“Is this your scene, Lhia?” Jennifer is waiting for an answer, but I’m distracted by Lyle and his blonde sidekick heading to the bar. I’m trying to figure out how to avoid them. I take a step closer to Jennifer. She puts her tiny arm on my shoulder and my feet freeze in place. Like her delicate little hand is an enormous weight.
I study her face. She’d be interesting to sketch — up close I can tell she’s not one to just rely on her beauty — though I have no idea how you’d draw that. I wonder if other people can see this, and I don’t think so. Not unless they’ve watched a ton of old movies. I can see there’s something animated underneath her perfect skin. Some weird, intimidating strength I don’t have, and I can’t imagine I ever will.
“Ahhh, you’re a Capricorn.” She waggles her index finger at me. “Capricorns are always so smart.”
“How did you know?”
“I’d like to read your tarot cards, Lhia.” Jennifer pulls a smallish pouch from the black bag slung around her shoulder. “We can stay after hours. It’ll be easy to arrange with the bartender.”
“I’ve got to —”
“Honey, you need a drink.” Jennifer turns to one of her ninja courtesans. “Rory. Get lovely Lhia a —”
“A rye and ginger please,” I fill in.
“A rye and ginger,” Jennifer repeats.
Rory turns toward the bar and waves a twenty-dollar bill.
Now Jennifer’s holding on to my arm. It’s making me nervous. I’ve heard people in the scene talk about magic before. A few of them wear crystals and say they’re mystics or Wiccans. These same people also play role-playing games so it’s hard to know whether it’s real or make-believe. I grew up believing in science. Like my mom. But Jennifer has super-intensity. Maybe it’s magic, maybe it’s attitude. I like it in the movies, but in real life it’s scary. I feel like I’m part of some kind of performance. I stare at the dance floor until a drink is placed in my hands. I give it a vigorous stir and take a tentative sip from the straw.
“Thanks.” I try to say my line convincingly.
“Ta.” Jennifer finally lets go of me. Shifts her injured leg and grimaces. It looks painful. She nods at the dance floor. “You should go dance if you want to dance. But come back here at closing time so I can read your cards. It will be fascinating.”
Her face is illuminated with blue light. She says something else, but her words are lost to the noisy electro beat. Maybe she wants to give me advice, though I have no idea why. She’s not anyone you’d expect to be kind. She’s not the kind of girl who needs to be nice.
“Yeah sure.” I fake a smile. “Definitely.”
Lyle is still standing by the bar. Now he’s leaning down to hear something the blonde girl is saying. He’s nodding, smiling. She’s still wearing his jacket. She hands Lyle her drink and starts making a big show of taking the jacket off. I half expect her twirl it around her head and throw it on the floor, but she hands it to Lyle, pushing into his chest with it for an embrace. Gross. I take a couple of steps toward the dance floor, but hesitate. Jennifer will be watching. That’s too weird. I turn the corner, walk around the DJ booth, and slip toward the back of the club. I grab my corduroy coat from the booth where I stashed it. In the lobby I smile at Shane while hiding my drink under my coat, smuggling it downstairs to the bathroom. I want to sip my drink, fix my makeup, and figure out what to do. But there’s a cluster of girls in the bathroom sharing lipsticks. They stop talking when I walk in. A closed discussion. I take a couple of sips from my drink, set it on the counter by the sink, and leave. The hallway is dark and eerie. I throw on my coat and a button pops off. I’m not petite and pretty like Lyle’s blonde. And her dress isn’t from a thrift store. I want to go home. I take the stairs two at a time.
“Hey, it’s still early!” Shane looks up from his book as he sees me.
“Gotta go.” This time I push through the door before he can open it for me.
Outside, the air is still heavy with mist. I cut through parked cars and walk quickly until I’m around the corner. The old stone buildings on Sussex Drive weep with moisture as I stroll past, droplets beading on the surface and then soaking in to make strange dark patterns. I pass an arched wooden doorway and then another and I’m almost past the third when I realize something is crouching in it. Dressed entirely in black, the figure is nearly invisible until it lifts its face. Pale skin under ice-white streetlights. Black glassy eyes. A ghost. I start to run.
“Wait!” I hear behind me, accompanied by the slightest of footsteps. “Wait! I want to talk to you!” But I don’t stop. I sprint to Wellington and into a bright shock of light from the Château Laurier. I’m winded. I lean back on a marble column in full view of the parking valets, doormen, and whatever security cameras are rigged up to protect the wealthy people who stay there. I look back, but no one’s there. I stand in the pool of light and watch for movement in the shadows.
Then someone turns the corner by Sussex. A man. I watch him walk slowly toward me. This is not the ghost. I see the silhouette of a hand wave. It’s Lyle.
I hear him say “hey,” but I stay exactly where I am, not answering. When he gets thisclose to me he reaches up and lightly touches a fat lock of hair that’s fallen out of my tangled up-do. “Your hair looks nice,” he says.
“Thanks.” I’m still breathless from running. And scared.
“You walking this way?” Lyle says it without taking his eyes off me.
“Yes.” I agree without knowing what direction he’s talking about.
Lyle starts walking up Wellington, toward Parliament Hill. I match his steps, only looking behind me once to see if the spooky figure is following. I’m hoping Lyle’s spiky hair and leather jacket make him a visual deterrent. Lyle didn’t leave the bar with me this week, but he’s walking with me now. I’m hoping that means the blonde I saw him with is just a friend. I clear my throat. I need to know.
“Was that your girlfriend you came in with at Zaphod’s?”
There’s a long pause. I concentrate on matching Lyle’s leggy steps. Each one stretches the limits of my narrow skirt.
“Well, kinda.” Lyle lights a cigarette. One cigarette. “She thinks she is.”
“What do you think?” I only half expect an answer. In the pause I notice the Hill’s eternal flame is out. Again.
“C’mon,” Lyle says. He takes my hand and leads me through the tall metal gate, past the eternal flame, onto the grass, and up the slope to the left of the main Parliament Buildings. We’re walking uphill. I start breathing hard again, take a few gulping breaths, try to disguise how out of shape I am. Lyle charges ahead and suddenly we’re in a large, angular Sound of Music-style gazebo, toward the back of the gothic buildings. I think we’re doomed, like Liesl and Rolf, until Lyle sits down on a hard marble bench, pulls me down with him, and starts kissing me.
This did not happen in the movie. Now I really can’t breathe.
I hear a muffled bark and Lyle pulls his face away from mine. He shushes me as though I’ll bark back and we see a flashlight coming our way, followed by the silhouette of a short, squat man. A security guard.
Of course every square inch of the Hill is on security cam.
Lyle grabs my hand and we run through the gazebo and down a steep, dark staircase toward the river. There are no lights, so we take turns tripping and stumbling. Security gives up the chase, but we run until my lungs are bursting and the cold night air makes my nose hurt and there’s ringing in my ears from all the motion and a momentary lack of noise. Behind Parliament Hill, in between trees, earth, and river, all I can hear is the sound of a steady rush of water, the rain-like riffling of wind through dry leaves. We emerge at the shore, stare across the river at the orange glow of Hull. An ugly paper factory emitting frothy fumes into the air from twin smokestacks. Lyle squeezes my hand then lets go. His face shines in the muted light. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out his pack of smokes. He takes out two, lights both, and hands me one without asking.
I hold it between my two fingers, bring it to my mouth without inhaling, watch my steam-smoke exhalation evaporate in the chilly air. We stare out at the moving water, shoulder to shoulder as Lyle smokes and I pretend, neither of us saying anything. Lyle finally flicks his cigarette into the water and I do the same and I think we’re going to kiss again. I swallow dry-mouthed and hear a faint crack of a branch. I turn around, see a tall figure in black, with pale skin, black glassy eyes. Not the security guard. Heading toward us. The ghost.
“Hey, buddy, what’s up?” Lyle is brusque, gauging the situation.
The ghost stops. Stares at us. I feel something happen to Lyle’s body beside me. Like it’s puffing up, growing taller. Lyle shifts his weight so one foot is in front of the other. So he’s ready to fight.
The ghost takes a step back so he’s hidden in the shadows. When he speaks his voice scratches and crackles in his throat.
“I just want to know what she said. Jennifer. At the bar.”
“What are you talking about?” Lyle steps forward then back again, confused.
“She wanted to read my tarot cards.” I put my hand on Lyle’s arm. He turns to me.
“Do you know this guy?”
“No.” I clutch his arm tighter. “No, I don’t.”
“Don’t let her read your cards.” The ghost’s voice shifts. He’s moving around in the darkness. “That’s how she casts her spell.”
This time Lyle clutches at me. And then the ghost walks right past us, like a cool blast of wind. I hold my breath.
I hear a sputtering sound. And then a cough so hollow I think I hear lungs rattle against ribs. It sounds painful. My mom would be diagnosing him right now. I don’t know what to think of this strange person. Branches crackle. I can’t see where he is.
“Let’s go.” I tug hard on Lyle’s arm. We start back up the hill. I’m too tired to run. It’s like a creepy slow-motion chase scene, with the tall guy in pallid pursuit. Maybe. I don’t hear him coughing again. The stairs seem steeper and higher than they did when we were running down, and ascending them is taking forever. Lyle gets two steps ahead of me, and then four, and I do my best to keep pace, looking forward, moving upward, until we emerge, finally, on the lawn of Parliament Hill. I gulp air, trying to catch my breath. We walk through the gates and cut across Wellington onto Bank Street. I shiver, but Lyle doesn’t offer me his jacket. The blonde got to wear his jacket. At least she gave it back. Now I’m walking with him, side by side in silence. I glance over my shoulder to see if the tall guy is following us, but the downtown streets are deserted. Ottawa is asleep and we’re walking through some bizarre nighttime dream. At the corner by my place Lyle grabs me and pulls me close to him.
“That was weird,” he says it in a half-whisper, as though the night is our private, spooky secret. “It’s always different with you. You’re not like other girls.”
This time I take that as a compliment. Lyle kisses me. I taste his cigarette tongue, feel his hands slip under my coat, under my shirt. My skin tingles. This time I want to ask him in. I’m about to say it, but then Lyle stops. He takes a step back from me, pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and studies the small screen. Text message.
“Oh, shit. I’ve gotta go.” Lyle jams the phone back in his pocket, leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Sorry.”
I watch him stroll away. His hands are in his pockets. There’s a whooshing feeling in my chest. I’m still giddy from Lyle’s kisses. I climb through my window into a darkened room. I’m about to tear off my damp and muddy club clothes when I hear a sigh coming from my bed. I step back, startled, and trip over a pile of books. My lamp turns on. My mother is sitting on my bed with my stuffed monkey in her arms.
“Where were you?” Mom shifts in the bed to sit up straighter. She’s wearing her fuzzy blue housecoat. I’m busted. She looks worried and disappointed, and I’m embarrassed — it’s the absolute worst.
I fall asleep thinking about Lyle, but I dream about Jennifer. And the weird tall guy. By the time I get up, Mom’s already left for work. I thought she’d be way angrier about me coming home late. I thought I’d be grounded for sure. I think something bad is happening at her work, though. I’m kinda worried about her. She seems stressed, but I don’t really know what’s happening. Maybe we should watch a movie together. One of our old favourites. The Philadelphia Story or Roman Holiday. We haven’t done that in a long time. I sigh and feel sorry for my mom. Nothing interesting or good ever happens to her. And the last person she kissed was probably my father, whoever he was.
I have half a bagel for breakfast, and when I wander back into my bedroom I see something white stuck between the drapes and the wall. It’s a piece of paper. I left my window open a sliver. I feel a twinge of excitement: Lyle’s left me a note! It’s only one line, though. I read it over and over to interpret what he means. It says:
meet me. stairs by canel. NAC. 11:30 a.m. i have something for u.
Somehow I expected Lyle to be a better speller. But it doesn’t really matter. He wants to meet me! On the stairs by the canal near the National Arts Centre. Guess I won’t be going to school. I spend forty-five minutes with my hair straightener. When I get to the meeting spot I look around for Lyle, but no one’s there, so I walk down the stairs and sit down on the bottom step. I feel the cold concrete through my tights and black jean skirt and stare at the murky water. A strand of hair sticks to my lip gloss. When I flick it back I see the tall guy emerging from the direction of the Wellington Street bridge and walking toward me. He’s wearing the same black clothes as the other night. In the daylight he looks more scruffy than menacing. I’m wary, but not scared.
“Oh, it’s you.” I stand up and step off the stairs.
Tall guy fidgets with a large hole in the cuff of his black hoodie. He smells like he needs to do laundry.
“I thought the note was from my friend Lyle.” I stick my hands in the pocket of my skirt and take a step back. “How did you know where I live?”
“Lyle. He’s the guy who lives with his blonde girlfriend on Cooper Street. Two-fifty Cooper Street.” Tall guy looks right at me in a way that makes what he’s saying seem true. He’s like a scruffy, gutter punk version of one of Mom’s TV reporters. She’s always watching the news and getting depressed.
“I don’t have much to do,” he says. “So I watch people. I followed him one day. Pretty boring. He wears black pants and a white dress shirt and works at a fancy restaurant on Somerset. Probably he’s about twenty-five. His girlfriend works at the grocery store and gets her nails done. Probably she’s twenty-five, too.” Tall guy looks at me intently. “Older than you.”
I take another step back. More ugly facts. I don’t like news stories. And if this guy knows that much about Lyle, then how much does he know about me? How long has he been following me?
“But you’re smarter.”
I want to punch him hard in the gut. I imagined a Lyle that doesn’t exist. I liked his kisses. That was real. That happened. Maybe tall guy is exaggerating. Lyle can’t be this boring. I don’t want the blonde I saw him with at the bar to be the woman he lives with. She was wearing his jacket. Then he left without her. We kissed in the gazebo! But now I think it wasn’t serious — for him. It couldn’t have been. I feel stupid. I want to cry. I sit back down on the step. Tall guy is still watching me. I need him to leave so I can let all my silly romantic fantasies dissolve into tears.
“Did you have something to ask me? Why am I here?”
“Oh yeah, one sec.” Tall guy slings a dirty duffel bag off his back and onto the ground. There’s a rolled-up blanket and a pair of rotted black running shoes tied to the bag. I look at the ghost’s feet. He’s wearing two pairs of grey wool socks, both full of holes. He rummages around in his bag. I think about running back up the stairs, but where am I going to go — school? I’m too disappointed to move.
“This is for you.” He hands me something flat and oblong. I put my arm out and take it, still eyeing him to see w
hat he’ll do.
“I found this old picture on the street,” he says. He crosses his arms and inclines his head like I’ve seen my art teacher do when talking about a painting. “I etched an image of the Parliament Buildings in it. Then I put a bit more paint on it and drew the eye.” When he points at the painting I see old crusty paint blobs on his hands. I look at the picture. Detailed gothic spires are inscribed onto a seventies-style landscape, and everything is partially obscured by swirls of grey, white, and black. A large red eye sparkles in the corner, staring like a surveillance camera.
“Wow.” The picture is like a study in technique. It’s everything my art teacher is always going on about. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I figured I should do something to apologize for maybe scaring you the other night.” He grins. His teeth are straight and clean. Street people usually have horrible teeth.
“Who are you?” I try to look into his eyes, but he looks away.
“No one,” he says. “A ghost.”
I reach out and touch his arm lightly. “No you’re not. You’re real. Besides, ghosts haunt houses, not an entire city.”
“But I am invisible.” He jerks his arm back. “Only a few people can see me. You’re one of them.” He sighs and plunks down to sit cross-legged on the concrete promenade. “I’ve come all this way and it’s the same thing everywhere I go.”
“How did you get here?” I fight the urge to pat him on the head. I’m not sure how to make him feel better.
“On the bus,” he says, giving me a strange look. “I had money. I had a special fund, but it’s all gone now. I was looking for someone.”
“Did you find your person?”
He lies down flat on the concrete with his hands on his chest like a corpse. I peer down at his prone body. His eyes are closed. His is a much more complicated story than my crush being practically married. And I want to know what it feels like to lie on concrete. I lean back and feel my shoulders touch the ground. Then my head. I’m lying on concrete in the middle of the day beside a haunted man. But I’m not afraid.
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