How Does a Single Blade of Grass Thank the Sun?

by Doretta Lau

  Clementine stood up and started crying. Why did trying to be blonde hurt so much? A moment later, her mom walked into the laundry room.

  “What’s wrong?” her mom asked. She glanced at the telltale sink. “Did you put bleach in your hair?”

  “Yes.”

  Clementine’s mother led her to the bathroom and placed her head under the bathtub tap. As cool water dulled the burning sensation, her mom told the story of Fa Mok Lan, the brave girl who pretended to be a boy so that she could take her father’s place in the army.

  “Can I do that?” Clementine asked.

  “You can do whatever your heart wants.”

  When the water stopped running, Clementine sat up and looked at her mom. The light in the bathroom was strong, making her mother look very bright. The sting of bleach had worn off and the tub was nearly drained. As water dripped from her hair onto the floor, she remembered that when she was four years old she thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. Her mom wrapped a towel around her head, gently drying her hair. Clementine closed her eyes. She hoped she would look like her mother when she grew up.

  Robot by the River

  I

  When I was twenty-two years old, I moved into a four-storey historic building in Vancouver called the Shaughnessy Lodge. It was the first time I’d lived on my own, without family or roommates, and at the time I thought of myself as brave.

  I lived on the third floor in a bachelor. All the modern conveniences of the previous century were at my disposal: an icebox, where I kept my important papers; a Murphy bed, which retracted into a large cabinet with glass doors; a free-standing bathtub; and a compartment next to the door for milk deliveries. The windows faced an alley filled with garbage bins and cars. In the summer the smell of rotting food rose up, forcing me to decide between stale or fetid air in my small apartment.

  The floors were hardwood, and I had to sweep weekly to prevent the accumulation of dust-and-hair tumbleweeds. When I chose to leave the safety of my suite, I’d take the stairs. The elevator was a wooden-panelled affair, but because the cables squeaked I was afraid to ride it. I thought the alarming noise was an omen. There was a Denny’s within walking distance as well as a gas station, a Mac’s Convenience Store, several car dealerships, three unimpressive sushi joints, a bike shop and a computer store.

  That was also the summer my boyfriend Yoichi moved to London to attend graduate school in art history. He wanted to be a curator, and this was the first step in his plan for the future; he was the sort of person who finished every project he began. I tried not to dwell on his absence.

  A tall, thin boy occupied the apartment above mine. He was so slight I was sure he was a vegan, even though he was as likely to wear brown leather Wallabees as Chucks. There was an air of distance in his demeanour, as if his body was present but his spirit was located eight thousand kilometres away in another country. It struck me that he was suffering some sort of deep sadness. I’m not sure why I thought this. Perhaps it was his posture or the tense fashion in which he held his hands that gave him away. When we passed each other on the stairs or in front of the building, he would say hello to me. His manner made it clear that he acted out of politeness rather than interest. I would always wait for his greeting before offering salutations of my own.

  The first time I ran into him, I hadn’t slept for four days because of a July heat wave. Everyone in the city was irritable, tired and sticky—it didn’t help that transit workers were on a long strike. By the eighth of July there had been no bus service for one hundred days. I was on my way to see some bands from Vancouver and Victoria play at Ms. T’s Cabaret; he was returning home, accompanied by a young woman with blonde hair and blunt bangs that rested just above her groomed eyebrows. The girl clutched his arm as if he was the latest handbag; she displayed the confidence of someone who was accustomed to being the most beautiful person in any social situation. Our three voices sounded mechanical in the stairwell: Hello. Hello. Hello. Later that week I encountered her on her own, and she walked past me without a word or a look.

  During this time I subsisted on a string of odd jobs and freelance assignments. I was an office temp, proofreader, babysitter, tutor, dj and web content editor. The theoretical knowledge I had acquired during my four years of studying communications at Simon Fraser University was rarely put to use by my numerous employers. Often, my temp jobs reminded me of high school: I felt bored, apathetic and lonely, and there was a touch of misanthropy in all my dealings with co-workers.

  Yoichi and I agreed I would join him in London when I had saved enough money. My goal was twenty-five hundred dollars. The exchange rate between the dollar and the pound at that time was poor, and I didn’t want to be broke in an unfamiliar city. Rather than taking on another job, or getting one very good job, I elected to cut costs by skipping meals, riding my bike and trimming my own hair. (When I look back at pictures of myself from this period, the word that comes to mind is forlorn.) Aside from rent and the phone bill, and the occasional pack of cigarettes, my expenses rarely exceeded forty dollars a week. But from time to time, I would meet a friend for a drink, which would turn into four or five drinks. One morning, after a night consuming gin and tonics on an empty stomach, I realized it was possible I would never save enough money to leave Vancouver for London.

  The first time I saw the tall, thin boy away from the vicinity of our building was while I was working. The receptionist at one of the local weeklies was on vacation, and I was her replacement for six days.

  On my third day of answering phones and signing for packages, the boy got off the elevator carrying a tripod and a large bag. Even though the leaves were just beginning to change colour, he was wearing a thick sweater and a coat.

  “Hello,” he said. There was a look of recognition in his eyes and since we had never exchanged names, I reached out my hand and said, “Hi. I’m Julia.”

  “I’m Oliver,” he said. “I live in your building.”

  “I know,” I said.

  He asked to pick up a cheque. “My last name is Andrews.” A pause. “I’m a Korean adoptee,” he said, as if I had queried the dissonance between his surname and his appearance.

  I asked him if the homeless man who sang opera while searching the back-alley Dumpsters for pop cans and bottles had woken him that morning. The man stopped behind the Shaughnessy at least once a week and had an impressive repertoire of French, German and Italian arias.

  “I sleep through everything,” Oliver said. “Even when you’re listening to music late at night and Natalie can’t sleep.”

  “Oh, sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say, so I started flipping through the cash box for the envelope with his name on it.

  “It’s okay. I like drifting off to your music,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to pick up the latest Songs: Ohia album, but I don’t need to because you have it.”

  If we had been in a high school tv show, he might have said, My band is playing tonight. If you don’t already have plans I’ll put you on the guest list. But since we weren’t twentysomething actors trying to pass as lovesick teenagers, I gave him his cheque and he left.

  That night, Yoichi called me. He wanted me to send one of his books.

  “I think it’s in the box under your bed,” he said. “The one marked theory.”

  “Will you be coming home for Christmas?” I asked.

  “My parents want me in Halifax.” A silence. “And I can’t afford to fly to Vancouver as well. They’re paying for my flight.”

  A plane ticket to Halifax was more expensive than one to London. I couldn’t even suggest meeting him; besides, he had not extended an invitation. We had nine provinces and a frigid body of water separating us, and it seemed like the distance was widening. I began to doubt that a mere airplane ride could bring us back together.

  A few weeks later, when the trees were bare and the sidewalks were covered in
clumps of wet leaves, I ran into Oliver opening a new pack of cigarettes outside Mac’s.

  I told him about a job I interviewed for that hadn’t panned out; a friend told me that the manager decided not to hire me because I’d given the impression that I wouldn’t report to work on time. “Do you think it’s because I don’t wear a watch or because I was late for the interview?” I asked.

  Oliver was lighting his cigarette, so he shook his head instead of speaking.

  “Can I have one of those?” I said.

  He tipped the pack in my direction. “Want to go for a drink?”

  I said yes, and soon we were walking along Hemlock towards downtown. As we approached the Granville Street Bridge, the sun was beginning to set and the glass on the new apartment buildings in Yaletown reflected the pink light. The air was cool, not cold, making the walk pleasant. I began to think it was the sort of night where everything feels original and new, even the most clichéd thoughts and emotions. The sound of traffic on the bridge hid the fact that neither of us had anything to say at that moment. I wondered if he and Natalie had long conversations, or if she did most of the talking, or if they were silent most of the time. We passed the sign that read limited vision and the bridge curved ever so slightly. In a few minutes we were downtown.

  We had our first drink at the Sugar Refinery. A band was just finishing with sound check, so if we wanted to stay longer we would have to pay cover. I had no desire to listen to live music that night or talk over a band’s set, so we headed for Subeez. I hadn’t eaten dinner, so I ordered some fries and a vodka tonic. Oliver was on his third drink and I was on my fourth when Kara Collins came to the table. Kara was Yoichi’s friend from university—an artist whose primary medium was video—and I had met her at various parties and openings and shows.

  “Hello,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Who’s this?”

  “Kara, Oliver,” I said, trying my best to sound sober and in control.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, and Oliver nodded. “How’s Yoichi?”

  “He’s doing well,” I said, even though I didn’t know if that was true. He hadn’t called me for two weeks, and every time I tried telephoning him I got his answering machine. “He may be coming to Vancouver in December,” I added, though it was a lie.

  “Oh, really? I thought he was going to be in Halifax,” Kara said. “That’s what he said in his last email.”

  I didn’t know what to say. My face was flushed, and it became clear to me that I was quite drunk. How was I supposed to respond?

  “I liked your show at the Or,” Oliver said, coming to my rescue. “Especially the piece set in your studio.”

  “Thank you,” Kara said, perking up. There was nothing she liked more than talking about herself and the excellence of her art. “I’m working on another piece at the moment. I was thinking a lot about Rodney Graham’s work when I was shooting. Anyhow, I’m editing it right now. If you’d like, you can come over and view it when it’s done.” She leaned in a little, touching a pin on the lapel of Oliver’s shirt. “Love this.”

  Oliver was looking a little uncomfortable now.

  “So, Kara, have you and Michael found a new place yet?” I asked, regaining my composure.

  “We’re moving into a little place in Strathcona,” she said, her eyes still on Oliver. “You’ll have to come to our housewarming.” As an afterthought she said, “Both of you.”

  She kissed me on the cheek again, chastised me for not calling her more often, and went back to her table.

  “Want another?” Oliver asked, touching my glass.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, please.”

  II

  That year, it seemed to rain all of November. I hardly left the apartment, except to go to work. I took up knitting. Although I was careful, at the end of each row I’d find that I had dropped a stitch or two. When I finished a scarf, which I hoped to give to Yoichi to wear when we met again in London, I unravelled the whole thing and started over, hoping I could get through at least once without missing stitches. I wanted it to be perfect.

  Around me, relationships I had counted on as being till death do us part had begun to come undone like the scarf I couldn’t finish. My mother was divorcing my stepfather, whom she had married when I was five. She called me every other day, and he called me weekly. I listened and told them both I loved them over and over again. My friends Stephen and Marie were also dissolving their marriage. Theirs was the first non-familial wedding I had ever attended. He wanted a child; she, another man.

  My conversations with Yoichi were becoming shorter and shorter. Soon, all our words would be reduced to the length of an epitaph. I was having trouble remembering the lovely things about him, like the way he said my name or how his hands were always warm while mine were cold. And if I was having trouble remembering in the city where we had shared all our adventures, what was there in London to remind him of me?

  When I felt I was spending too much time in my apartment, I went to concerts alone. At various venues, I ran into friends and acquaintances, but I was so unhappy that I had trouble sustaining conversation. After shows I ambled home, still wide awake. I listened to Red Apple Falls repeatedly, as if Bill Callahan’s voice would somehow alleviate my pain. “Ex-Con” became my theme song; I was adrift in Vancouver, a robot by the river. I watched Hard Boiled, Happy Together, Chungking Express and An Autumn’s Tale until I fell asleep. The days began to blur, and I longed to have a real conversation with someone.

  Yoichi hated it when I smoked in bed, so I took every opportunity to do so in his absence. I’d be on the phone with him, puffing away. I said things like, “I’m tired of talking about Derrida. I’m so over theory.” He’d get frustrated with my sweeping statements, and I would try hard not to cry while he was still on the phone.

  I couldn’t figure out where we were on the narrative arc: middle or end?

  One winter day, when the birds had migrated south and the roads were slippery with ice, there was a knock at my door. I wondered if it was my neighbour Jordan complaining about the noise level. He thought my way of cooking, bathing and cleaning was too loud. The sound, he claimed, prevented him from being able to draw and paint; he used his apartment as a studio. Most times he banged on the wall, but on occasion he was angry enough to come to my door.

  “You’re the most distracting neighbour I’ve ever had. How often do you have to bathe? I can hear you splashing in there,” he told me the first time we met. He said this as soon as I opened the door, before introducing himself as the man who lived next door. “I can’t work with you going on like that.”

  But it wasn’t Jordan at the door. It was Oliver. He looked paler than usual and the bags under his eyes were more pronounced.

  “Natalie’s gone.”

  I had just read three novels by Haruki Murakami and for a moment I thought she had vanished, but then realized what he meant.

  “Come in,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  Oliver walked in and lay down on my kitchen floor. I stood next to him, wondering if I should let him know that I hadn’t mopped in weeks. There was a stray Cheerio next to his ear, but he didn’t notice. He was quiet for a moment, but then he began to weep. Prior to that, the only male I’d ever seen cry was my brother, and I had caused the tears. I didn’t know what to do about Oliver. Perhaps other women have a sense of how to act in such situations, but I didn’t have that gift. So I put the kettle on. I was naive and thought tea could make anything better.

  When Oliver stopped crying, I handed him a mug. He sat up to take it. “The leaves are from my stepfather’s garden in the Okanagan. Only there’s no longer a garden, because he and my mom sold the house because they’re getting a divorce.” I said all of this as if Oliver hadn’t been crying.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I didn’t even get to go home one last
time.”

  “What was it like?”

  “There were all these cedar trees in the yard. I used to lie in the grass and read for hours and hours. My bedroom was really small, but it didn’t matter because there was so much space around.”

  We sat in silence for a bit. I got up and put a record on the turntable.

  “Natalie likes coffee,” Oliver said. “She’s afraid to drink tea, especially if it’s made with loose leaves and they get stuck to the bottom of the cup. She’s not big on knowing the future.”

  I nodded, as if I understood. But most days I thought of nothing but the future. I dreamed only of positive outcomes, and I clung to the belief that things could only improve with time.

  “We met two years ago at a party. It was a birthday party,”

  Oliver continued. “We didn’t get on at first. I was quite drunk and

  she was standoffish—she told me later that I reminded her of one

  of her ex-boyfriends.”

  Oliver continued to talk. It was as if he could speak freely now and before he could not. His tears washed away a barrier between

  us.

  “I don’t know how to be without her,” he said.

  “I understand,” I said. “I’m trying to learn how to like being by myself. It’s hard. Now that I’ve gone through all this, I’m not even sure if I should move to London. Would I be any happier there? Can being with Yoichi make everything right again?”

  “You won’t know unless you go.”

  “I guess so.”

  I noticed that one of the buttons on Oliver’s shirt was about to come off. I took a safety pin from the glass cabinet and pinned the button in place. Everything about Oliver indicated that he needed someone to take care of him. This we had in common. Yoichi took care of me when we lived together: he planned and cooked our meals, and he paid our bills on time. I wondered what he was doing at that moment, if he had met a London girl in his building. The idea made me feel ill, even though it was only in my imagination.