He overlooked the living room and scratched his head and had ideas about how to rearrange the furniture.
The way he held his water bottle for balance. The way he ran with his hands in the air. The way he fluffed up his bangs if we had guests. The way he played violin if we mentioned Byrne Doyle.
I would know if Wedge were not Wedge.
Plus, the 18 on his ear.
I need you to get me into Dr. O’Leery’s lab, I tell Verlaine. So I can rule him out. The first step is to rule out the local suspects.
She looks leery. Remind me of the second step again.
I mean, remember how fit he was. A typical mouse’s heart rate is around 700 BPM. Wedge got his down to 500. Astounding.
Mine is 61. At rest. When I wrapped around the wraparound porch at full speed it went up to 75. My dad taught me how to calculate BPM, and for a while I was all about BPM. Mine and other people’s.
What is your resting BPM, I would ask people at rest. Would you like me to check.
My dad said that Wedge’s genes and ours were very similar. For instance, there is a group of genes called the tinman genes and guess what they build. Hearts. Picture a guy in a construction hat. Picture him standing at your very core and saying, Build a heart here.
In the case of Wedge, the construction guy says, Build a mouse heart here.
In the case of me, he says, Build a person heart here.
My dad said it was not inconceivable that the guy with the construction hat could be tricked or relocated.
We share most of our genes with mice. We are closer to mice than we are to cats or dogs or horses. And yet if I were rolling-pinned flat—I mean all my heart, my brain, my cells, everything, rolling-pinned to a thickness of a millimetre—I would cover 200 acres and Wedge would cover one. Still, one is nothing to sniff at.
My dad said that my heartbeats were like whole notes to Wedge’s eighth notes. I didn’t understand. He said, Think of it this way. Wedge’s heart fills in the gaps in yours.
I liked that idea.
Then there are other animals with very slow hearts, he said.
Like.
Tortoises.
Tortoises!
My dad said that in London he once went to a performance of “Ode to Joy” slowed down to last twenty-four hours. Ode to Slow Motion. That is like a tortoise, he said.
What did it sound like.
Like a planet rotating.
All I’m saying is that Wedge could run 20 kilometres a day on 2-centimetre-long legs. He was fit. He could light a light bulb for Chrissakes.
And Uncle Thoby fed him Licorice Allsorts, which he claimed had special anti-aging properties. And I cuddled him.
It occurred to me at some point that the slower your BPM the longer you could put off your LHB. The irony was that whenever I thought about my LHB, or the LHB of anyone I loved, my BPM increased.
My dad asked where had I heard about such a thing as an LHB.
I don’t know. I made it up.
He said, Assume your LHB can be put off indefinitely.
Verlaine says Dr. O’Leery has all the mice he wants and can get more just by asking her, so why would he steal Wedge.
Retaliation against my dad.
She stares at me. Retaliation against a dead man.
For sending him on that long sabbatical.
Come on, Audray.
Come on where.
She says I am off my rocker.
I look down at my rocker.
You know what I mean. She says do I really believe. And stops. Makes a hand-tossing gesture. Like she is giving up. Like this is not her problem. She takes my mug into the kitchen. You didn’t drink your tea, she says.
It hurts my teeth.
She returns and leans in the doorway. She folds her arms across PSYCHONEUROENDOCRINOLOGY. She says I am not seeing the leaves for the trees.
What.
All her words are tiptoeing now. She hesitates. I respected your father very much.
I nod.
But death is not evitable, she says, pronouncing it Frenchly. And to cast a spell on your child and make her believe it is, that is a form of cruelty.
Which gauntlet I did not pick up. She closed her eyes for longer than a blink, which usually means people are looking inward and regretting what they have just said. Yes, well. Look inward and regret much, Verlaine. I took my list and left.
Audray.
I left without saying anything. Which is a form of picking up a gauntlet, I guess, and running away with it.
The airport is crowded with Christmas travellers. There are more flights coming in than you can shake a lead marshal’s wand at.
Miss, we’re asking greeters to wait outside the Arrivals area.
This from a man not exactly in uniform, but he’s got a badge pinned to his tie.
Greeters.
You’re greeting someone, he says.
That would be nice.
Okay, in any case, please stand back. It’s mayhem in there.
Of course.
But the next time the sliding doors open, I slide through. Where is the carousel. I thought I would wait by the baggage carousel in case someone showed up. But it’s gone. Gone is the merry-go-round carousel and in its place is a low-riding conveyor belt shaped like this with a door at each end. I walk along in tandem with a bag wearing a green tag that says you DON’T LOOK LIKE MY OWNER. That makes me a bit sad. I carry on towards the Arrivals escalator where a crowd has gathered. Apparently I am not the only determined greeter. Here they all are with their antlers and their banners. Well, a few of them are wearing antlers. And no one is waving a banner. But such is the overall impression. Festive. It’s Christmas and people are coming home.
I lean against a Hertz counter. This is new too. All these car rental booths. I help myself to a candy cane from the counter.
You want a car.
I’ve got a car. A brown LeBaron. Stick shift. I’m a greeter.
Greeters aren’t supposed to be in here.
Yes, but it’s an emergency.
Oh, well then, carry on.
It’s amazing how many people are carrying strollers on the escalator. Big strollers with mountain-bike tires. Surely that’s a safety hazard. I look for someone I know. No one, no one, no one.
People hug and wave their banners and sing and run in circles. It is mayhem, like the man with the badge said. After a while they calm down and wander over to the baggage belt. There will be another new flight any moment, and then another, and another.
I scan the horizon for the wall to non-Canada. Where is the plywood wall. There must still be a wall. But the closest thing I can find is a non-plywood wall with artwork on it. I knock on that wall.
No answer.
I take a seat on an unattended bag.
The floor is not brickish anymore but smooth and white. Good for rolling bags. Was the new floor here when I arrived. Yes. The new airport. I remember. No more carousel. No more Bite-to-Eatery. But already my arrival feels like years ago.
I remember the old floor and how the metal buggies made your teeth hurt when you pushed them. If I was pushing the buggy, my dad always said, Hey, you’re driving me buggy.
The day I left, he pushed the buggy and said, Am I driving you buggy, but I was in no state to joke around. We checked my luggage. Uncle Thoby carried my carry-on bag. We went to the Bite-to-Eatery but I didn’t feel like biting. I was excited and sick.
Now I wish I had laughed at the buggy joke. I wish I had paid attention to my dad instead of girding my loins for the flight. Why wasn’t I funnier. Why didn’t I point out the resemblance of the woodcut on the wall to Han Solo when he gets frozen by Darth Vader. Didn’t I always point out the resemblance of the woodcut to Han Solo. But not that time.
Brave Miss Scarlet, Uncle Thoby nudged my dad. About to leap clear across the board.
As is her wont, said my dad.
They both looked so proud.
I was going to Europe. Verlaine had a
rranged for me to stay with her aunt in Switzerland. From there I would branch out, travel on TGVs (trains à grande vitesse) to wherever my rapidly beating heart desired. The sound barrier was the limit!
Terrified Miss Scarlet, I said.
Fear is the mark of insufficient curiosity, said Uncle Thoby. And you are too curious to be fearful, Oddly.
Curious inquisitive, or curious odd, said my dad.
Ha ha.
Are you sure you don’t want something. Fries with gravy.
I shook my head. I’ll need the sick bag.
At home the tree on my wall was bare and would stay bare until I returned. There would be no Changing of the Tree. Time was supposed to stand still while I was on my great safe adventure. Nothing was supposed to change.
Don’t picture them waving from the chain-link fence. And my dad sitting down on the pavement. And Uncle Thoby putting his hand on his shoulder. And them both thinking it wouldn’t be forever.
There are no bags left on the conveyor belt except YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE MY OWNER. Should I take you home, I ask it. Even though I’m not.
The man with the tie and the badge is en route.
Miss.
Yes.
Are you missing someone.
What a nice thing to ask. I thought you were coming over here to kick me out of the Arrivals area. Well, that is next on my agenda.
Oh.
He offers me a hand. I take it. He pulls me up. It’s not so bad as all that, is it, he says.
Actually it really is.
He escorts me out, hands in pockets, like we are just taking a stroll together. Have a good night now.
Is it night. Yes, it is.
The night is bright, the taxi queue long, and the short-term parking lot runneth over. I can’t remember where I parked. I walk up and down the rows, rubbing my stye. This constant looking for something that is missing is becoming tiresome. It is my new default setting. Where are you, LeBaron. Where oh where. Then I see it. Its eyes are dimly lit. Very dimly.
Oh shit.
The LeBaron looks the way I feel. Low on battery power.
I turn the ignition and it makes a sound that would break your heart. Okay, I won’t put you through that. We need a jump. I will go back inside and kill two birds with one stone. I will get a coffee to jump-start me and I will call—who, Verlaine—to jump-start you. No. Even if I wasn’t still harbouring a gauntlet, the Lada couldn’t jump-start a mechanical mouse. So what are my options. Do I leave the LeBaron out here and take a Clint’s cab home. Do I sneak back into the Arrivals area and rent a car from Hertz. I can’t leave the LeBaron in short-term parking for a long term. I can’t leave it to watch other people come and go, thinking, You don’t look like my owner. Where is my owner. Your owner will not forsake you, little LeBaron. She will get coffee and think of a solution.
At Tim Hortons, when I reach into my pocket for change, I pull out the Christmatech recall notice, full of concern for my electrical safety, the phone number big and bold.
While I wait for Judd, I wander over to the chain-link fence and watch a plane land. The windows of the plane are dark, not because there is anything wrong with its electrical system, but because the pilots have turned off the lights during landing. On the tarmac a lead marshal stamps his feet and waits, hands all aglow.
The plane touches down, back wheels first, then the front wheel. The edges of the wings flap up. Slow down, slow down. What is the word. Career. When you skid off the path. Also when you are gainfully employed. But no, the plane is not careering. The plane is under control. Now it’s behaving just like a car, en route to the gate. Dum-de-dum. You’d never know it had just been airborne.
On the phone I said, Is this Judd Julian-Brown, Christmas light inventor and electrical wizard.
Speaking.
I explained my predicament.
He said, I never turn down an opportunity to use jumper cables.
Really.
Really.
I hang on to the fence. Across the runway, I can make out the shell of the old hangar, a bumpy moon on its roof. I was in that building once. I rode into it. I came across it on one of my hacks with Rambo. I was riding by myself by then, and I’d been searching for weeks for a way onto airport property. You had to scrape through a tight forest, and when you came out on the other side (a little bloodied), you were in a field beside the runway. The first thing I saw was an old building with a hole in its side. A hole big enough for a horse to walk through. So walk through it we did.
It was dark. Rambo’s hoofs made a crunching sound. I waited for my eyes to adjust. That’s when I saw them. Old airplane seats. Not in audience formation. Just tossed down by God. And broken beer bottles on the floor.
I turned Rambo around carefully. You never walk a horse on broken glass. The undersides of his hoofs are like exposed hearts.
Outside the wind blew and Rambo did a little dance.
My ultimate goal: to race a plane down a runway.
We waited. Rambo showed no interest in eating the grass. His ears were pricked. Finally a plane pulled away from the terminal. Reluctantly. Pushed by its little car. Go on now, said the car. Go on.
Don’t make me fly, said the plane. We are not meant to fly.
Actually you are.
Rambo and I trotted forward. Posting trot towards a plane. You have not lived until you’ve done this. And when you post you are of necessity calm.
We got close enough that I could see astonished faces inside the oval windows. The plane was girding. I pointed a finger down the runway. On your mark. Get set.
The noise was tremendous. No fear from Rambo. So he really had been faking all those times. He was all prancy readiness. I had to turn him in a tight circle. Two tight circles. When I let him go, he didn’t believe it at first. I can go. Yes! You can go. We kept to the grass. Because you don’t gallop exposed hearts on pavement. Rule Number One of Galloping.
We raced the plane. All four hoofs left the ground. We flew.
The conversation in the cockpit: Merle. Yeah. Girl on black horse at two o’clock.
Judd arrives in the Christmatech van. He takes one look at my face and winces. Oh right. I am bruised. From his staircase. Does it hurt, he says.
Yes.
Judd parks the van hood to hood with the LeBaron. He busies himself with the jumper cables.
I look inside the van. Boxes of lights. A ball of wool. A ladder. Hey, my cowboy hat!
Is the cowboy hat for me.
He looks over his shoulder. Nope.
I open the door and grab it.
Were you greeting someone, he says from under the LeBaron’s hood.
What is it with the word greeting. No, I was dropping someone off. I was dropping off my dad. And my uncle.
He stops doing whatever he’s doing.
What, I say.
Nothing. I just have to think about this. Plus on plus. Minus on minus.
Sounds right to me.
Where they off to.
England.
He straightens. Looks me straight in the stye. What, I say again.
Nothing. Hop in. Wait till I give you the sign, then fire her up.
Okay.
And so I’m in the LeBaron with the cowboy hat, and he’s in the van. He turns on the van and lets it run. We sit there like that for a while. Just watching each other through the windshields.
You’re lying about your father and uncle.
Yeah.
Why.
Because it hurts.
Why not tell me that.
I did.
Okay. But why not really tell me.
Because I’d like to keep someone in the dark.
He nods. Meaning, okay, I’ll be that someone. Meaning, okay, start the car now.
I start the car. Thank you, thank you.
Welcome.
Another slow drive home in excruciatingly low gear.
I have two plane crash dreams: a ground one and an air one. In the ground one, I am
watching a plane from the ground, and the moment I think the word crash, it starts to. In the air one, I am inside a plane and it’s a party—we’re all having a grand old time—when I notice that the pilots are at the party with us. In the cabin. Um. And the moment I think the word crash, we start to.
These dreams stopped for a while after Uncle Thoby came to live with us. But they started again after I’d found the hangar with the airplane seats all thrown down like a bad hand by God.
My dad’s way of dealing with a bad dream was to explain to me, at great length, that night terror was an evolutionary adaptation.
It would be.
Imagine two men asleep in the woods. The sound of a branch breaking startles them awake. They sit up, look around, listen. Nothing seems amiss. One man shrugs and goes back to sleep. The other man lies awake, feeling afraid. Why is he afraid. He doesn’t know. So he invents a reason. Or two. Or three. He imagines all the terrible things that could happen to him tomorrow. Maybe the other man will abandon him. Or meet someone he likes better. This worry keeps him awake and alert. Half an hour later when the lion, whose coming was foretold by the breaking branch, arrives in the clearing, the man whose adrenalin is already pumping leaps into a tree and survives. The sleeping man gets eaten.
But I didn’t have a dream about a lion.
Go back to sleep. No—in your own bed. It won’t be scary in the morning.
But the guy who fell asleep got eaten.
Sure. But we don’t live in the woods anymore. Your body is just remembering a time when we did.
This was not comforting.
My body is just remembering a time when it was in the air. Don’t ever do that again, is what it’s telling me.
Uncle Thoby’s bad-dream procedure was different. He said I should go back and change the dream. At first I didn’t think that was possible. A dream feels too real. It feels true and unchangeable, and the reason you are still so afraid when you wake up is that your body secretly knows that the crashing plane is real, and this being safe in your bed is the dream.
Uncle Thoby said, Remember the montage. How it is true, but also fast and mixed up. You get to choose what you put in and leave out.