by Camilla Gibb
“But why?” Blue demanded, not moving.
“Because we need to do a rectal exam.”
“Why?” he repeated, nearly shouting.
“First we need to rule out hemorrhoids or see if there’s any rupture. If not, then we’ll need to take a tissue sample.”
“But why?”
“We need to locate the source of the bleeding.”
“But why?”
“Because we want to help you,” said the doctor, his voice now showing signs of agitation. “This can be a sign of serious illness or injury. It’s a good thing you’re here. Now, if you could turn over, we could proceed.”
Blue sat rigid, motionless. No one was going anywhere near his bum. Oliver had told him bums were dirty holes reserved for faggots and dogs. In their last underwater exchange, Oliver had driven a nail the size of a railway spike into Blue’s head. “You’re not a fucking faggot, are you?” he’d mouthed at Blue through the fence.
He’d heard this several times in his life, but this time the silent words exploded like bombs in his ears. He wasn’t a faggot, but he was feeling guilty. Earlier that afternoon Blue had stood behind the tennis court watching Jake the Snake jerk off. Blue hated Jake, hated all the guys from high school and their stupid dicks, but when you’re nearly fourteen and a pothead, and your mum doesn’t give you an allowance because she’s bringing you up on her own without child support and she’s yammering on about a second mortgage, it’s either that or stealing in order to get your drugs. Oliver must have seen him.
Blue could feel Oliver’s venom and rage through the fence and he was so humiliated that he imploded inside. In the hospital it occurred to him that that was the source of bleeding. Oliver had broken him. He had stood in front of the spectre of Oliver, his head hanging down, tears as thick as molasses creeping down his face. “No,” he had mouthed back helplessly.
“There are other ways,” Oliver had sneered. “You could get a job, for example.” And then he shuffled off to wherever he had come from.
The doctor tried to coax Blue, placing a hand on his arm and asking him to cooperate and turn over. “No,” Blue protested.
“It’ll be all right. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“No!” Blue shouted.
“Look, we can’t help you unless you’re willing to cooperate,” the doctor said. Then he picked up the phone and called for help.
Two nurses, one male and one female, were called in to roll over the increasingly hysterical boy. He lashed out with epileptic strength, flailed his arms and legs like he’d just been attacked by a shark, while their grips on his arms tightened. One of the nurses pinned Blue’s arms above his head, the other laid his arms across the back of Blue’s calves. They spoke quietly to Blue, despite the aggression of their actions, confusing and terrifying him.
They lifted his torso up and thrust him into a straitjacket. Armless, he used his mouth and bit down hard into the female nurse’s arm. “Jesus Christ, he’s drawn blood,” she said. “You’re going to have to sedate him,” she said, not letting go.
The other nurse jabbed a needle into his bum. “It’s a local anesthetic. You won’t feel a thing,” he said to Blue. Blue hammered his forehead against the cot. The nurse with the bleeding arm stuffed a pillow under his face. “Just keep breathing,” she told him.
The entire lower half of his body was disappearing. They’d cut him off from the waist down, sawed off his legs, he was sure of it. He’d seen it happen in Gone with the Wind. He’d seen someone saw off the gangrene leg of a soldier. They were doing whatever they were doing now to the dismembered lower half of his body. He’d have to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair—that is, if this didn’t kill him.
Emma waited for well over an hour until someone came and told her what was going on. “We’re going to keep him here overnight,” a nurse said.
“So, it’s really serious?” Emma asked her.
“I’ll let you speak to the doctor,” she said quietly.
Emma waited some more, becoming even more worried. “We just want to do a psychological assessment,” the doctor told her.
“But it’s not a mental thing!” Emma stammered. “It’s his bum! And a fever.”
“It looks like salmonella,” the doctor said. “That he’ll get over. It’s his reaction I’m concerned about. He refused to let me examine him.”
“He’s just scared,” Emma defended.
“Well, we had to restrain him.”
“Oh my God.”
“He’s calmed down now.”
“Can I see him?”
“Of course,” he said gently. “You can sit with him while I sort out the paperwork.”
Blue was lying on his side in a cot wearing a straitjacket. “Blue,” Emma said, fighting back tears. “What did they do to you?” He just sobbed. Emma crawled onto the cot and wrapped herself around him.
The doctor came back into the room with his clipboard. “I need someone to sign a consent form,” he said. “Your brother’s a minor. Can we call in one of your parents?”
“No!” Blue shouted. No one was ever to going to know about this. Especially not Elaine. She wouldn’t want to know. And if she did know, would she call him a faggot too? Would she tell him he was useless, just like his father? He’d rather protect himself and her by denying his mother’s existence. His sister tacitly agreed.
“Uh,” Emma stammered. “It’s tricky. I mean, our parents are dead.”
“I see,” the doctor said, taking this in. “Do you have a legal guardian? Someone who takes care of you?”
“Well, actually, we sort of take care of each other.”
“I see. And how old are you?”
“Eighteen?” Emma said without much conviction. She knew he knew she was lying, but she supposed he must have appreciated that she had a good reason for doing so because he let her sign the admittance form, just above the line that read, “False claims are punishable by fine and/or imprisonment.”
“But I don’t want you to leave me,” Blue said.
“It’ll be okay,” Emma tried to reassure him. Then she turned to the doctor, “You’re just going to ask him some questions, right?”
“Yes. Actually, not me, but Dr. Sears. One of the staff psychiatrists. And we’ll just keep you under observation for the next day or so,” he told Blue, trying to be reassuring.
“But you’re not going to do any more examining are you?” Blue asked, clearly afraid.
“Shouldn’t have to. We should have the results of your tests back later today.”
“Can you stay with me a little longer?” Blue asked Emma weakly.
“Uh,” she hesitated, looking for the doctor’s permission.
“That’ll be fine. Dr. Sears will probably be down in about an hour so your sister can stay with you until then, okay, son?” the doctor said, putting his hand on Blue’s shoulder.
Blue looked green with fear.
“Do you think we could take this off now?” Emma asked, pointing at the straitjacket.
“Sure. He’s been sedated, anyway.”
“Jesus,” Emma muttered, picturing a rabid dog, raging and frothing at the mouth, seized and anaesthetized.
She went to get herself some coffee, and by the time she came back, Blue had fallen asleep. She sat beside his sighing body until Dr. Sears arrived.
“So this is Llewellyn?” Dr. Sears asked, entering the room. She was tall, thin, and graceful, with a comforting smile.
“Yeah. My brother.”
“Well, we’re just going to wheel him up to the psychiatric ward. He’ll be quite groggy for another hour or so.”
“Do you think … um … he’s got some kind of mental problem?” Emma asked her.
“Dr. Menzies was just a little concerned about the severity of his reaction to being examined.”
“I think he’s just really scared,” Emma said. “He’s not usually explosive.”
“So you’ve never seen him have this kind of outburst
before?”
“No,” she answered definitively, although she didn’t really know.
“He must be very upset about something,” Dr. Sears commented. “Has anything happened recently? Has he encountered any violence?”
Emma shrugged. Had he? Was it Jake the Snake and his hellhound friends? Was it some dare or deal or weird fucking boy thing? Christ. Could it have been something to do with Dad turning up at his school?
“How long ago did your parents die?” she asked.
“Oh, I guess about six months ago.”
“Car accident?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I imagine that must have been quite traumatic for the both of you.”
“Yeah, pretty much,” Emma shrugged.
“Well, then. You don’t need to worry. We’ll take good care of your brother. Why don’t you call and see how he’s doing in the morning.”
Big trouble was brewing like a pot of poisonous soup on a stove. Elaine called Mrs. Brown, the mother of Blue’s only friend the next day in order to ask her son to pick up some cigarettes for her on his way home from his sleepover. Emma had told Elaine that Blue was staying over at Stewart’s house because it was his birthday.
But Mrs. Brown said, “No, your son isn’t here. I haven’t seen him in weeks. Seems he and Stewart had a huge fight over some hockey cards or something.”
“So it isn’t Stewart’s birthday, then?” Elaine hissed, glaring at Emma, who was doing her best to avoid eye contact.
“No, Stewart’s birthday isn’t until October,” replied a perplexed Mrs. Brown.
Elaine slammed down the phone. “Now, you just better tell me what is going on, young lady!” she shouted. “What’s Blue gone and done now?”
Saved by the bell. “I’ll get that,” Emma said, running for the door.
“We’re Jewish,” Emma immediately said to the two women standing there, thinking they were going to try and give her a copy of the Watchtower. Emma was starting to close the door when one of them stuck her hand out and introduced herself.
“That’s nice,” was all Emma could say as Ms. Glendon, a public health nurse, introduced herself and the other woman, a social worker named Ms. Frank.
“We just want to ask you a few questions,” Ms. Glendon said. “Do you mind if we come in for a couple of minutes?” she smiled.
“Who’s at the door?” Elaine yelled from the kitchen.
“Religious fanatics!” Emma yelled back over her shoulder, and then, turning around, she smiled at the women apologetically. “It’s not a very good time right now,” she whispered. “Why don’t I call you,” she said, reaching and taking the card Ms. Glendon was holding.
“Are you living here alone, Emma?” Ms. Frank asked her.
Oh Christ, Emma thought, she knows my name. “Uh, not exactly. I mean, I live with my brother. Usually.”
“You’re awfully young to be living on your own.”
“I’m eighteen,” Emma shrugged.
“Tell them we’re Jewish!” Elaine yelled from the kitchen.
“Who’s that?” Ms. Frank asked.
“Oh. That’s just the neighbour. She’s a little nuts.”
Emma winced as Elaine came storming toward the door. “Look, we’re Jewish. Do you get the message?” Elaine said abruptly to the two women.
“Right,” said Ms. Glendon. “Well, thank you for your time,” she said, stepping backwards. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you tomorrow,” she nodded at Emma gravely.
“Sure,” Emma said. “And God bless you,” she called cheerfully after them, closing the door.
“Fanatics,” Elaine spat, shaking her head. “Listen, young lady,” she said, turning to Emma. “You tell me where Blue is right now or I’m calling the police.”
“I’ll just go get him,” Emma said, grabbing her coat.
“From where?” she shouted. “Is he in jail or something?”
“No, Ma,” she said. “He’s fine. He just went to see Dad last night.”
“See him where? The gutter?” she scoffed.
“We knew it would make you mad, so we didn’t tell you.”
“I don’t like being lied to, Emma.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Look, I’m just gonna go meet him at the bus station. You can yell at me some more later.”
And that she did, at Blue and Emma both; right down to the last inch of her bottle of Scotch. Blue preferred silence, rather than having the truth, whatever precisely that was, be known. He’d given the psychiatrist just enough words to prove himself sane. He’d consented to the proviso that if he felt the need he wouldn’t hesitate to use their out-patient services. He had no intention of doing so. Instead, Blue shaved his head, thinking he could disappear. But he could never disappear. He was growing at an alarming rate and being bald made him larger still. By fourteen and a half he was looming above his sister who appeared to have stopped short when she was twelve. He just kept on going, his skin stretching like the bum end of a roll of Saran Wrap over a much too large piece of meat. It hurt him to grow like that—ached and itched and didn’t make any sense when he was sure he was meant to be little bigger than a clam. The more he wished to hide, the more his body betrayed him, growing upwards and outwards as if to mock his tiny core.
By the time he was fifteen and could see the top of everyone’s heads, he realized he’d have to find another way of becoming a different boy. That’s when he decided he would drop out of school. “You could get a job,” Oliver had gaped. As far as Blue was concerned that was parental consent, so as soon as he could he said, “Fuck this noise,” and “Hasta la vista.” It felt nobler than he made it sound. He figured he was being responsible.
“Because Dad said I could,” Blue shouted when Elaine went ballistic.
“Your father has no right—” she continued yelling, but Blue walked straight past her, out the door, and into the street, leaving her anger to bounce off the walls and come hurtling straight back at her.
Blue got a job as a busboy in a fancy-ish restaurant, scraping bird shit off patio furniture and occasionally stealing tips as compensation. Pulling out chairs for women with peroxide-blonde hair and men with thick rugs on their heads who wrote off lunches during which they talked about their affairs. Blue continued living at home and spent most of his money on dope. He wondered where he would next see Oliver. He wanted Oliver to see him: he hoped his father would be proud to see that he’d left the schoolyard and found a grown-up way of earning his keep.
While Blue was spending his money on dope, Elaine was spending hers on Scotch, and Emma was praying some strange and miraculous occurrence would happen and transport her out of her horrible life. Oliver, she supposed, was busy schmoozing his way through life with monopoly money. Maybe he was standing on a street corner begging for funds in exchange for ideas. “I’m an ideas man, Emma,” she remembered how he used to say. “It’s just a question of hooking up with the right company. I should get paid for my ideas.”
Emma could picture it. Oliver in a windowless room on the twenty-eighth floor of some high-rise building in Toronto being paid to spend the day thinking his great thoughts. “Take a dictation, will you, Margie?” he would shout into a speakerphone. “Immigrants,” he would start. “The solution is finally within reach …”
She’d had no exchange with Oliver. “Do you still see Dad sometimes?” she asked her brother.
“I thought you didn’t want to know.”
“I don’t really. But I do want to know why he comes to see you and not me. I don’t get it.”
“Maybe you remind him too much of Mum,” Blue shrugged.
“But I’m nothing like Mum. Fuck. Am I?” Nothing could be worse than being a brittle and bitter alcoholic with a bad perm and no friends. She’d rather be an earthworm, created out of some dismembered bit of her own body.
“Kinda,” he shrugged.
“Like the way I look?”
“Yeah. And sometimes the way you act.”
“Wh
at do you mean?” she asked defensively.
“Ahh, forget it. I don’t mean anything.” He had been plucking at straws. Oliver continued to seek out his son because there seemed to be no end to the things he wanted to say to him. Insults, criticisms, cruelties. Without them, Blue wouldn’t know who he was. Emma was actually much more like Oliver than Elaine. Oliver had removed himself and they were all supposed to keep on living. Emma was quite capable of doing the same.
Caterpillar Princess
Emma and Blue had started to live separate lives, half-lives with uncomfortably sticky edges. When Blue dropped out of school, Emma started to seek refuge in anonymous public spaces. She would pace around parks, determine their geographic centre and lie there for hours at a time even if the ground was covered in dog shit, even if there was frost on the grass on which she lay.
Once a week, she took the black-robed shell that housed her molten interior to the public library. The library tamed her angry soul. She sat in lumpy chairs and went through trashy novels like cotton candy—sickly sweet, all fluff and melt, immediate gratification subsiding into craving for substance leading to yet again more sickly sweet.
On the heels of another predictable ending, she would look up at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling and connect the dots. But on the heels of one particularly trashy ending, somebody sneezed. She looked up at the sneezer with disdain, her routine interrupted, but the boy-man of indeterminate age sitting across from her was so absorbed in his Scientific American that he didn’t look up. She kept staring. She coughed. Still nothing. She was determined to provoke him. He was determined to remain unaware. He was so clean-looking that she was sure he must squeak. Must get straight As. She noticed drool coming from the corner of his mouth and a vein pulsating on his forehead.
The following Saturday, he was sitting in exactly the same chair. She plopped herself down dramatically in the opposite chair and cranked her Walkman up to its most deafening level. She pretended to read but she must have been singing out loud because when she looked up, he was mouthing something at her.
