Circle of Stones (13 page)

I hold it between my two fingers, bring it to my mouth without inhaling, watch my steam-smoke exhalation evaporate in the chilly air. We stare out at the moving water, shoulder to shoulder as Lyle smokes and I pretend, neither of us saying anything. Lyle finally flicks his cigarette into the water and I do the same and I think we're going to kiss again. I swallow dry-mouthed and hear a faint crack of a branch. I turn around, see a tall figure in black, with pale skin, black glassy eyes. Not the security guard. Heading toward us. The ghost.

“Hey, buddy, what's up?” Lyle is brusque, gauging the situation.

The ghost stops. Stares at us. I feel something happen to Lyle's body beside me. Like it's puffing up, growing taller. Lyle shifts his weight so one foot is in front of the other. So he's ready to fight.

The ghost takes a step back so he's hidden in the shadows. When he speaks his voice scratches and crackles in his throat.

“I just want to know what she said. Jennifer. At the bar.”

“What are you talking about?” Lyle steps forward then back again, confused.

“She wanted to read my tarot cards.” I put my hand on Lyle's arm. He turns to me.

“Do you know this guy?”

“No.” I clutch his arm tighter. “No, I don't.”

“Don't let her read your cards.” The ghost's voice shifts. He's moving around in the darkness. “That's how she casts her spell.”

This time Lyle clutches at me. And then the ghost walks right past us, like a cool blast of wind. I hold my breath.

I hear a sputtering sound. And then a cough so hollow I think I hear lungs rattle against ribs. It sounds painful. My mom would be diagnosing him right now. I don't know what to think of this strange person. Branches crackle. I can't see where he is.

“Let's go.” I tug hard on Lyle's arm. We start back up the hill. I'm too tired to run. It's like a creepy slow-motion chase scene, with the tall guy in pallid pursuit. Maybe. I don't hear him coughing again. The stairs seem steeper and higher than they did when we were running down, and ascending them is taking forever. Lyle gets two steps ahead of me, and then four, and I do my best to keep pace, looking forward, moving upward, until we emerge, finally, on the lawn of Parliament Hill. I gulp air, trying to catch my breath. We walk through the gates and cut across Wellington onto Bank Street. I shiver, but Lyle doesn't offer me his jacket. The blonde got to wear his jacket. At least she gave it back. Now I'm walking with him, side by side in silence. I glance over my shoulder to see if the tall guy is following us, but the downtown streets are deserted. Ottawa is asleep and we're walking through some bizarre nighttime dream. At the corner by my place Lyle grabs me and pulls me close to him.

“That was weird,” he says it in a half-whisper, as though the night is our private, spooky secret. “It's always different with you. You're not like other girls.”

This time I take that as a compliment. Lyle kisses me. I taste his cigarette tongue, feel his hands slip under my coat, under my shirt. My skin tingles. This time I want to ask him in. I'm about to say it, but then Lyle stops. He takes a step back from me, pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and studies the small screen. Text message.

“Oh, shit. I've gotta go.” Lyle jams the phone back in his pocket, leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Sorry.”

I watch him stroll away. His hands are in his pockets. There's a whooshing feeling in my chest. I'm still giddy from Lyle's kisses. I climb through my window into a darkened room. I'm about to tear off my damp and muddy club clothes when I hear a sigh coming from my bed. I step back, startled, and trip over a pile of books. My lamp turns on. My mother is sitting on my bed with my stuffed monkey in her arms.

“Where were you?” Mom shifts in the bed to sit up straighter. She's wearing her fuzzy blue housecoat. I'm busted. She looks worried and disappointed, and I'm embarrassed — it's the absolute worst.

I fall asleep thinking about Lyle, but I dream about Jennifer. And the weird tall guy. By the time I get up, Mom's already left for work. I thought she'd be way angrier about me coming home late. I thought I'd be grounded for sure. I think something bad is happening at her work, though. I'm kinda worried about her. She seems stressed, but I don't really know what's happening. Maybe we should watch a movie together. One of our old favourites.
The Philadelphia Story
or
Roman Holiday
. We haven't done that in a long time. I sigh and feel sorry for my mom. Nothing interesting or good ever happens to her. And the last person she kissed was probably my father, whoever he was.

I have half a bagel for breakfast, and when I wander back into my bedroom I see something white stuck between the drapes and the wall. It's a piece of paper. I left my window open a sliver. I feel a twinge of excitement: Lyle's left me a note! It's only one line, though. I read it over and over to interpret what he means. It says:

meet me. stairs by canel. NAC. 11:30 a.m. i have something for u.

Somehow I expected Lyle to be a better speller. But it doesn't really matter. He wants to meet me! On the stairs by the canal near the National Arts Centre. Guess I won't be going to school. I spend forty-five minutes with my hair straightener. When I get to the meeting spot I look around for Lyle, but no one's there, so I walk down the stairs and sit down on the bottom step. I feel the cold concrete through my tights and black jean skirt and stare at the murky water. A strand of hair sticks to my lip gloss. When I flick it back I see the tall guy emerging from the direction of the Wellington Street bridge and walking toward me. He's wearing the same black clothes as the other night. In the daylight he looks more scruffy than menacing. I'm wary, but not scared.

“Oh, it's you.” I stand up and step off the stairs.

Tall guy fidgets with a large hole in the cuff of his black hoodie. He smells like he needs to do laundry.

“I thought the note was from my friend Lyle.” I stick my hands in the pocket of my skirt and take a step back. “How did you know where I live?”

“Lyle. He's the guy who lives with his blonde girlfriend on Cooper Street. Two-fifty Cooper Street.” Tall guy looks right at me in a way that makes what he's saying seem true. He's like a scruffy, gutter punk version of one of Mom's TV reporters. She's always watching the news and getting depressed.

“I don't have much to do,” he says. “So I watch people. I followed him one day. Pretty boring. He wears black pants and a white dress shirt and works at a fancy restaurant on Somerset. Probably he's about twenty-five. His girlfriend works at the grocery store and gets her nails done. Probably she's twenty-five, too.” Tall guy looks at me intently. “Older than you.”

I take another step back. More ugly facts. I don't like news stories. And if this guy knows that much about Lyle, then how much does he know about me? How long has he been following me?

“But you're smarter.”

I want to punch him hard in the gut. I imagined a Lyle that doesn't exist. I liked his kisses. That was real. That happened. Maybe tall guy is exaggerating. Lyle can't be this boring. I don't want the blonde I saw him with at the bar to be the woman he lives with. She was wearing his jacket. Then he left without her. We kissed in the gazebo! But now I think it wasn't serious — for him. It couldn't have been. I feel stupid. I want to cry. I sit back down on the step. Tall guy is still watching me. I need him to leave so I can let all my silly romantic fantasies dissolve into tears.

“Did you have something to ask me? Why am I here?”

“Oh yeah, one sec.” Tall guy slings a dirty duffel bag off his back and onto the ground. There's a rolled-up blanket and a pair of rotted black running shoes tied to the bag. I look at the ghost's feet. He's wearing two pairs of grey wool socks, both full of holes. He rummages around in his bag. I think about running back up the stairs, but where am I going to go — school? I'm too disappointed to move.

“This is for you.” He hands me something flat and oblong. I put my arm out and take it, still eyeing him to see what he'll do.

“I found this old picture on the street,” he says. He crosses his arms and inclines his head like I've seen my art teacher do when talking about a painting. “I etched an image of the Parliament Buildings in it. Then I put a bit more paint on it and drew the eye.” When he points at the painting I see old crusty paint blobs on his hands. I look at the picture. Detailed gothic spires are inscribed onto a seventies-style landscape, and everything is partially obscured by swirls of grey, white, and black. A large red eye sparkles in the corner, staring like a surveillance camera.

“Wow.” The picture is like a study in technique. It's everything my art teacher is always going on about. “I don't know what to say.”

“I figured I should do something to apologize for maybe scaring you the other night.” He grins. His teeth are straight and clean. Street people usually have horrible teeth.

“Who are you?” I try to look into his eyes, but he looks away.

“No one,” he says. “A ghost.”

I reach out and touch his arm lightly. “No you're not. You're real. Besides, ghosts haunt houses, not an entire city.”

“But I am invisible.” He jerks his arm back. “Only a few people can see me. You're one of them.” He sighs and plunks down to sit cross-legged on the concrete promenade. “I've come all this way and it's the same thing everywhere I go.”

“How did you get here?” I fight the urge to pat him on the head. I'm not sure how to make him feel better.

“On the bus,” he says, giving me a strange look. “I had money. I had a special fund, but it's all gone now. I was looking for someone.”

“Did you find your person?”

He lies down flat on the concrete with his hands on his chest like a corpse. I peer down at his prone body. His eyes are closed. His is a much more complicated story than my crush being practically married. And I want to know what it feels like to lie on concrete. I lean back and feel my shoulders touch the ground. Then my head. I'm lying on concrete in the middle of the day beside a haunted man. But I'm not afraid.

“I did find her,” he says, finally. His eyes are still closed. “I promised my grandmother I'd look after her. I thought she was in danger. I gave up everything. I did everything.”

“So what happened to her?” I ask, looking up at the cloud-filled sky.

“She didn't need me. Or want me. Not even when she fell and broke.”

I think of the girl from the club the other night. The creepy one with the injured leg. Jennifer. Is that her?

Tall guy is immobile. I close my eyes, too. Then I feel a hand on my arm, clutching it.

“She had someone else,” he says. “Like your Lyle.”

I put my hand on top of his. We're the same, then. He's warning me.

“He was a big man. Ugly. With lots of money.” He releases my arm and looks away. “A dangerous man. He brought flowers for her.”

He stands up and walks over to the metal railing overlooking the canal. “She fell …” He looks out at the water. “He fell,” he mutters. He clutches at his heart and drapes himself over the railing, playacting. He goes limp on the railing, hanging his head. He looks like a thin, grubby rag doll.

A tear escapes from my eye and I rub it away. I thought Lyle was going to be my boyfriend. A gentleman. Instead I'm skipping school with a crazy, talented homeless kid who doesn't have anything other than passion. And now we both know that love doesn't conquer all.

We're both unloved ones. Back-up plans. Invisibles. I can't stop it anymore. I sit up, rest my head on my knees, and cry. After a few minutes I hear him rustling beside me. But he waits. He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't try to fix me, pour on sympathy, joke about it, or make me feel worse. When I finally look up he's standing, with his running shoes on and his duffel bag strung over his shoulder, like he's ready to go somewhere.

“My name is Nik.” He smiles and extends his grubby, paint-streaked hand to help me up. I wipe my eyes and take it.

I
t
's raining. Freezing, slippery, pellet-like rain. Jennifer stands at the door of the physiotherapy clinic. It's late — she hears the click of the automatic door lock behind her. She opens her umbrella, steps onto the sidewalk, realizes the either/or of her situation. Slip slide to the bus stop on crutches and get wet, or stand still under her umbrella. She stands still, shivering, both crutches under her left arm, head down. She watches the patterns the rain makes on the sidewalk, dark puddles reflecting streetlights until the patterns blur.

Jennifer's umbrella lifts into the air. She lets go, watches it ascend, sees a paint-streaked hand, and leans back into the familiar crevices and warmth of Nik's torso. And then he leans down and lifts her up, too, carries her into a doorway, sets her down again, and they look at each other. Jennifer remembers her vision of Nik walking. She reaches up to kiss him.

He looks at her with fury in his eyes and takes a step back, so he's in the rain again. And shadows. Obscured.

“Nikky —” she says his name, hesitates, waits for him to wrap his arms around her, stroke her hair. She is uncomfortable with this wanting. She knows Nik has been following her for months. That somehow he found her, but then lost his nerve, hiding, lurking, watching. At first she thought she was imagining him. But then Nik's presence became more and more comforting. She just hasn't been able to find a way to admit that.

“I'm sorry. I should have talked to you.” Jennifer leans against the doorway. “I thought it would be easier. I wanted to move forward.”

Nik takes a sketchbook from his pocket and flips through the pages, ducks under the doorway out of the rain, but off to the side — not closer to her.

“I'm glad you're here now.” Jennifer holds on to the doorframe, posing. Are you going to sketch me?” This is something she's used to. She feels the cold stone of the doorframe with her hands and a sudden stillness within herself. Her mind quiet, she looks at him. He's wearing the same black leather jacket, but it's now worn and shabby. He's stitched awkward patches onto it where it was torn. His hoodie and combat pants are filthy and pockmarked with holes. And instead of his signature skull-painted boots, he's wearing shredded black running shoes. He looks taller to her. His face is more angular, gaunt. His hair a filthy mess of tangles. And his sombre expression does not soften into a smile.

“I missed this,” she says. “I missed —” And then she stops and shakes her head, as if to shake the emotions out. Reset. “You know.” She pauses, watching him, waiting for a reaction. “What I love is —” She looks at her feet. Sighs.

Nik writes something in his sketchbook. Jennifer rises on tiptoe to try to look, but can't quite see. It doesn't look like a sketch, though, just a word at the end of a long list. It amuses her that he is writing for himself. She thinks he is writing her name. Or an idea for a new portrait of her. It doesn't occur to her that Nik could be working on something else. Or writing his own story.

Nik stuffs the sketchbook back into his pocket and leans in to Jennifer, kissing her on the forehead. Jennifer thinks it feels like feathers, closes her eyes. His cold hands brush against her cheek and she breathes him in — paint, alcohol, darkness, earth, dirt. Up close she feels him shaking. Up close he is thinner than a man should ever be. For the first time she wants to steady him.

Nik stares out at the rain. Jennifer sits down in the doorway and puts her hand on top of one of Nik's filthy shoes, hanging on, trying to think of what else to say. How to say it. Why he's not saying anything. Finally he lifts his head, like he's going to tell her something, but instead he puts his hand over his mouth and coughs hard. Jennifer listens to his lungs wheeze and rattle and holds on to his ankle.

Nik reaches into his bag and pushes a small, paper-wrapped canvas into Jennifer's hands. She looks up and sees a goodbye in his eyes before he says it. It startles her. He turns and walks away, head down, into the wind.

Jennifer sits in the doorway, watching him lope down the street and around the corner. She stays there looking at the water-slicked street, feeling darkness, immobilized, long after it stops raining. Wonders where he went. If he's coming back. Remembers all the times she thought she saw him — and all the times she knew for sure. All the chances she's had and lost. She hadn't wanted him to follow her. She wanted to focus only on dancing. And getting away from Vancouver. It seemed like freedom, for a while. But then she failed. Fell. And everything was blown apart.

She stashes Nik's picture in her dance bag and doesn't look at it until later. When she finally does, she's alone in the shared apartment she's staying in, the door of her room locked. She lies down on the sagging mattress and rifles through her bag to find it. Tensor bandages and medical gauze fly out, T-shirts, tights.

She unwraps the brown paper from the canvas. Feels the texture of canvas and layered paint in her hands. It's a painting of an old sailing ship, with fierce waves crashing all around, the sky dark and menacing. In the prow of the ship is the tiny figure of a captain — Nik himself in his black jacket and a black pirate hat. The flag is at half-mast. Jennifer stares at the painting, looking for herself in the waves — are they cascades of her hair? — in the clouds — is there a ghost image of her there? A shape? A sign? An idea? She stares and stares, stuffing it back into her bag, and then compulsively analyzing it again. It takes her hours to process the image in her mind. To realize Nik is not painting her anymore.

Nothing he could have said would have terrified her more.