Watcher (16 page)

The elevator stopped with a ping at the tenth floor and a woman got on. She glanced at me, summed me up, and looked straight ahead while still keeping track of me peripherally. I could feel it in the way she stood and stared forward without actually focusing on anything in front of her.

We started to descend. I looked at the number pads and willed myself to push the seven but my arm hung immobile at my side.

But seven lit up anyway and the elevator shuddered to a halt. I guessed Lavender had summoned it, and sure enough, when the door opened she was right there, eyes blazing. She reached in, grabbed me by the shirt, and unceremoniously hauled me out.

“
What
are you doing?” she demanded.

“I forgot to get off,” I said. She looked at me like I'd lost my mind completely.

“Sorry,” I added. I wasn't, though. All I felt was relief that the guy was nowhere in sight. Since Lavender had been forced to wait there for me, he'd had ample opportunity to take off. “Anyway, we can try another time.”

“We're going
right now
and you're going to talk to him,” she said. “I saw which apartment he went into.”

“He went into an apartment?” Confusion swept over me. “But …”

“Obviously, he lives here,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Did it ever occur to you that he might have found out where you were and moved to be close to you?”

It hadn't.

“It makes sense,” she added. “That way he could keep an eye out to see when you go by. Otherwise, he'd have to hang out in the streets all the time.”

She was right. It did make sense.

“Now come
on
. You need to do this. Besides, I'm here.” The last was said in a soft, almost shy voice, and she reached out and took my hand.

“I feel kinda sick,” I said. “I might need to throw up.”

“Suck it up, Princess,” she snapped. “You are
not
getting out of this.”

“You're mean,” I said, but actually her cuteness was distracting me. She had this fierce look on her face like she might have fit right in with some ancient warrior tribe.

Not only that, but she was tricky, too. She'd been drawing me along without me even realizing it, and all of a sudden we'd stopped in front of a door.

“This is it,” she said. “Now, knock!”

“Yeah, but, uh, I was thinking … he's eating right now. Remember, the take-out from Won Stop?”

“I know you're probably scared, Porter,” Lavender said gently. “And I don't blame you — anyone would be. But you've gotta find out, and waiting isn't going to make it easier.”

I was searching my brain for something to say back (mainly, to deny the part about being scared) when the door we were standing in front of suddenly swung open.

The guy stood there, looking at me like he was waiting for something. Lavender poked me in the back with a sharp fingernail, which is not the nicest way to give someone a nudge.

“Can I help you?” the man asked after a minute had passed.

I found myself staring at him, comparing his face to the one in the album Lynn and I had looked at — could it have just been that morning? I couldn't seem to decide if it was the same person or not.

“Uh,” I finally found my voice, “I was, uh, just wondering … are you my father?”

He didn't answer right away but after a few seconds' pause he stepped back a bit from the doorway.

“I think you'd better come in,” he said.

chapter twenty-three

W
e followed him into the kitchen and sat down at a big wooden table. He asked if we wanted a glass of milk, or juice, or anything. I said I'd like some water.

As he put the glass down in front of me, he said, “First thing we need to clear up — my name is Nathan Sanning and I am most definitely
not
your father. Now, do you want to tell me who you are, and where this idea came from?”

I told him my name as his words sank in. I felt nothing. Not relief, not disappointment, not a thing. I think some part of me had probably already known.

“And I'm Lavender Dean. Porter's, uh, girlfriend,” Lavender said.

Sanning was waiting for me to answer the rest of his question but I had one of my own instead.

“So, then, why have you been following me?”

“
I've
been following
you
?” If he wasn't genuinely surprised, he was quite an actor.

“Yeah. I've caught you at it a few times,” I said, recounting some of the times I'd seen him lurking around, watching me.

“I'd gone in there to use the men's room,” he explained, when I mentioned the day he'd been watching me from the restaurant. “It was hot out, so I was watching for the streetcar inside, where it was cool.

“I moved to this neighbourhood about three months ago,” he continued. “And I
did
begin to take note of you — but that was because
you
kept looking at
me
. I assumed that you had mistaken me for someone you knew and would soon realize your mistake. Even so, it seemed that everywhere I turned, there you were, staring at me. It was a bit unsettling.”

I felt like such a moron. Hearing Mr. Sanning explain it, I could see how I'd let my imagination invent a situation that had never existed.

“I'm sorry about this,” I said. “It's just that you kind of look like my dad. I haven't seen him since I was four, but I must have remembered things about him without even knowing it. I guess some of it came out when I saw you.”

“You have no contact with your father?”

“None. And that's the way I like it.”

“But
can
you contact him — if you want to?”

“I
don't
want to.”

“That's interesting because, based on what just happened, it appears that on some level — subconscious it seems — you're actually
looking
for your father.”

“No way,” I said. “I almost never even
thought
about him until all of this happened.”

“That's my point. There was no reason for you to jump to the conclusion you did unless some part of you
wanted
to see him.”

“Yeah, well, I don't think so. From what I've heard, he's not exactly Father of the Year.”

“From what you've
heard
?”

“And what I remember. It's not all that clear. Like I said, I was only four the last time he was around.”

“Do you have any older siblings?”

“A sister. She's nineteen. She was seven when our father split.”

“What are her memories?”

“Same as mine, pretty much — that he was mean and didn't love us. My mom is the one who always took care of us.”

“Do you and your sister remember
specific
things your father did that were mean?”

“Sure. He used to put us down and yell at us. He slapped Lynn on the head one time. And I remember watcher him throwing me against a wall when I was one year old.”

“When you were
one
?”

His tone told me he doubted I could remember something from that age, but I knew what I knew. I levelled a hard look at him but didn't answer.

Sanning cleared his throat. “Are there a lot of other memories like this?”

“A few. Why? What difference does it make?”

“Most children who have been abused by a parent still
want
to see them.”

“That's stupid,” I said, wondering what he was getting at.

“It's true, though. They long for a better relationship, for affection and closeness, in spite of the fact that hurtful things have been done to them.”

“What's your point?” For some reason, I was starting to feel annoyed.

“It's just that it's possible there's more to your situation than you realize.”

“What do you mean?”

He spoke slowly then, and I could see him choosing his words carefully. “The fact is that sometimes one parent will turn the children against the other parent after a breakup. In extreme cases, the children refuse to have anything to do with the parent they've been turned against.”

“My mother didn't do that,” I said angrily.

“I'm not accusing anyone of anything,” Sanning claimed, “but one of the biggest red flags that this
may
have happened is when children want nothing to do with a parent they believe has abused them. Like I said, children who have actually been abused normally still want a relationship with the abuser. It's the children who have been deliberately turned against a parent who don't.”

I stared at him in silence, my anger growing. He took this as a sign that he should keep talking.

“If it's even a possibility, I think it's important that you're aware of it. Look it up. It's called Parental Alienation.”

“My mother took care of us. She did everything for me and my sister!” I said, fighting to stay calm. “It's my dirtbag of a father who hurt us and then took off and never looked back.”

“It doesn't sound like you have any doubts,” Sanning said. “I don't hear any sign of mixed feelings, that's for sure.”

“Because I
have
none,” I said, glad he was finally getting it.

“Lack of ambivalence is another strong sign of alienation.”

“What?”

“Children who have been alienated generally don't have mixed feelings toward both parents — which is normal. Instead, they basically see one as all good and the other as all bad. I guess you're smart enough to figure out if that's true in your case.”

“It's
not
.”

“Okay. I'm sorry if I'm out of line here.”

“You're
way
out of line,” I said.

“Are you a psychiatrist or something?” Lavender asked.

“No, I'm a group home director. But I've seen a number of cases of Parental Alienation.”

He turned back to me. “Look, Porter, I'm not saying that's what happened to you. I'm just saying it's
pos
sible
. You owe it to yourself to find out the truth.”

“This is
garbage
,” I said, getting to my feet. Lavender kind of jumped, and I realized I'd yelled. I lowered my voice. “I'm outta here. Are you coming?”

She stood and followed me — out the door, down the hall, into the elevator, through the lobby, and outside — without a word. I could tell she was dying to say something and I knew it wasn't going to be something I wanted to hear.

“Look, Porter,” she said finally, her voice hesitant but determined.

“I
really
don't want to talk about this anymore,” I said.

“Well, okay, but I think you should just let me say this one thing.”

I shrugged. She was probably going to pester me until I gave in. I figured I might as well get it over with.

“I know this must be rough for you,” she began.

“It's not rough,” I said. “It's ridiculous.”

“So, why don't you find out for yourself, just to be sure.”

“I'm already sure.”

“Then what would be the harm in … contacting your father?”

“That should be easy,” I said with a sneer, “considering that I haven't seen or heard from him since I was four years old, and I have no idea where he lives. He could be in jail, or dead for all I know.”

“Have you ever
tried
to find him?”

“No.”

“Well, what could it hurt? To try, I mean.”

“There's no point,” I said.

“There
is
! He's your
father
.”

I was going to argue, but the way her voice sounded when she said
father
got to me. It was like she'd hauled off and sucker-punched me in the gut. I had a hard time getting a breath.

“You can use my computer if you want,” she said. “Check out Canada 411 and some other sites.”

“What's the worst thing that could happen, just looking?” she asked when we'd walked another half block without me answering.

“Okay, okay!” I said. “But, if we find him, I'm not calling him then and there. I'll think about it
if
we get anything.”

“Sure. No pressure,” she said quickly. “You can decide all that later on. When you're ready.”

When I was ready.

I wondered if I would ever be ready.

chapter twenty-four

S
ounds of aircraft gunfire met us when Lavender opened the door to her place. Her dad was in a big easy chair with a bowl of popcorn on his lap and a bottle of pop on the end table beside him. There were also wrappers from a Snickers bar and a couple of ice cream sandwiches.