Are You Seeing Me? Read online

  We have room service for dinner. Around eight, I watch the second half of The Tuxedo with Perry. It’s not Jackie Chan’s finest hour, but it’s the movie I’ve seen least often. Against my better judgment, I can recite verbatim large chunks of Rush Hour and Rush Hour 2. And it’s possible I’ve acquired conversational Cantonese from endless Drunken Master II reruns. When the credits roll, Perry announces he’s going to bed. He gives me a long hug that borders on a boxer’s clinch.

  “I won’t cause you to worry again while we are in North America,” he says, resting his chin on my shoulder. “And you won’t have any concerns when I move away and become independent.”

  I kiss his cheek. “Get some good sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

  He disappears into his room. As per usual, he keeps a light on in case he wakes during the night.

  I OPEN MY FATHER’S JOURNAL and turn to its most thumbed page. The entry it displays must be read before making the call. I know the words, but I need to see them. Stare them down.

  30 November 1994

  Your mother won’t be living with us anymore. We had a huge row last night. (How you and your brother slept through it, I’ll never know.) It was the final straw for both of us. She wanted to go away for a month to some yoga camp in the middle of Woop Woop. I told her this was not the time—so soon after getting the word on Perry—to be traipsing off to some hippie hotel in the bush to stare at your navel and play silly buggers under a full moon. We need to stick together, be there for each other. Move forward and live our lives. She went nuts. Yelled at me for a good half hour. She reckons I’m a hypocrite, that I am never there for her, that I am a selfish and cold prick. That I don’t understand the first thing about living her life, and it’s never going to change. Things are never going to “move forward.” She was always going to be an overwhelmed mother, I was always going to be a crappy husband, and Perry was always going to be handicapped and dependent on others. She said she couldn’t live a life that offered no chance to find herself, no chance to chase her own dreams. She said she’d rather die. Then she packed a couple of bags and left.

  On the way out, I told her: “Good luck finding yourself doing nude jumping jacks with the tree huggers. Don’t bother keeping in touch. We’ll be fine.”

  I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. When you got up, I told you Mum had gone away and she wouldn’t be living here anymore. You thought about it for a minute, and then you gave me a hug. “You’re staying, aren’t you, Daddy?” you asked. I said I wasn’t going anywhere, I’d always be here with the two of you. Then you said you had to go and tell Perry, and you ran off to his room. And I tried to swallow the lump in my throat while getting breakfast together and listening to you explain to your brother that it was just going to be the three of us from now on.

  I LAY A HAND ON the phone. A film of perspiration gathers between my palm and the plastic receiver. My heart gallops around my chest. The four-year-old girl in me wants to slide out of the chair, sink to the floor and stay there, Perry style, placing the onus on others to re-engage me with the world. I can’t indulge her. She doesn’t know what the nineteen-year-old knows.

  I stare at the ten digits scribbled down on a piece of scrap paper. It’s a local number, sent along with our mother’s most recent letter, which arrived three weeks ago. It was the first time she’d provided any source of contact beyond a return postal address. Till that day, there’d really been no need—we’d assumed the role of pen pals for three years and I’d only shared with her the dot points of my life: the piñata calamity of my sixteenth birthday; the breakdown over Dad’s diagnosis; the standing ovation I received for a speech at school; the decision for Perry to move into a supported residence. She’d shared with me her exploits as a yoga studio owner and teacher; the personal best she’d achieved for some local climb called the Grouse Grind; the succession of failed relationships with “douche bags”; her tentative proposal to return to Australia and earn a place back in our lives.

  She’d shared her number.

  I look over at Perry’s room. Light streams from the crack under the door, undisturbed by any shadowy presence. There’s no movement, no sound beyond muted, rhythmic snoring. Good. I don’t want him to know about this, not until the Okanagan and Seattle are done. I turn back to the phone and lift the receiver from its cradle. My fingers prickle as I punch out the sequence. The ringing on the other end of the line commences and I feel my body dividing like a cell into two entities: caller and observer. I pray some semblance of recognizable English will form on my tongue.

  “Hello. You’ve reached the home of Leonie Orr. Sorry I can’t take your call right now…”

  No chance to find herself.

  “…If you’d like to leave your name and phone number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can…”

  No chance to chase her own dreams.

  “Thank you and have a wonderful day.”

  She’d rather die.

  The beep sounds.

  “Um, yeah. This is Justine, your…It’s Justine. Just ringing to let you know we’ve arrived and we’re staying at the downtown hotel. We’ll be on the road tomorrow. I’ve got a Canadian number—it is 778-232-4953. I also gave you the landline number for the place we’re staying at in Peachland. So, give me a ring and we can confirm our…get-together. Okay, yeah. Hope to hear from you soon…Leonie. Bye.”

  I kill the call and flop back into the chair. Things would probably be a hell of a lot easier if she’d never put pen to paper, if she’d remained a ghost in our lives. But, after all these years, why should anything be easy now? And isn’t it better to be haunted by ghosts of the living rather than the dead?

  In the cavernous spaces, Dad’s words buzz like mosquitoes: Don’t bother keeping in touch. We’ll be fine.

  DREAMING AGAIN.

  It’s not like last time. The primal energy that rocked the island is gone. The blue-green water is calm. I’m still Crusoe, but with one significant rejig—an ice-hockey goaltender’s full regalia has replaced the castaway rags. I’m still stuck to the boat’s seat, but I’m not desperate to get away.

  Perry/Xury has emerged from the wash and is standing onshore. He waves and begins walking south along the beach. My boat moves with him. The source of power is unknown until I look ahead. Dad is in the seat opposite, rowing. He’s bare-chested and wearing orange-and-lime-green boardies. His muscles bunch and flex with each stroke. He’s in the best shape of his life, a good twenty kilograms heavier than the husk of a man that died in my arms.

  “The boy chose to go, didn’t he,” he says.

  I nod. “He said he had to. He said we couldn’t survive like this.”

  “That’s true.” Dad grunts and quickens his pace. The boat heaves forward. “He’s not alone over there.”

  I turn back to land. A lone figure at the far end of the shoreline is walking toward an oblivious Perry/Xury. From this distance, it’s difficult to tell if the visitor is male or female, friend or foe, real or imagined. I pull my helmet off and squint at the shape. The trudging body remains anonymous.

  Then the scene dissolves in the Seltzer-like rays of a new dawn.

  30 January 1996

  First day of school! You guys looked fantastic in your uniforms and carrying your schoolbags. You did such a good job, Justine, holding Perry’s hand, telling him what was going on, keeping him calm. It needn’t be all the time, though. Like we talked about last night, you don’t have to be Grandma Poss and use bush magic to turn Perry invisible to protect him and keep him safe. You still need to make your own friends and do your own thing.

  We made it to Year One, hey? Since your mother left, there have been a few times when I thought I might end up going off the deep end myself. Your brother is a handful, that’s for sure. The difficulties with his potty training. The sleeping issues. The meltdowns at the shops. Trying to get him to eat a bloody vegetable. But just when I’d feel like I’d reached the end of my tether, something would happen to make it all fade into the
background. And, almost always, my little tree frog, you’d be smack bang in the center of it.

  Like last week, when he hurt himself on the mini-trampoline. I tried to soothe him every way I knew how so I could inspect the damage. I even sang that “Thomas the Tank Engine” song that makes me want to attach live jumper cables to my ears. Nothing worked. Then you came into the room. You went straight to the toy box, pulled out this little alien monster I’d never even seen before, brought it over to him and, without a word said, held it close to his face so he could see. The first glimpse he got of it—or maybe it was the first glimpse he got of you?—he settled down immediately. It was a magic trick Grandma Poss would’ve been proud of.

  16 November 1996

  Perry’s really beginning to “get” some things now. He’s giving out hugs on his own, without any prompting. He’s able to put together the picture exchange cards in a sequence and then say the words if he wants a drink or a biscuit. Occasionally, he’ll sing an entire “Bananas in Pyjamas” song from start to finish. He’s learning numbers, counting in twos and fives and tens. Running around and copying you and the neighbors’ kids when you’re all playing Sticky Glue in the afternoons—that’s the time of his life right now. He’s going good. He’s a lot sharper than people give him credit for.

  He sees stuff, too. Feels stuff. You agree, Jus? I know extra-keen senses can be part and parcel of his condition, but there are times when it’s something more. Not a “gift” or anything like that—we’re not living in The Twilight Zone here. Just more of a connection to the world around him. A deeper connection. Like a couple of weeks ago when I found him lying on his back in the yard. I asked him what he was up to and he started singing the “Shaky Shaky” Wiggles song and patting the grass. And he kept repeating it no matter what I said, as if he were trying to make a point. I didn’t figure it out until the next day when I saw in the local rag they’d been using explosives at the quarry and the reverberations could be felt over a sixteen-kilometer radius. I was gobsmacked. Could he be in tune with something like that? Is it possible? The more I think about it, the more I reckon it’s par for the course. Things most of the rest of the world wouldn’t be aware of—he’s aware of them. He notices them.

  Or maybe it’s just what kids do and adults forget.

  10 January 1999

  This holiday has had its share of firsts. It’s the first time you and your brother have seen Rainbow Beach—the place where, as a young bloke, I learned to surf and got up to some things that aren’t fit to be retold in my daughter’s journal. First time you two have stayed in a hotel. First time—since you were babies, anyway—that you’ve shared a bed. (And I don’t think you want to do it again for a while, hey, Justine? Perry could lift the paint off a low-flying bomber with his snoring.) And I know it’s not the first time, but it seems like the first time I’ve really noticed…I feel happy.

  If I’m not mistaken, you guys are happy too. Your brother’s been good and settled here, hasn’t he? I was worried what might happen with him being out of routine and everything being so different. But it’s been a fairly smooth ride. He’s learned some new phrases. (I’m not sure “topless girl” is one I’ll encourage him to use in public.) He loves hopping on the surf mat and riding a wave. And how good was it when he grabbed a piece of the crumbed cod we got from Harry’s off my plate and ate it? Totally out of the blue!

  I’ve gotta say, your question at tea did a number on me. “Dad, how come you don’t have another wife yet?” Jeez, eight years old and already giving me a hard time about my love life! My answer last night probably didn’t explain things too well, so I’ll try again here. I’m not against getting properly involved with someone again. Things turned out badly with your mother, but I’m not automatically thinking it would turn out badly with the next woman. It’s possible I could get together with someone in the future. When might that be? I don’t have a clue. Probably not any time soon, seeing as I’m not really keeping a constant eye out. I’ve got more than enough on my plate, courtesy of you two. The Dan Richter Dating Service is a distant last on the priority list. And if somebody did come along…Well, she’d have to be pretty special to fit in with us. I’m not going to let any old scrubber from the street into our little family. You guys deserve the best. And if the best isn’t on offer, then I’d rather go without.

  20 March 2001

  One night down, two to go. This is the longest you’ve ever been away from us, Justine. School camps in the past were overnight or a couple of nights. Three is hard. We miss you. Perry keeps saying, “Is Just Jeans coming? Is Just Jeans coming?” Maybe he’ll finally have the proper pronunciation of your name worked out by the time you’re back. For my part, this is a good reminder never to take you for granted. The stuff you do around here…it’s just incredible, really. Laundry, cleaning, helping Perry with his homework. And more besides. I don’t know what I’d do without you. But I don’t say that to make you feel guilty for having a little R&R. I’m all for it. It’ll be good for you to be around your friends and doing fun stuff for an extended time. God knows, you deserve it.

  In a way, this is good practice for the future. The two boys, playing house, sharing the bachelor pad. At some point in this new century, you’re going to move out and have your own life. And, as much as I’d like to say the same for your brother, as much as he’s improved over the years, I can’t see it happening. He’s going to need some level of support throughout his life. It’s my job to provide it. He’s my responsibility. You might argue with me about that, but it’s true. You are Perry’s sister, not his parent. You love him and I know you always will. But you never need think you are his keeper. As the two of you grow into adulthood, you can walk beside him rather than carry him.

  Ah, my little tree frog, all of a sudden it’s the 2000s. I’m not so sure you’re little anymore.

  Think I’ll finish here for this entry—I’ve got a whole lot of extra laundry to do, haven’t I?

  12 December 2003

  Your marks are tremendous, Justine! I don’t think the phone book has as many A’s as you do. You’ve always been a very good student, but this year you’ve taken off. It seems like the further you go in school, the smarter you become. Maybe it’s because you’ve had to grow up quicker than your schoolmates. You’ve missed out on much of the early teenage rubbish due to real-world experience. Or maybe it’s my A-grade Richter genes coming through. My money’s on that.

  The sky’s the limit for you, Justine. You can do anything. There are a lot of scared people in this world, due to those lunatics who fly planes into buildings and blow up innocent people and invade foreign countries and make up stories about weapons and refuse to try a little kindness for anyone who’s different from themselves. But you shouldn’t be scared. You’ve got nothing to fear, from anything or anyone. You may not have seen the worst of the world—not by a long shot—but you know struggle. You know that life can be a kick in the guts more often than a pat on the back. And did it get the better of you? Did you end up angry and bitter and hurt? Did you pack your bags, then up and leave, never to come back? No way! You’ve come out of it with an A-plus. An A-plus mind and, more important, an A-plus heart.

  Perry’s so lucky to have you as his sister. There are a lot of kids out there who wouldn’t have a twin sister and a role model and a friend all rolled into one curly-haired package. I feel bad for them. I really do. If only there were more of you to go around.

  23 April 2005

  So, you think we were a bit hard on that scrawny lad you brought home? What’s his name? Paul? That’s right—Paul. To be honest, I thought he got off lightly. I only hinted once that he should change his last name. (Sexton is not a surname my daughter should have any association with.) And Perry only asked him a thousand questions about earthquakes. Master Disaster let him off lightly, all right. Joking aside, Jus, he seems like a good kid. I hope he doesn’t break your nearly-fifteen-year-old heart too bad.

  I’m sorry I never sat you down and
talked about love and relationships. Not really the done thing with dads (maybe not even single dads). If we had given it a go at some point, what decent advice could I have given you?

  Maybe this, I suppose: Know what you don’t want.

  Your mother gave me a good lesson in that. After she bailed on us, I had a very solid idea of things I wanted to avoid. There were more than a few things, too. You might say a few too many. Ah, well, I don’t regret being too fussy if it meant you guys stayed clear of Your Mother—Round Two. God knows, I haven’t been perfect as a dad, but I stayed the course and I always tried to put you and your brother first. And that’s going to continue, not because I’m a martyr or a saint or a much hairier Mother Teresa. No, it’s because I know what I don’t want. I don’t want the two of you to miss out on the best years of your life. Or to be in a home where you’re an afterthought. Or to blame yourselves for bad things that happen. Or to think love can’t be trusted.