Hey Nostradamus! (23 page)

“So if we assume that God is just-and I think He is, even after everything that's happened-then justice can still be done. Maybe not here on earth, or in our own lifetimes, but for justice to happen then there has to be something beyond this world. Life on this plane is simply too short for justice.”

“Huh.”

“Some people even give the impression that they've escaped all the bad stuff, but I don't think anybody does. Not really.”

“You don't?”

“No.”

“I used to be a really nice person, Reg.”

“I can't say that about myself.”

“But now something's changed and I'm not a nice person anymore. It happened to me today in the mall's bathroom when I was crying. I stopped being nice.”

Reg said, “No, no, that's not true.”

In any event, I was heating the spaghetti sauce, and I dropped the subject of psychics, evil, Froggles, and Jason, and spoke about those things that float on the surface, things without roots: current events, TV and movies. The moment Reg left I pounced on the phone and called Allison, but she didn't pick up and there was no machine.

I tried again an hour later. Nothing.

I would have called her every three minutes, but then I realized how uncool it would look if Allison came in, looked at her call screening display, and saw that I'd phoned her seventy-eight times. So instead I phoned her three more times, and just now took a sedative my doctor had given me back when Jason first disappeared, but which I've so far refused to take. I'm going to bed.

Monday night 7:00

Work today was hard, and I screwed up several times. I passed on lunch with Jayne from the court next door, and I bought a tuna salad sandwich and some chocolate milk. It sat beside me untouched on the courtyard steps while I began phoning Allison's number once again. How many times had it been, at that point-ten? But I couldn't help it: her number was the combination to a safe, and I desperately wanted in.

By the end of lunch hour, I felt sick-well, more freaked out than sick. I clocked out and drove home, as if home would afford me any comfort. I phoned Allison twice again and then decided at the last minute to visit Jason's mother at the extended-care facility off Lonsdale. She was awake and for an instant seemed to recognize me, but quickly forgot me again. She kept asking for Joyce, Jason's old dog, but I told her about ten times that because I was allergic to her, Joyce was living with Chris down in Silicon Valley.

Then she asked how Jason was. I said he was fine, and then from the innocent expression on her face I time-traveled just a few months in the past to a world where
Jason was still here. I felt relief that we'd decided to not tell her the news.

Tuesday morning 5:30

Allison won't answer her phone, and I'm ready for murder. For the love of God,
how
many times do I have to dial her? I threw all caution to the wind and put her number on autoredial for the entire evening. Then I went and bought a copy of every local newspaper and checked out all the psychics, looking for her.

I went through the Yellow Pages and the Internet, and still nothing. She must have some sort of business alias. I called all the psychics I could, asking who Allison might be, but nobody knew. Some of them tried reeling me in by fishing for what Allison might have been onto. Scum. But all leads went dead. The nerve of this woman-the
nerve
-she knows darn well what it's like to endure what I've endured, and she doesn't return my call.

I can't sleep. Instead, I just think about
her
more and more, and then I think about Jason, somewhere out there in the afterworld trying to reach me, and instead all he connects with is
Allison
in her teal-colored fleece-pilled fleece, at that-who tells me right out of the gate that she's in the business of being a liar. I walk around the condo, talking aloud, telling Jason that he could come directly to me, instead of wasting his time trying to go through this un-communicative Allison bitch.

I then felt uncharitable and petty. I thought that maybe if I drank a couple of gallons of water, it'd de-gunk anything in my veins or muscles that might be blocking Jason from
reaching me directly. Then I figured I was maybe
too
clear, so I drank a shot of tequila.

Oh, God, I think I'm looped right now-but it was only one tequila shot, and my period was a week ago, so I don't know why I'm so wound up. It's going to be light soon. It'll be a clear, cool day, like summer, but the sun's too low on the horizon.

Seasons have always had a strong effect on me. For example, everyone has a question that assaults them the moment they're awake in the morning-usually it's “Where am I?” or sometimes “What day is it?” I always wake up asking “What season is it?” Not even the day but the
season
. A billion years of evolution summed up in one simple question, all based on the planet's wobble. Oh, but I wish it were spring! And oh-if only I could smell some laurels in the path outside the building! But then, on the other hand, if I'm honest, I have to remember that it takes bodies longer to decompose in fall and winter. Oh, Jason, I'm so sorry, honey, I'm sorry I just thought of you like you were merely biomass like potting soil or manure or mulch. That's obviously not true. I don't know what happened to you, but you're still just Jason. You haven't turned into something else yet.

And Allison, you evil cheesy witch. You won't pick up the phone. How dare you. I'm going to find you. Yes, I'm going to find you.

Tuesday morning 11:00

I'm writing this directly into the courtroom's system. Who cares?

A half-hour ago the unthinkable happened: my cell phone went off in the middle of a cross-examination. Whole years go by without people even noticing we exist. We're not supposed to draw attention to ourselves-and so there I sat looking like a twit to everybody in the room, phone bleeping away. Granted, it was probably the most interesting thing to happen in that courtroom since the double murder trial back in '97, but people are staring at me, willing my cheeks to flush red, trying to make me know that they know about
me
. If you were looking at me as I write this, you'd never know that all I want to do in this world is kidnap Allison and tie her to a rack and demand that she tell me what's going on with Jason.

As I turned off the phone, I checked the call display, and of course it was Allison, finally. It's all I can do right now to not climb the walls with my teeth.

Oh, God. Look at these men. What drudgery are these dirtbags discussing now? They're all crooks. You can't imagine all the mining and real estate and offshore crap that wends through this room. You'd be shocked. They'll bankrupt widows and they'll only get a minimum fine and some golf tips from their lawyers. I bet Allison was married to one of these guys. What was his name?
Glenn
. Uh-huh. Glenn, who probably had a 23 handicap, a cholesterol count of 280, and a handful of semitraceable shell corporations. I've met enough Glenns in my time. Some of them hang around at the end of the day and try to pick me up, which I didn't use to mind because it meant that at least I wasn't invisible. But now?
Glenn
. Now I hate Glenn, because Glenn is connected to Allison, and Allison is a witch.

Oh Lord, when is this morning's session going to end?
And Heather, aren't
you
the one who's up the creek, paddle-free, once they read
this
transcript? Screw it. Nobody ever does.

What has
happened
to me? I've gone crazy. I have. Allison isn't evil. She's just stupid. She probably forgot to recharge her phone. Why all of a sudden do you accuse her of treachery when stupidity may be her only failing? Wait a second-Allison is
way
too young a name for a woman aged sixty-ish. She ought to be called Margaret or Judy or Pam.
Allison?
Only women my age are called Allison. Or Heather. When we all start dying in another forty years, they'll look at the obituaries, see our names and say to themselves, “Isn't it weird? All the Heathers are dying.”

A bit later

Okay, there was one time when I suspected something dodgy with Jason, just one time, down in Park Royal maybe two months before he disappeared. We were walking down the main atrium in the south mall, returning a shirt, and in mid-conversation Jason froze. I looked at whatever it was he was seeing; there was just this guy sitting there eating ice cream on a bench with a woman who looked to be his mother. He was a big guy, kind of Eastern European looking, and his clothes-they were like what a nightclub bouncer in Vladivostok might choose, thinking that this was how hip Americans dress. His mother was like something from the tuberculosis ward on Ellis Island circa 1902.

“Jason?”

“Don't move.”

“Huh.”

“I said, don't-”

“Jason, you're scaring me.”

The guy looked our way, and in slow motion put down his ice cream. He then rolled up his pants leg, and I thought he was going to pull out a handgun, but instead I saw that he had a metal prosthesis. The guy knocked on it, looked up at Jason and gave a creepy smile.

The next minute Jason had whisked me away and we were standing in front of the Bootlegger jeans store. He was obviously stressed out, and when he saw that we were in front of the Bootlegger store, he became even more so-he said, “Not
this
place.” So we escalatored up to the next level. I looked down, and the one-legged guy was looking up at us.

By then I was curious but also quite angry. “Jason, what was
that
all about?”

“A guy I used to work with.”

“It doesn't look to me like you were friends with him.”

“He burnt me on some money he owes me. He's a crazy Russian guy. Those people will do anything.”

“That's racist.”

“Whatever. That guy is bad news.”

I saw the wall slam down. I didn't bother pursuing the question, as past experience had taught me the futility of trying to breach the wall.

Jason said, “Let's go to the parkade.”

“What? We just got here. We haven't even returned this shirt.”

“We're going.”

And so we left.

And for the weeks after that, Jason was jumpy and tossed in his sleep. Maybe there was no connection to the disap
pearance. What am I saying? I don't have a clue. But if I ever see that guy again, he's got a lot of questions coming his way.

Tuesday afternoon 1:30

Back in my little stenography booth looking, to all the world, like the picture of industry.

I listened to Allison's message over lunch hour:

“Oh, hello, uh, Heather, this is Allison. I think you might have been trying to reach me. I couldn't find your number because it was in the cell phone's memory and the phone was in the car, which died, and so I've been trying to rustle up some money to get the starter motor fixed, and, well, you know how complicated things can get…”

Do I? Do I? Allison, stop feebly toying with the trivialities of your life, accomplishing nothing, pretending that your tasks are so complex that only God could handle them. Just go fix your effing car, and shut up. And yes, Allison, I
do
know how complicated things can get, but they could be bloody well easier if you'd stop pretending to be a cretinous fake helpless girly-girl about matters that take only ten minutes to solve.

“…Anyway, yes, I did have a remarkable statement for you come through last night, and it was for you, no mistake there. Would you like to get together maybe at the end of the day? I know you work nine to five. Here's my number, give me a call…”

Hag.

As if I didn't know her number. I phoned it and got no response. Lunch hour went by in what seemed to be three
minutes as I dialed it over and over, for a few minutes from the bathroom because I got a bit dizzy and had to sit in silence. What is it about Allison that has me sitting in public bathroom stalls all the time?

So now I'm back in the courtroom supposedly documenting this frivolous and endless land deal trial. These men should all be tarred and feathered and be flogged as they walk naked down the street for screwing around with the lives of common people the way they do.

In my peripheral vision I'm also noticing that people are looking at me to see if my cell phone is going to ring again. As if. But I have to admit, it's a bit flattering to be the temporary star in the courtroom, instead of these blowhards who drag things out so they can bill for countless hours. The law is a lie. It's a lie. A lie.

Tuesday afternoon 2:45

Back in my little booth stenographing away.

My phone just rang again. Right in the middle of a freighted moment engineered by one of these hawklike balding Glennoids. The judge spoke to me quite harshly-too harshly, really; I mean, it's only a cell phone ringing in front of the court. Professionally it's a huge humiliation, but you know what? I could care less. I told his honor that I'd just signed up for a new cell phone program and that I was unfamiliar with their system. And he bought it.

And so here I am, chastened, and to look at me, I'm beavering away at my job, humiliated and belittled by the powers above. Sure. I just want to get out of this psychic garbage dump.

Tuesday night 10:00

Allison finally answered her phone. I pretended to be all-innocent, as if I hadn't phoned her two thousand times in the past forty-eight hours.

“Allison?”

“Heather. We connect. How are you?”

Like a Ryder truck full of fertilizer and diesel fuel, with a detonator set at thirty seconds and ticking
. “Okay. Getting by. The usual. You?”

“Oh, you know-this car of mine. Cars are so expensive to maintain.”

“What do you drive?”

“A '92 Cutlass.”

Well, of course it's expensive to maintain. It's a decade old-what do you expect? The quality revolution hadn't happened then. It's one big hunk of pain you're driving. Throw it away. Buy a Pontiac Firefly for $19.95-I don't care what you do, but for God's sake, don't drive the wind-up toy you're using now
. I said, “Cars are getting better these days, but they can still be a bother.”