Only a few more questions, Carolyn says.
Would you like more coffee? I could start another pot.
I think we should stop drinking coffee, she says. It’s starting to disturb your sleep patterns, obviously.
Bruno nods at the computer screen.
And I think it might be giving me cold sores, Carolyn says.
You don’t get cold sores, Bruno says. Stop worrying about coffee.
Carolyn concentrates on her upper lip to see if she can still feel the tingle. She closes her eyes and she just focuses on that part of the skin. There it is. It’s got to be something.
I don’t know how you do it, she says to Bruno. You just go through life completely unaware. You don’t think about anything.
Bruno clicks on a link from one of his emails and a video opens in a new screen. It’s a hidden camera in a hotel room. The video shows a housekeeper spraying the drinking glasses with blue liquid that comes in a bottle labelled Do Not Drink. She’s wearing rubber gloves. Then she rinses them off under the tap and puts them next to the sink. The housekeeper lifts an old washcloth to her nose, sniffs it, and uses it to wipe the glasses dry.
That’s disgusting, Carolyn says.
I’m sorry you had to see that, says Bruno.
We are never staying in a hotel again, says Carolyn.
Bruno bought the tickets for the library fundraiser from the communications director at his office. Everyone sits around a big table and gets to meet and chat with a real Canadian author. The money raised goes to the Toronto Public Library. The tablecloths are emerald green, and they drape down to the floor. The bright red napkins are folded in a fleur-de-lys pattern and stuffed into wineglasses. It’s the middle of December, and the third floor of the Royal York—Convention Hall, Level C—is full of people.
The author at their table is tall and attractive, with olive skin and salt-and-pepper hair combed in a sleek wave over his forehead, so shiny it could have been set with shoe polish. The style looks intentionally outdated. He wears a rented tuxedo. Carolyn sees a rib of elastic around his neck where the bow tie connects. The sleeves are a little short on his wrists and the cufflinks are small black plastic plugs, the kind that come with a rental. Carolyn feels sorry for the author, all alone at this table full of computer programmers. Nobody here has heard of his book. It’s called The Slipped Knot, a multi-generational historical novel, and on the cover is a photograph of a Victorian woman with a strong nose and a high collar. Her thoughtful gaze points to the spine of the book. There is nothing to say about it.
The centrepiece, a large glass tube full of curly willow branches and fuchsia orchids the colour of an infected throat, towers above the table. It’s the height of a six-year-old. Carolyn is happy for the camouflage. She elbows Bruno.
Look, she says. Does the emcee look familiar to you?
Kind of, says Bruno. Did he play volleyball for Carleton?
I thought familiar as in a television show, says Carolyn.
Oh, says Bruno. Then no. Not to me.
The table next to theirs is sponsored by St. Michael’s Hospital. They have a recognizable author: it is the young woman who wrote Everything Can Be Bright, a postmodern fictional memoir about growing up adopted in Montreal and discovering at age fifteen that her biological mother is actually Celine Dion. It’s been optioned for a film. She’s wearing a grey felt hat with a peacock feather fastened to the front of it. A swarm of servers dressed in black and white come out of nowhere. They circle the table all at once and deposit plates in front of each guest.
The fish looks weird, says Bruno. Doesn’t it look— orange?
It’s tandoori, Carolyn says.
It’s supposed to be mysterious, the author at their table is saying. Because what I’m doing is, I’m playing with the form of historical fiction.
What’s that, then? asks Bruno. A server holds a plate with a dark brown puck teetering on top of a pillar of green and orange bands. He sets it down in front of the woman with the feather hat. As she receives it, she clasps her hands and makes her eyes go wide.
It’s a vegetable tower, says Carolyn.
Ah, says Bruno.
Well, the author says to a woman sitting next to him, you’re right about that. But let’s not talk about marketing before we eat, shall we? It can cause indigestion.
The women on either side of the author laugh, shaking their heads. Their husbands—Brian and Dan, Carolyn knows both of them from Bruno’s department—smile and fondle their copies of the author’s book. They flip through the pages as though thinking if only they saw enough of the words inside his book, they would be able to think of a clever question.
Carolyn sees that Bruno’s pant cuff is caught in the top edge of his sock—it must have lodged itself there getting out of the cab—so she bends down to pull it out and straighten it.
Thanks, says Bruno.
Carolyn? a woman’s voice asks. Carolyn looks up. The left shoulder strap of her cocktail dress slips off her shoulder, revealing the top of her bra. She quickly pulls it back up again. She should have worn her strapless.
She looks up and sees Larissa Levinson, dressed in electric blue chiffon.
It is you! Larissa squeals.
Oh my God, says Carolyn.
I’m right over there, Larissa says, pointing to the table sponsored by the Royal Bank. I just saw you and I had to come over right away!
Bruno, says Carolyn, this is Larissa Levinson. We knew each other in Ottawa.
We worked together, says Larissa. Carolyn was such a great part of our team. Are you still taking pictures? Her eyelashes work themselves up and down hydraulically.
Oh, says Carolyn. Not really. I mean, not professionally. Our author didn’t show up! Larissa says. Can you believe it? Who’s going to read his book now?
Across the table, the author in the ill-fitting tuxedo perks up when he hears this. He pauses in his conversation with the women beside him and turns his head in the direction of Larissa’s table.
Bummer, says Bruno. I guess you can’t really ask for your money back.
Larissa rolls her eyes. It is a charity ball, she says. But I knew I was invited for a reason. It was so I could find you! Carolyn, you look great. Now, I want to know everything about everything. How are you?
When an opossum feels threatened, it will go limp, rotate its eyes back in its head, and look as close to decomposed as it possibly can in order to avoid attack. Carolyn has seen this only once. Coming home on a summer evening, she saw what she thought was a white cat lying in a sewer grate in front of their house. When she bent down to look at it, she saw the opossum’s bald, dead-looking face.
I’m living in New York, Larissa continues. I’m just here for a couple of weeks. I didn’t know you were living here! This is crazy, finding you!
Carolyn’s upper lip starts to tingle again. Well, it’s for a good cause, she says.
What do you do in New York? asks Bruno.
Larissa holds her wineglass with both hands. When she drinks, she looks like a child with a sippy cup. I’m involved in marketing, she says.
I’m in marketing myself, says Bruno. What company do you work for?
Oh, I’m freelance, she says. She smiles at Carolyn.
Carolyn flushes, jungle-hot. I’m a teacher, Carolyn says.
Larissa goes back to her table once the speeches and presentations begin. Her blue dress has a short train that puckers on the carpet as she walks. Bruno and Carolyn are the only two people at their table who ordered the fish. The author has a vegetarian meal. All of Bruno’s work colleagues (and their spouses) ordered the filet mignon. Carolyn watches the author through the orchid vase. He goes to his plate hungrily, slicing his vegetable tower into quarters and eating the entire thing in four bites. He reaches for his glass, but there is no more wine. He tries to catch a server’s attention by putting up his hand, like he has a question.
Why are we here? Carolyn asks Bruno quietly. How much did we pay for this?
Bruno slides his fork under a wedge of roasted potato and attempts to bring it to his mouth. What’s the story with Larissa? he asks.
His potato falls off his fork and back onto his plate. Carolyn resists the urge to take his fork in her own hand. Stab it, she thinks. Stab the potato.
There is no story with Larissa, she says. Was it over a hundred dollars each?
Bruno slices the potato in half with the side of his fork and then slides the tines under it. Guess again, he says. So where did you work in Ottawa?
We didn’t work together, Carolyn tells him. I haven’t seen her in ten years. God, fifteen years.
So what was she talking about? Bruno slips the potato piece into his mouth and looks at her, chewing.
Carolyn moves her food around her plate. The salmon looks unhealthy. There’s no natural spice that colour— the tandoori paste is probably loaded with artificial dyes. She remembers that Bruno’s quiz score—thirty-nine— was uncomfortably close to the red zone.
Bruno, she asks, why couldn’t you go back to sleep last night?
You’re changing the subject, Bruno says.
No, I want to know what kept you awake.
I don’t know, he shrugs. I just couldn’t sleep. I thought about work. I kept thinking about Grand & Toy’s ugly new logo.
But why wouldn’t you wake me up? she asks. You could have tried—you know.
Bruno looks at her.
I would have been into it, she says. I would love it if you woke me up like that.
Bruno exhales. I’m sorry, Caro. I thought you would rather sleep. You looked so peaceful. I didn’t want to bother you.
Carolyn stabs one of her own potatoes. So now you think it’s a bother, she says.
Excuse me, says the author, who is finally able to wave down a server. We need more wine here, please.
The last time Carolyn saw Larissa, they were in an industrial park in Nepean, Ontario, with ten other test subjects. The NuPres headquarters were located in a short concrete slab of a building that was ribbed with black tinted windows, making it resemble an awkward sedan. Two coffin-sized concrete planters embedded with pink and grey pebbles sat on either side of the front doors. They were stuffed with green and purple ornamental cabbage plants. A freshly painted picnic table sat hopefully on the lawn adjacent to the parking lot.
Carolyn and Larissa and the others had all signed a waiver, of course, before submitting to the tests—three pages of dense legal jargon that had made no sense to any of them—understanding that they were signing away their right to complain if something went wrong. Also, they were promising not to tell anyone what they were doing.
After the orientation meeting, the test subjects were shown to the common room and left alone. There were refreshments: a bar fridge stocked with bottled fruit drinks and cans of no-name soda. Larissa pointed out that the testing was simply unethical rather than illegal.
There are organizations that might not approve of what NuPres is doing, she said. But they’re not the police. Nobody’s going to come after NuPres for this, she added.
Unless something happens, said Pike. He wore blue and white striped overalls and a yellow T-shirt. He had just graduated from high school. He wanted to be an actor.
If something happens? said Carolyn.
Um, what’s in these painkillers that makes them so experimental? asked Pike.
Carolyn had called the number on the NuPres ad because she needed the money. She’d lost her job when the owner of the bakery went bankrupt; she’d shown up for work one day and there was a sign on the door saying the place had been repossessed. Her rent was due the following week, and her student loan hadn’t arrived. The advertisement on the back page of the weekly paper was tiny, but the figure stood out: $1,400.00. For one week of work.
The work involved swallowing a yellow capsule three times a day for seven days, sleeping on a cot in a small private room with no window, making conversation with eleven other test subjects, and allowing herself to be videotaped as she went about her limited activities during the day. When she called NuPres to register for the study, they asked her about her favourite food. She told them it was sushi. This is what they fed her for dinner for seven days straight.
Larissa had also requested sushi—maybe it was this taste in common that had cemented their friendship. Pike had asked for Thai food. But the other people had straightforward tastes. The room was consistently overpowered by the ropy smell of pepperoni pizza.
On the first day, they were given their capsules with breakfast. The numbers 009 were printed in black on the outside of the capsule. Carolyn swallowed hers with orange juice. She showered and dressed. She’d brought One Hundred Years of Solitude to read, a journal, her Spanish textbook and some Post-it Notes for vocabulary, and her Canon SLR.
On the second day, just after lunch, four of the other subjects began crying wordlessly. Pike and Larissa were sitting on Carolyn’s bed and she sat on the floor, her back against the dresser. The three of them listened to the sobbing in the room beside them.
I guess they’re homesick, said Larissa.
Has Dr. Brown talked to them? Carolyn asked.
No, said Pike. Nobody’s come around all day.
I feel a little sad, to be honest, said Larissa.
Me too, said Pike.
Carolyn had a stiff feeling in her stomach, like she’d eaten too much white rice. I’m just constipated, she said.
Carolyn! Pike said. Too much information!
After dinner that night, Pike and Larissa both dumped their plastic takeout boxes into the green trash can in the hallway and went to their rooms without even saying good night. Carolyn stayed in the common room to watch television. An advertisement for a cellphone company appeared: a woman surprised by a phone call from her faraway lover. Oh my love, the woman said. The music swelled, fat violins rising. Carolyn’s eyes heated up and stung. She was surprised to feel the tears trip over her cheeks. Something crawled up through her stomach and over her heart, deep blue and miserable.
The next morning Carolyn received a small cup of prune juice with her breakfast tray. Everything else—the box of Cheerios, the banana, the plastic orange spoon—was the way it had been every other day.
Larissa confessed to Carolyn and Pike that afternoon. She’d been a test subject before. Two times before this, she admitted. And you know what? she said. All of them had been for painkillers too.
Sure they have, said Pike.
We can’t be so paranoid, said Carolyn. They’re just painkillers.
Oh, I don’t care what pills I pop, said Pike. If I cared, would I be here?
On the afternoon of the fourth day, a raw and unbound sense of agitation shot out of Carolyn’s appendages with the force of magma. She pointed her lens at the dusty ficus tree that was faltering in the flimsy light of the common room and couldn’t get her hands to work. Her fingers, nothing but stumpy carrots, were hot with blood. She heard it in her ears, the rushing sound of pumping and beating. A door slammed in the hallway.
You know what your problem is? one of the subjects shouted down the hall. You take everything I say negatively! You make it into a problem!
A door opened. That’s not what I said! someone yelled back. Then the door slammed again.
That night, Pike asked the girls, Have you felt more emotional than usual?
Well, I expect so, said Larissa. Her hair had so much static, fine strands on the back of her head raised themselves up against the wall behind her. We’re basically being kept prisoners here, she said. Of course we’re emotional.
I have been feeling strange, said Carolyn.
Oh no, please don’t share! said Pike. We’ve heard about your strange feelings!
I need some fresh air, said Carolyn. Why can’t we take a walk?
Hello? said Pike, staring at the ceiling. He twisted around so he faced each corner and every wall as he called out. We’d like to take a walk! Please!
On the fifth day, Larissa said that Pike had come to her
room early in the morning, wearing only his white boxer shorts. He told her that he’d been thinking about her since the first day, and that time was running out. He had to tell her how he felt. Larissa said that she’d felt the same way.
He’s only nineteen years old, Carolyn said.
That’s only five years, Larissa said. When I’m thirty-five, he’ll be thirty!
Carolyn thought of Pike’s wide lips and the way his hands held his chopsticks as he ate his green curry. Strong, but delicate. Hmm, she said.
You know, said Larissa, I caught Mark S. watching your ass this morning.
Which one is Mark S.? Carolyn asked.
He’s the tall one in 8A. With the five o’clock shadow.
Carolyn felt it then. Her body responded with an even heat, like a convection oven, and this peppery warmth seeped into her appendages. Her lips fattened. Her scalp prickled.
That night, Mark S. showed up at her door dressed only in his towel. He was so tall, his head grazed the light fixture that hung from the hall ceiling. He brought two bottles of grape drink and two bendable straws. Carolyn reached up to take the bottle he offered her.
Thank you, she said politely. His naked chest was the size of a warehouse, but it was smooth and delicately glazed with sweat. He used his free hand to adjust the fold of his towel. The shape of his fingernails reminded her of butterscotch candies.
Do you feel it? asked Mark S.
A deep pulse slithered down Carolyn’s throat and detonated in her stomach. I feel it, said Carolyn.
She let him inside her room. Mark S. lifted the single mattress off the bed frame and placed it on the floor. As he bent down to smooth the duvet below, Carolyn saw, with a specific and inexplicable flash of intuition, what they were going to do to each other next. She saw her naked hips in his large hands. Mark S. stripped Carolyn’s clothing from her body slowly, and he draped each piece onto the bed frame. In his fingers, her pink blouse looked like a creased strip of sushi ginger. He placed his palms on her hips, just as she’d envisioned. Her sexual premonitions escalated as they moved together, and the montage in her head made her nerve endings thick and hot. She slid into the collapse between present and future. Her skin cells widened to absorb more from his touch. She felt Mark S. in her thymus and her eardrums, in the arches of her feet and through her spinal fluid. When he left her room, only a few hours before breakfast would be served, she tried to say good night to him, but her words were only compressed air.
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