Are You Seeing Me? Page 3

  I’ll never know what drove Dad to conceal it. What I do know is the sequence that followed. I showed Perry the form, explained what it meant as best I could and why it had come into our lives. I assured him it was totally his call to stay or go.

  He thought about it for three days.

  I cried.

  Perry told me he wanted to go.

  I cried some more.

  Perry said I shouldn’t cry because living away from your twin wasn’t nearly as difficult as being the sole survivor of an earthquake.

  Sleep is finally at hand. In keeping with tradition, the nighttime has offered hours of contemplation but no epiphany. I consider reading a few paragraphs of Robinson Crusoe, then reject the idea. Slaves, shipwrecks, cannibals, mutineers…Defoe’s tale was not designed to bring about rest. I check that the seat is as far back as the button will allow and pull the thin blanket up to my chin.

  The last thing I am aware of before the black curtain falls is Perry’s position. He’s pivoted on his right shoulder so he’s facing me. I think he’s peeking through half-closed eyes.

  A DREAM. I KNOW THIS is a dream. That’s as far as my powers extend; I can’t influence what’s happening or call a halt to the scene. Just have to ride along with it, see where it takes me.

  I’m aboard a small boat. Land is near. There are palms and ferns and trees laden with coconuts. It’s not anywhere I’ve been in Australia. I’m certain it’s not any of our North American stops.

  I drop anchor a short swim from shore, but I stay seated. There is a primal crook of fear tugging at me in unison with the prevailing south wind. I look down at my hands. They’re shaking. And they belong to a stranger. Patches of dark, coarse hair gather above the wrists and between the knuckles. The fingernails are cracked and caked with salt. Blisters and burns wrack the skin. I stare at them until a monstrous roar from the island thrusts me back into the moment.

  “I don’t like that.”

  My companion has spoken. The voice is unmistakably Perry’s; so, too, is the rocking from side to side and finger flicking. The body, though, belongs to a boy, weathered and sinewy. A lightbulb flares overhead. This is Defoe’s vision. Perry is Xury. I am Crusoe. This is the island landing scene following the castaways’ escape from the Moors. A warped hallucination of the scene, no doubt.

  “I don’t like that,” repeats Perry/Xury. “But I have to go.”

  “You have to?”

  “Yes, Just Jeans. No lie, I have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we can’t survive like this. We won’t make it.”

  Another bellow thunders out of the island brush. Perry/Xury cups his ears until the echoes die. The color of the river is changing, from a soft turquoise to a rich, almost royal, blue. The tropical, brackish air is cooling.

  “Then we’ll go together,” I say.

  Perry/Xury refuses, the way my brother is inclined to do when confronted with Mexican food or a slow Internet connection or someone else’s equipment at the car wash: with great, sweeping head shakes. Before I can protest further, he pitches himself overboard. The water swallows him whole, with barely a ripple or a bubble.

  I shout his name. Instinct demands I dive in after him. I try to stand and discover it’s impossible. My body is made of brick, backside fastened to the seat with invisible mortar. I am Crusoe and I am enslaved again. Abandoned. I howl for Perry once more, and the reverberations awaken a frightening force on the island. A rumble from the depths of the earth rocks the landscape. Trees shake and fall. Great chunks of rock plunge down the mountainous backdrop. The river darkens to an oily black.

  And as the world begins to tear at the seams, a voice penetrates the chaos. “We’re close now. We’re almost there…”

  I think it belongs to my father.

  “WE’RE CLOSE NOW. WE’RE ALMOST THERE. We are only 632 kilometers from Vancouver.”

  I blink several times, find a grainy focus. Perry is leaning over me, his stubbly face centimeters from mine. His eyes are wide. His smile is ample. His breath is awful.

  “You’re awake now?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m awake,” I say, waving a hand in front of my face.

  “You were making noises while you were sleeping.”

  “Was I?”

  “Yes. You were.”

  I nudge Perry’s shoulder and jab a thumb in the direction of his seat. He takes the hint.

  “One time,” he continues, “I had a dream I was inside an egg. Another time, I dreamed there was a springboard at Newmarket pool and I dived off it for a whole day, like Jackie Chan doing his famous hovercraft leap. I liked those dreams. Did you like your dream, Justine?”

  “It was…interesting.”

  “Good.” He squeezes one of his earbuds and stares at the compartment above my head. “I imagine I will dream about our trip to North America when I am back home. Actually, I think it is likely I will dream about our trip for the rest of my life.”

  He stamps the assertion with a single, purposeful nod and replaces his earbuds. Every few seconds, he quietly announces the kilometers remaining to destination: “Four hundred and ninety-four…487…481…”

  I turn away and look out the nearest window. The Pacific Ocean below is vast and open and untroubled.

  I hope it is prophetic of the dreams to come.

  DESPITE BEING THE LAST PAIR off the plane—Perry needed to do several head counts of his stuff before disembarking—our passage through the terminal is smooth and incident-free. We’ve barely settled in at the back of the long queue at Customs when an attendant directs us toward a newly opened station. I note the others granted special treatment: families, small- to medium-sized children. My overtired mind doesn’t question the anomaly or argue blind luck. Of course we’re special. We’re about as special as they come.

  Arriving at the security booth, I’m entertaining further five-star treatment: Yes, go straight through. No need for passports. We love Australians here in Canada…We know you’ve had a rough flight. We know you’ve had a rough life. All those sharks and snakes and rugby players trying to kill you every moment of the day. Far be it from us to make things more difficult. And here, have this leftover gold medal from the Vancouver Winter Olympics. You’ve earned it.

  The Customs officer—Alan Hinton, according to his badge—doesn’t think we’re special. He has severe features and a bald head that is deeply sun-tanned. His expression is a dismal tableau of apathy and distrust.

  “You mind telling me what he’s doing, ma’am?”

  One glance at Perry snaps me back to reality. He’s lifted the entire earthquake kit from his carry-on. The seismometer is sitting dutifully by his feet. The portable seismograph, replete with buttons and plugs and tiny screen, occupies his right hand. A well-worn notepad is tucked under his left arm.

  “Interesting,” Perry says, studying the data. “Not much activity for a region with major fault zones.”

  I tell Officer Hinton that all is good and that normal service will be resumed as soon as possible, then give Perry his compliance orders: ten seconds or the kit is gone for the rest of the day. My brother swings into action, piling the equipment back into his suitcase. When the cleanup is complete, he stands to attention like a general. Striving for a tone that’s offhand rather than anxious, I give Officer Hinton some bullet points of explanation:

  It’s earthquake-monitoring equipment.

  My brother’s obsessed with earthquakes.

  He doesn’t really use the equipment.

  He has a brain condition.

  Officer Hinton gives a shake of the head. It’s a “Now I’ve seen it all” sort of gesture. He hands our documents back and barks for the next people in line to step forward. I mumble a thank-you and hustle Perry through. As my brother passes by the glass panel of the station, he waves to Officer Hinton. There is no acknowledgment in return.

  The wait for our checked bags is mercifully short; it is just past 8 AM Vancouver time when we exit through the automat
ic doors and out into a mild, gray Sunday that, like its newest observers, appears sluggish and unsure of itself. I suggest a photo to record the moment. Perry is typically guarded—“The flash makes my eyes go funny”—but he doesn’t refuse. I pull him close, lean in, cheek to cheek, and hold my phone above our heads. “Say cheese.”

  “Gorgonzola!”

  The result is less than stellar.

  “Try again,” I say, tightening my hold on his shoulder. “Say cheese!”

  “Just Jeans!”

  Second time around, the snap is more than money—it is perfect. Our eyes are ablaze. Our grins are starlight. Despite the fifteen-hour flight and lack of sleep, we have been captured at some sort of fission point, the release permitting the very best of our past, present and future to burst through for a nanosecond. As I stand there, spellbound, breathing the gluggy Vancouver air, the photograph materializes in other places, other times.

  On my bedside table, keeping watch over a stack of my literary staples: Camus, de Beauvoir, the Brontës, Calvino, Thea Astley, Kate Morton…

  Pinned to a corkboard on a wall painted in the Fair Go colors of Queensland maroon and wattle-tree gold…

  In a Facebook album, likes and comments in the hundreds…

  On an altar, flanked by our father’s urn and a condolence registry…

  The images fade as Perry eagerly points at the taxi stand. The cabbie at the head of the queue leans against the driver’s door, smoking a thin cigar. When he spies our approach, he holds the cigar at arm’s length, unsure of its disposal. For a brief moment, he considers his breast pocket. He decides against it. We’re almost at his side when he sighs and drops it on the ground, mashes it into the pavement.

  “Let me get those, miss,” he says, pointing at the suitcases and waving the residual smoke away.

  He’s an older man, mid-to-late fifties, sporting a neatly trimmed goatee and glasses. His voice is quiet and his accent is undulating. I offer up the bags, state our destination—the Pacifica West Hotel at Canada Place—and tell Perry to hop in the back. He balks at first.

  “Are you going to sit in the front seat, Just Jeans?”

  “No, bud.”

  “Good. It’s not rude to leave the front seat vacant, is it?”

  “It’s okay in a cab. And a limo.”

  “Which one is this?”

  “This is a rickshaw.”

  He snorts, takes hold of my hand—middle finger to pinkie—and we climb in together.

  In the first few minutes of the drive I soak up the wonder of a landscape demeaned by Google images and Getaway segments. The mountains are breathtaking. A gang of peaks—green, without a trace of winter white—stand to the north, jostling each other for the best view of the downtown metropolis. To the southeast, a snow-covered colossus, its girth partially obscured by a band of cloud, marks the horizon with an indelible stamp. The grass is emerald, no brown patches or dead streaks. The foliage on the trees is dense and rich. The peeking-through sun is a paler, more genial version of the Brisbane master I am used to. For every natural nuance I catch, Perry has a dozen more of the man-made variety. The North American names and symbols on the cars. The severe, angled roofs of houses. Bundles of logs in the river. Buses attached to overhead electric wires. The occasional but prominent Canadian flags on shopfronts and billboards and bumper stickers. I feel a temporary stay of exhaustion: it is good to see such acute and complete distinction from the cityscape we know.

  “You come from the Land Down Under, eh?”

  I clear my throat. “Yes, we do. Picked it in one. You could tell we weren’t from South Africa? Or New Zealand?”

  “Or Japan!” cries Perry. “That’s a funny joke, by the way.”

  The cabbie chuckles and nods. “Good one!” He spies me in the rearview mirror. “I’ve gotten pretty good at telling you folks apart, especially seeing as there’s so many Aussies here. In Whistler, for sure. And Tofino.” He holds his hand up. “My name’s Jim. Jim Graydon. I like to introduce myself when there’s international folks sharing a ride.”

  “Justine Richter.”

  “And my name is Perry Richter. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  The left side of Jim’s face crumples. “Ooh, Richter. That’s a name that still hurts in this town. I don’t know if you know, hockey is superclose to being religion here—”

  “Ice hockey,” clarifies Perry.

  “Yes, ice hockey. We got a trophy called the Stanley Cup. All the teams in the National Hockey League play for it. Our team—”

  “The Vancouver Canucks,” asserts Perry.

  “That’s right. The ’Nucks made it to the finals of Lord Stanley back in 1994. Lost to the New York Rangers. Broke our hearts.”

  “I read somewhere there were riots afterward, yes?” I ask.

  Jim nods. “I wasn’t driving a cab back then. Glad of that.” He points to a small mascot he has hanging from the rearview mirror. “Olympics this year showed we’ve grown up a lot. None too soon, I might add.”

  “Did a man called Richter start the riots?” asks Perry. “Is that why the name still hurts in these parts?”

  Jim laughs. “No, the Rangers had a guy called Mike Richter in goal. He was good. Too good.”

  “The man who invented the Richter scale in 1935 was Charles Richter. That’s fifty-five years before I was born.”

  Jim’s mouth purses for a few seconds; then he shrugs. “I don’t think this town has any argument with Charles Richter, young man.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “We’ll forgive him for that.”

  “My dad’s dead too.”

  The levity falls off Jim’s face like a poorly attached prosthetic. It’s time to step in.

  “Uh, Jim, my brother has a brain condition that can cause him to feel anxious or upset in different places and circumstances. He has trouble with people—mixing with them and communicating with them—and it sometimes—”

  “Hold that thought.” Jim digs around in his khakis, pulls out a small card and passes it back through the gap in the front seats. I immediately recognize the graphic—the ubiquitous single blue jigsaw piece. I read the text. It’s a reasonable facsimile of my rote spiel.

  “My boy—he’ll be eleven in November. Third kid, only one from my second marriage. I was forty-four when he was born. Crazy, eh? Never thought I’d be a father again at that age. Never thought I’d be a ‘special’ dad either.”

  His hand trembles slightly as he takes the card back and tosses it onto the dash. He jiggles his head and pulls his shoulders back. Outside, a pale, wizened theater—the Metro, according to the sign—slides by on the left. It says three more chances remain to see Agatha Christie’s The Unexpected Guest.

  “My boy loves hockey, especially goaltenders,” Jim continues. “He likes the equipment. I got him the full outfit, pads an’ skates an’ all. He doesn’t play, just wears all the gear. And he loves the different painted masks the pros wear. It’s kinda nice he’s into goalies, ’cause two of ’em set up a support group for kids like him. Olaf Kölzig—used to be between the pipes for the Caps—he was one. Byron Dafoe—I think he was the other one.”

  “Defoe?” I ask.

  “Yup.”

  “His name is Defoe?”

  “I think it’s spelled with an a…Dah-foe. They’ve raised a lot of money. Got a lot of other sportspeople involved.”

  Jim pauses, allowing a thoughtful silence. A bookshop called Characters catches my eye among the boxy procession of mom-and-pop stores. I smile. Sums up this taxi to a tee. On cue, Perry pokes me in the shoulder and indicates, via a series of facial contortions, that I should look out his window. The bus traveling alongside displays advertising for the Pacifica West Hotel. Every image, every loop and embellishment of the copy’s font, communicates luxury.

  “That’s our first stop, isn’t it, Justine?” he whispers.

  “Yeah.”

  “And wealthy people go there, yes?”

  “I reckon they pro
bably do, yes.”

  I wait for an additional poser. It doesn’t come. Perry hums a tune from one of his video games and resumes the role of spectator. I’m glad. The question of where the money came from for this trip has a simple answer: Dad’s life insurance. The slew of inquiries from Perry that would inevitably follow? What’s life insurance? How do they work it out? Is it like a lottery draw? Is there death insurance? Not so simple to address those.

  We cruise through intersections both chronological (41st, 33rd, 28th) and colonial (King Edward, Balfour, Angus). Properties with giant ramparts of hedge offer a brief glimpse into a world of money made beyond life-insurance payouts, courtesy of the driveway gates. A critical mass of unfamiliar banks and Asian restaurants and specialty shops with Barn in the title kicks in at 16th Avenue and carries through to the waterfront.

  As we motor across the Granville Street Bridge, Perry leans into the middle of the passenger space and peers through the windshield. High-rises abound. He claps his hands. “Could we view the Qube building?”

  “The what building, Pez?” I ask.

  “The Qube building. Q-U-B-E, not C-U-B-E. It’s a different spelling.”

  Jim whistles in approval. “You done some research about this town, eh?”

  Perry nods. “The Qube was built especially to be earthquake-proof. It has a large concrete post in the center, and the building hangs from cables attached to the concrete post, so it appears as if it’s floating in the air. It’s thought to be safe, even in an 8.0 shake.”

  “Earthquakes your thing, young man?”

  Perry looks at me, seeking permission to deliver what we refer to as an “expert ear bashing.” I nod.

  “I like earthquakes,” he says. “My father called me Master Disaster. But I have other favorite things. I like creatures from the sea that are considered myths. The Loch Ness Monster, the Bunyip in Australia. We’re going to Okanagan Lake to see the famous one there—the one called Ogopogo. Ogopogo means ‘lake demon’ in Canadian Aboriginal language.

  “I’m very interested in Jackie Chan and his movies. He’s incredible and does all his own stunts, which is unwise because the outtakes of every movie show him getting hurt over and over again. I think the old Chinese movie Drunken Master II is his best one, but I enjoy Rush Hour and Shanghai Noon as well. The Karate Kid—that was stupid. Jackie Chan doesn’t perform karate. He’s a kung-fu master. Rumble in the Bronx is excellent! And it was filmed in this city of Vancouver. No lie.