by Ria Voros
But J points out that I’m so close. Chilko wants to come with me. He’s been waiting.
After another minute, he sits down on his side of the fence. I put my hand through and pet his soft ears. When I get up slowly, careful to make as little sound on the gravel as possible, Chilko follows. He’s good at being silent. Suddenly he stops, as if he’s been pulled back. He has — he’s on a rope. I guess that’s what’s stopped him from getting out.
I ease the latch back and open the gate. Luckily it doesn’t make a noise. I sneak over the concrete path and onto the grass. Chilko waits at the end of his rope. His face says, We’re going roaming, right? He wasn’t this excited to see George. I unclip the rope from his collar, glancing at the house one last time.
This is the moment where I can’t turn back. I’m stealing a dog. Not just meeting him on the street at night. I’m taking him from his yard. From now on, I’m a thief. But a friend too, J says. We look out for each other.
My fingers tremble as the rope falls onto the grass. These aren’t hands I know. I’ve turned into a stranger. Who knows what I’ll do next?
A light comes on in the basement suite. Before I can think any more, I’m flying out of the gate, closing it behind me, Chilko already in front, running down the alley with his tail high.
I glance back and the light is gone. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was J playing with my brain, making me leave the yard. Because he knew if he didn’t do something, I was going to bail on the whole plan.
We’re on a mission this time and Chilko knows it. It’s a relief to be out in the night and roaming, but there’s an itch I can’t scratch. We’re going somewhere, getting closer, but where? Canis Major and Cygnus shine above us. At least they’re always there, now that I know how to find them on my own.
By twelve-thirty we’re far from home, east of the farthest park I’ve walked to from my house. The houses are big and old but every once in a while, what Aunt Laura calls a Messy Hippie House pops up. They’re easy to recognize because they have lots of plants in the windows and strings of Christmas lights inside all year. I watch to make sure Chilko doesn’t go into any yards. Not because hippies aren’t friendly, but because I don’t need any trouble tonight. No distractions.
I pull out the map as we walk. Each block takes us farther east from Cygnet Street, in the direction of the highway. You have to take the highway to get to the airport, and that’s where we were going that night. I read the street names over and over. None of them sounds familiar. We walk on.
In the next block the street goes down a steep hill. The river’s not far away — I can hear it. Up ahead there’s a park along the river. Lots of dog walkers take their dogs there.
We stop at the corner. Something starts nudging my brain. I look around — there’s nothing different about these houses, except for the broken-down car in the front yard of the closest hippie place. This isn’t the spot, but it could be close …
Chilko noses around in a bush. I whistle and he trots over. I’ve never thought about bringing a leash for him, but right now I feel the need to have him close. I don’t know why. I touch my fingers to his back and he leans into me for a second.
We walk to the next intersection, which is with a main road. A car whips past. Chilko stops at the edge of the sidewalk but I grab his collar anyway. Something’s got me by the collar too. It’s the twitchy-spine feeling, stronger now, making me want to leave and stay at the same time. I glance at the street sign: Keith Road and Lynnmouth Avenue. A car speeds past, sprays water from its windshield, even though it hasn’t rained in weeks. Drops hit my face. As it drives away, I see the glass cleaner spray up, windshield wipers thudding back and forth. The sound is loud in my ears even though the car is long gone: the steady beat in the upside down car, seat belt holding in my breath.
My brain switches off, turns on again, and I’m there. Everything is wet and sticky and dark. Someone moans. I can’t tell if it’s me or not.
Something brushes my hand, something soft. Fur. A car honks, brakes squeal. I look up and I’m in the middle of the intersection. It’s a dark, warm night, stuffy air in my throat. Chilko’s beside me, waiting for my next move, but I can’t seem to make my legs take a step.
“You need help, kid?” The driver of a blue truck calls behind us. He’s a couple of metres away, headlights shining in my face.
I shake my head. My voice doesn’t work.
“Then could you get out of the road?”
My hand finds Chilko’s fur. He moves forward and somehow I follow. We make it to the other side and the cars drive on behind us.
I lean into a scraggly hedge that itches my neck. This is it. Was it. The accident happened here. It’s just a street like the others. No one would ever know.
My knees wobble under me. I thought I’d feel lighter, happier, finally able to breathe, but I just feel … more unsure. What happened here? J asks. Why did he crash the car? He always said keep it between the ditches, but he couldn’t. Why not? From inside my head, a memory whispers, Because of you.
I know I’m a part of this — how the accident happened and why — but it’s just not coming back. I shake my head. Chilko stares at me. There’s something familiar about him being here too — but that’s crazy. He just moved to town. Come on — remember! But what if I don’t want to know? What if it’s too hard to think about …
I pick up a rock and throw it into the street. Chilko bounds after it and I have to call him back. “Let’s go,” I say as he reaches me. “This is crazy. I’m crazy.” I just want to go home.
Before I thought I’d get answers to all my questions, but now I have a million more. They beat against the inside of my skull, making it pound. I just want to forget again. At least forgetting was easier. Dr. Tang said something about that while I was sitting in his overstuffed armchair, trying to answer his questions about the accident. He said maybe my subconscious didn’t want to remember because it hurt too much.
Chilko trots ahead as we retrace our route. Pretty soon I’m jogging to keep up. The farther away I get from the intersection, the more split apart I am. I want to be home, in bed, away from all the stupid stuff I can’t figure out. But J won’t leave me alone. He nags at me, pushing questions, until I hold my head and yell, “Shut up, just shut the hell up!”
Chilko stares at me in midstep. He looks so calm, like yelling at the voices in your head is a normal thing to do. I pull out my dad’s star chart. By focusing on the names and shapes of the constellations, I manage to keep J out of my thoughts all the way home.
A hand shakes me awake. My room is boiling hot again. I turn over to look at my clock, but first I see Aunt Laura. She’s not in scrubs for once, or pyjamas. She’s wearing normal summer clothes and her hair is actually washed.
I feel like I ran a marathon last night — with my body and brain. I croak so she can hear how dry my throat is.
“What’s with you these days, Jakob?” she asks. Her voice has actual concern in it. “Are you going through adolescence all at once?”
I mumble that I’m just tired.
“Well, I want us to do something today. All of us.”
“All?”
“Libby too.” She looks at me hard. “I’m sure she’d like the company.”
“But why do you and I suddenly have to hang out together?” I lie back and stare at the peeling paint spots on the ceiling. She still hasn’t noticed them.
“What do you mean, ‘why’? Because you’re my nephew and we should do more than pass each other in the hall. And by the way, we should talk about painting in here, now that you’ve taken down those old stars. It’ll look much cleaner.”
I pretend I didn’t hear that. “You’re wearing normal clothes.”
“Right. Normal clothes.”
“Why?”
She stares at me, trying to read my face. “I went to talk to someone.”
“And?”
She looks around the room. “It’s complicated. I’m trying to sort out
a lot of stuff right now.”
I almost don’t say it, but something has to fill the silence. “Is it about the accident?”
She glances at me, then away. “In part. Mostly it’s me.”
J rises up from where he’s been hiding and I say, “Do you feel like you’re stuck with me?”
“No, Jakob. Not at all.” She goes to put a hand on my knee but stops. “Has something happened? Are you having nightmares?” She always changes the subject when it gets too close.
I throw my legs over the edge of the bed. “No.”
Her face relaxes a little. “Listen, we need to get you some summer clothes. You’re growing out of most of your jeans.”
I know what she’s doing. I’ve been doing it too. We’ve been living for six months this way. She’ll feel better if she buys me things, acts like the guardian she has to be.
“Whatever,” I say. “I need to get dressed.”
“I’ll make you some toast,” she says, heading for the door. “Then we can talk about it.”
Talk about it. I guess I might win the most lies medal, but Aunt Laura wins the avoiding the elephant in the room medal, hands down.
The phone rings differently in England. For a second I think I’ve dialled wrong. Then someone picks up and I know that voice.
“Hi, Mrs. Branford. Is Grant there?” It feels weird that she’s not in Grant’s old house, five minutes away. Did I get the time difference right? I wonder if this is a bad idea.
“Jakob? My goodness. It’s good to hear from you.” The line crackles a little.
“I just wondered if Grant was home.”
“Oh, you just missed him. He’s gone out for a few hours. He’ll be really sorry he wasn’t here. Can he call you back later?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“How are you, Jakob?”
“Fine.” I try not to sound disappointed but don’t think it works.
“How’s your aunt?”
“Good. She’s — good.”
“I’m glad,” Grant’s mom says. “I know the past while’s been hard for you. Grant told us you’re getting into astronomy like your dad.”
“Uh, well, sort of.”
“That’s great, Jakob. I think it’s so important to do that. Keep those memories close to you. You’re a strong guy.”
There’s a pause and I realize it’s my turn.
“Jakob?”
“Yeah. Thanks. I guess I’ll talk to Grant later.”
Someone says something in the background. “Okay. You take care,” Mrs. Branford says.
I press end and let the phone drop to the carpet.
I’m in a really bad mood before we even leave for the mall. I’ve always hated shopping anyway, except when I was little and my mom took me Christmas shopping. She used to take me at the beginning of December so we could avoid the worst lineups. She’d pack us snacks and water in case we didn’t get home for a while, and then we’d treat it like a mission: find everyone’s presents, buy them, get home before bedtime. She’d make me her sidekick. I was responsible for checking prices. If the salad bowl at Sears was cheaper than the one at Charlie’s Kitchen Supplies, we’d race back to get it and she’d act like I’d saved the mission. It was probably her sneaky way of making me do math and help her with shopping she didn’t like. But it was fun — we got to hunt around like spies, just the two of us, and laugh like idiots as we ran from one store to the other. I can still remember her fake cackle as she held up a terrible tie for Dad.
By the time we get though half the stores in the mall, I never want to shop with two girls again. It’s bad enough to have to spend so much time with Aunt Laura, but with Libby wandering around commenting on all the clothes, I feel like a shopping prisoner. She takes my arm when we get to a jeans store and pretends she’s my personal shopper. Aunt Laura’s acting all buddy-buddy with Libby and trying to make me laugh, which makes me grumpier.
“Jakob?”
“Huh?”
Libby stands beside me looking into my face. “You okay? You’ve been staring at that T-shirt for ages.”
I look around. We’re in Max Clothing, a store that’s too expensive for Aunt Laura, but she’s looking at the jeans and talking to a sales guy.
“I’m fine,” I say. I pull the yellow T-shirt off the table in front of me.
“It’s not your colour.” Libby digs into the pile and pulls out a blue one. “How about this?”
“Whatever.”
She holds the T-shirt up to me. “Blue looks good with your eyes.”
“You’re not my mother. Can’t I find my own clothes?” I walk over to a rack of army pants and pretend to look for my size.
“What’s going on?” a voice whispers in my ear.
I spin around so fast I knock Libby into a display of sweatshirts. “Don’t do that,” I snap. “It’s creepy.”
Libby pats the sweatshirts back into position. “Carmen has a name for people like —”
“Holy crap, shut up about Carmen,” I mutter.
Her eyes bug out but she doesn’t say anything.
I walk past her and duck behind a stack of jackets. On the other side, Aunt Laura’s coming toward me with jeans in both arms. I don’t have time to see Libby’s face, but I can guess what it looks like.
Two pairs of jeans and three T-shirts later, I’m still in the change room.
Aunt Laura throws a pair of army pants over the door. “How about these?”
Outside the change room, she and Libby are talking but I can’t hear what they’re saying. For all I know, Libby’s telling her how weird I’m being, maybe even about me being out in the yard that first night.
I don’t bother trying on the cargo pants, just pull on my old jeans and leave the rest of the clothes crumpled in the change room.
“How were they?” Aunt Laura asks. She holds the three T-shirts and pair of jeans we’re going to buy.
“No good,” I say.
“Libby’s been telling me about her drawings. I hear you’ve done a few yourself, Jakob.”
I clench my teeth to stop J from spitting words out.
“He’s pretty good,” Libby says. “I wish he’d draw more.” It sounds like I’m a preschooler she’s encouraging.
“I don’t know why you’re so excited about it,” I say, staring at the fake wood counter as the guy puts the clothes in a bag. “I’m a crappy artist and no one cares about it anyway.”
“Jakob.” Aunt Laura’s hand comes down on my shoulder, pulling me around to face her. “What’s with the attitude? Libby’s trying to be nice. She’s your friend.”
“Is she?” I can only look at Aunt Laura for a second, but that’s enough to see the laser beams of disapproval she’s shooting at me. “Jakob Nebedy, you better start talking. What’s going on?” She pulls me out of the store, makes me sit on one of the slippery black leather chairs in the middle of the mall. The ones that are arranged with a rug between them to make you feel like you’re in someone’s living room. But we’re not. We’re in the plastic, fake-smelling mall in the middle of the summer. I want to be anywhere but here. I want to be nowhere.
“You’ve been acting strange for days, and with Mrs. Lester seeing you out at night and your dirty clothes in the washer — what’s the deal? Are you into drugs? Talk to me.”
“No,” I mutter. The rug is red and purple checkers, with gold around each square.
“No to what, Jakob? Explain.”
J barges in — he shoves me aside and takes control of my brain. “I need to talk? What about you? Why are you talking to me about holding things in?”
“Jakob, I think —”
“You’re the biggest liar in the world.” I’m yelling and it feels good. People are looking but I don’t care.
Aunt Laura’s face is white. The lines around her eyes and mouth are deeper than I remember. She looks old. “Jakob, can this wait until we get home?”
“Why? So you won’t be embarrassed? So you can hide from this stuff for a little lon
ger?”
Libby stands behind Aunt Laura, her hands over her mouth, looking halfway between scared and fascinated.
“They died, okay? I’m the one who should be the most screwed up. I’m their son. But you act like it doesn’t matter.”
“Jakob, that’s not true —”
“Of course it’s true!” I shout. “You didn’t want to have all their stuff to deal with — you had your own life. I heard you talking to my mom. You said you didn’t want to live with us. Then you moved in and all their stuff disappeared. It’s like they never existed in the house.”
“Stop it!” She grabs my shoulder and shakes me, but not for long, because I rip out of her grasp and sprint down the mall. Everything becomes a blur, stores moving into each other as I race nowhere — just away.
But the end of the mall is the entrance to Sears, and the glaring lights, too-sweet perfume, cheesy music take me back to last Christmas, my mom laughing beside me, showing me a half-price flower vase we could give Aunt Laura. We’re going to have an early Christmas because my parents and I are going on vacation and Aunt Laura’s alone this year. She’s coming over to our house for dinner. I’m stoked to tell her about our holiday plans.
“Jakob. Jakob, listen to me.”
Someone’s shaking me, moving my body back and forth. It’s Aunt Laura, crouching, her arms around me — I can smell her deodorant. We’re on the floor beside a round rack of men’s pants. I can’t figure out if I’m the one who started rocking or if she’s moving us both.
“Jakob, I’m sorry. We’ll talk about it. I promise. Just don’t run.”
I stare at the shiny silver arm of the pants rack. Focusing on something calms me down. “I was here with Mom,” I hear myself say. “We were buying you that vase for Christmas.”
Aunt Laura nods — her chin moves up and down on my head. She breathes deeply and exhales. “The one on the mantelpiece. It’s my favourite.”
Chapter 9
When we get home I go to the bathroom to wash my face. A few tears leaked out on the drive back and I don’t like the crusty feeling on my cheeks. Libby has disappeared. I guess it wasn’t hard to do when Aunt Laura and I were so distracted.