Waking Anastasia

by Timothy Reynolds

  “You’re sure this time? Steve’s sure?”

  “Yeah. I . . . I need them, too.”

  “Haley, I’ve always said that I’d respect your decision if you went back to Steve and the girls, and I do.”

  She took his hands in hers and kissed them, grateful. “Thank you, Sweetie. We’ll still be friends. Steve and the girls like you, so maybe you can come over for Sunday dinner every so often.”

  Jerry forced a half smile. “Sure.” He was surprised how much actually hearing her say the words hurt.

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Why would I be mad, Haley? Disappointed, yes. Mad? What would be the point?” He shook his head sadly. “You’ve made your decision. And now I’ve made mine.” He dropped a handful of fives on the table to take care of the bill, then stood up with his heavy coat in hand. “Take care, Haley.”

  She reached out to stop him from leaving. “Jerry . . .”

  “Have a good life, Haley. No regrets. Call me when you want to come get your stuff.” He turned to leave but only got two steps before her quiet whisper stopped him.

  “I love you, Jerry.”

  “Yeah, me too.” He placed a folded ten-dollar bill on the counter in front of their waitress as he passed by. “Thanks, Tanya. G’night.”

  Both relieved and sad that Haley had finally made up her mind, Jerry stepped firmly out into the night. Once outside, bundled up against the cold, he shook off unexpected tears. Then he steadied himself and headed off up the Queen Street hill, now fervently wishing he’d driven instead of walking the half-mile from the apartment. The throb of a familiar headache was already starting.

  He was only a block from home when the mild throb transformed into a full-blown migraine within the space of a heartbeat, causing Jerry to stumble on the freshly plowed sidewalk. His boots scuffed awkward marks in the light dusting of snow as he slammed his eyes shut and jammed his gloved hands against his temples with the hope that just this once he could squeeze out the pain. The movement only seemed to sharpen and define the agony, and he wobbled a few more steps before dropping to his knees into the nearest fluffy snowdrift. The pain of his bruised heart forgotten, he ripped off his woollen toque and slammed two generous handfuls of snow to his temples, crushing them hard to his aching skull.

  “Oh God oh God oh God.” Unsuccessfully willing away the spikes of torturous current, he groaned and whimpered and tried not to puke.

  The vice tightened on his skull, and he was sure his head was going to explode like a grape. Then the worst of the wave passed and he was able to roll over into a sitting position and look around. His vision was blurry as hell but he could see that he was still very much alone beneath the streetlight, in the softly tumbling snowfall. He suspected that everyone else in St. Marys was either inside, barred against the cold, or at the hockey game, screaming encouragement at their team. Not a single car passed by in the five minutes Jerry took to eventually stagger to his feet and start stumbling his way through the final leg of what had just become a marathon journey home. By the time he reached the walk leading up to the scruffy, ninety-year-old former Victorian manor, he felt the beast of a second storm of pain stalking him, close on his heels.

  In through the shared entrance, up the Everest of the bending, scream-squeaking, wooden stairs, he fumbled with the key, dropped it once, snatched it up, and gently, deliberately, slipped it into the lock. The entire time, the Riverside ribs threatened to come back up and stain the faded old wallpaper with barbeque sauce. With his weight against the door when he turned the key and the knob, it slammed open, pulling him into the darkness. He managed to stay on his feet just long enough to shoulder the door closed behind him before he succumbed to gravity and crumpled.

  Almost blind from the pain, Jerry let instinct guide him. He crawled down the long, semi-dark hallway to the cluttered coffee table in the living room where a distant memory told him that somewhere on the table, amongst the variety of half-read photography magazines and a D. B. Jackson novel, was a huge bottle of some extra-strength painkiller. A quick grope found the bottle, and after a brief struggle to open it, he popped four of the chalky white tablets into his mouth and chewed. With a swallow from a warm, half-empty can of Pepsi on the end table beside him, he washed down the crushed relief, crawled onto the couch, and curled up in a fetal ball, smushing a cushion over his eyes to block out the light he didn’t have the energy to turn off. He rocked back and forth, groaning, wanting to puke but not daring to for the further torture it would inflict. Soon tears came, but for the pain, not for Haley or the pseudo life they’d had. It took almost half an hour, but he finally fell asleep, not giving a damn that he was still wearing his snow-wet coat and boots.

  JERRY WOKE ONCE during the night, long enough to remove his outdoor clothes, stumble into the bathroom to relieve his bladder of the previous evening’s coffee, and then back to the couch. The bedroom was still too far away. By the time the sun came up, he was finally sleeping peacefully and soundly under the old afghan blanket he’d had since he was a kid.

  NOON FOUND HIM sitting up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and draining the rest of the Pepsi with a disgusted grimace. He swallowed the warm, syrupy sweetness, and found himself staring at Sushi, his Siamese fighting fish that watched him from the little tank on his desk.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, pain has left the building. A couple more skull-crushers like that and I’ll have them amputate my damned head, Soosh.” He yawned, levered his stiff body up off the long couch, and stretched out the kinks he always got from sleeping there. He was twisting his neck left and right to pop the tendons and get the blood flowing again when there was a rapid, insistent, small-fisted knock at the apartment door.

  “Too early for the cleaning lady I should hire, too late for the milkman who no longer delivers,” he mumbled as he wandered off to answer the knock. As he shuffled past, Sushi turned and swam behind the ancient Greek ruins dominating his home. The knocker took a break just long enough for Jerry to wander down the hall to answer the pounding before it brought on another headache. He opened the door and found his teenaged neighbour, Isis, with her fist raised to knock again. Lowering her hand to her hip, the bouncy, bubbly, cute, stone-deaf fifteen-year-old looked Jerry up and down with disapproval. She pushed past him and walked down the hall backwards, speaking and flashing sign language at him.

  “Jerry, your lights were on all night and you look like shit. You slept in your clothes, too.”

  “Isis, have you been spying on me again?” Jerry spoke and signed back, fluent from years of volunteering with the hearing impaired. “What did I tell you? Being a friend is good. Being a stalker is bad.”

  “Sedona had to take a midnight piss, and I was up reading, so I took her. Besides, I’m not stalking you—I watch out for you.”

  “I know. Thank you, kiddo. Now give me a quick hug and go start the coffee maker, please. I’m going to brush my teeth and change.”

  Isis glanced around the apartment. “Is she here?”

  “No. Haley is gone. Forever. It’s over. She’s gone back to Steve.”

  The petite redhead stepped into his arms and gave him a long, strong hug. “I love you, Jerry.”

  Jerry returned the hug cautiously, like a caring uncle. “I know, Munchkin. Thank you.” They broke out of the embrace and Jerry gently shoved Isis toward the kitchen. She spoke over her shoulder.

  “Go clean up, Jerry. You smell.”

  He sighed, shook his head, and shuffled off to the bathroom. “Women.”

  Chapter Two

  @TheTaoOfJerr: “One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.”

  ~Bob Marley

  ISIS MADE THE coffee and heated up the last two of the dozen apple-banana muffins she’d made and brought over earlier in the week. Jerry brushed, shaved, and got dressed for his job as the junior program director at Stratford’s last independent AM radio station. Because his day started at two in the afternoon and Haley’s retail work started b
efore ten in the morning, on holidays, weekends, and school PA Days, Isis was a regular visitor in the hours when only Jerry was home and she wouldn’t run the risk of running into Haley. She and Jerry had talked about it more than once and while she admitted that she was somewhat jealous of Haley as Jerry’s girlfriend, when she put that aside, she really just didn’t like the older woman.

  It took a little verbal arm-twisting by Isis, but while he wolfed down his muffin, Jerry told her about the headache that was the reason his lights were on all night and why he looked like crap when he answered her knock.

  “Was it as bad as the one last week?”

  “Worse. I think it was the nitrates in the corned beef sandwich I had for lunch.”

  “Then stop eating that shit if it makes you sick. Peanut butter makes me sick and I’m smart enough to stay away from it.”

  “You’re allergic—there’s a big difference. I don’t go into anaphylactic shock, I just get a headache.”

  “I don’t care. Use your head for something besides having migraines.”

  BY THE TIME Jerry got to work he was feeling human again, the headache a faded memory. With his nearly empty Tim Hortons extra-large, double-double decaf coffee on his desk in front of him, he was just wrapping up a phone conversation when the station’s owner, Derek, popped his head into the office. From the speaker mounted above the door, Steven Page’s “Leave Her Alone” played.

  Jerry acknowledged Derek with a quick nod. “Four o’clock will be great, Lisa. Tell Doc Wallis I appreciate him staying late on a Friday.” He hung up and gave Derek all of his attention.

  “The latest numbers are in, Jerry. They look great. Drop by my office after you’re done your show.” He ducked back out before Jerry had a chance to answer him, the door swinging shut behind him.

  Jerry’s reply went no further than the “Gordon Lightfoot Live in Stratford” poster on the back of the closed door. “Um, sure, Derek.” He refilled his cup from the coffee maker on top of the file cabinet and returned to the desk to check his emails. He sipped the fresh brew and reached for the computer mouse. The first message was from Manny Werinick and the subject was “Manny’s Plea”.

  Jerry opened the email, saw that it was actually a video message, and clicked on the attachment. Manny’s greying, balding, long face suddenly filled the computer screen.

  “G’day, Jerry. Like you, I’ve been thinking about that offer I made yesterday. It’s not enough, mate. I like your work and I want my new station manager here in Victoria by Christmas so how ’bout I bump the salary up 5k, and we’ve got a beauty of a flat two blocks from the Inner Harbour that’s yours to rent for a whole lot less than it’s worth . . .” Manny laughed, “ . . . cuz we own the bloody building! I can still wait for Monday, if I have to, but I just wanted to sweeten the pot. Hate to lose the Golden Voice of Stratford because I didn’t throw everything I have at you. You still have my cell number, just on the off chance you make your decision before Monday. Don’t be afraid to use it. Have a good weekend, Jerr. Talk atcha on Monday.”

  The message came to an end and Manny’s face froze on the screen. Jerry smiled and shook his head in disbelief. “That man was born a salesman. He probably sold advertising space on his diapers.” He checked the computer screen again. “Let’s see . . . two spam, today’s ‘horrorscope’, three new Twitter followers, one Chicken Soup for the Soul and . . . oh, great. Two from Mom. ‘Time for a Haircut’ and ‘Eating Properly’. E-nagging at its best. They’ll wait. They’ll all wait.” Coffee in hand, he got up and left the office, turning his back on the maternal missives.

  After two minutes the computer went on stand-by, about the same time the song coming out of the speaker ended and Jerry’s too-smooth-for-his-age voice came on the air.

  “It’s that time again, Stratford—it’s Powell in the PM. Two hours of all-request, all-oldies, to get you through that post-lunch dead zone on a wintery Friday.”

  AT FIVE MINUTES after four, Jerry found himself standing in his chiropractor’s treatment room. With one hand on Jerry’s shoulder to steady him, Dr. Wallis adjusted Jerry’s vertebrae with the spine gun. With every click of the gun, Jerry winced.

  “When is the new desk chair being delivered, Jerry?”

  “Next week. Monday, I hope.”

  “And you’re doing the exercises we went over last time?”

  “Daily.”

  “Good. How about the caffeine?”

  “I’ve cut back to 90% decaf, no tea, and only one Pepsi a day.”

  “That should help your health in other ways but I wonder if maybe reducing your intake so much so fast isn’t bringing on a few headaches, too. Did your blood work come back?”

  “It did. Your brother says that I’m mildly hypoglycemic but nothing to worry about, yet.”

  “Good. How are you sleeping on the harder mattress?”

  “Last night I didn’t get as far as the bedroom, but when I do it gives me the best sleep I’ve had in years.”

  “Good, good. How about stress? Life is treating you well?”

  “Well, Haley’s gone back to Steve, and I have to decide if I want to move to a station manager’s job in British Columbia.”

  “Station Manager? That’s great! And Haley’s gone back to Steve and the girls? That should relieve quite a bit of the stress. I know my cousin and she definitely has her stressful moments, except in her case they’re usually days or weeks instead of moments.”

  Jerry chuckled between adjustments. “True enough.”

  “Now, this job offer—are you considering it?”

  “More and more by the minute. Know any good back-crackers in Victoria?”

  “Please lie down face-down on the bench, with your arms at your sides.” Jerry followed the directions and Wallis continued his examination and adjustment. “Not off-hand, but I’ll do some checking with the Association. No other stresses? Work? Home? Family?”

  “Work is good, I’ll have the apartment to myself after Haley moves her stuff out and as for family, I’ll be seeing my mother tomorrow.”

  “Bingo!”

  “What?”

  “Your mother. When you mentioned her, the muscles in your back tightened right up.”

  “Yeah, well, she has that effect on people.”

  “She shouldn’t be the cause of headaches the magnitude of yours, but when added to the physiological factors we’ve discussed, it could be that last straw. You know, Jerry, I’ll miss you as a patient, but, without knowing any of the specifics, I think that job in Victoria is a great opportunity.”

  “Thanks, Doc. I really needed to hear that from someone other than the little voice in my head.”

  JUST BEFORE NOON the next morning, Jerry pulled up in front of his Great Aunt Mavis’ home in King City, north of Toronto. Seeing the driveway occupied by a minivan with the engine running, he parked his Jeep Grand Cherokee next to the curb. The day was blanketed in a soft grey cloud cover but there wasn’t the amount of snow they had in St. Marys, two hours west. The air had a little less bite, but Jerry still grabbed the duct-tape-patched blue down-filled coat from the back seat.

  He transferred his wallet, keys, and iPhone over to the coat’s zippered pocket then walked over and knocked on the window of the van, startling the driver out of a daze or a reverie. Knowing his slightly older cousin, Geoff, it was probably a daze. Geoff jumped in his seat and turned to look at Jerry. Recognizing him, he powered the window down. Geoff’s older brother, Ty, leaned over the centre console.

  “Hey, Cuz.”

  “Mr. Radio, Jer-Man.”

  “Hey, guys. You know, you could have gone in—Aunt Mavis doesn’t bite.”

  “No, but the place smells weird and she’s always yapping on with stories about ‘the old days’ like the Depression or the Sixties or other shit. Who cares? What’s past is past.”

  “Yeah, if it doesn’t help me make the rent or cover child support, it doesn’t matter, Jerr.”

  “It never hurts to know where you co
me from, guys.”

  “I came from the grocery store. Before that I was at Walmart, buying spark plugs.” The brothers laughed at the joke.

  “Exactly,” Ty added. “And before that, the Liquor Barn.”

  “Whatever you say, guys. Let’s just get loaded up and get the stuff to storage. If she wants to talk about the past, nod, smile, and go on with whatever you’re doing. She’s been lonely since Uncle Tyrone died, so at least pretend to care. This is a tough move for her.”

  “Why? She’s not doing any of the damned lifting.”

  Jerry gave up, shaking his head in frustration. He climbed the three steps to the front door. “Are you guys sure we’re related?” The brothers closed up the van and followed him.

  The door opened before he could ring the bell, and Great Aunt Mavis stood there, flashing a mischievous smile. “You and Ty are definitely cousins but we’re not sure about Geoff. I think he was a foundling, left by a family of living heart donors.”

  Jerry and Ty laughed, but Geoff grunted. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. How are you today, Aunt Mavis?” The three men each give her a hug as they entered the old house.

  “Fair to middling, boys. You don’t realize how much bric-a-brac a person can collect until it comes time to pack it up and move it. Both of your mothers got it all into boxes, so I really appreciate your help with the heavy part. There are sandwiches and coffee in the kitchen, and if you walk only on the runners, you can keep your boots on.” She pointed to where she’d carefully laid down old carpet remnants nap-down to protect the hardwood floors.

  Jerry undid his jacket in the warmth of the house and kissed her lovingly on the top of her head. “Thanks, Auntie M.”

  Geoff and Ty wordlessly followed the path of carpet pieces into the living room where they grabbed small boxes and started the process. Jerry bent his knees to grab a larger box but Mavis stopped him.