“Not possible.”
“When’s the soonest we can go?”
“We’ll go this weekend,” he says.
XXIV.
it is five in the morning and my mother is walking as fast as her tired body will let her, down Quadra Street, away from me, away from my little face. Her boots pound the pavement, and her whole body shudders with each reverberation. She feels as though the ground will shoot right through her. The sky is clear overhead, and the city is waking up. She crosses Fort Street, makes a right at View, and heads toward the entrance to the Towers. The front doors are locked, but she bangs on them anyway. She wills someone to come down. A man is passed out on the long ramp that leads to the entrance and she tries to kick him awake. When he doesn’t stir, she searches his pockets for keys. But there is just a bottle cap and a couple of pennies.
When the police find her, she is slumped against the side of the building. She is in shock from giving birth and being cold. Her blood pressure is dangerously low. The paramedics think she is just another drunk. She is hauled into the ambulance roughly and taken to Jubilee Hospital. She could be anyone. She could come from anywhere. There is no ID in her pockets, and she stays in the intensive care ward, nameless, until she wakes.
Harrison has been arrested. He tells the police everything there is to tell, save for one important detail: he says my mother had nothing to do with Eugene’s death. He tells them that she was visiting a friend when it happened, and that she’d left Eugene in his care. It was all his fault. He was the one who left the boy alone. The cocaine was his. He says the words quickly and quietly, then writes them down.
He says nothing about his brother; he has pleaded with Quinn. “I will say that Yula wasn’t there, if you let me leave my brother out of it, too.” In the woods that night, the men stared at each other. They shook hands; they made a deal.
My mother will not speak. She stares blankly. When she regains consciousness she tries to slice up her wrists, but she is already in the hospital and they discover her immediately, and she is bandaged and restrained.
My father is sentenced to three years. For a while, he calls Yula every day. He tells himself that some part of her must still be in love with him, even though when she hears it is him, she hangs up the phone.
Halfway through his sentence, he makes a phone call to the ministry. He wants to know the fate of the abandoned baby—where I live, who my new parents are. The social worker says she cannot tell him that. When he says he is my father, she says she’ll have to refer him to the police. The years go by, and I continue to haunt him. Before he gets out of prison, he writes a letter to the ministry, hoping someone has met me, hoping someone will write back and tell him something. He hears nothing.
Eugene is buried in a small plot beside Jo. There is no funeral, and Quinn is the only one who attends the burial. Quinn brings a potted plant for his grandson and his wife, and reads to them both from The Wonderful O by James Thurber, his favorite book when he was a child.
“It’s all the vowels except the O,” Black said. “I’ve had a hatred of that letter ever since the night my mother became wedged in a porthole. We couldn’t pull her in and so we had to push her out.” He shuddered and his eyes turned hard. “What is the name of this island?” he asked, shaking off the thought of O.
“Ooroo,” said Littlejack, and once more the other shuddered.
“I hate the name,” he said at last. “It sounds like the eyes of a couple of ghosts leaning against an R.”
Quinn returns to the big house. He reshelves the book. Luella calls and leaves messages, but he doesn’t call back. He feels the grief in his heart as sharp and black as ever.
XXV.
vaughn rents a car—a bright-blue Chevy Cavalier—from a cheap lot downtown and begins the drive past the totem poles, the YMCA, the Crystal Gardens, the homeless kids in front of McDonald’s, past Mickey blowing into his horn, the Eaton Centre, the red brick of City Hall. He turns up Caledonia, past the Szechuan restaurant and the pink police station, and winds his way down the skinny one-way streets that lead to our town house, where Miranda, Lydia-Rose, Winkie, and I wait for him in the warm bright light of this early afternoon, this day, August 28, the day I turn seventeen years old.
We have been up since six o’clock, rooting through bags of consignment clothes, picking out our outfits. Miranda wears a denim shirt, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, a pair of wide-legged linen pants, and white canvas espadrilles. She let Lydia-Rose dust her face with bronzing powder and line her eyes with kohl. She has never looked so elegant.
Lydia-Rose towers over us in a pair of heeled gladiator sandals, a black pencil skirt, and black-and-white striped short-sleeved top, a red bandana framing her face.
They are dressed up and made up and I love them for it.
But I am who I am, how I always am and will always be. Hair shooting out from all sides of my head, big and white-blond from the sun, still as fine and dense as a ball of cotton. It’s hot, but I’ve got on my baggiest jeans, held up with suspenders, a white tank top, and a man’s black blazer. I found a pair of checkered Vans in one of the consignment bags, one size too big, and wadded a bunch of Kleenex in the toes so they’d fit. Winkie stands beside me, a red bandana around her neck to match Lydia-Rose’s.
We have talked about the possibilities. We have talked about how there could be no one home; no one living out there anymore; no house. We have talked about how my visit could be unwelcome. We have talked about how poorly this could all turn out. Miranda and I have made a chart, listing as many possibilities as we could think of, so that I will be as prepared as I can possibly be. We have discussed how it might be better to write a letter first, to wait for a reply. And finally, at my insistence, Miranda has conceded that I can’t wait any longer than I already have. And that it is my style, after all, to show up unannounced.
Vaughn steps out of the blue car and walks toward us. He has slicked back his red hair with gel. He wears a white button-down shirt tucked into black jeans and cowboy boots. He shakes Miranda’s and Lydia-Rose’s hands, tells them how great it is to finally meet them, then crouches and gives Winkie a kiss on her little head.
“Packed a cooler full of sandwiches, potato chips,” he says to us, “in case, well, I figured at the very least we can spend the afternoon at Goldstream. Miranda, why don’t you ride up front with me? We’ll put the girls and Wink in the back.”
He opens the door for Miranda and she slides inside, then he opens the back door for Lydia-Rose, Winkie, and me. We pile in, and the car is as hot and stuffy as a microwave.
“I’ve never been in a new car before,” says Lydia-Rose, and I realize I haven’t either. It smells so strongly of vinyl and new carpet that I almost gag. We examine the cup holders, the arm rests, the space to slip a magazine behind the passenger seat. Vaughn tells us to roll down our windows until the air-conditioning kicks in. Lydia-Rose sits on the driver’s side and Winkie sits between us. She has never been in a car in her whole life. She sniffs the seat furiously, then slides onto the floor and tries to wedge herself under Miranda’s seat, her little tail wagging frantically. In my backpack I have a Tupperware full of ice water for her and a marrowbone, which I fish out and give to her so she’ll calm down.
Lydia-Rose and I take forever fastening and then adjusting our seat belts, which are hot to the touch and seem to pin us too tightly to our seats. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, we are ready to go.
Vaughn takes us to Douglas Street, and we drive past one Traveller’s Inn and then another, and we talk about stopping at Dairy Queen for cones but I am too nervous. Red Hot Video, White Spot, Thompson’s Foam Shop, the 7-Eleven, all the car dealerships, Mayfair Mall, and Lydia-Rose sticks her head out the window to get away, she says, from Winkie’s hot, stale breath. The highway widens and we go by the big-box stores that are everywhere now—this part of town used to be just barren fields, parking lots—and Vaughn hits the gas and we shoot up toward the Malahat, the wind whipping through the
car until our ears can’t take the pressure anymore and we have to put up the windows. Winkie is heavy on my lap, staring dumbfounded at all the trees as the city falls away. The winding road leads us north, toward the forest. For a long time, no one says a word.
Jo. Jo-Jo. Jojoba oil. Jo. I don’t look much like a Jo. When I think of the name Jo, I see a woman much taller and more beautiful than I, dark hair cut in a dramatic bob above her shoulders. She is an angular woman. She is my grandmother. I am not sure I have the body or the spirit with which to fill out her name.
Finally, the sky disappears, and Vaughn turns down the air-conditioning as the car plunges into the shade of the forest. When we reach Goldstream Park, Vaughn slows and makes a hard right at the park’s entrance. I careen into Lydia-Rose, and Miranda makes a little sound, and Vaughn says, “Oopsy daisy. Sorry about that.” The parking lot is full of cars, families piling out with children. We drive over the old wooden bridge that leads up the mountain, the trees now stretching hundreds of feet into the sky, denser and denser, and start the ascent up Finlayson Arm Road, flanked on each side by the majestic and spindly Douglas firs. Past these, here and there, are Western red cedars, their bases wider than automobiles, their trunks like red ropy cords of muscle, like giant pieces of red licorice smashed together and then petrified. They shoot up into the sky for what looks like miles.
“Look up,” Vaughn says to us, “look at how the trees touch at the top of this road and form an arch—like a barrel vault—like a nave.”
“Like an Emily Carr painting,” says Lydia-Rose.
“She lived out here, you know,” says Vaughn.
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I used to study art,” she says to him. “She lived in a caravan.”
“With a monkey.” Vaughn smiles at her in the rearview, and I can tell they are growing on each other.
“I’d like to live in a caravan,” I say and shift Winkie onto the seat beside me. I hold out my hand, and she licks the sweat off my palm. “Or a trailer.”
“You’re an alien,” Lydia-Rose says and lets Winkie lick her hand, too.
“Winkie is an alien.”
“Alien dog.”
Here we come: me, Miranda, Lydia-Rose, Winkie, and Vaughn, up a deserted road the width of a double bed. The hot hot sun, no one. Pasture. Fence. Little wooden house. The sound of the river in the distance. Lydia-Rose sees an eagle, and we go around in a circle, each naming our favorite bird. I like owls, I say. I like their faces. We agree we will all dress up as birds next Halloween.
We start reading the numbers on the mailboxes, 2210, 2253. A scruffy-looking German shepherd races to the edge of one of the properties and barks wildly as we drive by. A man barrels past in a pickup and waves. We drive by a girl on horseback, cantering in a riding ring. When we get to the mailbox marked 2317, Vaughn slows the car and pulls into a narrow gravel driveway. It winds upward for about a hundred feet, deeper and deeper into the woods, until we finally come to a field of overgrown wild grass. The driveway ends, and Vaughn parks behind the oldest, most rust-covered car I’ve ever seen.
“A Meteor,” says Vaughn. “Classic.” Whatever it is, it looks like junk. There are holes in the chassis, and the passenger door has come unhinged and is lying in a rusty heap on the ground. We get out of the rental car and stretch our legs. I hear dogs barking in the distance and the hum of the traffic from the Malahat, but other than that, it is a completely silent world.
Vaughn leads us, single file, through the waist-high grass. The field is dotted with bluebells and lots of wild broom—the yellow startling in the light. I carry Winkie in my arms for fear of losing her. Lydia-Rose steps gingerly forward in her heeled sandals and glances back at me with a worried look. Miranda is behind me, her hand on my shoulder.
At the end of the field, obscured by a wall of evergreen trees but visible to us now, is a flat-roofed cedar-sided house with floor-to-ceiling windows separated by giant timber beams. The house is fancier than the others we passed on the way up here, but the yard is so filthy and overgrown that I wonder if anyone lives here at all.
Past the house is a moss-covered wood cabin, which has sunk on one side and sits in the earth at a dramatic angle. Wild grass grows between and around the homes, and there is a tamped-down path between them. Beyond the homes is the forest.
As we get closer to the big house, I see that some twinkling icicle lights have been strung around the windows from some Christmas past. Someone has left them on, but only half of them work. Another bald eagle circles overhead, and we watch him for a few minutes before he disappears into the trees.
“Ready?” Vaughn asks when we reach the front steps. I nod and he knocks twice.
Miranda and Lydia-Rose stand behind us, holding hands. I bury my nose in Winkie’s fur and kiss the top of her head. She smells like popcorn.
Through the little window of the front door, I watch a small man walk toward us in a blue, coffee-stained bathrobe with a torn sleeve. He is wearing mirrored sunglasses and walks with a cane. He holds his left arm to his chest as if it hurts him.
He opens the door. His white hair sticks up in little tufts around his head and his skin is deeply tanned. He has a sunken face and a patchy white beard that hugs the lower part of his chin. He is barrel-chested and husky and reminds me of a small bear.
I peer into the house. The hardwood floor gleams behind him, catching the light.
The small bear and I consider each other. We are the same height. I look at myself in the reflection of his sunglasses. My hair is full of sunlight and glows around my head. I look like a dandelion.
“Car break down?” he says. His voice is ancient and raspy.
I put Winkie down and hold out my hand. “I’m Jo,” I say. “I’m Yula’s daughter.”
The bear parts his lips but doesn’t speak. We stare at each other for a minute. Winkie sits on my foot, and I hear Vaughn clear his throat. I can feel Miranda behind me. I can feel her desire to put her hand on my shoulder. I can feel her so strongly behind me that it hurts.
The bear leans his cane against the doorframe and takes my hand in his. His hand is warm and dry. “Did—did your car break down, honey?” He speaks with the slow, careful elocution of someone deeply humbled by his life.
I look at Vaughn. “No.” I shake my head at the bear and drop his hand.
“We’re sorry to bother you,” Vaughn says, “but does a woman named Yula live here?” He taps his cowboy boot against the porch. For the first time, he looks unsure to me.
The bear takes off his sunglasses. He has piercing gray eyes. They startle me they’re so bright and fierce. He doesn’t seem so feeble now that I can see his eyes. He looks past me and nods his head at the moss-covered cabin. “Come and see me before you leave, Jo,” he says. “I’ll leave the door open.”
We step off the porch, and the door to the big house closes. Lydia-Rose picks up Winkie, and Miranda puts her arm around me and squeezes.
“Do you want us to wait here or come with you?” Miranda says. She smooths the lapel of my blazer and runs her hand down my arm until she’s holding my hand.
It’s hotter out here than it is in the city. The buzz of insects is suddenly loud in my ears, and I feel the sweat start to gather on my forehead and under my arms. I shrug off my blazer. “Hold this?” I say to Miranda.
She takes it, and I motion to Lydia-Rose to hand me Winkie, who is panting from the heat. I’ll get her some water when I meet my mom. That’ll be the first thing I’ll ask.
To the left, Mount Finlayson looms over my head. To the right, the traffic buzzes along the Malahat. It’s barely audible through the trees. I walk with my head down to avoid sunstroke.
Miranda, Lydia-Rose, and Vaughn stand together in the grass, watching me. I carry Winkie down the path, toward the cabin. It has a steep pitched roof covered in bright-green moss and is unpainted, the wood faded to a dull gray. It is the size of a shed, or a garage. There can’t be more than two rooms inside.
The front door has a tiny window with a blue curtain, and there are a couple of rocking chairs on the porch, a Mexican blanket slung over one of them, heavy with water from last night’s rain. A coal bucket filled with cigarette butts sits beside one of the rocking chairs. A spider plant hangs from a metal hook. It’s hot outside, but the house looks cold, water-stained, and damp. I take a step onto the porch, shift Winkie to one arm. Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen, so I knock.
My mother is shorter than I am by about an inch. Her shoulders are broad—too broad, really, for such a small woman—and with her feet together, she is the shape of a triangle. She is thin, too thin, with no hips. She has a long neck, an angular, muscular face, and eyes as gray and marbled as the moon. The skin on her face is taut and deeply lined. Her deep brown hair is flecked with gray at the temples. She wears it in a tight braid that hangs over her shoulder and tapers to a fine point. Her eyes are as piercing as the bear’s, and I understand immediately that she is his daughter.
My mother is small, so very small. She fiddles with the end of her braid, and I see that she has the tiniest, most delicate hands. Her expression is as blunt as a cliff’s edge.
She cocks her head and considers me, this other tiny person standing across from her. I can tell she doesn’t have any idea who I am.
The sun is burning my shoulders, and my feet are sweaty in my shoes. I reach into my pocket and pull out the Swiss Army Knife. It’s an old thing now, the blades dull and rusty. It rests in the palm of my hand, and we stare at it, and we don’t say anything at all. The sun blazes down and the knife heats up in my hand. She takes it from me and examines it, pulls out the little blades and scissors and the tiny ice pick, then snaps them back in. She hands it back.
“It’s you?” My mother stutters out the words, her hand covering her mouth as if to muffle them.
“It’s me.”
We stand eye to eye, and she searches my face. “Your eye?”
Y: A Novel Page 25