by Daryl Sneath
VICTOR nods and flips to a page he seems to recognize.
VICTOR
July 11. Met the man I will see the end of my days with. A cop of all things. I always thought I’d wind up with a painter or a musician. Opening nights. Fancy parties. A house with a studio. Sex between sessions. Suppose I’ll have to settle for sex between shifts.
Hah. Imagine he reads this one day.
Hey there, my boy in blue (I like that: my boy in blue)—in case you ever do read this and because I know I’ll never tell you (it’s a glitch I hope you’ll forgive): I knew as soon as I saw you. Is that crazy?
VICTOR closes the journal, uses a thumb for a bookmark.
VICTOR
How about a drink?
The DIRECTOR stands and leaves, returns with two highballs filled with two fingers of Lagavulin each. They raise the glasses without clinking them. The DIRECTOR takes a sip. VICTOR takes a gulp.
He opens the journal and flips ahead a couple of years to another date in the story he recognizes.
VICTOR
August 1. Happiest day of my life. Happiest is not the word. I feel joy. Unadulterated biblical joy. I’ve certainly never felt like I needed one, but if ever I find myself in need of a sav—
VICTOR stops and looks at the ceiling. He looks at the page and begins again.
VICTOR
— but if ever I find myself in need of a saviour you will be the one. This little bundle of bliss. Stephen Vector Sorn.
VICTOR shakes his head. The DIRECTOR puts a hand on his shoulder. He continues to read.
VICTOR
August 2. You’re one day old and already I can’t remember life without you.
August 3. I’ve decided to make my journal a letter to you. I will write in it every day. Even if it’s just a single word.
VICTOR flips through the rest of the journal. At a cursory glance he concludes that there is indeed an entry for every day until there is not. Most entries are only the date and a few words, but there is not one day she missed.
VICTOR reads a few entries at random.
(In the edited down version of the show, VICTOR’s reading comes to the audience in voice-over. The DIRECTOR splices in sepia-filtered images of a surrogate Rayn and her newborn. As Victor reads, the images—both still and moving—match what he says. For all intents and purposes the images onscreen augment the truth of what he reads.)
VICTOR
November 28. Snow. Your first. There will be so many firsts.
February 10. 103 fever. Held you all night. The most frightened I’ve ever been.
May 4. First step. Watch out world. Here he comes.
May 18. “Momma.” I swear you said it.
July 3. Asleep with dad. My beautiful boys in blue.
August 1. One year. Like that. Everything seems to be happening so fast.
He flips ahead in the journal.
(A grainy video of a mother and a young boy walking hand-in-hand on screen. They come to a school. She leans down, kisses the top of his head. He looks up, smiles, and waves as he turns and walks away.)
VICTOR
September 3. First day of school. You didn’t cry. You didn’t even look back. I was so proud. I was. And I shouldn’t say this—forgive me for saying this—but it broke my heart. I wanted you to cry. I wanted you to look back. I wanted you to turn and reach for me. But you didn’t. You didn’t reach for me. And from that moment I knew no matter what happened you’d be okay.
(A picture of a seven-year-old boy crossing a finish line, a Terry Fox t-shirt on. The street-lined crowd, cheering. The boy’s mother on her knees just beyond the finish, arms out, tears in her eyes, ready to hold him, ready to catch him should he fall, ready to clutch him to her chest and never let go.)
VICTOR
September 18. Your first Terry Fox Run. You insisted on running the whole thing. Alone. Like mother like son.
(Snow at night through a living room window. A boy with neatly combed hair in pajamas standing in front of a Christmas tree, presents all around. The father with a hand on the boy’s shoulder. For some reason the boy looks sad.)
VICTOR
December 24. Why does he bring me so much and some kids nothing at all? I don’t deserve it. This is what you said. Nine years old. I told you that you did, you did deserve it but I had no answer when you asked me why.
December 25. You hung your head when you came downstairs. You used to get so excited. The weight of the world already on you. I wish there was some way I could bear it for you longer. There’s a girl in my class, you told us. I want her to have what I have. Is that okay? Your father and I looked at each other and sort of laughed. What’s so funny? you said and I shook my head. Nothing. There’s nothing funny at all. I held you for a while and you said, Come on, let’s go. She said it’s always the worst on Christmas morning. We have to hurry. So we took some of the presents to the girl’s house but when we went to the door we heard screaming inside and the smacking sounds of someone being hit. You hung your head again and I hurried you back to the car. Your father intervened. He took the man down and then took him in. He’s good at what he does. It was the best present anyone could have given that little girl and her mother. When it was all over you looked at me and said, There’s no point in pretending, you know. All it does is hurt people.
VICTOR closes the journal again on his thumb and rattles the ice in his empty glass. The DIRECTOR leaves and returns with the bottle. She tops him up.
He takes a drink, opens the journal, flips ahead, and continues reading.
(A montage of sepia-filtered images again mirrors what he reads.)
VICTOR
February 14. I watched from the window. You walked across the street with a rose and a poem I knew you wrote but never showed me. She kissed your cheek when you gave her the rose and the poem. I wanted to open the window and scream out, Kiss her back, Vector. Kiss her back. You turned and came home and never said a word. Must be love.
June 8. I wanted to come watch but I could tell you wanted to do it on your own. When you came home I asked you how it went and you shrugged and said, Okay. It went okay. Your teacher phoned that night and said she didn’t have much experience with such things but she was pretty sure you were put on this earth to run. When I told you what she said, this is what you said: That’s silly, mom. No one is put on this earth for anything. And if they were it wouldn’t be to run.
The DIRECTOR smiles.
DIRECTOR
Wise beyond your years.
VICTOR closes the journal on his thumb, looks at her.
VICTOR
Cynical beyond my years.
She points the remote at the hidden camera and makes the gun sound. Pshew.
DIRECTOR
I think we have enough.
VICTOR nods.
DIRECTOR
Is it what you thought it would be?
VICTOR
For the most part.
DIRECTOR
It was touching. It revealed things about you as a character. There were some really good lines. But I thought you might uncover something you didn’t know. Some big secret. To be honest a big secret is what I was hoping for.
VICTOR
Sorry to disappoint.
DIRECTOR
Well. A story can’t be everything. It still works though. I’m glad we waited. It’ll be a great final show.
VICTOR takes a drink.
VICTOR
I have a secret. Actually, it’s not so much a secret as it is a lie.
The DIRECTOR folds her arms and waits.
VICTOR
It’s about Max. I should tell you. He didn’t kill Rayn.
The DIRECTOR squints.
VICTOR
He killed a surrogate for the man who killed her. And then he kil
led himself.
DIRECTOR
Why are you telling me this now?
VICTOR
I don’t know.
DIRECTOR
Yes, you do. You’re playing your final hand.
VICTOR
Maybe.
DIRECTOR
Okay. When I start the camera, say this: I hate to have to tell you this. But I lied. I lied about Max. He didn’t kill Rayn. Then go on to tell the story. By the way—nice hand.
VICTOR nods.
She points the remote control at the hidden camera. Pshew.
VICTOR
I hate to have to tell you this. But I lied. I lied about Max. He didn’t kill Rayn.
(All the trust snuffed out in an instant. If he could lie about something so integral to the story, what else wasn’t true?
But the data from Ghost says everyone kept watching. Not one single viewer signed out. There had been a breech of trust but the breech didn’t matter as much as the fact that the story had changed and they needed to know why.)
VICTOR
I’m sorry I lied, but I can explain.
He looks away from the camera, then back.
VICTOR
When I was fourteen I was the happiest kid alive. I hadn’t known loss. Max and Rayn were the perfect parents and I had the perfect life. But the day I won Nationals for the first time my perfect life changed forever.
(The DIRECTOR slips in a montage of images from past episodes that visually remind the members of that fateful day.)
VICTOR
Baron, my coach at the time, was over the moon.
(Baron has been highlighted in previous episodes. The audience knows VICTOR doesn’t like him—and so they don’t like him.)
VICTOR
He’d been training me for a year. He’d predicted my success on the track. Guaranteed it in fact. I was young. I bought in. I listened to him and did everything he said. But as I lay there at the finish line that day I watched him standing over me. Like I was his. Like he created me—
VICTOR glances at the DIRECTOR who is still sitting beside him. Then back at the camera.
VICTOR
—and I didn’t like it. ‘This is just the beginning,’ he said. ‘You wait. You’ll see.’ Like he knew. Like knowing and being right about what was to come was more important than what was to come itself.
I was conflicted. I was thankful for what he’d done but I didn’t want to be his puppet. I didn’t say anything. How could I? He’d done so much for me.
I should have though. I should have said something. In hindsight I’d always known something was off about him. Rayn never told me how she felt—she wouldn’t have wanted to influence me that way—but I knew. The way you know things about the people you’re closest to without ever having to hear them say it.
So it’s my fault. If Baron hadn’t been there that day at Nationals he wouldn’t have delayed us. We would’ve missed Michael Norman Boon. Life would’ve carried on. Rayn would still be here. And Baron was there because of me. So she died because of me.
He holds the journal up to the camera.
VICTOR
There’s something in here I’m afraid to read. If it says what I think it says it’ll confirm something I don’t want confirmed.
DIRECTOR
(offscreen)
Tell us, Victor. Tell us.
VICTOR
The day before I left Heron River to come out west Baron says to me, Did your mother ever tell you about me?
It sickened me. In an instant I knew what he meant and now he wanted to rewrite the story. He wanted to paint the two of them as teenagers in love who might have had a real shot had they met later in life, had the circumstances been more in their favour.
I knew the truth would be written somewhere in her journal. I couldn’t bear the thought of it, let alone the thought of reading it in her hand.
But now that it’s part of a story. Now that it’s not really her. Now that she’s become a character. Now that it matters not just to me.
VICTOR shows the camera Rayn’s journal, flips through the first part of it until the name Charlie Baron stops him.
(Again, the DIRECTOR finds images to accompany what VICTOR reads.)
VICTOR
March 3. Charlie Baron. Charlie Baron. Charlie Baron.
March 5. CB & RD. Always and forever.
March 8. C Bear. Chuckie B. Chas. Oh, Charlie. By any other name you’re just as sweet.
March 10. Went to see Breakfast Club. Held hands the whole time. He walked me home and kissed me in the driveway. Whispered he loved me. Like John Hughes was there himself directing.
March 31. Way too much to drink last night. First time ever. Head kills. Stomach still churning. Charlie took care of me though. Said not to worry, he was there. Said he’d always be there. So sweet. So sweet. Even held my hair when I puked in the ditch. So embarrassed right now. So embarrassed. If he calls I’m not home. I’m not home.
April 1. What a jerk. Phones and says he doesn’t think he can be with someone who doesn’t know how to hold her booze. Says he can’t get the image of me puking on his shoes out of his head. Said even love has its limits and lets me cry for a full minute before saying, Hey, got ya. April Fools. I hung up on him. Slammed the phone down. What a jerk. What an asshole. I’ll never forgive him. Never.
April 2. He stood outside my window like John Cusack and held a ghetto blaster over his head. Turns out never’s not even a day.
May 22. Paddled to a spot on the river away from all the houses. Took a blanket. A mixed tape I’d made. A six-pack. Made out for what seemed like hours. Like we always did. Then it got a little heavier. All our clothes came off. We were close. I took it in my hand—first time ever—and then he was done. I had no idea that would happen. He kept saying he was sorry. I kept telling him it was okay. I cleaned up and we paddled home without saying a word.
May 25. I can’t believe I haven’t heard from him. When I call, his mom answers and I can hear her put her hand over the phone. It’s muffled but I can hear her talking to him. She sighs and tells me he’s not home. I can tell she’s upset by it. By the lying. By us. She likes me. She’s told me more than once. I don’t get it. I don’t know what I did.
May 31. Today was the last day. I’m not calling again. Screw him. I didn’t do anything.
June 4. He came over and stood outside my window again with the ghetto blaster over his head. I don’t know why but I felt sick. When I went out to see him I crossed my arms and stood away from him like there was a wall between us. I asked him why he hadn’t called, why he pretended he wasn’t there when I called. He said he’d been busy. I nodded. I asked him what I did and he said I hadn’t done anything. It was him. It was all him. He said he was embarrassed about what had happened. Said he wanted it to be perfect and then he ruined it. I said, I told you it was okay. I wouldn’t lie. Why didn’t you believe me? I told him he should have just talked to me. He started to cry and I felt sick again. He told me he was sorry. Over and over again. It was awful. I told him it was fine but I didn’t move. Something had changed. I didn’t know what but it wasn’t the same. He stepped toward me and told me he loved me. He kissed me and I let him. But it wasn’t the same. Not even close. Ugh. It was awful. Everything about love is awful. I’m never falling in it again.
June 5. School’s almost done. I can’t believe it. I’m a little nervous about leaving, to be honest. I’ve never really been anywhere but Heron River. I’m excited though. Laurentian. Capital of the north. Actually, I can’t wait. It’s going to be so much fun. Charlie’s going to U of T for track. Which is where I was going to go but Sudbury’s the better choice for me. Especially all things considered. I hope he doesn’t get weird when I break it off. He has to see it coming. I’ve decided to do it after prom. Before the summer. Make a clean
break of it. He’ll be fine. Girls will love him. I did.
June 8. Charlie won Provincials. Which is a big deal. When he came back he said he dedicated the race to me. Corny but kinda cute. We had a great night. Almost like it was in the beginning. I bet he makes the Olympics one day. He’s so determined. That’s what I love(d) about him. I don’t know. It’s funny how feelings change. I don’t get it. I doubt I ever will. Does anyone? I guess that’s why they’re called feelings and not knowings.
June 14. Haven’t seen him at all outside of school since the night he got back. It’s like he’s avoiding me. Like he knows what’s coming and thinks he can control it not coming.
June 16. Last day of classes. Prom tomorrow night. He left me a note in my locker. ‘Pick you up at six.’ The ‘i’ in ‘six’ looked an awful lot like an ‘e’ with a dot over it. Three months ago it would’ve been cute. I’d have smiled. I’d have blushed. I’d have felt the flutter in my stomach. But not now. I felt sick. Tomorrow’s going to be awful. Awful.
June 20. It’s been three days and I can’t get any of it out of my head. The night was going alright—it was tolerable at least, considering—until we got to the after party where he drank like an animal. I should’ve left. I could’ve gotten a ride from someone. But I felt bad. Can you believe that? I felt bad. Anyway, we had a tent. Everyone had a tent. Things were assumed. Things were expected. It all seems so unreal when I think about it which I’m trying not to do. Like a scene from a movie or something. It keeps playing over and over and over in my head. God, will I ever not see it? Will I ever not feel it? I’ve had like twenty showers and I can’t get the feeling of him off me. He didn’t say a word the whole time. All I can hear is him breathing. It was awful. Awful. He kissed me afterwards and I let him. He touched my face and said he loved me. Maybe it was me. I was drinking too. Not like him, but still. Maybe he got the wrong idea. He must have thought I wanted to. He wouldn’t have done it otherwise. Would he? Anyway, I wish I could erase it. There’s got to be something you can take to erase it. I know this: I will never ever ever tell another living soul.
VICTOR closes the journal and looks at the floor between his feet, then straight into the camera.
