The Video Watcher (15 page)

“Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.”

“Snow is white, if and only if snow is white.”

These sentences would repeat themselves, and I would feel like I was beyond the people around me.

My reimagining of the town was helped by the chalet-style architecture of the German restaurant I passed.

When I got to the far end of the boardwalk, I turned and started back to the hotel. The beach was beginning to get crowded and I saw one woman sit up and stroke her blond hair back into a ponytail. What would Maria or Sadie think if they came up here? I wondered. For some reason it was easier to think of Maria here than Sadie, maybe because Maria had told me that the town she came from in Mexico was a resort town, and I wondered what it was like compared to this town.

I was halfway through the lobby when I heard Kris. “Trace, there you are.”

Her voice sounded a ways off, and it took some time to notice her waving to me from inside the lounge.

She was sitting with a man who I mistook for Michael Daniels. He had the same well-groomed gray hair and rugged but wrinkled face, and his sport jacket looked like something Michael would wear.

“This is my nephew,” Kris said introducing us.

“Hi. Richard,” the man said rising from the chair, extending his hand.

I told her my name was Richard—Richard!

I tried not to laugh. The handshake seemed practiced, and I had the mental picture of him repeating the gesture over and over again in front of a mirror. He sat back down in the chair. “We were just talking about you.”

I nodded politely, then turned to Kris. “You had breakfast yet?”

She raised the Bloody Mary. “Kind of,” she said and looking to Richard, laughed.

“Is that an English accent I detect?”

“No,” I said.

“It's a speech impediment,” Kris said, and drained her glass.

Richard looked uncomfortable. “You've been outside?” he said, resuming his pleasant demeanour. “Is it warm out? It looks windy from here.”

“Pull up a chair,” Kris said.

“It's not bad,” I said to Richard, then to Kris, “I'm going to go swim.”

I spent the rest of the day going back and forth from the pool to the games room. At about four o'clock I began to feel nauseous. I went back to my room. Lying on the bed I peered at the digital alarm clock. The air in the room was stale. The digital five turned to a six. I got up and slid open the balcony door and returned to the bed. A breeze came in the room and the drapes billowed in it. The pattern of light changed as the drapes fluttered. I took deep breaths of cold air and tried not to think. The feeling of guilt came over me for fantasizing about Emily and her psychiatrist.

After two or three minutes I was still feeling bad, so I got up and went into the washroom. I turned the cold shower tap on. I put my head right under the shower and the cold water ran down my face and neck and back. My head ached.

When I stepped out, I was shaking. I towelled myself dry and noticed my travel bag on top of the toilet tank. I dug through it and found a box of Gravol. I took out a blister pack. Two pills were left. I popped them out and downed them with a glass of water.

Back on the bed, I started to feel slightly calmer. I don't think it was because of the Gravol—it was too early for it to take affect—rather the expectation that I would feel better made me feel better.

 

It was freezing in the room when I woke. The door was still open, the drapes flapping in the blue darkness. I stood up, feeling quite drugged. There was a weird sensation in my stomach. I slid the door shut and sat back on the bed. At least the anxiousness was gone.

But I wanted to see people. I picked up the chinos and plaid shirt I'd thrown onto the washroom floor and put them on.

Still freezing, I dug out a sweater vest from my suitcase and stopped in front of a mirror. My hair had a cool dishevelled look, and I imagined myself as some anti-hero in a movie.

Cowboy, you know what you got to do.

Take it easy
—I stepped out into the corridor.
You're nineteen years old, you have nothing to worry about. Just a bit high-strung, you've always been that way.

On the way to the elevator I remembered a night at outdoor school in Grade Seven when I was so frightened of throwing up that I threw up all over this other kid's boots. The next morning Carly, who the boys in my cabin had voted the girl with the best ass when wet, asked if I was alright.

 

The lobby was different than it had been earlier. The lights had a soft glow to them and the room seemed more sedate than it had been in the afternoon. A man in a tweed sports jacket staggered in the direction of the dining room. I glanced at my wrist and saw I had left my watch in my room. I walked down to the lounge to see if Kris was still there—not expecting that she actually would be. She hadn't come to get me for dinner and I wondered if she'd called, but I hadn't heard.

When I came around the corner, I saw she was seated in the same spot as before. The man called Richard was also in the same chair as before and he sat forward, his elbow on his own knee, his fingers touching Kris's.

He seemed to be in the middle of a story, and just as I got there, he paused and looked up.

“Here's the man himself,” he said gaily.

“You're back.” Kris looked angry.

“Did you already go for dinner?” I asked.

“Breakfast, dinner, lunch.” Kris waved her hand over the glasses on the table. She burst out laughing. Richard grinned politely.

“Have a seat, Casey.”

“Trace.”

“What was that?” he said and put his hand to his ear.

“Trace,” I said. “My name's Trace.”

“My apologies.” He held out his hand again. I shook it, and pulled up a chair.

Richard glanced from me, to Kris, to me.

“Well, go on,” she said, picking up her drink and rattling the ice in it.

He looked like he was struggling to remember what he'd been saying. “So. So when they found her, she'd driven off the dock into the lake.”

Kris finished the drink, shaking her head. She set the empty glass on the table and said, “Sad, sad, sad.” Then turned to me and said, “Rich was just telling me what a happy place this is!”

Richard looked at me and laughed.

“So…”

“Trace,” I said.

“So Trace, what do you do?”

“He's at university right now,” Kris said.

“University. In Vancouver?”

“UBC.”

“So what are you studying there?”

When I didn't answer fast enough he turned to Kris and said, “Girls?” and laughed.

“I wish,” she said, shaking her head.

“I'm just taking general studies.”

“He's actually wasting his time.” Kris leaned over and took out her pack of Matinée.

“Give the
fucking
young man a break,” Richard said. “He's got to find out about life. He's got to live it like I've lived it. I didn't get serious about things until I was at least thirty.” He turned to me. “Are you going to go into real estate like your aunt?”

“No.”

Kris lit a cigarette.

“Anyway, Trace, what are you drinking? Can I get you something?”

“It's okay,” I said.

“Here,” he said, rising and reaching into his back pocket. He took out his wallet and took out a twenty. “Get yourself something. Anything. It's on me.”

“It's okay.”

“Come on! Take it.”

“Go ahead,” Kris said, gesturing for me to take it.

I went the bar, but I didn't feel like drinking. The thought of alcohol nauseated me. But I didn't want to offend Richard or get in an argument with Kris, so I ordered a Shirley Temple.

“What did you get there?” Richard asked when I got back to the table.

“A Shirley Temple.”

He laughed. “That's normally what my eleven-year-old daughter drinks!”

 

I wasn't very tired. I wanted to talk to someone. Thought about calling Damien or Cameron. Took the phone book from the bedside table in my room and tried to figure the directions for a long distance call. Damien was the first one I tried, but there was no answer. Next, Cam. After five rings, his mother picked up the phone.

There was a drowsy tone to her voice. “Yes, who is it?”

“Hi, Mrs. White. Is Cameron in?”

“
Trace
—do you have any idea what time it is? We're all in bed.”

“Sorry.”

The line went dead.

I went out on the balcony. It wasn't as breezy as it had been that afternoon. I leaned on the railing. The pools glowed in the darkness. About a dozen people, their voices sounding drunk, stood in the middle of the hot pool, talking. Recalling the sensation of jumping off the ten-metre board at the Aquatic Centre and how it felt to fall a long time before hitting the water, I imagined the feeling of falling toward them.

The sound of the band in the Copper Room came across the grass and it sounded like they were playing “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree,” though I wasn't certain. I looked at the black shape of the mountain against the blue sky and the stars above and wondered if Cam had contacted the Brazilian yet. Could any of what he said be true? Of course the only way to know would be to talk to the girl, which, of course, was what he was not allowed to do.

After a few minutes, my thoughts drifted on to Emily. What had she been trying to tell me?

Leaving the balcony door ajar, I climbed into bed and lay with one sheet covering me and tried to fall asleep. Eventually I reached into my boxer shorts and after considering other scenarios, returned to Emily in the psychiatrist's office.

 

Kris was at the end of my bed. She was in her kimono housecoat, one leg tucked under her. She was holding a plastic glass of red wine.

“You weren't very nice to Richard.”

My vision blurred and I sat up, rubbed my eyes.

“You—NOT NICE to Richard.”

I blinked a couple of times before I could see clearly.

“Where is he now?”

“I—DON'T KNOW.”

I nodded my head—she was looking at me in a strange way.

“You still haven't done it yet, have you?”

“What?”

“You still haven't done
it
.”

“What?”

“You still haven't done it. You're a
virgin
.”

“Can you leave.”

“What's the matter? Is there something wrong? Are you like Richard?”

She put the glass of wine on the floor and reached for my leg. I pulled it up under myself.

“Leave,” I said.

“I'm worried about my ‘little nephew,'” she said and laughed.

“Just leave.”

“You got a kiss for your Auntie?”

“Leave.”

“I'm worried about you.”

“
Leave
.”

“Don't you want to have some fun? Your
father
liked to have fun.”

She crawled toward me. I leaned against the headboard and pulled my foot up in front of me.

“Don't you dare,” she hissed.

I stayed in the position.

“Kiss me.”

She reached for my ankle and I kicked out at her. I didn't mean to, but I hit her in the face. She fell back onto the floor and I jumped off the bed and ran into the washroom. I closed the door and locked it. I expected her to be right after me.

After what seemed like a long time, her voice came through the door: “Good
niiiight
, Traaace.”

A door clicked, and I assumed that she had left. But I wasn't certain. I turned the lights off and slid down onto the floor and listened. The muffled sound of a TV came from somewhere, and someone somewhere flushed a toilet. Under my feet the tiles were cold. As I squatted there, shaking, I drew my legs up and wrapped my arms around and squeezed them. Crouched like that, I rocked gently back and forth and told myself to breathe deeply, to breathe deeply.

After awhile I felt well enough to get up. In the dark I reached around for the sink—I didn't want to turn the light on—and found a washcloth and turned on the right faucet; waited until the water was cold, and soaked the cloth and pressed it to my face, cold water dribbling down my chin and neck.

All things must pass,
I told myself,
all things must pass, all things must pass…