Westlake Soul (20 page)

Scary, too.

It’d be cool to fast-forward three or four years. You’d see a family rebuilt and smiling again. Niki with (if she works her ass off) a university degree and a steady boyfriend, planning the rest of her life. The groovy room turned into a mini gym, or maybe a study. Hub still rocking it, but with a little grey in his snout. Dad and Mom dancing most nights. The only reminder of the son and brother they had lost would be an oil painting on the living room wall, a reproduction of one of my surfing photos—tearing through the glasshouse at Banzai Pipeline, perhaps, lovingly recreated with an impressionist’s flare.

Yeah . . . that’d be cool.

I’m a sucker for a happy ending, so let’s just do it now:
And they all—except for Westlake, who died—lived Happily Ever After . . . eventually.

There.

But prior to this joyous conclusion . . .

You son of a bitch
, Hub said, and I thought that was kind of rich, coming from him.
You said you were going to get better. Dude, you
promised
.

I nodded inside and willed my eyes to roll away from him, and by pure fluke they did. Not completely, but enough that I didn’t have to look at his sad little face. I’d been waiting for him to come speak to me—was pissed that he hadn’t, to be honest, and now that he was here, I couldn’t stand to look him in the eye. My chest hitched. A leaking sound escaped my mouth. Sounds crazy, but I almost wished I could be back in that factory with Dr. Quietus. Saying goodbye to Hub was going to be just as hard.

He came a little farther into the room, stopped short of my bed. I thought of the many times he had dropped into a sun patch or curled next to the Mork chair. Preferred spots for our conversations. Not today, though. This wasn’t going to be a leisurely chinfest. He growled with displeasure and gave his tail an agitated flick. I felt his eyes boring into me.

So, what’s the deal?
he asked.

The deal?

Yeah. Are you just giving up?
His paws tapped on the hardwood as he stepped closer.
The end. Game over. That’s it, huh?

Dude
, I said.
I’ve tried so hard.

You’ve tried everything?

My eyes rolled back to him.
I’ve got nothing left
, I said.

Hub lowered his head and was silent for a long time. Then he whined, ears pinned low, and surprised me by jumping onto my bed. He looked at my useless body, skin chafed and pink, hollow stomach fluttering. It looked as if the bedsheets had been laid over a pile of broken sticks. The pressure of his weight on the bed—all of what, twenty-five pounds?—sent pain pulses through my legs and lower back. It hurt so much and I braced inside, but I didn’t want him to jump down. Not for anything.

You can’t give up
, Hub said, and his mouth turned a sad smile.
There are still waves to surf.

Yeah, bitchin’ waves
, I agreed.
I’ll surf them in my dreams.

Come on, man. You’re stronger than that.

I’m beat, Hub. It’s over.

He came closer. The movement sent spikes through my pelvis and ribs. My legs flared as if they had been dipped in oil and set to burn. Yet, if I could, I would have pulled Hub closer still, hugged him tight to my chest, buried my face in his golden fur. I think he sensed this, because he—so gently—edged forward, into the gap between my arm and my side, and rested his head on the ridge of my thigh.

This is breaking my heart, Wes.

I know, brother.

Don’t know what I’m going to do without you.

There’s so much love here. You’ll be fine.

Won’t be the same, dude.
He closed his moist eyes.
That’s all I’m saying.

I had nothing to say to that. We were trying to encourage each other, but it was so hard. The truth—that I probably wouldn’t live to see the sun go down—was too vast a thing to overcome. Encouragement splintered like ice and we fell into our own freezing pools. Hub whimpered. I groaned. He nuzzled against my side and a muscle in my forearm flexed weakly.

I’m going to miss you
, he said.

More silence, and I took it—enjoyed Hub’s company while I still could, reflecting on better days. I remembered when we got him from the animal shelter, how he’d been reclining in his cage with one foreleg covering his eyes, little pink belly showing. Countless walks and outings, through meadows and forests, along river banks. Rabbits springing, whitetail bounding through the high grass, and Hub just as chill as can be. Hanging on the patio at Turtle Jack’s, Hub with a bowl of water, me with a bottle of Rickard’s Red, doing our thing and wooing the ladies. And hours spent at the Beaches, listening to The Edge on a retro boom box, watching the sun rip pink patterns on Lake Ontario.

Good times.

I’m going to miss you, too
, I said.

I heard my family eating breakfast in the kitchen. The clash of their cutlery. The waffle iron sizzling second and third helpings (the smell of the batter, rich and full of fat, made my empty stomach cry). They ate in silence, the radio playing soft sounds behind them, and I wondered if they sensed—as I did, and Hub—that this was the day. One final round of tears, and then time for healing.

I’m not giving up on you
, Hub said.
Just so you know.

I appreciate that
, I said.
Wish to hell I could reward that faith.

My acute canine senses tell me you’ve got one gnarly trick left in you.
Hub tried to smile and I wrapped myself around him. So much love. I didn’t ask him where those senses were during the days of tension, when Fat Annie quit and Mom and Dad had deliberated over their decision. “Acute” was not an adjective that sprang to mind. But then, I hadn’t exactly been quick to catch on, either.

There’s a wave coming
, Hub continued.
A real bomb—

Like the one that got me into this mess?

Bigger, dude. And you’re climbing the face quickly. Looks like you’re going to wipeout, but if you can attack the lip at just the right moment, pull some insane aerial—a rodeo flip, or something—there’s a chance you can gain control and ride it out.

A sweet analogy, but grounded in make-believe. Hub knew it, too. He wouldn’t have spent the last two weeks moping around if he truly believed I had any chance of pulling one last trick. We knew the reality: the bomb had already hit. Smashed my body against the rocks and tossed me to the shore. But Hub was doing his best to encourage me . . . to throw a little light into my final hours.

Love my dog. Yes, I do.

Tell me you’ll try
, he said.

But there was nothing
to
try. Everything had failed on me. I was falling fast, out of control. Still, I couldn’t let Hub shine the light on his own.

Hey
, I said.
I haven’t backed down from a wave yet.

He gave his tail a loose thump, but it was impossible to read the emotion in it. Settled his chin on my upper leg and closed his eyes. My breath rattled. I rode the pain. Out in the kitchen, Mom, Dad, and Niki packed away their breakfast things, clattering dishes and cutlery, but still not speaking.

You’d better hustle
, I said to Hub,
if you want to snag some leftover waffles.

Forget that
, Hub replied. His lips flapped as he sighed.
I’ve been away too long. I’m staying right here with you, brother.

I felt his light. His miniature sun.

You’re the best friend ever
, I said.

Always loved you, man
, he said.
Always will.

I rolled into fragile sleep, but not for long. When I woke, I saw that Hub was sleeping, too, in almost the same position, except he’d flipped onto his side and had one foreleg curiously cocked in the air. I looked at him for a moment, wondering what dreams chased through his mind. Easy to imagine them full of love, set in a world that was bigger from his perspective. Perhaps he ran beside me as I skateboarded the smoothest sidewalk, beneath the bluest sky. Or maybe he was back at the Beaches, paws buried in the sand, feeling the wind in his fur and looking at a lake that stretched as far as he dared to hope.

My arm jerked. Hub snapped awake but my hand, by chance, came down on his side.

It’s okay, dude
, I said.
Keep sleeping. It’s cool.

He settled down again, closed his eyes. My fingers flexed against the bow of his ribcage and I felt his heart running like it would never stop.

Yeah, they sensed it, all right. Mom and Dad had taken time off work, and Niki hadn’t gone to school. By mid-morning they were taking turns checking on me, which amounted to little more than poking their heads around the door. I was too tired to analyze their expressions. They appeared at once relieved and exasperated that I was still drawing breath. I thought Mom would shoo Hub away, maybe plant her foot in his ass when she saw him snuggled in the crook of my arm. But she didn’t. She merely covered her mouth with one hand and called for Dad and Niki to come see. They all stood in the doorway, looking at us with—you guessed it—tears in their eyes.

“He knows,” Mom said. “Dogs are so sensitive.”

“Psychic, too,” Niki said. “I saw it on TV.”

“It’s true,” Dad confirmed.

Hub and I lay there while the minutes ticked away and the death checks continued, Hub dozing, occasionally waking and snuggling a little closer, and me looking at the ceiling, or at my Wall of Achievement if my head happened to flop that way. I drifted out of body a few times for a change of scenery. Didn’t go far. The living room. The kitchen. Could have released anywhere, of course—perched on the moon, or rode wild horses on Sable Island—but I wanted to spend my final hours at home. Besides, Yvette was due around lunchtime. Probably my last chance to see her. To feel her touch.

Conversation remained strained, although it got a little heated when Dad suggested taking me out for a drive. He reasoned that I shouldn’t spend my last day in a box, and that everybody’s energy would benefit from a more appealing environment.

“Westlake is not aware of his surroundings,” Mom said. “It doesn’t make a difference where he is.”

“Makes a difference to me,” Dad said. “I would feel better—energetically—if I could take him for a walk along the river, or drive north to some beautiful, peaceful lake and lay him down beside it.”

“I understand,” Mom said. She stroked Dad’s face. It was the first time I had seen them touch since they danced to “Famous Blue Raincoat,” and it made my heart work just a little faster. “You’re wonderful, Cedar. A sweet, sweet man. But it’s not practical. And, if you’re honest with yourself, it’s more for your benefit than Westlake’s.”

“Of course,” Dad replied. “But not
only
for my benefit, for all of ours. Just imagine . . . surrounded by trees, a tranquil lake, the sun going down as Westlake slips away. It could be a real spiritual moment. No less than he deserves.”

“I think it could be more traumatic than spiritual,” Mom opined. “I mean, what if he dies in the car?”

“Ewww,” Niki offered.

“We won’t go far,” Dad said.

“Okay, you really need to get this idea out of your head,” Mom said. “It’s romantic and foolish, and it has nothing to do with Westlake. Besides, we don’t know for sure that he will die today. What are you going to do if he doesn’t? Throw him in the car and try again tomorrow?”

“I just want to do something special,” Dad said.

“But for all the wrong reasons,” Mom said. “We’re all feeling guilty, Cedar. Find another way to deal with it.”

They exchanged more words, Dad’s voice climbing an octave, doing the Mickey Mouse thing, proof that he was agitated—either because Mom had shot down his idea, or because she had called out his motive: guilt. In the end they compromised: I’d get an hour in the garden, not on the deck but on the grass, facing the maples.

“It’s not exactly Algonquin Park,” Dad said. “But it’ll do.”

Yvette arrived just before midday. Hub’s ears pricked up when he heard her car pull into the driveway, but he didn’t leave my side. No excited yapping in the hallway or running around in circles, like he used to. She looked incredible, too. She’d dyed her hair blonde and cut it shorter. Had some rouge in her cheeks. A tiny diamond nose-stud. I couldn’t remember if I’d seen that before, or if it was something new. Best of all, she looked freer . . .
lighter
. Kicking Wayne out of her life was the healthiest thing she’d done in a long time. The dude was history and she was beginning to shine again. I was delighted to see it. More beautiful than Algonquin Park. Even in the fall.

She had coffee with my parents and they discussed the likelihood of this being my last day. The conversation progressed to my funeral. Mom plucked Kleenex and invited Yvette, told her that white lilies were the flower of choice. Dad said they’d arranged for surfboard-shaped wreaths (
très
cool), and for Joe Strummer’s version of “Redemption Song” to be played at the service (
très
cooler). Then he and Mom had an up-tempo discussion about my ashes. Dad wanted to fly to BC and scatter them in the ocean. Mom wanted to keep them closer to home. She suggested burying them in the garden, but Dad was afraid that Hub—being so close to me—would dig them up. Maybe even eat them.

All this time I floated around Yvette, soaking in her radiance. Along with the many other emotions bounding through me, I felt a tremendous sense of pride. In Yvette, of course, but in myself, too. I’d taken care of Wayne (she would never know how close he came to taking a nosedive off a seven-storey building in downtown Toronto), but more importantly, I’d inspired her to create her own Wall of Achievement, and to rediscover the value and strength that Wayne’s abuse had taken from her. Not bad for a guy who can’t even wiggle his toes.

Yvette had inspired me, too. Let’s not forget that. She made me feel good . . .
normal
, almost. And when down—which was often—I recalled her face and picked myself up. Fought harder.