Shatter

by Jay Lang

  “Forget it. I’ve got no use for a couple of lesbo’s anyway. What I want is something more meaningful.”

  “Like?”

  “Like scratch, and a lot of it.”

  “What’s scratch?”

  “You’re a lot stupider than your father, aren’t you? Scratch is cash.”

  “You want money from me? For what?”

  “For the loss I took having to get rid of my two best sellers. You took their friend, Allen, one of my recruits and gave him back to his family. After that, I had to get rid of the other two, in case Allen decided to rat.”

  “How much do you want from me?” I’ll say anything to get out of this alive.

  He tells he wants fifty grand in two weeks’ time, or he’ll take more from me than a finger. I sit for a moment, staring at the floor then look over at him and nod, “I’ll do my best.”

  “For your sake, you’re gonna need to do more than that.”

  Next, I see Tank’s big arm come across the seat. He slams my face into the window. Out my peripheral vision, I catch Fournier pull something long and white out of his coat. Then, I hear the pop of a plastic cap and see the shine from the top of a needle.

  The last thing I remember is feeling a sharp pain as the needle plunges into my leg.

  Chapter Twelve

  I awaken to a searing pain behind my eyes. I try to sit up, but I’m too dizzy. When the blurriness clears, I focus on where I am. I’m in my apartment, lying on the floor beside the couch. How did I get home and where’s Jason’s truck? I manage to slowly sit up and use the couch to support myself. I strain to remember last night. After a few minutes, pictures flash in front of my eyes, the park, the darkness, and Fournier. Then, I remember Slinky sitting beside me on the back seat and Tank grabbing Slinky’s hand and then jamming his finger in that silver thing. I can almost hear the grunts and growls he made, writhing in pain beside me. The last images that pass through my mind are Fournier telling me to come up with fifty-thousand dollars and a needle plunging deep into my leg.

  I cringe at the thought of the dope that was pushed into me. I slowly roll over until I’m on my hands and knees then use the couch to lift myself up. At first, I teeter as I stand. After a few seconds, I gain my bearings and slowly walk to the washroom, using the wall to help me balance. Turning on the shower, I take off my coat then undress the rest of the way and climb under the running water. I look down at my leg to see the red entry point from the syringe. Even though I’ve been a social drinker at points in my life, because of my upbringing, I’ve never touched drugs.

  As the warm water rushes over me, my mind turns back to Slinky. Is he still alive? I cry remembering how he tried to get the driver and Tank to let me go. I try telling myself that Slinky is smart and might have been able to talk his way out of getting killed in the end, but something tells me that he’s gone.

  After scrubbing my skin extra hard, I wrap a towel around me and go to my room, flopping down on my bed. Am I responsible for Slinky getting hurt or worse yet, killed? I remember Fournier talking to him in the backseat. He said that Slinky betrayed him by meeting with me—twice. I just pray he’s not lying dead, alone on the cold forest floor, somewhere in Stanley Park.

  I hear my cell ring from the bathroom. Wiping my eyes, I slowly walk to retrieve it. After locating my phone inside of my jacket pocket, I flip the toilet lid down for a seat and answer the call, “Hello?” my voice is croaky and weak.

  “Hello. May I speak to Jules Gordon?” a man’s voice says.

  “This is Jules.”

  The man introduces himself as one of the doctors at the hospital where my father is. He says that because my dad’s condition has improved, he is able to be released.

  “Are you sure? I mean…isn’t it too soon to let him come home after sustaining a head injury?” I ask, worriedly.

  “No. His should be fine as long as he takes it easy. There’s not much more we can do here for him except pain management and we will give him a prescription for painkillers when he is discharged.”

  “And what about his tumor?”

  “While he’s been in hospital for his head injury, a neuro-oncology team met with your father to discuss recommended treatments for the Astrocytoma tumor. Your father decided to refuse treatment.”

  “He what? Are you kidding me?” I say, my voice getting stronger.

  “Miss Gordon, I’m sure you’re aware that the tumor your father has is at stage four. Even if he did undergo radiation and chemotherapy, his life expectancy would not be significantly improved. The tumor he has is very aggressive. A lot of patients with the same grade of tumor, often decline treatment. They just want the rest of their lives to be as comfortable as possible and not to be poked and prodded by doctors.”

  “So, what does this mean? As time goes on, what will happen to him?”

  “The main symptoms are headaches, which he has apparently been having for quite some time, blurred vision, and forgetfulness. Some patients with this condition can experience seizures as well. There are other symptoms, but those are the most common ones. At some point when he’s no longer able to be cared for at home, he will probably need to be admitted into palliative care.”

  This is way too much to take in right now. So much has happened that I can’t think straight, now, this. My father, the most important person in my life, needs me to be strong and take care of him, but I don’t know if I can. My head feels fragmented and confused.

  “So, what can I do to make him more comfortable?” I say, sniffing back tears.

  “Just be there for him. I’ll explain his medications to him before he goes.”

  There’s not much more to say to the doctor. There’s no point. The bottom line is - my father is sick and they can’t make him better.

  After I hang up the phone, I return to my bed and wrap my arms around my pillow. This time when I start to cry, the tears aren’t because of Fournier, they’re deeper. My father wasn’t always a burned-out addict. He was great, too. After I picked him up from jail and he got a job, a part of me started to believe that we could start a new life, together. I guess that dream is short lived.

  * * *

  Before I hang up with the doctor, I agree to pick Dad up in a couple of hours. As fucked up as I feel right now, I’ve got to stop feeling sorry for myself and get my shit together for my Dad. Walking up the hall, I look into the spare room where Dad’s been sleeping. I remember how I found him, all bloodied and unconscious on the floor. I decide to trade rooms with him, so he doesn’t have to go into the room where he almost died. I switch our bedding, move a few personal items from my room to his old one and close the door. My room has a nice view of Granville Island so, he’ll like it better there.

  Still feeling hung over and spacey from whatever drug cocktail I was injected with last night, I slowly load the dishwasher and wipe the counters. No matter how crappy I feel, I want Dad to come home to a clean place. Otherwise, he’ll try to tidy up, and I don’t want him exerting himself. After vacuuming dusting, and straightening up around the apartment, I put on some make up to cover my dark puffy eyes then call a taxi, so I can pick up Jason’s truck before I get Dad.

  * * *

  Thankfully, the vehicle wasn’t towed. The first thing I do before I drive out of the parking lot is open the glove compartment and find my sunglasses. Even though the weather isn’t great, the brightness in the sky amps up my headache.

  On the drive to the hospital, I think about how I need to act strong for my father, even if I’m feeling weak. I can’t let him see how devastated I am over the news of his tumor. The whole reason he never told me about it was probably so that I wouldn’t be upset and treat him like a victim. I need to honor that, even if it means that when I’m feeling sad about his condition, I can never show it.

  * * *

  After driving around the hospital for twenty minutes looking for a parking spot, I make my way inside the building and take the elevator to his ward.

  Walking in
to his room, I see him sitting in a wheelchair with a green plastic patient bag on his knees.

  “Dad, hi. I’m here to bust you out of this place.”

  When he looks up at me, I see gratitude and love on his face, “It’s about time. I’m happy to be leaving. This place is depressing, too many sick people.”

  “Yes, well, that kind of is the point to a hospital,” I smile.

  I wheel him past the nursing station. They hand me a clear baggie with pill bottles and a prescription inside. Dad thanks them for their help and waves, as we’re leaving.

  He waits in the front entrance for me to pull the truck up. I jump out and carefully help him into the passenger seat.

  * * *

  When we’re driving away, he mentions how good it is to be out of the hospital and away from the white walls and sick people. He asks if we can take a tour through Stanley Park before going home?

  “You know what, Dad…If it’s ok with you, maybe we can go for a drive to second beach instead?” Thankfully, he agrees. I can’t imagine going through the park after what happened there last night. Again, Slinky pops into my head. I immediately turn the radio on as a distraction.

  Following the winding road along the shore, I see my dad staring out at the choppy grey sea. When we arrive in the Second Beach parking lot, I pull up as close as I can to the sand. The view of the city from here is postcard worthy. Vancouver is such an esthetic place. Dad opens his window and inhales deeply, “You know, Jules, your mom and I used to come here before you were born. In the summertime, the beach was packed with people until sundown. So, your mom and I would wait until dark and when everyone had left, we’d peel off our duds and go skinny dipping.”

  “Yuck, Dad.” I say, grimacing.

  He laughs, “Oh, smarten up. It was a beautiful thing.”

  “Ok. Enough said. You were naked. Mom was naked. It was a beautiful thing. I get it. Can we talk about something else now?”

  Still laughing, he tells me how when they were young, they had big plans for their lives.

  “Like what?”

  “Like going to California and opening a vintage clothing store in San Francisco.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s true, Jules. Your mom and I were free spirits and dreamers. We didn’t care about having what the Jones did or living up to middle class expectations. We just wanted to go where the wind took us and be happy.”

  While he talks, his face lights up and his eyes shine. I can’t remember seeing him so full of life. But then, my excitement fades. This man beside me, my father, isn’t going to be here long. Someday soon, he’ll be gone and I’ll never see him again. Even though we had years apart, now that we’re together, I never want to lose him again. When I feel a tear run down my cheek, I quickly turn my head and pretend to look out my window while I wipe it away.

  “You hungry, Dad?”

  “Yes. I’m starving. Do we have anything to eat at the apartment?”

  “Not sure. Let’s hit a drive through, and then go home and watch old re-runs together. Are you in?”

  “Definitely,” he says, patting my shoulder,

  * * *

  When we get home with our bag of greasy burgers, Dad moves slowly to the cupboard and gets us both a plate, then sits on the couch. I pass him the remote and tell him I’m going to make a call to Katie from my bedroom.

  Her phone barely rings before she answers, “Hey, gorgeous. I was just going to call you. My parents just left. How was your night?”

  “Uneventful,” I lie, not wanting to scare her.

  “I’m sorry about not going with you to see your dad. How’s he doing?”

  “He’s a lot better. I actually went to the hospital and picked him up.” I tell her what the doctor said about Dad’s tumor and how he’s in stage four—whispering so he doesn’t hear. Katie sighs, “That’s so sad, Jules. Your dad seems like such a kind man. It’s not fair that someone like him has such a terrible disease.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say, Katie.”

  I tell her that I miss her and that my dad and I are planning on a mellow night just watching TV. As much as I want to see Katie, I’m a bit relieved when she tells me that she’s going to give dad and I a night alone. Besides, I’m still not feeling myself yet.

  Dad lies on one end of the couch, and I sit on the other with his legs resting on my lap. We watch Road to Rio then Road to Morocco, starring Bing Crosby and Bob Hope, laughing our asses off through both. During this time with Dad, I forget about everything bad that’s happening lately. I have the best night ever. When the news comes on, Dad sits up and says he’s tired and is heading to bed.

  “I’m doing the same thing,” I say, getting up to hug him.

  “Thanks for a great day, he says while we hug. “Before we go to bed, I have a favor to ask,” he adds, letting me go. “Will you take me somewhere in the morning?”

  “Where?”

  “You’ll see,” he says, smiling, then he walks out of the room.

  I hear him shut the bedroom door, as I walk to the guest room and change into a long t-shirt. When I grab my dirty clothes and go to carry them to the hamper in the hall closet, I see my dad in the bathroom standing in front of the sink taking pills. In just the short time it took to watch two movies, I briefly forgot. My father is terminally ill.

  Lying in bed, I try not to think about how sick he is. Instead, I try hard to think of happy things, my relationship with Katie, how lucky I am to be living in this apartment and the fact that after Dad is settled, I’ll be going back to work doing a job I like.

  * * *

  I wake feeling tired because I was disturbed by my father getting out of bed multiple times throughout the night. A couple of times I heard him in the bathroom getting a drink and taking more pills. Because of how he hates to be treated like a victim, I never got up and asked if he was ok? I know better. He would say, “Of course, I’m ok. I’m not an invalid.”

  Just as I put my robe on and go to make coffee, Dad and I enter the hall at the same time. He looks pale and tired. “Sleep well, Dad?” I say, already knowing the answer.

  He forces a grin and nods. I tell him to have a seat while I make coffee. Turning on the news, he asks me if I remember that I agreed to take him somewhere this morning?

  “Yes, I remember,” I say, totally forgetting that he had asked me.

  * * *

  As we drive through the city, Dad navigates and tells me when to turn left or right. We drive through Stanley Park and over the Lionsgate bridge. I focus on the road instead of remembering how Tank and the other knuckle dragger brought Slinky and I here. I’m relieved when we are off the bridge and away from the park. We decide to pick up a breakfast bagel when we see a Tim Horton’s drive-thru. Dad spots a small convenience store and tells me to pull over. After I eat my bagel and wait for a few moments, he returns with a small bouquet. My heart lightens and I smile. My father has never bought me flowers before. He gets in the truck and puts the flowers in the back seat. I pretend not to see them.

  Pointing at a sign on the side of the road, Dad tells me to follow Marine Drive to Taylor Way then turn on Upper Levels Highway. We travel some ways before he tells me to turn right on Mathers Avenue. I wonder how he knows West Vancouver, one of the ritziest areas of the lower mainland. When I was young, my parents never brought me over here. Everything was too expensive and we were always bone broke. The road is lined with tall trees on either side. After driving on the quiet street for a while, the trees start to space out and reveal massive lawns on both sides, kind of reminding me of a flat golf course.

  “Take that little road,” Dad says, pointing to the right.

  When I slow down and turn in, I see a sign that says Capilano View Cemetery. Instantly, I feel a sharp pain in my diaphragm and my throat tightens, “Dad, what the hell is this?” I say, looking at him. But he doesn’t hear me. He just stares out the front window like he’s searching for something.

  “Dad. Answer me, is t
his where Mom is?” I say elevating my now shaky voice.

  “Yes,” his eyes still staring forward, “Abby is here too.”

  “Abby is here too? She’s buried with Mom?” I say, tears streaming from my eyes.

  I’ve never seen where they are buried. When my mom died, my grandmother told me that she didn’t know where my mother was laid to rest. And after Abby drowned, Grandma told me that her ashes were spread over the pond where she died. I was too young to question it. Since then, whenever Mom or Abby enter my mind, I try hard to stop thinking about them, it hurts too much. Now, here I am, sitting with my terminally ill dad in a graveyard where my mom and little sister are buried. My heart feels overwhelmed with grief.

  I step on the brakes and stop in the middle of the lane. “Dad, have you been here before?”

  “Yes, when I had to go for initial testing at the hospital for my tumor. I made friends with one of the guards who drove me. He brought me up here a couple of times—unbeknownst to the other bulls in the pen. “

  “Bulls in the pen?”

  “Yeah, bulls are guards and the pen is the penitentiary,” he says, turning his attention back to the grounds.

  “Over there,” he says pointing. “Jean and Abby are over there.”

  He motions to an area in the center of the yard. There are no roadways to get closer than where we are now, so Dad reaches in the back and grabs the flowers and opens the door, “You comin?” he asks, somberly.

  “I can’t.”

  He nods and gets out, closing the door behind him. A shiver runs up my spine, as he slowly makes his way toward the graves. I watch him, as he tries not to step on headstones and trips. He barely regains his footing and strains to right himself. No matter how scared I feel about seeing my mom’s and Abby’s graves, I know I have to get out and assist my father. Taking a deep breath, I leave the truck, promising myself that I will keep my wall up and be strong. I walk up behind Dad and follow him as he purveys the flat stones in front of him.