her down. It took her a while to get up to speed, to get really productive. Fear of failure won in the end. She finalized the paper with a mixture of gratitude and disbelief.

When she got home later, she’d eat, do some research for the organizational behavior assignment, then send it to Hermann and Celia. That should take about three hours. Then she’d read her cases for tomorrow, meet Celia at the Maddy around midnight, wake up for a nine o’clock class, and do it all over again.

• • •

THE ANNEX, JUST NORTH of the Rotman campus, was one of Althea’s favorite parts of Toronto. The old homes were slightly rustic, every house with a cat or dog on the veranda. The architecture was an array of brick and wood and stained glass windows, mature trees and lush gardens. In some ways, the Annex reminded her of her childhood home.

In the summer, she and Kevin used to walk west on Bloor, past Spadina and raid the used CD stores, celebrating their finds in one of the many ethnic restaurants close by that served Hungarian goulash, Italian antipasti, or “big” sushi: huge portions without the huge prices. A few blocks further west, they’d eat in Korea town, where Althea still satisfied her cravings for Bi Bim Bap and hot Kim Chi noodles.

Althea sniffed, remembering. The sadness washed over her like a soft rain, her eyes watering. She missed Kevin, their comfort and their easy friendship. She missed Tori’s inspiration and support. Normally, she’d call Tori at a time like this. She missed them, yet missing them felt wrong somehow, weak and intolerable to her.

She wiped at her eyes
Stop it
, she said, pushing down.
Her life was great right now, and soon the opportunities would start rolling in. What did she have to cry about?
She walked north from Rotman on St. George, along Bloor to Madison. She waved at a woman she recognized from class, and then continued randomly, taking every turn as it came. The houses moved slowly past her. In front of a low-rise apartment building, she approached a bench and sat down, imagining the demands of the MBA falling off her in waves, imagining her life two years from now, all this behind her.