The Gallery of Lost Species (19 page)

People didn't care about the animal's existence; all they wanted was the horn. Demand was so high that any shrewd salesman could make a fortune selling unicorn cups and amulets carved from elephant ivory.

Then a beached narwhal was found along the coast of Norfolk. When a zoologist proved the tusk was one and the same as a unicorn horn—also called an
alicorn
—realists banished the animal to the realm of legends.

Peng Lau, my neighbourhood herbalist, claimed to sell alicorn powder to “heal grievous wounds.” Along his walls were hundreds of neatly arranged jars and drawers lined up like counters on an abacus.

When I purchased ginger capsules for my colds or prescriptions consisting of twigs, seaweed, and roots to correct what Peng called my yin-yang imbalance, I'd point at random and ask, “What's inside there, Peng?” It was a game between us. “Wondrous remedy for what ail, lady,” he would answer, handing me a paper bag so light it could have been empty.

Peng said unicorns were like angels. They brought you back from the dead.

THIRTY

T
HE WINTER MONTHS BLENDED
together like an unremarkable pastel drawing. I used my inhaler more and more.

Only at the Gallery did I experience moments of contentment. Alone with my documents damaged by sunlight, moisture, and insects, I was almost tranquil.

Yet while locating, organizing, and cataloguing, I increasingly perceived disfiguring brown blemishes manifesting on artifacts. The papers I touched were discoloured and brittle and on the verge of crumbling. There was nothing I could do when I found an archival work eating away at itself, acidity overtaking its pores like an unkillable beast.

Constance checked in periodically from Florida, asking after Viv.

“Is it church people she's with?”

“You mean the mission. It's possible, I guess.”

I listened to my mother tapping her acrylic nails on the countertop. I pictured her in her paradise surrounded by palms, standing in a bright kitchen in her gossamer blue dress. Soon she'd be picking up a rag to wipe spotless the surfaces around her, scrubbing harder and harder as her shoulders inched upward.

Not once did she ask me to go find Viv and not once did I volunteer to do it. Exchanging trivialities, we always said goodbye jovially, as if neither of us had a care in the world.

At the end of winter, crocuses stuck out of the ground like candied flames.

I still hadn't heard from Liam.

*   *   *

I
N
M
AY, WHEN
the phone rang at two o'clock in the morning, enough time had passed that I knew it wasn't him. Still, my pulse was heavy in my throat when I reached for the receiver.

“I'm in North Bay. Can you pick me up?”

“I'm sleeping.”

“Please, Edith. I need to get out of here.”

“Take a bus.”

“I'm at the station. I don't have enough for a ticket.”

I hung up wishing I hadn't answered. I tried to go back to sleep but couldn't, so I made tea and stood at the window—the one from where I'd watched Viv and Liam together on the steps. That day felt like a century ago now.

As the light changed outside, the earth and trees appeared lifeless. Then there came a blood-red sunrise and I got this prescient feeling, so I packed my bag and drove the four hours to get her, calling in sick to work when I was halfway there.

When I pulled up at the bus station, Viv was on the curb with the same duffle bag she'd left home with seven years earlier. I opened the trunk and she came around to throw in her bag, awkwardly wrapping her arms around me.

“Hey, Worm.”

“Hey.”

I forced myself to look at her. There was no trace of the puffy face and yellow eyes that struck me when I'd seen her half a year ago. She'd gained weight, and as she walked over to the passenger's side, I noticed her old lady's gait had lessened. Her hair was shampooed and her jeans and T-shirt were clean. She was nearly pretty again.

Before picking her up, I'd debated what to do with her. She told me she would regain tenancy of her apartment on Monday. I didn't want her staying with me or at Constance's even though she was in Florida. I decided to go to Algonquin Park with her, which was roughly on the route home anyway. At the city limits I'd stopped off at a twenty-four-hour Walmart for a stove, fleece jackets, a cooler, and a flashlight. I still had sleeping bags and a tent in the back of the car from when Liam and I had planned a camping trip the previous fall. Like his empty coffee cup by the kitchen sink, I hadn't had the heart to remove these from the trunk yet.

Viv slept for most of the drive. From time to time I'd glance over at her. She was a replica of our mother, not just physically—the long neck, the fair skin—but in how she moved unconsciously and in the flinching and sighs, as if she was bored by her dreams but couldn't be bothered to wake up. And like our mother, when she was awake, she stared out the window, chain-smoking.

“You're asking for a heart attack.”

“Me and the Con have good genes.”

We picked up some groceries then drove to Canoe Lake, where Tom Thomson drowned. We'd visited the area often with Henry when we were growing up.

The lake was still. At the edge of the dock, Viv gazed out to where anglers cast their fishing lines. “Flashback central,” she said, stepping on her cigarette. I put the butt in my jean pocket.

We drove on to one of the open campgrounds—most of them were still closed this early in the season—choosing a spot with a narrow entry onto another lake. Before unpacking the gear, we went down to the water, pushing branches aside on the overgrown, muddy path. Minerals gave the lake a teal hue and through the pines there were gleams of hills—yellows, blues, and pinks, which I hoped might inspire my sister. But Viv remained uninterested and we climbed back to our site after only a few minutes.

We struggled with the tent. I laid a plastic tablecloth out on the picnic table, then bowls and spoons and condiments. I walked to the pump and filled a jar with water, picked some flowering weeds, and placed the bouquet on the table. I heated soup and tea on the stove while Viv went looking for more wood.

It got dark fast. Viv kindled the logs with fuel and newspaper, and rolled some tree stumps over for seats. We ate smokies and stared into the flames. If I looked from the fire to my sister quickly, her eyes looked like two gold coins.

“How are things at the art gallery?” she finally asked.

“Someday they'll want your work, Vee.”

“Fat chance.”

“Where did you store your paintings?”

“Garbage.”

She poked at the embers, opened a bag of marshmallows, and stuck three onto her branch.

“Ever hear about that marshmallow-eating contest?”

“A kid choked to death.”

“Mhmm.” Her marshmallows blackened and caught fire.

“Have you been in touch with him?” I asked.

“Nah.”

“Is he why you moved back?”

“Nope.” She tossed her stick into the pit and rubbed her legs, massaging them with force.

“You don't care, then.”

“About what?”

“Liam. That I love him.”

“I figured as much.”

“We're taking a break. But I think he feels the same way.” It was a relief to get my feelings out into the open.

“Good for you.”

“And we might make a life together. Like, something everlasting.”

“Do what you want, Edith.” My sister looked back into the flames without a word.

I knew she'd never cared for Liam the way I did and I didn't expect my confession would upset her. I wasn't seeking my sister's approval, yet I wanted her to be happy for me. Her indifference hurt.

*   *   *

W
E ROSE EARLY
, easing ourselves onto the dew-covered stumps, drinking coffee as the sun spread its light across the ground like spilled sangria. Viv gulped her coffee; she gulped everything.

At the docks, we rented a canoe. “Remember Bella Coola?” I ventured.

“Of course. Did that thing ever fly down the mountain.” She laughed for the first time.

We paddled in silence, our skin damp and shining. We found a flat rock and anchored there. We made cushions from our towels and I opened the mini cooler containing vegetables, sandwiches, and juice.

Viv rolled up her jeans and shirt sleeves. There were what looked like burn marks on her shoulders and behind her knees. Small circles like fish scale coins, red and blistering.

“Jesus, Vivienne. Are those needle marks?”

“No, little one.” She tried to placate me. “These are old. I've got it under control.”

We ate staring out at the lake and across the water, to an area where trees had been razed to make way for an RV park.

“Dad would have hated that,” I said.

My sister only nodded.

“You know, Mom's not the one who cheated,” I went on.

“I don't want to know.”

“What went down is different from what you think.”

“Quit meddling, Worm. Why the fuck you carry such meaningless baggage around is beyond me,” she said, almost with spite.

“You'd hate her less if you'd let me explain.”

“Yeah, right. Are those yurts?” She pointed to some circular tents. Then she got up and skipped a rock across the water's surface. When she turned back to face me, I snapped a picture with the old Holga, which I'd salvaged before Constance could throw it away.

From the forest, there came the sound of a sorrowful voice on a crackling record. There was opera music coming from speakers on the other side of the lake.

Viv lay down and closed her eyes. “Tino Rossi. ‘Je crois entendre encore.'”

“Pardon?”

“From
The Pearl Fishers
opera. Bizet.”

“How do you know?”

“Con had the CD.”

*   *   *

O
N OUR SECOND
night, a group of twenty-somethings put up their tents beside our site. Their campfire blazed three times the size of ours and they invited us over. The sound of beer cans opening echoed through the trees and Viv kept stealing glimpses, eating marshmallow after marshmallow as the group got louder.

“Why did you take the paperweights?”

“Because I couldn't find your wallet,” she said. Then her expression darkened. “I was broke. I'll get them back.”

“What were you doing in North Bay?”

“Treatment.”

“Guess you changed your mind.”

“That's not what happened.”

She told me she'd been in a local facility for the last month while on a waiting list for the one in North Bay. The centre called because someone dropped out. She had to be there within two days or the next person on the list would get her spot.

“The bus ride was eight hours. It stopped in every town. It was past nine by the time I arrived. I took a cab from the station to the building and they buzzed me in. I smelled food. I was starving. They even told me I'd have my own room.” My sister added logs to the flames. “After I filled out the paperwork, the nurse excused herself and came back with her superior, who took me into his office. ‘When did you last use?' he asked. I told him four weeks, which was fine, you had to be clean for two weeks—they didn't do monitored detox. His hair was like Johnny Cash's and he had these thick black eyebrows. He fixed his beady eyes on my throat and said, ‘You're lying.' I didn't know what he was talking about and I told him so. ‘What about the joint four days ago?' he asked. ‘My doctor suggested it if I sensed the DTs coming on. I don't even like pot,' I said. ‘We can't admit you with marijuana in your system,' he said. ‘But it's not in my system.' ‘Yes, it is.' ‘My problem is with alcohol.' ‘Those are the rules. If we made an exception with you, we'd have to make one with everybody.' He told me I could reapply and that the girl at the front desk would call me a taxi.”

Viv zipped up her fleece, glancing over at the drinkers through the trees before pulling in closer to the fire.

“If only I'd lied on the form,” she said, her voice monotone. She tied her hair into a ponytail. “I grabbed his arm and begged him to let me stay. ‘Miss Walker, I encourage you to reapply,' he kept saying. I lost my temper. ‘What is this, fucking Juilliard? I'm asking for help, isn't that what you people are supposed to do?' He motioned to the security guard. I told him to get his hands off me. I grabbed my bag and tried leaving, but the doors were locked. I couldn't get out. The admissions girl, who looked like a junkie herself, rushed over to open them.

“I felt like a thousand eyes were watching me from inside that godforsaken place. The cab took forever. When the driver let me off at the station, it was eleven. There was no one else there and the bus wasn't due till six. I sat down in one of the rows of hard bucket seats. Couldn't even spread out or lie down. And then I saw it, across the road from the terminal. A sign was flashing
Bar
on and off like some sick joke.

“All I had was a twenty. The centre was going to bus us back to the city when the program ended and we weren't allowed to bring in any money. I walked over to the vending machines, but none of them took bills. And the change machine was out of order.

“I could get change in the bar. Or I could order four pints. I could hit on whatever guy was in there and have him buy me rounds for two hours solid. Or I could go around back to off-sales. Last call would be 2 a.m. and the bar would stay open till three. I stared at the flashing sign, my body screaming. Then I called you. It was the longest night of my life.”

The group was jumping in the lake. We could hear them in the distance, the laughter, the splashing.

*   *   *

W
HEN WE DROVE
home the next day, Viv asked that I drop her at the apartment. She'd made a call and arranged for the key to be left under the mat since she was arriving a day early.