“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t have a good answer for you. I just did what I felt like I had to do.”
“Why? Why did you feel that way? Why couldn’t you trust me?”
I kneel down next to the water, dig a pure white stone out of the silt.
“One day last fall—a normal, boring day where nothing out of the ordinary happened—I was walking back to my locker in the U of A change room when I glanced in a mirror and didn’t recognize myself. I saw the same face I’d seen thousands of times. The same body, the same eyes. But it was a stranger.”
I turn the stone over and over in my fingers, let the current wash away the muck until it shines like the moon.
“It’s hard to describe exactly how it felt. It lasted for only a second, and then things went back to normal. But it didn’t go away for good. I kept feeling it, randomly, no matter what I was doing—during gym sessions with you, movie night with the Dixies at our frat house, in the middle of my urban economics lecture. I’d look around and feel completely disoriented, like I’d been dropped into someone else’s life.”
I lift the stone out of the water, hold it in my palm, feel it getting heavier as I tell my story.
“Eventually, I just started feeling it all the time, from the moment I woke up to the moment I went to sleep. Everything felt fake. I just felt... wrong, somehow. My clothes didn’t fit me, and I didn’t like any of them. I hated my apartment and its spotless white surfaces. I was bored in all my classes, and couldn’t remember why I’d decided to do urban planning—I couldn’t bring myself to care about area structure plans and development bylaws. I went to parties with the Dixies and met new people and told them who I was and what I did, and all of it felt like some rote script I had memorized. I told the same story about myself for so long that eventually it just became a pattern of words that I repeated, and the words themselves had no meaning. I was just going through the motions, playing this character called Adam Truman, hoping that nobody would notice that I’d become completely hollow.”
The icy white radiance of the stone begins to fade, greying like a sun-damaged photo.
“One day—the day that the First Snow fell—I looked in the mirror and saw no trace of myself left in my eyes. I could normally force myself to recognize my reflection if I stared long enough. But as much as I tried, I couldn’t connect to what I was seeing. I finally accepted what I’d been feeling for months—I needed to leave, to start over, to become someone else. And so I dropped out of all my classes. I abandoned my apartment and found a little hole in Chinatown for next to nothing. I went to sleep, and when I woke up, Edmonton was covered in a thick layer of ice and snow.”
I clench my fist around the stone, then throw it as far as I can out into the river. It plunks into the shallow water and the current swiftly obliterates its ripples.
I turn to look at Brock.
“I’m sorry I cut you out of my life. That was cruel. I just felt like I needed to make a clean break, but I should’ve thought about your feelings too.”
Brock smiles again, then reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder.
“You did what you had to do. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t still be friends.”
He senses my tension, my hesitancy.
“You’re a Dixie, River. You pledged for life. You don’t have to be my brother. But you’ll always be my sibling.”
I look at him for a moment, then return his crooked smile. He was right, all those weeks ago. He won’t give up on me.
A new song comes on up at the party lawn and a thousand people scream with joy. Brock takes his hand off my shoulder and looks up the riverbank.
“Want to head back up to the party?” he asks.
I look back out at the river, its mirror-smooth waters racing on to the sea.
“No,” I say. “I think I’ll stay here for a while.”
Brock hesitates a moment, then nods.
“Okay. Well, I hope you have a good night. I’ll see you around, River.”
He says my name with confidence and clarity.
“Yes,” I say. “You will.”
As the stars come out, I walk along the river trails, smiling at all the couples who are kissing and giggling in the woods around me. I leave downtown, and venture out onto an old footbridge. Its wooden railings are a vandal’s mosaic. I spot an ambivalent statement about the city. Someone carved “Edmonton Sucks” into the wood, which someone amended by carving “Edmonton Rocks” right over it, or maybe vice versa. The result is the ambivalent phrase “Edmonton Socks,” which seems about right.
I walk along the river path. The sky is cloudless. The moon is a perfect circle. I can’t shake the smile on my face—the feeling that no matter what happens with Odessa, everything is going to turn out okay. I am the Melting Queen.
After a while, my feet carry me to the High Level Bridge, lit up as a strobing rainbow of light for Pride. I lean on the rail and look down at the shallow, ice-free river below—the swiftly flowing waters, the tree-lined riverbanks. The wind makes the leaves rustle, and for the briefest of moments I feel the familiar panic swell up in me. But just as soon as it rises, it subsides. I take a deep breath of warm, fragrant summer night air and I feel fine. I haven’t had the dark forest memory for weeks. I’ve escaped its pull, just like I’ve escaped my defeatism against Odessa and the despair of winter.
I feel the sturdy metal railing in front of me and give thanks for its solidity. I can’t believe I once considered throwing myself off this bridge. Everything has changed so much in so little time. I look out at my city below, the horizon far off in the distance. Maybe I’ll see the sun rise soon, after this short summer night. Maybe I’ll get out of this city soon. Maybe I’ll stay.
“Hey.”
I turn around. There are two men behind me, soaked with rainbow light. A couple of musclebound fitness gays.
“Hi,” I smile at them. “Happy Pride.”
They both scowl at me. I feel a tingle run up my spine.
“I know you, don’t I?” asks one of them.
I shake my head silently, hoping that this big tough guy is just going to spill his guts to me and cry at my skirts, confess some hidden misery. I look both ways along the bridge, but there’s no one else here. I could walk away, but they’d catch up to me easily. I feel a shiver of familiar panic, only now it’s not some unknown men chasing me through the woods. Now the men are right in front of me.
“Yeah, you’re that Melting Queen, aren’t you?” says his buddy. His tone is light, comical, like he’s telling a joke. He has a big smile on his face.
I shake my head again. I take a step forward and the first one steps slightly to the side, blocking the path.
“Saw you attack that hot cancer mom,” he says, slathering his gaze all over my body. “Dude, that is fucked up. Never seen a Melting Queen so angry before. Never seen one that’s a man before either though, eh?”
“That’s not a man,” corrects his friend, cuffing him on the shoulder. “He’s transgendered, right? Trying to be a woman.”
His friend looks me up and down in mock surprise.
“Well he’s not doing a great job of it, is he?”
He comes towards me and I step back. The guy stumbles. They’re drunk. I could definitely outrun them, though not in this heavy battlegown. But before I even try to launch myself away, the guy darts up to me and slings his arm around my shoulder. He reeks of booze. He marches me towards his friend.
“If you want to be a girl, you gotta have more makeup,” he slurs. “You gotta smell nice and shit. What’s that thing they say girls smell like?”
“Sugar and spice,” says his friend, who sticks his hands in his pockets and watches me. “Sugar and spice and everything nice.”
This is insane. I can’t believe they’re quoting nursery rhymes at me. I think I can break out of the guy’s grasp if I do it fast enough. If I elbow him in the chest maybe. I tense up and he tightens his arm around my shoulders.
�
�Nah, come on man. Don’t do that. We’re friends, aren’t we? We’re just having a good time tonight.”
“Please let me go,” I say. My voice is low, too low. The guy laughs.
“You’re funny. You’re a funny faggot. We’re just playing. We’re just hanging out. Relax man.”
His friend watches the whole time. I relax my body and then twist my shoulder out of his hand, use my momentum to bury my fist in his chest. It hits him like he’s a cement wall, he doesn’t even react. He uses my own motion to wrap his arms around me so he’s holding me from behind.
“See, what I don’t understand,” he slurs, unleashing a blast of horrible breath from over my shoulder. “What I don’t understand is why a guy would wanna cut his dick off. That’s fucked up. You’re fucked up, man.”
He tightens his grip around my body, crushing me in a hug. His friend comes toward me.
“You cut your dick off yet? You sure don’t look like it.”
“Maybe we should check and see,” says the guy who’s holding me.
“Maybe we should help you out, if you want your dick cut off so bad,” says the other guy quietly. The one who’s holding me releases his grip a little.
“That’s fucked up,” he says. “I don’t wanna do that shit. What the fuck man?”
I wrench myself out of his arms and try to dodge past the other guy but he catches me.
“Let me go! Help me!”
I scream at a car that goes by on the bridge deck, but it doesn’t stop.
“Nah man you’re fine,” he says. “We’re just playing,” he says to the other guy.
“So, you want to see what’s under that dress? You wearing panties under there honey?” says the guy who’s holding me, which makes the other one laugh. If he was put out by his friend’s suggestion before, now he’s back on board. He comes at me, grasps my shoulders. I whip out my leg and bring up one of the metal panels on my dress, right into his shin.
“Fuck!” He falls, clutching his leg. “What the fuck d’you do that for you little cunt? I told you we were just playing, but if you want to be a little bitch then we can fucking do this.”
The one holding me smacks the side of my head and I see stars.
“You said you wanted everyone to call you River, right?” he growls in my ear. “Maybe you’d like us to put you in the river. Is that what you’d like?”
He throws me toward the railing and I scrape my hands on the concrete path. The shifting rainbow hues of the bridge lights slide over my skin and scramble my brain as I try to focus. I try to run but he kicks me in the side and I roll over. I scream for help but if there are any more cars they don’t stop either. If there are any people on the bridge they don’t hear. He walks towards me, grinning. His friend is leaning against the railing, holding his shin.
“You’re disgusting,” he says. “I fucking hate even having to touch you.”
He pulls me up off the concrete, slides my body up the side of the rail. I swing my hand toward his face and he catches it and laughs thickly.
“Nice try faggot,” he says. “But too late. You’re fucking dead.”
His friend with the hurt leg says hey, maybe we should talk about this, what are you doing, stop! But he lifts me up and tips me over the rail.
{15}
Her time has come and gone
I slip on dead leaves and slick stones as I run through the forest. Branches slap at me and I put my arms up to shield my face. The dry wood and sharp thorns leave scratches in my skin, but that’s nothing compared to what will happen if they catch me.
The men holler and shriek and crash through the brush behind me. Their laughter and howling cries create chilling harmonies with the sounds of revelry from up the hill. If anyone hears them, they’ll no doubt be mistaken for joyous celebrants, just letting off some steam. But I know better. I’ve been here before, so many times before, and I know that their intentions are not innocent.
I skid on a patch of mud-coated ice, far from melted, and I almost crash to the ground. I’m able to recover my balance at the last second, but my heart hammers explosively beneath my breast. One misstep and they’ll catch me. One mistake and they’ll tear me apart like wolves.
I was so stupid. I got careless. And now all I can do is flee this city, just like the last, and the one before that.
I glance behind me. I can’t see any of them, but I see the trees rustling and hear their shouts.
I look forward just in time to see the branch, lying across the forest floor, the perfect height to catch my foot.
I crash to the ground, slam onto rocks and twigs and roots which punch me in the gut and tear at my clothes. And then I feel their hands on me.
As with all of my Intrusions, I’m thrown back into myself in a disorienting heap. I open my eyes frantically and see a bright light shining down from the ceiling. No, not the ceiling. The sky. The sun.
Fresh, lemon-yellow light streams down through a canopy of lush green leaves, dancing in the wind far above my head. I’m lying on impossibly soft grass, spread beneath a tall tree. I usually have a piercing headache after an Intrusion, but now I feel fine. Actually, I feel relaxed, serene, like I’m stretched out in bed on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I feel the tension in my muscles releasing. I let out a long, satisfying sigh, purging the stale air from the bottom of my lungs. I feel my body melting into the huge, solid earth beneath me, drawing strength from its massive living energy. I roll onto my stomach, through soft and fragrant clover, and push myself up to my feet. And then I see where I am.
The wind collides with my back, propelling me violently towards the edge of the tower. The city is miles beneath me, stretching to the horizon, pulling me towards the precipice.
I throw myself to the ground, sliding across the Top of the Stalk’s slick green grass until I crash into a small railing right on the lip of the abyss. I stare down the edge of the Stalk and my mind screams in panic.
What the fuck is happening? This is wrong, this is all wrong.
I stare in terror over the edge and see a city I don’t recognize. Edmonton is tearing itself apart. The Legislature dome collapses, only to pop up again several miles away. The Muttart pyramids pile on top of each other before City Hall rises up like a new mountain and pushes them aside. I can only watch in mute horror, clinging to the railing for dear life as the city shudders and folds in on itself and smashes itself to dust. Edwardian brick disappears, twenty-first century glass and steel rising in its place, only to be overcome by Brutalist concrete bunkers and squat postwar bungalows and buffalo-hide teepees. All the Edmontons it’s ever been crash into each other, flickering in and out of existence like a patchwork kingdom of historical eras.
This isn’t real. This can’t be real. You’re still having an Intrusion.
The tower quivers and groans and I can only pray that it won’t collapse into the chaos below. The wind howls in my ears, shoving me forward, prying at my numb fingers, trying to tumble me over the edge. I close my eyes and force myself to take a breath.
“This isn’t a memory,” I say aloud. “This is something else. This is just a dream. And it’s going to stop right now.”
“If only it had been that easy,” says a voice from above.
I tear my eyes open, twist around, and see her standing over me, looking out on the city. Her straight black hair is unmoved by the wind. She’s young, barely out of her teens, but her eyes are old as earth. She gazes down at me with a defeated, exhausted look on her face.
“Why do you keep running?” she asks.
“Running? What do you mean? Where am I? Who are you?”
She looks back out at the landscape, watches the city eviscerate itself.
“You keep holding yourself back,” she says. “You know what you have to do. You know what you have to face. But you’re afraid. You refuse to remember.”
“All I remember is falling,” I say, looking over the edge and feeling a fresh wave of vertigo crashing over me. “There were men… They attacked me.
They threw me off the bridge!”
I feel myself plummeting through the air all over again. I squeeze my eyes shut and grasp the railing tighter.
“Oh god,” I groan. “Oh my god. I died. I’m dead.”
“No,” she says. “You’re alive. You’re still fighting it. You’re still resisting.”
“What are you talking about? Who are you? This is insane. I’m not resisting anything.”
She looks down at me again, this time with a snarl of anger and disgust.
“Get up,” she says.
She bends down and yanks me off the roof like I weigh nothing. The wind pulls at my clothes, but it doesn’t push me over when she lets me go.
“Look,” she says.
She juts her chin at the cityscape below. The High Level Bridge shoots up out of the ground vertically, rivalling the Stalk for height. The twisting hedges of the Infinite Maze overcome the big concrete blocks of West Edmonton Mall, digesting it until it’s nothing but dirt.
“This is you,” she says. “This is what’s happening to you. And it will only get worse if you don’t stop running from it.”
I pull away from her, walk back from the edge.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I’m not running from anything. What kind of fucked-up Intrusion is this? Who even are you? Answer me!”
She starts to follow me, but then she stops suddenly. She shudders and staggers closer to the edge. Her face begins to change, just like the city below us. Her brown skin lightens. Her hair shoots back into her head. She shrinks until she’s shorter than my waist. She transforms into Isobel Fraser, a four-year-old Melting Queen quivering on the precipice.
“We all knew,” says Isobel. “We’ve all seen glimpses. We’ve all felt it, deep down. But none of us have faced it, save one.”
“What are you talking about? Get back from the edge!”
Isobel grabs her stomach, doubles over in pain. Her face changes again, darkening and widening as her body swells like a helium balloon. Clodagh Paskwamostos towers over me, panting and grinding her teeth as Edmonton dissolves behind her.
The Melting Queen Page 21