Three Years with the Rat (18 page)

Finally John spoke up. “Are you all right?”

Grace said nothing. She only stared, the gloss of her eyes catching electric light as it approached and passed.

“What the hell were you thinking,” I said, not a question. And then, feeling John's disapproval from the backseat, “Where have you been?”

The question seemed to resonate. Her wide eyes became slits and her slack face became taut.

“Looking into a dead end,” she said.

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked. I wanted to demand an answer but she was turned to the backseat, facing John.

“You
lied
to me,” she said. “You've watched me fail in the lab, over and over, and all this time—all this time!—you've known how. You've been keeping the truth from me, in your little code book.”

John squared his jaw and faced his accuser. He didn't say a word. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and over at the passenger seat but ultimately I had to keep my eyes on the road.

“Is anyone going to let me in on what the hell we're talking about, for once?” I asked.

No one spoke again for the rest of the trip.

I left Grace and John on the sidewalk in front of their apartment door. It was late but the lights were on in the basement when I got home, warming the windows with a yellow glow. I unlocked the door, entered quietly, and found the room full of the smell of baking. Nicole was sprawled out on the couch watching a movie, still wearing her apron. When she saw the look on my face, she immediately stood, walked to the door, and wrapped her arms around me. I hugged her back and felt my muscles loosen.

THE NEW RULES
are slippery. I phone Brian again and take some comfort in a familiar voice, but, like Lee, he doesn't remember John or Grace. The next time I call him he's unsure of who I am, tries hard to be friendly but ultimately treats me like a stranger. The last time I pick up the phone, I find that my cellular service has been disconnected. It isn't clear whether it's because I haven't paid the bill in months or because I no longer exist in their registry.

Still, at the hardware store down the street, looking for a large pane of mirror, I'm in luck.

“Some guy ordered it but never came back,” the clerk says.

“What guy?” I ask.

He looks through his computer but there's no longer any record of my name. He doesn't seem to remember my face, either. I convince him to sell me the mirror as well as a small flashlight and a set of batteries.

I stay indoors mostly, waiting for the landlord to knock on my door and ask for rent money I don't have. It never comes. In fact I don't recognize the people I see using the suite upstairs, and they
don't seem to notice me peering through my blinds in the basement window. I leave the apartment only for cheap food, bell peppers and onions and tofu and rice from the Vietnamese grocer on Dundas Street, using the cash I took from the machine while it still worked. My key still fits in the lock whenever I return, and what few belongings I have are always there.

My money dwindles and all but disappears. No one visits.

It takes a week of false starts and careless errors to sand the glue and residue off the broken panel, affix the large mirror to its inner surface, and polish the glass inside the box until the reflection is free of oily fingerprints and dust. I test the alignment of the refurbished panel with the rest of the box and make small corrections, careful to never fully enclose myself inside. Buddy stands on the roof of the box and observes.

Cautious about inexplicable prying eyes, I drape towels over every mirror and reflective surface in the house, and without day–night cycles I soon lose track of time. I read and reread John's decoded pages, and try cipher after cipher on the remaining sections of his lab notebook. Using
whatsyoursamplesize
as the key, I unlock a third section of the notebook, and pore over it for any crucial information. There's no longer a couch to sit on, there wasn't a television to begin with, and the few CDs in the apartment are from my undergraduate days in Vancouver and bring me no comfort. Every sound outside makes me hold my breath and listen. I stop putting Buddy back in his cage, and some nights I wake and see his two glistening eyes looking at me from the end of the bed. If he judges me, he stays silent about it. In exchange, I clean up his shit wherever I find it.

Nearly everything is ready. The box is as complete and perfect as I can make it. One pouch of earth should be enough for my journey, and I have Buddy for a guide. But first I have some unfinished business.

Throughout the day I peek out the basement window, waiting for dusk. When it finally comes, I unveil the mirror above the washroom sink. My head looks round and fuzzy, like a tennis ball, so I use the electric razor to trim the hair back. I shower and shave and take a good look. The face is thin, the eyes are sunken, but the line of cheek and jaw isn't displeasing. The short haircut makes me look younger. Altogether my appearance isn't as horrible as it could be. And though I'm the only figure in the reflection, I cover the mirror again to be safe and leave the bathroom.

I put on my best clothes, black pants and a white collared shirt. As I dress, I rehearse lines of dialogue, witticisms, the act of smiling. Blood swishes through my ears and my heart is racing. Buddy watches me muttering to myself.

“I'm nervous,” I say to him. “Isn't that absurd?”

He doesn't respond, only twitches his nose and turns away.

After bundling myself in warm layers, I slip on my winter boots and leave the apartment.

Outside it is dark and quiet. The city lights reflect off the cloud cover and so the sky has a little pink and orange mixed in the deep blue. Winter has arrived, and fat flakes of snow fall gently to earth. This first layer quickly melts and chills the surface of Toronto. Snowfall passes through the electric-yellow light of the street lamps in a steady, curved current. It is beautiful. Flakes land on my shoulders and in my grey knitted scarf. They melt on my face like cold kisses.

It's a short walk down the street to the Cuckoo. Through its bay window, I can see her, the life of the party and the centre of her friends' attention. Nicole.

My focus shifts to my reflection, to the glint of a mirrored streetcar rumbling down Dundas. There are no shadowy figures but still
I expect they're watching. There isn't any more time to waste. I take a deep breath and enter the bar.

Moving toward Nicole's table, I recognize Lee and Brian among the group, their elbows and thighs pressed against each other, their smiles private, their presence at the table only cursory. It isn't surprising that Steve is absent. I raise a hand in greeting to them and they stare, puzzled, and look to each other for clarity.

On the other side of the table is the woman with whom I used to live. At first the group continues to chirp, to drink, to chuckle, to gaze in Nicole's direction. Then my looming presence begins to weigh on them until they become quiet and agitated. Attention shifts to me, Nicole's last of all. She looks at me, really looks at me, and I cannot help but smile. She smiles in return, but there is something strange in it. She is sizing me up.

“Hi,” I say to her. I can feel all eyes on me.

“Hello,” she says. She wears a simple dress and leggings for warmth and less make-up than her usual. She looks perfect.

“Happy birthday,” I tell her.

Her smile broadens, her eyes squint a little, and she cocks her head to the side ever so slightly. I have seen this look before.

“Where do I know you from?” she asks. My smile falters.

Someone at the table coughs. I glance at Brian and Lee. Brian turns away, uncomfortable, but Lee stares back with some kind of abstract concern. I am just a sickly-looking stranger standing over a crowd of friends at a birthday party.

“Oh Christ,” I say. “O.K. There are a few things I need to say to you, Nicole. Please. I don't think it'll take too long.”

It feels as though the group is holding its collective breath. Only Nicole looks relaxed.

“You don't have to trust me,” I say. My throat is dry and it makes my voice hoarse. “You just have to be too intrigued to say no.”

Her gaze hasn't broken from mine and in it I feel no judgement, only curiosity. She takes a moment before she speaks. “Sure, I'll listen. Provided you stop standing awkwardly over the table.”

And while she pokes fun at me, there is only kindness in her manner.

The walk is her idea but it is exactly what I wanted. We move south down a side street, into the neighbourhood of her new apartment. At first we are silent. Snow tumbles down and the streets are cold enough now that it sticks to the hoods of cars and the branches of trees. We are two black shapes moving across a pale landscape.

Nicole matches my pace step for step but does not look at me.

“I suppose Lee warned you that this was a bad idea,” I say. The two of them had spoken in harsh tones before we left.

“I suppose she did,” Nicole says. “You seem to know an awful lot about us.”

“Just about you, and a little about her and Brian and Steve.” Our footsteps make a soft crunching sound. “You really don't remember anything? There's nothing familiar about me?”

She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then closes it again. Finally she says, “Sorry. I have a lot of suitors.”

“Yes, you do.” I laugh. And then it's gone and I feel like there is very little to laugh about. “Everything I had to say to you was based on you knowing who I am.”

“If that were true, then you wouldn't have left the Cuckoo with me.” She's right. We walk a few more paces and suddenly she stops, pivots on the sidewalk, faces me. “So then?”

“So.” I turn to her and she looks up at me. Under the street light I can see that her cheeks and nose are pink from the chilly air.
A few wisps of hair poke out of her toque. “I guess I wanted to say happy birthday—”

“Which you've done.”

“—and I'm sorry. And that you were right.”

She narrows her eyes and examines my face. I'm not sure what she sees. Then she turns and continues walking. I fall into step with her.

I say, “And I told myself that if we got this far then I would ask something small of you.”

She is staring at her feet as she walks, thinking. “What's that?”

“I wanted to hear a song.”

We enter through the front door of the Victorian-style house and make our way up the stairs. Her room is painted in a light coffee colour and has large windows facing the quiet residential street. She has far fewer material possessions than when we lived together, but the overflowing bookshelf looks the same. There is no overhead lighting, only a string of warm Christmas lights tacked to the wall and a table lamp in the corner. It smells like her apartment, like oranges.

“I've never been inside here before,” I say.

“Well, that's some small comfort,” she replies. She pulls off her outer layers.

I consider what this must be like from her perspective. “Do you often bring suitors into your apartment, the first time you meet them?”

“Only if I like them. Or, as in your case, if I think they're pathetic and harmless. Coat.” She hangs my pea coat in the front closet. “To be honest, there's something so familiar about you but I can't place it. Like an itch I can't seem to scratch. Sit.”

She motions to the couch and I sit. It's firm but made with a soft material, far nicer than the one we used to own, a grown-up's couch. I run my hand along its arm and watch as she sifts through a pile of burned CDs next to the stereo. She is crouched, a smooth curved figure. Her orange hair is tied up and leaves the nape of her neck exposed.

Without turning away from her task she asks, “Why are you sorry?”

I sit forward and take a moment to consider my answer. “I wasn't good to you. You need someone who tells you what's going on in his head, someone who can communicate how he's feeling, someone who doesn't resent you for stupid reasons. I wasn't that person and it ruined us. And that's why I'm sorry.”

She turns to me and asks, “When was this?”

There's something a little sad in her expression. I wonder if she can feel hurt about a breakup that never existed for her. I wonder if she is even the same woman who broke up with me, whether she's been rewritten or perhaps just replaced with another version of herself. Or maybe it's me who never existed. Maybe she's thinking about the relationships that took place in my absence.

When she realizes I'm not going to respond, she goes back to searching the CD collection. “And you said I was right about something?”

“You gave me advice, recently,” I say. “Told me I needed to put on my big-boy pants and stop feeling sorry for myself.”

“Well, that part sounds like me.” She lifts a broken jewel case into the air, takes the CD out, and places it in the player. Then she comes and sits on the arm of the couch, as far from me as she can be while still sharing the same seat. “But you know it couldn't have been me. It isn't possible. Either that or you
don't
know. I suppose you could be sadder and more deranged than you already look.”

How would she respond in my position? Then it comes to me. “Does it matter if it's possible? Whether my memories are of real
events, whether my feelings come from things that actually happened…none of that changes the fact that I have these memories and these feelings.”