“I know what that’s like,” Francis said sympathetically. “My mom and dad used to fight a lot, but not so much anymore, not since we adopted the twins.”
Sawyer licked the spoon. “Yeah, it would be pretty hard to be angry around those two. Anyway, you’ve heard of Western, right?”
“The university?”
“Yeah. The one in my London. Dad got a job there. A job he liked for a change. A line chef. Sometimes days would go by and we wouldn’t see each other at all. I’d be in school when he was in bed, and when I’d get home, he’d be gone. Sometimes I’d get up in the morning and there would be a doughnut or a slice of pie on the kitchen counter that he’d left for me. There were notes too, describing what happened that day. Worked late. Tired. Leftovers in fridge. Or, Exam today. Studied hard. Thanks for the pastries, from me. On rare occasions, he’d say how he was feeling: Tired out. Crazy night. Manager quit. Fed up with dealing with these flakes. Or I’d say: Thinking of quitting soccer. Lost game this afternoon. Why does everyone want to blame the goalie?”
“That’s something,” Francis said. “I mean, you were thinking about each other.”
“It drove my mom crazy.” Sawyer shrugged. “He never left notes for her.”
“Did she ever leave notes for him?”
“Not sure. I think she tried to make it work, but she couldn’t handle the fighting. Some days she didn’t have the energy to get out of bed or to brush her teeth. It was awful. Of course, I was little; I didn’t understand depression.”
Francis kissed her ear.
She swatted him away. “London was a pretty small city. Mom had been a student at Western too, and that’s where she’d met my dad. They were both studying architecture. Western is the kind of school you and your friends will go to one day. It’s expensive and preppy, full of rich kids who don’t know how lucky they are.”
Francis ignored the shot and she kept talking, but as if from a distance.
“Anyway, the really sad thing is, I think my parents were happy, until I came along. That’s when my dad started drinking. When I was a little kid, I didn’t really notice. It took me twelve years to realize he didn’t want me, that it was my fault he left.”
Francis strained to hear her last few words. He returned to the table and cut himself another thick slice of bread. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said, trying to comfort her. “That’s behind you now. London is in your past. This is your home now.”
“Look.” She pulled a photo out of her back pocket, creased with wear. “That,” she said, pointing, “is my mom. I’m cuddled up to her. There’s my dad, behind us.” She laughed. “He’s smiling down on us like some old-fashioned patriarch, lord and master of his domain. His eyes are so full of light and laughter, no lines, no shadows. He was a handsome man, don’t you think? See how he has both of his hands protectively on my mom’s shoulders? See how her head is tilted up toward him, a half smile on her lips. I always wonder if the photographer made them look in love, or if they really were, but deep down I already know the answer.”
“Sawyer, I’m sorry.” He meant it. “I can be hard on my dad, but he’s a good guy. I mean, he’s away a lot, but that’s his work.”
“The weird thing is that my dad had been gone for a week before I even noticed.” She swiped at her eyes. “God, how pathetic is that?”
Francis did a mental calculation. “That’s seven days or 168 hours, or 10,080 minutes. That’s got to be some kind of a record.”
“My dad the magician. Disappearing was always the thing he excelled at.”
“People fall out of love,” Francis said. “You can’t blame yourself—it happens.”
Sawyer turned off the element under hot chocolate and joined him at the table. “Ah, but I can. I’ve seen photos of my mom after I was born. She looked totally different: tired, her eyes dark and bruised-looking, her skin gray like cement. She suffered from postpartum depression. Dad had to quit university to look after me as a baby. If I hadn’t been born, he wouldn’t have been driven to drink.”
This whole conversation was miles over Francis’s head. He struggled to find the right thing to say, but his phone saved him. “Hold on,” he said, keeping the relief out of his voice. “It’s my mom texting me. She wants to know where I am.”
Sawyer just kept on talking as if she hadn’t heard him. He sent his mom a quick reply: At Sawyer’s. I won’t be home for dinner.
Kevin called, his mom texted back. I hope you’re not ignoring him because of that girl.
He stuck the phone back in his pocket, feeling a twinge of guilt, and turned his attention back to his girlfriend. Her eyes were damp. “It’s okay,” he said, trying to comfort her, not sure at all what it referred to.
“No, it’s not,” she said. “How can you say that? He just took off.” Her voice quavered. “And then we moved here.” She started to cry. Francis picked at the crumbs on the table.
“The notes stopped. Everything stopped. Mom kept going to work and I kept going to school. We never talked about him. It was as if he’d died. But I still remember the blackness on the day he left. He was in a mean mood. Mom crying, me hiding in my bedroom, Mom hollering at Dad, and Dad hollering at the world. I put my hands over my ears. ‘I hate you,’ I told him. ‘I wish you were dead.’ And then he left and he never came back. My dad walked out on us. He dumped Mom, but he dumped me too. Never contacted us. She crashed. I got what I’d wished for. We left Ontario and moved here to Vancouver because my grandparents live here. And that’s the end of the story.”
“That sucks, Sawyer.” God, could he sound any lamer?
She didn’t appear to notice; instead, she got up and turned the stove back on. “Keep stirring,” she said, wiping her eyes. “There’s something I want to show you.”
He followed her with his eyes. The apartment was about the size of his living room and kitchen combined: one bathroom, two tiny bedrooms, and a long, narrow room with only the kitchen window to let in light. The table was barely big enough for the two of them to sit at comfortably and it doubled as a desk. She disappeared into her bedroom. He heard her rifling around. He turned off the element, removed the pot from the stove, and dug around the cupboards until he found a mishmash of mugs, cups, and glasses. He took out two, poured the hot chocolate, and sat down. It smelled sweet and rich.
When Sawyer returned, she had a cheap vinyl photo album tucked under her arm. She sat down and pushed the album across the table. “Have a look and tell me what you think.”
Francis flipped through the pages of faded photos. The album ended abruptly halfway through. The caption under the last picture read: Sawyer and her dad. Sawyer, thirteen years old. The album didn’t contain many pictures of her dad. Francis studied them and saw a tall, lean man with dark hair and large hooded eyes a lot like his daughter’s, only angrier. Tats decorated both his arms. “He looks like you,” Francis ventured. “I mean, there’s a family resemblance.”
That made her happy. “Do you think so? Thank you! I kept some of his things.” She pulled a tattered pouch from her pocket and emptied it on the table. “Go ahead. Take a look at my dad’s remains.”
Gingerly, Francis rummaged through the contents: a small pile of handwritten notes, a pay stub from the University of Western Ontario, a gold wedding band, a can of shaving foam, a button that read World’s Best Chef, and a chipped mug that read Happy Father’s Day.
She took the ring and twirled it on her small thumb. It was too big for her, but she didn’t seem to care. She was miles away, in her past. “All of his notes are right here.” She picked up the pile in front of her and sifted through them with her fingers. “There aren’t a ton, but there are enough.”
Francis’s cell phone vibrated again. “Hold on a sec.” His dad. Hi Francis. I’m in New York. Did you have a good day at school? Home on Thursday. Mom says you have a girlfriend? Way to go! See you then. XO
/>
“Your mom again?”
“No. My dad this time.” He sent back a quick reply: School’s good. See you Thursday. “I guess we communicate the same way as you and your dad. Short sentences. Kind of lame, right?”
She sat back in her chair and flicked her hair off her face. Francis thought she was beautiful even if her eyes were red and puffy and her face was splotched from crying. “You do get it. The thing is, Francis, I figured out something: dads aren’t that important in the greater scheme of life, but even that’s sad.”
It is kind of sad, he thought. He leaned across the table and stroked her long hair, moving it back off her face. “Do we have time to—?”
“No. Tomorrow. My mom’s due home anytime now.”
Francis sighed. “Tomorrow’s no good. I’m going to Kevin’s house. I haven’t seen him for ages, and you know…things are pretty rough for him right now.”
“That’s okay. I’m still not feeling so hot. Say hi to Kevin for me.” Sawyer had met Kevin a couple of times. She claimed she liked him. “How is his dad?” She knew Francis didn’t like talking about it. She knew it scared him.
“No better,” he replied shortly.
“Bring Kevin over one day. It’ll probably do him good to get out.”
“He’s not too social right now; besides, I like being alone with you. Should I cancel tomorrow?” He hated himself for suggesting it, let alone saying it aloud.
“No, Francis. A day apart won’t kill us. Besides, your friend needs you, and I should spend some time with my friend. He’s feeling pretty neglected as well.”
Alarm bells went off in Francis’s head. “Your friend? He? You’ve never mentioned another friend before.”
Sawyer’s look was coy. “Haven’t I? That’s strange because I don’t have a ton of friends here, but I do have one. You’ll like him. His name is Jack and he’s, well…let’s say he’s got a style all his own. He’s got rainbow bangs and he’s older. I guess he’s my other best friend. But don’t worry: I love you both.” She winked playfully. “Just in different ways.”
Francis spent the bus ride home hating Jack, even though he’d never met him or even heard of him until this afternoon.
Chapter Three
The next day, the temperature dropped. Kevin and Francis headed off to soccer together. Francis didn’t mention that he’d totally forgotten they had a practice. Overtop of their soccer gear they wore hoodies, but the thin material did little to keep them warm against the late-fall wind.
“It looks like rain.” Francis frowned. “I can smell winter in the air.” He’d been struggling to find things to talk about, but his friend didn’t take the bait.
Kevin shrugged. He hadn’t said a word for two blocks. Francis couldn’t tell if his silence was because he couldn’t handle his dad’s quickly declining health or because he was angry with Francis. He had every right to be. They hadn’t seen each other for more than ten days.
He tried a new tactic. “Sawyer says hi.” Her name rolled off his tongue easily, and he realized how much he liked saying it.
“How is the girlfriend?” Kevin said with a hint of sarcasm.
“She’s great. Well, she’s got some bug. Always feeling nauseous. But she’s great…”
“I got that. She’s great.” Kevin sneered. He didn’t bother to feign interest. This wasn’t the Kevin Francis knew, but he decided to cut him some slack. He could tell Kevin didn’t really give a damn about anyone at the moment, except his father. After a few more failed attempts at conversation, Francis gave up, but he couldn’t help feeling annoyed. Yes, he’d ignored Kevin, and yes, he felt bad about it, but times change. Let’s see what happens when he hooks up with someone, he thought spitefully.
The boys played on a competitive city team. It was intense, and they had no choice but to put everything aside and focus on the ball during practice. But today, Francis couldn’t concentrate. Coach was pissed at him. “Wake up!” he shouted more than once. “No sleeping in the goal!”
Kevin fared better. He played forward with the agility of a dancer, despite his size, while Francis, in goal, had large swaths of time alone in the net to think and to freeze. Finally, practice came to an end, and they packed up their gear for the walk home. Before they left, Coach approached Francis.
“Is everything okay with you?”
“I’m just a bit off today.” Francis shrugged. “It happens.”
Coach nodded. “I see. And Kevin? How is he doing?”
“Kevin’s okay, considering.”
“Well, if you need someone to talk to, I’m always ready to listen.” He’d been their coach for a long time, and Francis knew he meant it.
“Thanks,” he said. “But everything is fine.”
Coach narrowed his eyes. “Well, that wasn’t reflected in practice today. I’ll expect more effort next time.” With a stern look, he stomped off.
“What’s up with him?” Kevin asked. “His face was bright red.”
“Coach is choked with me, but not you. Three goals. Pretty fancy footwork.”
“These days, I take out all my frustrations on the field. It works pretty well most of the time.” Kevin’s voice was devoid of emotion.
Francis felt helpless. He kicked at the damp ground. “I meant to ask, how is your father doing?”
“Yeah. You haven’t been around for a while. He’s…you’ll see when we get to my place. I guess I should prepare you so you don’t freak out. He’s lost a lot of weight.”
“Your dad is a big guy, like you. It’s lucky he had some pounds to shed.”
“No, you don’t get it. I mean a lot of weight.” Kevin’s voice broke and he turned away. “He weighs, like, a hundred and thirty-five pounds. It’s not good.”
Francis swallowed. Kevin’s dad stood over six feet tall.
“He can’t eat, not much, anyway.” Kevin kicked at a rock. “He’s not going to make it. That’s what the doctors say. He’s not going to be around much longer.” He kicked the rock again, harder. It sailed out onto the street, grazing the hood of a parked car. “Fuck. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
They made a run for it and didn’t stop until they were sure they didn’t have an irate car owner on their heels.
“Nice one,” Francis said, bending over to catch his breath. “Kevin, I didn’t know it was that bad. I mean, should I still come over?”
Kevin didn’t answer his friend right away. He just kept on walking.
Kevin and Francis had been best friends since grade four, back when it was all fun and games. No homework, no exams, and no mention of the big C.
When Kevin thought about the big C, he thought of the green Pacific, or the gray, murky Atlantic, or the turquoise-blue Caribbean. Those were “big seas.” Cancer had no right to claim bigness. Cancer, Kevin had learned, was no better than a thief who worked slowly, every day taking a little more until there was nothing left.
Already, Kevin could see the skeleton beneath his dad’s tissue-thin skin. But if he closed his eyes and blocked out everything, he could still remember his dad’s muscular arms, tanned from the hours spent in the garden, his broad shoulders, steadfast smile, his determined and confident walk, his salty scent.
“Kevin, should I come over?”
Kevin blinked. “Sorry, man. Yeah. You should come. My dad wants to see you, but like I said, he doesn’t look good. It’s better if you try to keep the shock off your face.”
“I’m sorry.” Francis gripped his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be cool.”
“You know what my dad said to me last week?” Kevin sucked in a mouthful of air. “When he was trying to comfort me, instead of me comforting him, he said, ‘Do not despair. Remember what Queen Gertrude in Hamlet said to her son? Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die. Passing through nature to eternity.’”
Francis smiled because that’s how Mr. Croyden talked, despite everything. He could imagine the exchanges: Kevin, would you be so kind as to fetch me my painkillers? Kevin, I seem to need a little help sitting up. Do you think you could oblige me? “Yeah, that sounds like your dad.”
Kevin snorted. “Anybody else would be screaming in agony. Anybody else would demand more and more drugs, but not him. I can’t imagine a world without him in it. I try to, and it makes me throw up. ‘Be brave,’ he says. ‘Carry on.’ I’m trying.” His voice broke. “But it’s frigging hard.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Besides,” Kevin continued, “my mom’s made ribs for dinner. She’d be upset if you didn’t show. Just be prepared. Dad will be happy to see you. He’s always liked you.”
Francis pulled his hoodie up over his head. “I’ve always liked him too. I think the world of him.”
There was no need to remind Kevin how his dad had stood in for Francis’s father when they were little kids. How Mr. Croyden coached him in soccer, taught him to skimboard, showed him how to get a decent score on the pitch and putt, or how to get on and off the chairlift without doing a face-plant. “Before the twins came along, I practically lived at your place.”
Francis had been a lonely kid. Kevin’s family had included him in everything, made him feel like a part of their family.
“Yeah. The thing is, Francis, it’s all ending. I don’t want to talk about it. The thing is, what can you or anyone say to make it better?”
They continued in silence until they arrived at the Croyden house. Francis did his best to mentally prepare himself, but the moment they stepped inside the front door, he knew that everything had changed. The deathly silence and the cloying smell of sickness assaulted him, and he had to force himself to not turn and run. Instead, he sank down on the bench and put his head between his hands.
Saying Good-bye to London Page 4