Meteorites

by Julie Paul

  Meteorites

  STORIES

  Julie Paul

  An imprint of TouchWood Editions

  touchwoodeditions.com

  //// Contents

  You Don’t Do That to Pele

  Spilling the Bees

  Trajectory

  Barkers’ Berries

  Clutter

  The Expansion

  Accidental

  In the Next Breath

  Little Stars

  Manifest

  Millie’s Calling

  Sleeping with Kittens

  Hangman

  Meteorites

  Acknowledgements

  For Ryan and Avery Jane

  In memory of

  Dorothy Marguerite Paul,

  1926–2018

  //// You Don’t Do That to Pele

  As a ghost, you should be nimble. You should mosey, kick up your heels, do the boot-scootin’ boogie.

  Instead you can only float—you’re a sickly grey balloon, attached to my rapidly burning wrist. So nice of you to join me on Hāpuna Beach, Dad.

  Alo-fuckin-ha.

  Is this better than yesterday’s paranormal form? You wrapped around me like greasy waxed paper, rustling every time I moved in my airplane seat, as if to say, No one goes to Hawaii alone.

  No, it is not in any way better. Today I’m expected to lie here on my towel and enjoy myself, with you as a ghost balloon, bobbing around, emitting your old-dog sigh that makes me want to scream. How am I supposed to catch the perfect wave, never mind some girly action?

  I keep looking to see if anyone can see you, but no one’s paying any attention. What if they did? These soft-bellied, lobster-complexioned, hibiscus-butted, once-a-year boogie boarders might just watch—and cheer—as I cut your string. Then again, they might put me under citizen’s arrest. Sue this little father-son team for ruining their precious vacations.

  Maybe I’ll get rid of you another way: ignore the surfer-boy lifeguards, warning everyone to be cautious in the water. Spinal injuries are Hāpuna’s specialty, so surely the waves can set you free. This morning, we’ve been informed over loudspeakers, someone was taken to hospital.

  To top off the torment, amid all of this, the two beautiful women beside us are plotting their perfect imaginary futures as millionaires. It’s not as if I have an actual love life, so this is what it’s come to—eavesdropping on ladies in bikinis.

  I know you don’t want to listen, Dad, but what can you do? You’re stuck.

  “Yes,” the one in navy says. “I would be a total raving biatch.”

  The one in turquoise shrieks, agreeing.

  The lists begin. “Ten children,” says Navy. “And afterwards, a boob job, because my tits would be stretched out beyond recognition.”

  Turquoise hoots. “Totally!”

  “A cool nanny. An ice cream shop. Three personal assistants.”

  Okay, so maybe I’ve chosen the wrong women to crush on. Time to face the waves.

  Except the lifeguards are flashing past me and into the water, where it looks like a dead man’s washed up. In an instant, a spinal board’s beneath him, straps around torso and thighs. Another guy struggles out of the sea, pink and coughing, trying to yell as he struggles toward our little patch of beach.

  No. Toward the girls. He’s theirs! And so is the guy strapped down.

  Hāpuna Beach, casualty #2.

  Turquoise is up and running toward the spinal-boarded guy, slipping, screaming, “Ethan! Ethan!” over and over, then tripping after the lifeguards as they carry him away from the chomping sea.

  I feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut.

  Why the hell should I care? I have no stake in these lives. But here’s the thing: I’ve heard their future plans—the wealth, the wanton use of money for ice cream, nannies, boob jobs. No longer will one of them live out a potential future that I can scoff at; I have to revise my vision to include a wheelchair, mushy vegetables, pool exercises, diapers.

  I have to feel sorry for them.

  I know that life. You made us all experts.

  You’re right, Dad. I should thank you. It’s excellent résumé material. I don’t know what I was thinking.

  |||||||||||||||||||||

  Since Hāpuna was an epic fail, I’m driving us south.

  After a late lunch in Kona, this slow, winding road toward the famous black sand beaches is doing a number on my gut. The surf’s quieter, but the wind’s gone fierce. Dirty sea turtles slump on the sand as if stranded. The seaside plants are the colour of lettuce, the ocean choppy, too blue.

  Don’t you find it funny, me using the insurance money for Hawaii—the worst place on earth, according to you? A hotbed of self-indulgence. Rich Americans in muumuus, drunk by noon.

  What, no retort? We haven’t seen even one muumuu.

  Even dead, you have selective hearing. Or maybe you don’t think Hawaii’s so bad anymore. Maybe you’re ready for retirement now. Maybe you secretly wanted to travel, to see the world beyond your chair.

  It’s common for quads to have shorter lifespans—their systems are so compromised that death can come quickly, but when you got a bad cold, we didn’t worry. Then it worked into pneumonia, and inside of three weeks, you were gone. Twelve long years after the accident that claimed your spine from C1–C2 and right on down, when you drove that snowmobile into a tree.

  I’ll be honest with you. We never asked this out loud, but we thought it, every day: Why did you live? Did you offer anything more than a caged pit bull would? All we saw was the suffering: our suffering, caused by you.

  I guess all you saw were three young boys with legs that could kick and run, arms that could carry wood and laundry, spines that bent and straightened like picture wire. Day in, day out, we thumped and wrestled above you, or peeled an orange in front of you, or finally, when we got old enough to know we could, walked away from your yelling altogether.

  I thought I’d left all that behind. This trip was supposed to really make it final. And yet, here you are, stuck to me like the helium balloons we were never allowed as kids. Just my fuckin’ luck.

  People are still blabbing on about how we abandoned Mom, but I think she likes it up North. Yeah, maybe we did all flee when you kicked the can, but we might’ve stayed if you hadn’t made us sell every bit of fun on wheels or runners after your accident. Very smart of you to keep us from playing hockey or baseball. Baseball! What harm could come from that? Honestly, we hated that beige house in the middle of nowhere that held us all captive, just like you.

  I guess that’s a bit extreme. We could sit on the toilet ourselves, pull on our own goddamned pants, take our cocks into our hands, or help other hands do that. But you made sure we felt as guilty as hell about it.

  It, being life. Normality. Mobility.

  Maybe if I take you to the island’s highest point, the altitude will do something. Or maybe, like a bad smell, you’ll just blow away.

  |||||||||||||||||||||

  This whole island was begat from lava, osseous black debris everywhere, as if the dinosaurs had suffered from digestive issues, but up on Mauna Kea—tallest mountain in the world, from base to tip, according to the slick tourist mags, with the brightest stars in the USA—the ancient lava rock is a rusty brown-purple and crumbly to the touch. No one’s supposed to touch it.

  I have to touch it. It’s all there is to walk on.

  Three telescopes wait outside the gift shop, but the sky’s just beginning to yield stars. Inside, a documentary drones on about the gigantic telescopes at the summi
t, another three thousand feet beyond the reach of my rental car. I’ve only begun to smell the plumeria soap when I hear a familiar voice.

  “OMG, you have to get that,” the voice says. “It’s totally adorbs!”

  It’s them. Navy talking to Turquoise, who is, incredibly, smiling. I scan the crowded shop for the men, and there they are, standing near the door, looking bored. The victim—Ethan, isn’t it?—sports a neck brace, but otherwise, he appears unaffected by his close call.

  Wham! Anger hits me like a rogue wave. He’s okay. He got away with what looks like just a little whiplash.

  I’m a monster. This man’s been given his life back! And yet, I’m angry?

  I am, but not at him. I’m mad at you. Or maybe it’s at both of you. I can’t tell anymore.

  But I know this: you’re dead. And I’m not.

  You’re dead, Dad! It’s time for you to go.

  In a second, though, my anger vanishes, replaced by a calm wash. You’re dead, and I’m alive, and my whole life is spilling out ahead of me, a path of slow-moving lava that I’ll walk upon when it cools—the very ground being made before me!

  Outside the gift shop, I peer into the darkening sky. So it’s not as amazing as the brochures advertise; it doesn’t matter. When the laser pointer caresses a constellation, I say wow, along with the rest of the crowd.

  I stole a souvenir penknife five minutes ago. I’m gonna cut you off my wrist.

  Except, as soon as I begin, before I so much as break the skin, you turn to stone—a literal stone—around my neck. A stone ghost on a heavy chain, something that can’t be cut through.

  Fuckity fuck. I can’t keep up.

  Why can’t you haunt my dreams like a normal ghost?

  |||||||||||||||||||||

  It’s a new day. Day Four of my Hawaiian vacation, and despite a sweaty, sleepless night, there is live lava to be seen. East of the turtles, it’s begun to flow right through a small town.

  Let’s go.

  I smell smoke before I see lava, inching through a stand of trees, a few of them on fire. I park, then slip between two bungalows until I’m facing the scalloped edge of the slowly advancing flow, hints of bright orange beneath a layer of black. The place feels deserted, evacuated.

  When I see a golf bag leaning against a tree, I don’t hesitate. I grab a driver and, at the lava flow’s edge, with its soundtrack of burning wood in the background, extend my arm until club meets molten. It feels like I’m touching both terminals of a car battery with wet hands; like the first time I pushed my tongue into a girl’s mouth.

  I am touching the centre of the earth.

  With sweat coming from everywhere it can, I pull the driver out, and the lava that sticks to it burns bright orange for a minute before dimming and hardening, like an apple dipped in greying caramel. I hope it’s still hot enough to burn through your chain, but before I can lift it up to my neck, a man starts yelling.

  “Hey! Get outta there!”

  He looks like a cowboy vigilante, standing behind a low gate like it’s a saloon door, but he’s waving his arms around, bearing no visible weapons.

  “Put it down,” he says. “Please. Come on, man, drop it.”

  I don’t drop the heavy club, although it wants to fall, as if the jagged bit of lava on it needs to get back to where it came from. Instead I hold it out to the side, a weapon if I need it, even if it looks like the guy’s more likely to cry than hurt me.

  “You’re breaking the law,” he says. “Plus, you just don’t do that to Pele. This is our sacred land. Our goddess. You want me to piss in your holy water?”

  I’d seen a painting of Pele in the guidebook. A hot, red-haired beauty. At this, I let the club’s head rest on the grass. “I didn’t mean disrespect,” I say. “I just—I was doing it for my father.”

  The man looks around. He can’t see you.

  “He’s passed,” I say. “Ended up a quad before he went. Couldn’t lift a finger, let alone a driver.”

  The man nods. He even looks a little sad.

  “His one wish was to see lava, in person,” I lie. I raise the club like a sceptre toward the dusky sky. “So here I am,” I say. “Showing him.”

  “Okay, man,” the guy says. “Sorry about your dad. But if you don’t go, the feds will bust your ass. This is private property, not to mention, you know, Pele.”

  Suddenly he’s got a shotgun, and it’s making its way up to shoulder height.

  “Got it.” My sweaty hands drop the club right where I’m standing, and I back away, hands up. Once there’s a bit of distance between him and me, I make a run for the car.

  Did you hear that, Dad? Private property. Just like me.

  You’re not welcome here. Please, just let me break the chain. Bury you in this creek of lava, heading to the sea. Maybe you always wanted to see the ocean but never got there. Let me go, and you’ll get some prime waterfront. Please!

  I’m just so exhausted. I wrap my arms around the steering wheel and rest my head on my hands. We had a funeral, but is it more praying you want? Invocations?

  Okay, then. Dear Pele, Grant eternal rest unto this man tormenting me. Let him find peace in the afterlife. Amen.

  When I open my eyes, you’re not around my neck anymore.

  Wait.

  Those pathetic prayers actually worked?

  You’ve gotta be kidding me. Now you’re a tattoo on my forearm: a man astride a motorbike, and behind you, your passenger, a red-haired goddess. As you try to ride away on what looks like a classic Harley, flames on tank and fender, both of you are flipping me the bird.

  //// Spilling the Bees

  It took three months for Margo to learn that Joel was an identical twin. Her mercurial, decent, generous husband—who, on the first day they met, had resisted her charms for about an hour before inviting her to stay for dinner et cetera at his lakeside cottage—was, and is, rather good at keeping things to himself.

  Well, she can be good at that too.

  Not true. Up until this month, she’s been a horrible confidante: secrets feel like bees inside of her, and after all, if a person has bees in her house, isn’t it best just to open the door?

  Whatever. Everything has changed. Margo’s been housing an enormous secret for weeks and hasn’t spilled the beans. Beans? Bees are better.

  This morning, Joel’s brother Michael is driving toward their house. The last time the twins spoke was ten years ago, in 1988, after a tragedy involving a girl they both loved, a fire followed by a suicide, and implications that Michael was responsible. Joel doesn’t talk about it, but Margo knows he misses his brother. Doesn’t he? He must—he’s his brother! She doesn’t have siblings so the whole thing is entirely foreign to her, but surely they aren’t meant to stay estranged. There are laws of nature about this kind of thing. And how could someone truly be responsible for someone else’s suicide?

  It isn’t only Margo who believes this whole thing has gone on long enough: their dying father Bill out in Parksville is bucket-listing, and at the top of the list, above seeing the endangered orcas in Victoria, is having his sons reunite. “Please try,” Bill said to her on the phone last month, a rarity for him to even talk, let alone to her. “Knowing they’ve made up would give me a bit of peace before I go.”

  She couldn’t refuse a dying man’s wishes, so that very day, she’d emailed Michael via the Vancouver gallery that represents him, and he’d responded within the hour, and voila, the thing was set in motion. He would “drop in” to their house after visiting the town north of Toronto where they grew up—a three-hour drive from them. She likes the way he writes. “It would be an honour to meet you and little Evelyn,” he said. They’ve both agreed to keep it to themselves, not even letting Bill or the twins’ mother, Jean, know, in case things turn ugly. She’s seen Joel’s temper flare;
they might have that in common.

  Margo hasn’t kept the secret entirely to herself. She’s been whispering the facts of it to Evie—eighteen months old and already such a good listener, even if she isn’t quite up to snuff on responding in actual words. The other day she sang her secret to Evie to the tune of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” which made Evie scrunch up her brow in confusion, the way Joel does.

  Does Michael do the same? Are their voices the same? Does he share Joel’s love for classic rock? Do they, she wonders, as all the girls must have, measure up all the way down? She feels herself blushing, but how can she not go there? Her husband has a body double. Oh, Jesus.

  |||||||||||||||||||||

  Douchebag. Doofus. Asshat. Horndog. Dickwad.

  Doofus was Joel’s go-to label for Mike back in the day, whenever he jerked his chain, but since Mike left, he’s been cycling through all of these endearments in his head. It makes him feel better.

  Their mother, out with Pops in their West Coast retirement village, calls it childish, Mike and him not talking for all these years. She got it, at first, but it seems her patience has run out. Yeah, Joel’s still pissed off, but he’s been working on it, quietly, making internal strides year by year, name-calling aside, into letting go of the whole stupid thing.

  He’s seen the photos: Mike’s obviously still dealing with it too, processing his stuff there on his canvases for everyone to see—and buy, if they’ve got a spare twenty thousand. The last time Jean mailed Joel a picture of Mike, some schmoozy shot taken at an awards thing, he looked light-deprived, worn out. Is that what the coast does to people? Rich fucks like him were supposed to look tanned and buff, just back from a vacation.

  Joel’s never had a vacation, ever, but up until they moved a year ago, he’d had the lake at his door. Now there’s a lake just down the road, and Evie’s a bundle of giggles and energy, and his “exotic” wife, Margo—other peoples’ word, not his—loves their new house in this new-to-them town that shouldn’t have ghosts. He no longer sees Christina’s blonde head in the bank lineups like he did back home; he doesn’t hear scattershot laughter and get a gut ache when it isn’t her.