“It sounds great.” Unless she has busted ribs. Or an embolism. “I might not be the best company though.”
“Lies.”
“Sharon.” If she sobs, it will hurt her chest more. Nurses will approach and fuss. “I’m not doing so good.”
“How can you be? I’m not even in Canada and I can tell it’s nuts.”
“My job is gone. I don’t know what’s going on with Ivan. I’m fucking up. A lot.”
“All the more reason for you to come. Everyone’s too rich around here to read or pay attention to the news. You’ll be anonymous.” Shifting sounds in the background, a breeze, clicking glasses.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Let Nikki know either way. She’s worried. She sent me a text with some video of you at this show.”
“Really? Oh fuck.”
“No phones allowed.” Butterfly Scrubs Nurse frowns down at her. “You need to turn that off.”
“Sharon, I have to go.”
“Call me tomorrow. I love you.”
Butterfly Scrubs waggles a finger. “Put it away. At least until we figure out if you’re all in one piece.”
There are no broken bones. “You’ll have bruising,” the doctor says. “It will get quite colourful over the next few days. You’ll be tender, so take it easy. Don’t lift anything more than five pounds.” Wanda gets a wheelchair for the excursion out. Ivan guides it to the car and helps her into the passenger seat. She waits until he’s buckled his own seatbelt to ask if he’s okay.
“Me? I’m exhausted.”
“How’s your mom? What happened with the cops?”
He starts the engine. His hair droops along his face and his eyes are bloodshot. “Mom’s a mess. The cop told me she freaked out in the car. She kept telling him she knew about a pedophile, a guy who was targeting kids. She wanted him to go to Karl’s house and watch him. The cop brought her to the station—I guess he wanted her to be supervised there or something. Then he went himself to check on him.”
“What did he find?”
“Well, there wasn’t much he could do without a search warrant.” He puts the car in reverse. The parking lot is nearly vacant. Early morning light bounces off parking meters. “The cop talked to Karl, said someone had seen something unusual in an upstairs room. Karl invited him in. When the cop asked about the camera and telescope pointed out the window at the playground, Karl said he likes to watch people walk their dogs there.”
“With a telescope? That guy is weird.”
“Maybe. Or he likes dogs.” He twitches with impatience or exhaustion. “The cop goes back and tells Mom. She gets belligerent. His word. She says he should have looked at the computer. That he should get a warrant and search the house. He tries to explain how all her notions have no proof and she breaks down. Crying, cursing him.”
“So, where is she now?”
“They brought her to Waterford Psychiatric. Overnight observation. They think she’s having a breakdown.”
“Oh no.” Mrs. Medeiros in a small, white room in a hospital. Like the one she was just in, but with rigid walls and locks.
“And, unfortunately, it’s not the first time with her. I guess I was hoping that part of her life had passed,” he says. “So. I’ll check on her tomorrow. Hopefully, they’ll let her go home.”
Wanda nods. “I’ll come. We can both talk to her.”
He nods. Pause. “Sure.”
They drive in silence. She turns her phone on. Notification City. Tagged in at least three Healfest videos so far. “Oh God.”
“You don’t want to look at that stuff now.”
“No. I need to know.” She taps the play button. The video shows the stage, Pike, Frances, and the others. When Liang-Yi appears at the edge and starts swinging the microphone stand, the crowd near the front scatters, like when she was a kid and shook salt and pepper into a bowl of water and added a drop of dishwashing soap. Liang-Yi is silhouetted against the stage lights, narrow shoulders, purposeful steps. Wanda moves towards Frances’s cowering shape: two sidesteps like the opening and closing of scissors. And bang. She falls. People scream. And then, Wanda’s body convulses. The spray of vomit out of her face is a flood of neon orange.
“Oh. Oh fuck.” Wanda covers her eyes and curls up. She immediately winces in pain from her buckling stomach.
“Be careful,” Ivan says. “You’re a giant bruise.”
She swipes to read the comments beneath the video:
Maury1212: BAZOOKA BARFFFF!!!!
ELzoidzoo: OMFG. Like the exorcist.
RicePatty7000: Hawt. :p
Sheldononhigh: I don’t understand why everyone is reacting to her puking. She just saved that woman’s life.
ELzoidzoo: @Sheldononhigh saved a life? It’s a microphone stand.
Sheldononhigh: @ELzoidzoo She was being threatened with it!
taylormaidTT: I think she’s brave, but this still makes me sick.
JimmyJoJardon: What did she eat? A Costco case of spaghettios?
Samalot0325: ^^ LOL @ JimmyJoJardon
“I will never live this down.” She looks at the bottom right corner of the video. 2,632 views. Not even home yet. “How many other videos exist, do you think?”
“Well, there’s another from the side stage. Some roadie with a phone.”
“So, other angles?”
“I guess so.” He turns onto Bonaventure Avenue. “Let’s just get home and go to bed. The cops need to know if you want to press charges against Liang-Yi. They said call them tomorrow. And we have to deal with Mom. Your folks wanted to come in, but I told them you need a couple days rest.”
“Thank you for that.”
“No problem.” He slows for a stop sign. “I’d like it if everyone packed off and left us alone for a month.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“And through all this, you know what’s so annoying?” He shakes his head as he flips the turning indicator. “Ray bugging me all night. He left the festival and went to some party or something. High as fuck and texting me for hours with ideas for the name of the album. Phone’s going off and I keep thinking, Is it Mom? Is it Wanda? Is it the police? No, it’s Ray: ‘What do you think of Random Impulse, for the album? Or Heroic Hits? What about Hero Inaction for a title?’ For fuck sakes.”
“Hero what?”
“Like inaction, as a play on the word. Inaction like no action.”
“Oh.” She examines her front. The long white blouse is puffed out from the gauze bandages covering her stomach, navel to sternum. She runs her hands lightly over her front. Why would Ray suggest names like those? Because of her. Because Ray wants a name with current validity, less than one degree of separation from him. A tweak of anger flutters through her, but is too tired to grow.
“Those are awful names,” she says.
“Fuck yeah.”
“Might as well call it Zero Downloads.”
“Might as well call it Record Store Discount Pile.”
In the house, she washes as best as she can with the bandages still around her. Ivan is fast asleep when she enters the bedroom. She regards his closed eyes, his soft breathing. When everything calms down, how much will he resent her? And tomorrow, more new decisions, more dealing. Will she press charges against Liang-Yi? Will Genevieve Davey want to interview her again? Will people make barfing sounds when she walks down the street? She plugs in her phone. Unchecked voice mail, new text messages. Twitter notifications: twelve contacts have retweeted Pike:
@Pikeitalot: All great changes are proceeded by chaos! #deepakchopra #forgivenessforchange
What a fuckhead. She turns off her phone. She sleeps as soon as her eyes close, with no extra assistance.
In the early afternoon, they wake and pack. They will fetch Mrs. Medeiros, they will stay with her until she’s “better.” Ivan
drags out his duffle bag: “I hate not knowing how long this will take.”
Wanda stares out the window. No one outside, no media or gawkers. Pascale Aggressive exits her house. When she glances up, Wanda slowly raises one hand, then gives her the finger. If Pascale notices, she doesn’t let on.
She gingerly checks her phone. A message from Constable Lance; he will be by in two hours for her statement. Liang-Yi must be in custody. A filmed assault. A mental-instability defense, if she’s lucky.
“Sylvie’s going to leave Fiona with Alex,” Ivan says. “She can help with Mom too. Which is good. We need time to get on top of things.”
“What things?”
He yanks t-shirts from the closet. “Right now, I have about seventy thousand messages to deal with, how about you? We could use a break.”
Her phone buzzes in response. It never ends. Yes. They could use a break. She holds up her phone. A text message from Nikki. Her sweet, smiling face. Colourful emojis in the text.
“I want to go to New Jersey,” Wanda says.
He tosses a pair of black socks in the duffle. “Well. Who doesn’t.”
“To see Sharon and Nikki. Sharon’s got a place in Cape May ’til July.”
He takes pairs of boxers from the drawer. “Sounds nice.”
“She offered to buy me a ticket.”
“For when?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Is this what you want?”
“Yes. I want to. I want to be around people who…I need to not feel like I’m on a platter.” She winces. That was too much.
“If it’s what you need.” He pushes items around in the bag. “I’d like to get back into the studio, finish the last touches on the album. It would be nice to dive into that. Get it done.”
“Okay. And if I’m gone, it’s easier to deal with, I don’t know, anyone who wants anything from me…you can just tell them I’m out of the province.”
“And when you return, you can just threaten to vomit on anyone who gets in your way.” He grins. Finally. “Too soon?” She gives him the finger too.
Ivan goes to the Waterford alone. She contacts Sharon, who buys the ticket for the following evening. Wanda will sort out the house, Ivan will return when Sylvie’s ready. They’ll talk tonight. Before leaving, Ivan offers to invite Leo and Trish, so she can say goodbye to them as well. He retracts the offer as her face falls.
Constable Lance takes notes for a final statement. When did the emails from Liang-Yi start, how did she perceive them. How did she respond yesterday, can she confirm no other contact happened on her part. Then on to what Wanda saw on stage. What happened when she was hit. When she describes the impact and the puking, she has to stop. Her name and vomit on the same notepad, written by Constable Lance and his handsome mouth.
“How am I supposed to live this down?” she says. “I will forever be known as the Healfest Barfer.”
“More like Healfest Hero, I think.”
“Please. There was no real danger.”
“She could have seriously injured Frances Rumstead,” he says. “People have died that way.”
“When? At Aerosmith concerts?” She pictures Steve Tyler dancing with a microphone stand. Constable Lance blinks. He doesn’t get her reference. “It’s all so ridiculous,” she says. “And I know I’m being childish, but it’s unfair. Freaky things happen all the time and escape notice. Now, everything is filmed and attached to you.”
“Stuff gets filmed, but only special things make history.”
“I don’t want to be history.”
“But you are,” he says. “The grocery store might have been a fluke. Or a miracle. Or luck. But you’ve just added another event. It’s something now, like a matching set. If people were convinced before, they’ll be twice as convinced now. I know I am.”
“And so, more scrutiny. It all feels like water torture.”
“I see it this way: None of these people online know you. All they know are these two videos which show amazing things you’ve done. It’s enough to label you as something special. And that’s how fame works. You can be a one-hit wonder and people will remember you forever. ”
“I wish I could understand it.”
“Well, how do you feel when you watch Pike’s video?”
“I never have.”
He stares at her blankly.
“I can’t,” she says.
“I see.” He nods. “I understand, but if you ever do watch it, perhaps you’ll end up in the cheering section with the rest of us.” He closes his notebook. The details are there, but she’s decided not to press charges. Frances Rumstead is the one who is Liang-Yi’s victim as far as she’s concerned. Constable Lance says goodbye. He goes home to his wife and infant child.
That evening, Wanda slips on Ivan’s jean jacket to take the garbage out. It was warm when he left and he didn’t bother covering up. She carefully places each arm in its sleeve. The frayed collar brushes against her cheek. It feels stiffer than she remembers; tight across the back, it emits cigarette smoke and cut grass. She fastens the buttons over her t-shirt, over the thick white bandages on her front.
Last summer, she wore this jacket at a cabin party. She ducked out for a moment because she’d forgotten something in the car. When she walked back to the cabin, she could hear Ivan inside, laughing, his guitar strumming, and she shivered, a deep, rigorous, delicious shiver. Even though he was inside and she was outside, if anyone saw her at that moment, they’d know Ivan and Wanda were together. She took the steps leading into the cabin two at a time.
How does it feel now? She stares at the lawn. The jacket feels like a jacket.
She reaches into the pocket. A small note. Groceries and to-do:
Cheese
Olives
Milk
Eggs
Ask Ray about Clarenville dates
Oil change
Show Wanda she is loved, everyday
She holds the note in her palm. Presses it to her lips.
Back in the house, she turns on her phone. She responds to Sharon’s and Nikki’s text messages, matches their enthusiasm. On Facebook she is tagged in another video from the show and she taps it absently. Same thing, chaos and upset.
She can see Pike’s infamous video is there, underneath the new one. Her and Liang-Yi, frozen in time. And how many times has Liang-Yi watched it? She said she remembers everything, this moment when they both believed it was the end and they both began to unravel. They’ll have to face each other at some point, in court or at a hearing. Wanda should at least try to understand her better.
The phone is light and easy to toss away, to the table, to the chair if it bothers her. Her finger hovers over the thumbnail. Tap.
She sees herself and Liang-Yi standing frozen and separated by the aisle shelves. As Rumstead turns, Liang-Yi falls to her knees in a begging stance, asking to be spared in her own words.
When Wanda throws the can, the motion is a flash, like she is raising her hand to catch something, rather than throw. Or hitting a button that makes him stop. A button only she can see.
Edward Rumstead falls. Liang-Yi stays kneeling on the floor. Her hands stay clasped, but her shoulders sink. She is safe. She is saved. It is the moment she had printed on a t-shirt, the moment she wanted Wanda to understand.
Wanda raises her head and wipes her eyes. Tomorrow, she will board a plane. She’ll see her two long-term friends for the first time in over a year. There might still be a strong connection there. Or something won’t match like it used to. And when she returns to St. John’s, her life may not have changed. Or she’ll see what has petered away. Whatever is left, it will be scary, but new. Deep in the fragile numbness of her core, it is there, a feather turning, the slightest spark of anticipation.
The tiny screen in her hand waits for her. She presses replay.
<
br /> ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Big thanks to the early readers of this book for their feedback and guidance: Paul Butler, Glenn Deir, Linda Abbott, and Mark Callanan. Thank you to James, Rebecca, Rhonda, and the entire Breakwater Books team.
Deep thanks for dear friends who offer advice and encouragement: Jacinta Cameron, Jenina MacGillivray, Justin Merdsoy, Lisa Moore, Tamara Reynish, Liz Solo, Deirdre Snook, Liza Ann Tucker, and Tracey Waddleton. Thanks to my writing groups, the Naked Parade Writing Collective and Soft Pants: A Comfortable Writing Group.
Thanks to my loving family: Mom, Liz, Patrick, Jason, Michelle, Mary Anne, John, Harvey, Gail, Sharada, and Travis.
All the love and gratitude to my partner, Jon Weir, for his unwavering support, assistance, devotion, and for being the best human I know.
AUTHOR PHOTO: SHEILAGH O’LEARY
BRIDGET CANNING’s work has won the Cox and Palmer SPARKS Creative Writing Award, the BC Federation of Writers Literary Writes competition, Newfoundland and Labrador Arts and Letters awards, and has been shortlisted for the Cuffer Prize. The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes is her first novel. She lives in St. John’s.
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