CLEAR
I’m here. Come see me.
The next morning I open my eyes way too early. My single window, which looks south at the world at ground level, is bright. I forgot to close my curtains last night. I wait, feeling as though Jesse might say more. But he doesn’t. I close my eyes again to try to grab a little more sleep, but it’s clear that my body has had all it needs. Such a good sleep. There were no dreams. Only pure, clear rest. I want more of it. My stomach growls, too, louder than any alarm.
And my right wrist is itching like mad. The rash has arrived. A red, bubbled line up the inside of my forearm, straight as a ruler. Ten centimetres long.
I get up and pad up the stairs to the washroom, a set of clean clothes under my arm. The house is silent. No one else is awake. I strip out of my sleep shorts and T-shirt and stare at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. Bracing for the worst. The wrist undoubtedly a foreshadowing of what’s to come. I’m getting a wicked farmer’s tan on my face and arms. Body and thighs pale as winter. Pale enough that a rash would be neon lights. But my body is clear. Just sad white skin (and it is a little sad, how pale we can be) and the single rash line on my arm. Itching hot and bright, like it’s making up for being the only one. I’ll have to cover it. Not to keep it from spreading but to keep my fingernails from wearing a path down to the bone.
As soon as I got home yesterday, I scoured my helmet, shoes, vest, and gloves with a horsehair brush and some ancient soap I found in Gramma Jan’s garden shed. I carried the pissy, soapy pile inside to the laundry room, stripped down to what Mom calls “the truth,” and dumped everything but the helmet into the washing machine. Poured in a single capful of detergent, then added a bit more for good measure. Set the wash to normal, but on hot, and with an extra rinse. The house was all mine, so I risked a naked dash to the shower and scrubbed myself for what felt like an hour. Did everything right. Urban myth says the blisters spread the rash, but PI only spreads if the oil is still on the skin. The blisters aren’t contagious. So I’m good. I know. I googled it.
I called Sean to tell him. About the PI, not Pat. He said I did the right thing by cleaning up and calling him and it was fine to take the rest of the day off. “But assuming you’re not lousy with rash, right back at it tomorrow, yeah?” Then he actually thanked me. His thanks were kind of passive, thrown out there before he hung up, but still. I don’t think many of his clients do much to keep him in the loop.
The bandage on my forehead has fallen off again in my sleep. The scar is narrow and pink. One of the sutures has come undone, the blue thread sticking out. I pull at one of the loose ends and cringe at a glint of pain as the thread slides through. I use a single square of toilet paper to dab away the tiny bead of blood that has risen from the suture hole. I decide not to replace the bandage — it never stays on for more than an hour or two anyway.
I pull on my clothes and go to the kitchen. My first stop is the first-aid kit, where I cut a length of gauze and then tape it loosely over the rash, an action which is super awkward with only one hand. Then I dig into the cupboard for cornflakes. I’m on my third bowl when I hear Aunt Viv get up. The old house tells me where she is, groaning and popping as she crosses the floor above me. She and Mom each have an upstairs bedroom, the old painted doors facing each other across the small hallway. Aunt Viv comes down, each step creaking, and yawns her way into the kitchen. Ignores me until the coffee maker is hissing and sputtering.
Finally, the last of the water drips through the coffee grounds and filter. The machine groans a final time and falls silent. Aunt Viv clunks the carafe out, sloshes coffee into her mug, and clunks the carafe home again. Morning sounds. She turns and leans back against the counter, taking her first tentative sips with her eyes closed. The mug moves up and down, up and down, flashing a combination of fruits and flowers faded by time and wear and dishwasher heat, the outlines long gone but the shapes themselves still oddly bright. Morning colours. She opens her eyes, sees me, and nods a kind of good morning.
“What’s with the bandage?”
“Dressing, actually,” I say.
She rolls her sleep-puffy eyes. “Sorry. Dressing.”
“It’s poison ivy.”
“From the park.”
“Yep.”
“God, it’s everywhere there. I wish the city would do something about it.”
“Ever had it?”
“Once. On my arm, actually, like you. Maybe the other one, though. Itched like a b—” She stops herself and grins into another sip.
“Like a …?”
She shakes her head. “Can’t say that stuff anymore.”
“Sure you can. Everyone does.”
“Getting older means you figure out what needs to get said, what doesn’t.”
She smiles again, like she’s figured out what’s good and proper when it comes to bad language. She and I share a few minutes of silent morning. Talking about the PI has made the rash itch a little more. It’s probably in my head, but that doesn’t make it feel less real.
Aunt Viv doesn’t make a move for any food. The coffee doing the job quite nicely indeed, Mom would say. I bring my bowl and spoon to the sink.
“So, have you figured it out?” Aunt Viv asks.
“Figured what out?”
“Jesse. How you’re going to go see him.”
I shake my head. “How could I do that? It’s a long way.”
“Not too far.”
“It is for a guy with no money and no driver’s licence.”
She shrugs. “You sounded so sure.”
I am sure. But it still feels odd that someone knows about it. Like I should keep a little back, maybe to protect my plans, maybe to protect Aunt Viv if I go through with it. Maybe a bit of both. There’d be so much trouble. She doesn’t press me about it, though. She retrieves an old, battered travel mug from the cupboard and fills it with the dregs of her first cup. She tops it up from the carafe, steam swirling and disappearing into the air, disturbed by her movement, until she twists the cover on. Sees me looking.
“I’ve got the morning shift at the hospital.”
“Huh?”
“With Mom.
“Mom? Why?”
“My mom. Gramma Jan to you. Your mom stayed last night, so I get today. Like I did yesterday.”
“Mom stayed there all night? Why would she?”
“The chair in the room lays flat. They call it a cot, but it’s more like a torture device.”
“No, I meant why the need to stay? Is Gramma Jan all right?”
A brief shadow moves across Aunt Viv’s features, like that single cloud that passes directly overhead on a sunny day. The sudden dimness surprises you. She snorts and makes a joke about how pissed Gramma Jan is that her girls are making all this fuss. When I try for a few more details, Aunt Viv dodges and weaves, chastising me for the shirt and shorts I dropped on the bathroom floor. Uses the old this-isn’t-a-hotel standby for whenever adults gripe about the stuff we leave behind. There’s grumpy work talk — “I don’t get to take a day off,” “Can’t believe the hospital charges for Wi-Fi,” etcetera — as she gathers her car keys, wallet, and laptop and tosses them into her shoulder bag. As though any of it has answered my questions.
DEADLINES
I’m working the near side of the park this morning. I can almost see my house from here. The field is an oval cricket pitch, with a strip of hardpacked crushed stone splitting the middle for the wicket. I work the edge, stabbing garbage along the treeline.
My arm itches like crazy. I was neck deep in PI, so it’s a miracle I didn’t pick up more. Still, it feels like every itch I’ve ever had has decided to join forces with every other itch and they’re eating themselves into my forearm. All at once. Right now. I find myself having the craziest thoughts as I work. Using knives and forks for the scratching. Pouring boiling water on the rash to distract myself from the burn. Finding the roughest tree in the woods and sandpapering my arm against the bark. Tha
t kind of thing.
I let my mind go where it wants because as crazy as they are, those thoughts are also keeping me from thinking too much about the job. Another day in paradise. Picking up its trash. They work for a while, anyhow. At some point the image of me using that box cutter to cut off my forearm to cure the itch pops into my head, and that’s when I decide to stop being so dumb about it. Making light of crudely amputated limbs? I should know better. I’ve seen what the crazy physics of bullets can do. How fragile we are. But that’s all I’m going to say about it. I hope that’s all right.
Weird as they might seem, those grim thoughts were also keeping me from thinking about Gramma Jan. And Mom. Now the concern comes back, full force. Of course, there are all sorts of reasons daughters might need to stay at the hospital with their sick moms. But my heart isn’t buying the arguments. All it can do is worry.
I’m more worried about Mom. I love Gramma Jan, but she’s not the one I grew up with. She’s the grandparent you need to love from a distance. Who you only see a few times a year but who your mother would still drop everything for. You would, too. But to make sure your mom is taken care of. The concern for Gramma Jan more an abstract thing.
I’m here. Come see me.
Jesse’s voice arrives at the precise moment I think about heading home to check on Mom. As though he can read my mind and is worried that I might not have enough concern to go around. Like he’d get forgotten if I dared to think about Mom for too long. A flash of pure annoyance washes out the morning.
“Now, Jesse? Really?”
He doesn’t respond. Of course. As soon as I close my mouth, the words lost to the grass and trees, I feel stupid about losing my cool. A bit guilty. I haven’t been thinking about Mom a whole lot. I should do better. I will.
I walk over to the tree where I’ve stashed my water bottle and snack bag. The pissing thing with Pat has made me feel weird about stuffing my pockets with food. I don’t know why. I take a long drink and walk out to the road. I’ll probably find the house either empty or quiet with sleep, and there’s no way I’ll wake Mom up if she’s making up for a sleepless night at the hospital. Still, I have to go and check.
A little blue Elantra pulls up to the curb. Walters. The last thing I want to do right now is talk to a reporter. The last thing I want to do ever. I think about turning around, but I’m still wearing my safety vest and there’s no way she hasn’t seen me. She doesn’t get out. The car is perpendicular to me and I can see the dark outline of her head and shoulders through the tinted side glass. She’s turned slightly toward me. Looking at me. Why isn’t she getting out? I start to walk again, faster this time, so when I pass the car I can minimize my exposure.
Her car door opening is loud against the morning stillness. The park is quiet, like it always is in the middle of the week. There are a few people walking dogs and out for early hikes, but they’re swallowed up by the size of the place. It’ll get busier closer to lunch, when parents emerge from their homes, kids tumbling alongside, to head to the play structure and splash pad.
Walters steps around her door and removes a pair of white earbuds from her ears. “Hi,” she says.
“You can’t be here. My mom —”
She holds up a hand. “I’m not working right now.”
Could be the truth. Her hair is tucked under a baseball cap and tied into a ponytail in the back. She’s in running tights decorated in a crazy broken-glass pattern and a neon-peach sports bra. And it’s clear she runs a lot — she’s tanned and fit, and her shoes are scuffed and dirty from the trails. I’ve seen a lot of trail runners in the park this summer. But the timing of it. And a car? She lives around the corner. Like me.
She watches me checking out the car. “You don’t believe me. You think this is an ambush.”
I shrug.
“I like to run before work. Usually I’m out here at six in the morning, but I was up late last night on deadline. I’m going in late today.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t interview in my running gear. Not the most professional.”
She looks down at herself and laughs. It’s the laugh that finally disarms me. It’s genuine. Caught out. She was not anticipating seeing anyone. And the smile around the laugh peels away some of the years between us. Sometimes I have that sense that a lot of the adults in my life aren’t that much older than me. Ms. Nieman, one of my teachers at Windsor, was like that. She was our teacher, so obviously she was older, but there were rare moments when she smiled and didn’t seem like it. Moments we could sit back and not worry about school or homework or anything. She died behind the library counter, where she’d been helping the librarian check out our books. Research for some project I don’t remember. The librarian was definitely an older woman. She held Ms. Nieman’s hand as she died. She wouldn’t let go when the police cleared the room and escorted us out, or later when they let the paramedics in to help the fallen. I heard she screamed at them to get away a bunch of times. Anyhow.
“There’s that look again,” she says, her eyebrows rising.
“Huh?”
“When we came back in for sentencing. You and your mom.”
Why is it that the worst memories come back right when you’re least able to handle them? Why can’t you lock them away, bring them out when you need to? The therapist said, “You can’t always control how you feel, but you can learn to manage the feelings that do come out.” Managing them usually means fighting with them. Fighting back another black, boiling flood.
“And your sentence was so light. What happened?”
“You’re not supposed to be talking to me,” I say, and walk away.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” she says to my back. “But, Wendell?”
I slow and turn back toward her. There’s something about adults using kids’ first names that’s like a tractor beam. “What?”
“Telling your story can help you feel better.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
A pause and a nod. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going for my run.”
“You do that.”
She smiles at me, puts her earbuds back in, and turns to her phone, swiping into a song or podcast. She runs away, her ponytail swinging. Straight across the cricket pitch and onto the trail into the woods at the far side. A streak of neon disappearing into the gloom. As bright as me in my silly vest.
The morning is silent again. It’s cool, too. As I walk home I can feel the dew that has soaked cold through my shoes and socks. Funny I didn’t feel it before.
INBOX
The house is quiet. I lock the door behind me, kick off my shoes, and go right to the bathroom to change the dressing on my rash. It’s hanging by a single strip of medical tape. How is it that medical people can transplant almost any body part but haven’t figured out how to make tape that can stick to sweaty skin? I rinse my arm with cold water, which feels good. The rash is red and angry, as though it resents what I’ve put it through. I change into dry socks, laying my wet ones over the lip of the laundry hamper to dry. I think better of it, drop them on top of the dirty laundry, and carry the hamper downstairs to the laundry room.
The load from yesterday is a cold, wrinkled heap in the dryer, bunched slightly to the side. That last tumble a half-hearted effort. I lift the pile out and set it on top of the machine. There’s no piss smell. Thank God. Nice to know you can normal-cycle away the smell of embarrassment.
I upend the dirty stuff and sort through it. Whites here. Darks there. Synthetics in their own pile. I like doing laundry. The mindless rhythm of it. Lug, dump, sort, wash, fold. Mom taught me the basics when I was six or seven, and now we both watch for the hampers to fill and throw in loads whenever they do. No such thing as laundry day in our house. Any day could be the day.
I see Mom’s phone charging on the kitchen counter when I go upstairs. Confirmation that she’s sleeping. No devices are allowed in our bedrooms, no phones or laptops or ala
rm clocks. The fear of blue light and constant connectivity killing proper sleep. My iPod is charging alongside. Both screens are dark. I tap Mom’s home button to see if there are any urgent notifications she’d want me to wake her up for. Like phone calls or texts with lots of exclamation points. Her old phone had a code, so I could tap it in and see, but her new phone uses a fingerprint. She likes the security. I still check the screen out of habit. But there’s nothing there, only an Etsy photo of one of her metal creations and the phone’s clock.
I don’t like the new picture. It feels sterile. Her old phone had a photo of Jesse and me doing something in our garage when I was younger. She left it in Windsor and bought a new one when we got here. She says it was a blessing in disguise that she forgot the old phone, because she needed a better camera and more speed. I don’t buy it. Nobody forgets their phone when they leave the house to get groceries, much less moving to an entirely new city. It would be like losing a hand or something.
My stomach growls. Lunch hunger hitting me halfway through the morning. I raid the fridge and eat standing beside the sink. Leftover grocery-store chicken in its plastic spaceship. Cold, stiff potato wedges. I munch on some cucumber and celery sticks to “green up the meal,” as Mom likes to say. A conscience thing. She is sleeping upstairs.
My iPod’s screen blinks on across the kitchen and a low electronic chime announces the arrival of an email. I wipe the grease from my hands on a dishtowel and swipe in. A new message from Mia. Time-stamped now. In my excitement, I almost drop my iPod.
wendell. (feels weird to write Dills, i dunno why, sorry.)
how r u? u left ur email address with me, so now u cant get away, ha ha. i guess that means were pen pals. or is it touchscreenlaptopkeyboard pals now? anyway.
im at home and bored. not much wrestling in the summer but lots of weights and running (yawn). but im not writing because im bored. Really. im writing cuz 2day is my 16th bday (insert whistling and fancy bday sounds) and summer bdays are the worst — there are no friends around to spoil u.
Nothing but Life Page 9