by Eve Morton
“We were going to take on the world, Suzy.” He dropped the photos and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”
Cosmin swore he heard her soft laugh in the quiet din of his apartment, and then her cry from being chastised as a four-year-old. She was always going to haunt him, wasn’t she? If not in images, or in memories, then in the very structure of his life. He hadn’t spoken to her aloud like this in years now, but his silence was only a temporary quiet. He was always going to talk to her. He was always going to keep introducing himself, because at one time, that introduction had held so much hope.
No matter what, he knew he had to find the documents he wanted. He needed them for his show—his last show—the one where maybe, just maybe, he could give up the ghost.
He grabbed his keys from the front table, along with the remote for the condo’s garage and his car. He was going home.
* * *
The clouds were slate grey when he pulled into the driveway. The forecast had shifted from the casual Canadian-polite updates about the Christmas weather (in preparation for Santa’s flight, of course) to extreme weather alerts every ten minutes. The thick, heavy clouds that threatened a snowstorm were actually harbouring freezing rain.
“Some of the worst freezing rain the city has seen in years,” the announcer claimed. “We’re talking Snowmageddon levels. Oh, boy. If you don’t have to go out tonight, you should stay put. And yes, this is your full excuse to bail on that office party.”
Cosmin turned off the radio. He’d heard it all before. Working at a radio station led him to understand just how much dead time there really was to fill, and how easy it was to whip people into frenzy because of the weather. Granted, that was not what Sherry was known for doing; she prided herself on broadcasting integrity, and on being a Canadian from some of the worst winter weather provinces.
And Cosmin did remember the ice storm the young announcer had been referencing. He’d been studying at Queen’s University in Kingston, close to the Ottawa Valley and the winter capital of the province, and they’d been hit hard by the storm. All the doors had frozen shut on the dorm rooms. He vividly remembered a blonde woman using her hair dryer to try to open her window, cursing as she worked. She’d looked exactly like Suzanne. That was why he remembered the storm—not because of any inherent danger, but because he’d been convinced his sister was across from him, alive once again.
This storm was nothing but a reoccurring motif in all his worst times. It wasn’t actually going to be a big deal at all, but he did need to get his head on straight. Cosmin sighed. He counted to ten. He’d feel better, then once again it would all come rushing to the surface.
When George had died of the stomach cancer in November, it didn’t come as a surprise. He’d been battling some form of cancer for nearly a decade at that point. Each time that he received the diagnosis, he’d somehow always bounce back. From esophageal to prostate to skin to stomach cancer, George Tessler seemed to always be sick and yet never dying.
He even got a new job, one he kept for two whole years, after his first bout of radiation. Cosmin had done his best to take care of him during the worst parts of radiation and chemo, often setting him up with home nurses and driving him for follow-up visits, but George didn’t seem to care. He sat in his chair in front of the house’s large bay window; he sent the nurses home; he drank and watched TV; he waited out his treatments, with little or no emotion. So when he finally died, Cosmin had been shocked—then relieved—rather than sad.
“It may sound callous, Suzanne,” he said as he locked the car in his father’s old driveway, the same one where he’d met Suzanne for the first time, “but I’m sure death was the only way for him to find peace. He gave up when you left. Not that it’s your fault. No one’s fault. Everyone’s responsible for themselves...”
Cosmin stopped talking. He wasn’t sure how much of his standard speech, the kind he often gave to people in the middle of the Bargaining Stage of grief in his practice, he believed anymore. He wasn’t sure if he was sad or relieved by this lack of belief.
He unlocked the front door and set the keys in the side dish. The house was still fully furnished. When his father had died, Cosmin entertained vague ideas of turning the place into a rental property, since there was a large commuter and university presence in the area. But he still had yet to remove the family photos, trinkets, and the books from the shelves. He still had not cleaned beyond the perfunctory. The living room still smelled like the tar of cigarettes and the sickly sweet scent of dust and decay. The front couch still had an indentation from where his father had sat for such a long time looking out the window; each cushion was sun-bleached and faded. The TV Guide sat on a coffee table, and was current from the week his father had died.
And the basement was filled with old file boxes filled with endless amounts of data. If anything could be said for George, it was that he was a meticulous record keeper. Though he hated math, he somehow managed to keep his business afloat without a bookkeeper and file their taxes without issue every year. He kept all his business licences ordered by year acquired and all other information on his numerous trades and dealings. When George died, Cosmin had no issue finding the will and instructions on a funeral. His father had always made life easy in paperwork.
It was just daily life that hurt. Each second without Suzanne had never been replaced by something else, and so each trinket was a memory, each photograph a traumatic wound that his father refused to close or even attempt to process.
Cosmin looked straight ahead, avoiding Suzanne’s trophies and photos, in order to reach the basement threshold. He flicked on the light. He looked down. Years of memories washed over him. He didn’t want to go. Not yet.
But he couldn’t keep speaking to Suzanne like it was a normal occurrence, and like she wasn’t just as dead as everyone else.
Cosmin scoured the kitchen for alcohol but, finding none, realized he’d have to settle for sobriety as he dug through his legacy. He made tea, and with yet another look at the photograph in his front pocket, he headed downstairs.
Chapter Five
Valerie’s apartment was cramped and compact, tucked into a near-hidden building in Chinatown, and smelled like the cabbage sold beneath the second-floor window. The walls were covered with 1980s horror movie posters, and the shelves crammed with horror and sci-fi DVDs and older VHS tapes. Eric quickly scanned the images and titles to see if Crime Bot was among them. When it wasn’t, he let out a sigh of relief.
“Eric, this is Valerie,” Dillon introduced. “And Valerie, this is Eric.”
“Nice to meet you, but I will probably not remember your name in a few seconds. Mind’s a sieve.” Valerie smiled as she shook his hand. Her sequined yellow top, bright makeup, and loquacious laugh made it seem as if she was the living embodiment of the shrug emoji. As they exchanged a few more pleasantries and B-movie fan talk, Dillon made coffee.
“As much as I love to hear you wax poetic about horror movie makeup, Val,” Dillon said, poking his head out of the kitchen a minute later, “I think we should let Eric get to his work.”
The soundproof room really was a refashioned walk-in closet. A small desk was in one corner with a laptop on one side, and numerous mics and other equipment snaking around the metal legs of the desk. Valerie’s girlfriend used it to make her podcasts.
“But she’s gone for the day, so you can take as long as you want,” Valerie said with a broad smile. “Me and Dillon here will be catchin’ up. Enjoy your coffee!”
Eric thanked them both profusely once more and drank it down with a smile as he set up. The Billionaire’s Vampire Baby was a ridiculous title, but as he settled into the first chapter narration, it wasn’t all bad. It was sort of sweet, really, and maybe even something that both Dillon and Valerie would enjoy.
Whenever Eric took a break from reading, he wandered back out into the cramped apartment’s living area and see
med to find a new person on Valerie’s worn couch. But he didn’t linger there long, since he still had so much work to do. Eric ended up scrapping the first recording when he realized the excess caffeine had made him speak too fast. He started again with the image of Cosmin from the Christmas party, and he had to scrap it once again—not the entire recording, just the momentary stutter he took on when the first meet-cute happened in the romance’s pages. By 3:55 p.m., the best recording was polished and properly formatted for submission. He waited another two minutes, basking in the light chatter and coffee smells from the apartment as if they were ether, before he finally hit Send.
“Well,” he said as he emerged into the living room once again. Only Dillon and Valerie were present, but an ashtray had been filled to the brim with clove cigarettes that numerous others had been smoking. “This has been wonderful.”
He and Dillon exchanged numbers along with an awkward hug that was mixed with past histories and future promises. Promises that, deep down, Eric knew he wanted to keep, even if it was only as a friend again. He gave another wave to Valerie before departing.
He jumped on a subway to Union Station and boarded an eerily empty GO train to Whitby. He decided to walk from the station to his parents’ place. The McDonalds and Tim Hortons lights faded into the multicoloured Christmas arrangements of suburban Whitby. A chill in the air rushed in some of the holiday spirit, along with a few faint glimmers of snowfall.
By the time Eric unlocked his parents’ door with the hidden key under the mat, he was more than ready for the first holiday drink of the season. His father’s liquor cabinet, and cigar box, were his first stops. After pouring himself a finger of whiskey, and sipping it twice, he caught sight of himself in a hallway mirror.
Oh. Trina was right. The beard didn’t suit him. Though he maintained it as well as he could, it was a shock of red against his dark hair. It looked cartoonish, as if he was a side character from an Asterix or Tintin comic strip rather than an out-of-work actor.
Twenty minutes later, he looked back at a far more youthful version of himself in the mirror. Considering he’d be sleeping in his childhood bed tonight, he was starting to feel as if he was walking backwards through time. Soon enough, three ghosts would visit him at the door and take him through a survey of his life. He sipped the whiskey and shuddered. Best not to be too maudlin, at least not before the second drink.
He poured another finger for himself and lit a cigar in the enclosed porch area. He turned on the porch’s radio—a relic from when they had a dog and needed to keep him company when they went out—and found Christmas carols. A small heater in the porch—yet another relic from when there was a dog—hummed to life and warmed his weary fingers even more than the whiskey could.
The first puffs of the cigar were to the sounds of Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas.” Oh, this was the life. Who needed kids and a marriage to make Christmas beautiful? All he needed was a drink and maybe a couple more classic carols, and he’d be happy.
“Breaking news,” the radio announcer sounded. “The Christmas Song” was halted, and jolted Eric out of his immediate relaxation. “Freezing rain will hit the city and the greater Toronto area tonight, making all travel exceeding difficult. Expect power outages, downed trees, and unsafe driving conditions. We highly suggest that you postpone all travel or approach cautiously. Be sure to check on your neighbours and pets. No one should be alone right now.”
Eric turned down the volume. He couldn’t see any inclement weather, but the telltale ping-ping-ping of freezing rain echoed in the enclosed porch. He opened the door slightly and heard the steady crack of a thin layer of ice. The chill that had greeted him when he walked home was just enough to make his skin red, but not enough for small bits of snow that fell to really amount to anything. Everything was going to be frozen solid.
He opened the porch’s side door that led into the garage and spotted two gigantic yellow bags of salt. He’d be sure to scatter some come morning. His parents would miss the worst of it. Everyone was fine.
He was about to settle back into his cigar and carols when his gaze fell on the house across the street. His heart fluttered. Cosmin’s old house. A car was in the driveway, but it wasn’t the same one that had been there for the past eight years, a rust bucket of a Buick. Eric pictured the pinched nose and always sour expression of a man whose jet-black hair seemed to remain that colour until it was suddenly a bleached white one summer. He couldn’t have been more than eighty, probably more likely in his seventies. And he was a tough old man. Eric was sure he was fine.
Yet, the news announcer’s voice sounded in his ears. Check on your neighbours and pets. No one should be alone right now. Eric knew he should be a good man and go across the street. His father would, if he was here. He’d probably already have salted the driveway, his and the neighbours’, along with the sidewalk running parallel to their suburban enclave. Eric didn’t want to do any of that right now, but at the very least he could knock on the door and say hello to George. It was the right thing to do, especially since Cosmin seemed to have all but abandoned his father since his mother and sister’s death.
Eric winced just thinking about it. He’d only just begun high school when a drunk driver had sideswiped their car at a four-way stop just outside Toronto. In the aftermath, the Campbell and the Tessler families had been drawn together; Margo and Suzanne had shared the same homeroom in high school, while Dana and Cosmin had both attended the same university in the same field.
A year after the event, Don Campbell’s company sponsored a Mothers Against Drunk Driving charity event, which had erected a plaque to commemorate Suzanne and Lily Tessler on the intersection in which they were killed. Eric had no idea if that plaque was still there, only that the thought of drinking and driving never occurred to him, even at the height of his irresponsibility, and definitely not while he completed high school.
But that night with its numerous red balloons was also the last time he remembered seeing Cosmin and George as father and son, a family, and therefore that night had also been when the closeness between their two families had started to erode. Everything from that point on became repetition; politeness and perfunctory greetings. Things you were supposed to do, rather than wanted to do, and which always felt artificial on the surface, though Eric had always wanted more underneath.
With a sigh, Eric blotted out his cigar in his father’s ashtray. He slipped on his coat and picked up the scoop and small canister of salt his father kept close by. Though it seemed futile this early in the night, he was going to do the right thing and take care of the older man.
Eric only slipped twice when he stepped outside, but he never hit the ice. His sneakers may not have given him traction, but the salt helped immensely as a counterweight and salve. He sprinkled a handful and then took a step, did it again and again, acting out some strange Hansel and Gretel type of path-making until he reached the old man’s driveway.
The car he didn’t recognize was shellacked with a thin layer of ice, making it look like a forgotten relic. A light was on in the first level of the house, but each drape was drawn, and no Christmas decorations could be seen. Considering the two houses that flanked both sides were out in all their holiday colours, it seemed odd.
Eric salted the driveway and walked towards the door. He sprinkled more on the porch and was about to knock, when he pulled his hand away in fright. What if George was dead on the other side? He didn’t want to find a dead body. He turned around. The news announcer taunted him. His father’s stern gaze taunted him. Eric turned back around and knocked. Shadows flickered across the light, and his heart rate restored to normal. Not dead, thank God.
Cosmin answered.
Eric’s heart stopped—then fluttered—once again. He wanted to speak but soon realized he had maybe consumed too much whiskey on an empty stomach. His words were strange shapes in his mouth.
Cosmin tilted his head to the si
de, assessing and then quickly recognizing Eric with a small nod. “Oh, hello. That was you. Oh. You shaved, didn’t you?”
Eric touched his clean chin. He nodded. “I. Uh. I wanted to be sure George was okay. The ice storm, you know. Should check on neighbours. Didn’t expect you to be here. So. I think everything’s under control. I salted the walk.”
“Thank you. For the salting, I mean. I wouldn’t have known where to begin. But I must tell you,” Cosmin added in his quiet yet so serious tone, “George is dead. He died over a month ago.”
“Shit. Shit.” Eric closed his eyes. Oh God, he was so bad at this. “I mean, shoot. I’m sorry. I should have known.”
“It’s fine. I take it from your obvious embarrassment that you had no idea.”
“My parents never told me. I’m almost never here outside the holidays and I also haven’t listened to your show in years—no real radio, you know?—and so I must have missed everything entirely. I’m sorry.”
“It is not your fault. For what it’s worth, my father’s death was never announced on my show. I also don’t have a show anymore.” Cosmin’s impassive face suddenly flickered. A small line above his brow creased. Pain. Sadness.
Eric slammed his palm against his own forehead. “God. I had no idea about that, too. I’m so bad at this.”
“You’re no worse than everyone else. No one else knows about my show’s cancellation outside the station, and most people don’t follow up on neighbours’ deaths, especially in the age of the internet. We assume a Facebook profile is a sign of life.”
Eric laughed. He had no idea why, but it was one of the funniest things he’d heard all day. And he’d been reading a romance novel called The Billionaire’s Vampire Baby. This was downright absurd. “Oh, okay. I think I’m a little drunk, well more like tipsy, right now so I keep talking. I don’t mean to be difficult. I was really trying to help.”