The Gallery of Lost Species (11 page)

I made the concession to wear a scarf, but I was frozen in my thin coat and flimsy blouse. By the time he came over and picked me up to spin me around, I couldn't feel my arms or feet.

“You've grown, lima bean! Where'd you get those legs?”

“You're like the Michelin Man in that thing,” I told him, peering with difficulty through my hair. Con had recently cut my bangs to cover the pimples on my forehead.

Liam slung a bag over each shoulder. I led him through the restaurant's noisy kitchen, past chickens lined up on a cutting board and steaming vats of slimy green soup, to the back door leading up to Viv's.

“You came all the way out here for her?” I asked above the noise.

“And you, of course!” And me. Of course.

He followed me through the narrow entranceway. When we got inside, he took off his coat and looked for a place to hang it before dropping it on the floor. Then he rolled up his sleeves and went over to Viv's paintings, getting down on his knees to flip through them. He turned to me, astonished. “Your sister's talented.”

“She's good at everything. Drives me crazy.” I wanted to touch him. He was more attractive than ever. A tingling sensation rushed through my body.

Liam sniffed the air. “What's that smell?”

*   *   *

I
VISITED THEM
often on Somerset Street, where the odour of oysters and fried noodles lingered on the gauzy curtains that billowed into their illegal living quarters.

Even through winter they kept the factory-sized windows open to cool down the space that overheated from the exposed pipes running the length of the ceiling. Snow blew in around our feet like the ghost of a lake.

I got into the habit of stopping by after class. Liam bought beanbag chairs for my visits. He was always welcoming. Ceremoniously, he'd pour me green tea then lie down on the mattress with his books, the both of us studying while Viv painted, sipping teacups of rye.

Liam had brought his turntable and records. Mostly Viv played Jacques Brel.

Their phone was always ringing, they always had plans. Once in a while I snuck out my window to join them for parties in underground clubs. On those occasions, my ravishing sister secured her lengthening hair into a twist with chopsticks and painted her lips a deep burgundy. Liam and I ritualistically observed her getting ready, awestruck.

Now and then she and Liam swallowed smiley-faced tablets before going out, but they never offered one to me. I wasn't interested anyway. I liked being in control of my senses at all times. Viv also kept a thin silver flask in her beaded purse that she drank from throughout the night. She used it as a mirror to fix her makeup. When she pulled it from her clutch, it gleamed like a blade against her face.

Everybody at the parties seemed to be her friend. Liam and I always headed home long before she did. Sometimes when she went out, she'd be gone until the next day and I'd get shaky calls from Liam, telling me he'd had enough. “My sister's such a jerk,” was all I could think to say.

Keep your enemies close, Omar taught me. Not that Viv was my enemy, but I knew her well enough to know she'd tire of Liam. So I continued practising self-restraint. It was becoming hard for me to veil my growing feelings, but I wanted Liam to turn to me of his own accord. I figured all I had to do was wait.

But Liam had other plans. He pushed Viv to take her last year of school through correspondence, and she did it with ease. Then he convinced her to apply to art academies. He bought a costly digital camera and helped her put together a portfolio.

When Viv was offered a bursary to the Emily Carr Institute, Liam moved to Vancouver with her. “Your sister needs to slow down,” he said as he hugged me before climbing into his dented-up
SUV
, packed with their few possessions. “This move will do her good.”

“Buh-bye!
Arrivederci! Au revoir!
” Viv called from the window, with an undertone of
good fucking riddance.

I stood with my parents and watched them drive away. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheeks, waving and trying not to cry.

Years after they vacated their place in Chinatown, it burned down along with the entire city block. The fire left a gaping void where nothing was rebuilt.

EIGHTEEN

W
ITH
V
IV GONE
, C
ONSTANCE'S
wrath petered out. Her face softened, as did the crow's feet at the outer corners of her eyes. The sharpness in her voice gave way to foreign melodies.

But sometimes, getting up to pee in the early hours, I'd see that my parents' bedroom door was open. Con had bouts of insomnia and started taking walks in the middle of the night. From the bay window I watched my mother passing beneath the street lamps in her cotton nightgown, a plume of smoke extending from her fingers like a magician's last trick.

When she decided to fix her attention on me, I knew it wasn't because of a growing affection. My mother was a woman who couldn't be alone and I was the only one left.

It seemed as though we were the sole inhabitants of the house now. I barely saw my father anymore. He left for his shift right before I returned from school, and sometimes he worked on weekends. When I did see him, he was absent-minded and tired, just going through the motions. After Viv left, it was as if his spirit had been extinguished. I noticed with a pang that he walked by garbage and didn't pick it up anymore. “Aren't you going to get that, Dad?” I'd say.

“Oh, sure, Chief. Got a bag?”

I missed the old Henry, and our artifact-finding escapades, which we hadn't gone on since forever. Not that I would admit this to him. Instead, I held on to my pride and said nothing.

*   *   *

E
VERY AFTERNOON WHEN
I got home from school, Con wanted my verdict on the villains in her soaps. She consulted me on her wardrobe and hairstyles and nail colours. She had me ironing her clothes and enlisted my help on her errands for obscure drugstore products and random groceries. While I shopped, she rested in the car in her head scarf and cat eye sunglasses, tilting the seat back and listening to opera.

Following supper, she'd leave the house sometimes. Eventually I tailed her and was perplexed to find her entering a church. There were no services going on, which meant she was either praying or seeking spiritual counselling. This made no sense since Con was the least religious person I knew.

When she was gone, I'd phone Viv and Liam. I didn't mention the church, but I told them about the diets Con put me on, and the magnet she'd added to the fridge:
Warning—I May Be Habit Forming.
I entertained them with re-enactments.

“Tell her to go fuck herself,” Viv said.

“Edith, you're Rubenesque, don't change,” Liam told me.

I really wanted to lose weight and wasn't just humouring Constance, complying with her regimens. One week it was a paprika, lemon, and water fast. The next it was an all-beef diet and next, cauliflower soup. She even had me jogging around the block while she drove the car at my heels, honking the horn if I slowed down. She made me scramble up the metal playground slide until blisters formed on my palms. She had me suck on licorice root for its dietary properties, even though the wooden sticks made my tongue itchy.

“How queer. With all we do, you stay
toutoune.
”

“What's
toutoune?
”

“It means fatso.”

One night in the drugstore, rounding a corner with some Aspirin, a carton of cigarettes, and two bottles of Dr. Pepper in my arms, I slammed into Serena. Constance was waiting in the car reading
Vogue.

Landing against her cushiony body repulsed me. She smelled of celery. I jumped back and found I couldn't swallow.

Serena had aged. I was glad to see her roughened in her bohemian attire.

“How are you?” she stammered. “How is your father?”

“You tell me.”

She picked up the carton and the Aspirin from the floor and handed them to me with a remorseful look. “You smoke now?”

“They're for my mom. Have you two met? I'll introduce you. She's outside in the car.”

“Another time,” she said, moving toward the exit.

I wanted to ask after Omar. But she was gone, her red hair blazing behind her like a scarlet letter.

At night in my room, I cried into my pillow. Without knocking, Constance came in and sat on the edge of the bed. She patted my ankles and rubbed my back before crossing her spidery arms in and around herself.

“
T'inquiète pas, chérie.
Someday what's between them shall mean nothing. They will sabotage it themselves in time.”

I didn't know if she was talking about Viv and Liam or my father and Serena. Her words increased the tightening sensation in my chest. The same way it felt when Viv used to pin me down to sit on me, not hurting me because she was so light, but causing enough discomfort to give me trouble breathing after she got up and walked away.

*   *   *

L
IAM FINISHED HIS
geology degree and took a job with an oil company. He was sullen when he told me. We both knew it wasn't what he'd dreamt of doing.

He admitted to paying for my sister's classes and completing most of her course-based work. “All she does is paint. I've created a monster,” he said kiddingly during our calls. Long after the other students relinquished their easels for the bars, Viv popped caffeine pills and stayed in the studio till dawn, garnering acclaim for her abstracts.

For Easter, Henry bought me a ticket to fly out to see them. I accepted ungraciously. In the kitchen, he'd erected willow branches in a bucket from which he hung hollowed-out eggs with thread. Each time Constance came through the door, the eggs swayed like pendulums, tapping into one another.

“Hoppy Easter, Edith.” He slid an envelope across the table. “Now hop on over to Vancouver and tell us how your big sister's doing.”

I pulled out the ticket and folded it, sliding it into my back pocket as if it meant nothing to me. “Thanks. I hid you a gift too, in the shed,” I lied. It tore me up that he was hardly around anymore. It didn't occur to me that maybe he had to work overtime because of Con's overspending.

*   *   *

L
IAM MET ME
at the airport with a hand-painted sign:
Welcome to Vancouver beanstalk!
His hair was longer and had lightened to the colour of sand. His face was unshaven and he had dark circles under his eyes.

We stood facing each other. I kissed him on the cheek then hugged him. “You still smell like rain,” I told him.

He reddened. “Sheesh. You're almost as tall as me.”

“Where's my sister?” I was glad to have him to myself.

“Working. Sorry.”

“Picasso couldn't take a break?”

He didn't respond and looked mildly tormented when he took my bag and put his other arm around me, leading me to the parkade.

We drove into the midday sun. Liam put the visors down and reached across to pull some aviator glasses from the glove compartment, offering them to me.

I examined myself in the rear-view mirror. “Can I have these?”

He glanced at me then turned back to the road. “Very becoming. They're all yours.”

We drove by a strip of old hotels and bars interspersed with junk shops and pizza and tattoo parlours. I thought of the Coin Shoppe.

At a red light, a shirtless man rapped his knuckles on my window, motioning for me to roll it down. Liam told me to ignore him.

He pulled up on a dilapidated street, indicating a camera on a nearby building when he noticed my confusion. “This whole neighbourhood's under surveillance, it's actually safe. Cops everywhere.”

Someone in a hoodie walked by, kicked a beer can, and punched the air. “This is the shadiest campus I've ever seen,” I said, half joking.

Unbuckling his seat belt, Liam managed a smile. “It's not so bad. You'll get used to it.”

We all thought they were living in student housing. But since Viv's bursary included residency for just one boarder, she and Liam had decided to rent their own place. Their warehouse dwelling resembled the one they'd left in Chinatown, but this time it was in the Downtown Eastside. Because of its proximity to skid row, or the Great White Way as Viv called it, rent was cheap.

My sister greeted me at the door with a glass of red wine in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. A jazzy black woman's voice carried through the empty room.

“Worm!” She hugged me, spilling her drink down the back of my blouse. Her collarbone jutted out from beneath her smock. I felt her spine and ribs when I held her. Her teeth were stained and her eyes shone.

“Geez, check you out.” She put her glass and brush down on a wood crate, grabbed me by the shoulders, and turned me around. We were almost the same height. “So the Con is totally starving you, that bitch.”

Viv pulled two more glasses from under the crate, pouring wine for Liam and me. She took a gulp from her goblet before refilling it to the rim. Pointing to an air mattress at the back of the room, she yelled, “Your bed! Hope you like it, we got it specially for you!”

Liam turned down the music.

“It's perfect, Vee,” I told her.

Though damp and cold, the apartment had exceptional southern exposure. Half the space was taken up by Viv's minuscule canvases, no larger than a regular-sized sheet of paper. Each one had its own hypnotic pull. The forms still came from life matter, but she didn't title the oils anymore, she only numbered them.

The botched shapes mystified me. “I don't get it. Can't you say if this is a spoon or a vase?”

“Formulate your own interpretation.”

“That's silly,” I told her, fuelled by the alcohol. “Can I have the one over there?” I pointed to a blue semicircle above a withered orange crown. I was jealous that she could turn common things over in her mind like that. I could never be so imaginative.