HALEY HAD ONCE asked Jerry, back when they lived together in the small apartment in St. Marys, what would be his favourite way to wake up, other than with sex. Jerry’s unhesitating answer was “bacon”. His favourite way to wake up was to the smell of perfectly cooked bacon. When he was a child it was to the smell of toast being made but when someone told him that smelling phantom toast was a sign of having a stroke, he adapted quickly and decided that cooking bacon meant the same thing—that breakfast would be ready soon, and someone else was making it.
On Tuesday morning, when Jerry finally found his way up from a foggy, dream-filled sleep of which he remembered no details whatsoever, it was because a slender tentacle of airborne bacon drew him up and into the word of reality. He heard Ana puttering in the kitchen and Ravi Shankar’s sitar in the background. “That smells great, Shvibzik!” At least, that’s what he tried to call out. Instead, what came out was a soft, slurred moan. Then his face started twitching and both his hands curled into tight fists. His toes clenched, his back arched, and suddenly all he could see was the fluttering of his eyelids.
He shook and twisted and kicked, and he was sure he was going to swallow his tongue or shit himself, but although the seizure went on for another endless four or five seconds, his tongue stayed where it was and his pyjamas remained clean. When he once again got control of his own body, he desperately needed to throw up. With one hand clamped over his mouth, he stumbled for the bathroom, knocking over one of the bar stools and startling Ana into dropping the frying pan she was scrubbing. He heard the clang of steel on steel and her shout of alarm, but he staggered on, his legs protesting that they were still too weak.
With what his father had called the Powell Luck of the Irish, Jerry somehow made it in time, and as the toilet seat lid flew up, what little there was in his stomach spewed out. He retched a second time, but that seemed more to make sure that his body was done expelling than because he was still nauseated.
A slender hand gently squeezed his shoulder, then released it. He heard the tap running next to the toilet and the plastic tumbler being filled. When he finally sat back and opened his eyes, Ana handed him the tumbler. Without a word between them, he took a mouthful of cool water, rinsed, spit the bile aftertaste into the toilet, and then drank the rest of the water in the tumbler, grateful. He handed it back to her and she wrapped him in her arms.
He squeezed her back. “I’m okay. Thank you for not getting all freaky on me.”
“‘All freaky’?” She released him and they got to their feet. He put the lid down on the toilet, flushed, and followed her out of the bathroom and into the living room.
“All weird. Strange. Melodramatic. You reacted, but you didn’t overreact. Thank you.”
“You needed me. I had no idea of what was happening to you, but you needed me. If you wish, I can get ‘all freaky’ on you after you’ve had breakfast.” She winked at him and moved into the kitchen while he set the stool back on its feet and sat at the kitchen’s island.
“No, I think we can let that lapse go. Do I smell bacon?”
“Yes . . . and no. What you smell is tofu bacon, compliments of Carmella. She said something about ‘nitrates’ in real bacon so you get this delicious ‘facon’. With real eggs and hash browns, which are really potato puffs chopped up and fried.” She placed a glass of grapefruit juice in front of him.
“‘Facon’? Did you just make that up?”
“No sir. I am not that imaginative. When I Googled cooking instructions, the website used that terminology.”
“Ah. It smells lovely, my Sweet, but will it keep for a little bit? After my recent cookie-tossing, I think the juice is about all I can manage, at least for a few minutes.” He took the juice to the couch and settled into it. “I hope you’re not offended. It really does smell wonderful.”
“I promise not to be offended if you tell me why you vomited.”
“I felt nauseated.” Part of him was still trying to process what had happened. “I think I had a seizure. One second I smelled facon and the next I was all clenching and writhing on the bed, trying not to swallow my tongue. I don’t know if I threw up because that’s what happens after a seizure or because it scared the crap out of me.”
Ana planted herself next to him, her legs folded up under her, facing him directly. She took his hand in both of hers, lifted it to her face and kissed his palm, tears streaming down her cheeks, fading away once they went into free-fall. He pulled her in and they held each other close until Jerry leaned back.
“You know, that facon smells too good to resist. I’m pretty sure I can handle breakfast now.” He tried to get up off the couch but Ana shoved him back down.
“Sit. Stay. Obey. I will bring breakfast to you.” She strode off to retrieve the prepared plate.
“Now you’re treating me like a dog?”
“You vomited like a cat, so maybe that would be most appropriate.”
“Have you ever seen a cat sit, stay, and obey?”
“We only had dogs. Jimmy would sit, stay, roll over, fetch, sneak along the floor like a spy, and dance on his back legs.”
“He was a beagle, right?”
“Yes. He was just a puppy, but he was a very smart puppy.” She placed Jerry’s breakfast on the coffee table in front of him and set the knife, fork, and napkin next to it. “He loved Alexei almost as much as he loved me, but Alexei—Lyoshka—was too weak to hold him, which is why Jimmy was in my arms when we were taken into that basement.” She sat back down, this time giving Jerry a bit of room to eat. “I tried to protect him with my body, but those Bolshevik bastards were determined to not let anything living leave that room that was not part of their damned revolution.”
“I’m sorry.”
“As am I. Spasibo. Thank you.”
Jerry ate while Ana leafed through the Popular Science magazine that had arrived in the mail on Monday. The sitar music played on from the laptop, adding an eerie atmosphere to the dark topic still hanging in the air.
Eventually Jerry cleaned the last crumb from the plate and returned it to the kitchen, despite Ana following him and trying to take the plate from his hand while he switched it from hand to hand and around his back, keeping it just out of her reach. She gave up when he kissed her quickly and deposited everything into the sink.
“This is not what I meant about being stubborn, Mr. Powell.”
“Stubborn is as stubborn does, I suppose.”
“Fine. What is your plan of operation for today? What exciting things will we be doing?”
“Today? I promised Manny I’d stay away from the office, but there are some forecasts and plans I have to work on. I emailed the files to myself so I can do that work here, at home. I have to call Mom and Carole at five, and the Palliative Care lady, Elizabeth, wants me to complete that Will Kit she sent home with us. I’m not sure how much fun is in all of that, between telling my family I’m dying to writing down who I want to get what after I do die. This isn’t crap I expected to be doing in my twenties.”
She kissed him on the cheek again and his concern slipped away.
“Was there something you wanted to do, Shvibzik?”
“Since you have asked, I thought it would be absolutely marvellous if you called Dr. Kelly and told him about your seizure.”
“Really? It’s come and gone, over and done.”
“And what if you have another one? Maybe there is a medication that you can take to prevent them.”
“Fine. I’ll add that to the list, somewhere between ‘Work’ and ‘Will’.”
“Thank you.”
“WHAT DID THE doctor say?” Ana stood with her arms crossed in anger, but her facial expression was all worry and concern.
“He said that working from home today was probably a good decision. He said that it sounds like I had just a minor seizure. If I have another one today and it lasts any longer, that I should come in and we’ll talk about some anti-seizure meds. But if there are no more seizures for a few days, w
e’ll hold off on the medication because he doesn’t want to start pumping me full of chemicals that aren’t intended to fight the cancer. He also said that throwing up isn’t uncommon and he wanted me to tell you that if I don’t come back out of a seizure within a minute or two, you’re to call 9-1-1.”
“So he was not concerned?”
“Oh no, he was very concerned. But he also knew that sooner or later I was going to start having seizures. He’s going to call Gemma and see if there’s absolutely anything they can do to speed up the planning process. I got the feeling that he already knows the answer is ‘no’, because of the technical limitations, but he was trying to reassure me that he takes this all very seriously.”
“Well, I should certainly hope so.”
“He does.” Jerry hugged her. “We can’t go second-guessing the professionals. I realize that wasn’t always the case back when, um, when . . . when they were treating your brother, but medicine has come light years since then. At least most of it has.” He looked down into her eyes, and was amazed at how much life there was in their sparkle. He kissed the end of her nose and opened his arms. “Now, shall we look at this Will Kit and decide who gets what should all of medical science not be able to put me together again?” Grabbing the kit off the desk, he took it over to the couch.
“It is such a grim thing. Is it absolyutno neobkhodimo—absolutely necessary?”
“If I die without a will, there’ll be a huge mess and the government will get involved. I’ve been thinking that maybe I should leave my few investments to Manny in lieu of continuing to rent this place for you.”
“No! I do not want to be here if you are not here!”
“Where will you go, Ana? Your destiny is your own, now that you can carry the book and go wherever you want. If you had a Social Insurance Number, you could get a part-time job and even stay here. Maybe I can arrange something with Manny.”
Ana grabbed his chin and forced him to face her. “Jeremy What-ever-your-middle-name-is Powell, if you are not in this world then I do not want to be, either. I would rather return to the book for all eternity.”
“I wish I knew how you got in there in the first place, because then I could join you, if there’s room. I could donate the book to a good library with a rare book collection and we could live out eternity haunting a library and reading our way to the end of time.”
“That sounds absolutely wonderful. While you decide what goes to whom, I will look for an appropriate library.” She went to the desk and opened up the laptop. “Of course it will all be moot because I have faith in you. In my heart of hearts, Darling, I know that this cancer will not kill you.”
“If I were betting my money, I’d go with the prognosis on this one, but if I’m putting my hopes and dreams on the line, I like your thinking, Shvibzik.”
“Excellent. Now write out that ghastly Last Will and Testament and I will do the ghostly Googling and find us the perfect library. Any particular city?”
“I’ve always wanted to see Paris, or even London, and they’re both a lot closer to Moscow than Victoria is. I’d love to see where you grew up.”
“And I would love to show it to you. Once you have beaten this nasty cancer into submission or remission, maybe we should plan a trip.”
Jerry’s hand holding the pen trembled violently and his tongue felt heavy, but it passed as quickly as it came. “Okay. A trip.” He struggled to make the words sound normal, so as to not alarm Ana. “When I’m better.” He turned his attention back to the will, knowing full well that as sweet as Ana’s wishes, plans, and predictions were, the facts were pretty damning. He wouldn’t be visiting Russia in this lifetime.
ANA NARROWED IT DOWN to two academic libraries in France and three in the British Isles, all of which had special collections of Tsarist Russian documents. She printed out the list and went about making Jerry a late lunch while Ofra Harnoy’s cello softly reimagined the music of the Beatles in the background.
His own task hadn’t gone as well, and he was still torn between leaving everything to Ana outright or leaving it to Manny and Carmella to administer for Ana. If he did that, though, he would have to bring them in on Ana’s not-so-little secret so that they understood the whys and wherefores of his unusual bequest. A headache rolled in just before he finished his list of possessions but he pushed through, lastly leaving his digital music collection to Mika. He’d have to make a copy to another external hard-drive for Ana, but he wanted the original files to go to Mika and Danveer. He dropped a couple painkillers into his palm from the bottle he now carried everywhere as religiously as Ana carried her book. Summoning a bit of saliva, he tossed the capsules back and read over his notes.
The sound of rain pounding on the windows finally drew his attention away from the paper in front of him so he wandered over to the window. It was a cold, ugly rain, matching his mood exactly. No lightning flashed nor thunder rolled. It was simply wet and relentless. He sat on the window bench and stared out at the greyness as the heavy raindrops pounded the streets empty of civilization. So far as he’d seen in his few weeks here, it was a quiet street most days, but today it looked abandoned, like the zombie apocalypse had rolled through and left only two survivors—a ghost beyond their appetites, and a guy soon to join their ranks.
He let the steady, thumping, hum of the rain lull him and soon Ana joined him, silently placing the plated sandwich in front of him. She seemed to understand his melancholy and gave him the quiet he needed. He blew her a quick kiss, started in on the sandwich, and the two of them turned their attention back to the rain.
“I should probably have a nap before I call Mom and Carole,” Jerry eventually suggested.
“Would you care for some company?”
“Always.” He led her to the couch and they stretched out, he with his back to the cushions and she with her back to him and his arms encircling her, symbolically protecting her from a world that could no longer hurt her. She wiggled in close to him and giggled when he kissed the back of her neck.
“Sleep tight, my shining knight.”
“You, too, my glowing Shvibzik.”
Chapter Twenty-one
@TheTaoOfJerr: “A gentleman is someone who knows how to play the banjo and doesn’t.”
~Mark Twain
“MOM, BEFORE WE go any further, you have to promise me that you won’t hang up or disconnect, no matter how much you might want to.”
“Now, Jeremy, why would I do that? You’re just being insulting.”
“That’s not my intention. I had a similar conversation yesterday with friends back in St. Marys and they hung up on me.”
“I’m not your so-called friends back in that dinky little town you never should have moved to in the first place, I’m your mother. Now, what’s so important that this conversation couldn’t be between just you and me on a real telephone on the weekend, not this ridiculous video thing when I should be playing bridge?”
Jerry’s younger sister, Carole, huffed at their mother. “Mom, give it a rest. Skype is better than that tinny speakerphone feature on your old handset. This way we can actually see Jerry’s face and he can see us.”
“This new technology is just a waste. I don’t know why you even have to live all the way out there, anyway. If you moved back to Toronto we could be having this conversation face to face. I don’t even have any idea how this Skype-thing works.”
“You don’t have to, Mom. I’m handling the technical end of it. You just have to look at the camera and talk.” Carole’s hand reached up and blocked her laptop’s camera for a moment while she showed her mother where it was. “And I know you can talk.”
“Don’t get smart with me, young lady. You know what I mean.”
Jerry took a deep breath and cut them off. “Are you two finished? Mom, if there were any other way to have this conversation, we would do it, but there isn’t. Carole, thanks for setting this up. Jean-Marc, I see you back there. If you want to run screaming from the room, I completely unders
tand.”
Jean-Marc waved and smiled. “Thanks, Jerr. I’m good. What’s up, mon ami?”
It was time. He felt Ana squeeze his hand from off-camera. They felt it best to wait until after he dropped the bombshell before doing any introductions. “I’ve been to see a doctor. It turns out that my headaches aren’t the result of a lumpy mattress or changes in the weather or—”
“It’s those damned luncheon meats you eat. I told you they would make you sick. Maybe someday one of my children will listen—”
He’d had enough. It was time for tough love and damn the torpedoes. “Mom, shut up. As usual, you have no idea what you’re talking about. You see two articles on the Internet or have a conversation with the ladies during a 3-Spades hand and suddenly you’re an expert. This time you’re dead wrong.” Deep breath.
“Jeremy Powell, I will not take this abuse, especially via some stupid computer thingy. This call is over.” She reached for the computer mouse but Carole slapped her hand away, hard.
“Touch that mouse and Jerry and I will suddenly be orphans. You will sit down, shut up, and listen to what Jerry has to say. Jerry, go ahead, before I choke the living shit out of Mom.”
Not only did their mother look shocked, but Jean-Marc in the background looked like he was going to cheer out loud. Much to his credit, he didn’t.
“Um, thanks, Carole. Mom, I have cancer. Brain cancer.”
Carole sobbed. Jean-Marc went white and covered his mouth with his hand. Jerry’s mother paled a little, but lifted her chin. He could see her clench her teeth briefly.
“That is not funny. I know you want my attention, but trying to shock me into silence with one of your cruel practical jokes is unacceptable.”
Waking Anastasia Page 23