Rehab Run

by Barbra Leslie

  “Twisted,” I said approvingly. I was driving Laurence to the Valley from the airport. Mary had loaned me her Mustang.

  “You’re a terrible driver,” Laurence said. He attempted to stretch his long legs. “When did that happen?”

  “I haven’t driven a stick since I was eighteen,” I said. “I’m getting the hang of it.” Of course at that minute I managed to pop the clutch and momentarily stall us on the highway. Luckily, the only vehicle in sight was probably half a mile behind me.

  “Does anyone actually live in this province?” Laurence wanted to know. “Seriously. Where’s the traffic? It should be rush hour.” Laurence lived in Manhattan and worked in television. He didn’t know how to be around quiet for very long.

  “It was like this back home, you may recall.” We had grown up in very rural Maine, and often the only vehicles on our back roads were logging trucks.

  “It’s creepy.” Laurence had never liked rural living.

  “It’s refreshing,” I said. I felt protective of the area already. “You can breathe here.”

  “I breathe just fine on the Upper West Side.” Laurence cracked the window and lit a cigarette. “You said Mary doesn’t mind if I smoke in her car, correct?”

  “Correct.” Every New Yorker talks about Central Park as though it’s the be-all and end-all for green space. They probably found severed hands every other day in there. There was probably a whole police unit dedicated to following up on severed limbs found in the park. There should probably be a Law & Order: Central Park Body Parts franchise. Note to self: Call Dick Wolf.

  But Laurence and I hadn’t talked about why he was here yet. We’d smiled and hugged at the Halifax airport as though we hadn’t seen each other in a lifetime, when in fact we had all spent New Year’s together at our brother Skipper’s place in Maine.

  “You look good, Banany,” Laurence said. I hated people staring at me as I drove, so I gave him the finger. “Filled out a bit. Skin looks better.”

  “Clean living,” I said. “Watch the road.”

  “You’re the driver,” he said. “Why should I watch the road?”

  “Just do it.” Laurence obligingly faced forward and we drove in silence for a good five minutes. It was nice. Laurence was the only Cleary who knew how to keep his mouth shut. It was very restful. He patted my knee and started to sing George Michael’s “Faith.” We always sang together. I liked singing with Laurence. He didn’t make fun of my lack of any tonal sense, and he sung well enough that he made me better.

  We drove in silence for another minute or so. “How’re the twins?” I said. I knew Laurence had been to Toronto recently to spend time with Darren and our nephews.

  “In fine fiddle,” he said. “If a bit…”

  “Fucked up?” And why not. Their mother was dead. They had been kidnapped by a crazy woman who looked like me, who claimed to be me, and they had watched both her and their Uncle Jack die in front of them. They were bound to have scars that would never heal.

  “Darren was absolutely meant for this,” Laurence said. “Full-time unclehood. They love him and actually seem to respect him at the same time, which is…”

  “Fantastic. Yeah,” I said. “It is.”

  “Surprising, I was going to say. But yes, fantastic.” I cut my eyes at Laurence.

  “Why are you here, really?” I checked my rear view and the same car had been behind me since the airport. Other than a few vehicles in the other direction, I hadn’t encountered anyone else heading north from the airport.

  “Thought I’d give you a hand,” Laurence said. When I didn’t laugh, he said, “Too soon?”

  “Why aren’t you staying with Dickie?”

  “Do the words compost toilet mean anything to you, Danny? Dickie has embraced country life in a way that in my view is totally unnecessary.” Laurence lit another Marlboro. “Actually I might. He asked me to, but it sounds like he’s become quite a hermit out there.”

  “Where is it? His cabin?”

  “Somewhere called Ferryman Lake.” Laurence enjoyed smoking so much that it made me want to buy a carton of Marlboro and re-commit. “Very Thoreau, if you ask me.” He took a long drag. “And guess what? There are no ferries on this lake.” He said it with such glee, the big city boy, finding everything quaint in the country.

  “Hmm,” I said. “I didn’t know you and Dickie were still in such close contact.”

  “As a rule, we’re not. But he knows my sister is a resident of his centre, and she happened to be the one who found the, you know, severed hand yesterday.” I could feel, more than see, him looking at me. “You okay there, Banany?”

  “Right as rain,” I said. I cleared my throat. “The cop on the case was asking me about whether this could have anything to do with me. You know, since the mailbox was on my regular running route. If I was meant to see it.”

  Laurence shook his head. “For once, I don’t think this is about you. I think it’s about Dickie.”

  “Why would it be about Dickie?” I didn’t wish any harm to Dickie, but I felt a rush of relief. Please God, don’t let this be about me. Let me just get well, in peace. Let my loved ones be safe.

  “I don’t think I should go into this with you, Danny.” He patted my head while I was driving, which he knows drives me nuts. Laurence took up a lot of room, even sitting down. “You’ve been through enough, little girl,” he said. “I’m just here to lend a little moral support to Dickie, and to see my wee little sister.”

  “Wee,” I said. “Ha. I’m five-ten, Laurence. I’m practically a genetic mutant.”

  “What does that make me then?” he said.

  “A science experiment gone wrong,” I said. We smiled at each other.

  “God, you’re a shitty driver,” he said. “Pull over.” Laurence had a Porsche in New York, which was ludicrous for a man of his size. Especially a gay man of his size.

  “Screw that, homes,” I said. “This is Mary’s car, and she entrusted it to me. Besides, we’re on the highway. I’m not pulling over.”

  Laurence motioned to the empty road. “Banany. This is not a highway. This is a country road. I’m half expecting to see a horse and buggy around the next corner. The Amish probably take this road when they’re not in a rush to get somewhere.”

  I looked in my rear view. The car was still behind me, and I wasn’t exactly exceeding the speed limit. It was dusk, and I’ve always hated driving at dusk.

  “Yes, it’s still there,” Laurence said lightly. “Pull over.”

  I ignored him. “So where am I taking you, anyway? There’s a hotel a few miles from Rose’s. The Old Orchard Inn. It’s supposed to be nice.”

  “I reserved a room at the Hillbilly Hotel, or the Hickville Inn, or something like that. But after we take you back to the nuthouse, maybe I’ll go stay at Dickie’s after all.” He was drumming his fingers on the dashboard. “Danny, please pull over. I’m not kidding.”

  I knew not to argue with that voice, and I wanted to make sure the car behind us would zip past and out of my mind. I didn’t want to be thinking like this again, looking over my shoulder and seeing danger everywhere. I really wanted to leave that behind. I wanted to believe that the hand had nothing to do with me, nothing to do with anyone but a crazy person wanting to scare a bunch of dopers. Maybe the loony had even chopped off his own hand. Stranger things, etc.

  I could feel the tension in Laurence’s body as I signalled and slowly pulled over by the side of the road. It was nearly dark, and the area all around us was forest.

  “Wait,” he said, after I’d stopped and put my hazards on. “Wait.”

  I found myself holding my breath. I looked at the glove compartment, wondering if Mary kept anything handy like a flashlight, or a flare gun.

  I couldn’t tell if I was catching my brother’s nervous caution, or if it was coming from me.

  The car behind us slowed, and I could see it was a pickup truck, painted canary yellow. An old model by the looks of it. Laurence had his
hand on the door handle.

  “What the fuck,” I started to say, but as Laurence opened his door, the truck picked up speed and zoomed past us. I tried to see the driver, but couldn’t.

  “Tinted windows?” I said. “On that piece of crap?”

  “I’m driving,” Laurence said. I got out and changed places with Laurence, and waited silently for him to fold himself in and adjust the seat and the mirrors. I didn’t know exactly what he was thinking, but I could tell I wasn’t going to like it. “Buckle up.”

  Within seconds the Mustang was peeling out and going like a bat out of hell. We finally passed a couple of cars going the other way, probably heading to Halifax or the airport, and the highway wasn’t separated here. At our rate of speed, if the yellow truck was going the speed limit or even a bit over, we would have caught him up by now.

  “So he’s taken an exit,” I said. “We passed two.”

  “Do we stay on this highway now, into the Valley?”

  “I think so. I don’t remember. Just follow the signs, it’s pretty simple.” The mood in the car had changed. “Do you really think he was following us?”

  “Don’t know,” he said.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Unlikely,” Laurence said.

  “So do you want to slow down a bit? This is Mary’s car, you know. She was nice enough to lend it to me.”

  “I like it,” Laurence said. He looked over at me. “Think she’d rent it to me while I’m here?” I laughed until I saw he was serious.

  “You’re a freak,” I said. “Obviously.” But I sighed, and said, “We’ll ask her. Satisfied?”

  “Thanks, Banany.”

  We chatted about nothing for the rest of the drive. I talked about my new passion for making collages. Laurence told me about his new trust-fund intern and her ridiculous shoes. He said she seemed to think she was working at Vogue.

  “You know, I could just buy you a car for while you’re here,” I said. “Then when you leave I could use it.” Jack’s will was still in probate, but the executor, someone from his bank, had advanced me a significant sum against it. I hadn’t really touched much of it. I didn’t know how to spend money properly anymore. Postcrack, that is. I knew I’d be putting a large amount into trust for the twins, and I was paying through the nose for my sojourn among the afflicted at Rose’s. I’d sent some to each of the sibs, saying I’d send more later. Maybe a trust for them too? Some kind of family compound somewhere? But I hadn’t so much as bought myself a t-shirt. I figured a brain free from crack would probably make better decisions. I wanted to do Jack proud, and I wanted to look for a charity that helped foster kids. After all, if it weren’t for Jack’s evil foster dad and the hold he’d had over his sick family, Jack would be alive today.

  “Danny, if you want to buy a car, buy a car. You can afford it, you know. But so can I,” Laurence said. “So don’t buy one for me. Buy one for yourself.” I let that sit for minute. “But do the world a favor and don’t buy a stick.”

  “I want an orange car,” I said.

  “Orange.”

  “Like a Creamsicle, my brother.”

  “Then we will find you a Creamsicle car. In the meantime, maybe your Mary will still rent this to me.”

  We got off the highway and drove through Wolfville, a pretty university town filled with cute pubs and funky pizza joints and places that advertised their commitment to ethically traded coffee. It was a beautiful night, late May, and there were still students around. The summer session would have just started.

  Laurence rolled down the window. “Oh my God,” he said. “Smell that air!”

  “I know, right?” It smelled like verdant green and sweet crisp apples and a bit of wood smoke, with a hint of seawater. “They should bottle that smell.”

  We drove past the Acadia University campus, which was so beautiful and stately and serene, it looked like a movie set.

  “I’ve been running in the mornings,” I said quietly, looking out the window.

  Laurence squeezed my knee again. “You’ll be able to do it again, Danny. Just not yet. Not until we catch the psycho who delivered that hand.”

  “We? Are you high? This has nothing to do with me, remember? I am not going after any more psychopaths. I’ve really had my fair share. Fuck, Laurence.” I was trying not to cry. I was tired. I hadn’t slept well. I told myself that I wasn’t going to get into that crying business again. I wanted crack. Or at least a glass of wine. Or a bottle.

  “The royal We, Banany, not we as in you and me,” Laurence said. He hated tears. “The fine law enforcement officials of this fair town.”

  “What in the name of fuckville are you hiding from me?”

  He shook his head. “I’m just worried about Dickie,” he said. “He sounded a bit paranoid the last couple of times we’ve talked. Not himself. Nothing for you to worry about.” He leaned back and with his left arm resting on the open window of the Mustang, looked as much at his ease as I had ever seen him. So I relaxed.

  We drove past a duck pond and continued along the Evangeline Trail, named for Longfellow’s heroine. In 1755, the French settlers around the Bay of Fundy, the Acadians, were kicked out of the area by the mean Brits, and they went south and settled in Louisiana and started calling themselves Cajuns.

  “Your grasp of history is breathtaking,” Laurence said when I explained this to him. We were driving by the beautiful stately homes on the outskirts of town, heading to Grand-Pré, to Rose’s. “You should really give lectures.”

  “Maybe I will,” I said. “I’ll go on the circuit. Bill Clinton makes a pretty penny that way, I’ve heard.”

  The spring night had closed in, and it couldn’t have been more perfect. I closed my eyes and put my hand lightly on top of Laurence’s, on the gear shift. The windows were open, and I was where I was supposed to be. I was clean. I was with family. The worst was behind me. I would honor Ginger’s memory, and Jack’s, and help take care of the boys, and do the right thing, as often as I possibly could.

  “This must be it,” Laurence said. He pulled up the long driveway. There was one lone police car at the end of the drive, who stopped us. He smiled and shone a flashlight into the car.

  “Evening,” he said. “Ask you folks what your business is here tonight?”

  “I’m a resident here,” I said. “I just picked my brother up from the airport. He’s a friend of Dickie’s,” I explained. I had learned enough in fifteen days to know that I could refer to just “Dickie” and everyone around here would know who I meant.

  “Oh, good enough,” the constable said. “Hey, you’re the one Mary loaned the Beast to,” he said. “She’s been chewing on the furniture, wanting to get home. Dixie’s sick.” Dixie was Mary’s bloodhound, and it charmed me that he would assume I would know that. Life in a small town, I guess.

  “His plane was late.”

  Laurence thanked him, a bit abruptly I thought, but then again I had gotten used to Nova Scotia manners, which dictated that if someone wanted to chat, you chatted, no matter what.

  “Great security,” Laurence said, peering at the buildings as he approached the main house. “Barney Fife back there.”

  “He probably recognized me from yesterday,” I said. “And we’re driving Mary’s car.”

  “Still.” Laurence drove around to the small parking lot at the back of the main house, and I could see the glow of a cigarette by the back door.

  “Shit, Mary’s waiting. Damn,” I said. She was crossing over to us, her high heels catching in the gravel as she walked.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry, she’s home from the vet,” Mary called out before I could say anything.

  “What are you, psychic?” I said.

  “Colin has been telling everybody about Dixie being sick. Colin’s my nephew, didn’t you know that?”

  “No,” I started to say, but Mary was shaking Laurence’s hand.

  “Mary Dowe,” she said. “Dickie will be so gl
ad to see you, Larry.”

  I winced. Nobody called Laurence Larry. But there it was, a huge smile on his face. “Call me Laurence, my family all tell me I’m too tall to be a Larry,” he was saying. Since when, I wanted to know, but I also knew when to keep my mouth shut. “Is Dixie going to be okay?” Laurence also had an aversion to dogs. Clearly, I had entered bizarro world.

  “Oh, hell yes,” she said. “Got sprayed with some porcupine needles, but that’ll teach her, I guess. Not the first time though. She’s not too bright, but we love her.”

  “Funny,” said Laurence. “That’s how we feel about Danny.” Mary laughed and punched his arm, and the two of them were automatic best friends. Laurence lit a cigarette and the two of them chatted as I wandered slowly to the back door. I sat on the swing on the back porch and reached for the pack of cigarettes I kept under a lone red rubber boot that sat there, and lit one with the lighter that was tucked inside. I was vaguely trying to quit, but wasn’t being too hard on myself with it. Even Dr. Singh told me not to go overboard with worrying about perfection. Quitting crack, being clean, staying clean – that was enough of a challenge.

  I looked around. The place was so peaceful, at least this side, facing the water, where you couldn’t see the news vans. We spent more of our time where I was sitting now, by the dorms, which housed all twelve residents, a couple of common rooms – one of which had a ridiculously large TV with a projection screen for movies – and laundry facilities. And the small residents’ kitchen, for late-night snacks and card games. There was a carriage house that served as the dining hall. On the other side of that was a newer building, an add-on, which housed the yoga studio and Wellness Centre, where we got our blood pressure and other vitals checked every other day by a very cheerful male nurse. Upstairs in that building were a couple of offices, I presumed. Everything was clean and tasteful and relaxing.

  I smoked my cigarette, taking in the evening air. Forty feet away my brother and a woman who was becoming a friend were joking around next to the Mustang, and I could hear Laurence trying to talk her into renting it or selling it to him. Inside the house I could hear people laughing in the kitchen, and upstairs through one of the windows it sounded like someone was praying aloud. There was so much peace in the air, I couldn’t imagine leaving this place. I swung my legs and smoked my cigarette and imagined what it would be like to live here, full-time, in this place. Go for runs and stay clean and healthy and maybe buy or build a house where my family could come and stay. I could read books and volunteer and research ways to make my money work in the world. Maybe I would chop wood and start a garden. Grow my own vegetables, and learn to bake bread. I looked at my hands, white under the porch light, and had a moment of pure peace. It felt like a revelation.