Westlake Soul (8 page)

Dad frowned. “Take a breath, Darryl, and say that again.”

Darryl nodded, took a breath. “I thought Westlake was going to get better,” he said. “I was
sure
of it.”

“Yes,” Dad said, and sighed. “We thought so, too.”

“I can’t stand to see him like that.”

“I know.”

“But things will get easier?” Darryl raised the intonation of the last word, turning it into a question.

Dad looked out the window. I didn’t think he would answer. Perhaps he hadn’t registered the subtle shift in Darryl’s tone—thought it was a statement rather than a question, and was content to let it hang. But then he said, almost too soft to hear:

“Not before they get a lot harder.”

That vibe again. Instant. As if Darryl had steered his brand new Camaro into an oversized bag of gloom. I didn’t hang around. Blink of an eye and I was gone, leaving my woeful family far behind. I flew until even my soul was breathless, finally coming to rest in some florid treetop where countless birds sang brightly.

So I escaped the atmosphere, for the most part. I missed my family, but I didn’t miss their tears. I’d zip back every now and then—chat with Hub, see if things were better—and then leave again. And although partying in Ayia Napa and cliff diving in Acapulco was dope, I would have taken a pass—a thousand times over—to catch my parents smile.

They interviewed potential new caregivers while I was gone. Three of them. I know this because Hub told me, and because I overheard my parents talking about it, albeit briefly, on one of the few occasions I was home.

“I’m out Thursday night,” Dad said. They were loading the dishwasher together. Plates and dishes rattled angrily. “Going to Dan’s to listen to the White Album on vinyl. There may be alcohol. Giggle weed, too.”

“You can’t Thursday,” Mom said. “We’re interviewing, remember?”

“Oh,” Dad said. His lower lip turned down, and then his upper lip flared as he tried to wedge a mug between two glasses. The muscles in his forearm tightened.

“You’re going to break something,” Mom said.

“What’s the point, anyway?” Dad snapped. He tossed the mug into the other side of the rack, chipping the handle.

“The point?” Mom asked.

“In interviewing.”

Mom looked at him squarely, her eyes wide and pale. “I haven’t decided anything,” she said.

“I think you have. We both have.”

She shook her head, jaw clenched.

“Can’t you interview without me?”

“No, I can’t,” Mom replied. “We make every decision—
every
one—together. That was the agreement.”

Dad slammed in the final plate and walked away, and Mom stood there for a moment, trying not to cry.

I thought Dad’s question—
what’s the point?
—a peculiar one. He obviously felt that Fat Annie could not be replaced, but unless he and Mom wanted to assume caregiver duties (not a chance, baby), she would have to be. Dad knew this, of course. He was just pissed about having to miss a night with Dan and The Beatles.

Can’t say I blame him; it’s good to get away.

So yeah, tough times in the Soul homestead, with a particularly demanding week culminating in an argument of epic proportions. I didn’t see it, but Hub said it was bad. Everybody crying. Things broken. And then, the very next day, a dash of much-needed good news. A suggestion of hope.

Hub came skating into my room so fast that he couldn’t stop. He slid into the Mork chair with a thud that flipped him onto his back.

Son of a bitch!

Hub . . . dude, you okay?

He laughed, shook his head.
Wipeout, huh? Goddamn hardwood floors.

So what is it?
I asked.
Is the house on fire? Little Timmy stuck down the well?

Don’t be an asshole,
he said, picking himself up and padding over to me with his tail flapping.
I came to tell you that your new caregiver starts tomorrow.

Okay,
I said.
And you needed to race in here like Usain Bolt for that?

But you haven’t seen her
,
Hub said, and his grin flashed like a billboard in Vegas.
Dude . . . she’s the bomb.

The bomb?

He nodded, long tongue flopping, and I smiled inside. It’s always nice to see a pretty face, and I found myself hoping that my new caregiver’s hands were as kind as Fat Annie’s—that she would take me out sometimes. To the library. The park. Some alone-time with a pretty girl. Sweet as Tupelo honey. Just what I needed.

Not that I wasn’t aware of the reality. . . .

Let’s hope
,
I said to Hub,
that she has a weakness for ex-surfing champions in permanent vegetative states.

Aww, shaddup,
Hub said.
She’s going to fall head over heels for you, man. How could she not?

Which just goes to show that, when it comes to undying faith and love, you need look no further than the family dog.

I still don’t know why Fat Annie quit. Maybe she found a less stressful job. A librarian, perhaps. Fat Annie loved the library. Or maybe she won the lottery and moved to the Florida Keys. I could have found out, if I really wanted to—astral projected to her home in Mathias to see if they were loading up the U-Haul, or hopped into her car as she drove to work one morning. Easy enough, but what would knowing change? It might make me feel worse, if anything. Abandoned. Besides, I respected Fat Annie too much to invade her privacy. Done is done, baby. I know that better than anyone. All you can do is move on.

I was sure I’d miss her, though. I had a teacher in Grade Seven—Mrs. Moon—who was as strict as they come, and loved to heap on the homework. But she was
good
,
and every now and then would give you a little smile that warmed your heart. I didn’t think I’d miss her when she retired, but dammit I
did
,
because, even at such a young age, I recognized that I’d lost something valuable. Mrs. Moon wasn’t the hip teacher, or the funny one, but she had my best interest—my education—at heart, and you don’t meet many people like that in the course of a lifetime. Not even teachers.

Fat Annie was similar to Mrs. Moon in many ways. Brusque but efficient, with moments of tenderness that could throw bluebirds into your day. And yeah, I
do
miss her . . . just not as much as I thought I would.

The reason is simple.

Yvette.

She’s the bomb
,
Hub had said, and he was right.

Light brown hair that spills across one side of her face when it isn’t tied back. Eyes that could have been chipped from some rare mineral, so full of flicker it’s difficult to tell if they’re green or blue. Her shoulders are narrow, but her arms perfectly toned. Skin so smooth it shines, and features that are often described as elfin: small mouth, high cheekbones, and those eyes—almond-shaped—of mysterious colour. She is perfect in every way. The kind of unflawed beauty that demands you stare.

Yeah . . . my new caregiver.

Needless to say, I didn’t release the morning she was due to start. The vibe in the house was as taut as a drum skin, with each move or word creating a solemn percussive sound, but I stayed put. I didn’t want to miss Yvette’s arrival. Mom (in tears) brushed my hair, tucking loops behind my ears, the way she used to when I was five years old. A beautiful boy with dancing eyes, and his whole life ahead of him. I wondered if that same boy cartwheeled through Mom’s mind as she ran the brush through my long hair, and then I heard a car turning into our driveway. I stretched from my body just enough to see a yellow VW Beetle pull up beside Mom’s Acura, then snapped back as Hub came sliding into the room.

Dude, she’s here
,
he said, wagging his tail, making circles. He was so excited that he actually barked.
She’s here, Wes. She’s really here.

Yeah
,
I said.
I know.

I’m so pumped.

I can see that.

Mom stopped brushing my hair, then plucked a Kleenex from a box on my nightstand and used it to dry her eyes. The doorbell rang. Hub expressed his excitement with uncharacteristic yapping. He bolted into the hallway and Mom followed, snapping at him to shut the hell up. I sat nervously, thankful that my hair was looking good and that I didn’t have any goobers crusting the insides of my nostrils.

You may recall me saying that, with Nadia, it was not love at first sight. She was cool to the extreme, in her tiny jean skirt and Donna Karan shades, but the love didn’t kick in—didn’t
form
—until I heard her play piano. Yvette was different, though.
Cool
wasn’t a word that immediately sprang to mind. She came dressed for work, after all. Comfortable slacks and a white blouse. Yet she had an inner light that made the bright yellow walls and blue ceiling seem lacklustre in comparison. It
boomed
from her, inspiring incredible feeling. Words like
tender
, and
warm
,
and
kind
, spun layers around her. This was how she was formed. Like a pearl. A perfect pearl.

And yeah, that light fused with mine. Immediately.
BAM!
A chain reaction. I was lost to her. Would do anything for her.

“This is Westlake,” Mom said, leading Yvette into my groovy room. She stood at the foot of my bed, professional and pretty, her hair drawn back from her face and tied with a red band. I ripped out of my body for one second to look at myself, positive that I would see some reaction: my eyes wide and excited, perhaps, or my legs trembling as something overwhelming zigzagged through me. But there was nothing. I simply lay there, as motionless as a stain, with my hair tucked behind my ears the way Mom had left it.

“Westlake,” Mom said. “This is your new caregiver, Yvette.”

Hi, Yvette
,
I said. How could I sound so cool?

“Hello, Westlake,” Yvette said, smiling. She was looking into my eyes. Looking for
me
.
She recognized, right away, that there was someone inside. Another reason to love her.

A brief, slightly awkward pause, and then Mom was showing Yvette where she would find everything she needed. Bedsheets and clothes in the closet (a modest wardrobe, consisting of shorts and T-shirts for the summer, track pants and sweaters for the winter), pads and pillows in this drawer, BP cuff, latex gloves, and first aid kit in the next drawer down, PEG tube paraphernalia over here. “We keep his formula in the kitchen,” Mom explained. “I’ll show you where in a moment.” Laundry basket in the en suite, along with—obviously—all bathroom essentials. “We usually give Wes a dip in the bath and wash his hair once a week. You don’t have to do that, but Georgina, our previous caregiver, would sponge bathe him whenever she came in.” Towels on the rack. Diaper genie here. Fresh diapers and baby wipes over here. “Get out of the way, Hub—Jesus Christ.” And then Mom took Yvette through to the kitchen, with Hub following close behind, flapping his tail.

I was left alone, staring at an empty space that, only moments before, Yvette had filled so sweetly. Traces of her fragrance remained. Coconut and apple. A hint of tea tree oil. The fresh scent of her laundry detergent. I’d been in her company for less than three minutes. She had spoken only two words to me. Yet my fabulous mind was already thinking of ways I could get her to fall in love with me. Not the kind of affection that nurses often develop with their patients . . . but
real
love. Like Lennon and Yoko. Joanie and Chachi. A tall order, even for me, and another reason—if one were needed—to battle my way to a full recovery.

My thoughts veered into a romantic fantasy (in my able-bodied days it would be called a masturbation fantasy) that barely gained steam before Yvette, Mom, and Hub returned to my room. I snapped back to reality and tried to smile. Maybe tip a wink. No movement, of course. Not even a twitch. But Yvette made everything good by smiling at me. Straight white teeth. Lips brushed with a clear gloss. Suddenly I forgot all about the cloud hanging over
casa
Soul.

“Okay, Westlake,” Yvette said.

You can call me Wes
,
I said.

“You can call him Wes,” Mom said.

“Okay, Wes.” Yvette curled her fingers over the footboard of my bed. I looked for a ring and saw only a thin silver band on her right pinky. “How about we start by getting you out of those pyjamas?”

Hub chuckled and left the room. Mom smiled. After so many clouds, this was beautiful to see.

“Sound good?” Yvette asked.

Everything inside me grinned.
Grab your Crayolas and colour me tickled pink
,
I said.

I stayed close to home during those first few days. I didn’t want to be too far away from Yvette, and made sure I was locked into my body during her visits. She does everything with exquisite care, and her touch amazes me—both strong and tender. The way she will tilt my head to one side while she shaves me, her fingertips on my lips. And when she bathes me . . . long strokes with the sponge, over my chest, gently around the tube jutting from my stomach, along the insides of my legs. Everything she does is a connection to
me
. A deliberate and sensitive confluence. She looks so often into my eyes that it’s impossible to imagine she can’t see beyond the damaged layers and into my healthy soul, at a place where my muscles aren’t atrophied from disuse, and where I can brush my own hair.

She talks to me. Snow-soft words. And again, hard to imagine that she can’t feel my inner light shining. Not because of what she says, but how she says it.
You’re doing so good, Wes.
Touching me deeply. Swirling. Drifting.
There . . . that feels better, huh?
The perfume of her hair as she leans close. Her breath, like a whisper, against my skin.

I talk to her, too, of course. Promises and daydreams.
I won’t always be like this, Yvette. I’ll be strong again. So strong.
All my hopes, gathered like children and sent to run wild. I know she can’t hear me, but what’s wrong with imagining she can? And there are moments when she will stop what she is doing and look at me, or smile and nod, as if she
can
hear me. I swear to God, when this happens, my heart jumps so hard that it makes my ribcage clatter.