On the Shores of Darkness, There is Light

by Cordelia Strube

  He doesn’t. He is in the wrong universe.

  Lynne comes in with groceries and doesn’t acknowledge either of them. They listen to her shoving food into the fridge and cabinets.

  “Are you okay, Mum?”

  “Fine. Did you eat?”

  “Yeah.” He can’t admit he pigged out on snack foods at Bingo Night. Lynne says snack foods make him fat.

  Sydney, wineglass in hand, swaggers to the kitchen. “Are you ignoring me? Because I won’t tolerate being ignored.”

  “You’re impossible to ignore. You live here.”

  “Then what’s with the silent treatment?”

  “I’m tired, Sydney, bone and blood tired, like I can hardly stand.”

  “You need a drink.”

  Irwin hears wine being poured.

  “I probably shouldn’t be doing this,” Lynne says.

  “Sure you should. Look at the French. Bottoms up.”

  Irwin feeds Betty and Bob and sits on the stool watching the fish gobble the flakes. What goes on in Betty and Bob’s alternate universe?

  “Hinkle asked me out,” Lynne says.

  “No shit, the boss? Are you going to go?”

  “He’s old. And hairy. He has to shave his neck.”

  “So? He’s the manager, hello.”

  “He’s divorced with kids.”

  “So are you.”

  “I don’t think I could do that to Irwin. Start that all over again.”

  “Getting out of this shithole would be good for Irwin.”

  They both stop talking, which means they’re drinking more, and goggling at the kitchen tiles. Irwin knows they’ve forgotten he’s in the living room. He is as tangential to them as he is to Betty and Bob.

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to pay for college if he goes,” Lynne says. “He won’t get scholarships, that’s for sure.”

  “Sounds like Hinkle could be just the ticket. Hairy can be hot. Think Mediterranean.”

  “He said he’s looking for a mature relationship.”

  “There you go.”

  “Which means I’m old. How did I get old? The only men who want me are old and hairy and want mature relationships.”

  “Does he have pets?”

  “A dog. Some kind of husky called Sophia. Hinkle says Sophia got him through the divorce. She’s the sweetest soul, he says.”

  “Canine bitch competition. Could be trouble.”

  Irwin’s brain won’t stop zapping. He drags the Harriet thing to his room and lies on his bed trying to figure out why he can’t get over it, or through it, like Dave did. He focuses on Harry’s painting of a tree with a scarred human torso. This is the painting Lynne hates most. In his head he hears her saying, “I can’t look at that. How can you sleep in the same room as that?” and he realizes that Sydney’s right. His mother is inside his head telling him what to do, what to eat, what to think—ruling his life. Sydney said at some point he’s going to have to bust out.

  “There’s no time like the present,” Irwin mumbles. Mr. Quigley says this. Irwin throws off the comforter and tries to shake out his arms and legs but they’re too heavy, swamped in the Jell-O of the wrong universe, and he’s forced to flop back onto the bed. He stares at the ceiling, focusing hard. “Let the universes collide,” he chants.

  When he wakes he doesn’t hear the women and sneaks to the bath­room. If he is able to brush his teeth, it means he’s not depressed. When he’s depressed he can’t brush his teeth. Lynne sits on the edge of his bed and pushes Q-tips soaked in Listerine into his mouth.

  Only the stove light is on. He pours himself a glass of water before noticing the wine. If he drinks a little it might loosen particles and stop the brain zaps. He sips from the bottle, wary that either of them could appear at any moment and catch him at it. What he’s noticing is that everyone, not just his mother, tells him what he should and shouldn’t do. Everybody has an idea of who he is. He has no idea who he is, so how can they know? At school Mrs. Aikenhead told them to make collages about themselves. They had to cut out images that represented who they were and stick them on bristol board. Irwin couldn’t think of who he was. He glued bus transfers onto the board because he spends an hour a day on public transit getting to and from school. Next he stuck Band-Aids on the board to represent his surgeries. After that he couldn’t think of anything.

  “There must be something else about you that you can add, Irwin,” Mrs. Aikenhead said, smiling as always. Mrs. Aikenhead smiled even when she was annoyed. “Irwin, isn’t there something a little less gloomy about you you’d like us to know?”

  He didn’t want them to know anything else about him. They talk behind his back and call him spaz and reject. He’d blow up the school, if he could. He drinks more wine. The rubbery feeling spreads from his chest to his arms and legs, and it occurs to him that he could make a bomb. The instructions must be online because everybody makes bombs, although Irwin has trouble following instructions. Often, in gym class, Mr. Brint thinks he’s being uncooperative when really Irwin is just overwhelmed by the demand to follow a sequence of instructions. He envies the other kids for being able to follow Mr. Brint’s directions. Especially Kirk Cornwall, who is the best at everything and can even climb ropes. Mrs. Aikenhead smiling, tells the students, “We should never compare ourselves to others. We all have different strengths and weaknesses and nobody is better or worse than anybody else, just different.” Mrs. Aikenhead talks about her husband and cute twins, and what fun in the sun they had on the weekend. Then she asks the class what they did for fun on the weekend. Once she asked Irwin and he couldn’t think of anything. Kirk Cornwall said, “Duh,” and made stuttering noises.

  With particles loosening and the brain zapping subsiding, it becomes obvious to Irwin that he must follow bomb-making instructions. Harry could help him if she’d only interact with him. He wishes he had photos of her. Trent stopped taking pictures when Irwin stopped getting better. Lynne took shots with her phone but never printed them because she didn’t have time to stand in line to print them at Walmart. When her phone got stolen she squalled about how all her babies’ pictures were gone. Gennedy didn’t take photos. He said he kept the good pictures in his head. Irwin couldn’t imagine what the good pictures were, since Gennedy didn’t like Harriet and Irwin kept disappointing him. The two family photos on Irwin’s dresser were taken at Walmart, and Harry’s only in one of them. She refused to be in the second because she insisted they weren’t a family, that Gennedy wasn’t legit. In the first photo, she looks as though she doesn’t belong, as if she just happened to be there when the photographer took the shot. Gennedy and Lynne have their arms around Irwin, who’s smiling as though the world is a wonderful surprise waiting for him. He had no idea that Harry was standing to one side, looking with centuries-old eyes beyond the camera into a world that wasn’t a wonderful surprise—a world without a mother.

  He hears the sliding doors to the balcony open. He jams the cork back into the bottle and grabs a banana from the fruit bowl.

  “Oh my lord, you scared me,” Lynne says. “What are you doing up?”

  “I was hungry.”

  “I thought you said you ate?”

  “I just wanted a banana.”

  “Were you at the German sow’s? Did she lecture you on cold-pressed salad oils?” She washes her wineglass and sets it in the dish rack.

  “You’re drinking Sydney’s wine again,” he says, emboldened by vino.

  “What I really don’t need right now, Irwin, is an anal-retentive fourteen-year-old on my case. So I drink a little. Get over it.”

  “I can’t get over it, or through it, or anything. Unlike yourself who can get over anything as long as you have a pack of smokes and Sydney’s vino.”

  She faces him, apparently flabbergasted, crossing her skinny arms. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
>
  “I can’t believe you’re over Harriet. She was my sister and you act like she never existed. You never say her name, you never talk about the stuff she used to do. There’s no pictures of her anywhere, you hate her art.” He rests his head on the table because he can’t hold it up any longer. “You’ve left us.”

  “What are you talking about?” She sits beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder that he tries to shrug off. “I would never leave you, peanut. You know that.”

  “Why did you fuck Buck?”

  “Since when do you say ‘fuck’?”

  “Since now.”

  She removes her hand. “Who told you that?”

  “It doesn’t matter who told me. Why did you do it?”

  “Because I was sad.”

  “That’s no reason to fuck somebody. How was Gennedy supposed to feel? That’s why he left us, isn’t it? I always thought he left because of me but it’s because you fucked Buck.” Irwin could never speak this way without vino. Everything seems clear to him now, but distant at the same time, as though he’s looking through a telescope. Nothing can touch him. Nothing can scare him.

  Lynne slouches in her chair. “He left for a number of reasons.”

  “No. He left because you fucked Buck, and because you blamed him for Harriet’s fall.”

  “That is so unfair.”

  “Who said life is fair?” Mr. Shotlander asks this question frequently. “Mr. Shotlander’s son might have cancer and you don’t see Mr. Shotlander fucking people because he’s sad.”

  “Who would fuck that old goat?”

  She wouldn’t speak this way if she weren’t drunk. She looks sleepy. She is never sleepy sober. “Buck made me feel attractive, sweet pea. You don’t know this yet but being desired is the biggest turn-on of all. And he was totally ripped.” The dreamy look in her eyes disgusts Irwin.

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “Plus I was mad at Gennedy for hitting her. I’ll never forgive him for hitting her.”

  “Then why didn’t you stay with Buck? Harry liked him. Maybe if you’d hooked up with Buck sooner, Harry wouldn’t have fallen.”

  “Maybe, maybe, maybe. Don’t you think I go through the maybes a million times? All day, all night, year after year, I go through the maybes.”

  She’s making it about her again, when it should be about Harriet. “We never talk about her,” Irwin says. “It’s like she never existed. We never celebrate her birthday. We never remember the stuff she did. It’s like her name is a bad word. I want to talk about her. Talking about her makes it almost like she’s here.”

  “No it doesn’t. It reminds us that she isn’t.”

  Harry is sitting on the counter again, swinging her legs and banging her heels into the cabinets, chewing red Twizzlers.

  “You’re not allowed to eat red candy,” Irwin says.

  “Bust me,” Harry says.

  “What’s the matter, baby?” Lynne asks. Irwin knows she can’t see Harry in his AU.

  “Red dye makes you hyper,” Irwin whispers.

  “Who you gonna call?” Harriet says.

  Lynne feels Irwin’s forehead. “You’re a little warm.”

  Irwin pushes Lynne’s hand away. “Not talking about her makes us forget her.” Harry’s vanished again and his vino superpowers are fading. He is shrinking back into Bruce Banner. Lynne starts clearing the dish rack, noisily stacking plates.

  “Peanut, is this about the donor business? I wish you hadn’t told the paraplegic. He nearly ran me over in the hall to interrogate me about it. Why would you tell a stranger?”

  “You put Harriet’s organs into strangers.”

  Lynne turns on him, a plate in each hand. “What do you want me to do about it? It’s over. It’s done.” She makes sweeping motions with the plates as though trying to brush the Harriet word from the kitchen. “Do you want me to track down the bodies and hack her organs out of them because, believe me, that’s crossed my mind.”

  He rests his head on the table again.

  “Look at me,” she says.

  He can’t lift his head.

  “Look at me. Irwin?”

  He can’t.

  “Oh my lord, are you seizing?”

  Twenty-six

  The hospital comforts him. He can do nothing but wait for test results. No one is nice to him like when he was little, but he doesn’t care. He wants to be left alone. Beside him, on a gurney behind the curtain, a boy plays computer games, making explosive sounds when he kills. This reminds Irwin of Heike’s birthday party at Laser Quest, when his vest was inactivated and nobody could shoot him. He feels like this in the hospital. It has always been a place where people can’t get at him. He stares at the dirty beige wall, making it vibrate, until Harriet is painting colourful stripes across it. “You’re going to get in trouble,” he warns her.

  “I don’t give a fifth of a fuck,” she says.

  “Is it a rainbow?”

  “It’s whatever you want it to be.” She paints as though she’s in a hurry.

  “Why are you rushing? Please stay with me.”

  “Black isn’t a colour,” she says.

  “I need you to help me make a bomb.”

  Then she’s gone and only the wall remains, drained of colour. Lynne appears and strokes Irwin’s forehead. “How are you feeling, baby boy?”

  “Okay.”

  “You scared me. Do you have any idea what brought this on?”

  “No.” He wants her to stop touching him. He wants to interact with Harriet again.

  “What’s wrong, peanut?”

  “Nothing. I want to sleep.” He doesn’t because he never sees Harry in his dreams. Sometimes she’s just left and he sees things she forgot to take with her. He calls out that she forgot her hoodie or her mitts but she never comes back for them, and he’s always afraid to go looking for her in case he gets lost.

  A bushy-haired doctor Irwin doesn’t recognize pushes past the curtain. He massages the back of his neck while looking at Irwin’s chart. “Your blood work shows your liver enzymes are elevated. Do you have any idea why? Have you been taking your seizure medication?” The doctor has tiny eyes that look almost closed.

  “Yes.” Irwin doesn’t admit he forgets to take them because he hasn’t had a seizure for two years.

  “Hmmm. That’s odd. We may have to switch your medications.”

  “Why?” Lynne asks.

  “Something’s elevated his liver enzymes. Could be the drugs.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. He’s been on the same drugs for years and never had a problem.”

  “Maybe so, but they might be harming him now. Something is damaging his liver. We’ll find out more with a liver biopsy.”

  Lynne grips her chin the way she does when she’s worried about what the doctors are telling her. “How do you do a liver biopsy?”

  “Stick a needle into his liver. We’ll do an ultrasound and a CT scan first, see if they tell us anything.”

  “Nobody’s sticking a needle into my liver,” Irwin says. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine, peanut. Your liver’s sick and we need to find out why.”

  “I’m fine. Nobody’s sticking a needle into my liver.” He will no longer do what people tell him to do.

  “Why isn’t he wearing a MedicAlert bracelet?” the doctor asks Lynne, as though Irwin isn’t there.

  “He refuses to wear it, says he’s too old for it.”

  “People with seizure histories are never too old to wear MedicAlert bracelets.”

  Irwin’s glad they’re talking at each other and not at him.

  “What about alcohol?” The doctor’s tiny eyes fix on Irwin.

  Irwin scratches his arm. “What about it?”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  �
�He doesn’t drink,” Lynne says then looks at Irwin. “Oh my lord.”

  Irwin stares at the wall. If only they’d leave him alone, he might be able to make it vibrate.

  “Irwin, were you drinking Sydney’s wine again?”

  Irwin doesn’t answer. He’s tired of answering. Nobody listens anyway.

  “Who’s Sydney?” the doctor asks. “Maybe you should ask him. In any case, I’ll order the ultrasound and CT scan.” He disappears behind the curtain and suddenly Lynne is shaking Irwin’s shoulder.

  “Were you drinking? Answer me. This isn’t a joke.” Harry’s behind her making goofy faces, and Irwin starts to giggle.

  “It’s not funny,” Lynne says.

  Harry crosses her eyes and does rabbit ears behind Lynne’s head, and Irwin starts to laugh. “Stop that,” Lynne orders, but Harry wags her tongue and Irwin chortles even more. He’d forgotten how wonderful it feels to laugh. Harry pulls on her ears and touches her tongue to her nose. Irwin has never been able to do this but tries anyway, stretching his tongue up towards his nose. His mother slaps him. For a moment he’s not sure which universe he’s in.

  “Oh my lord, I’m so sorry, sweet pea, but this is serious. I mean, liver damage is serious. Stop fooling around. Peanut, please look at me.”

  He does and sees messy hair and crumbling mascara, a coffee stained T-shirt, his mother twitching for nicotine.

  “Is there something you haven’t told me?” she asks. “If they have to stick a needle into your liver, it will hurt like hell.”