All That's Left

by Ward Anderson

  “It wasn’t like that,” Dania says. “You don’t even know.”

  “I knew my own twin brother. I knew him better than you ever did.”

  “He loved me.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “He didn’t care about my past.”

  Steven rolls his eyes. He can feel the bruise on the left one and imagines that’s the eye socket that was pummeled. “I’m sure he loved it. He just wanted to do anything he thought made him different or special or eccentric.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Don’t you get it?” Steven asks.

  “What?”

  “All this talk about what Scotty was or wasn’t ashamed of. All this talk about how he knew about your past and wanted to know more.” Steven tries his best to lean in closer to her. “Of the two of us, I’m the only one who really fell in love with the real you.”

  He looks away from her. He sees people walking by the room, down the long hallway outside. He can hear nurses or doctors or whomever walking on the hard tiled floor. He hears random beeps and machines. He can still hear the air-conditioning. All of it makes his head hurt. He wants to make all of the sounds go away. He so desperately wants silence.

  “If I had told you everything from the beginning,” she says softly. “If I had told you about Nez and my parents and all the surgeries and all the therapy. About being the wrong person for most of my life. About feeling hated by my own parents and still feeling like I was born completely wrong and no one listened or understood when I begged them. If I had told you everything from the start, would you have stayed?”

  “If you had, would I be lying in this hospital bed right now?”

  “You think this is my fault?”

  “You don’t have a clue what I’m feeling or thinking.”

  “I think you’re scared.”

  “Oh, screw you.”

  “It’s true,” she says, stepping closer. “I think all of this scares you, and that’s why you’re so angry with me. That’s why you’re lashing out at me. You don’t even see that everything I’ve done since you got here was for you. To try and keep you happy and keep you safe. To keep you from learning the things you were better off not knowing.”

  “Thanks for nothing.”

  “That’s the biggest difference between you and him, you know. He wasn’t scared.”

  “You really never knew him at all, did you?” Steven asks as he tries his best to sit up in the bed. He feels the IV tug at his skin when he moves his arm to steady himself. “Scotty was the most terrified little boy I’ve ever known.”

  “That’s not true,” she says.

  “Are you kidding? He killed our parents.”

  Dania makes an audible gasp and covers her mouth. Her beautiful hair falls down into her face, and she pushes it away with a sniffle.

  “Didn’t know that, did you? Well, that’s what he did. All because he was careless. And then he never could even own up to that. Instead of getting his life together, he just got worse. He just ran away. The rest of his life, he was just running. Just a scared little kid always running away.” Steven holds his left hand up to his face and is surprised that it’s not in pain like other parts of his body.

  Dania turns and looks away from him. She stares off into the corner, putting her back to Steven.

  “Why do you think he never drove anywhere? Why do you think he could have gotten a car and never did?”

  “He had headaches,” Dania says quietly.

  “Oh, yeah,” Steven says, “the headaches. Because he wouldn’t wear his glasses. Please. He got the headaches from his head hitting the windshield. Underneath that long hair was a nasty little scar you never got to see.”

  Dania says nothing and does not turn back around. Steven sees her shoulders moving and can tell that she’s crying. He’s said enough and knows he should let it go. He should stop talking now and just let her weep. But he wants to keep pushing. He wants someone to finally know the truth about Scott. He wants to stop pretending his brother was something he never was. Everyone thought Scotty was always the life of the party, when Steven knew that Scotty wasn’t even that nice a guy.

  “He ran away from everything,” Steven says. “He was scared of driving and scared of dying and scared that one day he’d realize that he had done nothing but constantly run away. Anything to keep from having to simply grow the hell up and just forgive himself.”

  “He was a good man,” Dania says.

  Let her believe that. Steven can hear Scotty talking in his ear. But he tells Scotty to go to hell.

  “He was a liar, and everything about him was a lie.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I mean all of it,” Steven says, “but maybe you’re right, too. Maybe you’re not the one I should be angry with. Maybe this isn’t your fault.”

  “Don’t—”

  “Maybe this was all about him all along. In the end, Scott did this to both of us. He screwed us both over. And all because he was too much of a coward to do anything else.”

  Dania turns to look at him, but she is not angry. She is not going to yell at him or throw a tantrum, and she isn’t going to hit him. Her hands are open, and she holds them out in front of her, as if pleading with him to stop. He’s hurting her now, and he knows it. She just wants him to stop. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She then looks off to the side, as if trying to pretend he’s not even in the room with her. Pushing the hair out of her face, she starts to speak but, instead, turns around and walks out of the room.

  Steven looks the other way. He doesn’t want to see her walking down the hallway. He doesn’t want to see if she looks back toward the room. He doesn’t want to hear her footsteps on the hard tile floor in the hallway. He hates that he can hear her footsteps and wishes he couldn’t hear them. He just wants silence.

  After a few minutes, he feels the stinging in his face, but this time it’s in his eyes. Everything gets blurry as the pain radiates to the back of his head. After a minute he realizes that the pain he’s feeling is caused by his own tears.

  There is a light, but not in his eyes this time. It’s not a flashlight, just the fluorescent lights overhead being turned on. Steven sees red through his eyelids. He can’t quite open his eyes all the way. He has to adjust to the brightness. He sees a slender figure approach and lean over the bed.

  “Dania?” he asks.

  “Who?” a man’s voice responds. Steven tries to shake his head and wake up faster. He still feels the IV attached to his arm. His face hurts more now than it did before. The drugs must be wearing off. There are fewer painkillers pumping through him now that he’s been here for a while.

  His eyes adjust and lock in on a tall, thin, white man standing over him. The man snaps his fingers several times in Steven’s face.

  “You in there, chief?” the man asks.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Steven Kelly?” he asks. Steven nods. The man stands up straight and closes the door behind him, then steps back over to the bed. “You know where you are?”

  “I already did this with the other doctor,” Steven says.

  “I’m not a doctor, chief.”

  “Then who are you?”

  “My name is Bobby Clayton. I’m with the consulate.”

  “Which one?”

  “Funny. The Canadian one, of course. The High Commission of Canada, if you want to be precise.”

  “Am I in some sort of trouble?”

  “Should you be?”

  Steven shakes his head. “No,” he says, although it comes out as a question.

  “I’m just kidding with you, mate,” Bobby says. He has very short hair and a thick jawline. Definitely a military guy. “Just checking up on you to make sure you’re okay and alive.”

  “I’m alive,” Steven says. “The jury is still out on the rest.”

  “Sure. That’s what I heard.”

  “So, that’s why you’re here? Is that typical?”


  “No, to be honest. But you know what’s also not typical? Violent crime in Singapore.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Steven says.

  “Yeah, I guess so. But I wanted to see if you were okay with my own eyes. You don’t remember me, but we’ve met before.”

  “We have?”

  “Yep. Two years ago, my sister got married in Toronto. We had a huge dinner at your restaurant. You talked about wine with me for a good hour.”

  Steven realizes that if he tells Bobby he remembers the conversation that he’d only be lying. And he’s pretty sure that Bobby would know he’s lying. Instead, he tries to smile and nod.

  “Anyway,” Bobby says. “When we got the report that you were here and pretty banged up, I did some looking around. I’m sorry to hear about your brother.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Rough week, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All of that and then you took a bit of a beating a couple of days ago,” Bobby says. It’s only then that Steven realizes how long he’s been out.

  “Pretty bad,” Steven says flatly.

  Bobby leans in and gives Steven a sly grin. It’s surprisingly warm. As if—if Steven were in better shape—Bobby would give him a playful slug to the shoulder. “Didn’t get a look at who beat you up, eh?” Bobby asks.

  Steven shakes his head. “No, not really.”

  Bobby hums. “Well, it was dark and rainy. It gets dangerous around here when it rains. Lots of accidents. That sort of thing. Not a lot of crime but—boy—there can be some accidents when it rains.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Steven looks warily at Bobby.

  “Yep,” Bobby says, looking out the window to the hallway. “Hell, just on the other side of the city, over by the Riverwalk, some guy slipped in the rain and died.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Bashed his head against the curb.”

  “That’s terrible,” Steven lies.

  “Not really.” Bobby turns and looks at him, right into his eyes. “Spoke with the locals about him. The cops. He was a real scumbag. Just a total piece of shit, this guy.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “A hustler. Pimp. Just an all-around lowlife, if you ask me. Everyone who knew him is pretty much glad he’s dead. Everyone.”

  “Wow, just like that, huh?”

  “Just like that. He’s gone, and no one will miss him.” Bobby leans in again. “Not one bit.”

  Steven nods and tries to gesture in a way that thanks Bobby at the same time. Bobby gives him a wink and stands up straight again.

  “So,” Bobby says, “they say you get to leave in a couple of days. The hospital, I mean.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Well, if you need anything at all, we’re here for you. We’ll support you all the way.”

  “That’s great news. But I think I’m ready to put it behind me now.”

  “Sounds like the right idea,” he says. “Singapore City is an amazing place. But I bet you probably want to get going home, eh?”

  Steven nods and realizes Bobby isn’t asking a question. “More than you know,” he slurs.

  Bobby smiles. “That’s good. Probably the sooner the better, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You leaving anything important behind in Singapore?”

  Steven shakes his head. “Nothing I will miss.”

  20

  He feels his entire body jump and realizes that the plane has touched down. Pulling out his earplugs, Steven is surprised to find he must have slept through the past seven hours. The painkillers he was prescribed at the hospital did the trick and, with a couple of glasses of awful airplane wine, he managed to close his eyes a bit and suddenly wake up in Toronto. He wonders if he can get these same pills for the next time he travels.

  Behind him, he hears people rustling and getting ready to leave the plane. The sound of what must be a bag of chips being folded up and shoved into a carry-on bag tells him that it’s a good thing he remembered earplugs this time around. He’s not sure if he could have put up with all of that noise while dealing with the pain in his face at the same time. As luck would have it, he wasn’t awake for most of it anyway.

  His neck hurts from being pushed up against the window, but it’s nothing compared to the pain he still has in his face and jaw and ribs. Still, this was one of the easiest flights he’s ever had to endure. Modern medicine is a wonderful thing. He can easily tell why people become addicted to these pills.

  Just to be sure, he pulls the bottle out of the inner pocket of his sports jacket and pops a few more of the little capsules into his mouth. He likes the way it makes everything bother him a little bit less.

  There is a lecture on the plane about where to find his bag, where to follow the arrows, who to talk to, and everything else they tell people arriving from overseas. All he cares about is getting off the plane, getting home, and being there as long as humanly possible. He has a suitcase to pick up at the baggage claim but—besides that—feels oddly like he’s bringing more with him than just luggage.

  He hates that feeling. He wants to be home where he can lie down, sleep another day, and just put the past few weeks behind him. A new year is coming. He wants to start all over and can’t wait until he starts to do so.

  He aches all over, and walks through the airport as if he’s an eighty-year-old man. People practically sprint past him, tugging at their wheeled suitcases as they hurry to be the first person through the doors and down the escalator. Steven hobbles slowly, content to be the last person in every line.

  It’s a long line to be last in, and Steven winces as he steps into the large customs room at the Toronto airport. A dozen border guards, each sitting in his or her own cubicle, wave people forward one at a time, examining travel documents and stamping passports. The line wraps around the room several times, like everyone is waiting to board a ride at an amusement park or make a deposit at the world’s busiest bank.

  The wait seems even longer when he realizes that everyone can’t stop staring at his face. People are looking at him, checking out his bruises. They probably imagine all kinds of exciting stories. They wonder if he’s some kind of thug or deadbeat, sneaking his way into Canada. Or maybe they think he’s a mixed martial artist, coming back from a prize fight overseas. He waits for someone around him in line to ask him what happened.

  I’m a cage fighter, he’ll tell them. You should see the other guy.

  A young couple, barely in their twenties, is standing in front of him in line. They were on a school trip or something. They smell like cigarettes and excitedly talk about how they can’t wait for New Year’s. The young man looks over at him and catches his eye for a brief second. He nods as if the way Steven looks is completely normal.

  Slept with a transgender lounge singer, Steven thinks. Her pimp beat me up.

  It’s at that moment that he realizes the truth is far more exciting than any story he could make up.

  No one speaks to him. Some people politely smile and try to pretend they don’t notice him. He wonders if any of these people have ever ordered wine from him in his restaurant or if they ever will. How will they look at him when he’s wearing Armani and pouring a two hundred dollar bottle of Pinot Noir into their glasses? Will they remember the man with the beaten face?

  Probably not, he thinks. No one ever remembers me anyway. I’m just the guy who brings the wine.

  He loves the fact that the pills make the pain go away, but he hates that they make him so groggy, so cranky, perhaps even more than usual. They make him snooty in a different way. He preferred it when he was just a wine snob. But he also knows he likes the buzz from the pills. He’s just as cranky as ever, but at least he doesn’t care as much.

  “Next, please,” the customs agent says. Canadians are so polite.

  Steven steps up to the booth and hands over his passport. It had so few stamps in it until now. There were Italy and France and the States. Now Singapore becomes fourth. Steven
has Scotty’s passport in his luggage. There are many stamps on that one. The customs agent looks at Steven’s passport, then looks at his face. He furrows his brow.

  “Purpose of your trip?” the agent asks. Steven slides the extra piece of paper across the counter to the guard, who unfolds it and reads it carefully. That piece of paper might as well be a golden ticket or a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It explains the bruises and comes with a nice, official stamp from nice, official people. The agent reads it again. “And this . . . Robert Clayton is with the consulate in Singapore?” he asks.

  “Yes, sir,” Steven says.

  The agent reads the paper a third time, looks at the passport again, and looks up at Steven. “Are you bringing any alcohol, tobacco, or firearms back from Singapore, Mr. Kelly?”

  “No, sir,” Steven says.

  “Are you okay?” the agent asks. His concern is genuine.

  Steven shrugs.

  You screw with the bull, you get the horns, he thinks.

  “Welcome home,” the agent says, and stamps Steven’s passport. Steven collects it and the letter from Bobby Clayton and puts them both into his jacket pocket. He walks to the baggage claim and thinks about just leaving his luggage there. At this point he’ll do anything to get home faster. As soon as his luggage comes around on the belt, he grabs it and wheels it outside.

  The cold air hits him immediately and feels amazing. All around him, other people coming out of the airport pull their coats on and adjust their collars. They bundle up and go searching through purses and briefcases for scarves and gloves. Steven stands and closes his eyes.

  If his face didn’t still hurt so much, the look on his face would resemble a smile.

  The town car feels nice. Much nicer than the taxis he had gotten used to taking in Singapore. The leather of the seat is cold, but there is hot air coming from the front of the car. Steven looks out the window as the lights go from small to bigger and the buildings come closer out of the distance. The traffic is busy, but moving fast. The cars are reckless. The drivers are terrible.

  It’s Toronto.

  In the distance, he notices the CN Tower. Normally lit just like the surrounding landscape of tall, brightly lit buildings, it now shines red and green. Its usual blue and white lights have been switched to match the season. Towering above the city, the tower is clad in a trademark set of the two most festive colors.