Are You Seeing Me? Page 7

  Interesting

  The abandoned Coquihalla Highway tollbooth

  Signs for putting chains on your tires (they don’t spell

  it tyres here) in winter

  Overhead bridges that make sure moose and deer and

  bears are safe crossing the highway

  Fences that make sure the animals use the

  overhead bridges

  The change from forest mountains to desert hills

  Large sections of forest that have died and gone brown

  because of a pest called the pine beetle

  Beautiful

  The snow on the tips of the mountains beside the

  Coquihalla Highway

  A tiny waterfall running down the side of one of

  the mountains

  The jade color of the Coquihalla River

  A hawk that flew in the sky above our car when we

  turned onto Highway 97C

  An orange Lamborghini that raced past our car at the

  Okanagan Highway turnoff

  The final part of the trip—down the long road that runs beside Okanagan Lake and flattens at the town of Peachland—could make it onto both lists. The lake is more like an ocean, calm and blue and reaching for the horizon. The whole town is positioned on the hillside to the right; rows of houses overlook the water, no one missing out on the scenery. It’s like a movie theater—whether you’re front row or at the back, everyone has a good seat for the show. And the movie doesn’t have the thrills and spills of Rumble in the Bronx or Shanghai Knights. Just three sailboats and a water-skier and quite a few swimmers and several people riding Jet Skis. But it does have Ogopogo, a mystery better than any movie because it is real and not fiction.

  “Wow,” says Justine. “Never seen anything like this.”

  “Wow,” I repeat.

  We find our rental house—it is halfway up the hill, on Beatrice Road. It belongs to a stranger—Friend of a friend, with maybe another friend thrown in there as well is what Justine told me. She said the friend’s friend’s friend travels to Las Vegas at this time every year to earn her children’s inheritance and escape the tourists. She showed me photos of the house, outside and in, so I would be prepared. Looking around it now, I’m glad she did. Almost everything is where I expect it to be—kitchen, bedrooms, toilet, the downstairs room with gym equipment, the big glass doors. It doesn’t feel like home—that makes me slightly anxious—but it doesn’t feel incorrect either. I don’t see myself as a burglar or a trespasser or a squatter like the one they kicked out of our neighbor Mrs. McGuire’s house after she died of a stroke. This is good practice for Fair Go.

  After we’ve brought the bags in, Justine wipes her brow and puts her hands on her hips. “I need to go shopping,” she says. “Gotta grab some groceries and some of your stuff so you don’t fade away, Cap’n Ahab.”

  Justine has called me Captain Ahab before. She’s explained the joke to me several times (and I tried to read a few chapters of Moby Dick), but I still don’t find it funny. I think it’s a bit stupid. Captain Ahab and I are nothing alike. He had a wooden leg; I have two regular legs. We also have completely different occupations—he was captain of a boat called the Pequod; I am a senior washologist at Troy’s Car Care. One way we are similar is that he was an orphan and I am sort of an orphan because Mum left and Dad died. Justine claims the joke is good because both of us are obsessed with mythical beasts of the sea. Although that’s true, I still don’t think it’s choice material. Ahab chased the great white whale because he wanted to harpoon it, as revenge for giving him a disability. Killing Moby Dick was the only thing he was interested in—he was obsessed. I have lots of interests—earthquakes, Jackie Chan movies, washing cars. And if I found Ogopogo in Okanagan Lake I might video it or take a photo of it, but there is no way in the world I would ever want to kill it, even if it hurt me. Killing something because you were injured by it and now you’re afraid of it and you don’t understand it—that’s not being strong. That’s being a coward. That’s pathetic.

  “You go,” I say to Justine, looking at her knees instead of her face. “I’ll stay here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Positive?”

  “Like an electric eel.” Now, that’s a funny joke.

  “You won’t get stressed out?”

  “It’s good practice for Fair Go.”

  Justine waits a few seconds, then shrugs her shoulders. “Okay. Here’s my number—call me if you need me. Oh, and if the house phone rings, don’t pick up. Let the answering machine get it. Don’t listen to the message, either—that would be rude.”

  “What if it’s you?”

  “It won’t be.”

  “What if it’s Ogopogo?”

  “That’s different. Tell him we’ll see him tomorrow, maybe the day after. We’ll have tea and scones.”

  I AM READY TO BE INDEPENDENT for a little while.

  My wish is to do some important house chores—Justine will be pleased if I complete a responsible job or two—but there’s nothing for me to do. The kitchen sink is clear. The dishwasher is empty. The garbage bins all have new bags. The toilets all have unused rolls. Apart from a small pile of pebbles at the end of the driveway, there’s no dust or dirt to be seen. Everything is neat and tidy and in its rightful place.

  Usually, I’m happy when everything is organized like this. After I’ve cleaned and waxed the cars at Troy’s, I always smile when the owner says how pleased they are with my work. And I wave when the sparkling vehicle exits the driveway. Today, the work is done and there is only disappointment. I decide to do a second tour of the house, turning on the light switches as I go. I know this is bad for the environment, but I don’t like the dark. Some people with my disability enjoy the dark very much; they find it calming and painless, and it slows their minds down so that thoughts can be put together in order and make sense. Not me—I like the light, just as most normal people do.

  I take four deep breaths and return to the lounge room. There is so much wood and glass in this house. I doubt it would stay standing in a 6.0 shake. I walk to the edge of the room and press my face against the sliding door that opens onto a small patio and the view of Okanagan Lake. The glass smells like Windex and newspaper ink. A wind chime suspended above the patio sways and dings. The thought that I’m alone in a stranger’s home on the other side of the world sneaks into my head. I block it out by reciting the first-aid action plan and flicking the fingers of my right hand. For extra relief, I head for the main toilet. I take a leak, wiping up the splashes on the seat and pressing the half-flush button when I’m done. At least I can do one good thing for the environment.

  I unzip our big suitcase and check my clothes—they’re squashed but not wrecked. I consider putting them in the chest of drawers near the mirror, then decide against it. There’s a framed photograph on top of the chest: a lady with purple hair, wearing lots of makeup and jewelry, is holding a fluffy dog up close to her face. The writing in the corner of the photo says Janet Beedle 2008. Is the lady Janet Beedle? Or is it the dog? Maybe the lady is Janet and the dog is Beedle. Or perhaps Janet Beedle is the photographer and the lady’s name is Esmeralda and the dog is called Butch. Whatever the story, I know there will be other clothes in the drawers. And putting my T-shirts and shorts and boardies and socks and especially my underwear (or Reg Grundies, as Dad called them) on top of someone else’s possessions makes me uncomfortable.

  Opening the luggage, I have an idea. If I can’t show responsibility, maybe I can show maturity and sophistication by doing something outside my comfort zone. I hunt through the carry-on and pull out the diary Dad wrote for Justine and the book titled Robinson Crusoe. Which one to read? It’s an easy decision. I would never read the diary Dad wrote for my sister without her permission—that is being a stickybeak and not respecting others’ private property. It would be different if it were a diary Dad wrote for me. As Jus has told me many times, the photo book was Dad’s gi
ft to me because I was always a visual learner. In any case, I am familiar with the diary already. Justine sometimes reads bits of it to me, mostly before bed or if I’ve had a bad turn at home. One time, she read it when the power had gone out because of an evening thunderstorm. She also reads it to me when I ask a question about Dad, or if I’ve been looking in an old photo album from our Rainbow Beach holidays. She says only the “good time” parts of the diary are for my ears. She’s never read the same part twice, so I think there must be more good times than bad.

  I put the diary on the bed and return to the living room with Robinson Crusoe. The cover is okay—it has the title and a picture of footprints on a patch of sand. It’s completely flat though. I like covers with raised bits, when the lettering is bumpy. Running my hand over them, I can pretend I have a different disability—blindness—and I am using braille language.

  I open Robinson Crusoe to page one and begin to read. It’s not easy; the sentences are strange and don’t make much sense. A feeling of frustration rises up through my body, like when I tried the monkey bars in second grade and the bars were too far apart and slippery for me to make it all the way across. I don’t want to give up though. Justine needs to see that I can show maturity and sophistication by doing something outside my comfort zone. I turn to page 128 and the chapter named “A Cave Retreat.” It’s better than the earlier chapters—not great but better. There is a part about cannibals and another where Mr. Crusoe discovers a collection of human bones on the beach. It also mentions a human footprint on the sand. I like this because it is an unsolved mystery similar to Ogopogo. And it makes the cover meaningful and not just a dumb picture like some of Jus’s other books have on the front.

  I reach page 133—the part where Mr. Crusoe is making plans to hide in the trees and shoot the cannibals. I glance out the window. There’s a mushroom-shaped tree in the front yard.

  “Hide there,” I tell him.

  Mr. Crusoe follows my advice. He tiptoes across the brown-and-green grass, ducks under the low branches and then crouches down on one knee behind the trunk. Instead of an ancient gun, he’s holding a set of nunchuks in his right hand. I’d like to ask him where he found them on his island, but there’s no time. The cannibals are coming up the driveway. There are seven of them. Six carry a picnic item—basket, umbrella, tablecloth, fold-up chairs. The seventh has a human body slumped over his shoulder. It’s difficult to be absolutely sure who it is, but the overalls and the wristbands and the backward cap and the fact we’re in Canada are pretty strong clues.

  Justin Bieber.

  No lie. The cannibals are planning a Justin Bieber barbecue. A Biebercue.

  “He makes bad music,” I say to Mr. Crusoe. “But that doesn’t mean he should be eaten.” I nod my head, and Crusoe jumps out from behind the tree, nunchuks flying. He knocks the front two cannibals down, spilling blood and teeth and plastic cutlery all over the ground. Then he wraps the nunchuks around the neck of cannibal number three and uses him as a shield while roundhouse kicking the remaining trio. Within ten seconds the fight is over. The only cannibal left standing is the Bieber carrier. He is not prepared to go down as easily as his friends. He shifts Bieber off his shoulder and to the front. Then he lifts the teen’s forearm up to his smiling, drooling mouth, ready to munch on its meager meat. Mr. Crusoe slowly spins the nunchuks around his waist. Seconds tick. The air is still. The battle has reached a standoff. Castaway and cannibal turn to me, waiting for instructions on what happens next.

  I tuck Robinson Crusoe under my arm and applaud so they will—

  “Having another go at reading a classic, Pez?” says Justine.

  I lower my hands, pivot away from the window and face my sister. I perform three big nods to let her know I have been reading and not just creating ridiculous martial arts movies out of classic books. She places two bags of shopping on the counter.

  “What do you think so far?”

  “It’s difficult. It’s better than Moby Dick.”

  I’m not joking, but Justine laughs hard. She wipes her eye with her pinkie and begins stacking groceries in the cupboard and the fridge. “If you’re into it, keep it for a bit,” she says. “I’ve got my dreams to fill out the blanks in the story.”

  That last sentence about dreams—I don’t understand what that’s about. Anyway, I am happy. I did something outside my comfort zone and showed Jus I can be mature and sophisticated. And because I read Robinson Crusoe instead of doing chores, my sister showed me something much better than her pleased face—her proud face.

  I like that one a lot.

  AT 7:47 PM, THE PHONE RINGS.

  “I got it,” says Justine, jumping up from the couch. She doesn’t answer straight away. She takes the cordless phone from its cradle and jogs into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. I hear a beep and then she begins to speak. Her voice is low and her conversation is murmurs rather than clear words and sentences. I could probably hear what she was saying if I moved closer, if I maybe held a drinking glass between my ear and the door like I’ve seen in movies. Eavesdropping is rude, though. So I stare at the TV and try to concentrate on the show we were watching about an entire Canadian town that goes on a diet together.

  The waiting hurts. My heart is knocking against the front of my rib cage. I feel hair standing on the back of my neck. Is it Marc phoning again? Must be. Who else would call? I suppose it could be Janet Beedle or maybe a friend of Janet Beedle. But Justine would have got off the phone quickly if it was a stranger. It must be Marc. And that’s a problem because Justine said in the Cobalt that his previous call was only a little rumble. Is this a big rumble?

  After leaving the toilet on Highway 5, I was prepared for the rest of the drive because the seismometer was with me; I could sense difficulties on the ground and maybe be warned before they started. But when we got here, everything was calm and easy and Jus seemed like she’d forgotten about Marc acting like a hero instead of being a boyfriend. So I left the seismometer in the bedroom. I wish I hadn’t been so stupid.

  The conversation has reached four minutes. I’m still worried, but the situation hasn’t gotten worse. In fact, there are good thoughts starting to enter my head now. Justine continues to speak low. If things weren’t going well, she would be raising her voice and saying bad words. She might even cry. I am very, very thankful she is not crying—my sister’s tears are torture. It’s been that way from the time we were kids. It might’ve been the same when we were babies, too, but I can’t remember back that far. When Jus cries, it’s like I’ve been tied down to a stretching rack. But instead of being stretched up and down by my arms and legs, I’m pulled in all directions with every part of my body—hips, knees, face, fingernails…even my hair. Everything pulls and screams and burns like molten magma, and it doesn’t end when Jus stops crying. It stings for a long time after she’s settled down and her eyes are dry.

  Six minutes. The diet people in the Canadian town are all doing exercises and giving each other high fives that make the skin on their flabby arms wobble. I hope someone on the show knows CPR. In the bedroom, nothing has changed. The conversation continues and the atmosphere is still calm.

  Perhaps Marc is acting like a boyfriend now. It is right that Justine falls in love and has an excellent boyfriend—one that she will move in with and marry and call her soul mate (which means the one person in the world you are meant to be together with, sharing interests, having sex and arguing about things). Is Marc my sister’s soul mate? Maybe. She says he is very sweet and romantic and quite handsome and an excellent kisser. She has called him a “great guy” and a “good catch.” I’ve also heard her call him names like “doofus” and “try-hard.” She’s said three times he could do with a little less Bingley and a little more Darcy, which I don’t understand, but I know it has something to do with the books she likes to read. I think Marc is a good guy, even though he talks too loud and he knows nothing about earthquakes and his aftershave sometimes makes me throw up a little in my mo
uth. I think he could be Justine’s soulmate. But what I think is not important. It’s only important what Justine thinks.

  A beep sounds in the bedroom, followed by footsteps on the carpet. I stare ahead at the TV, where an obese woman with a mullet is crying on a treadmill, but I’m really watching the bedroom door open, out of the corner of my eye. Justine emerges, tapping the phone against the palm of her left hand and looking spaced out. She replaces the phone, then sits in the armchair opposite the couch where I am seated. Onscreen, the woman has stopped blubbering and is saying, “I need to do this for my kids.”

  “That was Marc, yes?” I ask.

  Justine looks at me. The focus is back in her eyes. Her brows have jumped up high on her forehead. “What? No, it wasn’t Marc, Perry. For his sake, I’m glad it wasn’t.”

  Not Marc?

  Not Marc.

  Not.

  Marc.

  The answer is slippery, difficult to grasp, like a soapy sponge at Troy’s.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Quite sure.”

  “Okay. Was it someone else from Australia, then?”

  “No.”

  “Was it someone from Canada?”

  “Perry—”

  “Do you have friends in Canada?”

  “Is this Twenty Questions, mate?”

  I bow my head and start reading the names of the buttons on the remote control. She takes a deep breath, then swallows the saliva in her mouth.

  “I was having a conversation with…my pen pal. I have a Canadian pen pal. You know what that is, don’t you?”

  I nod. In eighth grade my class wrote to pen pals in Japan. The name of my pen pal was Akiko Suzuki. In my letter, I wrote that the city of Kobe had experienced the Great Hanshin earthquake on Tuesday, January 17, 1995. It was a 6.8 on the moment magnitude scale and the tremors lasted for twenty seconds. Approximately 6,434 people died, and more than three-quarters of them were from Kobe. I also mentioned that it was not as bad as the Great Kantō earthquake in 1923, which killed 140,000 people. I never received a reply.