The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing

by C. K. Kelly Martin

  So I stop.

  Not because I’m brave but because it’s inevitable.

  I turn to see Devin’s almost skeletal body lurch along in front of me like it doesn’t know there’s a head attached to it. It’s the worst sight you can imagine. So much worse than the dread itself. My brother but not my brother. No one. Nothing.

  Normally I stare at this ugly, lifeless echo of Devin for what feels like a long time, until I can’t stand it another second and begin fighting my way back to consciousness. This time the staring’s cut short, and I’m glad, but then the ache sets in. Where are you, Devin? Is this how things will always end? With the real you disappearing?

  My cell’s ringing on the nightstand. I changed the ringtone to Ellie Goulding on New Year’s Eve so at first I don’t recognize the and we gonna let it burn, burn, burn, burn as the sound of my phone. The second I realize I throw my hand out and snatch it up so that I won’t have to lie there alone with my soul-sucking Devin sadness.

  “Hello,” I mumble. Anyone who knows me would be able to hear that I’ve just woken up.

  “Serena?” a male voice asks.

  “You got me.” I sit up in bed, pressing my shoulders back against the wall. Sweat fuses my T-shirt to my spine. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Gage,” he says. “From yesterday at the store. Did I just get you up?”

  “It’s okay.” I clear my throat. “You did me a favour. I was in the middle of a dream I wanted to get out of.” The Devin sadness clings to me like it always does. I need Gage to stay with me there on the phone until it fades.

  “What were you dreaming?” He sounds nice about it, and I want to be nice back, maybe say something flirty, but the heaviness in my lungs won’t let me.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say finally.

  “Serena?” Gage’s voice has changed too. “I wasn’t sure if you really wanted to give me your number or not — if you felt like you had to because of the situation.”

  If that’s some line he uses he’s really got it down. I can hear uncertainty but at the same time he’s not overdoing it. He’s too good-looking for my own good, and I’m not supposed to be noticing guys in the first place, but all of that seems dumb while I’m listening to him feel out our situation, like he’s at least halfway sensitive.

  “I didn’t feel like I had to,” I admit. “It’s okay that you’re calling.” More than okay. I’m glad that the old lady was right, even if I shouldn’t be.

  “Good,” Gage says more confidently. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He pauses for the briefest second. “Do you want to do something on Tuesday? A movie maybe … dinner and a movie?”

  Dinner and a movie sounds like a real date. Like something that happens in a George Clooney movie before he seduces a woman, and it dawns on me that Genevieve and Nicole wouldn’t approve of this conversation. Especially Genevieve. She’s so definite about things. I’m sure if I was Genevieve I’d tell Gage, in a casual but polite way (because Genevieve isn’t indiscriminately mean) that I’m not in any frame of mind to date. I might even thank him as I was turning him down.

  But I’m not Genevieve and I’m tempted. Is it really possible to get close to a guy without having him turn it against you? I feel my insides warm up as I cradle the phone.

  Damn. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.

  “Or maybe some other time if Tuesday’s not good,” he adds, a touch of insecurity slipping back into his voice.

  Tuesday isn’t good. Tuesday is the day of Jimmy’s art show opening in Toronto. Morgan’s going to pick me up at school and the two of us will have dinner before catching up with Jimmy at the gallery. According to Morgan, Jimmy’s always too nervous before an opening to eat a bite.

  “How about Wednesday?” I ask. Genevieve’s right; I can’t stick with the one hundred per cent guy-free program. I want Gage to have whatever feeling he’s having about me for a while longer. We only have to see each other a few times, maybe only once. How wrong could once be?

  Gage makes a half-groan, half-sigh noise into the phone. Before he can explain why he can’t make it I remember that I’m scheduled to work on Wednesday anyway, and tell him that. “Maybe it’s just not meant to be,” I joke, but I’m only saying it to make him try harder.

  “The best thing that never happened,” Gage kids back. “Or we could always try for Thursday …”

  “Thursday,” I agree. I’m nervous as I say it.

  “Okay.” Gage sounds like he’s smiling. “I’ll pick you up around seven.”

  I picture his cute self on my doorstep next Thursday, ringing the bell, and smile too. I know that could make me seem as hopeless as Genevieve originally predicted, like some clingy girl who needs a guy in the picture to make her feel worthwhile. Then again, doesn’t everyone want the people they like to like them back? That can’t always be pathetic.

  “Seven’s good,” I tell him. “See you then.”

  I hang up, stumble to my feet, and yank my T-shirt off. I stand in front of my mirror, inspecting my all but naked self. There are parts I’m happy with, but mostly I’m just not sure. I wish I could see myself the way someone else would see me, not with my usual eyes. I don’t weigh that much more than when I started going out with Jacob but I feel different.

  It occurs to me that examining myself this way directly after talking to Gage might be another sign I should’ve turned him down. Might be. I can’t ignore that he took my mind off Devin and gave me something else to think about. Maybe nothing’s all good or all bad, or maybe I just can’t easily recognize the difference, like a form of colour blindness.

  If there was someone I could talk things over with I might be able to get a clearer idea about it all, but anyone I can think to ask is the wrong person, for one reason or another. And anyway, that’s a hell of a lot of “mights” and “maybes” for someone who’s already agreed to seven o’clock on Thursday.

  ***

  Morgan invited my parents to Jimmy’s opening too, no doubt knowing that they wouldn’t come. Like I said before, Mom doesn’t like to go out much these days and as soon as Morgan asked her she suggested that it sounded like “something fun for you and Serena to do together.”

  Jimmy’s parents won’t be there either because they live in Regina, but Ariel from MuchMusic has promised she’ll drop by with her live-in bass player boyfriend. I’ve never met her before and the thought of having a conversation with her makes me a little anxious, like she’s destined to find me ordinary in comparison to my brother. This is the way I usually feel about Morgan’s friends, but never with Jimmy, who’s good-looking and cool but in the most humble, generous way: the kind of person who won’t let you suffer an awkward moment if he can help it.

  So I’m happy to tag along to Jimmy’s opening, even though Morgan and I have to catch dinner by ourselves first. He picks me up in his Mini Cooper at four-thirty after school on Tuesday and we go straight to a Mediterranean restaurant where the entrees start at $21.95. It seems like a nice place but I can’t imagine swallowing squid or octopus so I end up with steak and hand-cut frites (which are too gourmet to just be called “fries”).

  “How’s life treating you these days?” Morgan asks while tackling his warm goat cheese salad appetizer.

  I should have just ordered a salad myself. Now I could be heavier by Thursday. I resolve to leave at least two-thirds of my frites on my plate, no matter how gourmet they are.

  “Everything’s pretty good,” I tell him.

  Morgan’s lettuce dangles from his fork. “Yeah? The parents aren’t driving you too crazy? I feel bad for you at the house alone with them sometimes. I wish you’d come downtown more often. They never …” He flicks his free hand through his hair and puts his fork down. “I mean, we all miss Devin, don’t we? But we have to keep on keeping on.”

  This is the kind of thing Morgan can say without sounding ridiculous. Ke
ep on keeping on.

  “I know.” It’s on the tip on my tongue to ask him the question I’ve posed a dozen times before. Where do you think he is? I swallow my impulse and stay quiet. No one knows the answer to that. Devin’s been swallowed up by elements we don’t want to think about.

  “You okay?” Morgan asks, squinting at me.

  “I just … worry.” I sip at my water and scope out the room for something other than Morgan’s inquisitive eyes to look at. A teenage girl just a year or two younger than me averts her gaze when my stare veers in her direction. She’s seated between a man and woman who I assume are her parents and she’s wearing dark pink makeup around her eyes, which makes them look sore, like an infected raccoon. The girl raises her chin and tosses her long blond hair back with attitude, like she’s decided not to be embarrassed that I’ve caught her staring.

  People always stare when I’m with Morgan. Sometimes they march over and say hi in a way that makes it clear that they feel as though they already know him.

  “Me too,” Morgan says. “But we can’t let it grind our lives to a halt.” I look back over at him as he chews his salad. “That won’t help him and it won’t help any of us.”

  I don’t know how he can be so rational about it. I swallow more water and watch the pink-eyed girl to see if she’s staring again. Some people can’t seem to help themselves.

  “You have a fan in the house,” I say, steering us away from a topic I don’t really want to talk about. I incline my head in her direction.

  Morgan looks for only a split second.

  “So Jimmy didn’t want to come?” I say, stating the obvious. “How come you didn’t stay with him, keep him calm?”

  Morgan’s eyes open wider like this is an interesting question. “Jimmy has his own way of keeping calm. He likes space when he’s anxious. If I’m there for him to bounce anxious energy off it only amplifies.”

  Imagine having someone understand those kinds of things about you. Now imagine that very same person’s in love with you and you’re in love with them. Sometimes I feel jealous of Morgan and Jimmy.

  “I get nervous for him when I see him nervous.” Morgan tilts his head and smiles. “And that gets him going even worse. Would you mind if I called him, actually? I’ll just see if there’s anything I can bring him at the gallery.”

  “Go ahead.” I wave my hand at him and listen to Morgan’s voice tense up when he gets Jimmy on the line. His left hand plays with his hair while his right clutches the phone. He laughs, making the fangirl shoot her gaze over to him again. I dig my own cell out of my pocket and check text messages. There’s one from Nicole telling me to have fun tonight and that I can flirt with all the guys if I want because they’ll probably all be gay anyway. I don’t think being gay’s a requirement for visiting Jimmy’s show but I text back and forth with her until Morgan’s finished with his call.

  When Morgan and I get to the gallery on Queen Street West Jimmy’s shimmering with what I take to be a mix of fear and excitement. He’s wearing grey pants and a form-fitting violet sweater over an eggplant-coloured shirt, and he flings his arms around me and says, “Hello, gorgeous! Thanks for getting Morgan out of my way for a couple of hours. You know I love the boy but these shows make me bananas. I hardly know what to do with myself!”

  I make way for Morgan, who looks more casual but just as fashionable in jeans and a grey vest over a white and blue striped shirt. Having never been to an opening before I didn’t know what to wear and thought I might be overdoing it in buying an almost knee-length silk floral-print wrap dress but Genevieve’s eyes popped open when I tried it on at Banana Republic on Sunday.

  “That is the dress,” Genevieve said. “You’re a vision. You should wear it every day for the rest of your life until it disintegrates.”

  So for once I don’t feel that Morgan’s five times prettier than me. The dress gives me confidence the same way a good hair day or Gage’s invitation does. As soon as Morgan and Jimmy are done with their hello kiss Jimmy reaches for my hand and twirls me around in admiration. “Look at you!” he declares.

  Honestly, I’d love to be able to hear the same thing from someone else’s lips on Thursday but wearing the dress then would seem like trying too hard. After all, I can’t imagine Gage will be taking me to someplace where the dinner entrees start at $21.95.

  Once the gallery starts letting the public in they swarm around Jimmy, fawning over him as they grasp their wineglasses. Morgan’s engulfed in the appreciative crowd too. He introduces me to a couple of people, but mostly I just wander around on my own, checking out Jimmy’s paintings and eavesdropping on clusters of men and women declaring them to be about artifice, the end of innocence, and cultural appropriation. I don’t know about any of that but I do like them. Each painting includes at least one vintage Fisher-Price Little People figure. The toys are from long before my time; I only know that’s what they are because Morgan mentioned it at dinner. He had one in his pocket and set it on the table when he was having his dessert coffee: a two-inch tall figure of a man with several strands of hair drawn on his otherwise bald head.

  So far my favourite painting is one where a little girl with a smudgy face clutches a Little Person with a red baseball cap. You can only see the girl from the chin up, one of her hands reaching up over her head. She’s standing in a motel room window, behind gauzy cheaplooking curtains, illuminated by what must be headlights from a car parked outside. Looking at her you can’t help but wish the little girl was someplace better and wonder if she’s been left alone by whoever’s in that car.

  Another one of the pictures I especially like is of a thirty-something-year-old man posed outside his gorgeous suburban house next to a life-sized Fisher-Price woman with yellow plastic hair and a blue plastic body, curves marking the presence of her bust and hips. The man’s hand is lying flat on top of her head, the same way you’d pet a dog or maybe a child’s head. I stand in front of the painting, taking a second look as I try to figure out what I think it’s about on my own, without the words I’ve already heard other people apply to Jimmy’s work.

  “Hey, Serena,” Morgan says, his hand falling lightly on my back as he guides me across the room. “I want you to meet Ariel and her boyfriend, Grover.”

  Ariel’s every bit as gorgeous in person as she is on TV, even though she has a big nose and her eyes are too far apart. “It’s nice to be able to put a face to the name,” she says, her teeth blinding me as she smiles and reaches out to squeeze my arm. “Morgan talks about you a lot.”

  I smile back at Ariel and her boyfriend, whose band’s newest video is on heavy rotation on Much at the moment. He looks neater and less edgy in person, like someone who would sit behind you in science class and actually take notes.

  Grover happens to be standing quite near the door, and as I fumble for something to say I spot a flash of something behind him the way you do in a scary movie, something you’re supposed to notice but not quite make out. My heart jumps. I squeeze by Ariel and Grover and rush for the door. My hand swings it open. Outside it’s the kind of cold you block from your mind as soon as June arrives, and I’m instantly freezing in my silk dress, but that’s not important.

  I spin around, my eyes desperately scanning for the hint of dark green I saw pass by the door. Across the street, in front of a trendy clothing store with bare-chested mannequins, my stare catches and holds. He’s striding away in a green shell coat and I can only see his back now, but it was the side of his face, a glance of cheek and chin, that I caught sight of a few seconds ago. I haven’t laid eyes on him in seven long months, but I’d swear on the Holy Bible that my brother Devin’s darting along Queen Street in a dark green coat.

  I run into the street, sprinting as fast as my high heel shoes will let me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ~

  Crossing the street against the light, in my thin dress and delicate, winter-unfriendly
four-inch heels, a taxi honks at me. My heart’s thudding erratically, like it’s forgotten how to keep time. I stop and look at the angry driver, and that’s all the time it takes for a streetcar to swoop Devin up. By the time I reach the other side of the road the streetcar doors are closing.

  The patch of sidewalk Devin just walked down seems too ordinary to be the place where this just happened. I fold my arms across my chest and ogle it, stunned.

  I’d probably stare for even longer only it’s so cold that my teeth are already chattering. As I turn and wait for the traffic light to change, I see Morgan, minus his coat same as me, standing directly across the road, glaring at me like I’ve lost my mind. Once the walk sign flashes, I hurry towards him, rubbing my arms.

  “I think I saw Devin,” I say quickly. “He just crossed the street and hopped on a streetcar. We missed him. He was right here and we missed him.” My lips quiver as I go on. “Maybe he even lives around here. Do you realize he could live in your neighbourhood?” Maybe he’s been here all along, just blocks away from where Morgan works. The thought comes as a second shock. All this time and he’s been right here. How could we not have known?

  Morgan’s jaw has fallen. His head slants down towards mine. “Are you sure it was him? You were inside the gallery. How much could you actually see?”

  “I saw the side of his face as he passed by. He walked right in front of the gallery.” I’m speaking faster than I mean to. I can’t seem to slow down. “I only saw him for a second but it looked exactly like Devin. He looked like thin Devin, you know, how he looked near the end.” Now I’ve made it sound like my brother’s dead. “How he looked when he left, I mean.”

  Morgan’s eyes cloud over. “Serena, you know that could’ve been anyone.”

  “It could’ve been, but maybe it was him.” I pout as Morgan touches my arm. “Don’t you want it to have been him? Why don’t you believe me?”

  Morgan sighs and pulls his head back. “It’s not that I don’t believe you or don’t want it to have been him. I just don’t think you should get your hopes up too high when the odds are it was some guy with a passing resemblance.”