Waiting For Sarah Read online

  He took it. Chocolate was hard to resist.

  She began to sketch.

  “You’re supposed to be helping me.”

  “I am helping you, Michael.”

  “No. you’re not. You’re just having yourself a good time.”

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “Well, you could help by looking through these newspapers and searching for interesting stories.”

  “I’d love to search for interesting stories.”

  “Slap a Post-It on anything you find. No reports on school dances — unless something unusual happens, like a .re or a fight, or problems with liquor; and no sports or athletics, unless school or district records are broken, or something unusual happens, okay?”

  They settled down to work. After a while, Sarah started to hum. He waited for her to stop, but she kept it up. “You’re humming,” he told her.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You were.” He knew how sneaky girls could be with verb tenses. He’d been caught before, with Becky.

  “Wasn’t.”

  “You were. You were humming.”

  “Wasn’t.”

  “Was.”

  “That should be were.”

  “What were you humming?”

  “Beethoven.”

  “There, you see. You admit it!”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He sighed and tried to ignore her.

  On Thursday the librarian said, “I’ve left the door open for you, Mike.” Miss Pringle had found a way to help without being pushy. “If you need material from the high shelves I can have one of the library students get it for you.”

  He didn’t thank her as he wheeled past the checkout counter, turned right at Myths & Folklore and headed down to Classics. A left turn, a right and another left brought him to Archives. He pulled the door closed behind him.

  “Hello, Michael.”

  She was already there, sitting at the table with paper, crayons and glue, making colored labels for the newspaper shelves.

  16 ... meant to be together

  She looked slightly different, but he couldn’t see ex­actly why. Probably her hair: girls were always fooling around and doing different things with their hair.

  She stopped what she was doing and moved to the stool, where she perched, chin cupped between her hands, big happy smile, elbows on knees, feet on the rung of the stool, saying nothing. She was evi­dently waiting for him to acknowledge her, to greet her, to say something nice about her colored labels perhaps.

  But he only mumbled in his gruff voice, scowling, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of noticing she was on time.

  She held something up for him to see. “Look, I brought my paint box.”

  He wheeled past her to the table. “You can put these newspapers back on the shelf. I’ve finished with them.”

  “Don’t be such an old grouch, Michael. It’s no use pretending you’re not glad to see me because I know you are.” She slid off the stool.

  He watched her: thin, straight back, tumble of abundant dark hair to her shoulders. It was a different style, he was almost certain of it; girls did tricky things with wigs and hairpieces these days, made themselves appear to have more hair than they actually had. She was gluing her new labels to the shelves. They looked good. Nobody would have any trouble in the future looking for specific years.

  And the room seemed different today, warmer and brighter, pushing the shadows back, burnishing the mahogany of the table, bathing the bundles of old newsprint in a bronze glow.

  “How do you like it?” She stood back, admiring her work.

  “It’s fine.”

  She smiled. “Is that all you can say? ‘It’s fine’?” — mocking his grumpy tone — “I pour my artistic talents into making this place bright and cheerful and organized and all you can — ”

  “All right! It’s great. How’s that?”

  “‘Great’ is better. Thank you.”

  Remembering Robbie, he said, “What’s your last name anyway?”

  She stepped down off the chair. “Francis. Sarah Francis. My mother’s name before she married my father was Frances Finkleheimer, but now it’s Frances Francis. Don’t you think that’s neat?” Without waiting for an answer she said, “I brought my paint box so I can paint you. I’m quite a good painter. You can sit for me.”

  “I don’t want to ‘sit’ for you.”

  She pulled a face. “What a sourpuss. I hope I’m not like you when I get to be a senior.” She sighed. “Let’s not work today, Michael, okay? Look, I know a good game. I love movies — don’t you just love movies? — except I don’t get to go too often because of piano practice every day, early in the morning and then again later, in the afternoon, but I don’t mind, not really, I love the piano. The game is you pretend to be someone famous, like a movie star and I ask you questions and try to guess who you are, okay?”

  “Look, kid...”

  “Sarah.”

  “I don’t have time for games. There’s a deadline. The yearbook committee is breathing down my neck. I’ve got to have this project finished for soon after Christmas. My history teacher wants a Carleton fiftieth anniversary research essay handed in as an assignment for his stupid course, get the picture?”

  “Could we talk, then, just for a little while, and then you can work?”

  Kids were a pain, especially girl kids; all they ever did was talk. His scowl didn’t even slow her down.

  “I want to ask you about fate. Do you believe in fate, Michael? Like two people meant to be together? Like Paris and Helen of Troy? Or Romeo and Juliet? I do.” She opened her eyes wide and stared into his. She put on a deep, husky voice, probably copying some screen actress. “You’re very good-looking, you know.”

  He blushed. “Cut it out!”

  She laughed. “But you are, Michael. You look like Harrison Ford. So stern and serious and cute. Did you see him in Raiders of the Lost Ark? He was so cool. I just loved him.”

  Before he could tell her to shut up so he could work, she said, “I saw it twice, the first time with my mom and dad and the second time with Jennifer Galt, my best friend.” She was silent for a moment, thinking. Then she said, “Michael, if I grow up as fast as I can, will you promise to wait for me?”

  “Huh?”

  “So we can graduate together.”

  “Oh, sure. I’ll wait for you,” he growled sarcastically, looking down at his legs. “I won’t be going anyplace.”

  She touched the places below his knees, the stumps. “Can you feel it when I touch you there?” She was serious now.

  “Yes, of course I can.”

  “Do you miss the feelings you used to get in your legs?”

  “Sometimes it feels like they’re still there, and I look, expecting to see them. I get shin pains. And sometimes I can wiggle my toes.”

  “But that’s impossible!”

  “It’s called phantom limbs. Sometimes my brain thinks they’re still there.”

  “Do you feel phantom limbs now?”

  “No, only sometimes.”

  She trailed away from him to sit on the edge of the table, legs dangling, head tilted, face pale and suddenly melancholy. She opened her paint box, picked out a brush and ran a fingertip and thumb over its bristles. “How did it happen? The accident. Was that when you lost your parents and became an orphan?”

  The sun inserted a beam through the narrow window. Blue dust motes swam in the air above Sarah’s head as he thought back to last year when they had been driving home from the Abbotsford Air Show. They were all tired. Becky was overtired — over­excited, his father had said. His mom called Becky a tomboy because she was sometimes wild, and she loved airplanes as much as Mike. Becky always argued with her mother, saying, “Calling someone a tomboy is so stupid, I’m just a girl.” For both Mike and Becky the highlight of the air show had been sitting in the cockpit of a Spitfire. For their father, an ex-navy pilot, it had been the helicopters.

 
“We were on our way home in the car,” he said simply. “A drunk driver hit us head on.”

  Why was he telling this to a kid? Because sometimes Sarah didn’t seem like a kid, that was why; sometimes she seemed quite grown up.

  “It was just over a year ago. My parents and my kid sister were ... they were wiped out ... killed. I was sitting in the back seat with my sister. I had my seat belt on. She didn’t. But I was trapped, couldn’t move. I don’t remember much of it. It took a long time, but they got me out; my legs were crushed, below the knees.” He shrugged. “That’s it.”

  That was it: a short, simple story. What he didn’t tell her was how the simple story, the part he did remember, the part he’d never forget, played and replayed itself in his head most nights before he went to sleep. In detail. With sound effects. Saturday afternoon, middle of August, Dad driving west, sun visor down against the late afternoon brightness, car radio playing some of Mom’s favorite music, live every Saturday from New York, that week an opera called Aïda — he even remembered the title — Mom with her head back, eyes closed, Becky — still high from an exciting day — giggling, unruly as usual, mimicking the soprano, showing off for Mike’s benefit. “Becky!” Mom’s testy voice the last thing he heard before the blackness.

  Robbie missed being killed. He had arranged to go with them, but canceled out at the last minute, calling early on Saturday morning to say his mother wasn’t well; Mrs. Palladin had been up most of the night with pains in her head and stomach, and he was going to stay home and make sure she was okay.

  Robbie had never discussed it with Mike, had never acknowledged his lucky escape.

  Fate: some live, some die. Yes, he believed in fate all right.

  Sarah said, “So who takes care of you? Your grandparents?”

  He shook his head. “There aren’t any. I live with Aunt Norma, my mother’s sister.”

  “Why?”

  “She wanted me. And she’s the only relative I have.”

  “What is your sister’s name?”

  “Becky.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Ten.”

  The sunbeam had lasted only a few seconds and now, for some reason — perhaps the thought of Becky dying so young, before her life had really started — the archives room seemed cold and gray. The old newspapers and books and files that before had seemed to him a historian’s delight now seemed like so much trash. The whole mess should be thrown out, he thought, and burnt to ashes. In his mind he saw a mountain of paper burning in a huge fire, saw the black-and-white pictures brown and curl as hundreds of smiling crewcut boys and beehive-haired girls blistered into spirals of smoke and flame.

  But the room evidently didn’t seem cold and gray to Sarah. “What’s your favorite food? Mine’s chocolate ice-cream.” She swung her legs restlessly, a little kid once more.

  It was amazing how one minute she could be so grown up and then the next minute be a child again. No, it wasn’t amazing, it was annoying. And frustrating. Just when he was talking seriously, she started acting like a stupid little kid, changing the subject, asking childish questions. He was sorry now he’d told her about the car crash; he had never really talked about it to anyone, not even to Robbie or Norma.

  “I don’t have a favorite damn food.”

  “Everybody has a favorite food, Michael. Don’t be so grouchy. And you must stop swearing like that.”

  “I’m not grouchy.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  “Then prove it. Tell me your favorite?”

  “I refuse to discuss food.” Now he sounded like a jerk.

  She got up and started leafing through the yearbooks on the shelves, turning her back to him.

  “And you’re stopping me working.”

  She made no reply, carrying on as though she hadn’t heard him.

  He felt a stab of annoyance. He was wasting time. The school history would never get done at this rate. He started reading through a pile of newspapers, but couldn’t concentrate with Sarah moving about the room, even though she was silent. Kids! He grabbed a bundle of newspapers for reshelving off the desk, but moved too quickly and lost his balance. Sarah spun around as he fell out of the chair onto the floor, dropping the bundle. He swore loudly. Sarah rushed over to help him, but he pushed her away, explaining to her how to apply the brakes while he clambered back into his seat. He was angry with himself, allowing a kid to see how awkward and helpless he was.

  “Are you all right, Michael?”

  “Of course I’m all right. I’m used to falling. It’s nothing.” He felt like a fool.

  The bell rang. Another fast seventy-five minutes gone. He retrieved his notebook and slid it into his pack. He hadn’t got a lot done this morning; maybe he should tell her not to come so often. He wouldn’t have fallen if he hadn’t been so annoyed with her.

  She stood, watching him. “G’bye, Michael.”

  Before he could say anything she had hurried out of the room ahead of him. When he got to the hallway she had disappeared into the milling crowd of students.

  17 ... a secret

  “Robbie, do you think I look like Harrison Ford?”

  Robbie laughed. “Harrison Ford is an old guy. Been around a long time. Dead Heat on a Merry-Go-Round was his first movie, in 1966. That’s like, what? Thirty-four years ago? Ford played a hotel bellboy, a bit part. The guy must be way over fifty by now.”

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  “Do you look like Harrison Ford? Hardly. More like Donald Duck, I’d say.”

  Mike ignored the humor. They were on their way home along the False Creek sea wall. The city was hidden in a thick broth. Foghorns wailed. Robbie pushed Mike’s chair off the cement and onto the grass, through sodden leaves, seeking the thickest piles, plowing vigorously, puffing with the effort, while Mike squinted into the fog and gathering darkness from under the peak of his baseball cap. Robbie might be a little on the heavy side, but he was strong, with big arms and wide shoulders.

  Robbie said, “I like Harrison Ford. Even if he is an old guy he’s great. I’ll tell you a secret, Mike, but you’re not to tell anyone, okay?”

  “What do you think — I can’t keep my mouth shut?”

  “Sorry, man. But whenever I think of my dad — I never told anyone this — I see him as Harrison Ford. Pretty stupid, huh?”

  “No, Robbie, I don’t think it’s stupid.”

  Robbie had never known his father. His father was a mystery. All Robbie knew was that he was an engineer and had gone to work in Argentina on a special project when Robbie was a baby. He never returned. His letters stopped suddenly. Enquiries led nowhere. He had disappeared. Robbie’s mother believed he was dead.

  “I kinda see my old man as Indiana Jones — like in The Temple of Doom. You know what I mean? Danger­ous adventures and fighting hard to get back home but being prevented by the bad guys.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. But he’ll never come back. I know that, really.”

  “You never can tell.”

  “Yeah, well. Why don’t you come over to my place this weekend? We could watch The Temple of Doom together.”

  “Sure. Good idea.”

  “Indiana Jones is the greatest. So you think you look like Harrison Ford?”

  “No. Sarah Francis said I look like him.”

  Robbie grinned. “Ha! She came back. You didn’t scare her off after all. So now you know the kid’s full name, huh?”

  Getting no response, Robbie continued chattering on about Harrison Ford. Whenever he discussed movies his face shone with manic delight. His memory was prodigious, photographic almost. Now his face went into shining transfiguration mode. “Raiders of the Lost Ark was 1981. That was a good year for movies. Lots of people thought Raiders should’ve got the Academy Award for Best Pic, or even Reds or The French Lieutenant’s Woman; instead a Brit movie called Chariots of Fire got it. Crazy. Ask most kids about Chariots of Fire and th
ey won’t know what you’re talking about — you ever heard of Chariots of Fire? — right, nobody has, but mention Raiders of the Lost Ark and they’ll know right off. I mean, everyone’s seen Raiders, right? What does that tell you? Also, if you want my opinion, Meryl Streep should’ve got Best Actress that year, instead of Katherine — ”

  “Robbie!”

  “Sorry. Anyway, Harrison Ford made three Indiana Jones movies: after Raiders in ’81 there was Temple of Doom in ’84 and The Last Crusade in ’89. After that, he — ”

  “Robbie!”

  “Keep you shirt on. Anyway, I’m not telling you any more until you tell me more about your slave girl.”

  Mike growled, “There’s nothing to tell. She helps me, that’s all. Pain in the butt most of the time.”

  “So, where does she live?”

  “I didn’t ask her. Hey! Would you mind staying on the sea wall and not driving through the hydrangeas? I’m getting showered with bits of twiggy garbage and dead flowers.”

  “I don’t know why I put up with your obnoxity, man. I push you home; I give you the benefit of my razor-sharp memory and mind, and all I get is your personality disorder problems.”

  “You do it because you’re my pal, Robbie. And because you’re a good guy.”

  “I guess.”

  “Hey, Robbie?”

  “What?”

  Mike grinned. “Is there really such a word as obnoxity?”

  18 ... death and destruction

  He thanked Robbie for the bumpy flight home, dodged through scaffolding and piles of new siding sitting out on Commodore Road and let himself in to his co-op building. The reconstruction work — fixing the leaks — was, incredibly, still going on after eight or nine months. The contractors worked for only a couple of days at a time and then, like migratory birds, disappeared for long periods of time. Then they returned for a day or two or three and disappeared again. The huge blue tarps had become a familiar part of the building.

  He fought his way over the cables and construction detritus, took the elevator up to the third floor, unlocked the apartment door and wheeled into his room. Norma wouldn’t be home until late. She worked long hours for the Vancouver School District as a Human Resources Supervisor. Sometimes she didn’t get home until seven or eight, and often worked Saturdays.