by Terry Fallis
We talked for a few more minutes. More accurately, he talked and I added a few words here and there when required. We decided he would email me the documents and I would transfer my self-directed RRSP – which wasn’t very big and held only a few mutual funds – over to him to manage along with what had been my mother’s portfolio and was apparently now mine. I was comfortable with the plan. My mother really liked Doug. He seemed like a good guy.
“Doug, do you happen to know anything about the $2,000 Mom sent you every month? Do you know where the money comes from?”
“Nope, other than she said it was part of her monthly income. That’s all I knew. But she never missed a monthly transfer. Are you intending to keep up the monthly contribution? It’s a good idea if you can and still have the room in your RRSP,” he said.
Well, if the mystery money keeps flowing in, we’ll carry on with the $2k per month.
“I hope so. I’ll know more in a couple of weeks,” I replied.
“Sounds good,” he said. “While I have you on the line, your mother was quite a conservative investor, meaning the annual growth pretty well matched the market, but it was secure. Does that approach work for you?”
I’m not the high-risk/high-reward type. Safe and secure. Slow and steady wins the race. Put my money on the tortoise, every time.
“Conservative works for me. Thanks.”
—
Malaya was already gone when I made it home at 4:00 p.m. There was a note on the kitchen table confirming she’d be waiting outside her apartment building the next morning for me to pick her up for the burial, and that there was a shepherd’s pie in the freezer.
I sat down at my laptop and Googled my way to a couple of different websites. I clicked through a few links to find what I was looking for and printed out a couple of pages from different sites. Then I jumped in the car and drove to Facetech. I made it there by 4:30. Just in time. Before I lost my nerve, I went directly to Simone’s office and stood outside her door. She was looking at something on her computer. I guessed YouTube, but it might have been Facebook. After a minute or two, I cleared my throat. She finally looked up. I somehow felt a little different. It might have been the new purpose and plan.
“Alex, I’m glad you’re back. We’ve got so much to get done,” Simone said.
I’m not back, you heartless tyrant. My mother died yesterday. Yes, yesterday, as in less than thirty-three hours ago. Which makes me wonder if there’s even one tiny shred of decency lurking somewhere beneath your scales?
I came into her office and stood before her.
“I just came in to let you know that I’ll be using my full three days of paid bereavement leave and my full ten days of unpaid bereavement leave.”
“Three days? Ten days? Bereavement leave? What are you, nuts? I’m quite sure Facetech has no such policy. Anyway, I really need you on the Gold beta. That’s got to be your priority. Besides, it’ll help take your mind off of your father.”
You have the sensitivity of a charging rhino and the empathy of a rattlesnake, but are less pleasant to be around than either.
“It’s not a company policy, it’s actually set out in federal and provincial legislation,” I explained. “The company has no choice in the matter.”
“Never heard of it,” she replied.
You’re kidding. What a surprise. You don’t even know exactly what we do here, I hardly expect you to know employment standards legislation. Oh yeah, and you’re a jerk, too.
I slid one of the pages I’d printed at home along her desk so that it was right in front of her.
“That just explains the relevant provisions of federal and provincial legislation. Under the Ontario Employment Standards Act, I’m entitled to ten days of unpaid leave. I’ll start that the day after tomorrow. And under the federal Canada Labour Code, I’m entitled to three days of paid bereavement leave. I’ll use them for yesterday, today, and tomorrow. The burial is tomorrow.”
She was reading the printouts.
“I assume the ten days includes weekends,” she said.
And I assume you’re mentally deranged and obviously can’t read.
“No, as it says right there, the legislation calls for ten business days.”
“But according to this, I need to see proof of death before the leave can be granted,” she said, looking smug.
How about I bring my mother’s body in to the office for your inspection? Would that suffice?
I slid a copy of the death certificate over to her before she finished her sentence.
“Christ!” she snapped. “We have work to do here! Is this really necessary?”
Are you really necessary? I mean, really. What do you do other than yell and scream and kick your feet? Exactly how do you contribute to this company anyway, I mean other than destroying morale and starting a mass staff exodus you have no way of staunching?
“Sorry. It is necessary. Necessary and normal. Besides, the beta is on track. My work on it is pretty well done. Abby can take it from here.”
“I have a call coming in now,” she said, checking her watch and waving her hand in dismissal.
Would you like me to explain how the phone works again, like I did last week, so you can actually take the call?
“Okay. Just one more thing, I still have four weeks of vacation banked and I may need to use some or all of it, too.”
She snapped her eyes to mine just as her phone rang. She looked at her watch again, and then at her phone. She reached for it, but hesitated. I pointed to the flashing button, and then gave her my best button-pushing gesture. She picked up the receiver, pushed the button.
“Ashe.”
Yes, you are. A big one.
I left her office and walked over to my cubicle.
Abby heard me coming a mile away.
“Hey, Alex. What are you doing here? Are you okay?”
Well, other than my mother dying and Simone being such a twisted diva, I’m okay.
“Yes, I just came in to see Simone about my leave,” I replied.
“You could have just called her. You didn’t have to come all the way in when you’ve got more important stuff on your plate.”
Maybe I wasn’t just coming in to see Simone. I’m not sure, but maybe. Who knows?
“I guess. But there’s a good chance she wouldn’t have been able to answer her own phone. She has trouble with that.”
She smiled, moved around to my side of the cubicle, and perched on my desk as I sat down.
“So how are you holding up? I’ve been thinking about you,” she said, resting her hand on my shoulder in a kind of sisterly way. “The obit was really nice. I wish I’d met her.”
I kind of wish you’d met her too. She would have liked you, and liked your, I don’t know, your spirit, your gumption. She would have said, “I like your sass.”
“Thanks. I’m okay. Lots to do to keep me busy,” I said.
I paused, and thought, what the hell?
“Oh yeah, and I just discovered I have an identical twin brother I never knew about.”
Her mouth opened but nothing came out for a second or two.
“Shut the front door!” she eventually said. I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. “Are you friggin’ kiddin’ me? You just learned you have an identical twin brother? That’s a whole lot of insane.”
I know. Completely and utterly wack.
“Yes, I know. It is.”
“Well, come on. Out with it. What’s the story?”
“Well, I found…”
“Hey. I’m over here,” she said, waving. “Eye contact, remember?”
I know where you are, but you’re kind of invading my personal space, so it makes me a bit edgy. If I turn my chair to face you, it brings my legs almost into contact with yours. I’m not good at leg contact.
I turned my head to look at her.
“Sorry. I found a baby photo in my mother’s safety deposit box. And, well, I can show you.”
I first pulled out my h
alf-photo to show her.
“Here I am just one day after I was born. We have lots of baby pictures at home. I’d just never seen this one.”
“Pretty cute for day one,” she said. “Yeah, so?”
C-section baby. I’m told we tend to be cuter just after birth.
“Yeah, well, here’s the same photo but including the other half.”
I handed her the complete shot. I watched her eyes widen.
“Holy shit!” she said. “There’re two of you. Totally the same! Farkin’ doppelgangers.”
Well, yeah, that’s how identical twins work.
“Right,” I said.
“So where is he? Who is he?”
I have no idea. Who knows if he’s even alive? Even if I find him, maybe he won’t want to see me. Maybe he knows about me and always has, but doesn’t want to pursue it. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he’s an asshole. Maybe he’s nice. Maybe he’s just like me in every way.
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re going to try to find him, right? You gotta go find him!” she said. “It would be an epic fecking adventure.”
Exactly. Why do you think I just subjected myself to time with Simple Simone? I have a purpose and a plan.
“I know,” I replied.
PART TWO
My descent started, stopped, started, and stopped. I could sense, but not see, the people below me.
CHAPTER 4
I could actually smell the fresh, damp earth underneath the swatch of fake green grass next to the open grave. The casket was resting on a kind of steel framework set up around the perimeter of the rectangular hole in the ground. It was really a lovely day. The sun was bright and warm in a clear sky. Malaya was standing near me. I’d picked her up earlier. She was a mess, crying quietly in the passenger seat beside me as I drove to Beechwood Cemetery. I was fine, at least then. I may have been fine because Malaya wasn’t. It felt like I had to hold it together, particularly when she wasn’t able to.
I looked up and scanned the crowd. And by crowd, I mean the four other guests arrayed around the grave. François Meilleur and three women from the Cordon Bleu restaurant were there. He’d asked me if they could attend and of course I agreed. The minister, who was right out of central casting, was in full liturgical regalia of dark flowing robes with a colourful sash around his neck, hanging down in front – and yes, I’m fully aware that it’s probably not called a “sash.” While he had a full head of bushy, grey hair, he took no special measures to tame it. The swirling breeze made his silver cranial corona even wilder.
We were just getting ready to start when I saw Abby making her way from the paved path over to the gravesite. I barely recognized her. She was wearing some kind of floral print summer dressy thingy. I’d only ever seen her in pants at the office. Her hair was tied back in a way I’d never seen in the admittedly short time we’d worked together. Her red-rimmed eyes suggested either a general emotional vulnerability at funerals, or an early morning fattie. I wasn’t sure which.
She gave me a sad and empathetic look as she approached. Then she wrapped me in a brief but tight hug. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Sorry about the waterworks,” she said, pointing to her own eyes as she broke our embrace. “I suffer from a general emotional vulnerability at funerals.”
Who are you?
“Right,” I replied, remembering to make eye contact. “You didn’t need to come. But thanks.”
She squeezed my hand, let go, and stood next to Malaya. I felt oddly uplifted that Abby had come. I heard her introducing herself to Malaya as the minister of chaotic coiffures began the service. I know it’s strange to say, but I wasn’t really listening to what he was saying. My mind was elsewhere. I was trying to remember if I’d ever really, truly, felt whole, in my life. I didn’t think I had, but I wasn’t certain. How do you know what being whole really…really feels like? Up until then, I’d assumed it was my absent father that explained the nearly constant sense that something or someone was missing in my life. Perhaps it wasn’t just my father. I’d read somewhere that twins actually start bonding in utero. So perhaps there was another explanation, beyond my father’s absence, for somehow feeling bereft for most of my young life.
Just then, I thought I’d heard my own name. I came back into the moment, into the present, into the cemetery, and looked at the minister. On instinct, I nodded to him and hoped it was the appropriate response to whatever his invocation had been. He returned his attention to my mother’s casket and carried on with the words of a psalm he’d committed to memory from reciting it at so many funerals.
With my head bowed respectfully, still I let my eyes wander a bit. The four from the Cordon Bleu restaurant were clearly moved by the proceedings. I couldn’t tell if the minister’s words were affecting them or if they were just burdened with the loss of my mother. It made me feel good that even in her very small circle, she had friends who mourned her passing. I lifted my eyes slightly beyond our humble gathering. A few hundred yards away, partly obscured by a large silver maple, a shiny black Mercedes was parked. The windows were tinted. The angle of the road gave me a partial view of the front of the car. Nothing was visible through the windshield, but I could just make out what looked like a front red licence plate. I hadn’t remembered seeing the Merc there when we’d arrived.
“Alex?”
Yes? What? I’m right here. What did I miss?
I looked up and the minister and the rest of those assembled were staring at me.
“I think we’re ready if you are,” the minister said.
Oh, I’m ready all right. Um, ready for what?
He nodded towards the casket, his eyebrows bouncing.
“Oh, yes,” I replied, stepping forward and pushing the button on the side of the steel framework, as I’d been shown earlier. The hum of an electric motor started and my mother’s casket descended into the grave at an appropriately funereal pace.
It was all over a few minutes later. The minister performed his final words of committal, thanked everyone for coming, shook my hand, and walked back to the Beechwood Cemetery car that would return him to the office. Each of my mother’s colleagues approached me again with words of condolence. I tried to look each one of them in the eyes. They also invited me to eat at their restaurant, Mom’s restaurant, whenever I liked. I thanked them for coming and they made their way to their cars parked close by the grave.
In Abby’s presence, Malaya was very quiet.
“I can drive you to the office after I drop Malaya at her apartment,” I said to Abby.
“That would be great, if you’re up to it. I bussed it here. I told the dumb-Ashe I had a dentist appointment this morning. She was not happy. And she’ll know something’s up when I show up in this get-up,” she said, her hand grandly sweeping across her floral-printed self. “No one at the office has ever seen my bare legs, you know.”
Or, with your hair tied back, so much of your face. You look nice. And it was really great of you to come when there’s so much going on at work.
“Right,” I said, smiling.
“It was a really lovely service, Alex.”
I nodded.
Abby got into the front seat and Malaya sat in the back. I decided to sit in the driver’s seat from which I’ve always found it much easier to control the car. We drove slowly through the green tranquility of the cemetery, back onto Beechwood Avenue, and then right on to Hemlock Road. I thought I’d be able to see Mom’s grave from the road as we drove by. It’s quite easy to drive and look to your right for your mother’s fresh gravesite, but it’s actually quite hard to drive safely and look to your right for your mother’s fresh gravesite.
“Whoa!” Abby said, her hand braced on the dashboard. “That side of the line is for oncoming traffic. I recommend we stay on this side of the line.”
Yeah, well, it’s hard to stay in the lane when you’re looking in the other direction. But I thought I saw something.
I steered us back into our lan
e and slowed down a bit.
“Right. Sorry. I was looking for my mother. You know, her grave,” I explained.
I took another quick look to my right and saw the shiny black Mercedes now parked next to Mom’s still open grave. A man in a dark suit with his back to me stood over the grave.
A honk brought me back.
“Yep! There’s that pesky line again!” Abby said.
I could feel Malaya’s hand gripping the back of my seat near my right shoulder.
“Sorry, again.”
By this time, the trees obscured any view of my mother’s grave. I tried the rear-view mirror but could only see the driver behind me raising his middle finger for my edification.
I had a strange feeling. I turned left at the first side street, I think it was Thornwood, hung a U-turn, and headed back the other way on Hemlock. By the time we reached the spot where I could see Mom’s gravesite again, the man and the Mercedes were gone. Of course they were. If this were a movie, they’d be gone, so why not in real life? Shit.
“What’s wrong? What did you see?” Abby asked. “Are you all right?”
I flipped another U-turn, right there on Hemlock, and resumed the drive to Malaya’s apartment.
“Sorry. I just thought I saw someone at the grave who wasn’t there at the service. But he’s gone now. Sorry.”
Malaya said she’d be at our place…my place, later this afternoon to resume the pristine apartment cleaning festival she’d started the day before. I tried to tell her it was unnecessary but clearly did not convince her. I gave Malaya a hug that she held for quite some time. I waited until she wiped her eyes again and headed inside her apartment building.
“She seems really cool,” Abby said, when I slid back behind the wheel.
She’s been a godsend for the last couple of years. I’m pretty sure my mother lived longer because of Malaya.
“She is.”
“So what about your brother? Any progress?”
Are you kidding? I just learned about him twenty-four hours ago. And there was this little matter of my mother’s burial to attend to, so I’m nowhere on my brother yet. But I’m on it now.
