Waiting For Sarah Page 2

  Mike didn’t believe in clairvoyance or prophecy or any of Mrs. Dhaliwal’s arts. It was all rubbish as far as he was concerned. “Thanks for the valuable information, Mrs. Dhaliwal,” he said, not bothering to conceal the sneer in his voice. “It’s good to know what a wonderful future I’ve got coming.” He took the last cake from the plate on the table and went off to his room.

  Later, after Mrs. Dhaliwal had gone, Norma was angry. “You were not very polite.”

  “I don’t believe all that fortune-telling stuff; it’s stupid.”

  “It’s just for fun. There’s no harm in it.”

  “It’s phony. Except for the cakes; they were okay.”

  “You took too many.”

  He shrugged. “So what. Lighten up.”

  “You don’t have to be so discourteous to my friends, Mike. That’s all I’ll say. The matter’s now closed.”

  “How did you solve the problem of the curry smell?”

  “Dolly solved it herself, by baking delicious little treats for the entire third floor — samosas and gulab jamans. There isn’t one person who can resist them. Once people got to know Dolly and like her, well, the problem was solved.”

  Norma drove him out to the Burnaby cemetery so he could see the grave. The day was cold and crisp under a blue sky. She pushed him along the path between the headstones. A thin layer of frost on the grass had started to melt. He helped push his chair onto the grass. Norma had brought flowers, chrysanthemums, which she placed on the grave, removing those withered by frost.

  He stared at the granite stone and the names of his family: “Died August 15, 1998.” His eyes stung.

  “It was a lovely funeral,” said Norma. “The Reverend Butterworth read the eulogy. So nice. Everyone was there — Robbie, the kids from Carleton High and Sanderson Elementary — looked to me like every kid in the neighborhood turned out — and teachers, and people from the school board. ‘Tell Mike to hang in there,’ they said. You were in people’s minds. It was like you were there with us, Mike.”

  He said nothing, thinking. Then he said, “How come if there were so many kids at the funeral none of them came to see me in the hospital?”

  Norma was surprised. “But they did! You were always sleeping, or perhaps you don’t remember because of the painkillers. The nurses allowed only two people at one time and had to send many of them away. You sent many of them away yourself. Do you remember?”

  He shook his head, then thought for a while longer and said, “So there was a big crowd at the funeral?”

  “Enormous. There were women from MADD — Mothers Against Drunk Driving. A very sincere group of women, I’m sure, but to tell you the truth I could have done without the TV cameras.”

  On the drive home Norma wondered aloud why he had never asked about his home, their three-bedroom townhouse on Fairview Slopes, the one they had moved into when Mike was only five, the place where Becky was born.

  “Who cares about a house!”

  “It was your home, Mike. Anyway, there were mortgage payments. So I arranged for it to be sold. You should know that there’s a small equity from the sale and a small amount from insurance. It’s in trust for when you reach eighteen.”

  He shrugged. He didn’t care about the money.

  “And I had a few things put in storage. One or two pieces of furniture Joanne was fond of. And your father’s stuff — golf clubs, medals, his computer hardware; it’s all there if you ever decide to use it. I couldn’t deal with it, so just had everything boxed and stored. You might feel like going through it after a little time has passed. I kept some things from your room separate — your posters and CDs, things like that; they’re stored in my locker in the co-op basement if you decide you want them.”

  He said nothing; he was thinking of gravestones.

  6 ... there are no answers

  He really did care about his home, sold now, which meant that everything was gone. His whole life was gone, like a torpedoed ship at the bottom of the sea, leaving him a lone survivor in an empty ocean with nothing to cling to — except for Norma and Robbie. Dolly Dhaliwal and her “wonderful future” indeed!

  He remembered his room. And Becky’s. And downstairs, the worn living-room carpeting and shabby sofa his mother talked about replacing, but never did. The family eating together in the evenings. Rules and arguments about behavior and chores and the Internet and TV watching. Ordinary lives that were meant to go on in an ordinary way for many years, but were now just memories.

  “Why is this building so damn noisy?” he asked Norma one afternoon.

  Norma pulled a face. “It’s the workmen mending leaks in the building. You must have noticed the blue tarps around the outside. They shouldn’t be here more than a month or so.”

  The din of hammers, saws and drills seemed louder in the second week. “I hate this place,” he said.

  Norma hid her hurt feelings. “The work will soon be finished.”

  “Why have you got leaks? Why is it taking so long? What’s the matter with this damn place anyway?” He noticed his aunt flinch, but didn’t care.

  “Moisture gets through the siding and rots the drywall. We sued the developer. It has taken two whole years to make them do repairs.” Norma watched Mike’s face as she explained. It was the first interest he had shown in anything in a long time — a negative interest, but a positive sign, she reckoned.

  One evening after supper, when she noticed him staring trance-like at the pattern in the tablecloth, she said, “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mike.”

  He looked at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I know how much you miss your parents and Becky. But the accident was just that: an accident. None of it was your fault.”

  “Yes, but ...” He shook his head. His eyes glistened with angry tears. “Why should they be gone, while I ...?”

  She grasped his hands. “Sometimes there are no answers, Mike. Life is like that: a puzzle. But God has reasons for everything, even if we don’t understand. Your mother and I were very close, almost like twins. I miss her very much also, and Becky and your father. You are Joanne’s son and you’re a fine brave boy, Mike. But your mom and dad and Becky are no longer here with us. You’ve got to let them go.”

  He shook his head and wheeled away to his room.

  7 ... time to start living

  He started going out alone, away from the constant noise of the builders. The din made him angry; there was no peace. He pushed his wheelchair along the hallway, around and over the obstacle course of the contractor’s equipment, and took the elevator down from the third floor, where he had to maneuver his chair around ladders, building materials, ropes and tarps in the entrance lobby. Then he wheeled himself along the sea wall to the marina at Stamps Landing. It was quiet there, with only the tinkling conversations of bells on sailboat masts breaking the silence. He sat and watched the lazy activity in the marina and the silent boat traffic in False Creek, which isn’t a creek at all but an inlet from the sea. But even here he found no peace.

  Weekends, Norma offered to push him all the way to the Granville Island Market, but his friend Robbie took over that job instead. Mike enjoyed his outings with Robbie.

  Norma brought up the subject of the support services. “You must be reasonable, Mike. Your therapy wasn’t finished when you left Rehab; there’s still much that can be done. Dr. Ryan says you should have prosthet — ”

  “Ryan’s a jerk. I don’t need anybody poking at me and asking questions.”

  “Mike, Rehab calls me at work. They’re worried about you. As well as Dr. Ryan there’s a physiotherapist named Finch, and a man named Taylor from the School Board who complains that you won’t open the door. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Tell ’em to go to — ”

  “Well, if you won’t listen to Rehab at least you’re well enough to go back to school,” Norma interrupted firmly. “You can’t mope about like this, doing nothing, staring out the window or sitting on the sea wall watching the
boats all day.”

  “I don’t want to go back to school.”

  “You’ve got to go. Your mother wouldn’t like it if you didn’t. Joanne wouldn’t want me to sit idly by and watch you become an under-educated, anti-social hermit. I won’t allow it. It’s time to start living again, Mike. School is the perfect place to begin.”

  “I hate school.”

  “Your mother told me you liked school. You were a good student.”

  “What can I do ... in this?” he burst out angrily.

  “Many people have wheelchairs, Mike. They manage. They cope. They get on with their lives. You still have your good mind. And your arms and shoulders. There are many worse off than you.”

  “Worse off! You mean like no arms as well as no legs and no family? Hah!” He was in a furious temper.

  “You could get rid of the wheelchair and walk if you wanted. Dr. Ryan says ... ”

  But he wasn’t listening. He was too angry. Norma was beginning to think she’d moved too soon; he wasn’t ready yet to join the world. But she couldn’t go back now.

  “Mike! You’ve just got to stop beating up on yourself.” She pulled over a chair and sat facing him. “Your mother is gone,” she said firmly. “And your dad. And Becky. And there’s nothing anyone can do to bring them back. One thing I do know and it’s this: they would want you to be happy. You’re here and you’re alive. And they would want you to go to school. Once you’re back you’ll find everyone is on your side ...”

  “Forget it!” Without another word, he spun his wheelchair, rudely turning his back on his aunt, and pushed himself angrily away.

  The weeks and months went by. By now he had missed the whole of grade eleven. With the next school year approaching, one year after the accident that had claimed the lives of his family, his aunt became persistent. And so did Robbie.

  “Give it a try, Mike, okay?” said Robbie. “The kids at Carleton are pretty good. They’re gonna be on your side. They’ll be real happy to see you back, man, honest!”

  Finally he gave in. Boredom temporarily overcame fear and bitterness; that was the reason. Another reason was the offer of credit for the missed year. Unusual and extenuating circumstances, the school called it, which meant he could, if he wished, stay with his class, pick up a few of the missed grade eleven units and graduate on schedule. That was the clincher. Not that he cared about graduating — he cared about nothing — but his Aunt Norma cared. Except for Robbie she was the only one who did care. Robbie and Norma had stuck with him, visiting hospital and Rehab every day, even when he’d given them the silent treatment, even when he’d yelled and sworn at them, even when he’d thrown their gifts to the floor; he owed it to his aunt. She was a true friend, not like some of the so-called friends of his dead parents who had made one visit or had sent one Get Well card and then nothing. A few of the other family friends had continued to visit and bring gifts but soon stopped when he had nothing to say to them. It had been much easier to feign sleep when visitors came. Aunt Norma, on the other hand, had turned out to be a source of strength. She was really something else. And so was Robbie. He didn’t know what he would have done without them.

  8 ... despised them all

  He returned reluctantly to Carleton High in September, over a year since his accident. He did it only to please his aunt.

  He was alone. Robbie had wanted to be there, but Mike said no; he had to do it by himself. Full of purpose, he pushed his chair towards the main entrance. But then he stopped. There were steps. He’d forgotten about the steps. How was he going to get up that formidable obstacle and in the front door? He looked up at the school motto above the entrance as if the answer he needed was to be found there: ad summum, “To the Heights.” The building was old and lacking ramps. He looked at the steps again. There was no way he could get his chair up to the entrance. Annoyance turned to anger. Damned school! Was there a way around the back?

  “You take one side and I’ll take the other.”

  It was Robbie with another boy and they were grasping his chair and carrying him up the steps. Mike kept his eyes closed until they had put him down in the front hall. Then he glared at his friend. “I told you I’d manage by my — ”

  Robbie turned away. “Thanks,” he said to his helper.

  The boy smiled. “No problem,” he said as he walked away.

  Robbie turned back to Mike and grinned. “There’s an entrance around the back. It’s near the band room. No steps. I knew you wouldn’t remember.” He turned on his heel before Mike could say anything else. “See you later. If you’re polite maybe I’ll walk home with you.” He grinned again and was gone.

  Mike looked around. It seemed to him that every eye was on him. He wheeled past the band room and through the halls, staring straight ahead, scowling, hating everyone. The secretary in the school office had his timetable ready. He snatched it from her hand and turned to go.

  She stopped him with a word. “Wait.”

  He paused, but did not look back.

  “Mr. Warren, the vice-principal, wants to see you before you ...”

  “Well, I don’t want to see him.”

  He found his first class and insisted on sitting at the back of the room. Desks were moved; space was made for him. If anyone stared he glared back at them, and they turned away, withered by his hate.

  Even Carleton’s new, cute and over-excited eighth graders, all with two strong legs, all with mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters, all with proper homes and families. He despised them all.

  9 ... back with friends

  Robbie helped him home, pushing on the uphill parts.

  “So how was it, Mike? How did it go?”

  He played dumb. “How did what go?”

  “You know. Classes, crowded hallways, being back with friends, stuff like that.”

  “Friends! Hmmph!” He was still ticked off at Robbie for lifting him up the school steps. He’d felt so helpless. “Who was that other kid this morning?”

  “What other kid are you talking about, man?” Robbie playing the innocent.

  “I’m talking about the one who helped with the skyride.”

  “Oh, him. He’s a new guy. In my history class. He’s big and he happened to be passing by so I grabbed him. Name’s Ben Packard.”

  “Hmmph!”

  He went to school every day.

  He hated it.

  He was unfriendly. Kids he’d known for years, who had been with him through elementary school, he ignored as though they were strangers; he wanted nobody’s sympathy. He was asked to join the yearbook committee. “Not interested,” he told them. He was invited to join the chess club and the debating club, but he refused; he was no longer interested in chess, and as for debating, he didn’t much like the sponsor teacher, Mr. Dorfman. So he joined no clubs. Mr. Estereicher, a popular PE teacher, asked him if he might be interested in wheelchair sports; there was a meet coming up, and Estereicher would be happy to coach him for track or basketball or whatever interested him. “I don’t give a damn about wheelchair sports — thanks very much,” he added sarcastically.

  People soon learned to leave him alone.

  They didn’t like him. He didn’t care.

  Someone hung a bumper-sticker on the back of his wheelchair: Ban Leg-hold Traps. Robbie managed to remove it without Mike knowing.

  10 ... fright mask

  By the end of October it was almost as though he had never been away from Carleton High. The school was still the same, but he had changed. In tenth grade he had been busily involved in the school’s classes and activities; now everything was meaningless. He endured it only because of Aunt Norma and Robbie.

  Today he had Dorfman first period. He didn’t like Dorfman’s class. He didn’t like Dorfman. History should be interesting, exciting even, but Dorfman managed to convert it into sleeping pills. For the first fifteen minutes of each seventy-five minute period there was a quiz on yesterday’s notes. If you forgot to memorize the notes you lost the fift
een marks. When the quiz was over it was note-taking from the overhead projector for tomorrow’s quiz. Notes and quizzes, always notes, one mind-numbing page after another. In addition to all this, Dorfman expected him to hand in two lengthy essays on eleventh grade topics, ones he had missed.

  Dorfman stood at the front of the room, behind his overhead projector, the classroom lights out. Except for the windows, most of the light came from the projector’s 300 watts of non-enlightenment thrown onto the wall-screen behind and over Dorfman’s glittering baldness, poorly covered by a phony comb-over. Whenever Dorfman leaned into the projector to operate the roller, the light reflected off his thick-lensed glasses, hiding his usually magnified eyes and shining up under his face, accentuating the thick wet lips and flat nose, twisting his features into a Halloween fright mask.

  Mike sat at the back near the window. He’d had Dorfman before, in tenth grade, and used to copy his notes religiously, never missing a word. Now he didn’t care about taking notes. Instead, he simply scanned them idly as they came up on the screen, and then went back to his book, The History of Flight, always handy in his packsack slung behind his wheelchair, glancing up again only when he heard the squeak of the rollers.

  In his first class, when Dorfman had caught him reading his book instead of furiously scribbling history notes like the other kids, he’d threatened to have him expelled. Mike had shrugged. “So expel me.”

  Dorfman had stared at him angrily through lenses like the bottoms of pop bottles. No more was said about expulsion. Besides, Mike always managed to pass the daily quiz. And he was in a wheelchair; what kind of teacher would expel a kid in a wheelchair?

  11 ... the dead are everywhere

  Robbie’s two small cousins were visiting for Halloween and Robbie had agreed to take them on a trick-or-treat tour of his neighborhood. “Why don’t you join us?” he said to Mike. “Should be fun. Jimmy and Sharon are going as aliens, so I’m gonna join them in a Boba Fett bounty hunter mask.”