Short for Chameleon

by Vicki Grant

Long enough for me to figure it out. “Are you firing me?”

  “Look. Sorry. I don’t want a brother. I thought I did, but I don’t. Sorry. I’ll pay you.”

  I didn’t care about that. I just didn’t want her to go. I liked random facts too. I liked pigeons. (Sort of.) Mostly, I liked girls with pale skinny legs who wear cut-off jeans and workboots with the laces undone.

  “You don’t have to pay me. You get five hours free. Which means you’ve got four and a half more. You may as well use them. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  She stood up and slapped grass clippings off her shorts. “Why would I want four and a half more hours of you abusing me?”

  A lady sitting on a park bench looked up from her Kindle and glared at me.

  “Theoretically, I mean,” Raylene said and glared back at her.

  I got up too. If I were someone else like Alex Tawil or Lee Chagnon or one of those guys at school who actually, you know, interact with girls occasionally, I would have said something along the lines of “Since you’re not interested in a brother, maybe we could just hang out sometime,” but I wasn’t, so I didn’t.

  I said, “Not everyone hates their family,” and tried to sound like I believed it. I would have liked to have been able to give her some actual real-life examples, but all I could think of were the empty pews at Perry’s funeral, the empty visiting room at the Sunrise Manor, and Suraj putting the boots to whichever one of his many brothers was irritating him at the moment.

  Raylene shrugged. “I don’t want to take the chance. They’re like cigarettes or something.”

  I didn’t understand.

  “Families,” she said.

  I nodded like oh right, now I get it, but clearly I didn’t.

  “Like, you know”—she made little circles with her hand—“they’re just another addiction. That’s all they are. By the time you realize how crappy they make you feel, you can’t break the habit and you’re stuck with them for life. I mean, how else can you explain what people put themselves through? It’s like coughing up a lung every morning, then lighting up another dart.” She smiled, but in a sad way or maybe an embarrassed way. “Sorry. Sure I can’t pay you?”

  Pay me. What? To go away? A new low even for me.

  “I’m sure.”

  She gave this little half-wave down around her waist—which was small and had a tiny black dot of a belly button that kept flashing messages to me from below her tank top—then started walking towards the sidewalk.

  Someone across the street leaned on the horn. I looked up.

  I looked back down.

  Albertina.

  Blocking both lanes of traffic. Honking again and hollering, “Cam!” now too. (When I’d begged her to take me back, I hadn’t meant immediately.)

  I made a U-turn and beetled off the other way. She laid on the horn, yelled louder. And then Raylene was yelling too. “Cam! That lady wants you. Cam!”

  Worlds colliding. This was going to get ugly.

  I walked faster. Raylene ran after me and touched my arm. I was lucky I didn’t bite my tongue off when the jolt went through me.

  She pointed, although by then, it wasn’t necessary. Albertina had driven her car practically up onto the sidewalk with us. She leaned out the window. “You deaf or something? What’s the matter with you, boy? Hop in!”

  Raylene was still holding my arm and I could feel her go kind of stiff. She jutted her chin out at Albertina. “Who do you think you are, talking to him like that?”

  Albertina honked (as in with her mouth, not her horn), “What? You need your girlfriend to protect you now, Cam?

  “I’m not his girlfriend.” Raylene was unbelievably beautiful when she was pissed. “I’m his sister.”

  CHAPTER 9

  It was like a scene from some zombie apocalypse movie, except with fewer missing body parts and more elastic-waist pants. An army of old people were all moaning and shuffling their way across the parking lot to a “Welcome!” sign Scotch-taped to the window of a bankrupt Bargain Buster store.

  “Where are we?” Raylene whispered as we got out of the car. I shook my head. My best guess: forty-five minutes past the edge of the known universe, but I could have been wrong. I’d had trouble keeping my eye on the road. I’d sat in the back seat of the car staring at the little tufts of silver hair poking out around the headrest. I couldn’t believe how lucky I’d gotten all of a sudden.

  I doubt Raylene was thinking the same thing. Round about the time all the houses started having rabid dogs chained out front, she must have wondered why she’d ever stood up for me.

  She obviously didn’t know what she was getting into. When Albertina’d cornered us on the sidewalk, she’d insisted that my sister had to be her granddaughter. Strong-armed Raylene into the car too. By the time Raylene realized what was up, it was too late. We were on the road to Nowheresville.

  Albertina had lots to say on the way there—most notably, “Used to be a crime for a boy to look at his sister like that”—but not much in the way of useful information. All she’d tell us was that we were about to meet “the famous Dr. Blaine T. Morley, Ph.D. The Ph stands for phony. Claims he can heal the sick and talk to the dead.” She did that barking thing again. “Yeah, but who can’t talk to the dead? It’s getting them to talk back that’s the hard part.”

  She was the world’s worst driver—although, to be fair, it’s got to be tough staying on the road when you can’t see over the dashboard—so by the time we got to the cheesy strip mall with the welcome sign, I didn’t care where we were. I was just glad my breakfast wasn’t all over the windshield, or worse, the back of Raylene’s head.

  I didn’t know if it was the drive or the sunlight bouncing off the cars in the parking lot, but Raylene looked even paler than usual. I went to apologize for getting her mixed up in this, but she said, “No, I’m actually really interested.” An old lady with the posture of a candy cane hurried past us (hurried being, like, relative and everything). Raylene watched her as if this were some new species she’d never encountered before.

  Albertina squawked for me from the front seat. She made me carry her to the wheelchair, then we joined the zombie conga line and headed towards the storefront.

  Albertina paid the twenty-five-dollar-per-person entrance fee. A young guy at the door took our names and gave us numbers, then passed us along to the official greeter. She was a middle-aged lady—tall, spokesmodelish, a little too thrilled to see everyone. The name tag on her blue Businesswoman Barbie suit said Candace.

  When it was our turn, she leaned down and shook Albertina’s hand. “Well, hello! And who have we here?”

  “I’m Albertina and these are my grandchildren, Cam and—what’s the girl’s name again?” She spoke in a cracked whisper. Her head trembled.

  “Raylene, Granny. Don’t you remember me?” Raylene put a little trying-not-to-cry quiver in her voice. If Dad had been there, he’d have hired her on the spot.

  “Sorry, dear. I’m getting forgetful in my old age.” Albertina smiled sadly. “It’s a blessing, actually. Don’t mind forgetting my troubles, not one little bit.”

  Candace crouched beside her. “What troubles, honey?”

  “Congestive heart failure, pancreatic cancer, sluggish duodenum. Not much works anymore. When my Eldon was alive—that was my husband, Eldon—he’d hold my hand and sing ‘My Wild Irish Rose’ and the pain would disappear, just like that. I’d give anything to hear his voice again . . .”

  “Well, then, I’m going to do my best to make that happen!” Candace tilted her head towards her shoulder and spoke into a tiny microphone pinned to her jacket. “Damian? I’ve got”—she checked the ticket in Albertina’s hand—“number sixty-four and her grandchildren coming up. Find them a spot right at the front for me, would you?”

  Albertina gave a tearful “Thank you. Thank you,” but Candace waved it away. “Dr. Blaine wants to help you, sweetheart. That’s why we’re here.”

  The undead in the back of
the line were getting restless. Candace murmured a few more words of comfort then pushed us along.

  Damian was wearing a blue suit too, but it must have been XXXL, and even then, it was straining at the armpits. He removed one of the folding chairs in the front row to make room for Albertina’s wheelchair, then sat us on either side.

  The place looked almost as pitiful as the audience. There was a big shiny bus-sized banner of Dr. Blaine pinned on the wall (“Your lifeline to the afterlife!”) but all around it, you could see grimy outlines from where the shelves used to be.

  Albertina kept the bobblehead thing going but dropped the little old lady voice. “Cam,” she whispered. “Get your phone out.” Then, “Not like that!” She somehow managed to shriek without actually raising her voice. “What is it about the word undercover you don’t understand? Are you trying to get us kicked out? For Pete’s sake! Don’t let them see the jeezly phone . . .” Big sigh. “Okay. Now start rolling when they call me up.”

  “Call you up where?”

  She hissed at me to shut it. Someone had turned the music on. People quieted down. Dr. Blaine strode out of the broom closet like he was walking onto the stage in Vegas. Damian began to clap, so everyone else did too. Dr. Blaine shook his head as if he couldn’t believe the spontaneous outpouring of adoration.

  I could understand his surprise. He didn’t look like the type of guy crowds go crazy for. Pretty much looked like every other middle-aged man, only shorter and with a nastier toupée.

  I’d been to my share of funerals, so Dr. Blaine’s routine was kind of familiar. He’d look all happy to have everyone there and then all sad to see so much suffering. Then he’d look up at the sky—or, in this case, the stains on the Bargain Buster ceiling—and put on one of those blissed-out, just-got-into-a-hot-bath smiles and talk about . . . I had no idea what he was talking about. I’d zoned out. I had other things on my mind.

  Raylene was staring at Dr. Blaine like she couldn’t believe her eyes. I was staring at Raylene like I couldn’t believe mine. Who was she? What was she doing here? Like, here with me, but also here in this universe. I tried to do that Suraj thing but I wasn’t very good at it.

  Probably-smells-lemony.

  Skin-is-very-soft.

  Has-long-fingers.

  Skin-is-like-extremely-soft.

  That’s the type of thinking that can get a boy in trouble, especially in public. I made myself concentrate on what was going on up front.

  Dr. Blaine went, “But enough with the introductions! Our friends in the Hereafter are begging me to shut my mouth. ‘Dr. B,’ they’re saying, ‘please! Let us talk!’”

  The room got all buzzy, everyone whispering and laughing and reaching out to squeeze each other’s hands.

  Dr. Blaine looked up at the ceiling again, then nodded as if the fluorescent light fixture had just said something to him. He turned back to the audience.

  “Oh, dear. There’s one spirit in particular who’s being very insistent. She’s pushed her way right to the front of the line. Well, you know what I say—ladies first!”

  He stopped again to listen to what else she, by which I mean the light fixture, had to say.

  “She’s asking me to reach out to the man she calls the love of her life . . .”

  More nervous titters.

  “. . . her knight in shining armour . . . her Pookie-Bear.”

  There was a squawk at the other end of the front row.

  Dr. Blaine looked over. “Is that you, sir? Are you the Walter I’ve heard so much about?”

  I got to hand it to Dr. Blaine. He didn’t blink an eye when an old man about the size of a garden gnome stood up.

  A couple of guys in blue suits helped Walter over to the mic. People were slapping their hands onto their chests and whispering to their neighbours. I saw a couple of ladies get out their hankies.

  “I knew she was here.” It might just have been all the emotion, but Walter sounded like he’d been sucking on a helium balloon. “Could’ve sworn I’d smelled her perfume the moment I walked in.”

  “You miss her, don’t you, Walter?”

  Albertina whispered, “Attaboy, Blaine. Stick the knife into the poor sucker, why don’t you.” She was like a ventriloquist dummy or something. Stuff came out her mouth but the blank look on her face never changed.

  “Oh, I miss her more than I could say.” Walter hung his head and began to cry.

  I expected Albertina to mumble something like, “Oh, buck up, for Pete’s sake,” but she just went “awwww” like everyone else and didn’t give me any reason not to believe she meant it.

  “Well, Walt—mind if I call you Walt? I just can’t bring myself to call you Pookie-Bear.”

  The audience loved that.

  “I’ve got some good news for you. Shirley misses you too. In fact, there’s something she’s been wanting to tell you for over twenty years.”

  Walt kind of jolted up. “What? What?”

  Dr. Blaine chuckled. “Oh, now, Walter. You know Shirley. She’s a lady! She doesn’t want me saying that type of thing in front of a big crowd like this. I’m almost embarrassed to tell you myself. Here, let me just turn off my mic and I’ll whisper it to you.”

  It took two tries—apparently Walt only had one good ear—but Shirley’s message made it through. Walt’s eyes got bigger and bigger, his jaw bounced up and down, then he fell to the floor in a dead faint.

  “The power of the spirit!” Dr. Blaine threw his arms up in the air. (I guess that’s what passes for a touchdown in this business.) The crowd went crazy. Damian and his crew got Walter by the arms and legs and dragged him over to the side of the room for a little CPR.

  As soon as the audience quieted down, Dr. Blaine started up again.

  “Isn’t that beautiful?” he said. “Do you need any more proof? Love truly knows no bounds, certainly not the whisper-thin membrane separating us from the spirit world. Only mortal constraints keep you from touching your soulmates in the Great Hereafter. That’s why it’s so important to help us continue our work at Dr. Blaine T. Morley Institute of Everlasting Love.”

  “Oh, boy. Here it comes.” Albertina’s little dummy face just kept smiling creepily away.

  “While I take a moment to regain my spiritual strength, my associates will be passing a collection plate. Please give to the best of your abilities in order to ensure you never lose the precious bond with your family . . . your loved ones . . . your own true kindred spirits.”

  He bowed his head humbly, then retreated into the broom closet.

  “Can you believe this guy?” I said.

  I figured Raylene would be cracking up at this, but she was just staring at her lap, pulling at the frayed edge of her cut-off jeans.

  “I can, actually.” She looked at me. The little green stripe in her right eye caught the light. “That’s the sad thing. I’m not surprised at all. People never—”

  “Shh! Not so loud. You trying to blow this or what?” Apparently, it was okay for Albertina to make comments but not for us.

  The plate came by. Raylene found an old breath mint in her pocket and tossed it in. I put in sixty cents. Albertina took seventy-five bucks out of the collection for herself, then passed the plate on to the next guy in line.

  After about five minutes, during which time I couldn’t get a single word out of Raylene, Dr. Blaine reappeared at the front of the room.

  “Oh, my, my. No rest for the weary! I would have loved to take more of a break, but the spirits are having none of that. It’s like Lonely Hearts Night in heaven. Everyone’s all gussied up on the other side and chomping at the bit to have a chat with you folks. So let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  Dr. Blaine put his hand on his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut as if he was thinking really hard or was severely constipated.

  “The spirits are telling me there’s an Alberta . . . no, sorry, an Albertina in the house. If you’re here, please make yourself known.”

  Albertina elbowed me, then ra
ised her hand, all shaky. She put on her little old lady voice again. “Why. Why. Here I am!”

  “The spirits never fail us!” Dr. Blaine swung his arm towards her like he was a magician who’d just abracadabraed some poor rabbit out of a hat. Wild applause. Then Damian wheeled her to the front, just like Albertina said he’d do.

  I propped my phone up beside me on the chair and hit record. Cam Redden, 007. This was almost too good.

  Albertina was beaming up at Dr. Blaine. There was a teeny-tiny little banana cream pie of spit at the corner of her mouth. A nice touch. “What else are the spirits telling you?” Her enthusiasm would have been heartbreaking if you didn’t know it was totally fake.

  He held his hand to his temple again, like the play-by-play guy at a football game trying to hear his earphones. He frowned. “They’re saying you’re not well.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Is it . . .”—checking his messages again—“heart failure? And . . . and . . . cancer? Pancreatic cancer, perhaps?”

  Albertina’s eyes went wide. “Why, yes. Yes, it is!”

  Even wilder applause. She may be dying, but Yay for Dr. Blaine! He got another answer right.

  “However did you know that?” Albertina asked.

  “It’s not me. It’s our friends on the other side.” All Mr. Humble now. “One of them wants to make contact with you. Someone special. Did you perhaps know . . . an Eldon?”

  She slapped her cheek. “What’s he saying?”

  Dr. Blaine chuckled. “He’s not saying. He’s singing, honey. He’s singing ‘My Wild Irish Rose.’”

  “Sorry?” Albertina wrinkled up her face in confusion. “I missed that. Can you come a little closer?”

  Dr. Blaine leaned down. “He’s singing ‘My Wild I— ’”

  Before he could get the next word out, Albertina had him in a headlock. She sent his toupée flying and yanked out his earphone.

  “Eldon, my ass!” She waved the earphone in the air and turned to the crowd. “He’s not talking to the dead, folks! He’s talking to Candace. She’s telling him what to say!”

  Albertina managed to get all that out while maintaining the headlock and simultaneously fighting Damian off. When he got a little too close, she threw the earphone to Raylene, who jumped up on her seat and started shouting too.