Westlake Soul

by Rio Youers

  Then he was gone. I heard his synergy green Camaro roar into the distance. He’d left rubber on our driveway.

  No other visitors. They may come in the next few days, but I doubt it. Aunt Janey lives in Poughkeepsie, NY, and I haven’t seen her since I was eleven years old. She and Mom don’t see eye to eye. Grandma Soul—my one living grandparent—has been detached from reality for a long time. She’s not senile, she’s just . . . well, out there. She lives on an intentional community (read: hippie commune) in Florida, and has made a small fortune selling bottles of ocean air labelled as Good Vibrations (ingredients: peace and love). Dad e-mailed to tell her that I’m not long for this world. Grandma Soul replied with a link to an Ojibwa prayer on YouTube, and an assurance that a motherly hand was poised to carry my spirit to the earth’s energy stream. She added that she wouldn’t be making the long trip north to say goodbye in person, but would send a rainbow in her stead. And wouldn’t you know it, that rainbow appeared. Dad wheeled me onto the rear deck and we watched it fade from the sky together.

  “That’s a gift from Grandma Soul,” Dad assured me.

  Just a coincidence, but it was sweet that he believed it.

  Goodbye. Such a simple word, and so often delivered without feeling. Almost without thought. An automatic response, like an ATM flashing, THANK YOU HAVE A NICE DAY! It’s because, when saying goodbye, we invariably assume that we will see that person again. Some time. Some place. But the word has different power when we know that it truly is goodbye—when that person is leaving our life forever. A final goodbye is a weight that drags and pulls.

  It’s not easy. Mom, Dad, and Niki have voiced it in different ways. Knowing that I can go at any time, they have each ventured into the groovy room for some final Wes-time—to say adios should they not get another chance.

  “I think I want to be a singer,” Niki said. “Fuck getting a regular job. That’s so not for me. And I don’t want kids because they just get hurt—at some point they all get hurt—and I can’t handle that. So I’m totally going to learn the guitar, and I’m going to be a singer. A real singer. Like that woman Dad likes. Joni someone.”

  Mitchell, I said.

  “You know . . . sings that song about the parking lot.”

  Big Yellow Taxi, I said.

  She sat in the Mork chair, swinging her legs, twisting her hair. She’s seventeen but every time I look at her—I swear to God—she’s still a little girl. My kid sister. Breaks my heart, because I want to be her big brother again. Wrap my arms around her. I want to be cool in her eyes, and protect her from the world.

  “I don’t care about being famous,” she continued. “That’s not what it’s about. I’ll write songs with pretty melodies and communicate what I’m feeling inside. All the hurt. The disappointment. I’ll play bars and clubs, maybe a few folk festivals. Record an album that doesn’t sell. Then I’ll totally develop a drinking problem, go to rehab, and probably convert to Buddhism.”

  She looked out the window, where the leaves burned. She wiped her eyes with her fingers before the tears could fall. Her eyelashes flickered.

  “I’ve got it all planned,” she said. “It’s going to be awesome.”

  I prefer to imagine a future with Niki in rhapsody. Not taking the Amy Winehouse route, but being strong and confident, flourishing in her intelligence and beauty. Not childless, either. Niki would make an incredible mother—all that love—and would accept, even embrace, that children get hurt. But they heal, too. They learn.

  Hurt strengthens the wall.

  My shallow stomach trembled. The dry skin in the crook of my left arm cracked and seeped.

  Niki sang:

  For one more chance to hear you laugh,

  To see you smile, watch you surf,

  Brother, nothing could stop me,

  No man. No god.

  If I could take your pain, I would.

  Better than Angus Young’s guitar pick. Better than Grandma Soul’s rainbow.

  So much love. It towered.

  “That’s all I’ve got so far,” she said. “I wrote it this morning. It’s called ‘Brother.’ It’ll be the first track on the album.”

  She fell silent. Grey light played on her face and her eyelashes seemed too bright.

  I couldn’t say anything. Not even inside.

  Dad didn’t sing, but he still gave me something: a confession. It had been heavy on his heart for a number of years. I suppose he thought telling someone would help ease the load—it usually does—and, perhaps, dilute the sin. A reverse deathbed confession. Who better to share your transgression with than someone who will—very soon—take it to the grave?

  “To this day your mother has no idea how close I came to leaving her—leaving you all.” He was wearing his tan leatherette waistcoat, which he loved because he said it was like something Dennis Hopper would wear in his prime. Only, with his sandy hair and beard, it made him look like Dr. Zaius from Planet of the Apes. “It was a long time ago. Just after Niki was born. Your mother had a bad case of postpartum depression. Real bad. We also had financial concerns. So I spent more time at work, partly to steer clear of your mother, but mostly to put a bigger number on my paycheque. This meant spending more time with my co-workers. One in particular. Rosemary Fuller.”

  You dirty son of a bitch, I said.

  “Twenty-six years old and beautiful. Jesus, she looked like Cameron Diaz, I’m not kidding. We were involved for about seven months. I fell in love with her—couldn’t help myself. Our relationship developed and got to the point where I had to make a decision: Rosemary, or my family.”

  Jesus Christ, Dad.

  “Your mother had no idea all this was going on,” he said, and shrugged. “She was so deep into her depression that she hardly even noticed me. Rosemary, meanwhile, was showing me all kinds of affection, which made my decision easier. I was all set to pack my bags, and then something happened that turned me around—made me realize how stupid I’d been, and how close I’d come to losing it all.”

  I looked at him, sitting in the Mork chair with his head hanging. The lip of the seat was curled upward, lifting his feet off the floor. He looked like a child.

  “Your first word was Mom—or More, as you used to say. Niki’s was Daddy. And she spoke it so clearly. Her little eyes would light up. Daddy-Daddy. The most perfect sound in the world.” He stopped, lifted his head, cracked a sad smile. “First time she said it . . . man, it was like living in a dark house, and suddenly all the windows are thrown open and the light comes streaming in. You feel it on your skin. You taste it. Inhale it. I kissed her a thousand times. I kissed your mom. And you, too. Then I got in the car and drove to Rosemary’s place. I told her that I’d made my decision—that, in the end, it wasn’t even difficult: I was staying with my family.”

  Dad looked at the blue ceiling. He was silent for a long time, but he hadn’t quite finished. There was something beneath the confession. I could sense it bubbling away. A deeper guilt. He shook his head and picked his cuticles, indicating how nervous he was. When he lowered his gaze, twin tears spilled from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, the same shape, the same speed.

  “So that was that. Rosemary went her way—hating me—and I went mine.” He ran one sleeve across his face, childlike again, then went back to picking his cuticles. “I went into denial. Buried the whole affair. Moved on. But ever since your accident I’ve been having . . . dark thoughts.”

  I groaned and ran my sand-dry tongue along the backs of my teeth. My jaw jutted. A loose hair tickled my cheek.

  “Karma,” Dad said. He looked at me and then he broke. I watched it happen, as if in slow motion, his chest shaking, face taut, teeth clenched. He was like a man carrying a thousand items precariously balanced, each depending on the placement of the other, and the moment he dropped one, the rest would fall. It happened. Something inside him crashed. He curled like a leaf and wept out the pain he had carried for so long.

  It’s tough to see your father crying. The
world cracks and never fully heals. No matter how many times you see it . . . never gets easier.

  I stayed in my body. Didn’t hold him. Didn’t want his pain.

  “Karma,” he said again, wiping his eyes. “I believe in it. Always have. And I wonder if what happened to you is my fault—that the universe is paying me back by taking my son. Maybe it’s just dark thoughts, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in some way responsible.”

  Bullshit, I said. It doesn’t work like that.

  “Not because I fell in love with another woman,” Dad said. “But because I never told your mother. We’re supposed to share everything, and this is something I’ve kept from her all these years. It’s grown inside me, spreading this . . . this self-loathing. But here’s the weird thing—what I keep thinking about: I was going to tell her. I planned it, Wes. A couple of years ago now. I took her out for a meal, a few glasses of wine. You know, soften her up so I could come clean on the drive home. Just trying to make it as painless as possible. Only I couldn’t do it. I reasoned—gutless fucker that I am—that it would be easier to live with my self-loathing, than to live without your mom’s trust, and for her to think less of me.”

  He ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath that, to me, sounded blessedly clear. No hissing or chafing. No dry skin flaking from his lips.

  “So I didn’t do it.” His mouth tightened and he screwed his eyes shut, as if he’d swallowed something bitter. “Karma, Wes; the very next day we got the call about your accident. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Your mom thought it was grief, and it was, but it was also guilt.”

  I sighed inside. Like Grandma’s rainbow, I said to him. Just coincidence.

  “I have to live with this for the rest of my life,” he said. “Even if I tell your mom about Rosemary, I still have to carry this dark thought—this terrible idea that what happened to you was my doing.”

  Good things happen, Dad, I said. Bad things, too. That’s not karma; it’s life.

  “I know you can’t hear me, Wes.” His eyes flashed from me to the window. Wan light and golden leaves. “But the universe can. And I want it to know that I’m sorry. I’ve paid more than one man should. Now I just want the pain to go away.”

  And I could see that pain. The guilt, too. Stacked inside him, strong and tall, like the love inside Niki, the hate inside Wayne. He hopped out of the Mork chair, shuffled to my bedside, took my hand. His tan waistcoat was streaked with tears. He pressed my fingers to his lips. I felt them move as he muttered the word sorry over and over again.

  Then he said goodbye.

  These final moments—in all likelihood—with my family. Secrets and sins. Love and pain. So many colours. Maybe that’s what Grandma Soul meant when she said she was sending me a rainbow. She has always been in tune with spirituality. With the universe. She must have known I’d see sunshine and rain.

  Loveable old hippie. I bet if I astral projected to that commune in Florida, she would feel me. Chimes would tinkle. She’d grab her guitar and sing, “Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In.”

  Hub hasn’t said goodbye yet. He’s paused at the door a few times, debating whether or not to come in, but each time he’s carried on walking. Dude can’t face it, and I feel for him, I really do.

  Mom’s goodbye was the hardest. I’m her little boy, after all. We’ve always been close, and the bond is strong. I thought, for that reason, she would keep it brief: a tearful kiss, and gone. But no, she rode her pain with the strength and fight that I inherited. She brought rainbows.

  My eyes are still burning. She blinded me.

  “Here,” she said, indicating the cradle of her arms. “I held you here when you were seconds old, and kept you there. Never wanted to let you go. You were pure and perfect. My heart ached—it ached—with love for you. And still does to this day.”

  She didn’t sit in the Mork chair. She perched on the edge of my bed and curled her hand around mine.

  I love you, Mom, I said. I don’t know how long I can keep fighting, but—

  “You’ve never let me down,” she said. “Sure, a little mischievous from time to time, like any boy, but your heart was strong and kind, even at such a young age. I remember you giving up your seat on the bus for an elderly lady. Nobody asked you to. You just did it. Six years old. The lady smiled and sat next to me—whispered in my ear that I’d raised a prince. I almost floated off that bus with pride. But that was you, Westlake. Considerate and caring. It came naturally to you.”

  Mom didn’t look away from me. Not once. Dad had picked his cuticles and stared out the window. Niki had looked out the window, too, and Darryl at his crisp white socks. But Mom’s eyes remained fixed on mine.

  She didn’t cry, either.

  She was strong. Unbelievable.

  Inspiring.

  “You excelled at everything you turned your hand to,” she said, brushing hair from my forehead. “So gifted. So determined to succeed. Your enthusiasm was breathtaking, and this may sound strange, but you inspired me to do more, to work harder. I always thought that children should follow the examples set by their parents . . . not the other way around.”

  Mom wasn’t crying, but I can’t say the same. My eyes blinked, clicked dryly, but inside I bawled, everything shaking and leaking. Perfect memories cascaded—my every achievement recalled. And for each of them, Mom was there. Dad, too. Both proud, but there was something extra in Mom’s expression. A resonance. A shine. Because I grew inside her, and am connected to her in a way I’ll never be to Dad. Much as I love him—and it’s a big love—the bond between mother and child is, at its purest, god-like.

  I remember what she’d said to Dr. Thinker when he told her I would be a vegetable for the rest of my life: I don’t believe that. She’d flapped a hand at my CT scan images, where my brain looked as if it had been flooded with black ink. My baby is still in there. I can see him. I can feel him.

  She had brushed all the hair from my forehead, but continued to make the motions, drawing her fingers across my brow, behind my ear. So soothing.

  I’ve tried, Mom, I said. My dry eyes clicked again and my Adam’s apple bobbed. A stone wrapped in leather. I’ve worked so hard, but I just can’t find a way out.

  “I was certain you’d find a way out,” Mom said, and I felt that invisible line between us glow. I thought it would overheat and break with a little doink! sound, like a light bulb blowing. “No doubt in my mind. Because no challenge has ever been too great for you. I kept expecting to come in here one day to find you sitting up in bed, blinking your eyes brightly. And as crazy as it sounds, I still think that might happen. It’s illogical, I know. Wishful thinking. But I can’t get it out of my head.”

  Her fingers trailed down the side of my face, to my jaw, where the bone pressed against the skin and turned it a bluish colour. She smiled, and where I had seen Niki’s love, and Dad’s guilt and pain, I saw in Mom an array of emotion. I’m not sure if my superhero power detected it, or if dehydration caused me to hallucinate, but her biofield was overwhelming. Love in abundance, of course. But pride and faith, too. It soaked me. Painted my eyes. I flowed through her, and saw within a wall of impossible strength.

  She sat with me for a long time, in silence, stroking my face. I wept and wrapped my soul around her, feeding on her strength as I had in the womb.

  I’m going to miss you, Mom.

  She kissed my face. My fingers. One after the other.

  And I’m scared . . . so scared.

  I heard the wind outside—imagined it cold-edged as afternoon tilted to early evening. The perfect soundtrack to my pain. Crows flying through my stomach. The smell of burning in my bones. Scar-pale moon reflecting on my skin. I looked over Mom’s shoulder, at a window filled with reddish light, and saw a spiny wing—large as the side of a car—slap against the glass. Dr. Quietus. Ever there. I heard the fire crackle in his chest, my name on every breath, and I clung to Mom as my rag of a body trembled.

  “You’ll always be with me,�
� Mom said. “I love you, son.”

  22. Superhero.

  I followed him over a course of days. Three or four, I’m not sure, and it’s getting hard to think. But I followed him—through crowded bars and along city streets. I watched him swagger and spit and breathe. He drove his APPETITE FOR CONSTRUCTION truck too fast, with the stereo sweating hostile music, and I was right beside him. I read his texts and e-mails. Listened to him on the phone. Watched him workout at Xtreme Couture and jerk off to Internet porn. He shared his anger in a hundred different ways and I gathered it. I was the shiver up his spine.

  I followed. And waited.

  Yvette had finally come to her senses and dumped his useless ass. The incident with the trophies proved to be the final straw. She collected the broken pieces, set aside what could be fixed, trashed the rest. Then she called Wayne and told him it was over. Her voice was firm and the look in her eye was cool—familiar to me. There was to be no reconciliation. No more chances. Wayne took it badly. Losing a girlfriend he didn’t care about wasn’t a problem. Being dumped was, because—again—it challenged his alpha role. Wayne retaliated the only way he knew how: with cruelty.

  U FUCKN BITCH. U THINK I CARE??

  DON’T TEXT ME WAYNE. DON’T CALL ME. IT’S OVER.

  FUCKN WHORE. WATCH UR BACK.

  He went out with the boys and got loaded. Picked a fight at Shoeless Joe’s with some dude half his size. Hit a strip club in Mississauga and paid $150 for a blowjob from a Croatian dancer called Mace—saw fit to text Yvette this development: GETTIN M DICK SIKCED NOW. HOW U LIKE TAH??? Yvette blocked his number, but she couldn’t block him. He buzzed her apartment at three-twenty in the morning, screaming abuse into the intercom. Yvette cowered in her bed, and he finally took off after one of the neighbours shouted down that the cops had been called.

  He tried again the following night, less drunk but equally abusive, and when Yvette didn’t buzz him up, he took it out on her car—grabbed a Phillips head screwdriver from his truck and ran it along the driver’s side, deeply scoring the yellow paint. Yvette involved the police but couldn’t prove that Wayne had caused the damage. They paid him a visit, even so, because they knew that he had and they wanted to put a little scare on him, tell him to back the hell off. Wayne told the cops that yeah, he’d kind of lost it and shouted into her intercom, but he didn’t damage her car, for Christ’s sake, he would never do such a thing. They didn’t buy his bullshit, but all they could do was warn him to stay away. The next day, Wayne followed Yvette in his truck—tailgating her, grinning behind the wheel. Yvette had been driving to the gym, but when she turned right instead of left on Markham Avenue, and started leading Wayne toward the O.P.P. detachment, he flipped her the bird and peeled off with a furious blast of the horn. That night Yvette called her mom and made plans to move back to Rouyn-Noranda, while Wayne announced to the world (well, to his sixty-four Facebook friends, at least) that Yvette Sommereux was a blue ribbon cuntstick with chicken tits, and that he was so fuckn done with her.