Counting Back from Nine Read online

  A smile that it was Scott calling and

  it turns out he really likes bowling and

  is coming with us this weekend.

  But still. She had better not pull anything like that again.

  The Shunning: Part Two

  So.

  My Facebook Friends list has shrunk by nearly forty.

  Not your typical ebb and flow, but then

  there is more at work here than

  gravity.

  THERE ARE TWO SIDES TO EVERY STORY SO DON’T

  JUDGE UNTIL YOU’VE HEARD BOTH OF THEM

  The caps in my status update are probably

  overkill.

  I leave them anyway.

  A thought hits me, but it takes a little while

  to find the courage to check.

  According to Facebook,

  I have no friends named Morgan.

  I’ve gone from

  Best Friend to Unfriend.

  Discarded with a single click.

  That feels a bit unreal. I try to push the hurt

  out of my head and chest,

  like I’ve been doing for weeks

  but this time it’s stubborn, like a

  trick candle that keeps

  re-lighting itself.

  I picture them

  Morgan, Angie, Nina

  having the best time ever

  while I watch people

  seep

  out

  of

  my

  life.

  Unexpected Scott

  Scott. At the door, smiling.

  “Sorry for not calling first,” he says.

  His eyes are not sorry.

  He is kissing me when

  Jackson comes down the hall and makes

  little brother barfing sounds. Scott laughs out loud and says,

  “Hey, Jackson, how you doing? Put ’er there, man.”

  I can’t help smiling as they do some kind of

  secret guy handshake.

  When I make coffee, Jackson swaggers in to

  get himself a mug too and then sits with us,

  trying to look like this isn’t his

  first cup ever.

  It is ever so much easier to spot a

  “first”

  of something

  than it is a

  “last.”

  Phone Call — March 15

  Mom has turned to stone,

  except for her mouth,

  which is moving without sound,

  like someone has pressed pause on the remote

  and the picture is fluttering ever so slightly.

  When she hangs up she tells me to get Jackson

  and get in the car.

  There’s been an accident.

  It feels as though I am moving underwater,

  the Unknown, a tidal wave of fear.

  At the hospital, the emergency doors slide open.

  We are sent down a hallway

  > > > > > following yellow arrows.

  8

  Jackson runs into the room, gawking at Dad like

  he’s some kind of alien life form.

  Mom bursts into tears and I

  am not far behind because

  the person in the bed seems

  too small and frail to be my father.

  We all say how glad we are that he’s okay.

  We ask if he needs anything.

  Dad has a speech ready.

  This was a real wake-up call.

  It opened his eyes to what matters.

  He wants us to know that

  things are going to be different.

  We’re going to be spending

  more time together

  from now on.

  No more late nights

  and weekends

  at work.

  We can’t stay long, because

  he needs his rest. But before we go

  his arms

  open and when they close

  I am inside them.

  He promises that

  everything will be all right.

  We say goodbye and leave, defying the

  < < < < < yellow arrows that guided us there.

  There are no arrows to tell you how to get back to

  where you were before.

  After Accident

  In the car Jackson announces that he’s hungry.

  “Can we have take-out, please, please, please?”

  Mom agrees. “Why not? After all,

  we have something to celebrate.”

  I call Scott when we get home.

  He’s watching a hockey game on TV.

  I can hear it in the background, and also in

  his voice as we talk.

  “You aren’t even listening,” I say.

  “It was scary.”

  Scott says, “Yeah, but you said he was okay, right?”

  The announcer’s voice rises in excitement.

  I let him go back to the game.

  There is no one else to talk to.

  By 9:30 I’m in bed and asleep.

  Second Call

  The sounds tug me from sleep.

  I try to crawl back into my dream but

  they are coming

  pounding down the hall

  racing toward my room

  slamming the door open.

  My mother is in the doorway—

  her face says everything even

  before the words come

  but they do come

  those words.

  I’m on my feet, ready to fight

  because this is a lie, a lie, a LIE.

  I’m on the floor, broken

  because it is the truth.

  Jackson is silent.

  He stares from the doorway.

  He stares ahead in the car.

  I wonder if he could be sleepwalking.

  A Minor Fatality

  Arrows point you to the living but for

  the dead you get an escort.

  Mom tells the nurse that the injuries were minor.

  The nurse answers that it’s especially difficult when

  it is so unexpected.

  Everything is wrong:

  the colour of his skin,

  the way his face is sunk in,

  as if the air is leaking out of him.

  The nurse’s voice is a meaningless

  hum in the background. I hear random words:

  driver, car, passenger, red light, seatbelt.

  None of them mean a thing,

  hovering behind us

  as we try to grasp

  what lies ahead.

  As we leave, she tells us he didn’t suffer.

  Planning

  At the kitchen table, Mom is

  talking on and on. Making lists

  as if she’s organizing a party.

  I am assigned to writing down names

  as she blurts them out,

  people we have to call with the news.

  Jackson’s foot swings against the table leg,

  Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.

  My brain sinks into the sound

  until Mom runs out of words,

  until her head drops and her shoulders heave.

  That is when I notice that

  the roots of her hair are gray.

  She will need to colour them before the funeral.

  I write this carefully at the bottom of my list.

  Cinnamon Buns and other Edibles

  I don’t remember falling asleep.

  My mouth is dry, my head aching but

  the house smells good, spicy and warm.

  Aunt Rita is here. She

  calls me her poor darling and

  tells me to come and have a cinnamon bun.

  She has baked them fresh because

  we all need to keep our strength up.

  The cinnamon buns are huge.

  I eat two while Aunt Rita fills me in on

  what’s coming.
Apparently, it is not enough that

  my father is dead.

  I am also about to learn who my

  real friends are. And

  I might as well prepare myself because

  even family members will let me down,

  although heaven forbid that she should mention names.

  I consider a third cinnamon bun but I already feel

  like I might puke.

  Mom appears in the hallway, her pain an invitation.

  I’m on my feet in a flash,

  racing to her,

  grabbing hold.

  Aunt Rita is held at bay

  by the slippery mess of our faces.

  By noon there is a steady stream of hands

  thrusting food through the door.

  Aunt Rita has a system for the offerings.

  Casseroles and baked goods are sent to the freezer while

  trays of veggies and plates of cold cuts

  are stacked in the fridge.

  Sorry about your tragedy. Have a snack.

  The food-bringers talk to Mom, but

  Aunt Rita answers most of the questions.

  Everyone says what a shock it was, that

  they couldn’t believe it when they heard.

  They hug Mom and take her hand. They say,

  “Be sure to call if there’s anything I can do.

  Anything at all.”

  A few make her promise she will.

  I watch them leave.

  They look satisfied.

  Grandma

  Grandma Powell arrives at the same time that

  Mrs. King lands with what she calls her

  Famous Chicken Pot Pie.

  She gives us heating directions depending on whether it’s

  frozen or thawed when we cook it. I hear a jumble of numbers

  and the mention of tinfoil, which is when Grandma snaps.

  “My daughter has just lost her husband,” Grandma tells her.

  “And these children have lost their father.

  Do you think they want to hear

  a lot of nonsense about heating up a pie?

  Take the silly thing back home with you

  if it needs that much coddling.”

  Mrs. King backs out the door clutching

  her Famous Pie, staring at it in bewilderment,

  baffled by the fact

  that it’s still in her hands.

  Gathering Family

  Memere and Pepere Olivier are on their way.

  I think of Pepere peering over the steering wheel,

  his back straight.

  The image crushes in on me, squeezing my chest,

  filling my eyes.

  When they arrive

  Memere crumples just inside the door.

  Aunt Rita rushes her into a chair and bustles off

  to make a pot of tea. Aunt Rita believes

  tea is some kind of magic potion.

  A solution for everything.

  Got a tummy-ache? Tea.

  Fight with your best friend? Tea.

  Flunked your algebra test? Tea.

  Death in the family? Tea.

  Circle Talk

  Memere does not understand how this terrible

  thing could have happened, and

  Pepere cannot believe that it is really true.

  A day full of words

  makes no difference at all.

  When my brain cannot stand one more

  minute

  I escape to my room.

  But something is wrong in there —

  the air is thin and tight and

  I cannot get enough of it into my lungs.

  It is like trying to breathe

  through my damp pillow.

  The Wake

  At the funeral home a tall, thin man passes out

  pins that identify our relation to the

  deceased

  We are given half an hour for a private visit with the

  remains

  Everyone cries quietly, gathered around the

  departed

  Morgan and her parents arrive soon after the doors open.

  She hugs me and we cry and I

  feel grief and hope and guilt.

  So many people.

  After a while it is as though we are stuck

  in a soundbite loop.

  Sorry for your loss.

  Sorry about your troubles.

  Such a tragedy.

  Angie and Nina do not come.

  That is fine. That is their choice.

  But Scott also does not come and

  my neck hurts from looking for him.

  Funeral

  I feel as though my father has been cheated.

  There are prayers and hymns and readings but

  no one gets up to talk about him:

  what he was like and things he cared about.

  Mom has decided against a eulogy and so

  there are no humorous or touching stories.

  This funeral could be for anybody and that

  makes me angry because

  it is the only funeral my father will ever have.

  Panic surges through me when

  the pallbearers walk down the aisle,

  and the coffin carrying

  My Father

  is wheeled behind them.

  I can hardly keep myself from yelling,

  “Stop! There’s been a mistake.”

  Jackson is trembling. I

  yank him close to me.

  He doesn’t even struggle.

  The graveside service is not like

  they show on television. There is no lowering

  the coffin into the ground, no handful of dirt or flowers

  thrown on top of it. Even the hole is hidden

  by a bright green cover.

  Barely a Blip

  The crowd is like a cloud

  breaking up, drifting away,

  returning to their own lives.

  Only a few family members remain and

  we gather at the table

  eating, talking, even laughing,

  just like everything is normal.

  As if my father’s death was nothing more than a

  blip on the screen.

  I think to myself that the worst is over

  but that is because

  I have no idea what lies ahead.

  Comfort

  Finally. A text from Scott.

  He is so sorry. So, so sorry.

  I want to ignore it, make him wait,

  but the longing to see him is stronger

  than my pride. I hate it when I am so weak.

  It makes me feel pathetic but that doesn’t stop me

  from calling him.

  He says, “Hello?” on the third ring. Not a single

  word gets out before my tears begin. Finally, I sob,

  “Please, can you meet me somewhere?

  I feel so bad and I really need to see you.”

  Relief floods me when he tells me to meet

  him at the tiny park on the corner of my street.

  “I’m on my way,” he says softly.

  I see him walking toward me from the end of the block.

  The rhythm of his steps brings a rush of yearning,

  the urge to get up and run to him.

  I hold myself back because I am

  a tragic figure, huddled alone and

  suffering on a bench,

  and I don’t want to spoil the image.

  “I got here as fast as I could,” Scott says.

  He holds me close and

  there is no seeking, no petition in his hands.

  I press my face against his chest, inhaling

  the scent of him and feeling

  guilty about the warm pleasure it brings.

  Until

  the comfort of his touch, his nearness

  gives way to sadness

  gives way to pain

  gives way to anger and
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  questions burn inside me.

  I want to ask him, “Why didn’t you

  come to my father’s wake or funeral?”

  but the right moment is not there, or perhaps

  something stands in its way.

  I decide that is not the important thing.

  I tell myself that what matters is that he came

  when I asked him to.

  Escape

  Mom has taken a week off work so that she can

  sort out our affairs. How do you rearrange

  your whole life

  in seven days?

  Jackson and I turned down her suggestion that we

  miss a few days of school.

  It won’t hurt, she says.

  But she is wrong and all I want right now is

  out.

  The rooms are full of shadows and sighs.

  School: Day One

  Science class is just what I need.

  Mr. Zallum’s voice offers a resting place to my brain.

  I sink into the low buzz, focusing on the

  sound until I feel a jab on the shoulder.

  The guy behind me is hissing for me to wake up.

  Was I sleeping?

  I’m not sure.

  I turn slightly and nod my thanks because he

  doesn’t know what he took from me.

  When the noon bell sounds I realize

  I haven’t written a single word all morning

  though my history notebook boasts a couple of squiggly lines,

  from when Ms. Ardena gave us our homework.

  She’s a hawk, sharp-eyed and ready to swoop down

  on unsuspecting prey. The last thing I want is that kind,

  or any kind of attention.