Hummingbird

by Hummingbird (retail) (epub)

Patel’s office was painted in warm, neutral tones, the walls devoid of pictures. He had a box of tissues on his desk and a small electronic tablet that he consulted from time to time. Otherwise, he made his notes by hand on paper. From the fidgety motion of his pen, he seemed to be drawing at the moment, rather than writing.

  “There’s a phrase,” he said, without looking up from his paper. “I’m sure you’ve heard it. A willing suspension of disbelief. It’s how we engage with any fantastic story. We turn off the skeptical part of our minds that’s telling us something doesn’t make sense. Men can’t fly. Corpses can’t walk. People are never that articulate or that beautiful in real life. For you, the story is the world—a world governed by rules that nearly everyone agrees to abide by. If you want to engage with that world, or anyone in it, you’re going to have to ignore the small voice in the back of your head telling you that your world is different. You’re going to have to suspend your disbelief … I can’t force you to take your medication, Felix. But if you want to go back to your family—”

  “It’s too late for that,” I said.

  He stopped drawing and looked at me. “How do you know?”

  “Meredith could never forgive me.”

  “Has she told you that?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Is it possible that you’re the one who can’t forgive yourself?”

  I looked at my hands.

  “And your daughter?” he asked.

  “I’m doing this for her,” I said, repeating something I’d been telling myself for months.

  “Do you think she sees it that way?”

  “It doesn’t matter how she sees it.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “If you had children …”

  “What makes you think I don’t?”

  I looked up in surprise, unable to imagine him as a father, or having any existence at all outside the walls of the hospital. “Well, if one of your kids was dying,” I said, “wouldn’t you do anything you could to save them? Even if it meant giving them up?”

  “If, God forbid, I had a terminally ill child, I would cherish whatever time we had left.”

  I grunted, doubting that he even had kids.

  He tapped his pen on his desk. “When did you last see your daughter, Felix?”

  “I don’t know. It must be … three months now.”

  “Don’t you want to see her?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “There can be no visitation until you’re properly medicated. It was a condition of your release. You understand that, don’t you?”

  I nodded grimly, annoyed by his use of passive language, as if he hadn’t been the one to impose the condition in the first place.

  He returned to his notepad, tilting his pen at a deep angle, apparently shading.

  “Do you feel that you’re a good father, Felix?”

  I’d asked myself that question often enough to have a prompt answer. “Yes, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “A good father protects their children.”

  “Is that what you feel you’re doing by ignoring my recommendations? Protecting your daughter?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He glanced at his watch. Our session was coming to an end. The rest of his questions were predictable. Did I feel that someone in particular was threatening Christine? Was I having suicidal thoughts? Had I been behaving erratically? Hallucinating?

  I denied everything, having learned to answer in absolutes, leaving no room for interpretation. I wanted to see the sketch Patel had been working on, but he tore it off his pad and slipped it into my file, then gave me a placid smile. “Well …” I said, beginning to get up.

  “How do you feel about Meredith?” he asked, not quite finished with me after all.

  I sat back down, choosing my words carefully. “I … understand her perspective.”

  “Which is?”

  “She’s doing what she thinks is best for Christine.”

  “And for you.”

  I shrugged, unwilling to make that concession.

  He gave me another half-smile. “Are you still at the same motel?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Be sure to let us know if anything changes.”

  His desire to keep me there broke the surface of his gaze, like the dorsal fin of a shark. For a moment I worried there were orderlies outside the door, waiting to wrestle me to the ground. “So …” I said.

  Patel’s half-smile went away. “We’ll see you next Thursday, Felix.”

  A special discomfort below alerted me to the fact that I’d recently shat myself. Partially reclined, pinned to the bed by a crisp blue sheet, I stared at whatever happened to be in front of me. White walls. White ceiling. A buzzing white tube overhead. I coughed and pain spasmed through my body. I waited for the spell to pass. Somewhere in the room, a game show was playing at low volume. A studio audience cheered. My mouth was dry, my throat on fire. The quality of light on my left suggested the presence of a window, but when I strained my eyes in that direction, I could detect only the vaguest shimmer of blue. After an unknowable amount of time, I heard someone come into the room, a woman I couldn’t name, but associated with terrible things.

  “Smell that?” she said to someone else. “Come on. Let’s flip him over.”

  Before I could protest, two pairs of rough hands gripped me without warning and rolled me onto my side. I tried to scream, but the sound that left my mouth was barely a moan. I was facing the window now, my back exposed. As they pried the soiled diaper from my body, I caught a brief image of Christine on the change table. Her sweet, trusting face as I held her ankles with one hand and wiped with the other, as gently as I could.

  “God,” the woman said. “Hold this. It’s everywhere.”

  “This” apparently referred to my leg. New hands took hold of my thigh. I arched and scream-moaned again, as they scoured my anus with what felt like an acid-soaked rag. A bird flashed past the window. A fleeting streak of darkness. Dad stepped into my line of vision and took a thermometer from my mouth.

  “Jesus. You’re burning up.”

  “Sorry,” I murmured.

  “Don’t be stupid.” He smoothed my hair back from my forehead, then retreated from the bed.

  “Come back,” I whispered.

  I’d been fitted with a clean diaper. Hands wedged under me and prepared to return me to a supine position. “Stop,” I muttered, but an agonizing jerk forced me back to where I’d started. Through spots of pain, Meredith swam into view, hovering over me, naked and smiling. I stared at her in astonishment, tears slipping down my face. My bedding was hastily rearranged, the sheet jerked up to my chest. Then, without having said a word to me, my tormentors left the room.

  Darkness spread across the ceiling. After a moment, I could make out plush blackout drapes and a blank flat screen television at my feet. I lifted my head without pain. The clock on the motel nightstand read 10:37 a.m. I sat up and swung my legs off the bed, stunned by the ease of motion. I’d never travelled so far into the future before. Contrary to what I’d been telling Dr. Patel, I’d been jumping around in time ever since he’d discharged me, often finding myself alone in Dad’s old house, always avoiding any conscious thought of Christine. Now that I knew what lay beyond that time, I felt compelled to get moving while I was still physically able. I jumped out of bed and quickly showered and dressed, then grabbed my phone and wallet and stepped out onto the motel parking lot. Two doors down, a young family was in the process of loading up their minivan—on an early Christmas holiday, I assumed. In the back of the vehicle, I could see a small girl strapped into her car seat like a fighter pilot, staring at a flickering handheld device, while her father tried to puzzle their luggage into place behind her.

  A woman came out and talked to the man. They looked like models from a catalogue, attractive and sportily dressed, with perfect hair. They did
n’t look at me, but I could tell by the stiffness of their exchange that they were aware of me watching them. I wanted to say something, to show them that I was harmless, that I too had a daughter, that we were essentially the same. But as they carried on packing their things and talking in falsely bright voices, I found myself hating them, wishing their trip would end in disaster.

  The man closed the hatch and gave me an alpha male stare. I pulled out my phone and frowned at the blank display, as if I’d just gotten an important text. Then I put my head down and walked off through the parking lot to the bus stop. The minivan rolled past a minute later, hardly making a sound, the man and his wife both wearing sunglasses and looking straight ahead, their daughter barely visible in the darkened back window. I shaded my eyes against the late morning sun. After days of cold, relentless showers, the clouds had finally cleared off, and while the air remained cool, the city looked vibrant and invigorated. I consulted the timetable on the pole in front of me and let several buses pass before climbing on a packed double-decker, requesting a transfer from the driver. Warehouses and old brick buildings slid past until we came to a central transportation hub, where I switched buses and headed east, towards the university. At the student union building, I got off and wandered around the campus, unshaven, wearing clothes that hadn’t been washed in weeks. A low, sinister-looking building had been erected across from the library since I’d last been there. I stopped to read the sign on the lawn:

  INTERFAITH CHAPEL.

  OPEN 9AM TO 6PM.

  ALL WELCOME.

  The front doors were tinted, obscuring the interior of the building. I pictured faiths of all stripes, holding hands and singing non-specific hymns to the beat of a tambourine. I thought about going inside.

  “Felix?”

  I turned to find a smiling, well-dressed Asian man with a briefcase. “I thought it was you!” Wariness entered his face as he registered the finer details of my appearance, from my oversized second-hand parka to my falling-apart shoes. “Wow. It’s been a long time.” He chuckled. “You don’t remember me, do you.”

  “Um …”

  “Henry Thu,” he said. “We were roommates in first year.”

  “Oh … right.”

  “So what have you been doing all this time?”

  I shrugged and muttered something that had the cadence of speech but no actual meaning. He nodded seriously, as if I’d strung together a coherent sentence. “Okay, okay … Well, I’ve been teaching here for a few years now. Married. Two kids. Both in school …” His eyes slid over to the interfaith chapel then came back to me. “So you’ve been well?”

  I nodded automatically, wondering if he thought of us as friends.

  “That’s good.” He looked at his watch and made a face. “Geez, I should really get going. I’ve got a class in ten minutes. But it was great seeing you again. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, blinking back tears.

  Henry walked off briskly, not looking back, our old dormitory tower just visible beyond the sprawl of classroom buildings. I began to follow him, thinking I’d handled the exchange all wrong, but I lost sight of him in a crowd of chatting students and found myself standing by one of the roads that looped through the campus. Another bus came along and I climbed on, using my transfer to get downtown, where I wandered past my first apartment, then walked down to Zoe’s high-rise and Kim’s place above the Chinese grocer, forcing myself to make eye contact with everyone I saw, willing them to grab hold of me and stop my gathering momentum. My transfer had expired by this time and I stopped in a convenience store to make change for bus fare. The old man behind the counter insisted I buy something first and I grabbed a cheap pair of sunglasses and a ball cap from a clearance bin, putting them on the instant I walked out the door. Everything was coming together. The bus I’d been thinking about all day rolled up, as if summoned. I was the only passenger, riding towards a part of the city I’d passed through many times before but never stopped in. All the usual landmarks streamed by, my breathing slowing as we came in sight of a rundown church with a hand-painted sign above the door: SUNNYVIEW DAYCARE.

  I reached for the wire above the window and pulled. The bus rolled to a stop directly in front of the church. I climbed off, sunglasses and hat on. Across the street, a man in a panel van spoke into his wrist. A sniper scope glinted from a neighbouring rooftop. I found the main entrance around the side of the building and hauled open a heavy wooden door. In the dim, empty foyer, a sign directed me down a flight of stairs to a long hallway lined with tiny shoes and colourful knapsacks on hooks. I took off my sunglasses, slowing at what appeared to be Christine’s bag, hung beside a closed door, behind which cheerful music was playing. Feeling surprisingly calm, I opened the door and stepped into a large and noisy space with a low ceiling and a scuffed parquet floor. I scanned the room, counting two adults, both women, along with fifteen or so kids, clustered around different play areas.

  The taller of the women saw me and came over with a friendly but guarded smile.

  “Can I help you?”

  I started to answer and stopped, having spotted Christine on the far side of the room, in pigtails and an orange jumper. She and two other little girls were working on a block fortress with high walls and turrets. I plotted my course through the toys and crafting supplies to her play area and then over to the door at the back of the room, behind which I assumed I would find a second staircase. There was no time for explanations. I would grab her and run. The women would chase me, but I would be faster, and I doubted that they’d engage me physically. After all, Christine wasn’t their child. The men surveilling the church might present more of a challenge, but I’d elude them somehow, and when we finally reached a quiet spot, I’d sit Christine down and tell her what was happening. The ladies at the daycare weren’t bad people, I’d explain, but they didn’t know how protect her. Not like I could protect her. She might not realize it, but she was in terrible danger, and I was the only person in the whole world who could keep her safe. I pictured her serious little face taking this all in, then tilting up to ask an obvious question: Where’s Mommy?

  The entire right side of my head was vibrating. I put my hand up to quiet it. I still hadn’t spoken to the tall woman, who was looking increasingly worried.

  Across the room, Christine’s dark eyes locked onto my face. Having been separated for so long, I expected her to shout Daddy! then rush over and leap into my arms. But she stayed where she was, watching me, as one watches a line of thunder-heads on the horizon. The quietness of that transition, from innocent play to dread, brought with it a sudden and terrible revelation.

  I was the threat. These women were here to protect Christine from me.

  “Cathy,” the tall woman said sharply, not taking her eyes off me, and I wondered if she might not put up a fight after all. The other woman, who’d been crouched beside a little boy in a paint smock, got to her feet.

  I raised my hands and backed towards the door.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I’m leaving.”

  Neither of the women responded, an inaudible note of alarm passing from them to the children, who, along with Christine, had begun to watch me. The tall woman reached for a smartphone on a desk. I wanted to say something to Christine, to tell her that I loved her, that I was sorry, but she wouldn’t have heard. I was in another time, another place, the distance between us unbridgeable. The woman punched at her phone. I hurried out of the room, jogging down the hall, taking the stairs up to the foyer by twos. Out on the street, everything was moving too fast, sunlight crashing off every reflective surface. The tall woman appeared in the doorway behind me, the phone at her ear. I jammed on my sunglasses and ran for the bus stop. The panel van was gone, the sniper nowhere to be seen. A bus rumbled up and I jumped on, flinging a handful of change into the coin box. As the bus pulled into traffic, I stayed on my feet, averting my eyes from the other passengers, waiting for the wail of sirens to come. No squad car pulled us o
ver. No SWAT team stormed the bus.

  Eventually, I grabbed a schedule from a pouch on the wall and followed the route of whatever bus I was riding to its end point. The airport. I thought about the things I’d left behind at the hotel. Nothing essential. Nothing that couldn’t be replaced. A chime sounded and a young man climbed off, leaving an empty seat near the back of the bus. I steadied myself against the sway of the vehicle and made my way down to the spot he’d vacated, settling in for the ride.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The yard was thick with weeds. A realtor’s sign lay on its side in the grass, where a storm or vandals had knocked it. I climbed out of the taxi and stood on the sidewalk before a property that I now owned. Eileen had let me buy her out. We hadn’t had any interest since we’d listed it anyway, the market having cooled dramatically the moment we put it up for sale. “Whatever you can afford,” she’d said on the phone, and I could tell from the resignation in her voice that she just wanted to be rid of me. She was buying me off. The lawyers would work out the details. Once the transaction was complete, I wouldn’t hear from her again.

  My legs felt weak as I fiddled with the front gate and approached the house. My old key (I’d been carrying it around for decades) still fit the lock. I remembered to give the door a little nudge at the same time as I twisted the key to unstick the deadbolt, then wiped my shoes on the doormat and stepped inside. The house smelled different, a mustiness having replaced the dense, bready aroma that used to greet me when I came home from school. Most of Dad’s things had been put into storage, but the rotary phone remained, wired directly into the house. I picked up the receiver and listened to the dead line, then hung up and went upstairs to inspect the bedrooms. The floorboards creaked under the dingy shag carpet. The doors to both my room and Eileen’s were ajar, but Dad’s was shut. I gripped the knob and eased it open. His room was just as empty as the rest of the house, the space smaller than I remembered it. I stepped across the threshold and felt strangely embarrassed, as if observing a loved one naked in sleep. I backed out of the room and shut the door.