“He belongs here,” Chloe says. “With his family. With me. Not in Victoria with some—some lunatic and her juvie son.”
“It’s okay, Chloe,” he says. “Like Caleb said, we’re just talking. Nobody’s saying I have to do anything.” He looks around the table at Phil and Megan and Caleb. “Right, guys?”
They all nod, but Chloe pulls away from Sid and rockets out of the rooms, slamming the front door. They can hear her pound down the stairs. In the silence that follows her exit, Caleb lets out a huge sigh, as if he has been underwater for a long time.
“What’d I tell you,” he says to Phil. “WMD.”
Watch Your Step
“Are you sure, Sid?” Megan is sitting on Sid’s bed, watching him fold his clothes and stuff them in his backpack.
“No,” Sid replies. “Not really. But I’m curious. I mean—a brother. And a grandmother. I gotta go, right?” What was it Irena always said to Chloe? Curiosity killed the cat. Sid hopes this proves not to be true.
“Are you scared?” Megan reaches out and puts her hand on Sid’s arm.
“Yeah. A bit.” Sid pauses in his packing. He’s more than scared—he’s terrified—but lately he’s been thinking a lot about what Tobin said just before he left: If you don’t watch out, you’re going to turn into some phobic hermit Unabomber weirdo. Sid knows Tobin had a good point. If he doesn’t break away from his routines soon, he never will. Looking for a lost brother seems like a good way to try. It feels horrible though, as if he is gutting himself with one of Caleb’s fileting knives.
“I wouldn’t go if she was there, you know,” he says as he rolls up yet another black T-shirt.
“If who was there?”
“Devi, Devorah, Debby. I never want to see her. You’re my mother. Caleb’s my father. I just want you to know I’m clear on that.” He clears his throat as tears sting his eyes.
Megan is silent for a moment.
“Thank you, Sid,” she finally says. “But if you want to see her, that’s okay too. It’s up to you. It won’t change anything between us. We always wondered if Devi might turn up one day. It used to scare me, but not anymore. You’ve been our son for fourteen years. That’s a long time. And it sounds like she’s had a rough life.”
Sid shrugs. He wonders if there is something wrong with him—not wanting to meet his birth mother, not caring about her. He knows that lots of adopted children long for their biological parents, but he never has. Megan took him to a play therapist when he was about four and didn’t want to go to pre-school. The therapist worked with him once a week for a few months and concluded that he had a bit of what she called social anxiety but nothing to be concerned about. He skipped kindergarten but went relatively cheerfully to grade one. By then, he and Chloe had become friends, so everyone relaxed: Sid was okay. A bit odd, maybe, but okay. Not fucked up—at least not any more than most kids. Now he wonders if bipolar disorder is an inherited disease. Although he’s rarely, if ever, felt manic, the thought is still unsettling.
“I feel bad about Fariza,” Sid says to Megan. “I feel like I’m abandoning her.” He’s never worried about another kid before, but Fariza is different. He wonders if this is what he’ll feel like with Wain: protective, concerned, guilty.
“I know,” Megan replies. “But she’s not your responsibility, you know. It’s great that she’s so comfortable with you, but she’ll manage, I promise.”
“You think?”
Megan nods. “It’s going to be a long time before she gets over what happened to her, if she ever does, but I think she knows she’s safe here. And we’ll talk about you every day. I’ll remind her that you’re coming back.”
“Okay.” Sid’s backpack is stuffed to overflowing. He puts it on the floor and sits beside Megan on the bed. “I gave Fariza a sketchbook of her own. We work on it every day.”
“I know,” Megan says.
“I divided a whole bunch of pages for her. Enough for a couple of weeks. I drew myself coming home on the last page, so she won’t forget. Could you help her write a story a day in the bottom box of every page? When I come back, I’ll illustrate it for her.”
“Sure, sweetie,” Megan says. “No problem. And maybe you could call—check in every now and again. Even if she doesn’t talk, I’m sure she’d like to hear your voice.” She laughs. “Oh, who am I kidding? I’d like to hear your voice.”
“How about I call every other day around suppertime?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Megan says. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Sid hoists his backpack over one shoulder and pulls Megan into an awkward hug with his other arm.
“Onward and upward,” Megan mumbles into his armpit.
Sid throws his backpack into the back of Miss Havisham and gets into the front seat as Phil says his goodbyes to Megan and Caleb and Fariza. Chloe hasn’t spoken to Sid since he told her he was going, so she isn’t here to say goodbye. He has left email and phone messages telling her he’ll be back soon, but she remains as silent as Fariza, who is standing with one arm wrapped around Megan’s waist and the other arm clutching Fred.
“Bye, Fariza,” Sid calls. “See you soon. Don’t forget to draw in your book.”
He waves jauntily at her, trying to look cheerful rather than upset. She gives him a small smile and then buries her face in Megan’s side. He feels like the worst person in the world. Selfish. Inconsiderate. Foolish. But also excited. And more than a little anxious.
“Ready?” Phil slides into the driver’s seat and puts on his sunglasses.
Sid nods, and Phil backs out of the driveway. Sid doesn’t look back. He is silent on the ride to the ferry. He stays in the car when they get on board, while Phil goes up to the passenger lounge. Sid shuts his eyes and slumps down in the seat. He doesn’t want to see the familiar scenery slip by: the red wharf, the white fish boats, the green islet in the cove, the blue water, the ferry’s frothy wake. He doesn’t want to hear the squeak of the ferry against the pilings, the clang of the ramp coming up, the casual chatter between passengers as they make their way upstairs. There’s a great audio system in the car. Maybe he should dig out his iPod and plug it in. Phil’s iPod is sitting in the well between the seats. Between them, they probably have more than enough music for the five-hour trip. Sid prays that Phil isn’t a fan of either Dixieland or disco. Anything else he can stand, although he wonders how Phil feels about Foo Fighters or Mother Mother.
As they near the other side, Phil returns to the car and they sit in silence, waiting for the ramp to come down and connect them to the next part of their journey.
“You go to Victoria very often?” Phil asks.
“Nope,” Sid says. “Usually Vancouver. Megan likes Ikea.”
Phil laughs. “Who doesn’t?”
“Me,” Sid says. “Too crowded. Too noisy.”
“Gotcha.” Phil is silent for a few minutes, but as they reach the turnoff to the highway, he says, “You always such a hard-ass?”
Sid laughs. “You think I’m a hard-ass?” No one has ever called him anything like that.
“Well, aren’t you? The silent treatment’s pretty harsh.”
“It’s not meant to be,” Sid says, although this is a bit of a lie. He really doesn’t want to talk to Phil. Phil is the messenger, and Sid still isn’t sure whether to shoot him or welcome him. “It’s not personal. I’m just not much of a talker.” No way he’s going to tell Phil that he feels like he’s going to puke.
“I got that.” Phil shoots him a sideways glance. “But we’ve got a long ride ahead of us—you might want to throw me a bone.”
“How would I do that?” Sid asks, genuinely curious.
“Tell me about growing up on the island, about your art, about your ambitions. Tell me what music you listen to, what books you love.”
“We could just listen to the music I like,” Sid says, gesturing at the audio system. “For a while anyway.”
Phil considers this for a minute and then says, �
�Fine. Your music until we hit Nanaimo, mine between Nanaimo and Duncan and then conversation from Duncan to Victoria. That’ll give you a lot of time to think of things to talk about. Deal?”
“Deal,” Sid says as he plugs in his iPod.
“Jingle Pot Road,” Phil says.
Sid, who has been thinking about Chloe and wishing she had come to say goodbye, turns down the music. “What did you say?”
“Jingle Pot Road. We just passed it. We’re in Nanaimo, land of strip malls, abandoned coal mines and weird place names. Can you imagine living on Buttertubs Marsh or Dingle Bingle Hill? Makes you wonder what those coal miners were smoking.”
Sid laughs. Phil is intense, but even Sid has to admit he’s a good travel companion. They had stopped at a wide beach near Parksville to eat the lunch Megan packed for them, sitting side by side on a log and watching whole families almost vanish on the shimmering tidal flats. Plastic shovels and tiny sneakers lay in the sand next to pails full of sand dollars. Sid worried that the sea would swallow them. He remembers losing his favorite sand toy—a yellow plastic bulldozer—on this beach. He and Megan and Caleb had walked what seemed to him miles and miles to the water’s edge. When they got back, the bulldozer was gone. He had been inconsolable, and even now he feels a twinge of the distress he felt at four. It was, he thinks, the first time he had lost something that really mattered to him. Unless he counts his mother, which he doesn’t.
After they leave Nanaimo, Sid falls asleep to some peculiar, but oddly soothing, music that sounds vaguely Celtic, but also vaguely Asian. When he wakes up, the car is parked at a Dairy Queen in Duncan. Phil is nowhere to be seen.
Sid orders a Blizzard with Reese’s Pieces and sits at a picnic table outside to eat it. Phil comes out of the bathroom, gets a hot fudge sundae and sits down across from Sid.
“There is a god,” Phil states, spooning up a mouthful of his sundae.
“If you say so,” Sid says, although he’s inclined, at this moment, to agree.
“You can start anytime,” Phil says.
“Start what?”
“The Life and Times of Siddhartha Eikenboom. We’re in Duncan, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I noticed.”
“So—we had a deal.”
Sid scrapes the bottom of his Blizzard cup with the long red plastic spoon. He considers ordering another but knows it will make him sick.
“Can I take a leak first?” he asks.
Phil nods. “I’ll be waiting.”
It’s surprisingly easy to talk to Phil. Even though he keeps his attention on the road, Sid knows he’s listening from the way he laughs or asks for clarification or says, “You’re kidding!” every now and again. Sid finds himself tempted to make stuff up, but Phil seems interested in the boring details of Sid’s life. It turns out they can both quote whole scenes from Back to the Future; Phil almost drives off the road when Sid does his impersonation of Marty McFly: Time circuits on. Flux capacitor…fluxing. Engine running. All right.
“You got some talent, man,” Phil gasps.
“Thanks, dude,” Sid replies as the car straightens out. “But I don’t wanna die for it.”
As they approach the outskirts of Victoria, Sid stops talking and Phil doesn’t push him to chat. When they finally turn into an unpaved driveway on a narrow tree-lined street, Sid is unsure he can get out of the car. His legs feel like overcooked pasta. Phil turns off the engine and they sit, listening to the engine tick as it cools.
“That’s Devi’s place,” Phil says, pointing at a ramshackle cottage set way off the road, surrounded by about a zillion oak trees. Sid is glad he’ll be gone before the leaves start to fall. The raking must be brutal. “I’m in the garage at the back,” Phil continues. “I thought you could stay out there, and I’ll bunk at Devi’s.”
A huge marmalade cat ambles up to the car, and Phil gets out and drapes it across his shoulders like a feather boa. An ancient gray cat with milky eyes brushes against his ankles, and Phil scoops it up too and cradles it in his arms. A tabby with a stump for a tail approaches across the lawn. Sid gets out of the car and crouches down to stroke it.
“Which is which?” he asks.
“That’s Smike,” Phil says. He nuzzles the cat in his arms. “This old guy is Dodger, and the one that thinks he’s a scarf is Fagin. Fagin runs the show, but keep an eye on the Dodger—he’s still got some tricks, don’t you, Dodge?” As if in answer, Dodger takes a swipe at Fagin’s tail. “Grab your bag from the back and let’s get you settled.”
Phil goes ahead of Sid and opens the garage door. When Sid gets inside, he stops, looks around and inhales deeply. The garage is full of tools and wood and sawdust and half-completed pieces of furniture. And it smells amazing—like coffee and glue and solvent and wood chips, with a hint of beer and a whiff of sweat. Sid thinks if you could make a men’s cologne that smelled like Phil’s garage, you’d make a fortune. Call it Varnish or Grain and sell it at Home Depot in vials shaped like nail guns or power drills.
The living quarters are screened off from the workshop by an ornate Japanese screen. Phil shows Sid the bed in the loft, the minute kitchen, the microscopic bathroom. Skylights illuminate each room. Phil feeds the cats and then opens a bag of chips, dumps a jar of salsa into a blue bowl and takes a can of Coke out of the fridge.
“I’m going to check things out over at Devi’s. And I need to give Elizabeth a call. You okay on your own for a bit?”
Sid takes a swig of Coke. “Sure. I’m okay. Do what you have to do.”
After Phil leaves, Sid sits down at the beat-up oak table and rests his head in his folded arms. He doesn’t think he has ever been so tired, even though he’s been sitting almost all day. He remembers Megan telling him once that anxiety can be as tiring as running a triathalon.
“If that’s true, I’m Simon fucking Whitfield,” he mutters as he rests. “Where’s my gold medal?”
Make My Day
When Sid wakes up the next day, a seagull is crapping on the skylight above his head. He hopes it isn’t an omen. He’s not particularly superstitious, but even simple things, like a sudden downpour or a lost sock, seem portentous—even ominous—these days. He vaguely remembers climbing the ladder to the loft the night before, and he has slept surprisingly well. He can hear Phil in the kitchen talking to the cats. He can smell bacon.
“Hope you’re not a vegetarian,” Phil says as Sid comes down the ladder. “Or, god forbid, a vegan.” He shudders.
“Nope. Love bacon. Eggs too. Breakfast’s my favorite meal. Need any help?”
“Nah. It’s under control. And this kitchen is built for one. You’ve got time for a shower. I put out clean towels.”
Sid nods and goes into the tiny bathroom. It reminds him of the bathroom on the Caprice—designed to waste no space. Except Phil’s bathroom has walls that look like wooden patchwork quilts, and the inside of the shower stall is covered in a mosaic of deadly sea creatures—jellyfish, octopi, sharks, stingrays, barracuda, stonefish, spiny sea urchins. Devi’s work, Sid assumes. He has to admit, it is beautiful, if a bit bizarre. When he comes out, his ringlets dripping onto his clean T-shirt, Phil serves up breakfast, which they eat in silence.
When they are finished, Sid cleans up. It’s the least he can do, he thinks, and it kills a bit more time. He’s not sure he’s ready for whatever comes next. He wants to go up to the loft, crawl back into bed and watch the sky for signs. An eagle, a balloon, a jet trail. His stomach is already churning. He wonders if coming here was a mistake.
“I called Elizabeth last night,” Phil says. “No sign of Wain. Or Devi. You ready to meet your grandmother?”
“I guess,” Sid says. “Can I see a picture of them first?” He doesn’t know why he hasn’t thought to ask before, but he hopes that seeing what they look like will ease the sense of dread that is creeping up his limbs, weakening his resolve.
“Sure, “Phil says. “Good idea.” He rummages in a kitchen drawer and pulls out a drugstore photo env
elope. “I took these at Wain’s birthday last March. We all pitched in and got him that Guitar Hero thing.”
He hands the envelope to Sid, who pulls out the photos. On top is a picture of a small woman with short gray curls and a plump, unlined face. She has her arm around a tall thin elderly woman with white hair in an elegant French twist. Beside them is a tall heavyset boy with close-cropped curls, a huge grin and a red guitar. He is a bit blurry, but not so blurry that Sid can’t see that he is black. Inky black. Whoa. All along, he’s been picturing Gawain as a miniature version of himself: red-haired, pale, wiry, quiet. Clearly, this boy isn’t any of those things. He looks like a football player—a linebacker maybe. Sid knows nothing about football—soccer is his game. Even if they do find Wain, what will Sid have to say to him?
He hands the photos back to Phil. “Let’s go,” he says. “I’ll look at the rest later.”
Phil slides the photos back in the drawer and grabs his keys.
“You’ll like Elizabeth,” he says.
Phil is right. Sid does like Elizabeth. From the moment she greets him at the door of her condo, he feels at ease. She answers the door in soft coffee-colored cords and a beige cashmere sweater. On her feet are suede moccasins with rabbit trim and fancy beadwork on the toes, and around her neck hangs a silver Celtic knot on a leather thong. Her hair is gathered into a low ponytail secured by a red silk scarf. When he hears her intake of breath when she sees him, he realizes that he is holding his breath.
“Welcome,” she says, stepping aside to let them enter. Sid stands in the foyer, wondering if he should take off his shoes. He’s not used to houses as pristine and white as this one.
“Don’t worry about your shoes,” Elizabeth says, as if he has spoken aloud. “Come in, come in.”
Sid follows her into the living room. Phil disappears into the kitchen, muttering something about fixing a dripping faucet. The view of the harbor is unobstructed, and Sid goes to the window and watches a floatplane land near some kayakers. Elizabeth stands beside him and says, “There’s always something going on. I never get tired of it. ”
Three Little Words Page 5
