Waiting For Sarah Read online

  “Everything you told me was true,” said Robbie, excited.

  Mike stared at his friend. “You didn’t believe me?”

  Robbie flushed with embarrassment. “Of course I believed you. I just wasn’t sure about the Dorfman part. He’s slime, I knew that, but I wasn’t so sure about a Carleton teacher as a killer, that’s all. Teachers are the good guys, right? If it was a movie it would be the janitor.”

  “And you call yourself a pal!”

  “Look, man, I’ll never doubt anything you tell me ever again, I promise, okay? I swear. If you tell me Air Canada needs you to test a new supersonic jet, I’ll believe you, honest!”

  Sarah didn’t come again that month. She didn’t come again until June. Until grad day.

  She came to see him graduate.

  39 ... graduation

  “Lillian Fonzatelli,” called Miss Pringle in her best black dress. Miss Pringle always read out the names at graduation; it was a tradition.

  “Arthur Samuel Forbes,” called Miss Pringle.

  The ceremony at Carleton High was formal, with the boys in suits and ties, the girls in white dresses or gowns, all seated in the gymnasium in more-or-less alphabetical order. The gymnasium was decorated with flowers and banners. Parents and other relatives sat up in the balcony. The grads sat in the auditorium, girls on one side, boys on the other, rising and walking forward to the stage as their names were called.

  Mike sat in his wheelchair, not ready yet to show off his new legs.

  Then Sarah was there, suddenly, standing beside him, in a white gown that contrasted with her shining dark hair. She looked lovely. He looked up at her and she smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder and he understood what she had meant about this day being graduation for her too.

  He waited for his name to come up, excited, thinking, not of himself, but of Sarah when she was a kid, how he’d almost run over her feet with his wheelchair that first time. And now she was grown up, no longer a little kid. Sarah Stephanie Francis. She had never mentioned that middle name, the one on her grave. There was still so much he didn’t know about her, had never heard her play the piano, had never ...

  “Robert Brent Palladin,” called Miss Pringle.

  Mike tore his eyes away from Sarah as Robbie bounced up onto the stage for his diploma and handshake, self-conscious in his new suit. Then he thumped back down the stairs, his face creased in a huge smile, brandishing his “Dogwood,” British Columbia’s flower symbol, certificate like a sword.

  Soon it was Mike’s turn.

  “Michael Scott,” called Miss Pringle.

  He didn’t want to leave her, but he had to go. “Wait for me, Sarah.”

  They had provided a ramp for him. He wheeled onto the stage and received his Dogwood. As he shook hands with the principal he could see his aunt up in the balcony, waving her program wildly. He searched frantically for Sarah. There she was, smiling up at him. He grinned, then shot back down the ramp, showing off his wheelchair skills, back to his spot in the aisle near Robbie.

  But Sarah had gone.

  When the valedictory address was done and the band and the choir had performed their final number, when the ceremony was over, everyone crowded out of the gym and along the hallway to the cafeteria for pop and pastries. Mike searched amid the confusion of formal dresses and gowns for a sight of Sarah. Boys and girls chattered to each other. He finally made it to the crowded cafeteria where Norma was waiting for him, her eyes bright with tears. She bent and kissed him and hugged his embarrassed face to her plump chest.

  When she released him, he said, “I owe you a lot, Norma. I don’t know what I would’ve — ”

  “Ah, hush,” said Norma. “You’re more son than nephew, Mike. You know that. I’m owed nothing.”

  He looked around for Sarah, but she was not there.

  40 ... fast like a fist

  He had a job at the Center for July, talking with recently handicapped kids whose dives into rivers had fractured spinal vertebrae, or kids like himself who had survived vehicle accidents. He enjoyed the work. By the end of the first week the counselors were saying that his cheerful, positive attitude was powerful medicine, just what the kids needed as they tried to make difficult adjustments. The pay wasn’t much, but it made him feel useful, and it would help Norma pay their bills.

  At Rehab he walked on his new legs as much as possible. When he became too tired he used his trusty old wheelchair, which now had rear racks for his legs.

  Robbie went to work in a furniture warehouse and was talking about staying on after the summer if a permanent job came up.

  Government exam results came through. Mike and Robbie had passed everything. Robbie was so surprised and happy he brought a bottle of British Columbia’s best champagne around to Mike’s to go with Norma’s cheesecake.

  “I’m so proud of you both,” said Norma, raising her glass. Dolly Dhaliwal came over for a visit with her husband and two boys and a plate of sticky cakes. The boys were twins. One was called Arshad, the other Varin. Mike couldn’t tell them apart. They sat silently together on Norma’s loveseat and ate the pastries.

  When everyone had gone, Mike went to his room and examined his yearbook’s gold cover and inscription: “Carleton High School. 1999-2000.” Inside was “Carleton’s First Fifty Years,” with archival photographs, text by Mike Scott, and a watercolor painting of a boy named Charlie Johnson painted by “sf.” He turned to his favorite page, the one amid the pages of “2000 Grads” with its elementary school black-and-white picture — clipped from the Clarion and pasted in by Mike — of Sarah Stephanie Francis, the girl whose graduation came eighteen years late.

  He didn’t expect to see her again, he didn’t know why, except there had been something final in the way she’d been there at his graduation, and the way she had looked at him. He could practically swear that the shine in her eyes had been tears. What had she said on the sea wall? It was a graduation for her, too? Then she was gone. It was all over. Dorfman’s criminal trial would be coming up in October and then it would all be over for sure. He felt once more that crushing sense of loss, that emptiness in his life, which couldn’t be filled. But he had to try anyway, concentrating on work at the Center, concentrating on walking practice, keeping himself busy, keeping himself useful.

  At the end of the third week he was so tired he had hardly enough energy to swing himself up out of his chair and onto his bed. Norma wasn’t home yet. He closed his eyes. Sounds of her radio drifted in his open door. Damn! He should have switched it off. He made a move towards the door but then stopped, listening.

  ... Air France Concorde crashed ... only a minute after taking off from Paris ... bound for New York ... German passengers ... everyone killed ... total of 113 people.

  He strained to hear more, but the news item was finished.

  A supersonic Concorde! The Concorde was beautiful. They never crashed; everyone knew that. The deaths. A hundred and thirteen. People in suits and dresses and stockings and shoes, with rings and handbags and laptops and wristwatches, all killed. What had they been thinking about as the plane was taking off? Were they looking forward to seeing Manhattan from the top of the World Trade Center or the Empire State Building? Or were they thinking of stocks and bonds and planning for their old age pensions many years in the future? Not knowing they would be dead in less than one minute.

  Death coming fast like a fist.

  He closed his eyes again, hearing the buzz of the radio, seeing Becky and his parents ... and Sarah.

  Soon he was asleep, flying in the clouds, his hands on the controls of his Spitfire, the confident scream of the plane’s Merlin engine in his ears, the smell of leather and oil in his nostrils, the sight of the brilliant high blue as he burst up out of the clouds towards the sun.

  41 ... leave me alone

  David Barnwell was new at the Center. He had lost a leg, amputated below the knee, in a motorcycle accident. He was sixteen years old.

  David reminded Mike of himself,
how he used to be when he was first sent to the Center. David yelled at everyone, refused to practice with crutches, refused to eat, messed his bed, wouldn’t even look at the temporary wheelchair they were trying to get him to use. His parents visited, trying their best to reason with him, but he stared ahead, arms folded, saying nothing, waiting for them to go and leave him alone. His chart was marked: Diffic.

  “Welcome to Heartbreak Hotel,” Mike said as he wheeled into the room at their first meeting. There was no response. Mike tried to talk with the boy, but David was having none of it. He covered his head with a blanket, refusing to listen. “Leave him,” the nurses advised. “Try again in a day or two.”

  But David’s behavior didn’t improve. A week went by, and then another. Finally, Mike talked to the boy through his protective blanket. “You can’t cover yourself up forever, David.”

  “Drop dead,” came the muffled reply.

  “I used to be like you, David. In this place. Mad at everyone. Mad at the world. I think I can help. But you’ve got to let me try.”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “David?”

  “Drop dead!”

  “You’ve got to talk to me.”

  “Talk to the well-behaved crippled robot in his wheelchair?” he yelled from under his blanket. “So I can be a good little crippled robot too, like you, and have all these stupid fat pop-eyed jerks who call themselves doctors and nurses pat me on the head for being a good boy and doing as I’m told? You gotta be kidding me!”

  “Wheelchair? What wheelchair?”

  The covers moved. David peeped out, scowling. Blue eyes clouded with grief, brown hair long and wild. “Mind your own stupid business and leave me al — ” He stared at Mike, standing beside his bed without aid, hands on hips. David’s disbelieving eyes moved down to Mike’s new legs.

  Mike walked closer to the bed.

  He said, “I used to be a runner. I was on the track team. But that was then and this is now. I got over it. How do you like my new tin legs? Pretty good, huh?”

  David’s mouth hung open; he was speechless.

  “You’ve still got one good leg left. And most of your other leg. You’re lucky. You can walk with the help of crutches, then later with a tin leg like mine. It’s called a prosthesis. You won’t have to push a wheelchair around and look up to everyone like you’re a six-year-old kid the rest of your life; you’ll be able to walk again, run, ski even. You hear what I’m saying?”

  The boy looked at him for the longest time, and then he said, “What did you say your name was?”

  “Mike.”

  “I’ll be able to ski?”

  “I don’t see why not. Or snowboard. Whatever.”

  David stared at him.

  Mike said, “I gotta go.”

  “You want to pass me some juice?” He pointed to the table at the end of the bed.

  Mike moved a few steps and passed the juice.

  “You coming tomorrow?”

  “You going to start listening to the nurses?”

  “They can all drop dead.”

  Mike turned and walked towards the door.

  “Mike?”

  He stopped and turned.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Mike left, grinning to himself.

  As the weeks went by, the need for his services at the Center increased substantially: he was now a permanent member of the team. He had a proper job and a title: Youth Director. His small salary increased as he learned to take on extra responsibilities. His effect on patients was therapeutic. He chatted with accident victims in their rooms, helping to ease them out of depression, boosting their morale, providing comfort. He brought them books from the Center’s library, and wrote letters or filled out forms if they were unable to do so for themselves.

  He and Norma drove to his family’s graves at Forest Lawn a couple of times a month, and every week he drove himself in Chris’s car to Sarah’s grave, to tidy and leave flowers. He always left a message under the glass jar for her to read.

  Norma was delighted with the change in him. “It’s wonderful to see you fit and happy, Mike. Joanne would be proud of you, and your father too.”

  He made himself believe it, that his father would be proud of him.

  He was able to walk long stretches of the sea wall, and continued his outings with Robbie to Granville Island or to the Maritime Museum whenever they could get together. They pushed the empty wheel­chair, though Mike was depending on it less and less as his skill and stamina increased. Robbie, for his part, was not only slimmer and gaining extra muscle in his arms and shoulders, but he also had more confidence in himself. The warehouse was only the beginning, he explained to Mike; he was learning the furniture business from the bottom up. He aimed to get into the import end of the industry and maybe start his own business someday.

  Robbie really would start his own business someday; Mike believed that. When he set his mind on something, he always followed through.

  “You’ll be famous, Robbie,” said Mike. “I can see it now: Robbie Palladin, well-known tycoon and billionaire, renowned film producer, creator of Casablanca 2 and other fine movies.”

  “Now there’s an idea,” Robbie said, grinning. “Nobody’s ever done another Casablanca.”

  42 ... once and for all

  There was a birthday cake for Mike at the Center.

  It had his name on the top in bright red icing. He was surprised. Everyone had come to the cafeteria: the nurses and therapists, the resident physician Dr. Ryan, the patients, even the nurses and aides from the night shift. He blew out the candles and everyone sang, “Happy birthday.” The senior nurse, Marion Chadwick, made a speech, thanking him for the fine work he was doing for the Center, and presented him with flowers and a gift certificate amid cheers and applause. Mike felt himself blush a deeper, hotter red than that of the cake icing.

  Later, at home, he picked up his father’s photograph and pretended it was speaking to him: “Fine work, Michael. Well done, son. Way to go!”

  He waited impatiently for the trial to begin, to prove Dorfman’s guilt once and for all.

  His name was Greg Stevenson and he flew a two-place ultralight. His partner had failed to turn up for a day’s flying, so when he saw Mike standing, watching the fliers through a pair of binoculars, he strolled over.

  “You’re usually in a wheelchair, ain’t that right? I’ve seen you here lots of times.”

  “That’s right,” said Mike.

  “You’re walking now. Great!”

  Mike grinned self-consciously and demonstrated by walking back and forth a few paces.

  “This is my aunt, Norma McLeod, and my friend Robbie.”

  “Hi. Greg Stevenson. Pleased to meet you.” He stuck out his hand. Then he turned back to Mike. “You ever fly in one of these?” He jerked his head at his ultralight.

  Mike knew it was a Beaver RX 550 Plus. Greg’s was red, with what looked like a big Rotax engine, a 582 maybe. “Never,” he said. He didn’t like to mention he’d never been up in a plane, period.

  “I was wonderin’ if you might like to take a short spin?”

  Mike looked at his aunt. She shrugged and smiled.

  “I’d like that,” said Mike, trying to hide his excitement.

  “I can find you somethin’ warm. Make sure you don’t freeze to death.”

  He followed Greg over to the aircraft, pulled on a flying suit and climbed, with help, into the back seat, his heart pounding with anticipation and excitement.

  And he flew. For the first time in his life he flew. It was as simple and wonderful as that.

  It was time. A thick fog crouched over False Creek. The city was muffled in gloom. They took the small twelve-passenger Aquabus ferry over to an invisible Beach Avenue, and Robbie pushed Mike uphill — the journey was too much of a challenge for his tin legs — along Howe Street through half-blind traffic. They were dressed warmly; Mike and Robbie wore their baseball caps, Norma a toque and walking shoes and sh
e carried her umbrella.

  The fog was thinner in the downtown, at the crest of the hill. They were early, so they walked to Robson Square to watch a peaceful demonstration in progress — about a hundred people — outside the art gallery, with signs and billboards protesting what they believed to be the Algerian government’s complicity and cover-up of one hundred thousand murders. And across the street an old man paced up and down, carrying a sign above his head: THE END IS NEAR. The traffic was noisy.

  The courtroom was crowded, but Detective Inspector Samson was there and he made space for them near the front. Mr. Dorfman sat at a table with his back to the court; all Mike could see of him was the back of his head.

  They were there all day, listening to the evidence.

  There were no demonstrators in the square on the second day except for the old man shufing up and down outside the courthouse with his sign: THE END IS NEAR.

  On the third day the fog was thicker, and the old man with the sign wasn’t there.

  On the sixth day Mike, Robbie and Norma sat where they could see Dorfman more clearly. He looked wooden, impassive. The case wound down.

  On the ninth day the judge instructed the jury and they retired to consider their verdict.

  On the tenth day the fog had gone and the old man with the sign was back and the jury reached its verdict: “Albert Dorfman, guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  Mike could see Dorfman’s face as the jury foreman read the verdict. Dorfman showed no emotion. Dark blue suit, blue shirt, red tie, wet lips, bald head, pale eyes. Nor did he show emotion as Judge John B. Watterson sentenced him to life imprisonment with no chance of parole.

  43 ... one last time

  Because it was a busy summer for Mike and Robbie they saw less of each other. When they did get together they had much to talk about, Robbie with stories of the furniture warehouse and the people who worked there, and Mike with his tales of the Rehab Center.

  Norma spent her two weeks summer holiday simply relaxing around the apartment, visiting with neighbors, reading, listening to the radio, watching the TV in the evenings as she surfed the channels, hunting for political news, gossip and disaster stories, and talking to her friends in the co-op about August’s global tragedies: forest wildfires, the worst in fifty years; a terrorist bomb killing eight in a Moscow subway tunnel close to the Kremlin; Basque separatists killing more innocent people with car bombs; the tragic deaths of 118 men in Kursk, their Russian submarine. Norma had lots to talk about.