The Gallery of Lost Species

by Nina Berkhout

  On the days our father was painting, Viv and I hung out at the local swimming pool. A lifeguard named Tammy invited us to a bonfire. At the party, I sipped on the same lukewarm bottle of Budweiser all night while Viv pounded them back. Then she put the moves on Tammy’s boyfriend and got into a scrap with some Native kids. One of the older girls called Viv a skank, pulled a knife, and nicked her on the cheek.

  Blood gushed down her jawline and neck, making the cut seem worse than it was. I gave Viv my favourite blue sweater to press against her skin as we rushed through the pitch-black town to the house. She threw my sweater into the garbage as soon as we got there.

  It was the middle of the night and Henry was enraged because we’d snuck out the window. We sped to the region’s small hospital to get Viv’s face stitched. As we sat in the waiting room, a man was wheeled in on a stretcher, lying on his stomach. He’d been mauled in the rear by a grizzly at a logging camp. My still-drunk sister found it priceless.

  The next day was our last. At the general store, Henry bought me rabbit fur moccasins and made me choose porcupine quill earrings for Constance. Viv didn’t want anything and waited outside, her hands shoved deep into her jean pockets, her swollen cheek covered with a white bandage. Henry got her a T-shirt printed with I survived the Bella Coola highway! You can too! And then we began the long journey back.

  We had two spare tires in the trunk and we used them both to get up the steep slope out of there. When we got home and unpacked the mask from its crate, there was a split straight through the middle. It had cracked in transport, presumably on our way back up the Hill.

  Our mother had a conniption when she saw Viv’s cut face. She called Viv a nitwit and a disgrace, even as she reached for a French skin balm in the kitchen drawer to rub on my sister’s cheek.

  As for the mask, Con was relieved. The second she laid eyes on it, she said it spooked her. Viv suggested to Henry—who sat at the table with his broken sculpture, appearing defeated—that we drive back to Bella Coola for a refund. She’d had fun with those kids, she told him.

  I made an album commemorating the long voyage. The best shot was one of Viv standing in a bear trap with a dangling elk carcass. She’d completely disregarded the Do Not Enter Or Touch sign. In my doodly writing, I captioned it Sis Entrapped.

  Viv was determined to see a grizzly that summer, even after we returned home. Eventually our father took us to the municipal dump to catch black bears on digicam. The bears moved like shadows through the mound of metal and glass. Viv was seventeen, I was fourteen. That was our last big road trip together.

  SEVENTEEN

  IN THE FALL, VIV dropped out of her final year of high school. She said she was bored.

  “How well do we ever know our children?” Henry slammed his fist on the table, knocking over the salt and pepper shakers. I heard them roll and smash on the floor.

  “How well do we ever know our parents?” my sister retorted. I was listening to it all from my bedroom.

  “Don’t be such a scaredy-cat, Vivienne,” Con said.

  “I’m not. I don’t agree with the system.”

  “I hardly got a job with my diploma, you can’t be an artist without graduating. You’ll regret this,” Henry seethed. Then came the sound of my parents stomping outside after Viv.

  “Keep going to school to do what? Clean people’s trash like you?” My sister’s voice carried loud enough for the whole neighbourhood to hear.

  I reached the porch in time to see Constance shrugging her shoulders at Henry. “She’ll be back,” my mother said, easing herself into the rocking chair. Viv’s figure was already diminishing down the street as she marched away in her paint-encrusted boots and plaid blouse, her army duffle on her back.

  “Where are you going, Vee?” I had asked while she shoved clothes into her bag.

  “Yukon. Whitehorse for starters.”

  “Why?”

  “To see the northern lights and paint gold.”

  “You mean pan.”

  “I’ll paint it.”

  “You tell Dad?”

  She didn’t answer, testing a Zippo.

  “Can I come?”

  “No, Worm.”

  “You’ll hurt his feelings. He wanted to take us there.”

  “But he didn’t, did he.” She turned to me, raising an earringed eyebrow.

  * * *

  DESPITE HER ROMANTIC vision, Viv wound up five minutes from home. She moved into a cheap industrial loft in Chinatown, above a pho restaurant. She would stay until she saved enough to buy a used car and go north, she told us.

  She’d sold enough paintings on the side at school—mostly of superheroes and vampires—to cover her first month’s rent. She took a job at a greasy spoon that offered all-day breakfast and at night she painted on cardboard from boxes left out on the curb. Often her pictures carried fishy odours and she sold small ones at craft fairs.

  Once a week, my parents and I dropped off bags of food. Initially, Con refused to go. “If she wants to live by herself, she can feed herself,” she insisted, examining her nails.

  But my father had softened after Viv’s departure. “You left home at seventeen too. Wouldn’t you have appreciated some help from your parents?”

  “I got nothing from my parents. Rien.”

  Henry threw tubes of paint and brushes in among the loaves of bread and tins of tuna. We rarely stayed longer than an hour. It was humiliating to watch him go on praising Viv’s work in strained conversations when you could see she didn’t want us there.

  Our voices echoed in the steel loft. A futon was set up in one corner and a metal utility table in another, with two hard grey chairs pushed against it. On the table was the deluxe iMac with designing software Henry bought Viv on credit, despite Con’s fury at the expenditure. At the back of the room, a mustard yellow General Electric fridge emitted a steady, low hum. There was a counter next to the fridge but no kitchen sink, so Viv washed her dishes in the shower down the hall.

  Otherwise the space contained only my sister’s paintings, carelessly scattered across the floor like the flyers that littered the parking lot behind her building.

  She reinvented common objects: a lone egg on a shelf, a battered shoe in the gutter, an umbrella wet and drooping like a wilted flower. The way she portrayed these plain things, it felt as though we were being shown their soul.

  When Constance walked around the bare quarters, glancing here and there at the piles of cardboard, her lips thinned and her eyes went glossy, but she didn’t say a word.

  * * *

  LIAM TRANSFERRED UNIVERSITIES and drove out in early January, at the coldest time of the year. He arrived full of stories about black ice and ditch rescues along the TransCanada Highway. His parents had since moved to BC and Viv said he could stay with her.

  He phoned once he got close to the city. Viv was working and gave me the keys, asking me to meet him to let him in. When he pulled up along the busy street, I was afraid he wouldn’t remember me. He’d spent the summer excavating in South America. It had been more than a year since we’d seen each other.

  He got out of an SUV that looked like it had come from an auto wrecking yard, and stood for a few seconds in his puffy down coat and Sorels. He seemed younger and less intimidating to me now. I was catching up to him.

  I made the concession to wear a scarf, but I was frozen in my thin coat and flimsy blouse. By the time he came over and picked me up to spin me around, I couldn’t feel my arms or feet.

  “You’ve grown, lima bean! Where’d you get those legs?”

  “You’re like the Michelin Man in that thing,” I told him, peering with difficulty through my hair. Con had recently cut my bangs to cover the pimples on my forehead.

  Liam slung a bag over each shoulder. I led him through the restaurant’s noisy kitchen, past chickens lined up on a cutting board and steaming vats of slimy green soup, to the back door leading up to Viv’s.

  “You came all the way out here for her?” I asked
above the noise.

  “And you, of course!” And me. Of course.

  He followed me through the narrow entranceway. When we got inside, he took off his coat and looked for a place to hang it before dropping it on the floor. Then he rolled up his sleeves and went over to Viv’s paintings, getting down on his knees to flip through them. He turned to me, astonished. “Your sister’s talented.”

  “She’s good at everything. Drives me crazy.” I wanted to touch him. He was more attractive than ever. A tingling sensation rushed through my body.

  Liam sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

  * * *

  I VISITED THEM often on Somerset Street, where the odour of oysters and fried noodles lingered on the gauzy curtains that billowed into their illegal living quarters.

  Even through winter they kept the factory-sized windows open to cool down the space that overheated from the exposed pipes running the length of the ceiling. Snow blew in around our feet like the ghost of a lake.

  I got into the habit of stopping by after class. Liam bought beanbag chairs for my visits. He was always welcoming. Ceremoniously, he’d pour me green tea then lie down on the mattress with his books, the both of us studying while Viv painted, sipping teacups of rye.

  Liam had brought his turntable and records. Mostly Viv played Jacques Brel.

  Their phone was always ringing, they always had plans. Once in a while I snuck out my window to join them for parties in underground clubs. On those occasions, my ravishing sister secured her lengthening hair into a twist with chopsticks and painted her lips a deep burgundy. Liam and I ritualistically observed her getting ready, awestruck.

  Now and then she and Liam swallowed smiley-faced tablets before going out, but they never offered one to me. I wasn’t interested anyway. I liked being in control of my senses at all times. Viv also kept a thin silver flask in her beaded purse that she drank from throughout the night. She used it as a mirror to fix her makeup. When she pulled it from her clutch, it gleamed like a blade against her face.

  Everybody at the parties seemed to be her friend. Liam and I always headed home long before she did. Sometimes when she went out, she’d be gone until the next day and I’d get shaky calls from Liam, telling me he’d had enough. “My sister’s such a jerk,” was all I could think to say.

  Keep your enemies close, Omar taught me. Not that Viv was my enemy, but I knew her well enough to know she’d tire of Liam. So I continued practising self-restraint. It was becoming hard for me to veil my growing feelings, but I wanted Liam to turn to me of his own accord. I figured all I had to do was wait.

  But Liam had other plans. He pushed Viv to take her last year of school through correspondence, and she did it with ease. Then he convinced her to apply to art academies. He bought a costly digital camera and helped her put together a portfolio.

  When Viv was offered a bursary to the Emily Carr Institute, Liam moved to Vancouver with her. “Your sister needs to slow down,” he said as he hugged me before climbing into his dented-up SUV, packed with their few possessions. “This move will do her good.”

  “Buh-bye! Arrivederci! Au revoir!” Viv called from the window, with an undertone of good fucking riddance.

  I stood with my parents and watched them drive away. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheeks, waving and trying not to cry.

  Years after they vacated their place in Chinatown, it burned down along with the entire city block. The fire left a gaping void where nothing was rebuilt.

  EIGHTEEN

  WITH VIV GONE, CONSTANCE’S wrath petered out. Her face softened, as did the crow’s feet at the outer corners of her eyes. The sharpness in her voice gave way to foreign melodies.

  But sometimes, getting up to pee in the early hours, I’d see that my parents’ bedroom door was open. Con had bouts of insomnia and started taking walks in the middle of the night. From the bay window I watched my mother passing beneath the street lamps in her cotton nightgown, a plume of smoke extending from her fingers like a magician’s last trick.

  When she decided to fix her attention on me, I knew it wasn’t because of a growing affection. My mother was a woman who couldn’t be alone and I was the only one left.

  It seemed as though we were the sole inhabitants of the house now. I barely saw my father anymore. He left for his shift right before I returned from school, and sometimes he worked on weekends. When I did see him, he was absent-minded and tired, just going through the motions. After Viv left, it was as if his spirit had been extinguished. I noticed with a pang that he walked by garbage and didn’t pick it up anymore. “Aren’t you going to get that, Dad?” I’d say.

  “Oh, sure, Chief. Got a bag?”

  I missed the old Henry, and our artifact-finding escapades, which we hadn’t gone on since forever. Not that I would admit this to him. Instead, I held on to my pride and said nothing.

  * * *

  EVERY AFTERNOON WHEN I got home from school, Con wanted my verdict on the villains in her soaps. She consulted me on her wardrobe and hairstyles and nail colours. She had me ironing her clothes and enlisted my help on her errands for obscure drugstore products and random groceries. While I shopped, she rested in the car in her head scarf and cat eye sunglasses, tilting the seat back and listening to opera.

  Following supper, she’d leave the house sometimes. Eventually I tailed her and was perplexed to find her entering a church. There were no services going on, which meant she was either praying or seeking spiritual counselling. This made no sense since Con was the least religious person I knew.

  When she was gone, I’d phone Viv and Liam. I didn’t mention the church, but I told them about the diets Con put me on, and the magnet she’d added to the fridge: Warning—I May Be Habit Forming. I entertained them with re-enactments.

  “Tell her to go fuck herself,” Viv said.

  “Edith, you’re Rubenesque, don’t change,” Liam told me.

  I really wanted to lose weight and wasn’t just humouring Constance, complying with her regimens. One week it was a paprika, lemon, and water fast. The next it was an all-beef diet and next, cauliflower soup. She even had me jogging around the block while she drove the car at my heels, honking the horn if I slowed down. She made me scramble up the metal playground slide until blisters formed on my palms. She had me suck on licorice root for its dietary properties, even though the wooden sticks made my tongue itchy.

  “How queer. With all we do, you stay toutoune.”

  “What’s toutoune?”

  “It means fatso.”

  One night in the drugstore, rounding a corner with some Aspirin, a carton of cigarettes, and two bottles of Dr. Pepper in my arms, I slammed into Serena. Constance was waiting in the car reading Vogue.

  Landing against her cushiony body repulsed me. She smelled of celery. I jumped back and found I couldn’t swallow.

  Serena had aged. I was glad to see her roughened in her bohemian attire.

  “How are you?” she stammered. “How is your father?”

  “You tell me.”

  She picked up the carton and the Aspirin from the floor and handed them to me with a remorseful look. “You smoke now?”

  “They’re for my mom. Have you two met? I’ll introduce you. She’s outside in the car.”

  “Another time,” she said, moving toward the exit.

  I wanted to ask after Omar. But she was gone, her red hair blazing behind her like a scarlet letter.

  At night in my room, I cried into my pillow. Without knocking, Constance came in and sat on the edge of the bed. She patted my ankles and rubbed my back before crossing her spidery arms in and around herself.

  “T’inquiète pas, chérie. Someday what’s between them shall mean nothing. They will sabotage it themselves in time.”

  I didn’t know if she was talking about Viv and Liam or my father and Serena. Her words increased the tightening sensation in my chest. The same way it felt when Viv used to pin me down to sit on me, not hurting me because she was so light,
but causing enough discomfort to give me trouble breathing after she got up and walked away.

  * * *

  LIAM FINISHED HIS geology degree and took a job with an oil company. He was sullen when he told me. We both knew it wasn’t what he’d dreamt of doing.

  He admitted to paying for my sister’s classes and completing most of her course-based work. “All she does is paint. I’ve created a monster,” he said kiddingly during our calls. Long after the other students relinquished their easels for the bars, Viv popped caffeine pills and stayed in the studio till dawn, garnering acclaim for her abstracts.

  For Easter, Henry bought me a ticket to fly out to see them. I accepted ungraciously. In the kitchen, he’d erected willow branches in a bucket from which he hung hollowed-out eggs with thread. Each time Constance came through the door, the eggs swayed like pendulums, tapping into one another.

  “Hoppy Easter, Edith.” He slid an envelope across the table. “Now hop on over to Vancouver and tell us how your big sister’s doing.”

  I pulled out the ticket and folded it, sliding it into my back pocket as if it meant nothing to me. “Thanks. I hid you a gift too, in the shed,” I lied. It tore me up that he was hardly around anymore. It didn’t occur to me that maybe he had to work overtime because of Con’s overspending.

  * * *

  LIAM MET ME at the airport with a hand-painted sign: Welcome to Vancouver beanstalk! His hair was longer and had lightened to the colour of sand. His face was unshaven and he had dark circles under his eyes.

  We stood facing each other. I kissed him on the cheek then hugged him. “You still smell like rain,” I told him.

  He reddened. “Sheesh. You’re almost as tall as me.”

  “Where’s my sister?” I was glad to have him to myself.

  “Working. Sorry.”

  “Picasso couldn’t take a break?”