How Does a Single Blade of Grass Thank the Sun?

by Doretta Lau

  How Does a Single Blade of Grass Thank the Sun?

  Doretta Lau

  How does

  a single blade

  of grass

  thank

  the sun?

  2014

  Copyright © Doretta Lau, 2014

  all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright, the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, www.accesscopyright.ca, info@accesscopyright.ca.

  Nightwood Editions

  P.O. Box 1779

  Gibsons, BC

  Canada

  www.nightwoodeditions.com

  typography and cover design: Carleton Wilson

  Nightwood Editions acknowledges financial support from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publisher’s Tax Credit.

  library and archives canada cataloguing in publication

  Lau, Doretta, author

  How does a single blade of grass thank the sun? / Doretta Lau.

  Short stories.

  ISBN 978-0-88971-293-5 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-88971-299-7 (ebook)

  I. Title.

  PS8623.A8165H69 2014 C813’.6 C2014-900621-7

  For Mom and Dad

  God Damn, How Real Is This?

  My future self sends me a text message at least once a day.

  The latest: hey, tricho-slut, get your man hands out of our hair. i have a lake michigan–shaped bald spot forming on the back of my head. stop plucking. it’s starting to look like a penis.

  Last I checked there were no Great Lakes of any sort blooming on my scalp, no Superiors or Hurons or Eries flooding my hair. Of late, these missives from the future have become increasingly more abusive. I wonder, when will I flip my bitch switch and hop on this negative self-talk train? In a week? In a year? I’d like to believe this use of misogynistic language is out of character and that maybe I’m being trolled by a bored identity thief. I file the thought as something for my present self to discuss with my now therapist.

  Another message flashes on my phone: that mole on your left arm that you’ve been ignoring? get thee to a doctor.

  I peer down. My arm is presenting itself as blemish free. At times like this I wish I could send a text to my future self to make clear the murky. I want to address important issues such as: will I die alone? But that technology hasn’t been invented yet, or our future selves have circumvented its implementation for the good of humanity.

  I call my local clinic and explain my situation.

  “This is Franny Siu calling. I can’t find this mole my future self is warning me about, but I’d like to make an appointment to see Doctor Chang.”

  “I understand,” says the woman on the phone. “Last week, my future self started blasting me messages about herpes. Today, she escalated to drug-resistant gonorrhea. I think she’s trying to tell me that my boyfriend is cheating on me.”

  “No sex for the hexed,” I say, unsure how to handle this kind of intimacy with a near stranger.

  “Come at two tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Great. See you tomorrow,” I say, and hang up.

  Despite this disruption, I still have time before my therapy session to stop by my ex-colleague Rita’s house and check on her. Rita has not left her house in months because her future self keeps divining death and destruction. As soon as she thinks of doing something—innocuous activities such as watching a movie or washing her feet—a new text arrives dissuading her from taking action.

  I pack up some leftover food and a stack of library books, slap spf 90 sunscreen on my face and arms, and get on my bike. A block from Rita’s, I see that Chronology Purists have purchased a new billboard: Has communicative time travel ruined your life? Our counsellors are ready to talk.

  I think about calling the number listed, but decide instead to stop at a convenience store to pick up additional supplies.

  The scene indoors is vaguely apocalyptic. The lights are off. Many shelves gape, emptied of goods. Since the texts from the future began arriving nine months earlier, people have been hoarding canned food and toilet paper out of fear that the new technology has sparked end times. I sigh. Spoiler alert, present-day peons: it’s our appalling

  behaviour that blights our existence.

  I grab a loaf of bread and head to the counter. The clerk is wearing a bulletproof vest.

  “What if I shot you in the head?” I ask. “The vest wouldn’t do you much good then.”

  “Do you think you’re the first to ask that, smartass? My future self has already pointed that out to me, thank you very much,” he says.

  “How does the store stay afloat without the scratch-and-wins?” I ask, motioning to the bare strip of space under the Plexiglas countertop. Three months ago, the government suspended all forms of gambling. I miss the surprise of running a toonie across a scratch card, that sick joy of self-inflicted failure that’s preceded ever so briefly by hope.

  “That will be ten dollars, please,” he says, pointing to the bread.

  I reach Rita’s house and speak through the front door. “Hey, I’m leaving you some gazpacho. The ingredients are organic. I triple-

  filtered the water. There’s also a loaf of gluten-free bread and the books you asked for.”

  No answer. The smell of feet lingers in the air.

  “Just send me a text,” I say.

  My phone pings with a message from present-Rita: thanks, franny. there’s twenty bucks for you under the doormat and a book that needs to be returned.

  “Your recent actions are fashioning me into an enabler,” I say, stooping down to look under the mat. “I don’t like who I am becoming under your influence.”

  No answer.

  I text her: your future self is chicken little. your future self has become your mother.

  No response. I move on.

  My therapist, Kelly, does not have a cellphone. She’s a Chronology Purist—she wants her life to play out exactly as it would have if communicative time travel had not been invented. I don’t get how this is possible, given that the timeline has already been breached, but logic is not my strong suit so maybe I’m missing the point. Sometimes her future self tries to get in touch with her via my phone, but present-Kelly has instructed me never to pass on any information. I’m in the uncomfortable position of knowing that the majority of her stocks will tank in the next six months…though I suppose if I do pass on the information, it would be classified as insider trading. I keep my mouth shut; we both stay out of jail. I wonder if I should look for a new therapist.

  “How was your week?” Kelly asks.

  “I worry that I am a misogynist,” I say. “My future self is really fond of calling me a slut or a whore, which I find puzzling because I never use either of those words. I’d be much more likely to refer to myself as a douchebag.”

  “What at present do you think is causing this negativity?”

  “I don’t know. I’m frustrated with the fact that I can’t communicate with my future self. I mean, I guess I could leave notes for her in my journal, but I don’t know if she’ll ever see them.”

  “What can you do right now that will make you feel better?”

  “I guess I could write a letter to myself, and you can give it bac
k to me six months later.”

  “Okay, do you want to try that this week?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Our time is up,” she says, standing. “Until next week.”

  As soon I leave the office, a new message arrives from my future self: hey rickets breath, have you taken your calcium and vitamin-d supplement today?

  I hit delete.

  Kelly’s future self is angry with me: i’m going to have to raise my fees to cover my losses, so you’re the one who will

  suffer if you don’t tell me to sell the stock.

  I decide to write two letters: one to my future self and one to

  Kelly’s.

  The next day at the doctor’s office, the waiting room is a cacophony of phones beeping and bleeping. Everyone looks anxious. I know now that ignorance is Eden. If I knew how to code a virus, I would direct my future self to send the inventor of communicative time travel a diseased email to avert this reality.

  I text Wilson to meet me at 2:30 at a coffee shop across from the clinic—I need someone to talk to in case I have terminal cancer—and he replies with an immediate affirmative.

  The receptionist, who does not look ill, calls my name and leads me to a private room.

  Doctor Chang appears after a few minutes. He examines my arm and says, “Do you think that maybe—and I don’t want to sound judgmental—that your future self suffers from a touch of Münchausen by proxy?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You’ve been here seven times during this past month. You complain of future ailments, but in actuality they’re merely imaginary diseases foisted upon you by your future self.”

  “I read somewhere that the child is the father of the man,” I say.

  “Are you still pulling your hair out?”

  “Did my future self contact you about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry we have no boundaries,” I say. “Also, isn’t my condition just Münchausen? I mean, I’m still me, even in the future. No proxy.”

  Doctor Chang gives me a look that indicates that he is the medical professional and I am just a poor excuse for a patient.

  I leave his office in shame. My diagnosis? Dormant Münchausen by proxy.

  Wilson is late for our meeting at the coffee shop. My hand wanders to my tresses.

  My phone pings. whorebag! place your man hands where i can see them or i’ll shoot!

  I sigh and fold my hands in my lap. The last thing I need is for my future self to become suicidal and send an assassin my way.

  Fifteen minutes, three hairs and four text messages later, Wilson rolls in on a skateboard.

  “Konichiwa,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “Nice dress.”

  “Those wheels become less and less an acceptable form of transportation with each passing calendar year,” I say to him.

  “I broke up with Cynthia,” he says with a shrug. “I live for today.”

  Two months ago, Wilson’s future self went silent. No texts or email. He concluded that his future self was dead, so his motto became carpe diem. He made a bucket list, which included things such as climb Mount Everest, learn Japanese and eat yogurt for the first time ever. Everest was a bust (summit, avalanche) and he’s lactose intolerant. I suspect this list could be the reason for his early demise, but I haven’t said anything because I don’t want to be a killjoy.

  “Did you get a haircut?” I ask.

  “I did—that’s why I was late. So, how did your appointment go?”

  “My doctor says I have dormant Münchausen by proxy but I think it may just be plain Münchausen since I’m doing it to myself,” I say. “There’s now a hold on my insurance for a month and I can only seek medical help in life or death situations. Also, Rita still won’t leave her house.”

  “Forget your troubles. I’m here! Come to the park with me,” Wilson says, grabbing my hand.

  “Is there a cliff you want to jump off?”

  “Something like that. Better, actually. Also, I stopped drinking coffee and I don’t like the way they serve tea here.”

  “What’s better than jumping off a cliff?” I ask.

  “You’ll see,” he says, smiling.

  We leave on our separate vehicles. I reach the park first. Wilson shows up with a fresh bruise on his arm.

  “I fell,” he says. “I wish my future self were alive so he could send warnings.”

  “Everyone is afraid to live now,” I say. “You should be thankful for the radio silence.”

  “I’m nearly done everything on my list. There’s only one thing left.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He points to something in the trees. I gaze up in search of this final thing, sure that I’m about to witness some new kind of beauty, but I don’t see anything. When I look back at Wilson his face has travelled and is inches from mine. He kisses me. I close my eyes and think only of the present.

  We separate. He smiles.

  “I feel the same way about you, too,” I say.

  His phone pings. A look of surprise lights up his face. “It’s a text from my future self.”

  you magnificent bastard, it reads. i’m glad you stopped being a scared little pansy and chose to live life. don’t fuck this up for us. i love her.

  He turns off his phone, but not before I glimpse the rest of the message.

  tell her to get that mole on her left arm checked.

  Two-Part Invention

  I

  The neighbours who live in the apartment above mine are having loud sex. Our building has thin walls and creaky floors. Every Sunday, they follow the same routine. They throw on a Sarah McLachlan album. The man likes to talk—too much, in my opinion. They get straight down to business, as if they are in a movie where the woman doesn’t need foreplay. Their moaning and panting never exceeds the length of the album. Sometimes I wonder why their record collection is so small. Why haven’t they purchased any new music since 1997?

  I’m aware of their schedule because every Sunday at 7 p.m. my grandmother Nina calls me.

  The phone rings. I answer it without hesitation. “Hello,” I say.

  “Are you watching porn?” Nina asks.

  “I don’t have a tv,” I tell her. “I’m not watching porn.”

  “I can hear it. You’re watching porn. If you’re lonely, just admit it. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s perfectly healthy.”

  “I am not watching porn.” I try to keep my voice even and respectful.

  “Why haven’t you found a man?” she asks.

  “A good man is hard to find,” I say, trying not to sigh. I feel no need to come up with a witty or original answer because she asks this question every time she calls, after she has inquired whether I have eaten. Even if I haven’t eaten, I always tell her that I did indeed eat. I know it makes her happy if I am not hungry.

  “My doctor is a fine young man. I believe he’s single,” she says, excited.

  “Sounds like you have a little crush on him. Are you going to ask him out?”

  “Silly! He’s perfect for you. I’m happy to be single. I don’t want another man now that your grandfather has passed. Besides, I’ve had my share of boyfriends. They were all older men and now most of them are dead.”

  “Really?” I say. “This gives me a brilliant idea.”

  I have decided to date dead men.

  “So silly!” Nina says when I tell her my plan the following Sunday. “Your parents wasted good money sending you to school. No common sense.”

  “There are more dead men than living men.”

  “I suppose you have a point.” She sighs. “Is it possible that a dead man will father my great-grandchildren?”

  After some thought, I decide that I would like to go on a date with Alain Delon, but when I tell Nina this she tells me
he’s not dead. “Too bad,” I say.

  I start reading biographies because I often find answers in books. Before my decision to find a dead man, I read only fiction. I read stories about unhappy people. Somehow, this made me happy. Now, the unhappy people I read about were once alive. This does not make me feel particularly happy at all.

  “Why are you only considering movie stars?” Nina asks me when she hears that my reading list consists only of actor biographies. “And Bruce Lee! He was still married when he died and his wife is alive! Are you going to be an adulterer? Your parents raised you to behave better than this.”

  “I believe his wife has since remarried. Twice.”

  Nina is silent for a moment. “And Ruan Lingyu is a woman!”

  “I liked her performance in The Goddess. She’s a Chinese film icon. I want to meet her.”

  “Is this why you don’t want to find a man? You like women. Is that it?”

  I laugh. “If I liked women, I wouldn’t be searching for a dead man.”

  I know the men I am considering are dead, but still I fear rejection. What if they wish only to date the dead? I’m not willing to die for a man.

  Days go by. My search proves to be difficult. I have trouble making decisions when presented with numerous choices. Sometimes I think I would thrive in a Communist state, or in an arranged marriage. I do well when there are limitations and boundaries.

  “Why not historical figures?” Nina asks.

  “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Genghis Khan.”

  “Too brutal.”

  “Malcolm X.”

  “He was still married when he was assassinated. And his wife never remarried. Plus, she’s been dead for some time. I imagine they’re back together.”