I ring again. Da-da-da-daaaa. If Kevin’s not home, I am screwed.
One more ring… nothing. Try the door handle… locked. I am screwed.
Last night was my first night of actually sleeping outside on the streets and I’ve already absorbed the fragrance of the alley. I can’t go like this, it would not be fair to her, but if I cancel she would really be hurt. Even though a part of me wants to go back to the downtown east side and look into Tommy’s death, I can’t let her down. I have to swallow my shame and go like this: dirty, smelly and covered in blood. Maybe she should see me as I really am, even though the thought disturbs me.
I head down the three steps from the front door, three paces, through the gate and start down the street.
“Cal. Here, Cal.” It sounds like someone calling their dog. But it’s not. I breathe out and feel the tension wash out of my shoulders. Thanks to Roy I’m known as Rocky on the streets, so it’s always a bit strange to hear my real name being used.
I turn and jog back to Kevin’s door.
Usually, he greets me with his wide, quirky grin but today he seems distracted, harried maybe. For some reason it makes me feel uncomfortable. He grabs my arm, pulls me through the door and envelopes me in a bear hug. I hate being hugged by guys but Kevin’s the exception; with him it just feels natural. To me he’s like a brother, in fact, much more than a brother. He holds the hug longer than usual and when he lets go, his face is lined. He is worried about something. Again I get the feeling of discomfort.
He is wearing a silk robe, in a paisley design, and is holding a cup of coffee. He checks his watch. “Whoa. You’d better go get ready,” he says. I pause for a second, trying to read what is wrong from the lines on his face.
“Go,” he says, forcing a smile. If I weren’t already late… But I am, so I head towards the back bedroom where he lets me keep my stuff, inhaling the faintest hint of sandalwood that says ‘Kevin’s place’.
“Cal.” His voice stops me; his smile still seems forced. “Can you hurry it up because I really need to talk to you before you go.”
“Sure Kev.” I was right.
He nods and heads upstairs, giving me no clue about what he wants to discuss. It worries me a lot but I don’t know why.
On the bed he has laid out my good clothes, toiletries and a clean bath towel. On the bedside table are two two-zone bus tickets and a twenty dollar bill. Kevin knows there’s always a high risk I’ll divert the money but he always leaves it just the same and never asks. That twenty dollars could get me off the street and put a roof over my head tonight. But I couldn’t. One day I must tell Kev that, although tempted to the contrary, I have always used the money as he intends.
I’ve rushed through my ablutions and I’m ready to go. I check my watch. It’s after eight-thirty and I am going to have to push it to get to West Van on time.
He is waiting for me in the hallway.
He comes straight to the point. Kevin always comes straight to the point. “Cal, I need your help on something… It’s a bit difficult to talk about this but…” His voice tapers off.
Rather than let him finish, I cut in, “Listen Kev, I really want to help but you know I can’t be late. Wouldn’t it be better if we talked when I get back, when we’ve got more time?”
A look of both frustration and annoyance morphs onto his face. “Hell, Cal. I’ve got a real problem here.” There is an unexpected anger in his tone. It chides me that he has gone to bat for me a thousand times and has supported me without once judging. I owe him my time… and much more. I’ll just have to risk it.
“Sorry, man.” I am trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “It’ll be OK if I’m a few minutes late. What’s the problem?” I sneak another quick look at my watch.
I can see he’s balancing his own need against mine and, being Kevin, my need wins out. He sighs. “Don’t worry about it. You go. You’ve only got a couple of months left and I don’t want to screw it up by making you late. Let’s have a beer and talk when you get back this afternoon.”
I will betray Kevin if I leave and myself if I stay.
I nod, smile at him and head out with two of Shakespeare’s lines, I forget from where, forcing themselves into my head:
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need.
I ignore the urging of the words, somehow knowing that leaving is absolutely the wrong decision.
3
Cal
I hear a high pitched scream from inside the five million dollar home. It is exactly ten o’clock. I just made it on time. This is the one thing for which I am always on time. “Mommy, Daddy’s here,” she shrieks. I love that voice, full of joy and innocence. The sound of her running feet on the hardwood floor brings a big grin to my face. “Mommy, Mommy. I can’t open the door. Quick, Daddy’s here.” I crouch down seeing her in my mind, jumping up and down in anticipation, frustrated at being not quite tall enough to open the top deadbolt. “Mommeeee-eeeee!” After what must seem an age to a seven year-old—and to a thirty-eight year-old for that matter—the door flies open and she launches herself into my arms.
We hug like we’ve been parted for a year. All my cares dissolve. She grips me tight around the neck for ten wonderful seconds, then lets go and wriggles out of my grasp. “Look Daddy, look.” She pirouettes. “Don’t you just love my new hair?” Her blond hair is cut in a bob and, although I liked her hair long, I have to admit it looks very cute. Sam probably had it done in some tony West Van salon.
“Wow, Ell, it’s great, I do love it.” My grin is so big it is hurting my cheeks.
“Me too, don’t I Mommy?” She looks up at Sam for confirmation. I follow her eyes up to the soon-to-be Samantha Walsh, formerly Sam Rogan, my ex-wife. She looks great. I can see why I fell in love with her. She is wearing jeans and an old plaid work shirt over a tight, white tee. On her, it is just plain chic. Her brunette hair has been cut to her shoulders and looks a bit like Ellie’s. The cut emphasizes her long neck and slim face and the watery sunlight catches the hair’s natural red highlights. The ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron and the smudge of flour on her cheek do nothing to mar her quintessential elegance. She smiles down at us, enveloping me in her warmth and for an instant I am transfixed by those green eyes.
“Listen, Cal, could we make a bit of a change today?”
The euphoric moment is extracted by the augur turning in my gut. A couple of times she has tried to cancel my visits with Ellie and it has been nasty. Sam sees the concern written on my face. “No, no,” she reassures me, “it’s just that George and I are having a dinner party tonight and I have loads to do. Would you like to take Ellie out by yourself?”
I’m good at hiding my feelings—I’ve had a lot of experience—but I can’t pull it off now. The custody part of our divorce stipulates that I can only have unaccompanied visits with Ellie after a two-year period. The two years will be up nine Saturdays from now.
This is the first time Sam has suggested an unaccompanied day and I’m praying it might portend an easing of the rules. “Sure, that would be great.”
Ellie bounces up and down and hugs me again. “Come on Daddy, let’s go out on the dock and look for seals.”
“Sure, sweetie. Go get your coat and boots on.” She runs into the house, giving me a moment with my ex-wife.
“Thanks, Sam. I really appreciate it.”
She smiles and nods.
My curiosity overcomes my fear of blowing it. I know the excuse of a party would never cause a change like this. “Can I, uh, ask why?”
After five seconds of internal debate, which is a very long time period in the circumstances, she shrugs, “Ellie asked to have the time with you alone and I told her no.” She pauses and I hold my breath. “But when she asked why, I discovered I didn’t have a good reason to refuse her. So, there it is.” Then, an afterthought. “But Cal you’ve got to understand this is not a regular change. It’s a one-off, right?”
For some unknown re
ason I don’t buy her explanation; I’m sure there’s more to this than she’s admitting. “You’ve never let—” the look on her face freezes the next words on my lips. I’ve blown it by pushing too far.
I cover with, “Sure Sam, absolutely.” I feel like a jerk.
After a long look, she shakes her head and smiles, then checks over her shoulder for a second and slips her hand into the pocket of the apron. Taking a step forward, she stumbles but before I can reach out to steady her, she catches herself by grabbing the door frame. “Cal, no stupid pride here, OK? Here’s twenty-five bucks. I know you always bring money when you come to see Ellie but it’s just a little bit extra; maybe take her out for a nice lunch.”
My amazement overcomes my stupid pride.
“Thanks, Sam. I… uh… well…” I have a Masters degree in English Lit. so it’s not often that words escape me… but when they do it’s usually with Sam. I put the money in my pocket and have a twinge of guilt when I think about how I could use it. It makes me determined to spend every penny on Ellie.
Sam smiles again and kisses me gently on the cheek as Ellie comes bouncing out of the house.
“Come on, Daddy, let’s go.” She grabs my hand and drags me down the drive. I look over my shoulder and wave at Sam, who is still standing in the doorway, still holding on to the frame. With her other hand she waves back and I wish she were coming too.
Ellie talks non-stop on our way to the dock. She’s been in grade two at her private school for two months now and is telling me about all her friends and teachers and Puffy the hamster and how she is doing so well in math and, oh yes, Mrs. Tanaka said that the picture she drew of me and Mommy was very, very good.
I love listening to her but I find my mind drifting.
We are only five minutes from George’s and Sam’s five million dollar home, so far removed from the squalor of the downtown east side, but distance does not blunt the thoughts or the pain of Tommy’s death. Why would an alcoholic die from an overdose? I’m going to miss his cheery optimism, even though of late it has become increasingly difficult to share it. And Roy, how will he fare without his best friend? He’ll disappear into a world of drink, of course, but will he emerge this time? Although I hate what Roy has done to me, I would be lost without him.
“Daddy, you weren’t listening.” Ellie tugs on the arm of my jacket and, as I look down at her lovely little face, the dark thoughts evaporate. “I said I dreamed about Uncle Kevin last night. When am I going to see him again, I haven’t seen him for aaaages.” She giggles. “He always brings me a stuffy whenever he comes.”
Her sheer joy and enthusiasm make me laugh out loud and my heart is eased. “Soon sweetie,” I promise. I immerse myself in her chatter and, just as we are stepping on to the Dundarave dock, she says, “Daddy?”
I sense another switch in direction coming and I can’t help the chuckle that comes bubbling up. “Yes, sweetie,” I grin down at her.
“A junkie’s a good thing, right Daddy?”
The blood drains from my face as a hand twists my stomach into a knot.
I stop and crouch down so that our eyes are level. “Where did you hear that word, Ellie?”
During the pause, my clenched jaw muscles start to hurt.
“It’s OK, sweetie, you can tell me.”
She reads my expression and looks down at the wooden decking, her voice a whisper. “I heard George tell Mommy that you’re a junkie now.” She looks up into my eyes, “That’s good, right? Like being a policeman and helping people.”
I force my jaws to relax for fear of shattering my teeth, weakened by five years of heroin use. I want to run back to George Walsh’s five million dollar house and knock some teeth out of his smug five million dollar face. Except that he’s out; there was no sign of his dark green Bentley Continental parked in its place of pride under the porte-cochère. Instead, I take a deep breath and force myself to smile. I have to tread with caution here. I can’t bad mouth George because anything I say to Ellie will surely get back to Sam.
And I’m not about to lie to Ellie.
In this instant I know, without any doubt, that it is the defining moment. This very second must be the beginning of the end of my addiction. I have used my terror of the excruciating pain of withdrawal as an excuse. Detox and rehab don’t have a stellar record of success but somehow, I must make them work for me. I have to do this for Ellie, no choices, no excuses, no more junkie rationalizations. It stops now.
I only pray that I can do it.
“Ellie, sweetie, you’re getting to be a big girl now, so I am going to talk to you like you were already a grown up. OK?”
She gives a serious nod.
“Do you remember when you were sick with the chicken pox a couple of months ago, just before your birthday?”
“When I was itchy all the time?”
“Yes. Well, I have a sickness too?”
“Does it make you itchy too, Daddy?”
I almost grin because it does indeed make me itchy, “Well, yes. But it makes me sick and it’s because I took this very bad medicine, which I have to keep taking.” I feel unworthy of her. It is like I am doing the usual junkie trick of making excuses but I don’t know how else to tell a seven year-old about the effects of heroin.
With incontrovertible logic, she asks, “If it’s bad, why do you keep taking it?”
I fall back on the parent’s perennial answer to a tough question. “It’s difficult to explain, sweetie.” Her look tells me she needs more. I think for a bit and then finish up with, “Anyway, Daddy has got this sickness and lots of other people do too. Some people call us junkies.” I feel bad that this is not good enough and frustrated that I don’t know how to explain the reality of my degraded life to my innocent daughter.
Ellie considers this for a moment and looks out across English Bay. I have no idea if she understands anything I’ve tried to explain.
“Junkies are not bad people, honey. They’ve just made some bad decisions.” My own rationalization makes me sick. It reeks of it’s not my fault, the junkie’s vintage whine.
Suddenly her face breaks into a broad grin. “Look, Daddy. Out there. Is that a seal?”
She skips along the dock and her innocent joy makes my heart brim with a real physical pain.
This is it. I have two months to sort myself out. In two months I have to be ready.
But can I give up heroin or am I deluding myself? Will I ever be worthy of my little girl’s unconditional love?
She turns back to look at me and, bouncing with excitement, points out towards the inquisitive harbour seal bobbing in the water but, through some perverse trick of the mind, thoughts of Roy’s buddy, Tommy, intrude upon my moment of joy.
Why would an alcoholic die from ‘bad drugs’?
4
Sam
I breathe a sigh of relief as Ellie runs in. I trust Cal the father but what Cal the junkie might do has always worried me. She throws off her coat and hops along the hall on one foot, struggling with her boot. “Mommy, we had Italian food for lunch at the tractoria. Why is it called that? There weren’t any tractors there.” She vanishes, giggling, into the downstairs bathroom.
I laugh—the joke sounds like one of Cal’s—and call after her, “That’s great, sweetie.”
Cal gives a big goofy smile. He looks like the man I fell in love with. Despite what I have to do, I cannot stop myself from grinning back. A big part of me will always love this man although life would be so much simpler if I could just hate him. But I can’t. Cal was my rock; the enthusiasm and idealism he brought to his job was an inspiration for me in my own work. I loved his ready laugh and gentle sarcasm when I took myself too seriously.
Then he ruined everything with drugs.
George is my rock now, a much more reliable one at that, and he is a bit more serious about things than Cal ever was. He provides a wonderful, stable environment for my darling Ellie and anyway serious is good.
“Same time next week?” he as
ks.
“Cal. Listen.” I do not want Ellie to hear this. I check over my shoulder, move out onto the step and pull the front door closed behind me. I cannot avoid a slight stagger and I pray that I won’t lose my balance and fall. I fell last week on a photo shoot; it took me several minutes to get back up again.
“Are you alright?” he asks, concerned.
“Sure. A bit too much sampling of the wine while I was cooking.”
I don’t think he buys it. A big part of me wants to tell him the truth; it would be such a comfort to have him on my side. I have never lied to him before, not even a lie of omission. I don’t want to start now. For an instant I can’t decide. But, as much as it would be an enormous weight off my mind to tell him, I shouldn’t let him know the truth. Not yet. It might spur him into the right action for the wrong reasons. Does that make sense? I don’t know anymore. Maybe…
He starts to say something but before he can pursue the matter, I decide. I need to do this fast before I have another incident. “I know you’re trying to be a good father. I mean you are a good father. Ellie loves you and you’re really wonderful with her. And she is the one person who trusts you completely because you’re always on time when you come to visit her and you have never missed a visit in the two years since we signed the custody agreement.”
I pause. He knows there is more coming and stands there with trepidation. Damn it, why do I want to hug him right now?
“The thing is, there are things in my life that… I mean…” I have to say this right but I don’t want to hurt him. “Look, when we did the custody agreement, the idea was that you had two years to sort yourself out and stop taking drugs so you could have a more normal relationship with your daughter. But you haven’t done anything, have you?” He just looks at me. “Have you, Cal?” He shakes his head and looks down.
Years of built up frustration overcome my feelings for him, causing the words to come tumbling out. “Oh, Cal. Ellie needs more than a four-hours-a-week Dad. She’s always saying she wants to see you or call you. She asks why she can’t go over and stay at your house. Last Wednesday in the middle of watching a TV show, she said, ‘I want to watch Dora the Explorer. I want Dora to help me find the way to Daddy’s house,’ and she burst into tears.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 2
