Are You Seeing Me?

by Darren Groth

  Love is reliable. You can depend on it.

  PERRY

  JUSTINE AND I ARE IN A Chevrolet Cobalt, speeding along the Trans-Canada Highway. So much of what I see is strange. Cars driving on the right-hand side of the road, of course. There are no trailers, just large motorhomes called Winnebago and CanaDream. The speed limit signs are square and don’t have a red circle. The words SPEED LIMIT are actually written on them. What is the reason for that? Do North Americans need exact instructions like I do when I’m working at Troy’s car wash and a customer wants detailing? And I am on the driver’s side! There should be a steering wheel in my hands! That wouldn’t be wise. During my first lesson with Justine last year, in the empty car park at the rear of Brookfair Shopping Center, I ran into three trolleys and a traffic island. No lie. Justine said one lesson per year was more than enough.

  With all this new information surrounding me, I would be quite anxious if this were a normal day. This isn’t a normal day—this is the start of our big adventure. Ogopogo’s home is our first destination. Thinking about what might happen over the next two days makes the strangeness of the highway shrink until it’s only mildly annoying, like a mosquito buzzing around my head.

  I look over at Justine. She is herself—pretty and clever. Her hair is pulled up into a bun and she’s wearing the shirt that has a drawing of William Shakespeare (Justine calls him Bill or Baldy Bill) riding a surfboard and holding a skull. It’s hard to tell what her face is showing about her feelings because she has sunglasses on. I can only see one side of her head because she is watching the road. I guess she is calm and settled, but I could be wrong. I don’t know what she’s feeling inside; her heart could be racing, her stomach might be flip-flopping. You can never be completely sure.

  I like observing Justine when she’s doing something important and having to concentrate. I can watch and learn and not worry that she’ll speak suddenly or do something surprising. And she won’t say things like “Focus on me” or “Are you seeing me?” Sometimes I pull faces at her. When she catches me, without looking she says, “You need a makeover again, Pez?” Then I do the stupid duck lips I’ve seen lots of girls doing on the FAIL blog.

  After three minutes I look away. (It’s creepy if you watch someone for too long, especially a woman.) I pull out the folded road map of British Columbia.

  “We goin’ the right way?” asks Justine.

  I see a green road sign, then give three nods. “Hope is seventy-six kilometers away.”

  “First stop: Hope. I like the sound of that.”

  No lie, I think it’s a dumb name for a town. But Australian towns have ridiculous names, too:

  Blackbutt

  Poowong

  Mount Buggery

  I start giggling and I can’t stop. When Dad was alive, he said my laughing fits were like having a cockatoo in the house. Raaark! Raaark! He said I should wear a yellow rubber glove on my head so I could look the part. Raaark! Raaark! Justine and I would flap our pretend wings and Dad would say silly sentences in a parrot’s voice. And we would all laugh together.

  Here, today, in our Chevrolet Cobalt on Trans-Canada Highway 1, Justine doesn’t ask me what the joke is, she just joins in. Sometimes I think she’s “extrasensory” like me, or she’s got lots of funny stories in her head. I love hearing her laugh. The same as I hate hearing her cry.

  When we leave Highway 1 and turn onto Highway 5, I’m tired and I want to take a nap. My body has no energy. My brain is packed tight, like the bales of hay at the plant nursery near our house. Justine is not surprised. She talks about jet lag, how it “impairs your functioning” and “makes it hard to concentrate” and “messes with your body clock.” It can even upset your toileting. She says not to worry—it goes away after a day or two, or a week, or, in bad cases, a month. I tell her I’m glad because I don’t need another disability. The one I’ve got comes with a lifetime guarantee, like my hair color and my fingerprints and my excellent ability to make jokes.

  When I wake up, we are pulling into the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant called Dairy Queen. In front of us, just past the turnoff road, is a wide river. Behind are large mountains covered in green forest. In my imagination, the houses and the shops and the streets are being bullied; the mountains are standing over them like a cruel gang, attempting to force them into the water. From my research, I know the mountains have been cruel in real life. In 1965, the Hope Slide happened at Johnson Peak, a few kilometers southeast of the town. It buried two cars and a tanker truck under mud and rock that was eighty-five meters deep and three kilometers wide. Rescuers could only find two of the four victims killed. For a while, people thought it had been caused by an earthquake because it registered seismically, but it was just a slip, like the one that trapped Stuart Diver in the Thredbo landslide. As I climb out of the car, I’m not sure if it’s the thought of buried bodies or the cool breeze that makes me shiver. A sudden gust blows the hood of my sweater over my head.

  “Welcome to Hope, brother.” Just Jeans smiles and locks the Cobalt, ensuring no one will steal it while we are inside.

  THE MENU ABOVE THE COUNTER IS SCARY.

  Burgers, chips, salads, a chicken wrap—these are fine. The hot dog is okay, too. I tried a sausage on bread last October at Bunnings. But then I look closer and find lots of confusing details. There is mayo on the burgers. The beef is from the Canadian province of Alberta. One of the sandwiches is “Iron Grilled!” I begin rubbing my hands down the front of my jeans, digging my thumbs in with each stroke. There were a lot of unfamiliar sights on the highway, and thinking about Ogopogo made me feel better—but this is different. This is food. It goes into my mouth, into my digestive system and then into my entire body. I need to properly know what I’m eating. What if the mayo gives me an allergy? What if Alberta has mad cows? What if the iron grill allows metal fragments into my bloodstream?

  “Perry, you okay?”

  I suck the air through my teeth and hunch my shoulders.

  “How about you go and sit over at that table near the front window,” whispers Justine. “I’ll get you something that’s okay. Trust me.”

  The edges of my vision have rounded and gone gray. It’s like I’m looking through a telescope that has a dirty lens. There are people all around—no doubt they are watching me—the small girl standing beside me in the pink jacket and holding a Barbie in her right hand; the overweight couple wearing shiny belt buckles and cowboy hats; the group of teenagers comparing their tans.

  They think I have a problem. They don’t realize they are the ones with the problem—they’ve eaten the food! And it’s too late for them now. One by one, they drop to the floor: first the cowboy, then his wife, then the teenagers. The girl watches the others fall before the pain hits her like a kung-fu kick. She screams, pulls the head off her Barbie and stumbles, smacking her forehead on the edge of the vending machine before going down. The floor is full of dying people now. Twisting, groaning. Foaming at the mouth. They grab at their throats, knowing that’s where the pain is worst, but not knowing why. I know why. The iron grill fragments in the food have gathered there. They’ve come together and bonded, forming sharp metal pieces. Blades. Bulges begin to form in the victims’ necks. They grow larger and larger. And the bigger they get, the more pointed they become. The cowboy woman is the first to have the blade break through the skin—the pop reminds me of overheated porridge in the microwave. Others follow. Soon, the tiles are gobbled up by a tsunami of blood. I don’t want to see any more. I don’t want to think about the Dairy Queen disaster. I want to lie down and let all the heavy weights in my head fall through the floor. I want to—

  “Pez,” Justine whispers right in my ear. “Keep it together, bud.”

  I hold my breath for a few seconds, then focus on my shoes. The blood has vanished. The surrounding floor has streaks and scuff marks and a small yellow sign saying Caution—Wet Floor.

  “Trust me. I got it. Just Jeans to the rescue, hey?”

  I t
urn slightly and command my feet to move. For a long time there is no response. Then they follow my order, stepping once, twice. By the time I sit down at the table, my anxiety has returned to a steady hum. I can process better now.

  Just Jeans saves the day again.

  I lay my head on the table. Its surface is cool on my cheek.

  Just Jeans saves the day AGAIN.

  It sucks being a hassle. I want to be brave and strong, like Jackie Chan in Drunken Master II when he is attacked by the gang of men with axes. Coping when things get intense is very hard. No lie. All the difficulties crowd my brain and yell and scream and smash into each other. The good things I try to fill my mind with—Ogopogo, for example—they get pushed out the same way convection in the Earth’s mantle gets expelled and causes earthquakes or volcanic eruptions. So then I am caught. I am caught in a tremor, and my sister is the only person who can stop the shaking.

  It’s not fair to her. Things will be better when I move to Fair Go. Justine won’t have to save the day anymore. She will live a normal life. She will be free. And I will find solutions to my own problems because I won’t have my sister to rely on. Relying on yourself—that’s what everyday people do; that is what it means to be independent.

  Perry Richter saves the day.

  That is the future.

  Justine arrives at the table, holding a tray. She hands me a basket with my meal arranged neatly inside. “There you go. Chicken strips and chips. No weirdness.”

  I poke the food with my finger. It is recognizable. I pick up one of the strips, hold it to my mouth, nibble. It’s good. As I swallow, I turn my head and spy Justine at the edges of my vision. She has her hands fully wrapped around her burger. She also has two napkins placed over the top of the meal in her basket, like she’s performing a magic trick. And it sort of is a magic trick—I can’t see any of the food she’s eating. It’s as if the food has disappeared.

  “Thank you,” I say, and Justine winks because her mouth is too full to speak.

  For a while, we eat and don’t converse. Most of the time, I look outside. The wind is stronger. Leaves of different colors—red, yellow, orange, brown, pink—fly through the air and along the sidewalk. Seven people walk past, all of them wearing shorts, T-shirts and thongs. The river is lumpy. Justine notices me staring at the water.

  “Looks full of Ogopogos today,” she says. “All coming to see the town of Hope.”

  I wipe my mouth with a napkin, fold it, place it in the basket. “You’re not right in the noggin.”

  Justine snorts. She lifts her index finger up and twirls it around her ear to indicate she’s crazy. She crosses her arms over her chest, puts on a stupid voice and says,“Ooh, so many Ogopogos. Get me out of this straitjacket so I can have a swim with them!”

  I laugh, and then we go back to being quiet for a while. When we’ve both finished our meals and only scraps of food are left, Jus asks me an interesting question.

  “What is it about sea monsters, Pez? Why are you into them so much?”

  It’s not something I’ve ever been asked before—not by Justine or Dad or the teachers I had at school. Thinking about the answer takes a few minutes. Justine doesn’t stare, doesn’t repeat the question. She knows I need a moment to think and organize a response. By the time I am ready to reply, she’s cleaned up our table and the rubbish is in the bin.

  “There are two reasons,” I say. “The first is because they are excellent at hiding. They’ve survived for thousands of years and no one has caught them. And the second reason is they’ve learned to survive even though the world is confusing and difficult for them.”

  Justine’s face changes. Her eyes widen. Her forehead creases. Her lips pull to one side. “That’s…That makes a lot of sense.” Her face changes again. It squashes a little and her mouth stretches. I know this look—Dad used to call it “cheeky chops.” “Hiding, hey? So how come you don’t like Sasquatch and Bigfoot?”

  It’s my turn to snort. “They’re not real. They’re just people dressed up in hairy suits.”

  Justine dabs her index finger on her tongue and draws a line in the air. “Well played, Mr. Richter.”

  I don’t exactly know what that means, or why her voice sounded like a villain on TV. But there’s no time to figure it out—we’re ready to leave the Dairy Queen. And when she puts an arm around my shoulders, I know it’s not something I should be worried about.

  “MARC…MARC! WE HAD A DEAL, REMEMBER? YES, yes, I know you think it was important to call, but this trip is more important, okay? Much more important.”

  I returned from the toilet to find Justine leaning against the steering wheel, head pressed against her forearm. She is talking on her phone. To begin with, I didn’t know who she was talking to. I know now. Her face is hidden, but her slumped body and the tone of her voice tell me she is not enjoying the conversation. The fun we were sharing on our drive has disappeared.

  I knew something uncomfortable was coming—I should have been prepared. When we first stopped, I didn’t like the dark-colored, all-metal toilet building. It looked like a prison, or one of those observation huts where scientists watch nuclear explosions from a long distance away. I did a quick seismic reading on the ground beside the car.

  “Earth behaving?” asked Justine. She spoke over her shoulder as she walked between two parked Dodge Ram trucks toward the toilet.

  “I’m not sure,” I replied.

  She waved and opened the door to the block, which had a jammed lock and graffiti written on it. I did a second reading, this time placing the seismometer on the gravel at the edge of the paved parking lot. The result was no different from the first, but I felt incorrect, like I’d watched The Accidental Spy without any subtitles.

  And I still feel that way now, only worse. Justine leans back in her seat, changes the phone to her other ear. “Marc, I do know how you feel about it. I knew the week before we got on the plane! You made your feelings very clear and your concerns have been duly noted. It doesn’t change our plans…”

  I can see most of her face now—it’s red and glistening. The muscles in her cheek and jaw are tense.

  “You’re worried—I get it. You’re looking out for me and Pez, you don’t want me—us—to get hurt. That’s very nice, Marc, very noble. You’re being the good, dutiful boyfriend. You’re also being the interfering, frustrating boyfriend…”

  I don’t think she is going to cry. That is a relief. I don’t cope well when she cries.

  “Do that. Take some time to think it over…Yes, try to see it from my perspective. Please…That’s sweet…Okay, bye.”

  She presses the button to end the call and says four swearwords quickly, one after the other. She begins massaging her temples.

  “All we need right now is a bit of time and space—not a guardian angel hanging over our shoulders. Right?”

  “Right,” I say. I don’t really understand what Justine is asking, but I suspect that is the right answer.

  “A boyfriend. That’s all he needs to be, not a hero.”

  “Not a hero,” I repeat.

  We sit in silence. I count off the seconds in my head. Fifteen. Thirty. Forty-five. The roar of a truck braking on the highway upsets my count at fifty-two. Tires scream. I see the white-blue smoke, the long skid marks. I smell the burning rubber. There’s a crash—the guardrail. It’s no match for a forty-eight-ton semitrailer veering off the road, out of control. Nearing the edge of the cliff, the driver jumps out of the cab. He hits the dirt and rolls as the truck flies off the edge of the cliff, hanging in the air for a second before plunging down into the rocks and trees below. The giant sounds of destruction shrink and shrink and shrink until there is silence. Someone else witnessing the accident might think it’s over. It’s not over. I count backwards from three, then cover my ears. BOOM! The explosion comes through the ground, up through my feet. It shakes the mountains. It blackens the sky. It pulses in my head like a—

  “Boyfriend,” says Justine.

&
nbsp; I take my hands away from my ears, wipe my nose on my sleeve, sneak a look at my sister. She is staring ahead, through the windshield and out to where the road gets swallowed by the mountains. Whatever emotions she is feeling, I don’t immediately recognize them. Her face is somehow smaller, duller, like a camping lantern with the flame turned down. It doesn’t even really belong to Justine. I take a deep breath and ask an appropriate question. “Can I do something to help?”

  “Wanna drive?”

  “What?”

  “Kidding.” She blinks twice and lets her head flop forward. “Thanks for the offer, Pez. I’ll be okay.”

  She lifts her head and turns. She pulls the rubber band on her wrist and releases so it whips her skin. I don’t like it when she does that, but it seems to be part of her routine. Her face loosens up and she smiles. It’s not a proper smile, though—it doesn’t show any teeth. Justine had that face a lot when we were in school. Whenever Dad saw it, he would say, Lost your dentures, tree frog? or That’s your grin-and-bury-it look, tree frog. She points at the seismometer in my lap.

  “I just had a little rumble, that’s all,” she says. “Take more than that to shake our happy holiday.”

  I nod because I know Justine would like me to agree with her, but I don’t really believe what she says. She is not happy. And I don’t think she was joking when she said she would like me to drive. But I can’t drive. One lesson per year is not enough.

  Perry Richter saves the day.

  That is the future.

  But not today.

  As we leave the small parking lot and accelerate back onto the Coquihalla Highway, I put the seismometer on the floor, holding it between my feet. I will keep it there from now on.

  THERE ARE NO OTHER RUMBLES for the remaining 161 kilometers of our journey. There are only interesting and beautiful sights for us to see. In my head, I make a separate list for each. By the time we reach the Peachland Welcomes You and Historic Peachland signs, they are as follows: