by Rio Youers
I brought her kiss to mind once again. Relived it perfectly. Every moment. I could blissfully relive it a thousand times during my final hours, but something else—as red as the leaves—was burning inside me. Something I couldn’t ignore.
Like I want more, I said to Hub, drawing on that feeling inside. Like I want to keep fighting.
Again I relived her kiss. The muscles in my upper lip twitched.
Yeah, Hub said. He growled and clawed at the grass. There’s the Westlake I know and love. You’re going to give it one last shot?
One last gnarly trick, I said.
A cool breeze hurried through the back garden, making the leaves chatter. I inhaled at just the right moment and filled my body with fresh air. It felt good to be outside, listening to birdsong and distant traffic sounds—people going about their normal lives. I scented bark and grass. The leafy tang of autumn. I breathed it. Cherished it. Loved Dad for getting me out of the groovy room, even if it meant being away from Yvette. The air filled my lungs with fragrance and life. It was just what I needed.
Yvette’s kiss pressed at my memory and, though it was tempting, I pushed it away. There’d be a deluge of kisses—and a lot more besides—if I could land this trick. Whatever the trick might be. My eyes closed and I drifted for . . . I don’t know how long. Fifteen minutes. Maybe as long as half an hour. I used this time to consider the motor cortex, barren and black, and formulate plans for some kind of mental drilling rig. I could power it with the electrical impulses in my brain, bore deep into the stony ground and hopefully strike . . .
I snapped out of it, my train of thought derailed by the sensation of something moving on top of my head. Something . . . familiar. My left eye crept open. Hub was sleeping beside my chair, his tail twitching. I called his name. He did the whuffling thing—his lips puffing out—but didn’t wake.
Okay, I said. So you’re back.
What can I say? Your charm is appealing. I thought I’d drop by and see how you are feeling.
I’m still not sure if this exchange actually happened. I think it more likely a moment of hallucinatory genius. One that cunningly piggybacked a certain memory. Happened to William Blake all the time. Dali, too. Those dudes were drugged out of their skulls, of course, but I was in a great deal of pain. The mind is uncertain at such times. It likes to play tricks. But real or not, the moment had impact, and I present it to you here exactly how I saw it.
The goldfinch hopped from one side of my skull to the other, blinking its little black eyes and flicking its feathers.
Bird, I said. You’re spoiling my moment in the sun. Perhaps my last ever moment in the sun. So how about—
It pecked me. Little son of a bitch actually pecked me.
Take a chill-pill, it sang, or I’ll just fly away. This time next week I could be in L.A. With sunshine and romance, the Hollywood class. Not perched on the head of an ungrateful ass.
Ungrateful? I replied. Not at all. I really appreciate you making me look like a total dick. It’s exactly how I want to spend my final moments.
It shook its feathers and hopped around, as if looking for a comfortable position. I groaned and tried to wake Hub again. A few choice barks and the bird would be gone. But Hub was down deep and not to be roused. Dude was no help at all.
Okay, I said. I’ll ask nicely . . . please, Mr. Goldfinch—
I came here to help, I’m all about giving. So hear me out, Wes, if you want to keep living.
Help? I said. You’re a frickin’ bird. What are you going to do . . . perform miraculous brain surgery with your beak?
It twittered musical laughter. I felt its tiny talons digging into my scalp.
When you see the world, it chirped knowingly, from a bird’s point of view, you can’t help but learn a lesson or two.
My other eye peeped open and rolled toward the house. I saw Niki in the kitchen fixing herself lunch. Just my luck she’d look out and see me. OMG. Grab her cell phone and take more snaps for her Facebook album. Westlake and the Bird Part II. LM-Fucking-AO. She’d call Mom and Dad and—Oh, Jesus!—Yvette, too. They’d all come outside and laugh their asses off. I bet even Hub would wake up and start laughing. Sorry, dude, he’d say. But that’s some funny shit.
I didn’t want to be laughed at. I wanted them to see me standing, walking, talking. I wanted to be strong again.
You can help me? I asked the bird.
Yes, Wes, it replied, bobbing its head.
Help me to heal? To get better?
There’s more to healing than hoping and kissing. The thing you most need is the one thing you’re missing.
That’s genius, I said bitterly. So what do I need?
The goldfinch hopped and fluttered its wings. It has to be strong and it has to be tall. Explore human nature and build a new wall.
Is that all . . . a wall?
Jesus.
The Wall of the Self, built with love, hate, and sin. Kindness and fear, and throw some pride in. Sympathy, sadness, excitement, and greed . . . all of the things that you humans need.
And with that the little bird took wing, flying upward through the branches. It disturbed the leaves and one of them broke away, spiralled slowly down to land on my shoulder. Another leaf fell. Then a third. This one seesawed onto the tip of Hub’s nose. He spluttered and jerked awake, snapping at nothing.
Whafuck?
Just a leaf, I said.
Right, I knew that, he said, and looked at me. Everything cool? You look . . . weird.
Weird. Yeah. Exactly.
I just need a moment, I said, already questioning whether or not the bird had been real. It was so surreal I thought it had to be a dream or hallucination—that I had snapped awake when the leaf landed on my shoulder, just as Hub had when one landed on his nose. But I also understood that the bird being real was not the critical thing. What it had told me was: Explore human nature and build a new wall. And this took me back to what Yvette said just before she kissed me: You found a way to rebuild.
The conscious mind. The Wall of the Self. Built with the bricks we gather throughout our journey. The raw materials of life. It makes you independent, enlightened, and strong. Protects you, too. An essential part of who we are.
I didn’t have a wall. It was shattered by the wave . . . washed away.
The thing you most need is the one thing you’re missing.
Ten percent of the mind . . . of the iceberg.
Rebuild.
Another leaf fell.
I’m onto something, I said to Hub.
He sat up, ears pricked, eyes wide and hopeful. Really?
Really.
I went deeper and thought of Wayne the Fucktard—how I had gathered his hate and anger. Built a wall and buried him beneath it. I recalled how I would sometimes moan, tremble, even a curl a fist, when I took that anger for my own. What if I took more, with no intention of giving it back? And what if I flowed from place to place, person to person, and added bricks of kindness, love, sympathy, greed . . .
. . . all of the things that you humans need.
I’d need to use the time I had left to build a wall as strong as possible, and as high as I could reach, made up of the myriad aspects of life. Could I then do more than moan and tremble? Could I, perhaps, open my eyes at will . . . form words?
Could I walk?
Could I surf?
Could I live?
I’m out of here, I said to Hub.
What do you mean, he asked. Is this . . . it?
Hope not, I said. But there isn’t much time. I have to go to work.
One last gnarly trick?
I need to land it, brother, I said, and couldn’t resist the cheesy superhero line: Or die trying.
Yet another leaf spiralled down. It landed in my lap, clung to the blanket for a moment, and then fluttered away. I was about to follow it when I heard Niki’s voice:
“Ohmygod.” She was standing on the rear deck, pointing at me. “Mom-Dad. Come quick. Lookit!”
Had the goldfinch returned . . . maybe peck my scalp one final time, just to prove it was real? I couldn’t feel it hopping around up there, so what had grabbed Niki’s attention?
Oh wow, Hub said.
What’s going on? I asked.
Mom, Dad, and Yvette rushed onto the deck and stared at me. Mom’s face dropped in surprise and Dad ran his hands through his hair, grinning.
“That’s pretty fucking far out,” he said.
What is it, Hub?
The leaves, man, Hub replied, and barked excitedly. Look at the leaves.
I zipped from my body, joined my family on the deck, and looked.
Dad was right: pretty fucking far out.
The leaves fell behind and all around me. From that one maple. A torrent of leaves detaching from their branches and falling, flickering. Hundreds of them. They landed on my shoulders, in my lap, in my hair. Every one of them as red as the passion inside me.
“So amazing,” Yvette said.
Niki pulled her cell phone from her pocket and flipped it open to start recording, but Dad closed his hand over the device and squeezed it shut.
“No,” he said. “This is our moment. It’s for remembering. Not sharing.”
Niki nodded, put the phone away, and they all looked at me . . . certain they were witnessing some spiritual phenomenon—that they were watching me fall from the sky.
And maybe they were.
I had other ideas, though. It was a groovy moment, no doubt . . . but all I could think about was rebuilding my wall.
All I could see falling were the leaves.
III
THE WALL
26. Our Final Moments.
Somebody somewhere is writing this down. This I know. I’m a dying (kind of), breathing genius. I’m reaching out and making it happen—from right here: the bottom of the ocean.
My name is Westlake Soul, and these are our final moments.
I ask you now . . . how would you spend them?
Let’s take away your limitations and assume that what you experience has nothing to do with the drugs pumping through your bloodstream. You can go anywhere. Do anything. Tick off every damn thing on your bucket list. You can snowboard the Matterhorn. Sleep with the person of your dreams. Fire a gun that’s bigger than you. Or perhaps you’d prefer to spend it with the people you love. Surround yourself with them and remember the good times. Feel their hands linked in yours. Their lips on your cheek.
Yeah, love beats any big gun.
Me . . . with darkness closing in?
I gave it everything I had, baby.
Release.
The world was waiting and I took to it, flying breathlessly through all its wonderment and cruelty, gathering facets of the human condition.
It’s all out there . . . its God-like heartbeat. Beautiful, terrible life.
I’m going to show you so much cool stuff.
Come with me. . . .
27. On Life.
I started, of course, with my family. I couldn’t think of a better place to gather all the love I needed. They watched the leaves fall and I flowed through them. Yvette and Hub, too. I spread my arms and drew everything I could from their biofields. Not only love, but affection and commitment, fascination and awe. I also took what they shared with me during their goodbyes. Dad’s guilt and pain. Mom’s pride. Niki’s aspirations. Building blocks of different shapes and sizes, but each painted by the same brush as the falling leaves. They flashed in my eyes as I stacked them. Red and gold. The colour of fire.
Do you believe in ghosts? Ever get the feeling you’re not alone, or that you’re being followed? How about when you catch a glimpse of something in your periphery, so fleet that you believe it imagined?
Maybe that was me, drawing from you, taking elements of your anxiety, hope, your deepest fears. A portion of every sin. A scoop of every kindness.
I went everywhere.
A church in Paris, where a woman stared at a crucifix and whispered a prayer for the well-being of her family. Her faith was as deep and intricate as the domed ceiling, and I fluttered through it like a trapped starling. To the Italian Riviera, where an elderly man fished from a decrepit pier, and although he hadn’t caught anything all day, he’d breathed the sea air and felt as young as a boy. His dark eyes sparkled with contentment, and I took all I could carry. In Bosnia and Herzegovina, a homeless man, scarred by war, sat in a grey doorway with his hand held out. I surrounded him—took tones of disheartenment and solitude. But giving is a part of life, too, and I dropped coins of optimism into his open hand. His fingers curled inward, as if securing something precious.
In the split seconds between destinations, I slammed these life-bricks down. Love cemented to hope and awe. Hope to fascination. Awe to despair. On and on. A wall, by God. Built broad and low to begin with—a solid foundation—but getting higher.
To a hostage in Kabul staring down the barrel of an M16. A one-year-old girl in Auckland overwhelmed by all the boxes and ribbons on her birthday. A doctor in Chennai performing surgery to save a child’s sight. In Munich, a teenage boy’s first kiss. And closer to home, at a cemetery in Toronto, an old man placing flowers on his wife’s grave.
The sky was not big enough. I covered all of it and wanted more. I went so high that the earth appeared as small as an apple (a healthy, ripe apple), and I cupped it in my palm and squeezed—imagined the juices breaking through the skin and oozing between my fingers.
I went to Mathias and found Fat Annie nursing her elderly mother, wiping her forehead with a cool cloth, holding her hand. She was talking to her, the same way she used to talk to me. In a level tone, without patronizing. I wrapped myself around her and she nursed me again. Compassion. Patience. Understanding. I took it all, just as I had taken her care, then reached deep and gave her a handful of love and gratitude—let it resonate with her aura. She suddenly stopped wiping her mother’s brow and turned to where I was floating, as if she could see me. Her eyes misted with tears and the most beautiful smile flowered on her face.
Thank you, Georgina, I said.
And flew away.
To a hospital in West Virginia, where emotion was stacked in crates. A woman opening her eyes for the first time—just as I had—after a crippling accident. I collected measures of her dread and consternation. Grabbed a pocketful of fear. And although I didn’t have much hope to spare, I gave her some anyway. As I did with a seven-year-old girl who needed a new kidney, and a frail, frightened child with leukemia. I gave them the last of my hope—exchanged it for innocence—and felt their biofields flare. From there I went to the maternity ward and watched a newborn draw her first breath. The promise came in a thousand colours. I filled my palette and moved on.
A soldier awarded for her bravery. A scared teenager injecting heroin into his groin.
Locking those bricks together.
Higher . . . higher.
A helping hand offered to a stranger. A bride walking down the aisle.
It was incredible . . . inspiring. I wasn’t sure if I could rebuild my wall high enough, strong enough, but this life was, ironically, taking my breath away.
To a rundown townhouse in Hallow Falls, a green Camaro parked outside. Darryl’s parents were fighting in the kitchen. As they usually were. I helped myself to a shot of their angst before floating to Darryl, who was in his bedroom clicking through photos on his Facebook page. He came to one of me and him, taken at a stag and doe four years ago. Our arms around each other. Nineteen years old and still eternal. Darryl stared at that picture for a long time, then touched the screen and said, “I could have been a better friend. All I gave you was that lousy guitar pick. I’m so sorry.” Regret and sadness reverberated from him. I took a fistful of each and gave him a whisper of understanding in return. Like Fat Annie, he smiled out of nowhere, then tagged the photo and wrote in the comments section beneath: Me and my best friend Westlake. Coolest frickin’ dude EVAH!! Love you buddy!!!
I left him smiling. Took to the skies again.
And yeah, I absorbed all the natural beauty I encountered on my journey. What better way to strengthen the wall? Time was running out, but I still circled the cones of Kilimanjaro, ran with the wildebeest across the Maasai Mara, and swam with great whites in the depths of the Indian Ocean. Nothing was taken for granted, be it a mountainside loaded with flowers or an old tree standing alone in a meadow. We are, at all times, surrounded by wonder, and I collected towering drifts of it—packed it into my wall.
My legs started to tremble. Too faintly for anyone to notice.
Something was happening. Life or death, I couldn’t be sure.
I flew faster. Built stronger.
Young love in San Francisco, where—a honeybee—I drew passion from the nectar on their bodies.
Wrath at a drunken knife fight in Tijuana. Serenity in the mountains of Peru.
I heard my mother’s voice. She had placed her hand on my leg and felt it trembling through the thin material of my pyjama bottoms.
“It’s happening,” she said, and I caught a glimpse of Niki’s distraught face before pulling away.
To a clinic in Toronto, where Wayne sat with a counsellor and worked to uncover the origins of his anger. His face was pale and I saw the shadow of hurt in his eyes. “I’m afraid of being hurt,” he said. “So I do the hurting. I guess it’s what you call a defence mechanism, right?” I aligned with his biofield, as I had so many times before, and pulled from it not hate and anger, but insecurity and remorse. And just like that night in the alleyway, I gave something back: a glimmer of self-belief from the abundance I had collected on my journey. Enough to get him started. “I want things to be better,” he said, and his broad chest expanded as he inhaled.
Running out of time. I felt my heart roaring. Gasping breaths.
My mother’s hand looped around mine.
Quickly . . .
Across town, to a beautiful neo-Georgian home in Rosedale. And this didn’t help my pounding heart. Not at all. But I had to do it.
She had grown her hair long again, and looked every bit as amazing as she had on that memorable morning—the one I go back to more often than any other, when my life branched in a cataclysmic direction, and the sunshine had been pink. This was the first time I had seen her since she walked out of my hospital room. That final glance over her shoulder, then gone forever. More than two years had passed, and though it had been tempting to ghost into her everyday life, I never had.
