Infinite Blue

by Darren Groth

wife and thirteen-year-old twins.

  celebration of his favorite things:

  Groth’s story is

  His books have been published on

  mythical sea monsters, Jackie Chan

  both sides of the Pacific. Darren,

  uncommonly sensitive.”

  movies and the study of earthquakes.

  a former special-education teacher,

  —Publishers Weekly

  For Justine, it’s a chance to “free”

  is passionate about promoting

  her twin, to see who she is without

  awareness and understanding of

  her boyfriend, and to offer their

  autism spectrum disorder (asd),

  mother the chance to atone for past

  and he is the proud father of a son

  wrongs.

  with asd. For more information,

  visit www.darrengroth.com.

  012+

  $19.95

  Cover images from Shutterstock.com

  Jacket design by Christabella Designs and Teresa Bubela

  Author photo by Lauren White

  Printed in Canada

  Justine

  Perry is standing on the far side of the metal detector, feet planted on the red stripe. Beads of sweat dot his forehead.

  His right leg twitches, keeping pace with some inaudible rhythm. At regular intervals, his lips curl inward then

  spring open, releasing a loud pop. He’s stuck. He’s been stuck for a while.

  There’ll be another announcement over the pa

  soon. I imagine it being a little more pointed than its

  predecessor: Ms. Justine Richter, Mr. Perry Richter, you are required to board Flight 47 to Vancouver. Your fellow passengers are waiting for you to end this madness.

  Can you blame them for getting upset? I can’t…What is your problem? Are you unaware of anyone but yourselves?

  You think the whole world should bow to your needs?

  The two of you are an absolute disgrace.

  I attempt to catch Perry’s eye with reassuring nods

  and here-is-your-loving-sister hand gestures. I won’t

  approach him or get in his face. I won’t negotiate either—

  speeches are useless when my brother has reached this

  level of anxiety. It’s like trying to draw attention to a lit candle during a laser show.

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  The stolid security officer holding the metal- detecting paddle displays a frown. “Please step through, sir,” he says for the millionth time.

  The sour business suit behind Perry huffs and places

  his hands on his hips. “No worries, pal,” he says. “It’s not like we’ve got planes to catch or anything.”

  Perry hears none of it. His hands are clasped together

  on top of his head. A pronounced lean has gripped the

  left side of his body. The pops have morphed into heavy sighs. The soles of his shoes remain fixed to the red stripe.

  This is my nightmare. Sure, there are any number of

  planks in the rickety suspension bridge of our trip that could give out and send us plummeting—the flight,

  the hotels, the road trips to Okanagan Lake and Seattle.

  Foreign places, foreign people. Foreign everything.

  And, of course, The Appointment and all of the ques-

  tion marks it entails. But to go wrong here? Here? At the airport? On the list of places you’d want to avoid acting out of the ordinary, the airport would rank number one

  with a bullet. Or maybe a Taser.

  I pull the rubber band at my wrist, let it snap back.

  The blossom of pain strangles the panic, rouses a resilience honed over the last two years. Perry needs help—it is right and just that I provide it. This is his time. His ultimate holiday. He deserves all the patience and tolerance required to make the next two weeks a memory for the ages.

  4

  are you seeing me?

  I take a couple of steps forward and stand tall, framed

  by the metal detector. Like a mime playing to the back row, an exaggerated level of animation overtakes my movements. I nod my head until my neck hurts. I tap my watch with large stabbing points of the index finger. I wheel my arm over like an air guitarist in full flight. The perform-ance makes a minor impression; Perry has returned to

  vertical, and the volume has been turned down on his

  sighs. I’m ready for a second dance of persuasion when a voice to my left interjects.

  “He’ll get there, miss.”

  I look toward the reassurer. It’s the security officer seated by the X-ray machine. She’s a cement block of a woman

  with dyed black hair and a red blotchy face. In contrast to her body, her expression is open, soft. The conveyor belt of luggage that is her charge has been halted. I hesitate, wary of reconciling compassion with authority, then nod.

  “I’ve got a nephew like him. Similar age, by the look

  of it.” She juts her chin and sits up a little straighter in her chair. “You’re doin’ real good.”

  Nephew or not, she has no real clue, but I mouth the

  words thank you anyway.

  As I turn back toward the stalemate, she adds, “You

  take as much time as you need.”

  Her gracious sentiment is not a shared one. The

  paddle wielder has dropped the sir from his requests.

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  darren groth

  The suit barges back through the line in search of a

  security station that “doesn’t have a goddamn retard

  holding everything up.” A small part of me is proud of

  Pez for upending their crappy little ordered empires.

  The rest of me is still locked on his unraveling.

  And then things go from bad to worse. Perry bends

  at the knees, buckling slowly, like Atlas defeated. The

  implications are immediate—if his knees hit the floor, it’s a done deal. He’ll go to all fours, then onto his stomach.

  Perhaps he’ll roll over on his back. Whatever the final

  position, he’ll be spread-eagled and staked. Ninety-one

  kilograms of dead weight destined for full-blown security intervention. The clock, previously at a premium, is

  seconds away from becoming redundant.

  He’s halfway down when an idea strikes. I lunge for

  the counter and unzip the bag Perry packed for the trip.

  I scrabble around among his essentials, assessing their

  candidacy. The seismometer? Too valuable. The dvd of

  Jackie Chan’s Drunken Master II? Too fragile. The Ogopogo stuffed toy? Too childish. The cd of Polka Hits from Around the World?! Too…weird. The book Quakeshake: A Child’s Experience of the New castle Earthquake?

  Bingo!

  I snatch up the book and hustle into position. I turn

  side-on, then cock my wrist, ready for the throw. It’s

  all or nothing, anything but a gimme; the toss must

  6

  are you seeing me?

  negotiate the metal detector and land at Perry’s feet.

  If it falls short, it will lack the impact to snap my

  brother out of his descent. If it sails long, it will hit him in the head, leading to a million YouTube hits. The

  task would test a decent athlete, let alone a generous-

  hipped, Cornetto-eating girl who turned excuse letters

  for pe class into an art form. I take an awkward prac-

  tice swing, then eye the target. Perry is now down on

  his haunches, rocking on the balls of his feet. It’s now or never. I draw back. A king tide of blood pummels my

  eardrums. The onlookers are panes of glass. Somewhere,

  in the distant burbs of my mind, I ask: How did my job description become flinging books at my twin brother to avoid disaster?

  The
throw clears the metal detector, hits the floor

  and skims a few meters before coming to rest at the

  toe of Perry’s right shoe. For a fleeting moment, there

  is only stillness, the wait to discover if the tall ship of clarity has dropped anchor in the swirling eddies of

  sensory distress.

  Perry grasps the book. He opens it, begins flipping

  through the pages. After a few seconds, he stands up. The flush in his face is retreating. His breaths are slowing.

  He is present.

  He is seeing me.

  I bite my tongue. “Come through, Pez. It’s okay.”

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  darren groth

  The command is barely complete when my brother

  walks forward. He holds the book out as he enters

  the detector, clutches it to his chest as he emerges on the other side. No beeps or buzzes or red lights. I glance at Paddle Man—he looks disappointed. Perry heads for the

  counter and his carry-on suitcase. He shoves the book

  back in among his prized possessions and pulls the

  zipper closed.

  “I’m sorry, Justine,” he murmurs, fixing his gaze on

  the stack of empty plastic trays by his left elbow. “I was quite worried.”

  “No kidding. Don’t you remember our talk this

  morning? We went over the detector stuff ten times. And

  we made sure you weren’t wearing any metal.”

  He nods. “I remember. Those detectors don’t work

  properly. I saw an article online. Sometimes they malfunction and make noise when they don’t mean to. I didn’t

  want to hear that noise. It would hurt my ears. And

  I imagined the security man touching my armpits and

  the front of my pants, then yelling at me and throwing

  me to the ground. He thought I was a terrorist—”

  “Okay, okay. It’s done now.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry, Justine.”

  “Yeah, I know you are.”

  I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I’m about

  to lay bare the supreme urgency of our situation when

  8

  are you seeing me?

  Perry takes my hand. He secures only the middle, ring

  and pinkie fingers. It is a recognizable and comforting

  contact. He first held my hand this way in third grade.

  I can’t recall him ever holding my hand differently.

  “Because we are late, I think it is logical we run to gate twenty-six.”

  I scoff. “I like that— we are late.”

  He tugs me along for a few meters, then releases.

  In a flash, he is past the duty-free shop and on the moving walkway, suitcase of consolations by his side. I set off after him, ignoring the leftover tremors in my legs and

  the visions of rickety suspension bridges in my head.

  v

  When I flop down into my aisle seat on Flight 47 to

  Vancouver, it’s a victory. We’ve made it this far. There is a journey to come—starting with fifteen hours nonstop

  across the Pacific—but this is a moment to savor. I want to ask the nearest hostess to give three cheers during the safety demonstration.

  Perry is across from me. It was my plan to have the

  two of us sit together but apart, each with easy access

  to the aisle. It was also important that Perry be seated beside an adult. An early-morning need for a toilet or an 9

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  attendant’s help could be a tad disruptive to a sleeping child. Not nearly as unsettling as a shouted quote from

  Shanghai Noon or an impromptu rendition of “Born This Way.” Though, if one of those meteorites fell from

  the sky…well, we’d all just have to wait until it burned out. Hopefully, the damage would be minimal. Firefighter Jus would, of course, be on hand with a bucket and a

  garden hose.

  An announcement from the captain assures us we’ll be

  taxiing out to the runway in ten to fifteen minutes. There’s been a delay in the fueling procedure. I study Perry’s reaction to the news. He shifts in his seat and squeezes his hands together hard, causing the knuckles to blanch.

  He takes two long breaths. The passengers alongside

  him—husband and wife, late fifties, holding the morning

  edition of The Australian and a Kimberley Freeman novel—give Perry an obvious, but not unkind, once-over.

  “Afraid of flying, mate?” the husband asks.

  Perry directs his gaze at the armrest between them.

  He inches over in his seat, closer to the aisle. Closer to me. He shakes his head. “I like jets.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Oh, okay. Just thought you looked a bit nervous.”

  Perry does like planes. He has several model bombers

  he built from kits. And he bought a replica Qantas jet

  10

  are you seeing me?

  from Myer the day I told him we had tickets to North

  America. Actual flying? No idea. This is his first ride in a big bird.

  The man smiles and offers his hand. “I’m Ross, by the

  way.”

  Perry accepts, pumps three times, withdraws. His eyes

  move from the armrest to Ross’s secured tray table. “My

  name is Perry Richter. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  “Good to meet you, Perry. This is my wife, Jane.”

  “Good to meet you, Ross. Good to meet you, Jane.”

  There’s a pause. Ross taps his chin twice, narrows

  his eyes. I recognize the signs. He’s had his first inkling that the young guy in seat 39G is not fashioned from a

  familiar mold. Bravo, Ross! Unless the association is

  patently obvious—Perry’s under stress or immersed in

  one of his favorite obsessions—it takes most people a

  while to suspect my brother is a bit skewiff. It’s one of his weightier burdens: look like everyone else, act like no one you’ve ever seen.

  It’s also the main reason I’m up front about it.

  Before people get confused or angry or frustrated or

  gooey or freaked out, I give them the standard spiel:

  Perry has a brain condition that can cause him to feel anxious or upset in different places and circumstances.

  He has trouble with people—mixing with them and

  communicating with them—and it sometimes results in

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  darren groth

  inappropriate behaviors. I appreciate your understanding and patience.

  Depending on my own reserves of patience, I might

  embellish it from time to time:

  What the hell are you staring at?

  Why don’t you take a picture? It lasts longer.

  If the wind changes, you’ll look like that permanently.

  You’ve never seen a disabled person and their homicidal caregiver before?

  At these times, I know for sure I am my father’s

  daughter. He never sought to explain Perry to the public.

  Let ’em get an education, he would say. If they don’t want to be educated, they can go jump.

  I lean in as Ross’s education commences.

  “Did you know that the earth is made up of four

  layers?” asks Perry. “There’s the core—actually two cores: inner and outer—and the mantle and the crust. The

  crust is where we live. No lie. I like the mantle the best out of the four. It’s mainly made up of molten lava, and the crust floats on top of it and is always moving. Isn’t that cool ?”

  Ross glances left and right, then nods.

  “That’s a funny joke, saying it’s cool, because the

  temperature can actually rise to 5,400 degrees Celsius.

  Anyway, scientists call t
he moving convection. They also have a theory that we are living on a series of tectonic 12

  are you seeing me?

  plates floating on the mantle. Some say twelve, others

  say it’s more than twelve. I’m not sure who is correct.

  One thing is certain, though—the plates can rub together or pull away from each other or smash into each other

  or one might go underneath the other. These events are

  what cause earthquakes to occur, and of course earth-

  quakes are measured on the moment magnitude scale,

  but they used to be measured on the Richter scale. That’s my last name—Richter. No lie. My father used to say

  it was my scale and that was a funny joke too, because it was invented by Charles Richter in 1935, which is fifty-five years before I was born. In fact, it was twenty-eight years before my father was born—”

  “Uh, Pez?”

  Perry halts his runaway train of thought, takes a breath and begins lightly tapping the tips of his fingers together.

  He looks down at his seat-belt buckle. The couple stare

  in my direction.

  “My name’s Justine Richter. I’m Perry’s sister and care-

  giver. Just so you know, Perry has a brain condition. It can cause him to feel—”

  “Brain condition?” asks Jane.

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “So, is he one of those people who are very good

  with numbers?”

  “I am good with numbers,” confirms Perry.

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  darren groth

  The husband arches his brow and twists in his seat.

  “What’s 1,491 times 6,218?”

  Perry thinks for a second, then unbuckles his seat belt, leaps out of his chair and opens the overhead bin. Ross

  stares at me, eyebrows high on his forehead.

  “It’s coming,” I say. “Takes him a little longer than the ones they trot out on tv.”

  Perry closes the compartment and flops back down

  in his chair. He’s holding a calculator. “What were those numbers again, Ross?”

  “I…I can’t remember.”

  “Was it 1,491 times 6,218? Or was it 4,191 times 2,618?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Let’s try the first one.” Perry brings the calculator

  up very close to his chin and punches in the equation,

  emphasizing each digit entry with a small nod. When

  the sum is done, he thrusts the calculator at Ross’s

  face, causing him to rear back. “Is this the correct

  answer, Ross?”

  “I’ve got no idea.”

  “Oh. I thought you knew the answer.”