Yesterday (10 page)

Before Garren can reply to his girlfriend, the doorbell rings and he stalks off to answer it. I’ve allowed the phone to ring enough times (and been lucky that no one’s answered) to hang up without looking like I’m giving up prematurely.

With only the girl and me left in the kitchen, I coat my voice in frustration and say, “There’s no one there.”

Seconds later Garren reappears in the kitchen with a middle-aged handyman in tow. “I’ll need you to go to the fuse box and cut the power to the refrigerator for me,” the handyman instructs, paying no attention to me or the girlfriend.

Garren’s girlfriend leans in to kiss him goodbye and tells him she’ll see him soon. She stares expectantly in my direction, no doubt waiting for me to announce that I’m leaving too. “Would you mind if I wait another ten minutes and try again?” I ask. “No one picked up and I came all the way from Brampton on the bus.”

“Okay,” Garren says after a two-second pause. “Have a seat. I have to deal with the fuse box.”

Garren and his girlfriend vacate the kitchen while I pull a chair out from the table and slip into it. The handyman’s busy tugging the fridge away from the wall, whistling to himself, and with Garren gone I take the opportunity to scan the room for clues about his life. The kitchen’s been painted a pastel green and there’s a collection of small houseplants growing on the windowsill. A thick cookbook is sandwiched between a jar of dried pasta noodles and a cookie tin. Aside from the table, the only piece of furniture in the room is a wooden stool that stands fl ush against the counter. Overall the kitchen looks like a tidy, welcoming place but reveals very little about the people who eat inside it.

My stomach fl ips over as Garren steps back into the room with me. This would be challenging enough without him looking like a sculpture come to life. My fi ngers tingle as I glance up at him and make myself say, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

A thinly veiled wariness seeps into Garren’s pupils. He leans against the door frame and beckons me forward with his hand. I follow him out of the kitchen and into the living room. The wall opposite us is populated with crammed bookshelves. In the corner of the room nearest the TV, I spy a family photo of what looks like a typical 1970s scene— a man in polyester pants positioned in front of a barbecue, holding a spatula in one hand. His other hand rests on the shoulder of the young boy standing in front of him. In the background, behind the two of them, a woman with a nightmare of a perm stares dreamily off camera.

“What’s going on?” Garren demands. He stops next to the couch and folds his arms in front of him but doesn’t sit down. He’s already out of patience with me; I’m running out of time.

I pull my hair back to give him an unobstructed view of my face. My voice is wispy as I spit out, “My name’s Freya Kallas and my hair’s normally blond. I moved back here from New Zealand with my family just over a month ago but I …” The next part is the toughest and I clench the fi ngers of my right hand as I continue. “I
know
that I know you somehow and if you could just have a good look at me maybe you’d remember me and remember how we know each other.”

Garren’s already-wary eyes darken. His head jerks on his shoulders. “What was that with the phone? I thought this was about your friend.”

“I know.” I release my hair and fi ght the impulse to look away. “I’m sorry. I know it probably sounds mental. It’s just that I’m sure I know you and I need to remember how. I don’t know what it means. Just that this is important.”

“I don’t get it,” Garren says, spiky with annoyance. “I have no idea who you are. I’ve never seen you before in my life. You just show up here, looking for someone and ask to use my phone but you’re …” He shakes his head, his left hand slicing through the air in aggravation. “Now you think you know me or something?”

I know how this looks and sounds and that I should feel pathetic and maybe sprint out into the street and never come back but I can’t.
I
can’t.

The angry Garren in front of me isn’t the only one I’ve met. Behind my eyes another Garren is smiling and saying my name like we’re friends or … something. We’ve been something. Sometime and somewhere.

“I don’t seem familiar at all?” I ask. “Take a good look.”

“Yeah,” he snaps. “I can see you fi ne and like I said, we’ve never met.”

If I were to hold my hands out in front of me I know they’d shake but I can’t back down now. I plunge my fi sts into my coat pockets and stare at my feet. “Look, my dad was a diplomat. We’ve lived all over— New Zealand, Spain, Hong Kong, Argentina. Have you been any of those places?”

I see Garren’s resolve fl icker. He bows his head, lost in thought.

“What?” I nearly trip over my tongue with excitement.

“You’ve been to one of those places?”

“No.” Garren’s eyes are quizzical. “Not any of those places but my dad was a diplomat too.”

“Was?”
I repeat.

“He died in December.” Another fl ash of anger bursts onto Garren’s face, like he’s mad at me for making him say it.

The shock of what he’s just revealed renders me speechless. It’s as though we’ve been living fl ip sides of the same life. What does it mean?

Before my brain can begin to process the information, the fever and head-rush strike full-on. I hold a hand to my forehead and sip oxygen into my lungs, like I’m drinking it through a straw. “My dad … died too,” I stammer, pushing the words out despite the dizziness taking me over. “December seventeenth. Back in Auckland.”

“Don’t mess with me,” Garren warns. With my head in my left hand I can’t see him and he sounds fuzzy, like either his mouth or my ears are full of cotton balls.

“I’m not messing with you.
I’m not.
I saw you walking in the street last week and— ”

“Last week?” Garren cuts in. “Where?”

I lift my head from my hand to look at him. Garren’s glaring at me like he doesn’t trust a word of what I’m telling him but is helplessly curious just the same.

“Outside the museum. Last Wednesday.” I rub my temples and swallow air. Hold it deep in my lungs before releasing. I can’t believe we’re fi nally having this conversation.

“And you what … you followed me?” Garren says, almost shouting.

“Because I knew there was
something.
I don’t know how I knew but when I saw you, something hit me.”

“The feeling that you know me,” Garren says with a sneer in his voice. “Look, I don’t know who the fuck you are or what you think you’re doing but you need to go.”

“No!” I protest. “This isn’t a joke. I’m telling you the truth. My father died two months ago in an accident— a gas explosion. You can look it up.”

“An accident?” Garren barrels over to me and closes his fi ngers roughly around my left arm. “
Fuck
you.
Get out of my house.” He frog marches me out of the living room and towards the front door.

“Garren, listen to me. It can’t be a coincidence about our dads.” I struggle against him but he’s stronger. “There’s something going on. We need to fi gure out what it is.”

Garren freezes behind me, his hand tightening its grip on my arm. “How do you know my name?”

“I didn’t until a couple of minutes ago. I overheard your girlfriend say it in the kitchen. I didn’t know anything about you, I swear. I saw you in the street last week and followed you home but I didn’t have the guts to say anything.” I turn my neck to look at him over my shoulder. “I had to come back. Please, just give me a chance so that we can— ”

“Shut up,” Garren snaps. We’re standing directly in front of the door and he has to release me to open it. When he does, I swivel to face him.

“Please,” I repeat. “I’m telling you the truth.”

Garren’s green eyes are livid, his body taut with tension.

“You need to get out.” He steps back and points to the open door. “Now.”

I do as he says, afraid of what will happen otherwise. Out on Garren’s porch I spin back towards him, legs quivering underneath me, and ask, “How did your father die?”

Garren glares at me with more concentrated rage than I’ve ever felt pointed in my direction. He slams the door in my face. It rattles on its hinges as I feel my heart pound in my chest. I stare at the closed door, out of breath and burning up. My mind’s somersaulting with conspiracy theories.

Two dead Canadian diplomats in the same month. Who would benefi t from that? And why is my memory of Garren still only a shadow thing now that I’ve spoken to him?

Why doesn’t he know me? If it weren’t for the February air breathing cold life into me, I’d be falling to my knees with the weight of wondering.

I’m hot but upright. Hot but thinking, thinking, thinking as I retrace my steps through the city streets, moving ever farther from the place I want to be most because the one person who I’m sure is caught up in this mystery with me never wants to see me again.

Soon the sky is violet and as I hit Spadina, I realize that I’ve left my sister hanging for the second time in a week.

It’s not that I forgot about her exactly but I lapsed in remembering my responsibility towards her. I call Olivia from the fi rst pay phone I fi nd and tell her I’m sitting in at a yearbook meeting at school and won’t be home for a while yet. Two hours, one subway train and two buses later I’m trudging into my house, throwing off my winter clothes and yanking off my salt-stained boots. My mother meets me at the door and complains, in a voice like a jagged line, that I shouldn’t have left my sister alone after school without warning.

At fi rst I apologize, my mind still too busy trying to wrap itself around what happened earlier with Garren to pay much attention to anything else, and then I begin to argue with her. My frustration with Garren (how he shut me out and wouldn’t listen) fuels my anger and I tell my mother I shouldn’t be expected to babysit every single afternoon, that things happen after school that I want to be a part of.

My mother counters that she doesn’t expect me to be a full-time babysitter, that she’s only talking about a couple of hours after school and suggesting that I tell her ahead of time if I can’t be here so that she can make alternate arrange-ments.

In the middle of our disagreement I realize that I don’t care about what either of us is saying. It’s not important.

I stomp away from my mother and up the stairs to my bedroom where I fl ing myself onto the bed, thinking about how I need to convince Garren to give me another chance. I was wrong to talk my way into his house with a lie. Maybe I would’ve been less threatening if I’d told him the truth from his doorstep.

I thought we’d have some kind of breakthrough once I spoke to him. That he’d know me. But the information about his father’s a start. I need a plan for the next time I see Garren. Something to say that will make him stop resisting me and listen.

Just then my mother hurls my door open and charges into the room, hands on her hips. “I know none of us have had it easy lately,” she begins, “but I don’t like what’s been happening to your attitude, Freya. First changing your appearance drastically without warning and now acting like it doesn’t matter if Olivia is left alone. This isn’t like you.”

I fold my hands under my head as I meet my mother’s gaze. “No? What am I like, Mom?” Because I honestly don’t know anymore. I don’t know what any of us are like.

A
lie
gets
halfway
around
the
world
before
the
truth
has
a
chance
to
get
its
pants
on.
Winston Churchill’s making pronouncements in my head again, like when I woke up from my fi rst dream about the blond boy.

And what Churchill said fi ts. The majority of my life feels as though it’s been some kind of lie. I don’t know where I’ve picked up his words— they seem to have always been with me, a kernel of authenticity in a web of false-hoods. Is my mother in on the pretense? What does she know that I don’t?

“Freya,”
my mother warns, like I’m goading her for fun.

Her form appears to shrink from me, her gaze coldly retreating as though she’s already tired of this but won’t let me win.

The moment echoes inside me, a dripping tap that will never stop. It feels like we’ve faced off against each other a hundred times before, each instance as aggravating as the last.

Only we haven’t. Not like that. We don’t fi ght any worse than your typical mother and daughter. It just
feels
that way.

Another lie in my life.

I smother the urge to shout at her. “Mom.” I soften my tone, regretting that I pushed her because it might make her more reluctant to answer my next question. “Is there any reason to think that what happened to Dad wasn’t an accident?”

I remember the many black-suited men and somber women at my father’s funeral, pumping my hand as they told me how sorry they were. The minister had only met my father a few times and the sermon he gave could’ve been for just about anyone, except for the words about my father’s service to his country. Shortly afterwards, the investigation into the accident was concluded and the fi ndings printed in the
Herald:
“A failed transition fi tting that connects the gas line from the street to the house’s gas system was the source of the gas that fueled the explosion.”

But governments can cover things up. They do it with such frequency it’s like a compulsion. How do I know the offi cial version of the accident is what really happened?

My mom stands at the edge of my bed, blinking as if she misheard me. “Why would you say that?” she asks, a lump of wet sadness in her throat.

I prop myself casually up on my elbows. “No specifi c reason. It’s just that we left only a month after. I wondered if any other information had come up. Have you heard from anyone at the consulate?”

“Neil Kingsley’s written to see how we’re doing,” she says.

Neil Kingsley was my father’s closest friend in New Zealand, one of the men in black suits with a strong handshake.