“And I do read, just not a lot, and very slowly, because I’m mildly dyslexic. So, you basically just taunted a person with a learning disability. An amputee with a learning disability. Way to be a bully, Petula.” He was clearly enjoying himself.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. I kept my eyes on the screen so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “Look, why don’t I just write the scene and we’ll put both our names on it. You don’t have to stay.”
“That wouldn’t be fair. Why don’t you write it, and I’ll direct it?”
“Direct what?”
“I think we should make a short. I shot a lot of shorts in Toronto. I’ve got a great camera.”
“But who would be in it?”
“Some of your friends.”
My silence was his answer.
“How about the people from YART?”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
He ran a hand through his thick hair. “Okay. Why don’t we start by writing the scene and figure out the rest later? I’ll show you how to format.”
It took us about an hour and a half to write the scene. It was mildly fun, writing in screenplay form. I told Jacob the rough plot of the novel as we worked. When we were close to being done he said, “Can I use your washroom?”
“Just a minute.” I ran down the hall and did a litter box check. I scooped a couple of fresh poops into the toilet, flushed, and spritzed the room with air freshener.
“Okay, good to go,” I said when I got back. “First door on your left.”
But Jacob was no longer at my desk. He was perched on my bed again.
And he was flipping through my scrapbook.
I marched over and grabbed the scrapbook from his lap. It was open to my most recent page.
Woman Dies from Minor Cut on Finger
A mother of two contracted necrotizing fasciitis, more commonly known as flesh-eating disease, after receiving a minor paper cut at work…
Child Killed in Roller-Coaster Tragedy
A seven-year-old boy died on Sunday after the safety bar on his roller-coaster car failed to lock properly. Onlookers watched in horror as the boy flew out of the car during the coaster’s descent…
Man Beheaded in Elevator Accident
Fifty-two-year-old Victor Farmiga was “a gentleman,” say those who knew him. When the elevator in his office building opened its doors slightly above the second floor, he held the doors open and handed the other passengers out. But the elevator suddenly shot upward, beheading Farmiga…
Girl, 9, Mauled to Death by Nana’s Dogs
Friends and family are reeling after a young girl was attacked by her grandmother’s two dogs in the woman’s backyard. The girl was rushed to hospital, where she was pronounced dead on arrival…
Nurse Killed Walking Past Construction Site
A young nurse was struck and killed by a falling sheet of metal as she walked to her first day on the job at St. Michael’s Hospital. Veronica Lamar had just graduated with flying colors from nursing college…
Teenager Trampled to Death at Boxing Day Sale
A teenage girl was trampled to death by fellow shoppers looking for a bargain at a popular electronics store on Friday. When the doors opened, the crowds surged forward and the young girl fell to the floor…
Child Tumbles Off Balcony Trying to Fly
A three-year-old is dead after she tried to “fly like Tinker Bell” from her family’s tenth-floor balcony. Her mother is said to be inconsolable…
Man Dies When Basement Swallowed by Sinkhole
A thirty-eight-year-old man was sleeping soundly when a sinkhole opened up beneath his house, swallowing the lower floor where his bedroom was located…
My breath came in short, sharp bursts. No one, no one, was supposed to see my scrapbook. “How dare you? How dare you look through my stuff?” My voice wasn’t my voice. It was screechy.
Jacob didn’t even have the decency to look caught. “I thought it was a photo album. I didn’t know it was page after page of articles on freak deaths.”
“If you tell anyone—”
“I’m not going to tell anyone. Who would I tell?”
“I don’t know! Kids at school? I know people talk about me. I know people think I’m a weirdo.”
I started to sway, feeling dizzy. “Whoa,” Jacob said. He put his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “Sit,” he said. Like I was a dog. But I did as I was told. “Breathe.” I breathed. “I don’t think you’re a weirdo. Offbeat, yes. A fatalist, yes.”
“I’m not a fatalist. I’m a pessimist. There’s a difference.”
“Why are you a pessimist?”
“It’s just common sense. You’ve heard about Darwin’s theory of evolution? Survival of the fittest? The pessimists were the fittest. They were the ones who were wary of neighboring tribes, or cute little lion cubs. They knew the cute lion cubs’ mother was nearby. The optimists were like, ‘Here, kitty kitty.’ Their optimism literally killed them.”
“But the optimists were happier, surely.”
“Maybe. But at what cost? Pessimists live longer lives.”
“Smaller lives.”
“Safer lives.”
Jacob indicated the scrapbook. “This isn’t a reflection of reality. You must have to dig deep to uncover these stories.”
“That’s the thing, I don’t. Tragedies like this happen every day. It is reality.”
He shook his head, unconvinced. “Okay, but why keep a record?”
I struggled to explain. “It reminds me to be vigilant. And also…it makes me feel like I’m not so alone.” I felt tears sting my eyes. No. Nonononono. I will not cry in front of him. I pointed at one of the articles, working hard to steady my voice. “That grandma. Her dogs killed her grandchild. How does she live with that? And that mom who let her seven-year-old ride the roller coaster. She’ll never forgive herself.”
“It wasn’t her fault.”
“Wasn’t it? Maybe, if she’d done her research, she wouldn’t have let him on that rickety old thing. Maybe he’d still be home, playing with Legos.”
“Have you always seen the world this way?”
“No.”
Jacob took my hand in his real one. It was a big hand, warm and dry, and it encompassed mine. I tried hard not to think about germs. “What happened to your sister?”
“How do you know I had a sister?”
“Your mom told me.”
Of course she had. Mom couldn’t get through a couple of hours without bringing up Maxine.
“She choked to death. On a button. A button I’d sewn onto an outfit I’d made for her, which shouldn’t have had buttons in the first place because she was only three.”
“And you think it was your fault.”
“Not think. Know.”
I waited for him to disagree with me, because that’s what people did. I waited for him to say, “That’s ridiculous, you’re not to blame, blah blah blah.”
But he didn’t. “I get it. I live with that, too.”
I stayed very still.
“My two best friends died. I didn’t. Same accident, but I’m still here. Like Harry Potter: the boy who lived.”
“Tell me what happened. The truth this time.”
He looked straight ahead, still holding my hand. “We had a basketball game, preseason, north of Toronto. I’m a terrible player. I was only on the team because of my height. I sat on the bench most of the time, but I never cared because my best friends were on the team, too. Randle McMurphy and Ben Willard. The three of us took film studies together and shot shorts all the time. I’d direct and Randle and Ben would write, act, crew—everything.
“Ben was older than us, and he’d just got his full license. We took his mom’s car to the game. Afterward, we headed back to the city. It was snowing. Dark. A drunk driver…”
“No.”
“When I came to, I was pinned under a bunch of crushed metal. The paramedics used the Jaws of Life to get me out. I lost part of
my arm. Randle and Ben…” His face clouded over. “Hard not to feel guilty when you’re the sole survivor.”
I got it. I was close friends with guilt, and I knew it was seldom rational.
“So here I am. Almost eighteen and repeating eleventh grade because I flamed out spectacularly last year. It’s why we moved here. I just couldn’t be in that school anymore.”
I squeezed his hand. He grabbed the box of Kleenex I kept by my bed and blew his nose loudly, honking like a Canada goose. Then he tried to hand the tissue to me.
“Um, ew.” I pointed to the garbage can under my desk.
He left shortly afterward.
This time, we exchanged phone numbers.
By two a.m. I was still wide awake. This happens sometimes. I don’t like it one bit. Being a loner is entirely different from that middle-of-the-night feeling of being utterly alone.
It’s even worse early on a Sunday morning. I hate Sundays, and I’m pretty sure my parents hate them, too. Too much time to spend in our own heads. Too much time to spend together.
I turned on my bedside lamp and reread a chunk of Wise Blood, another all-time favorite of mine. Then I got up and turned on my computer. I searched for articles for my scrapbook and printed a few. I watched some of my favorite cat videos.
I was midway through Henri, the Existential Cat when an idea struck me.
It was either utterly inspired or utterly dumb.
I texted Jacob.
What if our “Wuthering Heights” video didn’t star humans?
What if it starred cats?
I didn’t expect an answer till morning. But maybe Jacob had his own sleep issues, because a moment later my phone dinged.
I love it.
We texted back and forth to firm up plans.
And for a while, anyway, I didn’t feel so alone.
Jacob showed up less than eight hours later, shortly after ten a.m., wearing a filthy-looking John Deere ball cap. “It’s my lucky director’s hat. It can never be washed.”
Ugh.
My dad was heading out for one of his epic runs and Mom was off to a yoga class. “I always knew our cats had star quality,” she said when she heard the idea. “I’m happy to help when I get back.”
I handed Dad his reflective vest and Mom her rape whistle. “Don’t forget to use my Christmas gifts.” They gave each other a look. “I saw that. Better safe than sorry.”
After they left, Jacob showed me his digital camera. It was small and lightweight, a gift from his parents. “I guess we should talk about sets,” he said.
“Actually, I started working on something last night.” My mind had been abuzz with ideas for a cat-sized version of Catherine’s bedroom at Wuthering Heights. Finally I’d given up on sleep altogether and padded down to our storage locker, careful to put my own rape whistle around my neck first. I’d rummaged around until I found three big boxes of my old crafting supplies, untouched since our move.
It took three separate trips to lug it all back upstairs. Everything was in those boxes, from paint to pipe cleaners. I even found the old bonnets Rachel and I had made during our Little House on the Prairie phase, and because no one could see me, I’d worn mine while I worked.
I took Jacob to my room and showed him what I’d created so far. It was a three-walled set made from a large cardboard box I’d found next to the recycling bins and decontaminated with Lysol, which gave it a faint lemony scent. I’d cut out a big window and hung fabric for curtains. I’d made miniature books and placed them on the windowsill as stand-ins for the books Lockwood needed to discover. Then I’d painted the walls ocher, to add to the moody, desolate feel of Wuthering Heights. I’d also dashed off a few drawings of cats in period costume and hung them around the room as portraits. “I still need to make the bed,” I said. “But it’s big enough that we could probably fit one of the cat beds in.”
Jacob whistled. “Wow, Petula. Did you get any sleep at all?”
“A bit. Not much.”
“You’re really good.”
I let myself smile.
“Do you think we could get the cats to wear costumes?” Jacob asked.
“We can try. One of those boxes has a pile of dolls’ clothes I made when I was younger.”
Jacob started rooting through the box, pulling out things he thought might be useful, while I put the finishing touches on the set. “Hey. Is this Rachel?”
He held up a handmade mosaic frame with a photo of Rachel and me from a couple of years ago. We’d just taken a batik course, and we were wearing matching batik dresses and grinning from ear to ear. Maxine and Owen sat on our laps in batik T-shirts. Rachel still had thick, long dirty-blond hair.
I took the photo from Jacob and placed it back in the box, facedown.
“What happened between you two?”
I didn’t answer.
“Did she pull away after Maxine died?”
I shook my head.
“So?”
“So, none of your business.”
“Okay. You’re protecting your friend. I respect that.”
I looked away, too gutless to tell him I was protecting myself.
—
When my parents got home, Jacob enlisted their help. He made Mom our casting director/cat wrangler. She cast Ferdinand as Lockwood and Anne of Green Gables as Catherine, “because they’re by far the most placid and malleable.” Alice was given the role of Heathcliff, and Stanley, the maid. My dad agreed to voice both Heathcliff and Lockwood, which he did with a cheesy English accent. I voiced the women.
We had to shoot two scenes. The first was manageable: Lockwood gets led to the never-used room by the maid. We had to get the two cats to walk side by side down a hall, Stanley wearing a maid’s cap and Ferdinand a bow tie. It took an hour, but eventually Jacob got what he needed.
The second scene had a lot of parts. Lockwood lies in bed reading Catherine’s diaries and drifts off to sleep. A branch bangs on the window, and when he tries to adjust it, Catherine’s ghost hand grabs his wrist. Lockwood’s screams bring Heathcliff running. When he hears of the apparition he goes to the window and begs ghost-Catherine to return.
It took us the rest of the day to film. We were literally herding cats. Ferdinand kept clawing his nightshirt off and Anne of Green Gables took a stealth poop on the prop bed. All the cats wandered out of frame. We spent two hours on the final shots alone, because Alice did not want to wear her nightcap or look out the window. Eventually we fired her and replaced her with Moominmamma.
When we were finally done filming it was past six o’clock. Jacob started packing up to go home.
“Hang on,” said my dad. He walked over to the crammed floor-to-ceiling shelves and started searching through his records. He handed Jacob an album. “In case you need some music. It’s actually called ‘Wuthering Heights.’ It was released as a single in 1978. A song from Catherine’s perspective. Kate Bush was only eighteen when she wrote it.”
Then my dad did something he hadn’t done in two years.
He put the album on the record player and dropped the needle.
We all listened to the haunting song.
—
That night at supper the three of us went over every second of the day. Dad didn’t jump up from the table immediately after he’d finished eating. We didn’t lapse into awkward silences.
I was feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time. So long, in fact, that it took me a while to figure out what it was.
Happiness.
It was Antarctica cold in the counseling suite on Friday. I wore my cat hat and my Belgian flag scarf. Jacob kept his ridiculous orange parka on. We were the only two who seemed affected by the subzero temperatures, however. Alonzo wore a diaphanous white blouse and tight black leather pants. Ivan sat beside him in a shiny red tracksuit, his black hair matted and bed-headed even though it was two p.m. Koula wore a tight tank top with MY EYES ARE UP HERE emblazoned in gold across her boobs and an arrow pointing up. This was paired
with dangerously low-rise jeans. Every time she bent over (which was a full three times before she finally settled into her seat) she showed off an upper-ass tattoo that read BEATIFUL TRADGEDY.
It was a tragedy, all right.
“I call this one the Healing Heart,” Betty said. Her suit was a vibrant orange. “I’ve created this huge construction-paper heart, which I’m going to cut into five pieces. You can get as creative as you like with yours, but the idea is to convey a regret. You can paint your heart, create a collage, write a poem, whatever you like. Then we’ll piece the heart back together with these.” She held up a box of Dora the Explorer Band-Aids.
Ivan started kicking the underside of the table.
“How often do we need to say it?” said Koula. “We’re. Not. Six.”
Betty just gave her the death stare. “Remember what we’ve talked about. More openness, less cynicism. Don’t make me bring out the Jar.” Whenever one of us swore or said something nasty, Betty made us put a quarter into a large mason jar.
Seriously.
She picked up a pair of scissors and cut up the heart, handing us each a large piece. We all got down to work. Even Koula settled into it, but only after Betty took away her phone.
My drawing didn’t take long. It was a button, simple and to the point. Ivan finished his next. Betty had gone into her office, so he grabbed the scissors and started jabbing them into the tabletop for entertainment, leaving little pockmarks in the wood.
Jacob noticed. “Hey, Ivan, want to see what my hand can do?”
Ivan nodded. Jacob tickled Ivan under the chin and ruffled his hair—he even pretended to put a bionic finger up Ivan’s nose. The scissors were forgotten; Ivan was enthralled. “You’re like Jaime Lannister from Game of Thrones.”