“You’re joking, right?”
“No, I mean it. There might be stuff in here that we don’t have time to look at today — stuff that’s important. If she suspects we’ve been in her things — like you think she will — she might start to carry the key with her, or hide it somewhere we’d never look. The only way to make sure we’re going to get a look at everything in here is if we have our own key.”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “But you go.”
I agreed, relocked the cabinet against Lynn’s protests (though it didn’t take long to convince her that we’d be dead meat if Mom came along and it was unlocked) and took off for the hardware store three blocks away.
All the way there and back I kept telling myself that chances were good Mom wouldn’t even come home while I was gone, much less happen to look for the key. Still, it was a relief when I got back to the apartment and Lynn reported that everything was okay.
We checked to make sure the copy worked, then put Mom’s key back in her jacket pocket and closed the closet door.
My chest thumped heavily as we pulled open the cabinet’s top drawer for the second time. It was stuffed full, cards we’d given Mom, old artwork and things like that, all jammed in — some of it organized and secured with rubber bands, some of it just in there loose.
We closed that without looking at any of it and slid the bottom drawer open. The album sat right on top, two lacy bells crossed over each other on the front. It had been white once, but was yellowed with age and handling.
I sucked in air and flipped it open.
There he was, standing next to Mom, smiling out at me from an eight by ten glossy.
My father.
I stood there looking and looking, like I might be able to see more than the surface image, until I became aware that Lynn was trembling beside me.
“That’s him,” she said, pointing at him like I needed that explained. “That’s Daddy.”
Daddy.
She tried to smile, still crying, and put her hand on my arm. Then she kind of sank against me and sobbed.
I put my arm around her (I’m not a total jerk) and held onto her until she got herself calmed down.
“It’s okay,” I said. My throat hurt.
It was a few minutes before Lynn pulled herself together enough to keep looking through the rest of the pictures. We stood there, flipping pages, because we didn’t want to sit on the bed and we didn’t dare leave the room. We might not be able to get out before Mom saw us, but at least we could try to shove the album back and lock the cabinet without her seeing what we were up to.
It was pretty strange, looking at this smiling person who had his arm around our mom. She was right up against his chest in a lot of the shots, looking, I dunno, sheltered somehow. I had a flash of déjà vu but it was gone before I could catch anything from it.
“Where do you think he is now?” Lynn asked when we’d finished turning all the pages and had gone back to the first one.
“Who knows,” I said. I still wasn’t ready to tell her about my suspicions.
Besides, I’d tried to compare his face to the guy who’d been following me, but too much time had passed for me to be certain. There was a resemblance, but I honestly couldn’t say for sure if it was the same person.
I wondered, too, if I’d met him on the street and he’d looked exactly the same as he had when the pictures were taken, would I have known him? I had a feeling I would have. Even though I couldn’t have brought up any kind of clear image in my head beforehand, as soon as I saw his picture I had an immediate and powerful sense of recognition.
After all, even though this guy was a stranger to me, he was still my father.
chapter eighteen
When we’d finished looking at the album, Lynn and I agreed we’d better not press our luck. We locked everything back up, closed the door to the room, and sat at the kitchen table for a while, just yakking.
But something happened to me while Lynn was talking. I don’t think it was because of anything she said but I can’t be sure because her words had stopped registering in my brain a few moments before.
It wasn’t one of those times when I just drift off and don’t listen. In fact, we’d been in the middle of a heavy discussion about whether it was possible to do self-hypnosis to make memories clearer. Mostly, we wondered if that would help us figure out if what we thought were memories could really be things we’d been told often enough that they seemed to be memories. For some reason, that question kept coming up over and over.
It was around that point in our discussion that I noticed Lynn’s mouth was moving but something was wrong with her voice. Her words seemed to be coming out of a long tunnel — hollow-sounding with a bit of an echo. I realized I wasn’t taking in anything she was saying and her voice sounded slow and garbled, like when something goes into slow motion on a movie.
Oblivious to this, she continued on. I watched her face, fascinated by the way her expression changed, going through an amazing range of emotions in what couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes — though it felt oddly timeless.
It made me think of parties I’d been to where someone would pass around brownies. Then, things would slow down and it would be like there was a thick glass barrier between me and everything around me. Sometimes I couldn’t move at all for a while, and I’d get paranoid that there was going to be a fire and I wouldn’t be able to move to get out.
I wondered, for just a few seconds, if I was having some kind of flashback, so I lifted my hand an inch or so to test that idea out. I thought I might not be able to move, but my hand worked okay.
Lynn was looking at me then, half scared and half puzzled. She’d finally realized something was wrong and had shut up long enough to check it out. When she saw me focusing on her she started with the questions.
“What’s wrong? Are you all right? Porter?”
“Stop,” I said, surprised to find my voice working. “Don’t talk right now.”
“Do you feel sick? Maybe you need to lie down. Should I call someone?”
“Be quiet,” I said. My voice was very, very calm. “I mean it.”
“What is wrong with you? You’re acting all weird and—”
“I said to SHUT UP,” I roared. My fist came down on the table. The salt and pepper shakers jumped.
So did Lynn. I could see right away there were going to be more tears. Only, there was nothing in me right then that cared.
“I’ve gotta get out of here,” I said, barely managing not to yell. I pushed my chair away from the table and turned so I didn’t have to look at her stupid, crumpling face.
I grabbed my shoes and pulled them on. One of the laces broke when I yanked on it to tie them. I stuffed what was left of the lace under the tongue and left the apartment, slamming the door so hard I knew there’d be faces looking out from other apartments on our floor any second.
I wasn’t in the mood to look at a bunch of morons who have nothing better to do than stick their heads into the hallway every time there’s a noise, so I yanked open the door to the stairwell and descended the stairs in leaps and jumps, taking the half flights in two or three steps each.
Lester and Addie Phelps, an old couple that lived on the first floor, were just coming in when I reached the front door. They were nice people, the kind of old folks who were always fussing over each other.
Addie used to make mittens for the kids in the building, until her arthritis got too bad. And every summer on the last weekend in August they’d invite us all for hotdogs and Kool-Aid (which Lester called Freshie) and give us each a pencil for school.
Lester always made a little speech then, about education and how important it was and how he was held back in life because he never got the proper schooling.
“Now, each and every one of you is ’specially good at something,” he’d say, when he was wrapping it up, “and Addie and me are darned proud of you — pardon my French. So we hope you’ll have a real good year at sch
ool and learn your best and mind your teachers.”
I used to hate it when Lester’s speech was over.
Then we’d file out while Addie patted each of us on the head, like she was blessing us or something.
I still got invited, but I hadn’t gone to their “Hotdog ’N Freshie” parties for quite a few years. One of them always tracked me down later, though, and told me they were sorry I hadn’t been able to make it, and gave me a pencil.
When I was a lot younger, I used to think it would be cool to have grandparents like the Phelpses. I’d imagine having someone like Lester giving me speeches regular — not just once a year with a group, but stuff he’d say just for me. Or Addie, making me cookies and reading me stories and whatever other things grandparents do.
My mom’s father died when I was nine and her mom had been in a nursing home as long as I’d known her, so she didn’t really count. She cried all the time and smelled funny. I hated to let her touch me when I was little, because she’d get hold of my shirt and wouldn’t let go. Mom only went once a year herself and she had stopped making me go with her when I was around twelve.
As for my dad’s family, I didn’t know anything about them, not even if they were living, or where, or any of that stuff.
Anyway, getting back to this particular day — the Phelpses were coming in and, since they didn’t exactly move fast, I had to stand back and wait for them. I forced what I hoped was a friendly expression onto my face, though I could still feel my jaws clamped together.
“Porter, dear, how are you?” Addie asked, pausing right in the doorway.
“Good, thanks. You?” I managed a tight smile.
“Well, now, I can’t complain. At this age if a body can still get around, that’s about the best you can hope for.”
“You’re not that old,” Lester said to her. “Still young enough to be my girl, anyway.”
“Oh, you old flatterer,” she said. Her hand went out in his general direction and swatted the air, missing him entirely.
“Yeah, well, that’s good,” I said. I wished I could grab them and haul them into the building so I could get by. “But, I kind of have to go somewhere.” My face hurt from the effort of holding a smile.
“Oh, my dear!” Addie said. “Did you hear that, Lester? We’re holding Porter up. He probably has a girl waiting for him and here we are on about nothing like two doddering old fools.”
“No, no, it’s just that I do have to go.”
They shuffled in, spilling out apologies and reminding me about the party the next month and saying how they really hoped I’d be able to make it that year.
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll try,” I lied. At last they were in and I could escape.
I hit the sidewalk jogging, feeling a bit guilty for offing Lester and Addie that way. They faded from my thoughts watcher within minutes, though, and I found myself running faster and faster, hands clenched into fists, gulping air and fighting whatever it was that was rising up in my chest.
It wasn’t panic, though the way I was running it almost seemed like it might be. A few minutes passed before I realized it was anger. The kind of anger that’s so powerful it could burn a hole right through you.
The strange thing was, I had no idea who or what I was angry at.
I ran, shoving myself forward, stunned by the strength of my growing rage. It felt like something living — a separate force pulsing and writhing in my body but not exactly part of me.
My throat and eyes burned and my teeth hurt from being clenched. I kept running. I passed The Singing Cane, was vaguely aware of Rodney sticking his head out the door and calling my name. I didn’t turn or even pause.
My feet moved faster and faster and I felt as though I could keep going until I got out of the city, until I found an open field somewhere. I pictured myself in the middle of nowhere, lifting my head up and howling like a wolf.
It was getting hard to breathe but I kept going long past the point when my chest started to ache — past when it felt like it would explode.
I didn’t stop until it got so that I couldn’t suck in enough air to fuel my body with the oxygen it needed. When I did finally slow down and quit, my legs became instant rubber and refused to hold me. I leaned, gasping for air, against a building — an old stone place with streaks of black and cracks in the foundation.
I’d zigzagged a good deal in order to avoid stopping for cars or traffic lights, so I wasn’t sure exactly where I was. Not that it mattered. I couldn’t have cared less.
After a few minutes the anger had receded a good deal, leaving me a bit more clear-headed than I’d been earlier. But I just stayed there, sagging against the wall, trying to figure out what had happened.
I couldn’t remember ever being that upset before, not even in the middle of a fight. Not even the time I’d been down and two guys were kicking me, and it had made me furious enough to get me back onto my feet and into the fight.
The only thing I could figure was that there must be some stuff buried in my subconscious — stuff I couldn’t remember but that had been triggered by seeing my father’s picture.
I thought about those pictures, and wished I knew for sure if he and the Watcher were the same person. It strengthened my resolve to corner him somehow and get some answers to what was going on.
If, in fact, he was my father, I had some other questions for him, too.
chapter nineteen
It was a while before I was ready to head home, and when I did, I took my time, ambling along the street and trying to ignore the fact that I was getting really hungry. That was no easy task since I passed a hotdog vendor, a sub place, two Italian restaurants, and a Tim Hortons before I’d even made it halfway.
Thoughts of food were driven right out of my head when I happened to glance to the right and see Lavender Dean coming out of a ladies’ clothing store. She saw me, waved, and smiled.
“Hey, Porter.”
“Hi.”
“You going somewhere?”
“Not really. Just hangin’.”
She looked good, and I thought about how she’d been so sweet and friendly the last time I’d seen her at Pockets. Something about Lavender filled up my head — the shape of her mouth and the way her nose squeezed into a crinkle when she giggled. Stuff like that can get in your brain and make you do stupid things if you’re not careful.
“I’m just heading to my place,” she said. “You want to come and hang out for a while?”
“Uh, sure. I’m not doing anything, anyway.” I could almost hear Tack laughing and telling me how smooth I was.
Her building was just a short distance away and we walked there without talking at all. To tell the truth, I was so happy to be walking beside her that I didn’t feel the need for conversation. Anyway, that would have been a distraction from the side view I had of her movements — the slight sway in her walk, how she moved all smooth and liquid.
A couple of times she turned slightly and smiled at me. I think she meant to put me at ease, but all it did was make my stomach lurch nervously. It was a relief when we got to her place and flopped on the couch — one of those big sectional kinds, so soft that you sink right in when you sit down.
“I’m starving,” she said, kicking her shoes off and letting them drop to the floor. “I think I’ll make a sandwich. Want one?”
“Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”
She dug through the fridge and came out with enough stuff for a dozen sandwiches, piling cold sliced meats and cheeses along with bread, lettuce, tomato, cucumber, onion, and pickles on the table.
“Come and help yourself,” she said, putting plates out. I joined her in the kitchen and grabbed a couple of slices of bread out of the bag while she sliced the tomato.
“By the way, I saw you earlier,” she said as we slapped stuff onto slices of bread. “You want mustard? Mayo?”
“Mayo, thanks.” I tried to read her face while she passed me the jar. “Did you say you saw me today?”
“Yeah. You
looked like the hounds of hell were after you.” She took a huge bite of her sandwich and made Mmm sounds while she chewed.
“Oh, that.” I laughed but it came out sounding more like a croak. “I was, uh, jogging.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “You looked pretty upset.”
“Where were you? When you saw me?”
“At work. That store I was in when you came along — I work there part-time.”
“Oh, yeah? Cool. How long you been working there?”
“A few months. And are you trying to change the subject?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “I thought you looked like you could use someone to talk to.”
“Nothing to talk about,” I said. An uncomfortable thought occurred to me. “Is that why you asked if I wanted to come here?”
“No. Yeah. I dunno, maybe.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I was just running.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
She narrowed her eyes and studied me while she took a few more bites, chewed and swallowed.
“Nope,” she said after a minute. “You’re lying.”
I didn’t know how to answer that. She was right but I wasn’t in the mood to tell her so.
“I guess it’s none of my business, anyway,” she said.
That could have saved me from having to think too hard about what to say, except I noticed her chin rose a little and I could see she was going to get sulky — go around with a long face for who knows how long.
Seemed like it might be better to just go ahead and tell her something.
“I think my father is following me,” I said. Right away I realized that probably wasn’t the best opening line I could have come out with, but it chased off her pout.
“You were running because your father was chasing you?” she asked, her eyes all round and cute.
“No, no, I was just, uh, jogging to, uh, clear my head,” I said. “You know, think about some stuff.”
“So your father wasn’t following you?”
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