Are You Seeing Me?

by Darren Groth

  Justine nods once, looks up. I’m only using peripheral vision, but I can tell her eyes are red. Her face is like a stone mask.

  “I don’t think you’re going any further.”

  “What do you mean?”

  My sister ignores the question and heads upstairs.

  “What do you mean, Justine?”

  Mum moves into the corridor and holds the banister for support. I can hear the sounds of packing—suitcase thumps, coathanger clinks, drawer slams—from the bedroom.

  “ANSWER ME!”

  Two minutes later, Justine drags our suitcases and my backpack down the stairs. I hear her dump them at the door, then pick up the phone. She talks to someone about an overnight reservation. She says thank you and makes another call. It’s for a taxi. When she hangs up, she addresses me. “We’re not staying here tonight, Pez. Okay? We’re staying in a nice hotel before we fly back to Brisbane tomorrow.”

  I lift my chalk-outlined body out of the chair and shuffle through the living room. In the kitchen, Mum grabs Justine’s elbow, forcing her to stop. “You’re abandoning him, too,” she says. “This moving out to the Fair Go—you’re letting him walk away.”

  Justine scoffs. “You’re pathetic.” She jerks, trying to wrench her arm away. Mum holds on.

  “You’re the reason he’s going, Justine.”

  “I’m the reason?”

  “He wants you to have a proper life, and he believes he’s standing in your way. When he’s gone, you’ll be happy. You’ll be free.”

  “Jesus, Leonie, is this the booze talking? Where are you coming up with this rubbish?”

  Mum glances at me. I move toward the door, head down, hands behind my back. I wish I wasn’t a chalk outline right now. I wish Ogopogo would appear at the back door to give me a solution to this problem. I don’t really want to leave. I want us to stay with Mum tonight, to use conflict-resolution skills, to do Surya Namaskara together in the living room before bed. I want to confirm to Just Jeans that Mum isn’t lying or talking with her booze. I’m moving to Fair Go because I love my sister more than anything and I want her to be free and it’s the right thing to do. But it’s too late. The instability I felt, the quake I feared…it’s under way.

  “It’s a logical conclusion,” says Mum.

  “Ha! Logic—your strong suit!”

  “Your brother’s not interested in his own independence, Justine. He wants yours.”

  Through the blind, a green car eases to a stop outside the door. The taxi. Its pip-pip horn bounces off the townhouses opposite.

  “If you want a pen pal from here on out,” Justine says, pulling her elbow away, “write to Perry. He’s quite capable.” She pauses, thinks about something else, shakes her head one last time. She moves in beside me, murmurs in my ear. “Let’s go.”

  I open the front door and drag the luggage outside.

  The shaking and breaking can’t be stopped right now. Even if Ogopogo did appear at the back door, he couldn’t help, because the only solution to this problem is to wait. We have to find a safe place until it’s done and the earth has gone quiet again. Then we can look through the rubble to see what was damaged and what survived unscathed. And rebuild. It might take a long time, but you always rebuild.

  Just Jeans tells the turban-wearing cab driver, “Hilton by the airport.”

  Before the front door closes, I hear Mum cry out, “Ask your brother, Justine! Please! Ask him before he’s gone!”

  And then we’re gone.

  OUR SILENT ARRIVAL AT THE hotel is followed by a silent elevator ride up to the room and a silent sharing of room-service fish and chips. Eventually, Justine asks if I want to watch a DVD. I tell her, “No, thank you.” Instead I tune the TV to the History Channel. There is a show on about the War of 1812. I watch the story about Billy “The Scout” Green, who fought the Americans at the age of eighteen and was given twenty dollars for his service at the age of eighty-two. It helps me forget for a little while about what happened at Mum’s house. While I’m watching TV, Jus opens Robinson Crusoe, and then the book Mum gave her. She sighs and shifts in her chair, flicking through the pages rather than properly looking at them. I suspect she is thinking rather than reading. Then, around eleven o’clock, I know for sure.

  “You think I overreacted?”

  I turn the sound of muskets shooting and cannons firing down to zero.

  “Was I being unfair to her, Pez?”

  I turn toward my sister. “I think we should’ve stayed, used conflict-resolution skills and done Surya Namaskara together in the living room.”

  “She failed at the PNE. She walked away from you. You can forgive her for that?”

  “Of course. It wasn’t for long. And sometimes walking away is necessary.”

  “Necessary.” As she repeats my word, Just Jeans pulls a face I don’t understand, something combining a frown and a squint. She massages her wrist where she used to have her rubber band, then sits down beside me at the table. “Was she telling the truth about Fair Go? Are you walking away because you feel it is necessary for me?”

  “I want to say no.”

  “But you can’t, can you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not in your nature to lie, is it?”

  “I have a disability. A brain condition.”

  “The brain condition has nothing to do with it. You’re just too good a person.” She pulls me close, hugs me for nearly one minute. “Why the hell didn’t you say something when Mum mentioned it?”

  I flick my hands and watch a loose thread hanging off Jus’s sleeve sway in the air-conditioned breeze. “Because we weren’t prepared. We weren’t ready.”

  Justine swears, closes her eyes and lets her head fall forward. She rests a hand over mine. “God, Perry, I never wanted you to go.”

  “I know that.”

  “I only agreed because I thought you wanted more independence.”

  “I know that.”

  “I am always free with you next to me, with us sharing our lives.”

  “I know that now.”

  She sucks in a deep breath, blows the air out hard. She looks up at the ceiling. “Dad, you arranged this business with Fair Go. Whatever your reasons, I know you were taking care of us. But you’re gone now. We’re on our own.”

  She drops her head and looks at me. I narrow my eyes, but only a little.

  “I am focused. Just Jeans, I am seeing you.”

  “And I am seeing us. Together.”

  She hugs me again, stands and moves to the desk in the corner of the room. “So, what happens next?”

  “We rebuild.”

  Jus nods slowly, then with increased size and strength. Three big nods. She writes on the Hilton Hotel notepad, tears the page out and folds it in two. She hands the paper to me, then enters the bathroom. When I hear the shower water running, I open the paper and read the small to-do list she has made.

  Hug Perry (done)

  Check status of flight

  Call Mum and apologize

  Call Marc and apologize

  Cancel Fair Go

  Rebuild

  The list is very good, although the call to Mum must happen before checking the status of the flight. I get the feeling we need to contact her as soon as possible.

  There is no Cry in the shower on the list. It should be there because I can hear Jus’s small, sad yelping noises over the sound of the stream. And I feel the seismic wave building in my feet and my stomach and the backs of my eyes. But the feelings are not as painful as they usually are. They’re still intense, but they’re wider, more spread out. Spread out beyond my body and into the hotel room. The small table trembles. The coffeepot jumps and dances and breaks into three pieces. The bedside lamp topples onto the floor. The TV moves in and out of the cabinet on its swinging tray. And there is a shout, then a crash in the shower. Not a crash of metal or plastic. A human crash. A body. A heavy bag of bone and muscle and organ.

  Just Jeans isn’t crying now. She
isn’t making a sound.

  THERE IS A LOT OF NOISE, so much commotion. Jackie Chan isn’t afraid of the earthquake. He is afraid, though, when he finds Just Jeans unconscious, her whole body on the floor except for one foot caught on the edge of the tub. He is scared out of his mind.

  “Jus, can you hear me? JUS, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

  Jackie Chan positions her to the side, tilts her head back. He checks for breathing by bringing his cheek close to her mouth. He doesn’t feel anything. He turns her back over, checks for a pulse. No pulse. For maybe ten seconds Jackie Chan has bad thoughts: I’m disabled, I’m a retard. How can I help my dying sister? He wants to lie with her on the white tiles, let the ground open up and take them both. But he shakes the bad thoughts out of his head and starts compressions. Push fast and hard on the chest—that’s what you do these days. It doesn’t matter so much about the thirty-to-two cycles. Fast and hard compressions are more important. And go to a depth of around five centimeters for adults. Jackie Chan knows he’s gone deeper because a couple of ribs made a cracking sound.

  After maybe ninety seconds, a weak pulse pushes against his fingertips. Jackie Chan repeats four times to make sure. He double-checks the breathing. It is there. He shouts again. “CAN YOU HEAR ME, JUST JEANS?”

  Still no response. He has to get her to the hospital. Her vital signs are present, but they might not stay. And there might be other problems. Serious problems. Organ damage, internal bleeding. He might’ve punctured her lungs during the CPR. He wants to call an ambulance, but he knows the earthquake will have them all on duty. If the line isn’t dead, it will be busy. He has to get her to the hospital on his own.

  Jackie Chan grabs his backpack, puts it over his shoulders, tightens the straps until they bite his skin. Then he puts a towel over her naked body and picks her up in his arms. Trying to support her head as much as he can, he carries her outside. There is damage in the hallway—pictures on the floor, potted plants knocked over. Overhead lights fizz and flicker; one near the fallen vending machine explodes in a shower of sparks. He suspects the elevators won’t be working, so he heads for the stairs. On the way down, he speaks to her. “It’s okay, Just Jeans. I’m here. I’m prepared. I’m ready.”

  On the final flight of stairs, he stumbles and almost loses his grip. But he holds on. He is strong. Brave and strong. In the lobby, there are shocked people standing around, talking about what happened.

  “Almost shook me out of bed.”

  “Got under the table quicker than a squirrel up a tree.”

  “Earth moved like that when Crosby scored.”

  Even though he doesn’t like to do it, he shouts as loud as he can. “MY SISTER IS BADLY HURT! SHE NEEDS TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL!”

  If there is one thing Jackie Chan has learned, it is this: nobody should live in a world of one. We need the people around us. And when earthquakes occur, people need each other even more. He knows somebody will step forward. Somebody does. A man with a long goatee beard and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt. His name is Joe. He says he heard on the radio that Richmond General is damaged and has lost power. He will drive them to Delta Hospital “super-quick.”

  No lie, Joe maneuvers his Dodge Challenger like a stunt car, weaving in and out of traffic, avoiding fallen trees and power lines, eluding the rubble shaken loose from shops and buildings. Through every gear change, his hands are steady, his reflexes are sharp, his face is a mask of cool control. He really should be wearing a Ferrari racing suit rather than his Harley-Davidson tee. Rounding the corner adjacent to a Chinese shopping center, they discover a Mercedes Smart car has run the red light opposite and hit a fire hydrant on the sidewalk. Water is shooting into the air, and a small lake is blocking their direct path. In a flash, Joe grabs the emergency brake and pulls, urging the Challenger into a controlled, arcing slide around the spill. He corrects the oversteer—centimeters from the far-side curb—and boots them onto the new street.

  Barely a minute later, they’re confronted by two stalled semis side by side on the blacktop, the space between them insufficient for a Dodge Challenger to squeeze through. As worrisome as the trucks are, of more immediate concern is the small army of sword-wielding Manchurian gangsters climbing out of the trailers and running full speed toward them.

  “Friends of yours?” asks Joe.

  Jackie Chan does three big shakes of his head.

  “Could get a little rough here,” says Joe, putting on his sunglasses.

  The Challenger plows forward. Gangsters bounce off the car, shrieking like angry lorikeets, swords wrenched from their fists to clank on the asphalt. A few roll up onto the windshield, over the roof and off the back spoiler. One manages to hang onto the hood for a brief second before he is zapped by a stray power line and loses his grip. Twenty meters from the semis, Joe angles the right side of the Challenger at a construction ramp set up for roadworks. When the tires meet the incline, he yanks the steering wheel left and stands the car up on two wheels. Jackie Chan wishes Justine was awake and recovered and healthy so he could share this astonishing show with her—he makes do with holding her upside-down body as tightly as possible and buffering her head from the passenger door with his arm. The Challenger enters the sliver between the trucks, the spaces on either side slightly greater than the width of Jackie Chan’s backpack. They hold their breath. A twitch in Joe’s sure hands will see them end up hopelessly wedged and overrun by angry, concussed gangsters. The man at the controls, though, is a statue. The Challenger pierces the front cabs, emerges into open road and bounces back down onto all fours.

  “This could be a movie,” says Jackie Chan.

  “It is,” replies Joe. “Hopefully, it has a happy ending.”

  The biggest obstacles should be behind them, but a crisis of epic proportions still stands in their way. Approaching the intersection that passes under the SkyTrain, Jackie Chan studies the large pillars supporting the track. Maybe it is just his imagination, but one looks slightly bowed, like it’s tired and having trouble staying awake. If an aftershock hits now, the pylon could collapse, bringing the section down.

  “You see it, Joe?”

  “What?”

  “That pillar is weak. Can we get around it?”

  “Not if we want to get to the hospital stat.”

  Jackie Chan doesn’t respond because it’s too late—they’re past the point of no return and the structure is indeed failing, a second rumble not required to send it careering to earth. He leans forward, trying to shield as much of Justine’s body as he can. He shouts, “LOOK OUT!” as cracks in the pillar become fissures, then chunks of falling concrete. Amid the booming noise, he hears Joe yell, “HOLD TIGHT!” and feels the push back into the seat as the accelerator touches the floor.

  Cars bang and crash. A motorcyclist slides across the traffic island. A van in the lane beside them wears a hailstorm of debris, then bounds up over the curb and onto the sidewalk, scattering the panicked crowds. Entering the crumbling structure’s target zone, a bouncing slab clips the back right side of the Challenger, and the car fishtails. Joe pulls the steering wheel left to keep the surging vehicle on the road. Tires scream, mingling with the terrified voices of people running for cover. The deadly chaos is on top of them now. The disintegrating track is in free fall. Jackie Chan waits for the lethal blow that will spell the end, not just for Justine but for all of them. He thinks of LAPD motorcycle officer Clarence Wayne Dean, who fell to his death driving off a damaged freeway in the aftermath of the 1994 Northridge quake. He shuts his eyes as Joe blasts the horn and plunges the Dodge into the blinding fog of smoke and dust.

  It’s a tragedy things have to end like this.

  Unlike in the movies, Jackie Chan won’t save the day.

  THE SCREEN DOESN’T FADE TO BLACK.

  The credits don’t roll.

  He opens his eyes as the Challenger bursts from the clouded ruins. They’re through! Alive! In one piece! Is it a dream? He kisses Justine on the forehead. Her right eyelid flutters in respons
e. Jackie Chan can scarcely fathom that they’re okay, out of the madness and speeding along the shoulder of the road, headed for Highway 99. They stream by gridlocked traffic on the left. They whip past telephone poles, staggered but still standing, on the right.

  “That, ladies and gents, was pure balls of insanity,” says Joe.

  Jackie Chan looks over his shoulder and out the back windshield at the destruction. Sirens and flashing lights are everywhere. Fires have broken out in three of the surrounding buildings. Above the smoldering haze is a giant hole in the SkyTrain track.

  “Givin’ ’er this way, we got about three minutes to the tunnel an’ about five to Emergency.”

  Jackie Chan tells Just Jeans to hang on. He checks her pulse (he will do so every thirty seconds from this point forward). His heart pounds and his hands are wet with perspiration. Her pulse is still there. Weaker than before, like a tiny insect trapped under her skin, but it’s there. He tells her she is doing great.

  “She okay?” asks Joe.

  “Yes,” answers Jackie Chan, trying to keep his throat open and his voice steady.

  Joe swerves the Challenger around a ditched fruit truck, then holds his phone through the front seats. “You need to call anyone? Let ’em know what’s happening and where you’re goin’?”

  Jackie Chan tells Joe he has Justine’s phone in the backpack. He retrieves it and dials a number he learned by heart in recent days. The call goes to voice mail. He leaves a message of explanation:

  “Mum, it’s your son, Perry. Justine’s hurt. She fell during the earthquake. Her heart stopped. You must come to the hospital…Don’t stay away.”

  He has an overwhelming and terrible feeling the call won’t be returned.

  THEY SCREECH TO A HALT outside Emergency. Joe asks Jackie Chan if he can help carry Justine in.

  “No, thank you,” he says. “I’ve got it from here.”

  Joe pats him on the shoulder, calls him a hero and assures him the movie will have a happy ending. Joe drives away like a regular motorist and not a stunt driver.