The old aunts who prayed with Mrs. Rivera beckon to Harriet. Lined up on the couch, they drink Diet Coke. “Harry, so good to see you. Did you have puto bumgbong?” All the old ladies have rice bowl haircuts and are eating bicho bicho. “Come sit with us, Harry.” She sits on the edge of the couch while they discuss what an old parish priest did to get kicked out of his order. Harriet feels the hot and cold blasts mellowing into tropical breezes, even though she’s never been to the tropics. Her toe has stopped hurting and energy simmers at the back of her neck—a gestating superpower. Behind her, Mr. Rivera’s son Remus says, “I’ve been getting hate messages all day long and it’s like, what do you want from me?” It comforts Harriet that Remus, who dances better than anybody and is always nice, is getting hate messages. If it’s possible to hate Remus, maybe Harriet isn’t so hateful, and maybe not even evil. Her legs feel sprung as she walks over to the table laden with sweets. She chooses Mrs. Rivera’s favourite desert, kutsinta, a sticky rice flour cupcake steamed and served with coconut. Lauro, a law student and the pride of Mr. Rivera, is eating rolls of sticky rice. He dips a piece in coconut while talking to his cousin Luis about the Greeks and the original democracy. “It was a benevolent society,” Lauro explains, as coconut and sticky rice fall onto the rug. “In the Greek system, the prosecutor says, ‘I know all about you. I love you, but you’re going to die.’ There’s something really beautiful about that.”
This is what Harriet wants to say to Irwin, and it is really beautiful. She leans back on the couch, gazing up at the Happy Birthday banner and the helium balloons gently nudging the ceiling, and becomes transfixed by the mass of purples, blues, yellows, pinks, oranges and greens. The banner and balloons merge into a massive, glistening jellyfish while the old aunts talk about people they know who have died, and whether or not they were good Christians. This reminds Harriet about the crucifix. She pulls it from her pocket and goes in search of Mr. Rivera. She finds him in the bedroom, now empty of teenagers, on his knees praying again. “What are you praying for?” she asks.
“I’m praying to God through saints and patrons that whatever is good for me and my family will be done.”
“Here.” Harriet hands him the crucifix.
“Oh it is beautiful, anak. Thank you.”
“If it’s totally up to God what happens to you, why do you have to pray so much?”
“I pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen.”
“Do you pray for me?”
“Of course, anak.”
“Do you miss Mrs. Rivera?”
“Always.”
Harriet tries to think of someone in her life she’d miss if they died. “She’s with the saints and angels,” she assures Mr. Rivera, which is way better than being with humans. Humans disappoint and betray, but this no longer matters to Harriet with morphine, non-drowsy allergy pills, red dye and San Miguel in her blood. She doesn’t understand why she allowed humans to matter. They are not infinite, whereas Harriet is beginning to see the infinite in all things. She touches Jesus’ bleeding feet nailed to the cross beside Mr. Rivera. “I feel you,” she tells the Son of Our Lord.
Ramiro, the 102-year-old uncle who only eats fish and rice, summons Mr. Rivera. “Pedro,” he calls, “time for a prayer.”
“We already prayed,” the wild children protest.
“So, we pray again,” the grown-ups say.
They all kneel and Ramiro says a novena to the patron saint Joseph, the infant Jesus and blessed Mother Mary and the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Then Ramiro talks about what a good man Pedro is, and asks God to bless him. Next Ramiro asks Holy Mary, Mother of God, to pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen. All the Riveras repeat this phrase ten times, then say the Lord’s Prayer and ten Hail Marys. “Now,” Ramiro commands, “all the children must go to Pedro and make mano.” One by one the children take Mr. Rivera’s hand and fidget while he holds it against their foreheads. “God bless you, my child,” he says, and they run away.
“Harry,” Ramiro says. “Make mano.”
Harriet takes Mr. Rivera’s hand and holds it against her forehead. It feels soft and healing, and a confidence shoots through her she has never felt before.
“Will you sing ‘My Way’ with me tonight, Harry?” Mr. Rivera asks.
“Damn straight.” She scoops maraschino cherries from a bowl. “After I use the CR.”
Munching cherries, she measures more morphine into the little cup and swallows more non-drowsy allergy pills. She’s never felt so good about not belonging in the world. Floating and free to drift, the infinite in everything shimmers around her. She practices some Michael Jackson moves in the big mirror but she can’t see her feet. Gripping the shower rod, she stands on the edge of the tub to check her footwork in the mirror. She starts singing about Billie Jean not being her lover but another wild child bangs on the door.
The adults squeeze onto the couch and easy chairs to watch the karaoke. The ones who can’t fit on the furniture lean on the arms of the couch and chairs, or against a Rivera perched on the arms of the couch or chairs. Lauro, the law student, sings “Don’t Stop Believin’,” passing the microphone from hand to hand and scrunching up his face during the high notes. When he finishes, the Riveras applaud and shout “Good job!” even though he only scores sixty-two percent on the karaoke machine. “That machine sucks, man,” Lauro says. “No way that was a sixty-two.”
Next, Christy, Mr. Rivera’s daughter who looks exactly like Mrs. Rivera in her wedding photo except she has blonde streaks in her hair, sings “My Heart Will Go On.” Harriet recognizes this song from Titanic, a movie Lynne watches when she can’t sleep. Christy scores ninety-two percent, and the other Riveras applaud even more and shout “Bravo!” Next up is Remus singing “Livin’ on a Prayer.” He wiggles his hips when he sings and tips his head back on the high notes. He only scores fifty-seven percent, but the Riveras applaud him anyway. Mr. Rivera takes the microphone and beckons to Harriet. Without hesitation her sprung legs lead her to the microphone. Mr. Rivera takes a second microphone from the machine. All the Riveras say, “Go for it, Harry,” and “You can do it, anak.” And Harriet has no doubt that she can. Mr. Rivera selects “My Way,” the music swells, the words appear on the screen and Harriet sings them in a clear voice she has never heard before, that doesn’t even feel like it’s coming from her, more like it’s the voice of a saint. Mr. Rivera steps back to watch her, smiling encouragingly as she sings about the end being near and facing the final curtain and doing what she had to do. The Riveras, squeezed on the couches and chairs, sway with the music. Harriet sings that she bit off more than she could chew, but when there was doubt she ate it up and spat it out. And she knows she is freed of the shifting doubts and hatreds and resentments chained inside her. She faced it all, took the blows and stood tall, and she did it her way. She scores ninety-four percent, and the Riveras stand up to applaud and shout “Bravo!” Mr. Rivera hugs her and says, “Thank you for everything you have done for us, anak.” She doesn’t know what he means but she knows he means it and hugs him back. The aunts offer her halo halo special in a sundae glass and stroke her like a cherished pet. Harriet eats more maraschino cherries and sucks on the straw. The coolness from the shaved ice soothes her dry mouth and throat. Mr. Rivera says he’s tired and going to bed but insists everybody party anyway, and they do, singing and dancing and drinking San Miguel.
Out the sliding glass doors to the balcony, Harriet sees the sun setting beyond the low rise across the street—pink, orange and violet radiate above the dull concrete, fanning into a cloudless sky. She leans against the railing, moving closer to the radiant light. “’Tis very sweet to look into the fair and open face of heaven,” she says. Then she hears the singing again. At first she can’t see the wings, just their dark silhouettes against the fuchsia and apricot sky. She climbs onto the railing for a better view, and stands looking upwards, gripping Mrs.
Rivera’s clothesline for balance. The angels sing to Harriet that she is not evil or a sociopath, or lacking compassion, or selfish, or negative, or uncooperative, or difficult, or deceitful. “I tried to steal,” she confesses. “And tried to let my brother die. I’ve even been thinking about drowning him.”
“You mean well,” the angels answer back. “You want to save him from suffering. We forgive you. You are a good person, anak.” This is what Mrs. Rivera used to say, and suddenly Harriet misses her so much tears ooze out of her again only this time she doesn’t mind crying because the angels sing “What a Wonderful World” to her with silky voices. They sway above the building in flowing white robes like the Riveras swayed on the couch. Harriet too starts to sway and sing about the colours of the rainbow being so pretty in a sky of blue. The angels reach down to her like her mother did when she pulled her out of the pool at the Americana. Lynne wrapped her in a big soft white towel and held her close. “My sweet baby girl,” she whispered into Harriet’s ear. When the angels reach down to wrap her in their wings, Harriet reaches up to them like she did for her mother.
AFTER
Nineteen
“Your mother tells me you’ve stopped taking your meds.” Theo removes the blood pressure cuff from Irwin’s arm.
“What makes her think that?” Irwin stares at Theo’s hippie grad photo. Now Theo has hair everywhere but on his head. His shaggy eyebrows hang over his eyes.
“Your mother knows you better than anybody.”
No she doesn’t. She stopped knowing him. She scares him. He can do nothing right.
Theo leafs through Irwin’s encyclopedia-thick file. “Your neuro says you’re doing well. No revisions or seizures. So we just need to treat the depression.”
“Who says it’s depression?”
“What do you think it is?”
“I’m just sad.”
“Sadness passes. How’s the internet addiction?”
“Who says I’m addicted?”
“Your mother says if she doesn’t force you off it, you’ll be on it all day.”
It bugs Irwin that they talk behind his back. When he turns eighteen he will find his own doctor. “I quit. Cold turkey.” Facebook torments him, compelling him to stalk happy people. He can’t stop looking at their smiling photos at parties and on vacations, with girlfriends and boyfriends. He checks the status of every kid he’s ever known and they’re all in a relationship. Sometimes he makes friend requests but they never reply.
Irwin’s only comfort is masturbation, picturing Sydney, their boarder, in her shiny, skin-tight workout gear. She complains that the receptionist job at LA Fitness is making her fat, but Irwin loves her rolls and curves. On meds he can’t jerk off. He doesn’t admit this to Theo because he’s ashamed. The truth is, medicated, Irwin can’t feel anything, can’t laugh or cry. It didn’t matter to him when his little sister’s puppy got hit by a car. Heike cried for days. Her face and eyes became so puffy she could hardly see. On autopilot, Irwin handed her Kleenexes.
Theo’s shaggy eyebrows merge. “We can try another medication.”
“They give me headaches and make my eyes itchy. And I’m always thirsty.”
“Yes, but you’re functioning, Irwin. At least you can get out of bed. That’s big.”
Theo often says “that’s big” about things Irwin does. When he was little, he believed him.
Theo jots something down in the file. “All drugs have side effects. The important thing is that you’ve stopped crying and aren’t as anxious. Your mother says you’re even delivering a paper.”
“Just the Mirror. It’s volunteer.”
“But it’s a responsibility and you’re handling it, at fourteen. That’s big. You’re managing to swallow the liquid Prozac okay?”
Irwin nods although he has been pouring it down the sink, avoiding Lynne as she rushes to and from the bank, complaining about how some new hire got promoted. “I have way more experience but kissing ass is what it’s all about these days.” His mother has become all jagged edges and explosive moods. She spends hours on the balcony sucking hard on cigarettes. At the bank she wears a nicotine patch.
“There is no easy fix for grief,” Theo says, as though Irwin doesn’t know this. “The medicine is there to help you through it. That’s all. When you’re through it, you won’t need it anymore.”
It rained for two weeks after Harriet fell. The parched grass turned green and the wilted flowers pulled themselves upright, flushing colour into their petals. Irwin resented their unfeeling determination to thrive while Harry lay with only a flicker of life behind her eyelids.
Irwin pushes himself out of the chair. “I have to pick up my little sister from camp.”
In the community centre, waiting for Heike, Irwin succumbs to his addiction and checks his Facebook account. He never puts photos of his freaky self on his timeline, instead searches for vintage images of superheroes he can post. This is why he was invited to the Marvel Comic Tumblr meet-up. His friends on Tumblr thought the illustrations were awesome☺. They messaged frequently until they met him and couldn’t stop staring at his head. After that, they quit tagging him in their status updates, and he no longer got notifications. Today, as expected, no friendship requests have been made or accepted; he has not been tagged in anyone’s status update, nor received any notifications. Loneliness pummels him and he vows, once again, to quit Facebook. Cold turkey.
Out in the yard, he leans against the chain-link fence. From a distance his little sister looks like Harriet: the same muddy blonde hair and coltish limbs. Up close the similarities fade because Heike believes anything is possible. Energy sparks off her. She is a super brain, skipped grade two, and, at age seven, is already a member of Mensa. She has decided to be a detective and carries baby powder in her backpack to check for prints, as well as a magnifying glass, pocket binoculars and a notebook filled with clues printed in tidy letters.
She flicks through her notebook. “My deductions were correct. My mother is dating again.”
“How do you know?” Irwin unlocks her pink scooter.
“I saw a pattern and tailed her.”
“Where did she go?”
“Starbucks. He looks dorky. I’m telling Dad.”
“It’s none of his business, is it?”
“Maybe not, but no way is that dork sleeping over.”
“How will you stop him?”
“I have my methods.” She straps on her tiger helmet. “What’s the plan, Stan?”
“Forbes and me are delivering flyers.”
“Sick.” Sick in Heike’s vocabulary means awesome.
Off Prozac, Irwin is surrounded by dense clouds, making it hard to think clearly and, sometimes, even breathe. His tremors are slightly worse and, without warning, nausea hammers him, forcing him to vomit or lie down. Forbes in 305 tells him these are withdrawal symptoms. Forbes was on SSRIs after he got shot, as well as narcotics. The docs turned him into a junkie, he says. It was only when he broke through the membrane into his alternate universe that he was able to stop the meds. In his alternate universe, Forbes isn’t an incomplete paraplegic and still has all his teeth.
When Irwin has pounder headaches, Forbes offers him a blunt, but Irwin’s afraid of pot. He’s noticed that Forbes gets louder when he smokes, and thinks he’s being profound when he’s not making any sense. Forbes says smoking pot isn’t required to enter an AU. Every morning, after Lynne and Sydney leave for work, Irwin tries to break through the membrane into his alternate universe where he hopes to have a normal head and a friend, and see Harriet.
“Any breakthrough yet?” Heike asks.
“No.” She is the only one, besides Forbes, who knows he’s trying.
“Maybe it’s a bunch of bunk.” She sails off on her scooter. Irwin was never allowed a scooter because Lynne feared he’d fall off it. Heike is capable of all the things he cou
ld never do: team sports, track and field, skating, skiing, tobogganing, wind instruments. Math. “Quit dragging your ass,” she shouts over her shoulder.
They find Forbes in the lobby of the Shangrila, hunched over his laptop. He has thousands of Facebook friends, many of them incomplete or complete paraplegics he meets online. He says he connects people who are afraid to make the connections themselves. Forbes moved into the Tumicellis’ apartment after Mr. Tumicelli choked to death on a ciabatta and Mrs. Tumicelli was put in a nursing home with a lock-up. Forbes lives on disability and runs Bingo Night for the seniors. Lynne calls him a low-life. “I wish you’d quit hanging around with that low-life,” she says. “That’s how your sister got into trouble.” She only mentions Harriet when she’s cautioning Irwin not to do things. She never calls her by name, just says your sister. For years Lynne seemed to be looking for Harriet. She’d see Irwin, then glance around as though about to ask, “Where’s your sister?”
Forbes high-fives Irwin. “It’s Spidey, and the Private Eye too. Must be my lucky day.”
Heike bounces on the balls of her feet. “Can I ride the gimpmobile?”
On the Shores of Darkness, There is Light Page 25
