One way or another, Simon’s head had been injured. When his mother had found out she’d inspected him closely — she was a pediatrician at the Children’s Hospital. X-rays were taken, neurologists had probed him, a psychiatrist had barraged him with useless questions — did he love his parents? did he like setting fires? — and a battery of tests had duly followed, most involving lights being shined into his eyes. There’d been no damage found, apart from a concussion. But from that point on, his course was downhill.
Slowly he’d grown more distracted. Once sharp, focused, and on the ball, he would stare into space, neglect certain tasks, or unexpectedly tune out altogether. When he wasn’t driving his parents crazy, he would fill them with concern.
His dad had stopped saying that he would become an engineer.
Music had started driving him nuts. Until then, he hadn’t minded the Beatles or the odd symphony his dad would put on. But after? The sounds had shredded his nerves, to the point he would moan in pain and come close to puking.
“Why are you outside? It’s starting to rain.”
Simon started, then realized it was Emma speaking. She was their live-in nanny and had been with the family as long as he remembered. As she’d told him many times before, he’d seen her face before anyone else’s.
It was funny. He’d heard the story of his birth so often that he could picture it almost. A month before her due date, his mom had been driving and crashed into a lamppost. It had been late at night and the streets had been empty. The collision must have jarred something loose, breaking her water and starting contractions, painful ones at frequent intervals, a sign the baby was coming fast. Shocked and bruised and bleeding from her forehead, she’d forgotten all her medical skills and sat there helplessly, clueless what to do.
By chance, Emma had happened along — Simon pictured her running with that funny stride of hers. Realizing this lady was about to give birth, she’d calmed her down, delivered the baby, cut the cord, and wrapped the newborn in a sweater — Simon could feel its prickles against his skin.
In the days that followed, Emma had stopped by often and helped his mother care for the baby. Hearing the Carpenters were looking for a nanny, Emma had applied for the job and, from that day on, had been part of the family.
Simon knew her better than he did his mom. His parents had jobs that pushed them hard and forced them to work the craziest hours. They would often come home late at night, only to leave at dawn the next morning. While he and Ian had outgrown a nanny, his parents would never get rid of Emma because the family would have been lost without her.
That said, she was a bit of a puzzle. Apart from her daughter, Clara, she had no relatives or friends. Sometimes she’d get a letter in the mail — the handwriting on it was always the same — but she never said who the writer was and only smiled when the family spoke of her “boyfriend.”
She also drank, Simon knew. This didn’t happen often; in fact, she only drank when she visited her daughter, to fortify her nerves, and who could blame her? His parents didn’t know and Simon wasn’t going to tell them.
“Don’t just stand there. Come inside and I’ll brew you some tea.”
“I was checking up on Henry,” Simon spoke as he climbed the porch and followed Emma to the kitchen.
“Have you seen my necklace?” she inquired, entering the kitchen and switching on the kettle.
“No. You were wearing it at breakfast,” he said, sitting at a table.
“I took it off and can’t remember where I put it. Never mind. It will turn up later. So tell me about your day.”
“There’s not much to report.”
“There must be something,” she insisted in an attempt to draw him out. When Simon’s parents discussed his mental state, she unfailingly argued that he would come into his own. If not for her, he would have lost all hope.
“I got two quizzes back, in French and chemistry.”
“How did they go?”
“So so.”
“You’ll do better next time. Anything else?”
“That’s it.”
“You can do better than that. I seldom leave the house, and rely on you to bring me gossip.”
“Okay. A rabbit spoke to me.”
He hadn’t intended to mention the rabbit, but the words slipped out. He didn’t think she would notice much and was surprised when she glanced at him sharply.
While not an ugly woman, she was certainly no knockout. She wasn’t tall and her build was stocky, with square shoulders, wide hips, and small, solid hands. She was as strong as a horse — she’d once lifted a trunk that both his parents couldn’t budge. Her face was squat, her cheekbones wide, and her jaw outsized and a bit ungainly. Her hair was coarse and reddish brown, while her eyes were a beautiful coral colour with depths that seemed to fall forever. They were especially intense now because his remark had upset her.
“A rabbit spoke? What do you mean? Where did this happen? What did it say?”
“Emma,” he said quietly, deciding to kill the subject, “I was only joking.”
She stared at him fiercely then burst out laughing. Placing a tea bag in an oversized mug — on it was written Genius at Work — she took the kettle that had boiled by now and filled the cup just short of the brim, commenting she was foolish for thinking an animal could speak.
Simon moved to a different topic. “How’s Clara?”
“She’s fine. I’m going to visit her tomorrow. Want to tag along?”
“Sure. I’ll buy her an Oh Henry! bar.”
Again Emma surprised him. Turning from the kettle, she hugged him fiercely. Just as quickly she returned to his tea, adding milk and plenty of sugar.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Because you’re always kind to her.”
Clara was Simon’s age and badly autistic. Her state was so severe that she passed all her days in a Vancouver Heights home, along with other troubled children. From the time when he was little, Emma had taken Simon to visit Clara and, while the home was depressing, Simon had come to like her. She never said a word — this was part of her condition — but there was something oddly calm about her and Simon felt at peace when he was seated beside her. Over the last three years this impression had grown; whereas he often felt uncomfortable and out of place, Clara strangely set him at ease.
Emma was delighted that they’d hit it off. The only time she’d been taken aback was when he’d asked her about Clara’s father. She’d answered tersely that her ex had been difficult and Simon had never raised the subject again.
“Your driving instructor phoned,” Emma said, handing him his tea. “He wanted to know if you’re still taking lessons. I said I wasn’t sure.”
“You should’ve told him I’m not ready to drive, according to my father.”
“It would sound a lot better coming from you.”
Simon sipped his tea. He and his dad had gone driving last week. While Simon handled the car well enough, he had a habit of making unpredictable turns and his dad didn’t like it. When asked why he drove in this erratic fashion, switching lanes and veering onto side streets, Simon said he was choosing the fastest route. When asked how he could know this route was the fastest, Simon always answered that he somehow did. The alternative was to explain that sometimes he saw the city laid before him, together with its traffic flow. Last week when he’d changed lanes unexpectedly and his dad had spilled his coffee all over? He’d done that to avoid a crash ahead. But his manoeuvre had been the very last straw. His dad had said he wasn’t focused enough.
“Does Ian like onions?” Emma asked, bringing him back to the kitchen. “I always forget.”
“No. He found a hamster, incidentally.”
“It’s about time. Who’ll clean the cage?”
“That’ll be my job.”
“Or mine most likely.”
Smiling, Simon sipped his tea. The rain had started and the windows were streaming, a sight that always picked him up. The sound of Emma
grating cheese was soothing and the tensions from the day were starting to ebb. The steam from his tea was spiralling upward and his eyes were getting heavy. From far away he felt that sensation again, of a switch inside his head being thrown.
An instant later he was level with the ceiling. He could see Emma working and his body slouched at the table. The room was spread before him, the countertop, the gas stove, the cupboards, the ingredients for that night’s supper. And to their left, on top of the fridge, he spied a wicker basket. In it was a necklace …
The front door banged. His mother was home. Simon started from his reverie. For a moment he marvelled at the details in the dream, the way they matched the setup in the kitchen. His mother called hello. He got up to greet her. Pausing at the door, he considered the fridge. His mother called again. He could hear Ian telling her all about Magnus. Emma yelled hello. Frowning slightly, Simon approached the fridge and felt its top with his fingertips. They encountered a basket. And inside?
His entire body tingled as his fingers closed on Emma’s necklace.
Chapter Three
Soon after On the Origin of Species appeared, Herbert Spencer coined the phrase ‘survival of the fittest,’ which he used to summarize Darwin’s theory. Based on what we’ve seen today, can you tell me why he isn’t doing any justice to Darwin?”
Simon was in his biology class, staring at the floor. He wished his teacher would stop droning on. For an hour she’d been talking about evolution, with endless references to birds, bugs, and degrees of variation. While nature normally held his interest, this talk of adaptation had him feeling queasy.
“… What is Spencer saying? He believes there are traits that, on their own, make some men superior to others. He thinks that whites, for example, are better than everyone else, that it’s always preferable to have white skin and blue eyes. This wasn’t Darwin’s point of view. He would agree white skin is sometimes an advantage, in northern Europe say, but that black skin would be ‘better’ in sunnier climates …”
Simon’s eyes were closed and he seemed to be dozing, but in actual fact he was focusing hard. His nerves were stretched taut. He felt like someone clinging to a cliff who could fall to the rocks below at any moment. It was lucky they had an early closing that day and he could leave as soon as the lunch bell rang.
“… Let’s talk about the peppered moth. There are white ones and black ones. Both nest on trees with a light-coloured bark. In early times the white ones were hard to spot, while the black ones were easy. Predators caught more black than white, and this meant ‘white’ was ‘better,’ while ‘black’ was not. When industry grew the trees became sooty, and the white stood out more than the black. So ‘white’ became a handicap and ‘black’ an advantage. You see? The environment determines what works and what doesn’t. One trait can beat its rival for awhile, but there are times when the rival will barrel forward. Nothing stands still. Nothing’s written in stone.”
Something was different. On awakening that morning, Simon felt something had changed. The walls in his room, the floor, and ceiling seemed to meet at uneven angles, and the effect had left him feeling unbalanced. His body was more alien than normal: it seemed to fit him (whatever that meant) like a fat man’s shirts and pants on a beanpole. His bones felt heavy, as if the marrow was leaden, his eyes were wobbly and his fingers tingled.
And what about his senses? They were on a hair-trigger like never before. Every noise was like a shout in his ear, his eyes could see with deadly clarity, and his nose was catching everything, everything. That morning, as he’d lain in bed, he’d smelled his dad’s aftershave from one floor up, a mint that was trapped between two floorboards, and the acrid scent of cheap cigars from a tenant who’d lived in their house years earlier.
In class, Joy Fung had cherry gum in her purse, Meryl Fluting had used a peach shampoo, Mike Potts had socks that needed changing, and Sherkhan, the janitor’s cat, had eaten tuna.
“Excuse me, Simon. This isn’t your bedroom …”
More than anything, the noise threw him off. It was a static-like buzz echoing deep inside him, like he was in a stadium and hearing a crowd yell. This wall of sound was driving him crazy.
Crazy. Yes. He was losing his mind.
“Simon! Wake up! We have work to do!”
“Sorry. What was that, Ms. Guzman?” Simon answered groggily, his black-ringed eyes opening slowly. The teacher was standing directly beside him.
“Have you heard a single word I’ve said?”
“About evolution? I heard everything.”
“Really? So summarize the theory of Natural Selection.”
“Animals change because of their surroundings. Some traits are more useful than others but this can change if the environment’s altered.”
“Good.”
“Because this process lasts forever, we could one day disappear.”
“Pardon me?”
“Humans have rivals too. Something new can appear or something old could take over.”
“Anything is possible,” she said with a laugh, “but I wouldn’t worry too much about cavemen returning.”
Much to Simon’s relief the bell suddenly rang. Ms. Guzman turned away from him and advised the class to read chapter four at home. Simon was in the hall already, racing toward the exit. They had a short recess and if he left for some air he might calm his nerves a little. Once outside he would walk to a park, lie on the grass, and close his eyes. Never mind he had that math test later.
“Hey, Dog Bone!”
Oh no. Peter and Winston were blocking his path. It was funny how much they resembled each other, although Winston was Chinese and Peter was white. It wasn’t just their clothes — they were dressed in matching shirts and pants — but their faces as well. Both had a lean, wolf-like look, as well as the same mocking smile.
“How’s it going, Dog Bone?”
“Why are you calling me Dog Bone?”
“Because we saw you in the pet shop, remember?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So you were looking for a bone to give your brother.”
“I was waiting for him to choose a hamster.”
“It didn’t look that way to us.” Winston was smirking. Eyeing him, Simon was almost drowned in impressions. His aftershave was strong, as was the smell of cigarettes, and his hands were shaking, from his Ritalin no doubt. But it was strange. He was usually confident but now there was a gap, as if his typical hard demeanour had cracked a little. For a moment, Simon felt a surge and a hiss burst about him. Just as quickly it died away.
“I’m sorry your mother’s sick,” he said.
It was as if he’d doused Winston with a bucket of water. His smile melted and a look of fury appeared.
“Number one, she isn’t sick,” he fumed. “And number two, it isn’t your business. What are you up to? Are you stalking me?”
“What are you talking about? Who’s a stalker?” Simon asked.
“Is your mom really sick, man?” Peter broke in.
“My mom’s not sick!” Winston yelled, lunging forward and shoving Simon. “The tests mean nothing!”
“I’m glad,” Simon said, with a shaky smile.
“… And this is what you get for stalking me!”
Winston was going to give him a kick. He’d assumed a fighting stance and was lifting his foot. Before he could strike, he was pushed from behind. He stumbled, swore, and faced the intruder. When he saw who it was, he took a step back.
Facing him was Jenny Frobisher. Apart from Simon, she was the strangest kid in school. The rumour was she was at least nineteen and had failed three grades over the last six years. Short but powerful, with russet hair and green eyes, she roamed the hallways silently, a lot like Sherkhan. She made Simon nervous because she seemed very tough.
Winston felt it too. His eyes were spitting hate but her presence reined him in. He tried to shake his torpor but he couldn’t attack, as if a powerful hand were holding him back. He turned and motioned Pete
r to follow, saying they just had time to play some poker online. Warning Simon they would catch him later, they sauntered off.
“Thank you,” Simon said, when Winston had gone. “For some strange reason, the guy really hates me.”
Jenny Frobisher stared at him. Her eyes were like a pair of blinding searchlights. Without warning she grabbed his wrist — she moved so quickly that he couldn’t avoid her. She held it for an instant then let it drop. A moment later she was walking off, as if responding to a summons only she could hear.
Simon sighed. His head was killing him and his nerves were ringing, but for the first time that morning he felt a bit better.
“Hello, Clara. I’m here. And look who’s with me. It’s your good friend Simon.”
Emma stooped and kissed her daughter, who was seated at a desk before a large picture window. It looked north onto the Burrard Inlet. The sun was setting and wisps of fog were drifting in. There wasn’t much wind and the water on the inlet looked unusually still, as if it were setting a trap or something. She and Simon sat next to Clara.
As soon as he’d arrived home from school, Emma had said she was off to see Clara and asked if he would join her still. In need of a distraction, he’d said yes. After stopping off in a variety store, where he’d purchased an Oh Henry!, they’d taken a bus to Brentwood Station, transferred at Willingdon near the tech institute, and headed north to Confederation Park and the Sarah Dooley Home for Children. Except for some music at large, the ride had been pleasant.
Emma did comment that Simon seemed restless. He explained that he’d had some coffee at lunch and the caffeine was making him antsy still. There was no point telling her how weird he felt or about his showdown with Winston that morning. The same way he wouldn’t mention that, as always happened when they dropped in on Clara, Emma had been boozing it up. After all, she was in a great mood. She’d received a letter from her “boyfriend” that morning and through the length of the bus ride had read it over with gusto. Who was this guy?
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