The Extinction Club (6 page)

I blinked, wiped the images from my head, gazed up at the sky. Among the clouds was a leaping dolphin, its body a graceful
S
, flanked by a leaping lion, its forelegs fully splayed. Hamlet, my doctor told me, saw camels and weasels and whales in the clouds before
he
went mad.

On the door of the clinic was a bilingual sign, whose font 8 English said
ANIMALS MUST BE HELD OR LEECHED
. The air inside had a slightly sour tang—the smell of medicine, of
animal fear—and muffled whines and whimpers drifted in from the back.

I was in no mood to see a beautiful human but was now in the presence of one. A woman in a white frock with long wavy Pre-Raphaelite hair who stood by a bay window, tall and straight and queenly, with unfeasibly long legs. I was distracted not only by her, but by the male receptionist, who had bleached white teeth and skin bronzed with a chemical tanning agent.

I asked for syringes, cephalexin and pethidine, armed with a cock-and-bull story about a near-fatal injury to my cat, caught in a hunter’s steel trap. To my surprise, the receptionist gave me what I wanted after getting a curt nod from the doctor. I thanked her but a swinging door was already closing behind her.

As my bill was being rung up, I wondered if I should talk to the vet about my patient’s wounds. Or even bring her in for an examination. A medical doctor would be required by law to notify authorities; a veterinarian had no such obligation. At least in the States …

« With the tax, that’ll be $114.44, » said the receptionist. « For an extra ten bucks, I’ll give you a tick bath. »

I laughed. Then asked, in a low voice, « You wouldn’t have any diazepam, would you? Or something like that? » This was a tranquilizer, for me, because it seemed like I’d forgotten how to sleep.

« Yes, we do. But you’ll need a doctor’s— »

« Can you toss some in? » I gave him what I hoped would pass for a seductive wink and camp little moue. « Just, you know, like a sample? »

The receptionist bit his lip, looked both ways. Then spun in his chair and opened a metal cabinet. « On the house, » he said in a stage whisper, handing me an aluminum blister pack.

Zieline, it was called. Two would knock out a thousand-pound horse. « Uh, I don’t want to sound fussy or anything but … you wouldn’t have anything milder, would you? For humans? »

« Oh my God! Wrong pack. » He spun round again and rooted through the cabinet. « How about these? »

“Perfect, thanks.” I counted out six American twenties. Left a seventh on the counter, worth two tick baths. «
Joyeux Nöel
. »

On my way out, a poster on the door caught my eye: a missing-girl flyer. A dead girl, most likely. I looked closer. A fourteen-year-old with short dark hair and glasses, last seen at the Maison d’Hébergement Jeunesse in Ste-Madeleine:
CÉLESTE JONQUÈRES
.

She was still sleeping when I got back, struggling and muttering like a dreaming dog. I put away my purchases noiselessly, placed the DVD player and crossword puzzle on the chair beside the bed, set up the TV on a kitchen chair at the foot of the bed. Punched it on, fiddled with its wire antenna until finding one semi-clear channel among twelve of snow. Then went back out, to my neighbour’s, for my daily theft of wood.

When I returned, my foundling was bathed in the vampiric light of the TV, her teeth gritted and tears making glossy tracks on her face. I made some comforting noises—the kind made for pets and babies, the kind I used to make for Brooklyn—and patted her cheeks with a Kleenex. She responded with a series of groans and spastic movements that both perplexed and troubled me. Was she mentally retarded?

« Are you … in pain? » I asked in both languages, sitting on the edge of the bed.

She shook her head in a preoccupied way, then moved her lips as in a silent film. With her pointer finger she touched her mouth, tapping it two or three times.

«
Ma pauvre. T’as faim!
» I rose to get some food, but she clutched weakly at my wrist with her hand. Again she put her finger to her mouth, but this time made an “x” over her lips.

« Oh, I see! You can’t speak! »

She nodded weakly, closing her eyes. Or perhaps rolling them at my stupidity.

I gazed at her for several seconds. A deaf mute. Well, obviously not deaf. A baritone on the box intruded: three Quebec soldiers, one of them from here in the Laurentians, had been killed by a suicide bomber in Afghanistan. I turned off the TV. Tried to refocus.

The sole words in my sign-language repertoire—“Hello,” “How are you?,” “I love you”—were met with a frown. She made frail little writing gestures in the air. Why didn’t I think of that? I pulled a pencil from my breast pocket, along with some folded real estate notes.

On the back of one of them she wrote English words that I had to put on my glasses to read:
I’m dying, aren’t I.

I shook my head violently, but wasn’t sure she noticed. She continued to write:
No police.

I nodded. At least we agreed on that.

I don’t want to be found.

There was a time, around her age, when I didn’t want to be found either. She fell back on the bed, her head dangling over the side of the mattress. Her eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, unblinkingly.

“What’s your name?”

She reached for her pencil, flat on her back. Wrote something and scratched it out. Then wrote again and held up the page.
Église de Ste-Davnet, you know it?

“The church? Yes, that’s where I found you. In fact, I may even be …” I left the sentence dangling as she continued to write, or rather print. Not in a slow scrawl, as you might expect, but quickly, neatly.

Ring of keys in bird feeder. Backyard, rectory. Big key opens back door. I need my glasses. And sketchbook.

For a last will and testament?

Upstairs, first room on the left. Bed table. Smallest key.

“Okay. But how did you—”

And can you feed my 6 cats? And get me some smokes?

“Yes of course, but—”

BE CAREFUL.

“I will, but how did you—”

I used to live there. With Grand-maman.

“You did? And where’s your grandmother now?”

In the cemetery.

IV

It’s the glove I remember. An orange rubber glove, like the kind used to wash dishes. I was sleeping in my bed. I heard the creak of a floorboard — the creak that Grand-maman always makes. I heard the click of the bed light being switched on, the thump of footsteps from bed to closet, from closet to dresser — a routine that always ended with her leaning over & whispering “Asleep?” & my small groan that said Yes, I’m asleep but I’m glad you’re here & that we’re going to have breakfast together.

I heard the creaking sound but for some reason she wasn’t going through the routine & that’s what woke me. I waited sleepily for the light to go on, for the footsteps to move between bed & closet. Somehow the thought became a snake crawling down my spine, winding tight around my chest. Poor thing, it said to me, this isn’t your grandmother at all. How could it be? She’s dead.

I opened my eyes & a gloved hand slammed over my mouth. I saw a long shadow & heard heavy breathing & smelled beer. I bit down on the hand that gagged me, my teeth sinking into the rubber glove, grinding it as hard as I could. But there were two hands of course & the other, in an orange fist, slammed into my throat. I gagged & gasped & then blackness came.

When I came to I was tied up, with gooey muck in my face and hair.

I’m wrapped in bandages like a mummy. Dopey with painkillers & nauseous too. Just the thought of eating — or even smoking! — makes me want to hurl.

Without my glasses I can barely see. And with a broken windpipe I can barely breathe. At least it feels like it’s broken. I feel like I swallowed a sleeping bird that woke up then panicked & is now thrashing its wings inside me. When I try to talk nothing comes out. But even if I get better, which is not likely, I’m never going to speak to anyone again.

I can’t stop crying & the crying has a muffled, drowning sound. I feel like a duck trapped under the ice, its eyes frozen open, begging whoever walks above it to free it. Now. Please. I’m nearly 15 but I feel like I got mileage on for 115. I don’t plan on making it to 16. I’m going out in my grandmother’s Exit Bag. Before Christmas.

The family tree

Ends with me.

I’m feeling a bit better. And slowly starting to “get my bearings.” I’m in a cabin in the middle of nowhere — from the tiny glimpse I get out the window it may be on that strip of land by the river with hunting cabins that crazy man Brioche built but can never rent because the land’s flooded half the time & the
roads aren’t cleared in winter. Plus I’ve lost my voice. Which I might’ve mentioned already. I’m here with this strange American dude who seems to be a doctor who’s got a night telescope or whatever it’s called, black tar in a jar, a stamp collection & generally jumpy behaviour. He chain-drinks coffee from morning to night & paces up & down like an expectant father. Before going to sleep he writes in a small notebook or reads a paperback novel with no covers called Broken Wind. I asked him why it has no covers & he said that it’s probably the result of it being flung across the room many times.