by Darren Groth
“HOW ABOUT A HUG.”
She searches my face, peers into my eyes. “Are you sure?”
I take the backpack from Perry (he’s still analyzing the data) and put it down in front of me. It’s like a chock holding my feet in place, preventing me from slipping. “I think affection can be shared between pen pals.”
The label is a blow to her, but only a momentary one. She leans forward and wraps her arms around my neck. I bring one hand to the small of her back, no other contact. The awkward embrace lasts a few seconds before I tap her, indicating time is up for pen-pal affection.
“I don’t think Perry’s keen on physical contact at this stage,” I say, smoothing my top. “Fair comment, Pez?”
He stuffs the seismograph in his back pocket, places the dome on the floor, then unzips the backpack. He takes out Ogopogo and tucks it under his arm. “I don’t like to touch strangers. You are my mother, but I consider you a stranger at the moment. I really don’t know you well enough yet.”
Leonie nods, gives a thin smile. “Of course.”
The dialogue stalls for a few seconds. Leonie takes off her poncho and folds it over her arm. She’s quite a yoga advertisement, our mother: arms toned, stomach flat as a board. Her posture is perfect. Given the chance to trade bodies with her, I wouldn’t hesitate. From the neck up? Another story. She looks wrung out, spent. Her eyes are heavy, perhaps weighed down by the bags under her lower lids. Her top lip has a crop of deep wrinkles. The hair pinned under her headband is dull and brittle. The combination of hoary features and awesome body is unsettling. She resembles some cautionary tale from Homer or Ovid—a poor victim of the gods, cursed with an eternal contrast of youth and age.
Perry stares at his interlocked hands. Another jackpot announcement drifts across the foyer. Leonie points to the books in the crook of her left arm.
“I’ve got something for you,” she says too quickly, too loudly. She hands them to me. “It was pretty clear from your letters that you love novels—thought you might like a Canadian classic. Mordecai Richler. And you mentioned Perry’s into hurricanes in a big way.”
“Earthquakes. He’s interested in earthquakes.”
“Oh.”
I hand the copy of Lost in Katrina to Pez. He places Ogopogo on the floor by the seismometer and thumbs through the pages.
“I’m sorry, Perry. I can take it back if you would like a different—”
“Some American people have said Hurricane Katrina was worse than the earthquake in Haiti,” he says. “It’s not true. There were hundreds of thousands of people killed in Haiti, not just thousands. And the earthquake provided very little warning, whereas many people had warned the us government about the city of New Orleans flooding and they didn’t listen. I think the only people who believe Katrina was worse are American. They’ve probably never visited Haiti or even seen the devastation on the Internet.”
I can sense Leonie looking my way, seeking some sort of guidance. I keep reading the back cover of The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz.
“Um, yes. You’re probably right, Perry. Would you like me to return it?”
He closes the book, leans it against the seismometer. “Thank you, I would like to keep it. I think there will be an interesting story and a lot of interesting information in Lost in Katrina.”
“Okay then. Awesome.”
He raises a thumb in an exaggerated fashion, then points to the Washrooms sign. “Excuse me. I’ll be back shortly.”
He hesitates for a moment under the arch, unsure which corridor matches the sign’s arrow. Then he walks on, obscured from view.
“Does he need help?” asks Leonie.
“He’s fine. He gets weirded out if he has to use gross public toilets. Porta-potties—he hates them. But hey, who doesn’t?” I close the novel. “He’s quite capable.”
She nods and watches as I stuff Ogopogo and the two books into the backpack. “He seems to be handling this situation pretty well.”
“We came prepared.”
“You mean the stuff in the bag?”
I zip the bag shut. “Among other things.”
“So you told him about me?”
“Of course.”
“How did he take it?”
“Snap, crackle and pop.”
“What?”
“Better than I thought he would. He wasn’t angry or scared, didn’t get upset. He accepted it—the reality of it, not so much the implications. Maybe Extrasensory Perry had a little inkling of news on the way before I told him. You never want to underestimate him in that regard.” I steal a peek at the arch. No sign of a return yet from the toilet. “He has questions, you know. Lots of questions.”
“That’s fair.”
“He wanted to know what I thought.”
“Did you tell him?”
I scoff. “No way. None of this is going to come from me—it’s going to come from you. He deserves the same courtesy I received.”
“Absolutely. He does. I didn’t mean to imply that, you know, you had to or anything.”
I wave dismissively and scan the foyer—the cavernous ceilings, the stately curved escalators. “This is more like a cathedral than a casino. How come you wanted to meet here?”
She shrugs. “No special reason. It’s about halfway between my place and where you guys were staying in the city. And I know River Rock.”
“You gamble a lot, then?”
“Sometimes. Not a lot.”
“Often enough to feel comfortable here.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not really built for comfort.”
Perry appears in the walkway, rubbing his hands on his thighs. As he moves in beside us, it’s clear he’s agitated.
“Troubles in the bathroom?” I ask.
He nods.
“Let me guess…hand dryer?”
He nods again. “It was very loud. Like a leaf blower. I don’t think I’ve heard one like that before, in Australia or North America.”
I pick up the seismometer from the floor. “Need this to help out?”
He shakes his head. “I think I’ll have the book instead.”
“The Newcastle earthquake one.”
“No, the brand-new book. The present from her. Lost in Katrina.”
Leonie throws me a glance of…I’m not sure what. I think she’s a bit stunned. Intrigued too. And is there a small sense of satisfaction? If there is, it better be smaller than the odds of a win in this casino.
“Okay, then.” I extract the hardback, hand it over. He opens to a random page and holds it close to his face. “How’s that?”
He bounces the book up and down. “It smells very good,” he says, voice muffled by the fan of pages.
“We’re going to leave now. Are you right to head back to the car?”
“Yes.”
As we move in silence toward the parking lot, bells and whistles split the air. Another jackpot has landed. It’s only an impression, but it seems there’s a lot of good fortune in the building this morning.
FOLLOWING LEONIE DOWN THE 99, an earlier statement drowns the song on the radio. He seems to be handling this situation pretty well.
Perry’s handled squat. He’s still engrossed with everything but the situation. On the way out of the casino, he pointed out the Canada Line and went to town on a 2009 tragedy at Walt Disney World in which two monorails collided and a twenty-one-year-old driver was killed. Passing under the digital signs displaying US border information, he wrote down the various wait times and delays. And, at this moment, he’s thoroughly impressed with Mount Baker, standing imperious and white-capped on the southeastern skyline.
“You know it’s a dormant volcano, don’t you, Just Jeans?”
“I do now.”
“And you know about neighboring Mount St. Helens and how it exploded in 1980, distributing a drift of ash that reached Australia?”
“That I did know.”
Extrasensory Perry. He has questions, you know. Lots of questions.
>
He will make his inquiries when he’s ready. And our mother will answer each one. My hope is that her answers will be worthy of his understanding and forgiveness. It’s not as unlikely as it seemed a week ago. He accepted Lost in Katrina, even chose it as a source of consolation after the toilet panic. Thus far, although distracted, he’s at least been calm.
Good ol’ Mount Baker.
Lots of questions.
Of course, there is always Mount St. Helens. If it happens, if explosion results…Well, second time around, our mother must do better. She must stand still, even as the ash spreads far and wide.
That’s the answer I’m looking for.
“SO, WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THE boat ride on Okanagan Lake?” asks Leonie.
I wince. Not the question to ask, Leonie. Not at all. I look left into the living room, then at the half-empty bottle of champagne on the table. My mind ticks over, revisiting the drama, choosing words. I shift to Perry. The Tuxedo is on pause. He’s slid out of the armchair and onto his knees, hands over his ears, his breathing heavy. His gaze is fixed on our mother. It’s like he’s prompting memories, cueing her recall. Remember this? Remember the last time you saw me unravel? I’m older now, but it’s still the same when things go wrong. It’s hard. On me. On everyone.
Leonie is an abandoned ventriloquist’s doll—limp, slumped, mouth open. Understandably, she can’t figure how it all soured in a matter of seconds. Perry was settling in so nicely. Upon arrival, he checked out his room, put clothes in the wardrobe and drawers, found homes on the shelves for all his security items. He ate lunch at the outdoor setting in the courtyard. He listened in on plans for the stay: Whistler tomorrow, PNE the next day. When she let him know the PNE was Vancouver’s equivalent of the Ekka, he clapped his hands and nodded approvingly. And he didn’t bat an eye when informed it would just be mother and son for the show; I would head downtown for some R and R. For the last half hour, he’d been content to play with his iPad and watch Jackie Chan. Now he’s on the verge of coming apart, courtesy of a ten-word question she thought was more innocuous than a falling snowflake.
I gulp some bubbly, clear my throat. Perry, still peering over the edge of reason, has shifted attention to me.
“It’s okay, mate,” I say. “I’m not going to lose it again. I’m just going to tell her what happened.”
“No lie?”
“No lie. I’m just going to tell the story.”
“Ogopogo isn’t around to help me if you cry.”
“You won’t need him, Pez. Promise.”
Perry lifts his hands from his head and drops them by his side. He stays perched on his knees.
“Marc and I are on a break,” I say. I down the remainder of my drink, then refill my glass.
“Is there more to the story?” asks Leonie.
I tell her about our agreement, how I needed temporary distance so this trip could be the sole focus. Then I sketchily detail the calls—at the Pacifica West, on the Coquihalla, the third, backbreaking breach by the lake. I don’t reveal how Marc’s views on this little family reunion paved the way to the parting.
“He apologized for ringing the first two times. Howzat, hey? He rang to say sorry for ringing.”
Leonie draws a smoke from the nearby packet, taps the filter on the table. “Yes, that’s bad.”
“It’s complete overkill.”
“Yes.”
I lean forward, elbows propped on the table. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“No?”
“No. You think I’m making too much of it.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to. It’s in your tone.”
“I’m going outside.” Leonie jumps to her feet. The force of the movement rocks the chair. It teeters for an instant on two legs, threatening to topple, then crashes back down into the backs of her thighs. She rides out the clutch of pain, steps away from the table and fumbles with a lighter on the sideboard.
“I’m coming with you.”
“You don’t smoke.”
I move in front of Perry, bend down and cup his face in my hands. “You seeing me, Pez?”
“Yes.”
“You okay if we go outside for a bit?”
Perry checks the wall clock. “It’s eight fifty-one. Why are you going outside?”
“Mother-daughter chat.”
We step through the sliding glass door and into the back courtyard. Standing side by side, we observe the glubbing fountain in the center of the cheap water feature. I know the setup to our story is done. It’s time for the conflict and, one way or another, the resolution.
“I’m sorry,” she begins. “You’ve made a decision and I support it.”
I scoff. “Smile and nod, hey? You don’t get off that easy.”
“I’m trying to do the right thing here.”
“Then do it. Communicate. Don’t cave.” I pick up a withered maple leaf lying on a nearby stone, twist the stem between thumb and forefinger.“We’re grown-ups, Leonie.”
She lights the cigarette, takes a long calming drag, blows smoke out the side of her mouth. “Look, obviously I don’t know Marc from Adam. The little I do know I got from your letters, and from what you wrote he seems like a pretty nice guy. You certainly liked him when you put pen to paper—I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. You wrote about possibly taking the relationship to the next level—moving in together at some point in the future, after Perry was settled. Clearly, the two of you had plans.”
I drop the leaf, watch it float down and come to rest by my feet. “There is potential.”
“And, look, I know things have changed because of the calls. You see him a bit differently now—God knows, I can relate to that. Story of my life in a lot of ways. But here’s the kicker, Justine: he cares. He doesn’t make those calls if he doesn’t care. I’m wondering how much you’ve really thought about that.”
“There’s a big difference between caring and needlessly interfering.”
“Maybe he just needed his hand held. Never needing your hand held, or at least refusing to admit it…I think that’s a hell of a lot worse than needing it a bit too much.”
I fold my arms, nudge a loosened rock back into place with my toe. “You’re talking about Dad now, aren’t you?”
Leonie flicks the spent cigarette onto the pathway and crushes it underfoot. There are a few butts discarded on the ground.
“You knew Dan as a father,” she begins. “He was a great father. From day one, he was smitten with the two of you. He played with you, bathed you. Read to you at night. When he’d come home from work late—he hated the times when he had to work late, just hated them—all he’d want to do was talk about his ‘twinnows.’ He’d want to know every last detail: what you’d eaten, how much you’d napped, what sort of poop you’d produced in your diaper. When he went out, he’d always take you two with him, even when you were tiny; he’d lug you around in one of those baby carriers like you were his passport to the world. He took you to the beach, to the playground. Hell, he even came up with an exercise routine using those damn carriers. I was only around for four years, Justine, but I saw enough to know what he was. He was meant to be a dad. He was born to be a dad.” She glances at me, ekes out a thin smile. “You don’t need me to tell you that—you knew how good he was.”
I look skyward, then at the back of my left hand. “He was the best.”
She nods. “And as good a father as he was, he was a lousy husband, Justine. I never wrote about it in any of the letters I sent to you—there wasn’t any point. But I think there is a point now, so I’m going to tell you. He had no time for me. All the things he gave to you two—the love, the care, the concern—he tucked it all into bed with his twinnows at the end of every day. He was a lousy husband, Justine. I can say it in 2010. I was able to say it after the divorce, too, when the blinders came off and I saw things more clearly. In the midst of the marriage, though, I was struck dumb. We shared what I thought was love, but
then it began to fall apart, week after week, month after month, until it was nothing but an obituary. Actually, not even an obituary: just an obscure moment in history or a boring trivia question.”
I shift my weight, pick some lint off my sleeve, shift again.
“I tried to salvage it. I cooked his favorite meals: veal parmigiana, shepherd’s pie, snapper with slipper lobsters. I always, always asked him questions about his work before I launched into my day. I bought lingerie even though I couldn’t stand to look at my post-baby body in the mirror. None of it made a blip on the radar. When I left, I let him have it. It was his fault. He was a shitty husband, he was a heartless bastard. He’d held a life jacket in his hand while he watched me drown. I gave him hell, but deep down, I didn’t believe any of it—I was the shitty one; I was at fault. I’d failed my marriage. Add to that my abject failure as a mother and it was clear what must be done: I had to go away, take my failure elsewhere. Dan would find another woman, a better woman, one he could love as much as his twinnows.” She crosses her arms, rubs the rising goose bumps. “Turned out I was wrong, eh? Dan might’ve been a born father, but he was born to do it alone.”
The sun is almost gone and lights are on in the neighboring townhouses. There’s a chill in the air. It might be the result of the nearby flowing water, or maybe the Canadian summer is ending already. I look over at my mother. She’s shivering, seemingly at the mercy of the cool change. I’m not feeling it. In fact, my armpits and spine and hands share a tickle of perspiration.