by Geoff North
He turned to her, stunned by the words. “How do you--why did you say that?”
“When I left home, it was one of the scariest but happiest days of my life. You came from a big family with loving parents. It couldn’t have been easy leaving all that behind. Even though we lost Ben, I’ve sensed how happy you are to have come home. I think it’s going to be tough when you have to leave again.”
For a moment, Hugh thought she had read his diary. “I’m a big boy now, I’ll manage. Can we talk about something else now?”
She pinched his buttock. “You brought it up, buster.”
Her hands on his skin had made him start to harden up. There had been no sex since that last night together in the McFarlane house. Tonight felt right, she was playful and he was content. He looked at the clock on the night table.
10:09. In his first life, Hugh had gotten the call to come move his father’s oxygen tank at around 10:30. He wouldn’t bitch about it tonight. And he wouldn’t have sex tonight.
“Where are you going?” Cathy asked as he got out of bed and put on his bathrobe.
“I’m hungry.”
Marion Nance was knitting a scarf and listening to the news, the television volume set at senior-citizen level high. Hugh sat on the couch beside her. “How was dad when he went to bed?”
“His same old self…bitching about how his window rattles in the wind, how heavy his breathing equipment is to move around. I just took him a glass of Eno to settle his stomach.”
The doctor said it was a heart attack in the end. A sore gut can be a sign of that.
“The tree looks nice.”
She looked up from her lap of needles and wool and nodded. “The same artificial tree since you were a boy. Most of the same decorations too.”
“Remember when I used to make Donald lift me up to place the star on top?”
“All you kids fought over that. Gordon was the worst one.”
Gordon had been at Ben’s funeral. They didn’t have much to say to one another. A card, a pat on the shoulder. No hugs. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s fine, work is going well. I don’t think he’ll make it down next week.” It was a useless bit of information. Gordo would be down next week, but not to celebrate the holiday. “I wish the two of you would get together. It’s been hard for me watching you drift apart.”
“Someday, mom, scout’s honor.”
They watched a bit of the news together, the first President Bush talking about troop deployment in Somalia. Hugh switched the channel. Benny Hill on fourteen, the local weather on fifteen. A big green screen overlaid with moving blue and grey swirls predicting a heavy snowfall for most of central Canada. He settled on channel sixteen and placed the remote down. The X-Files was on.
“Could you check on your father before going to bed, dear?”
“Sure, mom.” He stood up and kissed her on the forehead. “Good night.”
Hugh walked slowly down the hallway, past the washroom, and to the little spare room that was now served as his father’s bedroom. He’d stopped sleeping in the same bed with Hugh’s mother a year earlier. It allowed him more space for all the breathing apparatus, the tank, the tubes and cords, the masks and puffers.
The tri-light lamp beside the bed was still on, set to its lowest level. Steve Nance lay in his bed, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. A clear plastic tube ran from his nostrils, over one side of his pillow, and snaked away from the dim yellow light into shadows and to the monster of a machine that helped him breathe.
Am I too late?
There was a click and a mechanical hiss. His father’s chest rose, slightly, and he licked his dry lips. Hugh saw the brief image of King Rameses rising up, bandaged arms about to reach out.
His eyes were open, tired old eyes, the eyes of his dad. The mummy’s image vanished.
“Dad? How are feeling?”
“Hoo?” Hugh
“Yeah, dad, it’s me. Just came to see if you needed anything.”
Steve Nance propped himself up on one elbow and pointed toward the machinery. “Can you move th’ damn tank a bit closer…tube’s stretched out too tight.”
There was another click, another hiss. Hugh hated that thing.
He went to the corner and pulled it a foot closer to the bed. “That better?”
“Tha’s fine, thanks.”
There was a book open on his lap. Hugh picked it and looked at the cover. David Copperfield. His father had been a huge Dickens fan, probably read every title a dozen times over. “You finished reading for the night?”
“Jus’ about. I hope to have it done tomorrow.” Click, hiss. “Wanna start A Christmas Carol before th’ season’s over.”
This was it. Hugh couldn’t say good night. He started for the door and stopped halfway out. He rubbed the knuckles of one hand down its wooden surface. His throat ached. “I love you, dad.”
“Upluh th’ isiss tee ighs…”
He looked at his father and recalled the one word he had said in return a lifetime ago.
Whatever.
Hugh walked back to his bed, leaned over. “What did you say, dad? I couldn’t understand.”
Click. Hiss.
“Unplug th’ Christmas tree lights…waste of electricity.”
Chapter 27
December 19 1992
For thirty-seven years I tortured myself for not paying attention to dad’s final words. All of that guilt, all those terrible nightmares. And what had it been for? To shave eight or nine cents off the next hydro bill. If his heart hadn’t given out first I’m sure dad would’ve died laughing.
Mom’s okay. Cathy’s doing the best she can for her. I got some phone calls to make.
December 27 1992
It was good getting together with everyone again over the holiday. Even under such shitty circumstances. Almost sorry to see them all go this morning.
Cathy hasn’t said another word about finding a new place.
November 3 1995
It’s a girl! Surprise, surprise. Dana Marie, 9 pounds, eleven ounces. She was born on the same day but one and a half pounds heavier than the first time. I chalk it up to her mother’s happier and healthier lifestyle.
April 2 1996
Finished moving mom into Braedon this afternoon. Her little house is close to the hospital and a short walk from the grocery store. Lots of old friends nearby for her to visit. She hasn’t yet shown any early signs of senility, healthy and strong of mind.
March 15 1997
We have another beautiful baby girl! Julie Ann was born two days after the due date- not two months premature like I was expecting. I’m not complaining.
July 7 1999
My second son, Colton Stephen, arrived safely into the world at four-thirty-two in the morning. It took eighteen hours. So much for easy second and third deliveries.
Heather called from Winnipeg this afternoon with some more good news. She’s moving back to Braedon in the fall. Not great news for her. She lost her last waitressing job four months ago and hasn’t been able to find work since. To top it all off, her last boyfriend dumped her when he found out she was pregnant.
Heather never had a kid in my first life, so I feel kind of responsible. Something I may have said or did probably led her for that guy. I’m doing what I can for her. We’ve had a second house built on the farm, nothing too big or fancy, but perfect for a family just starting out. It was meant to be a little place I could get away to and write, maybe double as a place to put up visitors. She’s forty-three years old, pregnant for the first time in her life, and scared. It’s all hers.
December 31 2005
This little book my mother gave me is almost full. I haven’t written in it daily, not nearly as faithful to it as mom has been with her own diary. She has dozens of them. I’m not going to begin another one--sorry mom.
I’m very close now to where I was. I’ve found my wife and we’ve had our children again. I’ve said goodbye to family and friends. I’ve lived wi
th, and overcome the guilt of a thousand mistakes. So many things have changed; so much has remained the same.
I once believed that what a man does defines him. Actions speak louder than words and all that other bullshit. I was an unhappy, unfulfilled, ungrateful man. I’m no saint now. I still like money, I fantasize about other women, I curse in front of my children (not as often), I still like eating bad food (not as much), I drink too much coffee (maybe more), and sometimes I think of starting up the cigarettes again.
I’m an addictive, weak-willed fool. Always have been, always will be. But I’m not as bad I was. I never take anything for granted anymore. Life is too short…even the second time round.
One more thing: Mom never developed Alzheimer’s. How do you explain that? Wish I could tell that to some research scientist type people. But how the hell would I go about that? They would probably say ‘fuck the Alzheimer’s, let’s dissect this guy and figure out the secret of time travel.’
May 19 2010
Hugh pulled the door open and stepped inside Reynolds Liquor Mart. An electric buzz sounded somewhere above his head announcing his arrival. He brushed rain from the shoulders of his leather jacket and smiled as a fat lady approached him from down the main aisle.
“Wonderful afternoon, isn’t it?” Sally Harder said. Her great arms filled with paper bags and booze.
“Never a better one, Sally.” He stood to one side and pushed the door open. “Need a hand outside?”
“Thank you, Hugh--just hold the door open for another sec, and I think I can manage the rest.” She had to go through sideways and he had to step back even further. “Running Scott’s liquor home is about the only exercise I get these days.”
How am I supposed to small-talk my way out of that?
“Did you buy a ticket for the big draw tonight?” He finally asked.
“Oh, I never forget that! Ten dollars’ worth. Scott says it’s a waste of good money, but I keep buying anyway.”
Scott Harder is a waste of good skin. “If you win the thirty-five million, you can get him to cart his own booze around, ‘eh, Sally?”
“That and my own personal trainer.” He watched her waddle and clink to her car as the door hissed back into place. He walked down the worn linoleum floor, past the displays of domestic and imported beers, the cheap liqueurs and the cheaper wines.
Gary Reynolds looked up from his newspaper; a surprised smile lit his thick lips, the watery eyes widened just a bit. “Hugh Nance, Braedon’s resident author extraordinaire.”
“That’s me, Gary. Can I have a number selection sheet, please?”
“Don’t you see you in town much.”
“Well, you know how it goes, always trying to write that next best seller. Keeps me pretty busy.”
“Read your last one, what was it? The one where the guy murders his wife and blames it on the University professor she was banging…”
“Class Act.”
“Yeah, that’s the one--didn’t care for it.”
“Oh well…can I get that sheet now?”
Gary slipped him the small form and a pencil. “Pickin’ your own numbers?”
Hugh started to check numbers off in the little boxes. 8, 12 “It would appear so, yes.”
“Big amount tonight. A lot more people buy when it gets over twenty million.”
20, 23 “I can imagine. What are the odds of hitting all six, Gary?”
“Well let me see…got those figures posted up somewhere.” He ran a long, wrinkled finger down an ‘odds of winning’ paper encased behind a sheet of clear plastic on the wall. “Aah, here we are…1 in 14,570, 604. And that’s just for the four million starting amount. Once the jackpot grows, more people buy, and those odds get a lot higher.”
“Ever make you wonder why people bother?” 34
“Hell no. Don’t care either. Not much money in lottery sales for store owners. Now if they stopped buying the booze, then I might get bothered.”
36
Hugh pushed the paper back toward him. “Done.”
“One set? Nobody but me buying your books?”
“It’s those odds, Gary. Why bother buying more?”
Gary Reynolds made a grunting noise through his nose, like a weak old bull with a cold. “I say a lot of shit, doesn’t mean I don’t want your business.”
Hugh wanted to tell him to stop being such a miserable prick to his customers, but he was feeling too good inside for that kind of talk. “Then I’ll take a bottle of your most expensive champagne as well, and one of these birthday cards.” He took one from the rack next to the counter and placed it on top of his selection slip. It had a silly looking cartoon image on the front with one of those ‘you know it’s your birthday when-’ sayings. He didn’t bother to read what the punch line was inside.
Two minutes and forty-three dollars later Hugh was sitting back in his car. He placed the lottery ticket in the card, and slipped the card into its envelope. He put it on the passenger seat and rested the not-so-expensive bottle of champagne over top. The windows stayed up, one could never be too careful.
He picked his mother up on the way out of town. Heather was having the family over for supper tonight.
***
“How many years were you a waitress?” Hugh asked his sister as he gathered plates up from around the small dinner table. Colton looked over at Julie and rolled his eyes, a ‘here they go again’ look on his face.
“Too many,” she answered knowing full well an insult was coming. “Why?”
“You must have been really good at serving food, because no one taught you how to cook, obviously.”
“Hugh!” his mother scolded. “That lasagna was wonderful, how could you say such a thing?”
Heather poked her brother in the side with a dirty fork as he walked by. “Don’t let him get to you, mom. If the food was that bad, he wouldn’t have said a thing.”
“My mom’s a great cook!” This came from eleven-year-old Jessica, a drop of tomato sauce drying on her chin was proof to how good the meal had actually been.
Julie leaned over and started to wipe her cousin’s face clean with a napkin. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, girlfriend.”
She grabbed the napkin away from her. “I can clean up after myself, thank you.”
“Just another night in another Nance household,” Cathy said.
“Supper was great, Auntie Heather,” Julie said pushing away from the table, “but I gotsta go now.”
Hugh was returning from the kitchen with a steaming glass tray of apple crisp in his gloved hands. “Just a minute, young lady, what’s the big hurry? Why are you doing the mosquito?”
“The mosquito?” Marion Nance asked.
Colton began cutting the desert into equal portions. “Eat and run, gramma, you know? The classic dine and dash.”
“Oh.”
“I have a sleepover at Katie’s tonight, dad! I told you that before we even came over here.”
“It’s his selective hearing condition again,” Cathy added. “Go on sweetie, have a good time.”
Hugh stood his ground, the big green oven gloves planted defiantly at his sides. “But it’s a school night. Since when did we start allowing that?”
“It’s an in-service day tomorrow, dad,” Dana said. “No school. We told you that too.”
“No one told me a thing!”
“How many years have you been a parent?” Heather asked.
Julie kissed her still-stunned father on the cheek and made the rounds with everyone else around the table. Colton cringed ahead, repulsed by the thought of getting a kiss from his sister, and afraid she might make a grab for his apple crisp. She messed up his hair instead. “See you later, brat.”
They finished eating and cleaning and eventually settled in different parts of the house to enjoy the rest of the evening. Dana went home to study, cousin Jessica tagged along; Cathy sat in the kitchen with her mother in law and chatted about new hair styles, while Hugh sat with his son and siste
r in the living room.
Heather flipped through the channels and set the remote down after finding the science fiction station. The end credits of an old show they both liked as kids were rolling up the screen. “Talk to Donald lately?”
Hugh had to think for a moment. “Last time was at Easter.”
“I took Brendon there last weekend. We had a good visit.”
Whendel’s only half an hour away, I should take Cathy and the kids more often.
“Has he lost any weight?”
“Yeah, you know, I think he has. His doctor told him his blood pressure was a little high, so I guess he’s trying to clean his act up.” There was a long pause. “What about Gordo? You tried patching things up there at all?”
“What’s there to fix?”
“You two were pretty tight when you were young.”
“Are you serious? He tormented the hell out of me.”
“And Donald didn’t torment the hell out of me?”
“But Gordo was a bully…”
“Come on, Hugh, give it rest. You were kids. All kids are mean and bullying.”
“I’m listening.” Colton didn’t look up from his handheld video game.
“But it was different between Gordo and me…we had issues.”
“Well maybe it’s time you worked them out. He’ll be fifty next year, and you’re not that far behind. It would make mom happy.”
Don’t give me that. I’ve lived too long and lost too much for that kind of guilt treatment.
“Who’s that doofus on the TV?”
Hugh and Heather looked at the screen to see who Colton was talking about.
Thank you, son.
“That’s Dr. Zachary Smith-reluctant stowaway aboard the Jupiter Two.”
An old episode of Lost in Space was just beginning. “I used to have the biggest crush on Will Robinson,” Heather said.
“The special effects are lousy. Is that supposed to be a robot? It looks like an old washing machine with flashing lights on top.” Colton returned to his handheld. Sci-fi sixties camp didn’t appeal to him.
They watched the re-run and poked fun at the old characters, reminiscing more of their own younger days until Cathy announced she was taking Hugh’s mom home. Colton gave her a hug and thanked his aunt for supper. He wandered back across the yard to his own home, video game playing all the way.