Westlake Soul
Page 16
“Makes a difference to me,” Dad said. “I would feel better—energetically—if I could take him for a walk along the river, or drive north to some beautiful, peaceful lake and lay him down beside it.”
“I understand,” Mom said. She stroked Dad’s face. It was the first time I had seen them touch since they danced to “Famous Blue Raincoat,” and it made my heart work just a little faster. “You’re wonderful, Cedar. A sweet, sweet man. But it’s not practical. And, if you’re honest with yourself, it’s more for your benefit than Westlake’s.”
“Of course,” Dad replied. “But not only for my benefit, for all of ours. Just imagine . . . surrounded by trees, a tranquil lake, the sun going down as Westlake slips away. It could be a real spiritual moment. No less than he deserves.”
“I think it could be more traumatic than spiritual,” Mom opined. “I mean, what if he dies in the car?”
“Ewww,” Niki offered.
“We won’t go far,” Dad said.
“Okay, you really need to get this idea out of your head,” Mom said. “It’s romantic and foolish, and it has nothing to do with Westlake. Besides, we don’t know for sure that he will die today. What are you going to do if he doesn’t? Throw him in the car and try again tomorrow?”
“I just want to do something special,” Dad said.
“But for all the wrong reasons,” Mom said. “We’re all feeling guilty, Cedar. Find another way to deal with it.”
They exchanged more words, Dad’s voice climbing an octave, doing the Mickey Mouse thing, proof that he was agitated—either because Mom had shot down his idea, or because she had called out his motive: guilt. In the end they compromised: I’d get an hour in the garden, not on the deck but on the grass, facing the maples.
“It’s not exactly Algonquin Park,” Dad said. “But it’ll do.”
Yvette arrived just before midday. Hub’s ears pricked up when he heard her car pull into the driveway, but he didn’t leave my side. No excited yapping in the hallway or running around in circles, like he used to. She looked incredible, too. She’d dyed her hair blonde and cut it shorter. Had some rouge in her cheeks. A tiny diamond nose-stud. I couldn’t remember if I’d seen that before, or if it was something new. Best of all, she looked freer . . . lighter. Kicking Wayne out of her life was the healthiest thing she’d done in a long time. The dude was history and she was beginning to shine again. I was delighted to see it. More beautiful than Algonquin Park. Even in the fall.
She had coffee with my parents and they discussed the likelihood of this being my last day. The conversation progressed to my funeral. Mom plucked Kleenex and invited Yvette, told her that white lilies were the flower of choice. Dad said they’d arranged for surfboard-shaped wreaths (très cool), and for Joe Strummer’s version of “Redemption Song” to be played at the service (très cooler). Then he and Mom had an up-tempo discussion about my ashes. Dad wanted to fly to BC and scatter them in the ocean. Mom wanted to keep them closer to home. She suggested burying them in the garden, but Dad was afraid that Hub—being so close to me—would dig them up. Maybe even eat them.
All this time I floated around Yvette, soaking in her radiance. Along with the many other emotions bounding through me, I felt a tremendous sense of pride. In Yvette, of course, but in myself, too. I’d taken care of Wayne (she would never know how close he came to taking a nosedive off a seven-storey building in downtown Toronto), but more importantly, I’d inspired her to create her own Wall of Achievement, and to rediscover the value and strength that Wayne’s abuse had taken from her. Not bad for a guy who can’t even wiggle his toes.
Yvette had inspired me, too. Let’s not forget that. She made me feel good . . . normal, almost. And when down—which was often—I recalled her face and picked myself up. Fought harder.
She was a superhero, too. Sif to my Thor.
And she wasn’t done yet.
She came into my room and our connection was immediate, amplified. Perhaps because we both knew this was the last time we would be together. I swear to God, if you’d pulled the blinds and shone a black light into the room, you would have seen something sizzling between us. Charged air.
I said to Hub, Dude, give us five.
Hub didn’t protest, but I could tell wasn’t happy about leaving my side. He blinked sleepy eyes, jumped down from the bed, and reluctantly shuffled from the room.
Well, I said to Yvette, and tried to tip a wink. Just the two of us, huh?
She looked at me for a while, saying nothing, the air crackling between us. Her nose-stud caught the light and winked rhythmically. I wished I could tell her how pretty she looked. How the blonde complimented her blue/green eyes. To speak the words out loud, so she could hear them. Without doubt.
“Okay,” she said, and closed the door—something she’d never done before, effectively shutting out my family. She may as well have hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign outside.
Why the privacy? I asked.
She stepped toward my bed and I felt a chill run through me. Didn’t like it at all. I liked the accompanying thought even less: Yvette grabbing one of my pillows and smothering me with it, ending this for everybody, finishing the job she’d started when she unplugged my PEG tube. The twist in the tale: she wasn’t a trained healthcare professional at all, but a dark accomplice to Dr. Quietus. She’d steal the last few beats of my heart, then rip off her pretty mask to reveal a bone-face crawling with maggots and spiders. Wings would unfurl from between her shoulders, and with a single muscular movement she’d break through the window and join her wicked lover in the sky.
Yvette Sommereux AKA Mademoiselle La Mort.
This crazy idea tumbled from my mind the moment she smiled. Gone. Like it had never been there.
“I wanted to thank you,” she said.
Thank me? I said, frowning. Not that she could tell. I looked like a cracked mannequin.
“Just for being who you are,” she said, and leaned close to me. As always, I could smell the coconut in her hair. And something new: the faintest trace of ammonia from the dye, and the fragrance of a different soap. She touched my face, then pulled back the top sheet, revealing a body of loose pieces.
I don’t know how to be anybody else, I said. Everything inside me reached for her. I am Westlake Soul.
She smiled again—left my side, only for a moment, to assemble what she needed for my bed bath. Care to the very end. I heard her in the bathroom, filling bowls with warm water, opening cabinets for soap, towels, sponges. She wheeled everything out on a cart and started to undress me. Careful hands removed my pyjama shirt, tilting my body to minimize stress. Still hurt like hell, but I didn’t care. Her fingers trailed along my chest, my shoulders. Sometimes you have to take the rough with the smooth.
“There’s something about you, Westlake,” she said. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. But when I’ve needed strength—particularly lately, with everything that’s been going on—I’ve thought of you . . . the mark you’ve left on people in such a short time, the things you’ve achieved, the love you’ve given, and the love you’ll leave behind.”
Off came my pyjama bottoms. She gently rolled my hips and was able to slide them down without causing too much pain. My diaper followed. Just a few drops of blood today. She tucked it into a tight ball and dropped it in the genie.
“Maybe it’s because you didn’t get the chance to make mistakes and hurt people.” She folded a few towels and placed them beneath me to absorb the runoff. “But to me you represent everything that is good and right, and you came into my life when I needed you most. I’ve drawn so much strength from you.”
I didn’t want to miss her touch, but I left my body for just a moment, pressed myself against her, felt a wave of something so real that everything else—the brightly painted room, the air, everything—seemed fallacious. I inhaled vigorously. Fell back into my body like I’d been dropped by a bullet.
You helped me, too, I said. You made me reach deeper, believe harder.
“I used to imagine that we were together,” she said with a smile, moving the sponge to my chest. Water pooled in the dip of my breastbone. “Silly maybe, but it got me through some difficult times.”
Not silly at all, I said. I had the same fantasy. Many times over.
“You found a way to rebuild. We got married and moved to the country. Did the things that married couples do.”
Her choice of words intrigued me—set something tumbling through my brain, trying to gain momentum. Maybe it was a Québécoise thing. A quirk in the translation. You found a way to rebuild. Not heal. Not get stronger. Rebuild.
“I always wanted to be with someone like you. Someone kind. And strong.”
How could she not see—through faint and papery skin—my heart beating? A heavy boot locked in my chest, kicking, stomping. I tried to reach out, sail my fingers through her hair, cup the back of her skull, pull her toward me. Water trickled down my sides and that single odd word—rebuild, rebuild, rebuild—continued to run childlike through my mind.
She rolled me onto my left side and washed my back. Crisscrossed with cracks. Pitted with sores. So delicate with the sponge. I sighed, my eyelids flickering. She dabbed me dry before easing me onto my back again.
“I prayed for you to get better.” She rinsed the sponge and started on my legs. “It happens, you know. Sometimes. I’ve seen it. A person in a coma or vegetative state, for years . . . one day they just open their eyes, and there they are. Back again.”
Yeah, I said. I prayed for that, too.
“And with rehabilitation and hard work, they are able to get back on track. Maybe not quite the same.” She shrugged, lifted my legs, washed the backs of them. “But certainly able to think, to communicate, sometimes even walk. And I always believed that if you were to get better, you’d go all the way.”
I tried, I said. Worked my ass off, baby.
“I thought you’d be back on that surfboard.” She paused, looked at my Wall of Achievement. “Riding those waves.”
Yeah, you and me both.
Neither of us spoke while she cleaned my ass. Pink smears on the sponge. She rinsed, patted me dry. Lowered my legs and cleaned my balls.
I know people have found a way out, I said. It is possible, but I guess I’ve been doing it all wrong. Couldn’t find the right switch to hit, or door to open.
“It’s all feeling . . . instinct. Means nothing.” Yvette finished drying me, then took the folded towels from around my body and placed them on the cart. “I would have looked foolish if I’d mentioned this to your parents. Maybe if I’d been working with you a little longer, I could have. But I’m the new girl. I don’t know you like they do, and when your mother told me that your life support was to be discontinued, what could I say? Could I question the decision—as hard as it was, with all the years she has known you, and loved you—based on a feeling?”
It’s okay, I said. I understand.
“It would only have caused more pain and confusion.”
You’re right.
She wheeled the cart into the bathroom, grabbed a fresh diaper, then a clean set of pyjamas from the closet. Pale blue cotton with navy blue piping. It’s strange to see the clothes you’ll be wearing when you die. The clothes that a mortician—a person you don’t know, and will never meet—will strip from your body. Fold neatly and hand back to your next of kin. You almost don’t want to put them on.
“But I got to meet you, and care for you, if only for a short while.” She lifted my legs again and snapped me into the diaper. The tight polyester pinched my skin. “I wish it could have been different.”
Yeah. Me, too, I said. My jaw dropped open, as if one of the pins holding it in place had broken, and my eyes reeled to the window. It had been overcast all week, but now I could see a crack of blue sky. A whisper of sunshine filtering through. Heghlu’meH QaQ jajvam, as the Klingons say: Today is a good day to die.
Yvette unfolded my pyjama bottoms, was about to put them on me, but stopped, sat on the edge of my bed, and placed her hand on my chest. She leaned close. Her eyes—her nose-stud—gleamed.
“I’ll never forget you, Westlake.”
Was she going to kiss me?
“Ever.” She leaned closer still. That coconut smell again.
My heart lurched like a dog on a leash, drawn by some shimmery thing.
Why couldn’t I have met you before all this? I said, trying to exert the muscles in my neck and push my head forward. I wanted our lips to meet. More than anything. We could have had all of each other. We could have ruled the world.
“You changed my life.” A little closer. I could smell her breath. A hint of coffee, and something sweeter. Her fingers tensed on my chest and it felt exquisite. Bombs could have exploded around me and I would not have noticed. A wrecking ball could have passed through the house and I would still have been caught in that moment. It was her eyes. I could see her intention in the softening of her eyelids, the alluring sparks of blue and green. I tried to pucker my lips, as you do before a kiss, but my jaw still swung on its broken hinge.
All of each other, I said again.
“Thank you, Westlake,” she said, and it happened: she closed the distance between us and her mouth met mine. Full of warmth and sweetness. Our teeth clashed and our noses squished. I felt her fingernails digging into my chest. Her hair tickled my cheek.
No Sleeping Beauty moment. No fairy tale scene. I didn’t suddenly wake up, scoop Yvette into my arms, and carry her—bluebirds singing—into a Happy Ever After. I just lay there in my diaper, my skin cracked and my toes curled.
But in that kiss—and it lasted only two seconds—I saw everything that could have been: Yvette holding my hand as I learned to walk again, feeding me solids and wiping my chin. Watching movies together, munching popcorn, laughing and crying at the same things. Concerts at the ACC, dancing like crazy people while everyone around us remained in their seats. Driving a VW camper van cross-country, curtains in the windows and a couple of boards strapped to the roof. Teaching Yvette how to surf just like she taught me how to walk. Vacations in Europe and Asia. Tattoos in Thailand. Summer jobs in Fiji. Apartment hunting in some artsy community close to the water. Children with blue/green eyes and their parents’ taste in music. Surfing by day, playing made-up games with seashells by night.
I saw it all in her kiss.
Sunlight streamed through the window. I moaned.
Her mouth closed over my upper lip. Plucked it lightly as she pulled away.
“Thank you,” she said again.
There was a knock at the door and Yvette sprang to her feet, grabbed my pyjama bottoms and started to slip them onto my legs. The door opened and Dad looked in.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Yvette said coolly, lifting my ass and drawing the PJ bottoms up around my waist. “Wes has had his bath. Just getting him dressed.”
“Good,” Dad said, stepping into the room. He didn’t suspect a thing. I’m not sure what he would’ve done if he’d caught Yvette kissing me. He’d probably think it both inappropriate, and totally groovy. Yvette gave away nothing in her expression, but I was sure that I looked as guilty as any red-blooded sinner, even though my face hung in the same paralyzed position—a neural reaction to (almost) being caught by my father, linked to memories of childhood misdeeds. Go Team Freud!
“I thought Wes could have a few moments in the garden,” Dad said, helping Yvette get me into my pyjama shirt. “The sun just came out. It’s beautiful out there.”
“Sure,” Yvette said, and they lifted me into my chair. Dad grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around me, and like all such actions it struck me as bizarre given that—according to medical science—I couldn’t feel anything, including the cold. Yvette gave me a small, knowing smile, and then I was wheeled away from her, throug
h the living room, onto the rear deck. I tried to look back but couldn’t, of course—could only pray I’d see her again before she left. One last time.
Dad bumped my chair down the deck steps, cussing colourfully, and pushed me across the lawn. He found an ideal spot beneath a maple with flaming leaves. The sun ran through the branches. Stained me red.
“There you go, baby,” he said, and kissed me high on the cheek. “Enjoy.”
Love you, Dad, I said, and watched him walk back toward the house, head hanging. He pulled open the back door and Hub—poised on the other side of the glass—tried to shoot through the gap before it was wide enough. He whined and Dad grinned, then helped him out by pulling the door an inch or two wider. Hub squeezed through, ears cocked, tongue lolling. He followed the tracks my wheels had made on the lawn and joined me beneath the maple.
Couldn’t wait to get out here, huh? I asked.
Something like that, Hub replied with a smile. He nuzzled my leg, then turned in a tight circle—like dogs do—and slumped next to my chair.
I was about to tell him that Yvette had kissed me but was distracted by a flash of pain. It burst through me, from the chest outward, and then drew in again. I stiffened in my chair. Dark veins beating in my neck.
Dude! Hub jumped to his feet and looked at me, his ears flat now.
It’s okay, I managed. Just a little pain. Gone now.
Scared me, man.
Sorry . . . it’s . . . yeah, okay . . . gone.
Hub continued to watch as my body relaxed and my head rested against the wheelchair’s buffers. Jesus, that hurt. I hissed and my dry eyes clicked. I would have wept if I’d had enough moisture in my body.
I was going to say . . . My chest thumped beneath the blanket. I counted to ten and my breathing steadied. . . . kissed me.
What?
She kissed me, dude. Right on the mouth.
Yvette?
Of course Yvette.
You’re serious?
Hell to the yeah.
Holy shit, man, that’s so dope. Hub’s tail jerked and he showed his teeth. Biggest grin I’d seen from him in a long time. So how do you feel?