Westlake Soul

by Rio Youers

  This and more. A boat of memories sailing only tranquil waters. Just a regular kid, a regular family. And it reminded me how much I used to smile. We all did. The frickin’ happy family—like we lived on Sesame Street, or something. Only my life, or my death (eventually), will bring those smiles back. This in-between state is destructive in so many ways. I welcome the end of it. One way or another.

  So we watched home movies as darkness edged all red light from the sky. Niki moved to the sofa and sat with Mom and Dad and they hugged each other and wept, and sometimes they laughed or commented on this and that, but mostly they wept. Strange tears. Melancholic, yet touched with joy. I wondered if they were differently shaped. I took their love and pressed against it. Nobody saw my upper lip twitch. Almost a smile. Nobody saw the tear curve around my cheekbone, fall from my jaw.

  Dad had burned a CD of some of my favourite tunes. He’d done a pretty good job, too. A good selection of upbeat (AC/DC, The White Stripes, Kings of Leon) and suitably depressing (Coldplay, Radiohead, Leonard Cohen), along with a few classics from the likes of The Beatles and Hendrix. He turned off the TV and put this on, and for the next hour or so they shared their favourite Westlake memories. Again, a good selection, and I listened through alternating waves of pride, sadness, and joy. At one point, Niki got up from the sofa, crouched beside my chair, and held my hand. She squeezed my fingers, like she was a baby again. She shared her memories with a smile and I can’t recall a time that I was more proud of her. It crushed me that I couldn’t thank her for being my sister, and my friend. Mom and Dad danced to Cohen’s “Famous Blue Raincoat.” Dad had his arms crossed over Mom’s back, pulling her close. Mom’s head was on his chest, eyes closed and wet. Every now and then Dad would kiss the top of her head. They shared everything. Pain was huge and real, but in that moment, as Cohen sang, it was manageable, small enough to hold.

  “More,” Mom said, and grinned.

  “Another dance?” Dad asked.

  “Maybe later,” Mom said. “More.”

  Dad frowned. Niki, too.

  “Mooooore,” Mom said again. “Don’t you remember? That was how Westlake used to say Mom. It was his first word.”

  Dad nodded and kissed her. “Always Mommy’s little boy.”

  “He adored his Daddy, too.”

  “Gaaaah,” Dad said. “That’s how he said it—like he had something stuck in his throat.”

  I smiled inside, brought the memory forward: Gaah and More, their large faces hovering over me. The sun and the moon. Dad would always laugh because, when I was hungry, I’d point at Mom’s breast and say, “More . . . Mooooore.” So much time had passed. The world had shifted. I’d gone from being a regular kid with an infinite smile to a broken thing. A shell. But they were still Gaah and More—the sun and the moon—to me.

  The music stopped and there was silence. It stretched, almost to the point where it ached, and I knew what they were thinking without having to dip into their minds: Are we doing the right thing? This was not something they were seriously considering, and certainly nobody said it out loud. I wished I could put their minds at ease—assure them that I understood their decision, sympathized with their situation. My head flopped to the other side. Mom and Dad nodded. A small but resolute gesture. Niki broke the silence by blowing her nose.

  They kissed me goodnight. Niki first. High on the cheekbone. She squeezed my hand again. “I love you,” she said. Then Mom, her fingers in my hair, her kiss on the side of my mouth, and the muscles in my lips tried to react, reciprocate. “Sweet dreams, baby,” she said. Dad wheeled me through to the groovy room and lifted me into bed. He pulled the sheets up, tucked me in, then cupped my face in one hand. “You’re the son I always wanted, and the son I’ll always have. I’m so proud of you.” His kiss landed square in the middle of my forehead. He left my room, in tears again.

  Gaah, I thought.

  They talked for a little longer and I left them to it. I wanted to work but was too emotional. So I lay there and stared at the ceiling. Mostly gloom, but the door was half open so I could see a wedge of Surf City Blue in the light from the hallway. Niki eventually went to bed. I heard her computer ping and click as she checked her e-mail and updated her Facebook status. Then the bed springs bounced and she flicked off the light. Soon afterward, very softly, “Famous Blue Raincoat” again. Mom and Dad dancing, holding each other close.

  A beautiful, difficult evening. A celebration of a life I haven’t quite finished living. Everybody is sleeping now, including Hub. He moved into the living room when Mom and Dad went to bed—walked past my door without looking in.

  Silence.

  Almost.

  I can hear him. Dr. Quietus. Close by. He won’t come for me tonight; he just wants me to know he’s there. His laughter is the sound of breaking bones. His breathing is the wind in a narrow space. If I could walk to the window and pull open the blinds, I would see him. Floating in the dark. Hands pressed to the glass. Eyes like clock faces, watching me.

  18. Virtual Reality.

  I worked through the night—lit a fire in the motor cortex to see if I could excite some movement. The heat was incredible but I had no choice but to endure it. Sweating, coated in ashes, I tried to move my left thumb, then my left foot. Hours passed like grave soldiers marching rhythmically to battle, knowing they may never return. I thought—and how my heart leapt!—that I had succeeded when my left leg jerked beneath the sheets. Pain gripped my pelvis, drove screws to the bone. The movement was involuntary, though; I fanned the flames and tried again, but there was nothing.

  I succumbed to exhaustion at some deep time and slept motionless while the clock carried on ticking, as if my bed and I had been sculpted from the same slab of granite. My dreams were unkind. Parents with scissors. Headless babies. I was too tired to control them. I awoke to the light of midmorning and a truckload of pain. In my legs. My stomach. My shoulders. I stared at the walls. A muscle in my forearm twitched. It was 9:42 AM.

  Forty-eight minutes.

  Already so weak, already failing, and my tube hadn’t even been removed. I needed to recharge and get my emotions in check—ready myself for battle. I was tempted to release. To the moon again, or to some cold, clear mountain where I could roost with eagles and fly above the world in a startling M-shape. I was afraid, though, that if I released I would never come back. How easy, to admit defeat and reside in bliss until the end. But not an option. And so I did the next best thing. I daydreamed.

  Blissfully.

  Virtual reality: a computer-generated environment that uses software and hardware to deceive the user’s senses. But here’s the deal: reality can be a state of mind. To believe that what we are experiencing is real . . . to see, touch, and smell . . . to feel emotion. We experience this every night when we go to sleep and surrender to the subconscious. Dreaming is virtual reality. No computer required.

  I can control this reality. Another benefit of having flipped the iceberg, although one I rarely take advantage of. Dreams are like waves; they’re not always easy, but you just have to ride them. Daydreams are a little different—pedestals for fantasies. Here you can flex the muscle of your imagination, and indeed you should. Because of my familiarity with the id, I can achieve total absorption in my daydreams. I can touch, hear, taste . . . experience. Virtual reality, baby. And because my dreams had been so cruel, I decided to treat myself, to take a moment and recuperate here . . .

  Deep in a fairy tale forest. Golden pine needles underfoot and a thousand different trees trembling like cold men. “Where are you taking me, baby?” Yvette asks. I brush the hair from one side of her face and see that her eyes are blue, but then she steps toward me, into a subtly different light, and they shift to green. I blink, my lips pulled into half a smile. “How do you do that?” I ask, and Yvette shrugs. “That thing with your eyes?” She kisses me and steps back and does it again. Green to blue. I imagine her irises like kaleidoscope glass. “Where are you taking me?” she asks again. I tell her it�
�s a surprise, take her hand, and lead her through the woods. Through pillars of sunlight and sprays of wild grass. Petals and burrs cling to our clothes. Nature is the sound of breathing. We are barefoot. I look down and see tiny sequins embedded in the polish on her toenails. They flicker, blue and green, and I have to concentrate to keep my feet on the ground. Maybe Yvette senses this because she clutches my hand tighter, like a child clutching a balloon string. We carry on walking, scooping fragrant air into our lungs. Yvette occasionally remarks on the birds and flowers, all of burning colour, or copper-coated fawns standing in bars of light. “I feel like I’m in a Disney cartoon,” she says. We are walking so close together that her shoulder bumps my arm. I am taller than her. My muscles are firm and real. “We’re nearly there,” I say, and a moment later we hear the music. “A piano?” Yvette asks. “In the forest?” And I tell her that anything is possible. We walk a little faster, toward the music, and step at last into a clearing bordered by amazing trees. Sunlight strikes the raised lid of a grand piano (an 1896 Steinway Model B, just like Nadia’s, but I don’t tell Yvette this) that is being played by Alicia Keys. A melody to fit the mood. Delicate and dreamlike. Yvette gasps, covers her mouth with one hand, and looks at me in disbelief. I smile and point to the centre of the clearing, where a table for two has been set. Two roses in a crystal vase, champagne on ice, glimmering silverware. Johnny Depp is our waiter. He wears a white tuxedo and his hair is long and messy, like it was in WHAT’S EATING GILBERT GRAPE? “What’s going on here?” Yvette asks, and I reply, “I just want everything to be perfect.” We eat exotic foods until our mouths are sweet and stained, and then dance around the clearing as Alicia plays. Moonlight replaces sunlight. Shades of silver and white. Johnny’s suit glows. Then we break from the clearing and run like wood nymphs through the trees, discarding our clothes. We are naked when we arrive at the waterfall. It is so high, and so stained by light, that it appears to fall from the moon and into a pool that could be filled with mercury. Yvette dives in first. A perfect silhouette in the air. Barely a splash as she meets the cold water. I follow with equal grace, swim deep, my lungs filled with silver oxygen. I find Yvette and we shimmer, then break the surface together. The moon pours onto us. Through the trees, amid the high sound of falling water and night birds, we can still hear Alicia play. “Why did you bring me here?” Yvette asks. We are so close, I can feel her hair on my shoulder. “Because you’re good for me,” I reply. “And I need to heal . . . to get strong for what lies ahead.” She frowns and I kiss her before she can say anything else. We sink into the water and I imagine her closing those blue/green eyes, and in that moment I know that dreams are the reality that sustain life.

  And I needed this. I don’t care if it’s sentimental bullshit. I needed—more than ever before, and if only for a heartbeat—to exist in a world where everything was perfect, and where Yvette loved me. Imagine the cracked window repaired. Better yet, imagine it replaced with stained glass. A sheet of light and colour. You don’t just see through this window, you experience it. I could feel the pine needles beneath my feet. Smell the wild forest. Hear Alicia play. Taste the food that Johnny served. Yvette in my arms—in my arms. Holding her, kissing her. The moon pouring onto us. Her eyes changed from blue to green, then back again.

  Virtual reality. Just like dreaming.

  Healing.

  I snapped, regretfully, out of it, but stronger, into a reality that I would never—could never—invent. My broken body propped against pillows. My wall of achievement, gathering dust. The sound of Yvette’s Beetle pulling into the driveway.

  10:28 AM.

  19. Westlake: Unplugged.

  Dr. Harvey Dent (or Dr. Two-Face, if you prefer, and I think that seems more fitting) told my parents that I wouldn’t feel any pain while I slowly starved to death. He said I’d simply, and peacefully, fade away. No doubt this made Mom and Dad’s decision a mite easier. Anything that is easier is good for them, I suppose, and they’ll never know any different; I can’t contradict Dr. Two-Face by communicating the incredible pain I’m already feeling. My parents will witness my deterioration—they’ll listen to my scratchy breaths and wipe the blood from my lips—but all the time they’ll be unaware that I’m screaming inside.

  Dr. Two-Face is wrong. It hurts. So much. Already.

  I thought Yvette’s hair would still be wet from the pool, or that I’d smell the forest on her skin. It took a few moments to adjust to seeing her dressed in plain work clothes with her hair tied back. She looked in on me briefly before having coffee with my parents (Dad had taken the morning off work), where there was little of the small talk one might normally enjoy over a mug of joe. It was quickly to business. Dad and Mom confirmed the decision to remove my PEG tube, and Yvette told them what to expect in the coming days/weeks. I will become drawn and pale. Will lose body mass rapidly. My skin will dry and flake away. My hair could thin and fall out. There will be bleeding from my eyes and mouth as my mucous membranes dry up and crack. My breathing, toward the end, will be rapid and grating.

  “It’s going to be difficult,” Yvette said. “Upsetting.”

  “Dr. Kellerman told us that Westlake wouldn’t feel any pain.” Mom looked into her coffee. “He said it would be peaceful.”

  “I’m a trained healthcare professional, not a doctor,” Yvette said. “I can’t comment on Westlake’s condition, or whether or not he feels pain. It may well be peaceful for him, but it certainly won’t be for you.”

  “We understand,” Dad said.

  “And you know that his feeding tube can be reinserted,” Yvette said, “if you have a change of heart?”

  “Yes,” Dad said.

  Mom nodded.

  I’d spent some time thinking about my PEG tube, and how its removal was a symbolic gesture—an underscoring of my parents’ decision more than a discontinuance of life support. They didn’t need to remove it, after all; they could have left it dangling from my stomach and simply discontinued my feeds. But there’s a psychological edge to not having anything through which to feed me (even though, as Yvette said, the tube could be reinserted at any point). Removing it cemented their decision. But more, it stated that they didn’t believe I would recover. The equivalent of a trainer throwing in his boxer’s towel.

  I’m still fighting, though, despite it being hard. Probably impossible. And yet, no harder than seeing my parents lose hope. I admit to a moment’s panic—assailing their minds in an effort to divert their course of action. Forget empathy and understanding. Disregard what I said about needing a deadline. I leapt first into Dad’s mind and directed my flashlight through a fog of ones and zeroes. Dad, it’s me, Westlake . . . don’t do this. Please don’t give up on me. . . . I heard my words echoing off his wall. That insurmountable barricade of reason. He frowned, as if he were trying to remember something, and swirled the dregs of his coffee. Nothing more. I recalled the time they’d forgotten about me—left me on the rear deck as night fell. I’d rapped on Dad’s mind then and gotten a similarly vague response. It was the same now; I was left outside and night was falling. I flowed then into Mom’s mind, screaming her name, knowing she wouldn’t hear me. Ever get the feeling someone is watching you? That’s what Mom felt. She looked up from her coffee, glanced over her shoulder.

  “What is it?” Dad asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  I slipped from their locked-down minds and returned to my mountain. A sheer, demanding climb.

  “Okay,” Yvette said.

  Mom and Dad stayed in the kitchen, silent, clasping hands, while Yvette removed my tube. It only took thirty seconds. There was no melancholy soundtrack. No angry mob protesting outside, waving placards with LET WESTLAKE LIVE emblazoned on them. It was all rather unspectacular. Yvette merely snapped on her gloves and pulled the tube from my stomach (excruciating pain as the bumper securing the tube from inside passed through the stoma, but I didn’t even flinch). There was a spurt of blood and gastric fluid that Yvette quickly wiped away. She t
hen covered the open hole with gauze and surgical tape, and that was it. Job done. She disposed of the detritus, and I looked at her as the pain (all too slowly) faded. It struck me as cruel that she should be so beautiful—that she had gone from starring in my virtual reality, a source of strength and inspiration, to being the one who had finalized my parents’ loss of hope. It would have been easier if she’d looked like a wicked stepmother.

  Okay, that’s not fair. My parents—following numerous consultations with specialists—had requested Yvette perform a duty as a healthcare professional, and she had done so. Nothing wicked about that. But I couldn’t get over her detachment. This was the same woman who had touched my trophies, rubbed calamine lotion into my burned skin, and trailed her finger through the strip of hair beneath my bellybutton. Always with such compassion. Everybody thinks he is broken, but he is still intact, she had said to her mother. Yet she had discontinued my life support with cold efficiency. She hadn’t even looked me in the eye.

  I know that such detachment is necessary, but I wonder how much of the pain I felt when she removed my PEG tube was emotional. It had burned, and hurt more than I thought it would. Also, despite my gift for perfect recollection, Yvette is drawn differently when I think about those thirty seconds now. Her softness is blurred. Her eyes are blank, neither blue nor green. This is my doing, of course. My emotion. I appear determined to soften my disappointment by recreating her as Atropos. A woman of grim duty who, with her abhorred shears, severs the thread of life.

  And really, what was I expecting? That melancholy soundtrack? Her tears falling on my chest, warm and fat, like summer rain?

  I should learn to keep fantasies in my mind.