by Terry Fallis
“Not to pound the point into the ground, but you were totally relaxed, confident, and calm, even on the inside, during the meeting?”
I nodded.
“That sounds nothing like the typical post-Gabriel you, but very much like Matt’s natural state,” she said. “Do you see where this is going, what this means?”
“That I’m an outstanding actor whose talents are being wasted as a coding cubicle creature?”
“Perhaps, but it also means that you are actually capable of being relaxed, calm, articulate, warm, witty, and friendly, in public settings. You proved it in that meeting. Furthermore, from what you’ve told me, it sounds like Matt and you have very similar personalities, dispositions, and attitudes, as one might expect when the two of you share the same DNA. Now stay with me here. So isn’t it just possible that while you were acting as Matt, you were in fact portraying who you would truly be had Gabriel not intervened? That acting as Matt actually liberated you to go completely inside-out with a total stranger?”
“Let’s not read too much into it,” I said. “I really was acting as Matt. I wasn’t just being Alex with an English accent. I was Matt.”
“Do you really know that? Are you certain?” she asked. “Let me put it another way. Isn’t it true that if you’d gone in there and performed as Matt in exactly the same way as you did, but without affecting an English accent, it would almost be like the real Alex MacAskill saying out loud what you usually keep inside your head? Can you not see that?”
I said nothing as I tried to follow her logic, not that it was too cerebrally taxing. I think I knew that what had happened in the last week, and even in the last day, was significant. But I was still circling it, reluctant to venture too close.
“Alex, listen, this is important. I think this is a big step forward, even if you haven’t really picked up on it,” she said. “Don’t lose this momentum. Remember what it felt like to be in that meeting. Remember that you pulled it off, that your performance was convincing. And use that sensation, that memory and that knowledge.”
Even though I thought she was probably investing too much in my meeting with Stephanie, I had come to trust her judgment over the years.
“By the way, what about the Gabriel dream?” she asked. “When was the last time you had it?”
“Hmmm, now that you mention it, not since our last night in Moscow,” I replied. “That might be a record.”
We spent the next twenty minutes until my time was up talking about the Gabriel Closure Tour that Matt had so kindly organized the day before. I already loved Matt. He was my identical twin brother. Love is somehow built in, even after such a long separation. But his insight and thoughtfulness in tracking down Cameron and Jackson and taking me back to my Gabriel ground zero left me with such a strong feeling of warmth and gratitude towards him. He had so much on his mind yet he still had room in his head and his heart to worry about me, to try to fix me, to help me move past my past. After visiting the skeletons in my closet the day before, I was keen to sustain the momentum and tie up one more loose end.
—
It was just coming up to 3:30 p.m. I waited in the bar just off the lobby of the Chateau Laurier, Ottawa’s grand old hotel, opened in 1912. Preferred by power brokers of all ideological stripes for more than a century, the Chateau was the scene of many seismic events that had shaped Canada’s political landscape. Framed black and white shots by the renowned photographer Yousuf Karsh hung in the bar. Hemingway, Einstein, and Churchill looked down from the walls, even Stephen Leacock.
As an exercise, I decided to follow Wendy Weaver’s advice. As an actor, I planned to play the character of one Alex MacAskill, but in that fictitious world where Gabriel had never happened. It was acting, but if I performed the role well, I might be the only one who knew. Strangely, it was an idea that had never occurred to me.
She was right on time. Even without the red dress and a bird’s-eye view, I recognized her immediately. When I saw her, my heart did something I can’t really describe. It had been so long. She had no trouble recognizing me and picked her way through the tables to greet me, her hand extended.
“Laura Park,” she said as we shook hands. “So glad to finally see you again in the flesh, after so many…”
Nice. It’s going to be like that, is it?
She grimaced, then looked horrified.
“Shit! So sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I meant nothing by it,” she said, even though I was smiling by that time. “We’re not starting that way. We are not.”
She turned, walked four steps away from me, performed a rather theatrical turn, and approached me a second time.
“Hi, I’m Laura Park. Wonderful to see you after so many years.”
Better. Your eyes haven’t changed.
“Alex MacAskill. I’d recognize your eyes anywhere, and that’s not a come-on line,” I said, re-shaking her hand. “I really can’t believe we’re actually meeting.”
We sat down and ordered drinks from the roving waiter.
“Just to get it out in the open right off the bat, I will never forget locking eyes with yours as I dangled above the audience,” I said. “You couldn’t possibly know this, but you really helped me that night. You really helped me survive that night.”
“Really? You’re kidding. Well, I’m glad I was helping, but I had no idea,” she replied. “I was just so horrified for you. That another human being would do that to someone else was a harsh wake-up call for me about the real world. I just wanted to reach up and help you down, but I could only stare at you and not look away. Your eyes were pretty wild that night, unsurprisingly.”
Yeah, well, I was caught a little off-guard, you know, being plied with drugs, stripped naked, and suspended high above the crowd. Cirque du Soleil it was not.
“Yes, well, I wasn’t wearing my usual costume,” I replied. “But you wore a bright red dress. And you never did look away. You sometimes had your hand in front of your mouth. But your face and your eyes said so much to me, meant so much to me in those moments. It really was like you were with me, on my side. I’ll never forget that. I don’t know what would have happened if you’d not been there below me. I’ve been looking for you ever since, to thank you, I mean.”
“Well, you ignored almost all of my emails.”
I wouldn’t have if you’d mentioned the red dress right off the top.
“That’s because until your last one, I had no idea who you were, that you were there that night, that you were the girl in the red dress,” I explained. “If you’d mentioned that in your first email, we’d have met months ago.”
She paused and looked down for a moment. Uh-oh.
“Um, this is a bit awkward,” she started.
Here we go. I wondered how long it would be before you asked. You want to know what was so arousing about hanging high above the audience bound, gagged, and trussed like a pig on a spit.
“But there is one detail I’m still trying to understand, as a journalist, I mean,” she said. “I don’t know if it was the pressure or terror of the moment, or maybe it was…”
“Viagra,” I interjected. “That’s what it was. The little blue pill.”
“Sorry?”
“The Coke I was drinking about an hour before the show was laced with it, obviously without my knowledge. It was all part of their master prank.”
“Ah, okay, okay. Got it. That makes total sense, now,” Laura said. “That’s just cruel and inhuman.”
Yet it seems to have been the highlight in Jackson Trent’s soon-to-be-foreshortened life.
“Why were you there in the auditorium that night?” I asked. “I’d never seen you around the school, never seen you before or after. Where did you come from?”
“My cousin, Jessie Bain, was in grade nine at your school. I was visiting her for the weekend. Turned out she was a shepherd in the pageant, so I went to watch,” she said. “And then when the spotlights found you and I realized what must have happened, my heart just b
roke for you.”
I could see that in your eyes.
“I could see that in your eyes. I don’t know how you managed to be so clear with your eyes alone, but I knew exactly what you were thinking. It was like the Vulcan mind meld. I just knew you were with me. It was like you were communicating with me. It helped keep me calm through the entire ordeal. But afterwards, I could never find you. And I tried. I wish I’d known you were Jessie’s cousin. I knew her a little bit from the show.”
“I had no idea you were looking for me. Anyway, that night really stayed with me. When I eventually pursued journalism, we were always told to dig underneath the story, to try to understand not just what happened, but what lay behind it, and what did it mean for the key players, over time.”
You mean, “How did it change the key players, over time?”
“Hence your emails,” I suggested.
“Right. I really want to write about the broader impact of viral videos on the lives of those victimized in them,” she said. “I really think it’s an important story. And now that video has taken over the web, the kind of prank that was pulled on you is happening more and more with horrendous consequences.”
Oh, I’m well aware of the consequences. Okay, I’m ready, but no names, no photos, and no links to the video. Deal?
“Well, I think I’m finally ready to talk about it, but I do have some, I guess you’d call them conditions, before we can move forward,” I said.
“I figured you might,” she replied. “What do you have in mind?”
That nobody, who doesn’t already know, learns that I, Alex MacAskill, was the unwilling engorged aerial exhibitionist known as ARCHangel.
“It’s pretty straightforward, I think,” I began. “My real name is not to be used in the story. The name of the high school is not to be mentioned. No reference is to be made to Ottawa or even Eastern Ontario. And, of course, no photos. Sorry if that seems restrictive.”
But it’s no more restrictive than what I’ve been living with for the last ten years.
“Done. No problem. I hadn’t planned on using any of that information unless you were comfortable. I’m totally fine moving forward without it,” she replied. “In fact, your identity is not the point at all.”
“Where and when would the story run?”
“I’m a freelance writer, but the Globe and Mail weekend section has accepted the story idea. December marks the tenth anniversary of YouTube and the uploading of ARCHangel. They want to run the story on the second weekend in December as we head into the craziness of Christmas.”
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
“Okay, so what do we do now?” I asked.
Laura pulled a small digital recorder out of her purse and placed it on the table between us.
Whoa!
“Well, if you’re ready and have some time now, I would just like to ask you a series of questions and that’ll probably be it,” she replied. “I may need to call you back as I write the story just to clarify a few points. Then someone from the Globe may call you to fact-check some points in the story, but they’ve already agreed to protect your anonymity.”
“Okay,” I said, eyeing the recorder. “But the audio files will never be released, right?”
I mean, tell me you’re not working on the “ARCHangel Unveiled” podcast.
“You have my word on that.”
I believe you. I believe those eyes.
“Thank you,” I said. “And one more thing, could I read the story before it runs?”
“That is very unusual, but then again, this is not your average freelance piece,” she said. “If you don’t let anyone know that you saw it prepublication, I’ll agree to send it to you, but it’ll just be between us. Does that work?”
“That works for me.”
“And just to be clear, the story is not just about you. I’m also highlighting several other V3s, I mean viral video victims.”
Wait, you cooked up a name for people like me?
“You call them V3s?”
“Sorry, just to myself.”
But I’m the star of the piece, right, even if I’d rather not be?
“But given the timing of the article, I figure my part of the story will be quite prominent in the piece, right?”
“Right. That is true. It’s hard to avoid. You were the first and are still the biggest.”
Isn’t that just awesome. How gratifying.
“You do know that for ten years I’ve been trying to put all of this behind me, right?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “But I really believe this article, and the very act of sharing your insights for it, may well be part of closing that door once and for all.”
You are good.
“Okay, then,” I said. “I’m in.”
We spent the next hour and a half together. It was much less traumatic than I feared it would be. I suspect – no, I know – I wouldn’t have been so calm had our encounter been three weeks earlier. Then again, I would never have agreed to see her three weeks earlier. She was thorough and direct, yet sensitive and understanding. Laura Park was not exactly the dispassionate journalist writing the story from a distance. In part, it was her story, too. I suppose in the spirit of exploring our common ground, she spent some time telling me how that night affected her. She claimed to still be carrying around some unresolved feelings about the human species courtesy of that Christmas pageant in December 2005. I knew what that felt like.
We parted just after 5:00. She promised to email me a draft in the next two weeks. After she’d gone, I sat there in the lobby bar and decided I felt better.
I pulled out my iPhone and dialed Malaya. I hadn’t really kept up with her while I’d been gone, so she didn’t even know I was back in Ottawa. She didn’t pick up. Despite the hour, she was likely still at work in the home of her new patient.
I still had some time before Matt and I were heading into the Byward Market for dinner just a short walk to the east of Parliament Hill and the Chateau Laurier. I banged out an email while I waited.
Dad,
(Hope you don’t mind if I call you that. I’m making up for lost time.)
I was thinking, you really don’t need to keep sending $5k a month over to me. I have a well-paying job, and Mom’s investments, largely thanks to your monthly stake, have left me in a very comfortable position. I’m fine. Instead, maybe you and Matt can figure out how you can invest in Innovatengage. That might be a win-win, particularly if they ever decide to go the IPO route.
Yesterday, Matt took me on a guided tour down memory lane, here in Ottawa. I think it’s been very therapeutic. I’m pretty sure I’ll be back in London for a Christmas visit. I’ll keep you posted until then.
Alex
I watched the screen of my phone just in case Dad responded. After all, it was close to midnight in London and he’d likely be alone, perhaps with his “safe phone” near at hand. Sure enough, a few minutes later, his email appeared.
Son,
(I’m honoured you addressed me as “Dad.”)
Matt has texted me already about what happened yesterday. Even if it is difficult, he is trying to help. So am I. You are his brother and my son, though neither Matt nor I have been able to do our part until now. As you say, I think we are trying to make up for lost time. Still it remains hard for me to be the father I now wish to be. But I am now intending to retire earlier than I had planned, maybe even before the end of the year. The thought of only seeing Matt and you at clandestine meetings after dark is hard to take. We will be free from all of this soon. In the meantime, perhaps I can find a reason to visit our embassy in Ottawa. All of a sudden, it seems quite urgent for Canada to strengthen its trading relationship with Mother Russia.
With a father’s love,
Dad
I had a little moment sitting there all alone while the after-work crowd ambled into the bar. Then I ordered another drink.
—
“You already know ou
r platform backwards and forwards. In fact, you’ve already made improvements to it that thoroughly impressed Isabella,” Matt said, leaning towards me on his elbows.
We were sitting in an Italian restaurant called Vittoria Trattoria in the market. It had taken us only a few minutes to walk from the hotel. It was a beautiful, warm night, making it hard to imagine the subzero temperatures just around the corner.
“Matt, I have a good job, a great job, at Facetech. We’re doing stuff right on the bleeding edge,” I replied.
“Yes, but you could be doing that same level of advanced work at Innovatengage, and we could all be together, you know, the way most families are.”
“Matt, Isabella is very good at what she does. I’ve seen her work up close,” I countered. “You don’t want her nose out of joint by having me there in a role that seems to replicate her job.”
“No, you’re misreading the situation and the role,” he said. “This is Isabella’s idea. She wants you to come. I’ve not pressured her on this at all. You would be coming in as R&D lead. Her role is to keep the current platform online and optimized. Your role would be to work with me to figure out what Innovatengage 2.0 will be. There’s no overlap with Isabella at all.”
“It’s a very nice offer. But this is my home. I live here and I like my job. I even kind of miss my job, parts of it, anyway. I need to get back to it.”
It went on like this for most of the dinner. We actually got a little drunk that night. And when I say “a little drunk” I really mean something else. The confluence of so many big emotional events in the last couple of weeks seemed to trigger a kind of catharsis in us both. Yes, that’s the right word, I think. Catharsis. I don’t mean we got hammered, threw alternating fits of hysterics and weeping as we celebrated, and then got thrown out at closing time. No. It wasn’t like that at all. We were thrown out well before closing time. I’d share more details if they weren’t so hazy, jumbled, and a little disquieting, in my memory. I do not remember how we got back to the Chateau Laurier. I suspect it involved seeing it from the sidewalk outside the restaurant and then stumbling towards it along a very meandering route till we somehow found the Wellington Street revolving doors to the lobby. On the floor of my mind lies a memory fragment of negotiating those revolving doors. I know it’s not a happy memory, but that’s all I can recall. What I do know is that despite each of us having rooms booked in the hotel, I woke up to find Matt crashed out on the couch in mine.