Darren Effect

by Libby Creelman

  Benny was standing at the top of the stairs, watching her. He said, “Those were all taken before I knew you.”

  It sounded like an apology. She looked up at him, wanting to hear more, but he had turned away.

  And then the smoky black and whites: three young men in graduation costume; a string of women in long skirts on a rocky beach, hands over their eyes as though the sun might carry them off; a young woman with silky movie-star beauty, posed naked to her shoulders, the rest of her body artfully dissolved; some-one’s grandmother in an apron, standing by the Christmas tree, smoking, caught in the act of shaking her head, Don’t take my picture, I’m not prepared.

  At the top of the stairs Heather can’t face Benny. It isn’t just his bad news. It’s that all this time she has failed to recognize what it is she should have desired: to inhabit the body of the woman who lives in this house. She wants to stand in the centre of this woman’s family — the centre of this universe — and be entitled to all her history and expectations.

  She wants that family album — both tastefully and ostentatiously displayed along the stairway — to be her own and of her own making. She wants Inky, struggling to rise from the carpet at the foot of the master bed to nuzzle her in the crotch, to have been hers. She wants to have known him as a puppy, rubbed his nose in his accidents, retrieved him from the pound. She wants to have been part of every decision that was ever made about him. And about the cat, curled over a pile of magazines in the window seat, and the iguana, rabbit and gerbils she will never see.

  And about his son, Cooper, whom they can hear coming in the house.

  Without a word to each other, Heather and Benny return downstairs. In the kitchen, the boy shakes her hand. He has dark hair and a blanket of nutty brown freckles across the bridge of his nose. She sees that the act of employing everything his parents have taught him about manners does not come easily to him. He turns back to the counter and places a cold pancake between two pieces of toast. He is an unusual boy. She had never known this.

  She looks at Benny and realizes he loves his son dearly. The boy is eleven, but already it is obvious he will not be tall. A miniature Benny.

  Benny jokes, “We suspect he doesn’t eat his lunch at school,” and the boy is embarrassed.

  “So I gave you those papers?” Benny asks her.

  Heather stares at him. His question confuses her, but he sees that and says, “The Spruce Cove project? It’s important we have the designs completed by the end of the weekend.”

  He’s telling her he wants to get away for the weekend with her as soon as possible. There is a twinkle in his eye. Looking forward to this seems to be enough to sustain him, but Heather knows it won’t be enough for her.

  Benny turns back to the boy. “She’s going now. What do you say?”

  The boy hesitates, blinking. “Nice to meet you, Miss,” he mumbles.

  As Benny escorts her to the front door, Heather glances into the living room. There is a pile of stuffed toys in the centre of the room. She would have thought the boy too old to be playing with these, but then, what does she know about children?

  “What the hell is he doing?” Mandy whispered.

  Heather was thinking that if a client came to her, talking about gallivanting through the woods in order to spy on a man in order for that client’s sister to write a story about desire, she would have to ask, Do you really think this is wise?

  “And I’m freezing.”

  “You’re freezing, Mandy, because you’re dressed for the catwalk, not the outdoors.”

  Mandy grinned. “I know.” She was wearing a bulky faux fur coat, but it clearly did nothing against the cold. Snow had come early this year — though the experts were saying it would not last — and both had worn inappropriate footwear: Heather, waterproof calfskin boots that were apparently not waterproof and Mandy, oxfords whose fleece trim was already soiled.

  “Did you bring your cellphone?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Yeah.”

  They had followed Darren Foley by car from the Canadian Wildlife Service parking lot nearly a hundred kilometres up the Southern Shore, and then, as their elation wore off, on foot over an old woods road through a forest of freakish trees crusty with ice and draped in some kind of fungus or parasite, giving them both a feeling of having miscalculated in some profound way. Darren had brought snowshoes, causing Mandy to remember him as “that little smartie,” but ATVs had already been out and packed down the snow, making their hike easy, if not leisurely. Despite her cold feet, Heather realized with surprise she was enjoying the excursion. She took a big deep breath, closed her eyes and breathed out with a happy hum.

  “Closet nature freak, are you?” Mandy asked, shivering.

  “Hey, this was your brainstorm.”

  They looked down at Darren tracing and retracing his steps along the water’s edge on the beach below.

  “He’s wiping his eyes an awful lot,” Heather observed.

  “Maybe he’s crying,” Mandy said, squinting. “Water’s some blue, isn’t it?”

  “I know, looks almost tropical. So what does he do? Is this actually his job?”

  Mandy shrugged. “He was studying clutch size when I knew him.”

  “Clutch size?”

  “Something to do with eggs.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Not sure. Did he finally get married? I can’t remember.”

  They had come over the top of a treed ridge to see Darren stopped below at the cliff’s edge. He glanced up and Mandy, who’d been in the lead, fell back onto Heather in a panic, swamping Heather with her vast coat, but Darren did not appear to see them. He removed his snowshoes and stood them in the snow, pushed his way through some shrubs and scrambled down a rocky slope to the beach below. They watched rocks loosen and run ahead of him, hitting the beach with a narrow, mean sound that failed to echo, and then he disappeared from view. Heather suggested they backtrack, so they made their way out onto a point — barren except for a patch of tuckamore under which they crawled. There was just enough space to sit cozily side by side, their knees drawn up to their chests.

  “What the hell is he doing?”

  Heather was staring out to sea. “Look at the size of those white birds, Mandy. Do you suppose they’re seagulls?”

  “He’s kicking at something with his foot. He looks lonely, doesn’t he?”

  “Really? I thought he looked happy.”

  “Then why was he crying?”

  “Did we decide he was crying?”

  Mandy slipped her fingers out of her leather gloves and tried to warm them with her breath. “Maybe he can cry and be happy at the same time?”

  Heather didn’t say anything.

  Just then, Darren removed his orange cap and rubbed vigorously at his forehead and ears. He shook his head like a wet dog, Heather thought.

  “Maybe I take myself too seriously?” Mandy suggested.

  “Maybe this is a retarded idea for a story?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Look at him now.”

  “He’s found something.”

  “He’s sitting down.”

  “What is that?”

  They watched him fiddle with something several minutes, then toss it down the beach. It looked like a black rag. Then he lifted a large pair of binoculars Heather hadn’t realized were hanging from his neck and appeared to search the horizon. He would know what those birds were.

  “Do you still have those binoculars?” Heather asked her sister.

  “That cute little pair Bill gave me? Yes. Never used.”

  “Bring them next time, okay?”

  “Next time?”

  “It would be nice to pin a name on those birds.”

  On the beach below, Darren had stopped moving. The sisters sat side by side, leaning into each other for warmth, frozen as much by cold as by indecision and puzzlement. Heather turned to look out to sea, still flooded with light, though the tropical turquoise
colour had paled. She thought of Benny for the first time in an hour. For weeks her body had seemed plugged with mud. It was such an effort to do anything, sometimes even to smile at a client or remember to nod or ask appropriate questions. There was a sorrow inside her she couldn’t shake off, and a stubborn hope that drove her crazy.

  But being out here in the fresh air, as though on the edge of the world, helped in some way. She thought of driving by Benny’s house, of phoning that house and hanging up the moment someone answered, even before she could know who had answered. The feeling then was short-lived, but restorative, like taking a deep breath and letting it fill your lungs with oxygen.

  Until she visited Benny at home, Heather had known only what she could see from her car as she drove past. The house was in the old part of town and one in a row that backed onto a park. They put their Christmas tree in the northeast corner of the living room, and used only white lights and favoured an abundance of looping garlands. For Halloween they also hung lights — orange pumpkin-shaped ones — that framed all the windows of the first of the three stories. In summer two pots of drooping annuals were suspended outside the front door.

  Heather searched the beach. With the coming evening its details had blurred and all she could see of Darren was his orange cap. But she didn’t want to leave yet.

  While she had been driving by his house for years, the phoning had begun only in the past several months. When she discovered Benny’s cellphone number was no longer in service, she began calling him at home. She hung up because she was afraid of what Benny might say to her. That he might scold her. That he might say, Enough is enough. And then she would start crying, pleading, upsetting him.

  “How’s everything going?” Mandy asked. “With that man?”

  “I can’t find out anything. I’m just waiting.”

  “For him to die?”

  “Mandy.”

  “Sorry. I just meant . . . ”

  They were whispering. “Maybe. I don’t know. But wouldn’t that be cruel?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps I’m hoping for a miracle in cancer care. In case a miracle comes along, I’d want him to be alive for it, right? I wouldn’t want him to have missed the miracle because I thought it might be better if his suffering ended.” Heather closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  “Is he suffering?”

  “He would have to be.”

  “Let’s go. I need to stretch my legs. And I have a funny feeling about this.”

  “Why?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Hold onto that feeling. It will give your story atmosphere.”

  “I’m sorry I ever dreamt this up.”

  “Don’t be, Mandy.” Heather turned and took her sister’s hand in her own. “This was wonderful.”

  Chapter Three

  Tracey Quigley was scheduled for eleven but she was late. She didn’t drive, was afraid of buses and rarely had money for a cab. Heather knew it was unlikely that either her husband or sister would give her a lift if they didn’t feel like it. She suspected Derm and Donna of wielding control over Tracey that was, at best, unfair, but she believed home was the best place for Tracey, at least in the short term.

  The day was dark. The lights from a synthetic Christmas tree could be seen blinking out in the dingy hall, though the tree itself was not visible to Heather, who wondered what decorations, if any, surrounded Benny. Would they have such things? If they did, it would be for the family and medical staff as much as for the patient.

  That morning her mother had telephoned to report he had been moved to the palliative care unit.

  “I wish you would consider a leave of absence,” her mother had said again. “I’m concerned about you, honey. I think this is too much for you.”

  Heather looked at her watch. She hoped Tracey would arrive soon.

  At twenty after eleven the door opened and there followed a brief scuffling in the entrance. Heather stayed behind her desk, out of sight. The building was empty. There was no one in the waiting room and her receptionist had taken the morning to do some Christmas shopping. Anyone could walk in off the street.

  Then the Quigleys were there, crowding the doorway. Heather stood. Tackling all of them seemed beyond her capacity this morning.

  “Tracey is scheduled for today, Derm. Just Tracey.”

  She could see by Derm’s expression that he already knew this. But there was something on his mind. Tracey was Derm’s wife, and Donna was her sister, but Tracey’s illness had brought Derm and Donna together in such a way that they often behaved as though they were the young woman’s parents. Although Heather recognized the stress and responsibility facing Derm and Donna, she did not trust either one of them.

  “I can see you for a few minutes at the end of the session, Derm.”

  “You don’t mind if we have a smoke, then?”

  “No Smoking” stickers decorated the building, but then so did ashtrays. Heather nodded.

  Derm and Donna left the room and Heather rose to close the door. Returning to her desk she reminded Tracey to take a seat. Heather liked Tracey. Her face was plain, intelligent looking. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her bangs were cut a good inch above her eyebrows, straight as a ruler. Had she passed her in an airport Heather might have optimistically imagined her to be a geneticist or violinist. But Tracey was neither. She had not finished high school and had never had a job, not even for a day. She suffered from bouts of intense phobic fear: sweating, breathlessness, heart palpitations, diarrhea. The attacks lasted as long as two hours and were most debilitating at night. Occasionally — Heather had been told this more than once but never by Tracey — she soiled herself, so paralyzed with fear she was unable to get out of her bed.

  “How have you been feeling, Tracey?”

  “Same.”

  Heather felt a perilous inability to concentrate. She wondered whether she and Tracey might discuss her own dilemma instead: how to cope with the idea of Benny in that palliative care unit when she couldn’t actually imagine him there. When she couldn’t imagine how wasted and sick and unhappy he must be. When she couldn’t imagine him dying. Never seeing him again.

  Heather realized Tracey was watching her. They had been sitting in silence too long, though how long Heather was not sure. She had forgotten to review Tracey’s file and now struggled to recall where they had left off in their last session. Relaxation techniques.

  “Did you get a chance to read that article I gave you?” she asked Tracey.

  “Yeah, bit. Well, no.”

  “Were you able to put into practice any of the relaxation techniques we discussed?”

  Tracey shrugged.

  “Tracey?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Tracey’s eyes widened. It was an atypical response from Heather and one that Tracey seemed to find intriguing.

  “How could those simple exercises do anything?” Tracey prodded.

  “I see your point. But studies do show — ”

  “Plus, I was on a diet.” Tracey sat back and began chewing on a nail.

  Heather nearly smiled, though it was not funny. Tracey was of average weight, thin if anything. Heather wondered if she’d ever told Benny about the Quigleys. She couldn’t be sure. Sometimes she couldn’t distinguish between what she had told him, face to face, and what she had planned on telling him — or told him when he wasn’t there — a rehearsal.

  Tracey put her hands in her lap. “I had an interesting dream.”

  Heather sighed. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “We’re driving down the road — ”

  “You and Derm?”

  “And Donna. And I sees these two dogs going at it, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And like, the male, he was stuck. There on the corner in front of the Red Circle. And everyone was just driving by, not noticing.”

  Stay with the image, Heathe
r told herself, don’t over-interpret.

  “They weren’t fancy breeds, but the female was right tiny.”

  “I see.” But Heather was unable to stay with the image. She felt her thoughts spinning crazily. Stay, she told herself. Stay. “Are you taking your meds, Tracey?”

  “They don’t work.”

  “You have to give them time. It’s possible they might not eliminate the attacks completely. Dr. Turner explained this. It’s called — ”

  “Symptom breakthrough. I know.” Tracey leaned forward. “There was another dog. It was just standing there, not looking at the other two but barking at them. Barking, barking, barking. You could hear it for miles around.”

  Heather thought of Inky barking at her on the beach at Spruce Cove. Her face grew warm.

  There was a knock on the door. Derm poked his head in and looked at Heather with raised eyebrows. He’d only been able to wait fifteen minutes, but Heather found herself nodding.

  Derm took a seat beside his wife. “She told you, did she?” “About the dream?” Heather asked, confused and slightly worried.

  “What dream? I’m talking about her trying to leap from a moving vehicle.”

  “I opened the door, that’s all,” Tracey told Heather. “He’s after exaggerating. He’s an exaggeration expert.”

  “She threatened to leap from a moving vehicle. This is a waste of time. Surely to God Dr. Turner’s got some better drugs for her.”

  Donna, who had appeared in the doorway, indicated her agreement with a rushing swallow of air.

  Tracey was back working away on the nail.

  “Give it up, girl,” Donna said. “You’re gonna have them hands chewed to the bone.”

  Derm was looking at Heather. He was struggling to keep a smile from his face. “It was after we seen some dogs. She tell you?”

  Donna produced a fierce, snorting giggle.

  “Donna,” Heather said, knowing she sounded too impatient. “Could you return to the waiting area?”

  Donna gave her a poisoned look, then backed slowly out of the room.

  Heather turned back to Derm. “Dogs? Tracey was just telling me about a dream with dogs.”

  “That was no dream. Christ, that was on our way here. She flipped out on us. That’s why we were late.”