by Darren Groth
“When did you leave Australia?” I ask.
“After my mother died.”
“Where did you go?”
“I backpacked around Europe, South America, parts of Asia. I ended up in India, living in an ashram.”
“What is that?”
“It’s a quiet place away from the world, where you can study and pray and meditate.”
“And do yoga?”
“Yes. I learned yoga and how to teach it in the ashram.”
I tap the seismometer with my fingernail. The plink, plink sound it makes—it resembles dripping water.
“And then you went to Canada?”
“Yes,” she says. “I came here after India. My biological father was Canadian. I’d never met him, so I thought it was about time I did.”
“Did you live with him too?”
“No. It took me a long time—almost a year—to find him. He worked in the Alberta oil fields and on the ice-fishing boats that go to Alaska. I managed to meet up with him in a town called Red Deer. It was brief, awkward. He barely remembered Mum. At the end, he shook my hand, thanked me for tracking him down. He said he would try to keep in touch, but I knew it was a lie. I haven’t heard from him since.” She shrugs. “He wasn’t cut out to be a parent. That sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
I don’t know how to answer that, so I scrunch my face and make some popping sounds. Then, after thirty seconds, I rock back and forth. Leonie asks if I’m okay. My eyes spring open and the next question pours out of my mouth like lava from the vent of a volcano. “How long after meeting your biological father did you write to Just Jeans?”
“Two weeks.”
I nod three times. Leonie gets a look on her face that I can’t properly read.
“Did you see that before I told you?” she asks.
“See?”
“Did you know that fact before I told you?”
“I knew you probably would’ve written soon after. It’s a logical conclusion.” I shift the seismometer to my lap. “Did you ever think about writing a letter before that time?”
Leonie leans forward, elbows on her knees. Her hair blocks her face. It looks like a small gray-streaked curtain has been lowered down over her eyes. “I thought about writing or phoning or getting in touch years before I did, but I never got beyond thinking about it. I couldn’t find the words. Every sentence seemed like an insult or an excuse or a sick joke. The more time passed, the more I felt like there was no way back. And that was fitting. You guys were better off without me.” She touches the front of her throat. Perhaps she has some burger stuck there. “When I met my dad, I realized I was different from him—I cared. I was a disgrace and unworthy of forgiveness, but I cared. So I bought a birthday card, wrote in it and put it in the post before I had a chance to lose my nerve.”
I push my fists into my ears and jump to my feet. I lift the seismometer from the bench and place it under my nose. “Can you hold this for me, please?”
She brings a hand up to her forehead to shield the sun.
“I would like to go on the Crazy Beach Party ride. My brain is getting packed too tight—no lie, it needs to loosen up. Can you hold my seismometer for me, please?”
After a four-second delay, she stands.
“No, no! I need to go by myself.” I move the seismometer to the crook of my left elbow and pat her shoulder with my free hand. “Please sit down.”
She obeys and takes the seismometer.
“One ride will be enough. I’ll be back before you can say, ‘Ogopogo was here.’ Promise.”
Then I go on the Crazy Beach Party ride.
Twice.
Just to make sure.
“WHEN YOU LEFT OUR FAMILY, did you leave because of me?”
I ask the question three seconds after sitting down on the bench again. Leonie almost drops the seismometer as she’s handing it back to me. “I didn’t leave because of you. I left because of me.”
“I have an excellent imagination, but my memory is very good too. I was a problem child. A big problem child. Breaking toys and screaming and hitting and kicking. I hurt you.”
“No. You didn’t.”
I look her over. “Your right foot is bouncing and your earlobes have turned red. You are not sure.”
“Yes. I am sure.”
I frown and twist my lips, but I don’t want to say she is not telling the truth. “Dad never said I was a ‘problem’—he used to say I was a ‘handful.’ What would you say I was?”
“I’d say you were…challenging.”
“Challenging? That’s similar to ‘problem.’ And more accurate than ‘handful.’ I think I was two hands at least, maybe a foot as well. I was a problem child. A big problem child.”
“I left because of me,” she repeats. “I felt it was all too much, and getting away was the only real solution. I thought it would make everyone’s life easier if I wasn’t around. That might’ve been true for your dad—we didn’t get along very well. But you and Justine—me becoming a ghost, letting you down, not being there for you as you grew up—that was a mistake. A terrible mistake.”
Leonie slides off the bench and onto her knees, facing me. “Can I take your hands?”
I hesitate, then offer them up. Her fingers are thin and rough. The skin on her index finger has a yellow-colored stain. She’s trembling.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I know I can’t possibly make up for the past. But this could be the start of a new future, if you want it to be.”
I roll my shoulders and begin to hum. I don’t want to look in her eyes, so I stick to staring at our intertwined fingers. “It’s all too much and getting away is the only real solution,” I say. “That’s how I feel quite often. I think we have that in common.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, I do. In fact, if things had been reversed back then—if I were the mother and you were the child—I think I would’ve made the same mistake. So, really, you’re not the only one.” I take my hands away and cup her face. “Are you focused?”
“Yes, I am focused.”
“Are you seeing me?”
“Yes, I am seeing you.”
“Good.” I nod three times. “You should come back to Australia.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I do. No lie.”
She makes a sound, sort of a cough mixed with a sigh. “Perry, I don’t know what to say. Thank you, son. Thank you for being…better than me.”
“You’re welcome, Mum.” I lean toward her. “You are crying. Are you glad or sad?”
“Glad,” she replies.
I WANT TO BUY A SNACK and see the sand-sculpture exhibit before leaving the PNE. We stop at a stall on the sidewalk. The man behind the counter has some sort of shiny stone in one of his front teeth. I scan the chalkboard menu, then choose a bag of mini-donuts. Mum hands over the money.
“Are you getting anything for yourself?”
“I’m good.” She smiles. “I am Ananda Balasana. The Happy Baby.”
I get a picture in my head of my mother wearing a diaper and sucking her thumb. I snicker and bite into a donut.
“Do you go straight to the Fair Go residence when you get back to Australia?” she asks.
“Not immediately. I think I will head there in four to six weeks.”
“That’s too soon.”
“How do you mean?”
“We talked about it last night—you’ll be gone by the time I catch a plane over.”
I shake my head. “I won’t be gone—I’m just changing where I live. I will still be in Brisbane, not on the other side of the world.”
“True.”
“Are you afraid I won’t want to see you?”
“No. It’s just…I’d love to think we might live under the same roof sometime. But that’s not taking you into consideration. You have every right to be independent.”
“So does Justine.”
She looks at me, waiting. Maybe she thinks I am joking. “Justine?”<
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“Yes. She has a right to be independent too.”
“But she’s been going it alone since Dan…since your father passed.”
I wipe away the sugar stuck to my fingers. “No, she’s been my caregiver all that time. That’s not right. Things will be better when I move into Fair Go.”
“You mean better for your sister?”
“Of course. Justine won’t have to save the day anymore. She will live a normal life.” I take a mouthful of a new donut. “Things didn’t happen exactly the way I thought they would in Seattle, but that’s okay. Justine is free now.”
Mum pauses and I keep chewing. The bearded Carnie Schwarzenegger in charge of the nearby dart throw shouts at us. Come and see if your aim is true! Burst a balloon—everyone walks away with a prize! I tell him no thanks, I don’t need a prize. We keep walking.
“You planned what happened in Seattle? The whole runaway thing—you did that on purpose so that Justine would definitely want you to move out?”
“Correct.”
“And she would be free of you?”
I clap my hands. “You figured it out! You should be called ESL—Extrasensory Leonie! That’s a pretty funny joke, by the way, because ESL stands for English as a Second Language.”
“And she has no clue about any of this?”
“Of course not.”
“No clue about how you feel?”
“Well, Just Jeans knows I love her.”
The conversation seems to have made Mum move quicker. It’s like she walked onto one of those moving walkways at the airport and I’m still on the carpet, falling behind. She gets six or seven paces in front, but still she doesn’t slow down.
Hey, Mum! Wait for me!
I attempt to shout the words. Nothing comes out. I have only air in my throat. I try to get my feet moving quicker, but they are not listening. In fact, they are not moving at all. They are stuck.
And there is a weight on my head and neck and shoulders, pressing down on me as the earth rises up.
THE WHITE PAPER BAG IS on the street, tipped over on its side. Spilled donuts lie in the gutter. My backpack sits on the pavement, leaning left, the main compartment open and gaping. Farther away, the PNE rides are starting to have problems. The Hellavator is listing to one side. The arms of the Sizzler are wobbling. The hiss of the Crazy Beach Party has turned into a metallic roar. Worried shouting fills my head, but it’s not coming from people taking the rides or watching from the ground. Not yet.
Two pairs of women’s shoes appear in front of me. Behind one of them is a set of small wheels belonging to a stroller.
“Are you okay?”
I’m on all fours. Mum had a yoga pose like this: Adho Mukha Svanasana, Downward-Facing Dog. This is not relaxation though. This is the complete opposite.
“Do you need some help?”
I rock forward and back, moaning. I can feel my cap hanging off my right ear. Grit is lodged under my fingernails. The street is like hot coals under my hands. There is only pavement in front now—the women and the stroller are gone.
It’s all too much
And getting away
Is the only real solution
I manage to look around for an instant. She is sitting on a bench, off to the side. Her head is down, and her lips are moving. Her hands are crossed in her lap. I think they’re shaking. Don’t be frightened, Mum. Yes, the Pirate Ship is doing full circles and the Vomitron has actually turned to vomit and the wind from the Hurricane is knocking down trees and throwing benches into the air. But there aren’t any blood-smeared tissues here. No bruises. Be brave and strong, Mum. Leap forward and wrap your arms around me. I promise I won’t scream or throw my head. I promise I won’t hurt you the way I did before. I’m not four years old anymore.
A pair of white Asics and blue Vancouver 2010 socks are in my sight line now. I moan and rock.
“Anyone belong to this guy?”
Murmurs, mutters. Then a clear voice. “He was here with a group of other retards.”
“No, he wasn’t. He’s here on his own.”
An arm gets placed across my shoulders. The world splits in two. I lurch forward onto my elbows, press my forehead to the pavement and squeal. I collapse onto my stomach. The hot street muffles my cries and fries my skin. One by one, the cages of the Zipper get crushed by a giant fist.
The Asics have been replaced by a pair of pale feet in sandals. A hand prods my elbow with a plastic cup filled with water.
Are you focused?
“Maybe it’s heat stroke.”
Are you seeing me?
“Bah! It’s a damn sight hotter at the Red River Exhibition in Winnipeg and there are no folks going belly down in the street there.”
You should come back.
The old Coaster—the only ride left standing—begins to shudder. The shaking builds and builds until the wooden structure can’t stand the pressure. Posts split in half. Boards fly through the air. The tracks collapse, one by one. Crashing and smashing onto the ground. Sending great puffs of dust high into the sky. And when all the tracks have fallen, when it seems like no other destruction can happen, the wreckage of the Coaster explodes. The whump lifts the earth under my chest. The fireball consumes all the debris and the rubble and the screams of the frightened people. Then it’s closing in on me, melting my skin and torching my bones until there’s nothing left but—
“EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME!”
“Who are you?”
“I am his…caregiver.”
“His what?”
“He has a brain condition. It causes him to get upset in different places and circumstances. He, um, he has trouble with people—mixing with them and communicating with them—and it sometimes results in—God, how did she say it?—inappropriate behaviors.”
“Where the hell were you?”
“I was away. But I’m here now. I’m here.”
I CAN SPEAK AGAIN. PHRASES. They’re tectonic plates, shifting across each other, making the needle on the graph dance.
“Too much pressure, too much buildup. Something has to give…”
“Perry, it’s Mum. Can you hear me?”
“We’re shaking…breaking…”
“Are you hurt, Perry? Can you get up?”
“We weren’t prepared for this. We weren’t ready for this.”
I feel the seismometer being placed against my left wrist.
“We weren’t ready…”
I feel Lost in Katrina nudge my right shoulder.
“Weren’t ready…”
My voice trails away; only shallow breaths are left behind. Mum kneels down beside me. “Do you mind if I touch you?”
The muscle tension begins to ease. Clenched fists open. Fingers spread. I feel her arms slide through the spaces between my shoulders and the pavement, my armpits settling in the crooks of her elbows.
“Is that okay?”
I turn my head so the left side of my face is exposed. I keep my eyes closed. “Yes.”
“Would you like me to help lift you into position?”
“Yes.”
Her arms heave back. My chest is levered off the hot street. My spine curves. Cobra pose is held while the PNE continues, the people walking past, the rides twisting and wheeling, the sun inching closer to the horizon.
JUSTINE STANDS IN THE CENTER of the living room rug, holding her face. She yells, stamps her feet. She glares at Mum again as she drinks more of her alcohol.
“Oh my god! I. Cannot. Believe it!”
“Justine, please—”
“I thought things would be different!”
“It’s not what you think.”
“But I’m an idiot, aren’t I? Marc tried to convince me to stay away from here. He said you couldn’t change, you’d let us down. And I defended you! I defended you and pushed him away!”
“You’re not looking at this clearly. The only reason I told you what happened was because I wanted to be up front, totally honest. I could’ve kept everythin
g to myself and you wouldn’t have been any wiser. I didn’t do that. I didn’t hide from the truth. And it all worked out okay. C’mon, Just Jeans.”
She advances toward Mum, index finger pointing. “You do not call me that! Okay? You have not earned the right to call me that!”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Justine!”
Jus is mad for several more seconds, then drops her hand. She hurries to the bathroom. The sound of running water is followed by splashing and the whip of a towel. She comes out again and collects the half-glass of wine on the sideboard and gulps it down. She starts pacing on the rug like one of the impatient customers at Troy’s Car Care.
I can’t look directly at the fighting. Staring at the pictures and the tiny statues on the mantel keeps it in my peripheral vision. I would like to go upstairs, maybe finish the last half hour of Drunken Master II, but I don’t have enough energy to get out of the armchair. What happened at the PNE has taken my core away, leaving only the crust. I am like one of those chalk outlines of a body they draw on the ground.
Mum pours another drink. “At first, I couldn’t think,” she says. “I could hardly breathe.”
“So, it was all about you then, was it?”
“I couldn’t help Perry the way I was. I needed some distance to pull myself together.”
Justine’s face pinches. “Don’t give me that crap. You walked away from him. You left him. He was face down in the middle of a street, surrounded by friggin’ voyeurs, unable to fend for himself. And what did you do? The same as you’ve always done—you abandoned him.”
“It wasn’t the same.”
“Of course it was.”
“No, it wasn’t the same.”
“Okay. Tell me then. How was it different? Because it was five minutes instead of fifteen years? Because it was ten meters instead of ten thousand? Because it was a grown man instead of a child?”
Mum puts her drink down on the table and enters the living room. She moves in front of a bowed Just Jeans and hunches low, trying to make eye contact.
“I came back,” she says. “That’s the difference. I came back.”