The Age Page 21

  “Come on.” Ian puts his hands over Megan’s to still them. “Your head’s not straight.”

  She pushes him back. “There’s nothing wrong with my head. Look around. This is better than we ever thought.” Her fingers gouge into Gerry’s arm. Gerry tries to shrug her off but feels herself turned as Megan angles her toward the north side of the street. The storefront is floor-to-ceiling glass, headless mannequins dressed in pastel shirts and white shorts, on either side, navy banners embossed with the label’s emblem. “A polo player. Do you know what that means?” Megan’s breath is hot on her neck. “Capitalist fucks stoking the arms race. It’s their icon.”

  Behind the white backing panels of the window display, shadows of shoppers drift. “It’s full of people.”

  “We’ll get them out first.”

  Gerry draws the knapsack snug against her. “Andri did calculations, there has to be a distance between the building and the march. Look at the sidewalk.”

  “Ian and I will clear it.”

  “No way,” Ian says.

  Megan shakes her head. “Don’t listen to him. It’s smoke and glass, just like we talked about.”

  Police move slowly through the crowd, open bags and knapsacks, confiscate spray cans, empty out bottles of booze.

  “We need to get out of here and dump that thing,” Ian says.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Megan stares at him. “When did you become such a coward?”

  Ian stands silent, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

  She turns to Gerry. “We can’t just let them get away with it. You understand that, right? They expect us to do nothing.”

  Gerry bows her head, can’t meet Megan’s gaze. She waits for Megan’s tenderness to harden.

  “Megan.” Ian tries to put his arm around her.

  She throws him off, grabs at Gerry, presses their foreheads together, the soreness of bone on bone aching through Gerry’s skull as Megan rolls her head side to side. “It’s okay. I know you’re scared. You don’t think I was scared too? Fuck, those men? Putting Clem in that place? It’s okay to be scared of what you want.”

  Gerry lifts her hand, tries to twine her finger with Megan’s, hold on to her. “It’s not what I want.”

  Megan jerks away, grinds fists into her eyes. Behind her another string of firecrackers erupts, muffled by the low roll of drums, the thickening smoke. Up the block, skeletons kick at storefront windows, bash them with pipes and bats. Megan clutches at her head as she looks around. “Give me the bag.”

  Gerry squeezes the straps tight to her chest.

  “Give it to her,” Ian says. “We can get out of here.”

  Gerry shakes her head.

  She sees Megan’s hand before it hits her, manages to turn her face. The smack catches her lip against her teeth, starts a warm, metallic ooze in her mouth. She blinks, tastes her own blood, waits for Megan to apologize. Instead, Megan seizes the bag straps, grapples to get them loose. Gerry pries at Megan’s fingers, pushes at her chest.

  She feels Ian at her back, pulling on her elbows, his voice urgent. “Let go. Let go.” She understands him then, deadens her arms behind her, and lets the bag slip down. “Keep up!” he shouts to her as he steps into the street.

  Megan lunges to follow him. Gerry grabs her by the belt, hauls her down, and holds her as she counts on Ian’s quick pace, the knapsack changing, becoming just an ordinary bag as he moves farther away from the crowd. Megan bucks underneath her, squirms until her hands batter at Gerry’s head and face.

  “I’m sorry.” Gerry clutches her, curls to protect herself.

  The light dims. A forest of legs surrounds them. “Hey! Hey! Hey!” Someone hauls Megan off. Gerry watches her thrash. A burly man loops his arms over Megan’s, braces his hands together behind her head. “You stupid fucking cunt!” Megan shouts.

  “Easy now,” the man says. Her arms and legs flail against him.

  Someone helps Gerry to her feet. She hears herself sobbing but feels nothing of it in her body. “Here, sit down,” a woman’s voice says, but Gerry resists, searches the street for Ian. She spots him at Bute, striding far past the dispersing crowd. He turns and walks backward, the knapsack on his shoulders. He scans the crowd and she knows he’s looking for her, waiting for her to catch up. She shouts his name, pushes through the mob.

  For a second, her ears plug with air as if she’s slipped underwater. Then a crush of noise, immense and metallic, acres of glass shattering. A force plows into her chest, knocks her off her feet, and for what feels like minutes, she is flying.

  A CHILD’S WHINING CRY, the stench of burning plastic. A dirty cloud hovers over the road, obscures everything above knee level. Gerry thinks to move, but the idea circles useless in her head. Eyes at the sidewalk, she watches bodies rise and stagger. Her chest burns. She sucks for oxygen until her lungs release and draw a breath that singes like bleach. She chokes, battles to inhale and expel at once. Her eyes and nose water as she coughs. The crying, she can tell now, is the wail of sirens. She curls onto her side, lifts herself just enough to see the shattered shop front around her, a gravel of broken glass, an unmarred rainbow display of dried fruit to her right, a halo of blood where her head has lain.

  She pats her shoulders and back for the knapsack, searches the ground for it. Seconds pass before she remembers Ian. Beyond the stretch of her arms, nothing is visible. Pain rivets through her hip as she stands. Her legs quake. A few cautious steps forward and she’s hit from all sides. People shout and push. She tangles in their arms, gasps as she pulls herself free, crouches to the pavement. When she tries again, the hard flank of a horse knocks her to her knees. Down here, the air is clearer. She draws deep, deliberate breaths, thinks to wait it out. A few feet away, a young woman lies flat on her stomach, face bloody, eyes open. Her hand reaches out to Gerry as people trip and stumble over her body. Gerry scrambles to stand.

  The able-bodied move haltingly through the crowd, call names, ask questions. Others stand rooted and dazed. Beyond the sirens and cries is a sound she cannot place, a roar like air blasting overhead.

  She finds the edge of the curb with her foot, thrusts out her hands. Step by step, the white smoke opens in front of her, seals behind her as she drifts through worsening vignettes: bodies on their feet, bodies on their knees, bodies on their backs. When the bodies thin to nothing, she wonders if she’s turned herself around, sidetracked down an empty alley. Above her head, a stoplight swings from a severed wire, pendulums through the intersection. Splinters of wooden barricade litter the road.

  Beyond the barricade, the buildings are torn hulls. Gutted foyers drip with girders and wires. Entrances peel back on themselves, window casings flayed. She struggles to remember what detail she saw last as she looked at Ian, a marquee, an awning, a storefront sign marking his location. Voices in the sky call down for help. She turns a circle, waits for him to stumble out of a doorway, face blackened by soot, debris falling around him. As if on cue, an apparition dashes from the pitted opening of a building, a streak of light, a body on fire. Two bloodied and injured men grab it and drag it to the ground, roll and pat it frantically. A pane of glass crashes to the sidewalk beside them. The body screams out: a woman. She writhes across a border of blackened cement. The pattern reveals itself then, the sidewalk powdered in a sunburst, Gerry at its centre. The ground is strangely bare, a black circle without debris. Gerry tries not to look at the litter that lies beyond, knows there’s nothing left to find.

  She covers her mouth with her jacket and pushes back through the smoke.

  Near the intersection at Burrard, the smoke breaks to coloured lights, all three arteries jammed with police, firetrucks, ambulances. Under storefront awnings, a sombre triage line. She checks the faces, once, twice. Uniformed staff spill from the hotel across the street. Desk clerks, bellhops, doormen sprint toward the intersection, arms loaded with towels and blankets. Firemen unfurl hoses, jog them into the smoke; paramedics spread their arms like birds, catch people as they eme
rge and point them into groups. She veers to avoid all of them.

  The viaduct is a frozen river of traffic. By Main Street, drivers have left their cars, cluster on the sidewalk with folded arms to stare at the haze that rises between the downtown buildings. She pushes past them, keeps her head down. Some try to stop her, find out what’s happened, offer help, but she ignores them, tips her shoulder away as they reach for her.

  A lumbering reflection in a storefront window shocks her, her gait stilted and mechanical, clothes white with ash. A stab of pain through her neck keeps her head from turning to the left, a twinge in her knee startles every few steps. She wipes at the dribble of blood that seems to leak from her forehead, a wound without pain. Time snaps against her, jars her with the sensation of waking. The blocks double endlessly, then slip past in a blink.

  Halfway home, the streets are quiet. People consumed with daily business, unconcerned, unaware. Through the window of a storefront office, she sees a couple nodding as a man behind a desk gestures to the papers in front of them. Outside a bakery, women cluck amongst themselves, wait to be served. She approaches a bus stop where a toddler fusses. His mother gives his padded behind a spank. Onlookers chuckle at the boy’s misfortune. The boy’s sobs bring tears to Gerry’s eyes. As she passes the bystanders, they stare, faces grave. Exhausted, she alters course, turns off Main and follows a maze of empty neighbourhood streets home.

  The TV is on, but no one is watching. She shuffles cautiously from room to room, alert for sounds. When she’s certain her mom isn’t home, she makes her own sound, a whimper of pain and gratitude.

  She turns off the TV, draws the living-room curtains, the house like a cave, dark and silent. She climbs the stairs to her room and closes the door. As she sits on her bed, the stink of her clothes overwhelms her, the acidy stench of chemical burn, beneath it, rank sweat. She eases out of her jacket and T-shirt, layers that peel like cling film. Her skin feels raw and damp, prickles and itches as it’s exposed to the air. She rubs at her arms, tugs at the straps of her cotton bra, lies back on her bed. Above, dead ash swirls in the New Mexico sky. She struggles to stand up on the mattress, legs quivering, rips the poster, shreds it, crushes it in her fists. Her mind is full of Ian, the bony rectangle of his shoulders, the smell of his shaving cream, sea water and astringent, his smile when he teased, the way his voice got wistful and gravelly late at night. The swarm of him, so real and immediate, forces her to her hands and knees. Her jaw aches as her mouth stretches wide. She clutches her head and howls.

  The fury passes, leaves her crying into her hands, body shuddering with cold. When she has strength enough to rise from the bed, she steadies herself at the dresser, opens the drawer, feels for the glass bottle.

  The door to her father’s study is unlocked. It bumps behind her, closes with a click, the room’s cool must soothing against her face. She climbs into his swivel chair and lets it rock her, then crawls up onto the desk and opens the curtains, stares out at the neighbourhood framed in the window, the east sky clear and untroubled as mid-afternoon sun glazes decks and rooftops. For a moment, she is afraid. She glances back at the door, then presses her face to the window.

  She unscrews the cap from the bottle, stares at the medicine’s faint amber stain, then tips the bottle to her lips, leans her head back. The liquid pours thick and bitter, flares in her throat, tendrils through her chest. She coughs, then drinks again. Her throat begins to numb. Her limbs lighten, foamy and inflated. Her hand floats in front of the window, unhooks the latch.

  The living world rushes over her, children playing, radios, the laughter of men. She smells the trail of gasoline from a lawnmower. Below, ripples creep across the pool’s surface.

  She sits on the ledge and waits for a signal, a glint in the sky, an engine turning over, a dog’s bark. From her perch, she can just make out Ian’s yard. She pictures Alice at the kitchen table, hair a frizzy aura, Marty at the landing, the hem of his caftan swirling at his feet. The clueless tragedy of being a parent. Her own mom saddled with a daughter who has brought her only sadness.

  Gerry mashes the tears from her eyes, then forces herself to look down. The height doesn’t alarm her. It will be quick. A flashbulb, a somersault.

  Clem’s medicine raises a swell inside her. The pain in her muscles eases. Her head glitters and she blinks at the feeling: joy. She wipes her nose and streaming mucus comes away in a clear strand that catches the light. She admires it before scraping it across her jeans. The burr of denim hums under her hand. Her arms braced against the windowframe, she closes her eyes. With a push, the house slips away.

  Her body hangs weightless, as if only her troubles have fallen. For an instant, all questions are answers, all problems dissolved. She tumbles. Water breaks against her skull, her ears. She thrashes, but her limbs connect with no surface. The bottom surprises her, knocks against her feet. Her legs, drugged and dull refuse to straighten. Her head grazes the floor. Water burns in her throat, her chest. She sees a park on a hill, a shady path through the trees, hears the sound of her breath, the pad of footfalls behind her, wind through the leaves. She closes her eyes to sleep.

  The tide tugs at her, gently first, then insistent. She pulls free of its grasp and clings to the jelly cradle of darkness. Until she is squeezed, pushed, her heart pumping hard outside her. A woman’s voice speaks her into being. She is lips, a mouth. She is waiting for a kiss. It comes wet and ferocious. A sweet spearmint taste, the smell of laundry soap.

  She retches, racked with watery convulsions. Air sears into her. The weight of her head is enormous. She blinks the water out of her eyes and sees her mother’s face, dripping and pink, gaping in shock, smiling and crying at the same time, over her shoulder, the hazy silhouette of a man.

  IN THE HUT, THE GIRL DROPS TO HER KNEES. Face grey, hand gripped to a chair back, she emits a low, savage moan. The boy takes her arm over his shoulder, holds her firm, guides her across the beach, up the snaking stairs to the clinic.

  Dr. Patak leads them both to the dining room, where a long table has been covered with sheets and towels. The doctor grumbles about ruined mattresses.

  The boy helps the girl undress from the waist down, boosts her onto the table.

  Dr. Woo and Dr. Joan enter wearing kitchen aprons: Dr. Joan’s, a homey red-and-white check, Dr. Woo’s, a psychedelic pattern of giant strawberries. Dr. Joan snaps on rubber gloves and opens the girl’s legs, inserts her fingers, then pushes. Pink-tinged liquid dribbles out over her wrist. She smiles.

  We’re on our way.

  While Dr. Joan coaches, the other doctors fetch pillows for the girl, help her change positions. At first, the girl endures the contractions with gritted teeth, her hand seizing the boy’s, but as the baby descends, the girl shrieks, releases the boy, slips away from him into the world of her suffering. Her sobs between contractions leave him feeling useless. He whispers words she cannot hear, dabs at her face with a damp tea towel, clutches her swollen fingers.

  You’re doing great. Dr. Joan’s voice remains emphatic, unwilling to indulge the girl’s misery.

  For an agonizing time, the birth stalls; the girl pushes, but the baby is stuck. Dr. Joan looks to the other two, their faces blank with fear. Dr. Patak and Dr. Woo each shoulder one of the girl’s legs as Dr. Joan forces her hands inside in an attempt to turn the baby. The girl howls and bucks. Dr. Woo struggles to keep hold of her slippery thigh. Dr. Joan’s hands emerge streaked with blood.

  The boy holds his breath, waits for the next contraction. The girl’s screams are shrill and terrifying. Dr. Joan yells, It’s good, it’s good.

  Dr. Woo hurries across the room and returns with a turkey baster. The gummy crown of the baby’s head stretches the girl, a circle of rippled flesh yawning back. In a queasy, light-headed moment, the boy thinks the girl must be turning herself inside out. Another strained contraction and her body pushes a child into the world. A head with eyes, a nose and mouth, the relief of arms, torso, legs, everything smudged in waxy white film
, but perfect in its right place. A girl. The baby makes no sound.

  Gently, Dr. Woo guides the tip of the turkey baster into the baby’s mouth, releases the bulb slowly, until suction draws a viscous slurp. He does the same for the baby’s nose, while Dr. Joan flicks her finger at the baby’s palms and feet. The baby’s body terrifies the boy, limp and grey. The girl sits up to see, her face a grimace of tears. The boy wants to cover her eyes, but knows if he tries to touch her, she will push him away. Dr. Joan takes the baby by its ankles and gives it one hard shake. The baby gasps, shakes, mewls like a forlorn cat. A flush spreads over its body. Everyone laughs.

  Dr. Joan lays the baby on the girl’s chest, then turns to hug Dr. Woo, who wipes the tears from under his glasses.

  The boy kneels beside the girl, presses his face into her shoulder and sobs. She sniffles, coos to their child, while her hand strokes the boy’s hair. He stands to let the doctors embrace him. Dr. Patak offers her hand and he shakes it, unable to meet her gaze. When they ask about a name, the girl kisses the baby’s head and says, Caroline. The mention of his mother forces the boy from the room, away from baby’s delicate breathing, its soft skull and gauzy skin. In the kitchen he finds an empty pantry, shuts himself inside. He crouches in the dark, feels the hard wooden panels with his hands, breathes the damp rot, prays to whatever god is left for strength.

  The baby refuses to feed, only wails, fussy and unwilling to latch. The girl is despondent, beyond the boy’s comfort. They remain at the clinic so Dr. Joan can persist with her awkward positions, whispered instructions, while the other two doctors chew their fingers, exchange worried looks. Finally, in the middle of a crying fit, the baby suckles. Dr. Woo jumps to his feet and claps. Dr. Patak shakes her head. The cupboards are bare, she says. Day and night, the doctors advise, feed, always feed. As the girl sleeps, the boy curls against her back, clings to her, pretends they are still just two.