The Truth Commission

by Susan Juby

  When Keira started working on the Chronicles, she was fourteen and I was eleven. I knew she’d been paying close attention to what went on at home. Even closer than before. I could not have been more excited. I told everyone that my sister was working on her own book-length comic, and that me and my parents were in it!

  Then came the fateful day when I met myself in graphic novel form. Keira left neatly hand-bound photocopies of Diana: Queen of Two Worlds on each of our breakfast plates. My dad is very big on making us all a full breakfast—at least he was until that morning.

  “Don’t read it when I’m around,” she told us. “It will make me feel funny.” Then she wandered away.

  My parents and I grinned at one another, waited until she’d left, and then opened our copies in unison.

  It took about two pages for me to realize what I was reading and another page or two for the impact of it to sink in. We looked like idiots. It was like my sister had held up a hideousness magnifier to each of us and then drew what she saw.

  She showed us doing silly things. Being shallow. And when the action moved to Vermeer, the alternate universe, we looked and acted like monsters.

  Once I started breathing again, I looked at my parents. The color was gone from my mom’s face, and my dad looked stricken, almost the same way he had when they told us they might be separating while they worked things out. Think: deer hit by an arrow from a crossbow.

  I ran to the mirror to check to see whether I really did look like a flabby, dead-eyed fish with a mouth that hung open when I listened. I was so upset, I could barely see. I came back to the table and stared at the pages again, swamped with humiliation and shame at how I’d been portrayed. Maybe the right word is betrayed.

  I waited for one of my parents to object. Maybe my dad would say that he wasn’t a failure or a creep. My mom would protest that she wasn’t a neurotic basket case who called the suicide hotline over every piece of burnt toast and that in another universe she wouldn’t be a psychopathic power-monger with the morals of a Norway rat.

  But no.

  “This is . . . remarkable,” said my dad after a long, long pause.

  At his words a little color came back into my mom’s blanched face. “My goodness,” she said. Then, never afraid to be repetitive, she added, “This is so good. She is just . . . so good.”

  I blinked as though someone had deliberately placed a piece of sawdust in my eye with a pair of tweezers.

  “What?” I said.

  “My God,” said my father. “This is going to be a sensation. A comic set in two universes! Wow!”

  “I always knew,” said my mother, not bothering to say what, exactly, she always knew.

  “I don’t think . . .” My voice trailed off when I realized my parents were staring at me. “We look like that,” I finished.

  My father, Mr. Kindly from the Produce Section, nodded at me in a way that was the opposite of affirming. “It’s art, Normandy,” he said. “Those characters aren’t us.”

  My sister was using her talent to turn us into a joke. My parents could see it, too, but they were going to make the best of the situation. Just like they always did. No matter what the cost. “But they look like us. They do the things we—”

  “I only wish people had supported my creativity when I was younger,” said my mother.

  “Agreed,” said my dad. “It’s what parents do with talented kids.”40

  Before I could say anything else, the front door opened and Keira reentered the house.

  “Shhh,” said my mother. “She’s coming. This is a vulnerable time for her. Just let her know how good it is.”

  And that morning, over cold pancakes, my mother and father told Keira that she was brilliant. Keira seemed to take in what they had to say. She accepted their effusive praise and listened with a stillness that was hungry but strangely detached.

  When she was tired of their compliments, she turned to me.

  “Norm? What do you think?”

  My copy of the comic lay in my lap. I was afraid to get syrup on it.

  “It’s unbelievable,” I said. “Are you going to show this to people?”

  Keira cocked her head a little. “Well, yeah.”

  “Of course,” said my dad. “She’s got to get it out there.”

  “Everyone has to see this,” said my mother. “Talent runs deep in this family.”

  I thought of the fun-house images of us heading into the world. Our worst, ugliest, most ridiculous selves in our smallest, weakest moments. But I couldn’t say anything.

  The rest of the story is pretty much history. People loved the books. They thought my parents and I were “great sports” about the whole thing. With each new accolade my sister, once my idol, moved even further away. “Genius must be allowed to flower,” said my parents. What they didn’t say was that apparently the subjects of genius could only flop helplessly around and try not to look too stupid. And even with all that, I missed her.

  So when Keira came into my room to pick up the story where it had left off as though no time had passed, how could I refuse?

  “He was the best teacher I ever had. So talented.”

  She shifted in her mummy bag and I stayed still.

  “Can we put on a lamp?” she asked. “This will be easier to talk about in the light.”

  I clicked on the lamp.

  In the stretched-out silences between her sentences, our breathing was loud, out of sync.

  Despite what I’ve told you, which I realize makes her seem completely cruel and insensitive, I will say again that I don’t think my sister set out to do harm with the Chronicles. Her brain just naturally used what was near at hand and turned it into art. It’s what artists do.

  And, like other extraordinary artists, she’s got the self-protection instincts of a freshly hatched robin. It sometimes pains me to think of her out in the world that way, open and exposed to every sensation, every experience.

  “He was good to talk to. Really smart. Not much older than me. We started talking in the studio after class. Like, when everyone else was gone.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Then we texted. Talked on the phone.”

  Part of what makes Keira’s stories so popular is that she tells them in such a way that you always think something important is about to happen. They feel dramatic, even when they aren’t. Her sense of timing works well on the page. In life, it’s sort of painful.

  The bed beneath me turned to quicksand.

  I waited and listened and the details dripped out as though from a dislodged IV.

  “He never treated me any different in class. But we had a strong connection. Our approach to our work was really similar,” she said.

  “And?”

  “That was it, at first. He was so open and honest. Most people don’t understand what it’s like to be consumed by the artistic process.”

  My hands were clenched into fists under the light summer duvet.

  “His art wasn’t going great. I know how that feels.”

  I doubted that, but didn’t say so.

  “Your teacher was writing you personal messages?” I asked, hating how conventional I sounded. “Did you report him?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “We were just talking. But then he asked if I wanted to go hiking with him.” She sighed and shifted, and her sleeping bag rustled in the dark. “I guess I shouldn’t have said yes.”

  There was something in her voice. A vulnerability I hadn’t heard for a long time. She sounded like the old Keira. The one who used to ask me about the color green.

  Before I could figure out a response, my sister got up and took her excruciating timing back to her own room. She left the next morning and didn’t come home for three days.

  Friday, September 14

  Winner of the Title of Biggest Disappointm
ent Who Ever Lived

  Dusk and Neil started in on me as soon as I picked them up the next day. My friends like to go to school in my truck, which, as I think I mentioned, is not one of your newer vehicles. Nancy is a 1970 Dodge Power Wagon with a paint job that demonstrates how badly red can fade in the sun. She’s got some rust and a tendency to flood and to overheat. But she’s also got character.

  Dusk and Neil are both way wealthier than me, and they have late-model, reliable cars given to them by their parents. But a three-year-old Honda Civic (Dusk) and a brand-new Mazda something-or-other (Neil) doesn’t have the cachet of a Nancy, who, after all, was formerly owned by the one and only Keira Pale.

  “This truck makes me feel like Neil Young,” said Neil when he pulled himself up onto the bench seat.

  “It makes me feel like Fiona Apple,” said Dusk, who actually does have a bit of an Apple-ish haunted-waif quality to her, but not as much as my sister.

  “She needs some work,” I said.

  “Oh, Norm. Let her be. She’s getting to be a local broken-down-on-the-side-of-the-road attraction,” said Dusk.

  “I have been keeping track of our breakdowns,” said Neil, shooting a cuff under his distinctly un-Neil-Youngish light blue Dacron suit. “We have broken down at every main intersection. Next, I’d like to see us stall out on every major artery.”

  I pulled into the turning lane heading off Uplands Drive onto Rutherford, and as we slowed, Nancy hesitated. I revved her engine and kept my foot on the brake. Five months has made me a skilled and resourceful driver, at least according to me. I’m much better than those people who just assume their vehicles will accelerate when they hit the gas.

  The engine roared, and in the rearview I saw white smoke pour out of the exhaust. The driver behind us frantically waved a hand in front of her face and leaned over to adjust her car’s air intake.

  “Go, go, go!” chanted Neil and Dusk as we crept into the intersection to make our left-hand turn.

  Nancy obliged like an exhausted and overburdened cart horse in a Dickens novel.

  “None of us should have kids,” said Dusk. “It’s the only way to atone for the air pollution produced by this truck.”

  “Fine with me,” said Neil. “I hate the way kids want all the attention. It’s like I’m not even there when there’s a baby in the room.”

  I concentrated on my driving, but as we crawled toward the school, Nancy slowed down. I’d misjudged the gas going through the intersection. She was flooding.

  “Damn,” I said as Nancy’s engine coughed, and we sputtered to a halt. I eased her over to the side of the road. We were nearly at school. “Folks, we’ll be here for about five minutes. Talk amongst yourselves.”

  Neil and Dusk both pulled out their candy cigarette packs and removed candy smokes. Neil, who sat between us, handed me one.

  “So, Norm. You ready?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said, agreeable but entirely clued out.

  “So who’s it going to be?” asked Dusk.

  I found myself wishing I had a real cigarette. Then I could blow a meditative smoke ring or contemplate one of the horrific medical warnings on the package.

  “Oh,” I said. “I thought you were talking about the essay on the history of poetics. I’ve got mine ready to go.”

  “We’re not talking about schoolwork,” said Dusk. “To discuss schoolwork voluntarily would violate the agreement I have with my parents that I will be the biggest disappointment who ever lived.”

  Neil nodded sagely.

  Dusk’s battles with her family are ongoing. She comes from what she refers to as a two-Tiger family: physician parents—Mother a Korean-Canadian neurosurgeon! Father a Jewish-Canadian emergency room specialist!; a brother in his early twenties already halfway through med school; and a younger brother at age eleven headed along the same steep and well-lighted path. Dusk says that her parents find her used- (and not by anyone with taste) clothing aesthetic baffling. They find her low-B average upsetting and her interest in things artistic disconcerting and impractical. They find her friends off-putting, but before we came along, Dusk didn’t have any friends. She had only her looks and her acid remarks to keep her company. So they haven’t banished us, even though we are overtly unaccomplished in their eyes. At least I have a famous sister, and Neil’s dad has a lot of money.

  “I believe she’s referring to the Truth Commission,” said Neil. “We don’t want to keep all this goodness for ourselves. Seriously, Norm. You won’t believe how it feels to cut through the bullshit. To go right to the heart of the matter.”

  “It’s exhilarating,” said Dusk. “And I don’t even get exhilarated.”

  “I’m still thinking.” I checked my watch. In two more minutes Nancy would be ready to go, at least long enough to stall in the school parking lot where she belonged.

  “You’re a retiring person. We understand that. But I think”—Neil corrected himself—“we think that this will be good for your confidence.”

  They’d been discussing my confidence? Since when was my confidence any worse than theirs? I suppose their concern might have been based on Volume 2 of the Diana Chronicles, the one that shows Flanders having tragically ill-attended eighth birthday parties in two universes. This episode was closely modeled on my own eighth birthday party, which was not, shall we say, a huge success, thanks to some kids spreading a rumor about me misusing another kid’s underpants. I will say no more.41 I’m not sure whether Dusk and Neil have read the Chronicles. Out of respect for me they don’t really talk about them, but occasionally they let something slip that suggests they are familiar with my other life as a semi-fictional character.

  God, I hate it when people talk about me. Or look at me.

  “We’ve even come up with the perfect person for you to ask,” said Dusk.

  “Because we care,” said Neil. He flipped the candy cigarette into his mouth and began to chew.

  “Tyler Jones,” said Dusk.

  That was all they needed to say.

  Tyler Jones is a gifted sculptor who works in stone and metal. He’s tall, muscular, and has that sculptor-y bass voice and a half-asleep demeanor that makes toes tingle. He also has awesome dreads and listens to underground hip-hop mixes and electronic dance tracks that his brother sends him from Baltimore, which gives him instant credibility in Nanaimo. He’s also one of only six black kids in a school that wishes it was more diverse.

  Everyone at school wonders whether he is gay for the following reason: he has no girlfriend, in spite of the fact that every straight girl in school has thrown herself in front of him like an insurance scammer in a Walmart parking lot.

  If Tyler Jones turns out to be a gorgeous gay sculptor, it will be a credit to the whole G. P. Academy and a disappointment to all the females (including terrifying Mrs. Dekker) who stare longingly after him when he walks languidly down the hallway. But he’s not saying one way or another.

  “You’re not serious,” I said.

  “Of course we’re serious. He’s probably just waiting for someone to ask.”

  “He probably wants to bring his boyfriend to prom,” added Neil. “The right question at the right time will open the door.”

  “Can you imagine what kind of guy Tyler goes out with?” said Dusk. “I bet he’s ridiculously gorgeous. Too hot, even.”

  “Maybe he just goes out with a regular guy who’s nice and funny,” said Neil.

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “That would be even cooler. Thinking about it makes me wish I was a regular-looking but smart and funny gay guy.”

  “Me too,” said Neil cheerfully. Neil may the straightest, most girl-focused guy imaginable, but he’s not afraid to acknowledge that dash of gay that makes life fun.

  I looked at my friends. “In case you haven’t noticed, Tyler Jones is the most together guy in our school and maybe on Vancouver Island. He’s extr
emely self-possessed. He doesn’t need me to ask him anything. People get to make their own schedules for things like coming out.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Dusk. “Everyone assumes that because Tyler is so handsome and talented and quietly confident and everything, he doesn’t need to be nurtured. Everyone needs to be nurtured and encouraged.”

  “Asking people their private business isn’t nurturing them.”

  “I think it is,” said Dusk. “It shows you care.” She pointed her index and middle finger at her own eyes and then at mine. “‘I see you.’ That’s what we’re saying to people with the Truth Commission.”

  “He’s too cool,” I said. “I can’t do it. I can’t even look at him.”

  “Oh, Normandy. Don’t be so easily intimidated,” said Dusk.

  Easy for her to say. She was the only person at school in Tyler Jones’s league, looks-wise.

  “You’re part of this thing, Norm. We just don’t want you to miss what is turning out to be one of the most valuable life experiences we might ever have,” said Neil.

  I turned the key. Nancy’s engine whirred, coughed. She backfired a couple of times, causing a startled deer to burst out of the trees and bound across the road in two gravity-defying leaps. It narrowly avoided being hit by a car coming the other way. The north end of town is lousy with deer, thanks to all the new subdivisions.

  I pulled the truck back onto the road. When I flipped on the turn signal to go right, Neil couldn’t stand the suspense anymore.

  “So?” he asked. “Are you going to do it?”

  We rolled into the gravel parking lot, which merged beautifully with the xeriscaped grounds of Academy.42 Art kids loitered everywhere, many of them looking vaguely French.43

  “I’m not ready,” I said, staring at three hipsters singing an a cappella version of Public Enemy’s “He Got Game” near the front doors.

  “Fine,” said Dusk. “We’ll do it. By which I mean Neil will do it. Then I’ll do another one. You’ll see how important this work is and be ready to join us.”

  Neil put a hand on my shoulder. He mimicked Dusk’s finger-eye thing. “The truth, Norm. Powerful.”