We drove down streets lined with boarded-up windows, signs out front insisting STILL OPEN, passed vacant lots and piles of crumbly rubble. That used to be my favourite bookstore, he said, and that’s where I had my last birthday. He talked about where people had been trapped; I saw the row of broken houses where a friend of theirs had been killed. Amanda told me:
Her husband is staying with us. Lance. Their house is gone, so.
We passed a school with a giant pit in the playground, the nearest brick wall collapsing into it; a suburban strip mall, cracked and caving in. Many businesses looked boarded up for good. It was hard not to think about zombie invasions.
David kept enumerating: four major quakes, seventeen thousand aftershocks and counting. The damage to property. The expense.
Lots of people have given up even trying to make repairs, he said. They just can’t afford it. He reached across and rested a hand on the back of Amanda’s neck.
You never know when the next one’s coming. Scary times.
Unseen and exhausted by the sight of them, I looked away.
I’VE HAD NIGHTMARES since I was a kid. The previous summer they’d started to come back, and then in my first few weeks of university they’d gotten much, much worse.
They kept me from sleeping more than an hour at a time. Exhaustion filled my brain like mud. I could barely focus. Language became cryptic. I sat in the backs of classes and labs letting gibberish wash over me, white noise that lulled me to a doze, probably the best sleep I was getting.
Over-the-counter sleeping pills sometimes helped me fall asleep but didn’t quiet my subconscious, and imbued the following day with hallucinatory heaviness.
My dreams felt like memories. My memories felt like dreams.
I went to Student Health—a few times—hoping for something stronger, but got laughs, lectures and flat-out nos. Eventually, I lashed out at one of the student doctors and was asked not to return until I’d checked my attitude.
My temper flared, often, resulting in my suspension from the varsity hockey team, a moment of self-sabotage that sent me further spiralling.
I spent a couple weeks in limbo, going for walks to smoke joints down by the lake, drinking cheap red wine alone in my room, going through my stash of weed and sleeping pills, and even the couple Oxy I’d pilfered from Jules. I took to wandering the halls drunk at night, thus completing my alienation from my floormates. If there were other queers on my floor, I never found them, and I became accustomed to the looks of vacant dismissal, the outright sneers. Then there was the telephone call with Jules, during which my mother was clearly, progressively, inebriated. I tried to explain that I was having trouble sleeping and was struggling with school, until she dismissively, drunkenly, declared that I didn’t know what it was to have it hard.
I hung up, and the next day, on receiving back my first officially failed math test of my entire life, I went to the office of the registrar and formally withdrew from school.
With my tuition refund in the bank, I had three days to vacate residence. It was October 23, also my birthday, which meant I received my annual email from David, or more precisely from Amanda, with another passing invitation to come visit them in New Zealand. I’d been angry at David for years and had never taken these invites seriously. And now they had a new kid, like they were trying to be some perfect nuclear family, and I wanted no part of it. Except in the secret ways that maybe I did, but I would never tell them that. That night, alone on my birthday, a little stoned, a little desperate, and on a whim, I emailed back: think I need to take a year off before university, would love to come visit but don’t have much money. I left it at that, prepared for disappointment. But David himself had replied right away with an offer to help me with the plane fare. It felt like a gift from the universe: a lifeboat. After that, it all just came together.
Except the part about telling Jules, who freaked about the cash.
I opened my eyes and watched David and Amanda chatter at each other in the front seat, their faces soft, the whoosh of the road fogging their words. I thought he had changed. I remembered him, from the years when he’d been working at home and we’d spent a lot of time together, as shadowy and quiet and sad. I had an image of the two of us, when I was eight or nine, reading in the living room as the daylight waned, separately but together, hardly talking until one of us got hungry enough to suggest a pizza. Then watching TV on the couch, and sometimes I would lay my head on his shoulder, and he would wrap his arm around me, usually we watched cop shows, but also anything with spies, until I had to go to bed. I didn’t have a lot of friends back then. Still don’t. It wasn’t like I was anti-social—I played sports, played trumpet in band. I just wasn’t close to anyone. Even at hockey, I was the goalie, the oddball of the team. David was my best friend for those few years, and I liked to think that I was his. Certainly, Jules was never there, and if she was, she had her own TV in her own room upstairs. She would take all her meals there and tell us she was “sucking her thumb up in her nest” if we needed her. Which we never did. Or I never did. Even when David was away for work, it was my babysitter Maureen—Mo-mo—who picked up the slack. But then my dad left—abruptly, when I was thirteen. And now I had to suppose that he probably had needed something from Jules and hadn’t been getting it. Maybe he’d needed something from me too.
From the back seat I watched him react to Amanda as he scratched at his beard. His eyes followed her gestures, traced her features as she drove. Amanda’s hair was longer and redder than I remembered, her skin already brown with summer tan. She seemed to have relaxed into her life here. But David was different. His eyes darted around and he blinked constantly, peered out at the world with the wariness of a balding, slightly stunned, hobbit. He seemed less swaddled in melancholy, like he’d shed several layers of heavy coats and couldn’t believe how much lighter he felt, how much more mobile. His movements were quicker, to the point where he was almost twitchy, skittishly waiting for the next calamity to befall him. Where he had once seemed beaten down because of things that had happened, he now seemed anxious about what might happen. Until his eyes fell on Char, and stillness filled him. The meaning was clear: now he had something to lose.
Jill had spoken harshly about him, even though they’d never met. She said he was, by definition, an asshole for leaving. I thought it was more complicated than that.
People leave. That’s what they do. (Only now seeing the irony in my words.)
With your mum all fucked up like that? Yearly emails? Pathetic. Jill used her cigarette as a pointer, pushing the lit end towards my chest for emphasis.
We’d been sitting out behind the school, in the unofficial smoking area, fall of grade twelve. I could picture her, legs pulled up underneath her oversized hoodie on the concrete bench, her hair a shock of turquoise, half-inch plugs in her earlobes.
I’d grabbed the cigarette out of Jill’s hand and hauled on it.
High expectations only lead to disappointment. You study for chem yet?
Your mum is loaded—
They all suck, we’ve established that.
—and he left her for his booty call.
I rolled my eyes. Who can blame him. It wasn’t even a question. You coming to my game?
But the truth was, I blamed him. I blamed him hard, and if I was honest about it, I was probably a bit jealous of Amanda. We’d been allies under siege, comrades-in-arms, and then he’d met her and was gone.
Then the kid came along and it all made sense.
I COULD SMELL the gardens before I saw them, a sour apple and honey smell, all sweet mulch and rot. Bordering the torn-open driveway of a bungalow on a suburban cul-de-sac leered eight-foot-tall tentacled flowers, their saturated colours flaring all around us and making my tired eyes ache. Thirty-six hours of airports and airplane food and a confused mishmash of day to night and back again, the abrupt upside-downing of late fall into late spring, and now this final, unearthly arrival—I stopped on the path to the house, swaying under t
he weight of my bags. Hands took my shoulders with a waft of strong perfume.
Oh, there you go, let me take that from ya, hon. Davey, grab her big bag, it sure looks heavy. Then she was gone again, retrieving the kid from her car seat.
This is our house, I heard Char say.
Yep, we’re home, Amanda told her.
DAVID PULLED A plate of leftovers from the fridge in their tiny cottage kitchen: cold roast lamb, bread, potato salad. I dug in, glad Jill wasn’t there with her vegan guilt. I could hear Char laughing maniacally somewhere, Amanda making chasing noises. David sat across from me on the polished wooden bench, and I watched him wrestle his attention away from them and bring it to bear on me. He blew out his cheeks behind all his facial hair.
I guess you know your mother isn’t very happy, he said finally.
When is she ever.
He worked his jaw in concentration. I worked my teeth on a bit of lamb.
That money was supposed to be for your education.
You would expect his voice to be rough, like his face, but it was kind of high and whiny.
That’s exactly what I’m using it for.
She’s worried about you.
I snorted. That’s a first.
I put down the cleaned lamb bone and pushed my plate away. I was sick to death of living down to people’s expectations.
That place was suffocating me. Fucking ivory tower of bullshit.
Char came barrelling into the room, stood in front of me with planted feet, her little round tummy sticking out from beneath a Daffy Duck T-shirt.
Chlo, she said. I was surprised she knew my name.
Yes?
Want to see my room?
I looked up at Amanda, following her daughter into the kitchen, and to her credit she came to my rescue.
Chlo’s very tired, Charmin. You can show her later, okay?
I was pretty sure that Charmin was a brand of toilet paper but said nothing. I thought for sure we were in for some waterworks, but then Amanda produced a Popsicle, and the two of them exited through sliding doors to the backyard.
David watched them go, then rubbed his shiny head and sighed, and said he thought he could take a day off this week to show me around town.
I yawned. I’d just seen the town. It was a post-quake shithole, and I didn’t need a tour guide.
David kept talking, saying the museum was partially reopened, and that the cathedral was still closed, but, well, did seeing the university interest me?
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. It did not. David’s voice rose in pitch.
Well, I have a lot going on right now, but—
Dad.
He caught his breath. Yeah?
Don’t worry about it. I sat back in my chair.
David had spotted me frequent flyer points for a good chunk of my round-the-world plane ticket. So, when I’d booked it, I had made Christchurch my first stop. And I had wanted to see him. But right now I couldn’t wait to get away from him and his stupid perfect life. My next flight was to Bangkok. Then Delhi, and finally Paris, where I imagined drinking wine with Parisian artists and writing poetry in a tiny garret. Not that I’d ever written poetry, but it sounded good. Then maybe I’d go home and try school again. Or maybe not. But one thing I knew for sure was that Christchurch would be a short visit.
Dinner.
Twenty hours earlier and half a world away, Drew toasted his guests:
For making my Friday night so ripe with possibility.
They stood to clink glasses. Jules had to turn her whole body to face Drew, her neck immobilizing her again, even through the haze. Drew’s mouth puckered in concern, pale eyebrows way up on his red face.
I’m good.
Jules pulled her sixth-last Oxy out of her pocket, flashed it at him briefly before tossing it back with some water. She felt Declan’s scrutiny as she bent her body back into her chair.
Pain in the neck?
You could say that.
What’d you do?
Who knows. Jules waved a dismissive hand. There’s always something.
Wow. Oxy. Straight to the good stuff, eh?
Whatever works, eh, Jules? Drew winked at her. He knew she had it under control.
Whatever I can get my hands on, she said.
Amen to that, said Drew. He and Farzan laughed. So did Declan, but his gaze never left hers.
There are better ways to manage pain.
Really? Jules said. Are there? She pretended to think for a second, then shook her head. Don’t see it. But in truth, she knew the Oxy was excessive. Rod prescribed it for her to deal with her worst flare-ups, but after only a few weeks she was almost done with the latest batch of ninety. Every week she seemed to go through more than the last. Times like this, she pretended it was fun. It wasn’t really.
Jules, Declan’s an anesthesiologist. Drew gestured with his fork. He’s a doctor.
She watched a clean, calloused hand tap ashes into an ashtray. Declan had barely touched his game hen. She barked a laugh, appreciating the contradiction:
Medical advice from a doctor who smokes?
His eyebrows twitched in amusement as he took another drag.
For your health, he said, smiling, and crushed the cigarette out.
Oh, well. Thank you.
Jules looked down and poked at her salad with her fork. She felt herself starting to sweat profusely. She pushed her plate away and went to the bathroom to splash water on her face. A few minutes later she heard the music start.
Back in the living room, the lights turned low, Drew and Farzan danced to the mid-nineties comeback hit of an aging face-lifted icon. Jules wasn’t much of a dancer, never had been, but with Drew she could always cut loose a little. She bounced and swayed in place next to them, fist pumping as they all shouted the lyrics at top volume, making declarations about survival and love. Declan sat where he had sat earlier, stocky, square frame filling his armchair like a throne. As he lit another cigarette, he caught her eye. He smiled and she wondered if he was laughing at her.
Then Declan got up to dance too, shuffling back and forth, singing along and punching the air with a smoke-trailing hand. He tried to lock eyes with her, to sing a line together, and she suddenly felt self-conscious. Ridiculous. She sat down. Remembered that she wasn’t sleeping in her own house that night. Remembered why.
She attempted the mental calculation of time zones and flight durations, but the numbers kept sliding away from her. She wanted to think that Chloe might have emailed or texted her, that they had that kind of relationship where the daughter would update the mother as she travelled, with assurances of well-being. Jules didn’t want to think too much about their scene at the airport, and the kind of asshole she’d been. She realized she was getting quite drunk and thought she should get some water. Or some air. But didn’t.
She pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket. She had, as a data wrangler, the technology and, as a mother, the inclination to track Chloe through her phone. But there existed several obstacles. The first, and least surpassable, was that Chloe was currently hopping on and off planes and her phone would only ping intermittently over the weekend. The second was that Chloe would never consent to having tracking software on her phone—even her FindPhone was inaccessible to Jules. Third was the more nebulous moral dilemma involving the fact that Jules had the expertise to track Chloe’s cellphone without her knowledge but had promised not to, meaning she now approached a moment where she would have to decide whether or not to cross this barrier of air: to keep or to break her word.
When she’d tried to convince Chloe to let her track her phone, Chloe, who claimed she wanted to travel phoneless, had played the Don’t You Trust Me card, and Jules had to say that of course she did. The truth that she trusted no one completely was irrelevant. They had negotiated: Chloe would bring her cellphone, she would keep it functional by purchasing SIM cards and she would text and/or email regularly. That’ll have to be good enough, Jules, and you know why.
She did know why (You use your powers for evil, Chloe had once yelled), but it didn’t make it easier, in fact it made it more difficult, to now be faced with either waiting for Chloe to get in touch or tracking her clandestinely. The icons and words on her phone’s screen blurred and floated. She squinted harder, seeking pixelated filial breadcrumbs.
If the music had been playing on vinyl, she would have heard a dramatic record scratch.
Jules, Jules, Jules. She looked up to see Drew looming over her, shaking his head in mock despair. Farzan and Declan stood behind him, grinning like teenagers.
She couldn’t help laughing. What?
Somehow, Farzan slipped in past Drew and out again with Jules’s phone in his hand.
She’s on Socialink.
The chorus of extreme dramatic gasping made her laugh harder.
Like this is somehow shocking in this day and age? Can I have my phone back, please?
No way, said Drew.
I’ll take that, said Declan, plucking the phone from Farzan’s fingers and sliding it into his front pants pocket. He patted the suggestive lump it made. You know where to find it.
Really? You’re going with lewd?
I am, yes. He winked at her. She felt her face burn.
Don’t you like us? Farzan teased her, grinning. It’s playtime! He opened his arms and shimmied his shoulders.
Jules, laughing, tried to be serious. Drew, please tell these people I have an analytics due Monday.
A collective groan.
You have got to be kidding me. Drew shook his head. On a Friday night? At my house?
You need to relax, said Farzan as Drew started the music up again. They began grinding into each other, raunchy, playful, more than a little awkward. Jules put an exasperated look on her face and watched them from the couch. Declan was back to his shuffling, saw her watching and gave a little shimmy. She crossed her arms at him and shook her head in mock disapproval. But she was also laughing, and he giggled like a kid.
She wasn’t an idiot. It was obvious Drew was trying to set her up with Declan. But she was with Rod, and Rod was fine, they were somewhat committed, she loved him. Who was this guy? Some coarse and arrogant “funny man” who smoked like a crematorium? No thanks.
Aftershock Page 3