Part 19

What would you do…

Like so much that is said between them these days, the half-spoken question seems to literally hang in the air. Charlotte can picture the words looming overhead, purple and plump, as though suspended on a cloud of oxygen atoms that has suddenly gained enough density to support their weight. Why purple, she thinks. Why not pink or green or brown? Charlotte imagines herself reaching up to poke the fat little W on its side. She sees it move like jello, shuddering at her touch, then quickly resuming its proper shape.

Charlotte rolls onto her back, forgetting for a moment that it is she who has posed the question. The light has come now as she knew it would, a pinpoint breaking the surface of darkness. Her hand on Mark’s arm, once a tangible link to something solid and real, made meaningless, as though a thousand miles away. She closes her eyes tight against the light and slows her breath, clenching the muscles in her legs and jaw. But these deliberate acts, so potent in the early days, have lost their effectiveness. The light comes, pulsing green as it always does, bleeding across the screen of her mind. Its intentions have never been more explicit, thinks Charlotte. Another thought born of the organs rather than the mind. Something known but not yet understood.

Mark watches her, waiting for the moment to pass as he hopes it will, holding his breath to still the sinking feeling that one of these days it will take her so far away him that she will not know how to find her way back. He moves her lifeless hand from his arm and lays it by her side. For most of their relationship, his touch could calm her fears, but in the last couple of months, the light has risen up between them as solid as a steel wall.

His dark hair is cut close to his head, his skin still carrying the echo of summer’s warmth. The expression on his face is calm despite the churning in his stomach. He glances down at the video camera in his hand but decides against turning it on. It was Charlotte who had first asked him to document what she called the events, hoping that visual evidence would lend credence to the stories doctors had so much trouble believing. But his efforts were repeatedly frustrated by the fact that her body gave so little indication of its internal torments. He had close to twenty different events on tape and no better understanding of what was going on.

Charlotte the hysterical, so vulnerable to suggestion, so complicit in her suffering.

This is what the therapist said. And the neurologist. The otolaryngologist weighed in on the vertigo. As did the cardiologist when called upon to assess the frantic acceleration of her heart. The optometrist had a theory, which the opthamologist quickly shot down. Even the dentist was consulted in case an undiscovered wisdom tooth had become impacted and diseased. But though clinicians of various rare disorders were consulted and practitioners of alternative therapies employed, no branch of science or medicine, no matter how fringe, seemed up to the challenge of diagnosis. And so after months of appointments and analysis, they arrived at the only defensible conclusion: it was stress.

Like a good patient, Charlotte had committed to a program of meditation and diet, but though she was strict in her adherence to the proffered guidelines, her efforts were compromised by the growing certainty that no matter what she did, she was ultimately powerless to stop the light and its terrifying effects. Since that first night in the country, its appearances had become more and more frequent, and more intense. Helpful friends, citing the miscarriage, read the light as a manifestation of her broken heart. But this interpretation, which satisfied the more academic musings of outside observers, held little sway over Charlotte. For as she had repeatedly tried to articulate in the years between the operation and the miscarriage, there was something inside her. She could sense it, regardless of how vehemently the medical team denied its existence. And though it had lain dormant for awhile, and seemingly benign, things were different now.

What’s slow and fast at the same time? These words, as good as any to describe the indescribable. It comes to life. It slides as it climbs.

When the fear passed, she would work to construct a coherent narrative: the miscarriage was the trigger not the cause, the light external and embodied, the thing inside her like a beacon, drawing the light into its orbit. There was a confrontation coming. She could feel it. And so for now, no matter how many times she was held in its paralyzing grasp, she would take the only action that she truly believed was available to her: she would endure.

Somewhere off in the distance, a woman laughs, her voice muted. Mark cocks his head to listen. A swarm of voices rise up in response, then fade away as quickly as they came. The student group from the university, here to preview the exhibition.

Mark checks the time, cursing. He inhales deeply and reaches his hand toward Charlotte, making contact with the ribbon of bare skin that has come exposed between her skirt and the bottom of her shirt. He walks his fingers up and under the fabric, pressing gently on the area at the top of her diaphragm, willing her to consciousness. But Charlotte remains unchanged, her eyes closed, her body still.

Overhead, the projector begins to hum, bathing the far wall of the small room in white light. The whispered voices are closer now. Overcome with adrenaline, Mark slides his hands under Charlotte’s limp body and draws her into a sitting position, sliding her up to rest against the opposing wall. And it is only then, when he has settled down beside her in the shadows, her hand resting weakly in his own, that he realizes what he has done.

What would you do if…

But before he can take this mental game any further, his thoughts are interrupted by a high-pitched shriek as the video loop kicks in, projecting an image of a bottle of red paint smashing against the previously white wall. A small group of teenage girls hovering in the curtained entrance way break into a round of nervous giggles.

What would you do if I went away and you didn’t know where I was?

Mark glances up at them, vulnerable and awkward. The girls back out of the space, still giggling and whispering.

Part 18

My grandmother was going to be a pilot. She was an only child from a wealthy family. A beautiful young woman with every possible avenue open to her. She was studying German, thinking of traveling. It was the neighbor’s brother who operated the flight school, newly opened and taking on students. She flew twice before she met my grandfather, and never again. He was the youngest of four, a farmer’s son. He had a grade nine education, and was working the type of job that only a man with a grade nine education would settle for. She never knew what exactly it was that he did, but he came home dirty. A factory job, but not on the conveyor belt. Somewhere below. Somewhere far below. But she loved him. And when her parents refused to bless the engagement, she broke all ties to the family and its money and married the man with the twinkling eyes who was in love with the woman she knew herself to be. The woman she wanted to be.

With this, Charlotte pauses, looking directly at Mark, their eyes locked. She smiles and he smiles, then swallows hard, his mouth dry. And for a moment it seems that everyone in the small country church has come together as one, their skin alive, desiring to touch or be touched. Here, the sensual and the sexual have become indistinguishable. A hand reaches out, seeking contact, but hesitates. Too casually it settles onto the curved rail at the top of the pew, taking in the strength of the wood, the smooth polished surfaces. But this sense of communion is a lie, for in this moment there are really only two: Charlotte and Mark. His finger traces a curve across the inside of her right palm. She glances down to where his hands have wrapped around hers. His nails scrubbed clean.

For Mark, the words come easily. For once, unscripted. An after and a before. A knowing and a lack of knowing. Presence and absence. Life and death. This is what he feels. Two bodies, lying together, sharing one heart. A borrowed image from an artist whose work he admires. He can hear the faint murmurings in the crowd, can feel the warmth in the room. Things are going well. But as he speaks, he realizes that he is not in control. Laughter wells up at one moment, tears the next, though both are fought down. A sickness in the stomach, in the certainty. A giddiness. Thoughts and feelings intermixed, yet somehow the words keep coming. The story of his life has now been written. This is it, he thinks. This is it.

The wedding is conventional, as weddings, despite the intentions of the participants, often are. Things are happening in the order they are expected to happen. Two lovers standing face to face. A white dress and a black suit. An expression of intent, of love. An exchange of vows. The ring and the kiss. Mark is talking about the day that he first saw her. His voice is calmer now, steadied by fact. And for those on the outside, nothing has changed.

But for Charlotte, the familiarity of the story is like an open door. She tilts her head, as though listening to something far off in the distance. The sound of the ocean comes to her, and from within it, something deeper. Her gaze moves into Mark and through him, to the window at the back of the church. Here, there was no need to create a manifestation of heaven on earth, for the unadorned glass looks onto the lake, which in its natural beauty says all that needs to be said about the presence of some greater being.

Charlotte is a non-believer. That has always been her position. But at some point in the last few months, things began to change. She thinks this now as the physical world begins to recede. How corny it sounds. How trite. She wrests one hand free and reaches into her pocket, feeling the coldness of the metal band. She curls her finger into it, holding it safe.

They had found the ring in the drawer of an old desk, fastened to the side with a piece of rotten masking tape. The desk had belonged to Mark’s neighbor when he was a kid, an older fellow long deceased with no kids and no close friends. Mark had inherited it, stuffed it full of crap and forgotten about it, and it was only last year when they moved into the house and stripped it down that they discovered this hidden treasure. The words on the ring spoke to them like a gospel: 23 Go to in End. Mark’s ring was made to match.

Going.

Going.

Gone.

Here, under water, it is easy to feel whole. And surprisingly easy to breathe. In her mind she can picture the artist’s sculpture, Mark’s friend. Two clay figures entwined on a small, wooden bed. The bed in a box, the box like a coffin. Out of necessity to protect the figures, said the artist, for transport. Charlotte smiles to herself, remembering the conversation, and in doing so, sends a wave of good feelings through the crowd on land.  She laughs at the realization that she is both here and there, and from somewhere in the darkness this laughter echoes back to her. Mark’s hand tugs gently on hers, but he is fighting against a powerful current. She sways gently, tethered by his grip, and feels the water move against her body, the soft folds of her dress wrapping around her thighs. A second tug of the hand and she gives into its strength, bending her knees and pushing back up to the surface.

Part 17

These are the facts as I know them:

Sometime after midnight, a man matching Mark’s description checked into a small hotel about an hour north of the city limits. The proprietor described him as a nice man, quiet and tired-looking but otherwise pleasant. She also said that he needed a shower, but seemed like the kind of man who would clean up well. He needed a haircut and a change of clothes, but he was handsome. A handsome man. Kind eyes. And nice. He said that the credit card belonged to his wife, that his had been lost or stolen and that he was waiting on a new one. She admitted this struck her as a little suspicious at the time, but the woman thought she could make an exception; it was her place after all, and the man was clearly in need of some rest. When she gave him the key to the room, he smiled and thanked her, then bent down to retrieve the plastic shopping bag that he had dropped at his feet. When he stood up again, she could see the fatigue in his eyes and knew she had made the right decision. She locked up the office shortly afterward and went to bed.

When she woke the next morning and checked with her son who was minding the desk, she found that the man was gone. For reasons that she could not understand, she went immediately to his room. Not knowing what she hoped to find, she checked under the bed, pulled out the drawers and opened the closet. Then she stripped the bed, felt between the mattresses, and cleaned the bathroom. There was a bottle of bourbon with a few ounces gone on the table near the bed, but other than that, the room was as it should be.

What had she expected, she asked her son later in the day, unable to stop thinking about the man. But her son only shrugged and returned to his comic book, tapping his fingers to the music that was bleeding into his ears. He had turned fourteen in August. Her youngest child. A good kid.

When the sheets were dry, she had returned to the room and sat on the unmade bed, holding the bottle of bourbon in her hands.

She hesitates here, as though uncertain as to what kind of information she should actually be sharing with the police, but is gently urged to continue. Her voice stutters a little at first, but then regains its momentum.

It was raining hard. Strange, considering the time of year. She had unscrewed the cap from the bottle and held it to her nose, inhaling deeply. A song rose up from the darkness and began to circle in her mind: chances come and chances go; this is letting go. She thought about the handsome man with the dark hair and the kind eyes, and imagined his lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle, his head tilted backward as he drank. There had been something in his eyes, something she could not articulate. The ache had been hard to characterize, hovering somewhere between the maternal and the sexual. Later, she would put her fingers to her lips, remembering the sweetness of the bourbon, the warmth.

Sitting on the bed, she knew that her feet were planted firmly on the ground. She could see them there, the brand new boots, the leather damp, the half-tied laces wet and matted. She could feel the mattress under her hands, the way her leg muscles tensed when she bounced up slightly and down again. And yet, as she sat there motionless, she felt as though she was hurtling forward, her inner eye locked on an image of body in space, spinning endlessly as it was sucked toward an invisible vortex. Then the body was in water, struggling against the current that was threatening to pull it under. She put the bottle to her lips and closed her eyes, drinking quickly. She felt the liquid moving through her body, imagining it as an oasis, or a swirling eddy that drew her into its pull and held her safe.

She had put the bottle into the recycling bin on her way back to the office.

It was her son who had seen the picture of Mark in the local paper the following day. He had thought that the man looked familiar, but could not place him at first. Then he realized why: the man in the picture had hair.

She had called the police immediately.

Around the same time as the woman was stripping the bed, just before eight, a man walked into a coffee shop on the highway out to the lake and ordered the breakfast special and a cup of black tea. He looked a bit like Mark, the waitress thought, though she could not be sure. The picture the detective held up was a press photo, taken a few years ago at one of Mark’s art openings. Mark is smiling broadly and warmly and is, if the truth be told, a little bit drunk. But what strikes the woman is how healthy he looks, and happy. The man she saw looked older, more worn out. He had a freshly-shaved head and spent very little time talking to her, eating his breakfast in silence at a table facing the window. It’s not that he was rude or even unfriendly, but he studiously avoided her gaze, and had not smiled. He had paid in cash and left a generous tip. She wanted to help, but she had seen many faces since then. She was a waitress. In a roadside cafe. Part-time. Until she earned enough money to go to veterinary college.

Later that afternoon, an elderly couple walking their dog on the beach had seen a man standing on the barren sand, staring out at the massive lake. Though the day was drizzly and cold, they were dressed for it and so were walking at a leisurely pace, playing catch with their dog. He was a retired high school principal. His wife, also retired, had been a florist. They had moved out of the city when their youngest daughter went away to college. Too much crime, said the man. And trash. His wife agreed. They had been committed to the city and had suffered many heartbreaks for it, but after the third break-in, they knew the time had come. A few weeks earlier, they had driven past their old house. The young couple who bought the house had been full of hope, but the house had been foreclosed. And some point afterward, stripped of its precious metals.

The woman pauses, overcome by emotion. Then steadies herself with a breath.

The man had been far enough away that they could just barely make out that he was, in fact, a man and not an inanimate object. What struck them most was his stillness. That they might have confused him for a tree or pole was decidedly odd, and they spent some time musing over this, and over what might be occupying his attention.

The wife, who is an avid bird-watcher, remembered that she had brought her binoculars, and had put them to her eyes. She turned first to scan the horizon, then feeling herself made invisible by the distance, allowed her gaze to move back over to the man. And it was at this point that the man began to undress. The woman gasped and handed the binoculars to her husband to confirm what she had just witnessed, and as her husband nodded, his eyes glued to the scene, the man began to walk towards the water’s edge.

Dropping the binoculars, the elderly man began to run, his wife close behind. They did not know what they would do when they got there, but felt certain that the man must not be in his right mind. They called out to him as they ran, but in the wind and rain, their voices were swallowed up. And though they felt they were making progress, the man was up to his chest by the time they had got close enough to see him clearly. He was bald, they said. They could see that much. Medium build. Forty. Maybe more. He was up to his neck by the time they got close enough to be heard, but though they yelled and screamed, the man seemed not to notice them and continued to walk until he was no longer visible.

Though her husband had begun to remove his coat and was trying to kick off his boots, she held him back, knowing that she was ill-equipped to deal with two hypothermic men. Instead, she instructed her husband to remain watchful, to keep his eye on the place where the man had last been seen, while she ran to the car to call the police.

So sad, she concluded, to give up on life.

Part 16

Sometimes that’s just the way it works, Mark. May I call you Mark?

The detective pauses, trying to get hold of a stray nose hair that seems to be causing him some degree of discomfort. He grasps at it, then loses it and grabs for it again. He sniffs and wipes his nose, and all the while, he stares at Mark with a look that is meant to be… what? Meaningful? Sincere? A look of support, of friendship? Of brotherly affection or paternal concern? From my position at the back of the kitchen, it seems pretty fucking empty. Angry, almost. Verging on contempt. But Mark is oblivious. Or rather Mark is reserving his anger for one person. And that person is me.

Hundreds of people go missing every year, Mark. His attention has shifted, focusing now on a piece of food that is stuck to the tablecloth. He picks at it, scraping at the sediment with his finger nail. Thousands. But then he looks up, moving in for the kill. And not all of those people want to be found. I wait for it, surprised that he hasn’t said Mark’s name. For emphasis. Are you listening to me, Mark? Do you understand what I am saying, Mark? The laugh catches me by surprise and brings about a glare from Detective Watkins. I lower my eyes, feigning an apology. Asshole.

We were hoping for Detective Murray. Or the other guy. Somebody with a friendly face and a sense of humour. Or at least, I was. Mark was fine with his plan. To sit and wait. For how long? I asked. He just looked at me, refusing to let me into the loop. But this was a few days ago. Before they found the wallet in the field outside the airport. What if she doesn’t come back this time, I ask, knowing that I have crossed the line. What if something has actually happened to her, what if she’s hurt and needs our help… their help? But Mark does not answer. And the look that he gives me makes it clear that any feelings, any love or affection that he has ever had for me is gone.

I take the dishes off the counter and stack them in the dishwasher.

Let’s talk about what we know. Now Detective Watkins is talking to himself and Mark is sketching in his notebook. I wish I could see what he is drawing but he keeps it close to his body, his breath deep and even as his hand moves slowly across the page.

You came home, and there was unbaked bread on the counter. You smelled yeast, and you knew something was wrong. But Mark just ignores him. He’s not even here.

Detective Watkins looks at me, fatigue showing on his face. I shrug and picture myself becoming invisible, as if simply willing it will make it so. I imagine myself in one of those paintings where if you stare at it long enough, the foreground and the background switch places. I see myself as nothing more than white noise, like the sound of distant traffic or the hum of a fan, but he can still see me standing there, and continues to stare at me with his beady little rodent eyes. A minute passes, maybe more, then he turns to Mark.

Let’s cut out the bullshit, here. He pushes back in his chair so that the front legs come off the ground and wiggles his index finger around in his left ear. You were very frustrated with us, hostile. You accused us of not taking you seriously. Not taking the case seriously. The chair drops back onto four legs with a thud and Watkins leans forward, his hands in front of him, resting on the table. But then you went home, and you stopped taking our calls. And stopped answering the door. Stopped talking to your friend, here…

He pauses, looking around at the empty bottles of bourbon and the full ones of urine. Stopped doing a bunch of other things. Now–

Mark’s phone buzzes and jumps in front of him, cutting Watkins off. This is the sixth or seventh call in less than an hour. Work, most likely. But it could be her. Yet Mark does not even look at it dancing across the surface of the table. What does he know? How does he know that he does not need to answer it?

Detective Watkins seems to be asking himself the same question, and makes a note in his book before sitting back and tucking it in his breast pocket. Look, Mark. I’m trying to be decent here. Your wife has been missing for more than a week. And I gotta be honest, the fact that you don’t seem in the least bit interested in helping us try to find her, well…

He pauses, waiting for Mark’s reaction, but we both know what the response is going to be. He shrugs as if to say no skin off my back and rises to go, hoisting up his pants and pulling his jacket down over his belt. He’s putting on a show, but the only person watching him is me. Still he continues his performance, strutting over to the wall, examining the photos.

Mark remains oblivious, scratching notes in the margins of his notebook, his head cocked, his foot tapping out a rhythm on the hardwood. When Watkins moves past me, he’s so close that I can feel his breath against my skin. He smiles and reaches across me, pouring himself a glass of water and gulping it down, clearly in violation of my personal space.

At the fridge, he pauses again, looking through the scraps of notes on its surface, reading through them under his breath. Looking down, he notices a scrap of white sticking out from underneath the fridge. He kicks at with his foot, and with some effort, bends down to retrieve it. Though I am looking at Watkins, I can feel something shift in the room. Mark stares at Watkins, his back suddenly straight, his muscles tensed.

What the detective has found are two Polaroid images of Charlotte held together with masking tape. In one, she’s standing in front of a massive Maple tree, its trunk black as night, its leaves a breathtaking array of oranges and reds and golds. Underneath the image, someone has scribbled a phrase: Feed this open fire with a windy day. The second image was clearly taken in the same location. Charlotte has pulled back her hair and is smiling flirtatiously at the camera, pointing at the area just behind her right ear.

The caption underneath reads: Meet me here.

All of sudden Mark is on his feet and out of his chair. He throws his full weight into Detective Watkins and the two of them crash into the fridge. Watkins loses his footing and falls to the floor, pulling Mark down on top of him. Mark grabs at the Polaroid, trying to wrest it free, calling to me for help, ordering me to help. But when I reach down to take the photo, Mark lurches back and hits me squarely on the nose with his elbow.

When I wake up some time later, the house is in darkness and I am alone.

Part 15

It’s beautiful, she says, holding it up to catch the light. Really. A perfect sphere of blood orange glass. Charlotte lets the orb nestle heavy in the palm of her hand, absorbing its weight, then holds it up again, staring into its crystalline depths. From a certain angle, there appears to be a tiny opening inside, like an endless tunnel through which one could escape if one only had a way to get inside. But when you rotate the orb again, the tunnel magically disappears, leaving only the distant echo of its manifold possibilities.

Really, she says again, turning to John for emphasis. I love it. He smiles and shrugs, more awkward than is normal for a man of his age. He wants desperately to believe her, but lacks the confidence to believe anything that paints him in a positive light, that might open the door to a future in which he is not always so alone. Instead, he focuses his attention on his right thumb, using his middle finger to worry a hang nail. But as he reaches up to chew on the offending skin, Charlotte takes his hand and holds it in hers, waiting for the eternity that it always takes for him to meet her gaze. You believe me, right? Another eternity, and finally, a nod. Not so much in agreement, but in a simple acknowledgement of receipt.

And then the moment is over. Charlotte drops the orb into her bag and pulls on her coat. They are the last two in the kitchen, John having hung around after the others had left so as to bequeath this precious object to her in private. He was in love with her, at least that’s what everyone thought. But Charlotte did not feel any awkwardness around him, nor was she conflicted about his affections. To her, his was an innocent love, born of friendship, almost fraternal. Though at least a decade older, he was like a younger brother to her. He idolized her in a way that she could not fully understand, and though she held no sexual or romantic feelings for him, she had given him a small piece of her heart.

Unlike most of the other co-op members, John had grown up in the neighborhood. In fact, he was still living in the house where his parents raised four kids, grew old together, and died; still sleeping in the same room that he was born in, resting his head against the same faded pink wall while he read his science magazines. As a rule, John never had visitors to the house, but once, early in their friendship, Charlotte had arrived unannounced. He had been home sick for a few days and she had brought some soup from the kitchen. While it was warming on the stove, she had wandered into his bedroom to fetch an extra pillow, and that is when she had seen it: the small pale pink circle that had been worn into the paint just above the headboard. The sight of it had moved her nearly to tears.

John was an anomaly in the community because he was the only one of his generation to have actually stayed. Long before the wave of hipster resettlement that brought Charlotte and Mark to the area, John was its reigning prince. He filled grocery orders, played bridge on Thursday evenings, and set up for the Sunday afternoon lawn darts tournament. He drove his elderly neighbors to the bank and to their doctor’s appointments, trimmed their hedges, and shoveled their walks. Part chauffeur, part handy-man, part dinner companion, John was someone who could be counted on: rain or shine, day or night. He was not loved by the people he served, for he was too strange for that, too introverted and self-conscious, but they needed him and it would seem, he needed to be needed.

As Charlotte buttons her coat, John backs away slowly, knocking a giant pot onto the floor with a deafening clatter. He scrambles to pick it up and places it carefully back in the drain tray, cursing under his breath. Though it was only a few hours ago that the place was full of people and food and warmth, the stain-less steel surfaces of the industrial kitchen are cold to the touch, scrubbed clean and gleaming under the fluorescent security lights. John lurks by the door, his hands in his pockets, his body half in shadow. To anyone else, his presence would seem more threatening than protective, but Charlotte seems not to notice.

When you close your eyes at night, someone clears a path for you to ride. When you wake the next day, you will only go the way that was cleared for you.

That’s lovely, says Charlotte, pulling on her hat and gloves, surprised by this sudden and audible lyrical burst. Did you write that?

No.

Charlotte gives the kitchen a once-over to make sure that everything has been turned off and pulls a large police-issue flashlight from her bag. Will you walk me home?

John nods, and heads outside. Charlotte pulls the door shut behind them and locks it, then turns her face into the wind. Fuck, she says, laughing. It’s freezing out here. She pulls her collar tight around her neck and fastens the last button, shivering.

What are we going to get this year?

John shrugs, silent once again.

I’m hoping for snow, says Charlotte, sliding her arm through his. Sunshine and snow. Nothing below minus 10.

John mutters something under his breath, and though she has no idea what he has just said, she gleans a tone of general agreement. They walk in silence for a moment, their steps falling naturally into perfect unison, though John unconsciously kicks at the ground as he walks, causing leaves and loose gravel to scatter underfoot. Charlotte looks up at the sky full of stars and shuts off the flashlight.

It’s so clear tonight. We don’t even need this.

With most of the streetlights having long burned out, and so few occupied houses to mark the route, Charlotte – and Mark, or John, or one of the other co-op members who lived in the same direction, for she never made the journey alone – required a flashlight to see their way home. One night, having had a bit too much to drink at a Christmas baking party, she had decided not to call Mark and walk home by herself. It was only a few blocks, she had thought, or rather, not thought, since in truth, her wits were not exactly about her. And it was only when she had stepped out into the night and realized that she had left her flashlight at home that she saw just how vulnerable she truly was. It was like she had stepped into one of those female safety videos that they always showed in middle school and she was the what not to do woman. Nothing serious had happened to her that night, though in running blindly through the dark while drunk and in tears, she had tripped and smashed the hell out of her knee. But it had been instructive, and remembering that she was now a fully cognizant adult who could make better decisions for herself, she had promised herself and Mark that she would never again walk home alone.

Realizing that someone is speaking, Charlotte emerges from her memory to find that John has decided to continue his recitation, and that they have arrived at the gate to her house.

He’s memorized this, thinks Charlotte, smiling to herself. How strange. She waits, sensing that he is building to a finish. Through the kitchen window, Mark is visible. He pulls on his coat, his phone pressed against his ear. Shit, she thinks. Just wait. But Mark does not wait. Inside her pocket, her phone begins to vibrate. Shit. Shit.

 

 

In this light, I’m lost
In the darkness of before.

Charlotte smiles, touching John lightly on the arm. Why did you memorize that?

But before he can respond, her phone vibrates again. She looks at him, apologetic.

It’s my birthday.

Charlotte feels that familiar surge of emotion that she often experiences around him, a fragile mix of affection, pity and helplessness. I’m so sorry. I have to go.

She reaches up and kisses him on the cheek. Happy birthday, John. Hope you have a good night.

When she gets to the front door, Mark is on his way out.

Fuck, there you are.

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Mark rolls his eyes, and waves a not-so-friendly goodbye to John who takes it as his cue and heads back into the night.

 

He came to bring me something and offered to walk me home. I meant to call, I just…

Mark responds with a silent glare, though you can see around the corner of his eyes that he has already forgiven her. I just –

I know, I know. But he’s totally harmless. And he started reciting poetry. It was so odd, she says, laughing. And it’s his birthday. She looks at Mark, imploring him to have some sympathy for a man so much worse off than he.

Mark sighs audibly, struggling to hold onto his reluctance. Charlotte pulls her collar away from her chin, exposing her neck to the cold.

Kiss me right here, says Charlotte, pointing to the area just above her collarbone. And Mark, having suddenly been freed from his anger and anxiety, does just as instructed.

 

Part 14

Imagine this:

You walk into a room that is totally white, and you stand there, waiting for something to happen. Wait without hope. For hope would be hope for the wrong thing.

Others have stood here before you, and others are waiting outside to take their turn. You can hear their whispered voices though it is impossible now to make out what they are saying. Focus on the wall as you have been instructed to do. Its surface seems lit from within, though in fact, what you are staring at is simply an image of a white wall, projected onto a white wall. The first crash makes you scream out, and it is only when you recover yourself that you realize the wall is now splattered with red. But before you can fully collect yourself, another bottle whizzes past your ears, and smashes against the plaster: blue and black. Then another. And another. The onslaught continues for what seems like forever. You put your hands over your ears to stop the noise and gaze upon the miasma of colours running down the walls in rivulets, leaving no trace as they vanish into the floor.

Imagine this:

You feel your way into a room that is totally black. You would turn on the overhead light but the bulb burned out a few weeks ago, as did the bulb in the kitchen, in the front entry way, in the living room lamp, and in the bathroom. For some reason, neither of you will go out and buy some new ones. This has become the locus of your disintegrating friendship, the point of contention in a slow-building battle of wills. Instead, you have carried your portable bedroom lamp from room to room, seeing it then as a powerful symbol of your refusal to give in, of your ability to endure, to win. Now, it is easy to see the folly in this stance, the emptiness of the statement. Through the fog of your inebriation, you know that the lamp is on the small table next to your bed. When you get to it, you will turn it on, and in that moment, you will know for sure that you have truly made it home.

That you are still vertical is in itself something of a testament. That you have made it to the safety of your apartment knowing little of where you have been, who you have been with, or how you got home, means that you have once again tempted fate and won. In this, at least, you are the victor. Tomorrow, as you drink your coffee and try to reconstruct the night’s events, you will feel once again that there must be someone watching out for you, someone who has been assigned with the often difficult task of keeping you safe until you gain the common sense and maturity to take care of yourself. You will offer a small breath of thanks, aiming it out into the bright morning light and hoping that it is read as sincere.

In the dark, your other senses struggle to rise to the occasion, try to compensate for what your vision has lost. But all you can hear is the ringing in your ears as your toes stretch outward, hoping to find their way to the futon. Locating it, you keel forward, your body finally giving in to gravity. You marvel at the force of its pull as you tumble onto the bed, and it is only when you feel his weight land on top of you that you realize you have been pushed. You try to cry out, but his hand is pressed hard against your mouth, his other hand rough on your hip. You beat your arm against the wall, hoping that she will hear, but in the back of your mind you know that she is not there, and that you are alone.

His mouth tastes as it always did: cigarettes and Blistex. You close your eyes, close your ears to his grunts and moans, unchanged from the last time you saw him over a year ago. He was your boyfriend for awhile, and now he is this. His touch, once tender, made violent by the absence of consent. When you wake up a few hours later, you throw the things you need into a bag and you leave the rest. When she comes home a few days later, she finds your keys and the bedroom lamp sitting on the floor by the door.

Imagine this:

Nothing is the same as it was. You stare into the past and see your life reduced to black and white: time before and time after. In a dim light: neither daylight.

You walk out into the late autumn afternoon, and though everything looks the same as it did yesterday, nothing is the same. You walk through the yard, and remember the scent of the moldering leaves and the sound of them crumbling under foot, but realize that all you can smell and hear is the ocean. As you approach the station, you feel as though the train has always just been there, waiting for you to climb aboard. And when you finally do, you take the train to the end of the line, until you know you are there. And like a hostage victim who is suddenly abandoned somewhere unknown and told to walk until her feet touch the water before removing her blindfold, you head solemnly into this unknown until you can feel the icy coldness on your toes.

From what I can tell, writing a detective story is quite similar to being an actual detective. He looks for clues and you look for words. He is looking for Charlotte and you are looking for her as well. Where has she gone? What has she done? Will she return?

We’re all in water.

Lying in the dark, sleepless, you run over what you know in your heads. Sitting at your kitchen tables, the things that came to you in the middle of the night seem too fantastical, the logic of your epiphanies made weak by the simple fact of being fully awake. You stare at your coffees and wonder if you will be able to see this one through, or will somebody or something pull you off the case. And if you do see it through, what will you find?

We’re all in water.

Part 13

The examination area is clean, but other than that, there is little to recommend it. Like many of the rooms in the once-thriving hospital, here the sheets that cover the narrow bed are threadbare from too many washings and the paint is chipped and hanging from the ceiling in papery strips. Outside, beyond the mesh-covered windows, a group of children from the daycare run wild in the small gray courtyard, making the best of a rickety swing set. Nearby, a cluster of elderly patients huddle in silence, coughing and smoking as they watch passively over the scene. And everywhere there is the low rumble of turbines, and a feeling that in stepping into this near-derelict building one has traveled back to the turn of the last century, to a time when the promises of the modern age had just begun to dawn.

This is what Charlotte tries (and fails) to think about as she lies on her back, staring out the window. Her hands are resting on her stomach, and from the other side of the room, she seems a woman at ease, relaxed and thoughtful. But look a little closer and you will see the signs of her distress: the clenched jaw, the curled toes. She takes a deep, self-conscious breath and holds it: three, four, five. Then exhales. The heat in the room is oppressive. We lost the air-conditioning about four years ago, says the technician, matter-of-factly. Since then we just make do. And with that, she wipes her brow and takes a long draw on her diet cola before settling down in front of the fan to load data into the ancient computer.

Somewhere in a back room, a radio is playing and Charlotte closes her eyes, trying to coax herself into the darkness, into the music and the voice.

Travel slowly.

The week after she and Mark found out they were pregnant, life pretty much went back to normal. Or at least that is how it looked on the surface. Mark went off to shoot another project, and Charlotte put in her hours at the community kitchen, canning vegetables and making jams and soups to freeze for the winter months. The kitchen was a neighborhood initiative that was easy to get behind, and they reaped the benefits of their membership within the first few months of signing up. But the vibe could be a little culty at times, so she put in her time on the morning shift and avoided coming into contact with the group’s most ardent members, late sleepers all: Apple Leaf, the freegan poet who squatted in one of the abandoned houses and tended to the chickens; Maria, the woman with the washing machines who had offered herself to Mark on more than one occasion; and John. John of the sweetest smile and the restless soul. John of the aching heart and the desperate flesh. He had touched her only once, but that was enough. And though he had cried and begged for her forgiveness, she had been unable to grant his wish. He had crossed the line.

Move in circles.

When Mark was away, Charlotte drew the curtains before sundown and avoided looking out into the dark. Her fear of the green light had been somewhat appeased when Mark had come home that first night with dinner, having discovered a couple of addicts shooting up in the yard. She was not being watched. There was nobody trying to get her.

She had made a small confession that night, sharing some of her fears. They blamed them on the pregnancy, on the hormones, on the sudden onset of her maternal instinct. She met with a mid-wife and learned that everything was as it should be. And when the terror crept up inside her and made itself known, she turned on the stereo. For Charlotte, music had always been something tangible, almost architectural in form, like a small beautiful room that she could enter into and be safe. If there was music, then there could be comfort. She had read once about cows going into slaughter, who before entering the slaughterhouse, were held close in special cages because the pressure calmed their nervous systems. This is what music did for Charlotte. In fact, it was silence that she had always dreaded the most. The silence of the country. The silence that made her ears hurt. The silence of death.

This is going to sting a bit, says the technician, running an abrasive pad across the skin around Charlotte’s eyes. Charlotte winces, her hands beneath her now, clutching the edges of the bed. If the sensors don’t stick, the whole thing is pointless, explains the woman in her thick Eastern-European accent, visibly annoyed. No results. The instructions were on the referral sheet: no perfumes or lotions. But Charlotte had not bothered to read them.

Charlotte is here because for the last three weeks, whenever she has tried to walk, the world has seemed a strange and unreliable place. Like a newborn taking its first steps, or a person trying to get their sea legs, she has felt anxious and uncertain, terrified that she may stumble or fall. Her anxiety is compounded by fears about the pregnancy and by the growing feeling that there is something terribly wrong. But the baby is healthy. This much she knows for sure. The baby is healthy and she cannot walk from point A to point B.

Life as a thing that began and was magnified.

Charlotte looks up at the technician, remembering her name. She too is Maria. Maria of the Brillo pad and the cold, unyielding voice. Maria of the burgundy cardigan sweater and the thick black eye-liner. Of the baby pictures on the desktop, the hidden warmth.

I think that will do it, says Maria, wiping her hands on her slacks. Her voice is kinder now. Her hand brushes against Charlotte’s as she turns to the machinery.

The test involves pumping water into one ear, and then the other. Cold water first, and then the hot. Though she does not explain why, Maria says that when she indicates, Charlotte should begin to count backwards from one hundred to one. As loud as she can. Shouting. And before Charlotte has a chance to fully process the implications of this request, Maria places her hands on either side of Charlotte’s head and turns it abruptly to the right. Outside the window, one of the elderly men stubs out his cigarette and shuffles toward the building. Charlotte watches his careful steps. Maria turns on the tap.

The first time it happened, Charlotte awoke to find that the world had rotated about forty-five degrees to the right. She was in bed at the time and had only opened her eyes to check the time, having awakened from a dream in which she and Mark were standing together on an empty beach, waiting for something or someone to move the story forward. Barely awake, she could not figure out why she was unable to read the clock face, and allowed herself to fall back into sleep and into the dream. Now she was alone. The sky around her was thick like porridge, and Mark was nowhere to be seen. She looked around, then put her hand into her pocket and pulled out a key on a long silver chain. Smiling to herself, she put the chain around her neck and held the key fast against her chest.

Though Maria tells her that none has actually entered her ear, it feels to Charlotte that gallons of water are being forced into her head. For a moment there is only discomfort and then the world as she know it disappears into darkness. She feels like she is sitting on a magic carpet that has lost it direction and is spinning out of control. She grabs at the sides of the bed, terrified that she is going to fall, and then hears Maria’s voice instructing her to count: 100. 99. 98. 97. By the time she gets to forty, the world has stopped spinning and she can open her eyes. This is a very good sign, says Maria, touching her gently on the arm. A very good sign. She peels Charlotte’s fingers from the side of the bed and folds them back onto her stomach again. Knowing that they have about fifteen minutes to wait before the next round of tests, Maria sits down in front of the fan and rests her eyes.