The Gallery of Lost Species (23 page)

THIRTY-FIVE

H
EADING TO
M
ECHANICSVILLE
, I turned down our old street. A warm summer wind lifted the hawthorn branches I passed under. Our house seemed tiny now, a brick dollhouse with strangers inside.

I stood there for a bit. Holograms of the four of us sprang from the lawn like nettles. Peeking through a crack in the tall pine fence around back, I saw a sky-blue hot tub where the painting shed once stood.

The signage was new at Ye Olde Coin Shoppe: Best
GOLD
Prices—Guaranteed! Get
CASH
Today.

Through the decrepit storefront, I made out a figure with headphones leaning over the counter, flipping through a magazine. The door was barred. I rang a buzzer that hadn't been there during Omar and Serena's time.

Alerted to my presence, the person sauntered over. A flat, low-pitched voice came through an intercom: “State the nature of your business.”

“Are you Grigg?”

“Who's asking?”

“Edith Walker, a friend of Omar's. I used to work here.”

The person unbolted the door, and a dark set of eyes narrowed on me then widened. With expert speed a head poked out and looked up and down the road. The door opened further and a hand grabbed me by the upper arm and pulled me inside.

Omar slammed the door and bolted it and squeezed me against his chest. I pushed away to face the taller, broader version of the boy I once knew.

The thick eyeglasses were gone and his hair went past his shoulders. The curls were scraggly now. And although it was late afternoon, Omar wore what appeared to be women's fuzzy slippers and pyjama bottoms.

“You're still here,” I said, and maybe deep down I knew he would be. I was genuinely pleased to see him, and hadn't realized how much I'd missed him.

“You!” He moved in to hug me again. His muscular arms stifled my upper body and the hooks of my bra dug into my back where his hand pressed against me.

Then he released me and, chewing on his bottom lip, turned almost nervously toward the cruddy window, as if to make sure no one was watching us.

The last time I'd seen Omar was at my father's funeral, three and a half years prior. He'd retained his olive complexion, but his profile was leaner now, nearly harsh-looking, like an imperial portrait on a Roman coin.

Omar grinned. He walked a circle around me as he wiped the oily beads of perspiration from his forehead. A musky smell came off his body.

I knew sweat stains were visible under my arms, through my blouse. So far the summer had been one long heat wave, and based on the oven-like feel of the shop, Omar and Serena hadn't invested in central air.

“Looking good, songbird.”

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“Thanks a lot.”

“I mean, I thought you moved to Omaha,” I added.

“Life happened. Or didn't, in my case.”

I followed his ill-at-ease gaze around the room. Nothing in the small shop had changed. It was like stepping into a painting. The old school desk where I'd cleaned hundreds of coins was still in place, as were Serena's tins and receipt stacks on the back counter. A scrub brush and bucket looked as though they hadn't moved in years from the spot they occupied on the floor.

There was a fine layer of dust over the entire scene.

Only the light inside the Coin Shoppe seemed diminished somehow. Though the place had always been dark, it had lost its romantic Rembrandt quality and was all shadows. Like my parents' bedroom when my dying father occupied it.

Approaching the display cases, I saw that they were mostly empty. Some contained a few coins, but they looked new and valueless. The ancient pieces were all gone.

“Grigg didn't want the shop,” Omar said, offering me a stool and pulling another one up next to mine. He took a bowl of cereal from the counter and slurped from it. I found myself looking up at the ceiling and listening for Serena's footsteps.

“Nobody wanted it,” he went on, sucking back the last of the soggy flakes before putting the bowl down. “Mom left for Omaha two years ago, but I stayed. And here I still am.”

“You look well,” I said, even though he didn't seem all that healthy.

“Nice try.” A fly buzzed around us and landed on his hand. He studied it without moving.

“So your mom's in Omaha with your aunt?” I asked, relieved.

“Yep. Residing there unlawfully, with her pills and her disillusionment.” He smacked the fly and wiped the insect's body on his pyjamas before looking at me, expressionless. “But it's good she left. It was excruciating to live with someone that depressed. Not to bring it up, but she had a real thing for your dad. She was never the same after that fiasco.”

I'd long ago figured out that Serena, and her come-hither home-wrecking ways, wasn't the destructive force behind my parents' marriage. Serena was an unessential ingredient in my parents' unhappiness, but their broken relationship predated her. Even so, I'd never stopped to consider that she might have actually loved my father.

“On the bright side, I grew out of my epilepsy.” Omar pepped up.

“That's great,” I said with false enthusiasm, my thoughts still on Serena.

“So tell me, Miss Edith. What brings you to the 'hood?”

He reached out to touch my hair. The gesture, though meant to be affectionate, was off-putting. I tried to calm myself down enough to make my crass request. “You'd mentioned if I ever needed anything, that Grigg…”

“You need money.” His voice fell flat.

“My sister's sick.”

“How much?”

“Ten grand. I have a steady job at the Gallery,” I told him, “so I can pay you back within the year.”

“I know.”

“Know what?”

“I've kept tabs. I know you work there.”

“That's creepy,” I said, glancing toward the door.

But then he gave me a reassuring smile. “You're in the online directory, that's all.”

“And you never stopped in to say hi?”

“I thought about it. A lot.” He blinked. His eyelashes were still so long.

I reverted to small talk. “So what have you been up to aside from running the store? Did you go to university?” Omar had been one of the smartest teenagers I knew.

“This is it. My kingdom.” He opened his arms wide around the lightless room. “You know what's funny?”

“What?”

“I had the biggest crush on you.”

I shook my head and averted my gaze without responding. Omar still had a way of unsteadying me. I sensed him watching me intently, in an almost predatory way.

“Know what else is funny?” he asked, as he balanced on the back two legs of his stool. “Sometimes, I think, had the circumstances of our meeting been different—like, in another life—you'd have fallen in mad love with me.”

“That's sweet,” I told him, unsure of what else to say. “Anyway, I'll sign a contract or whatever paperwork,” I added. We were getting off topic.

He folded his arms and sighed as the stool's front legs hammered the floor. “What's wrong with your sister?”

“I'm taking her to India. For a liver transplant,” I explained.

Omar burst out laughing. “You gotta be shitting me.”

I looked away.

“You can't bullshit a bullshitter, cupcake. Straight up, what do you need it for?”

“For my sister,” I reiterated. “I'm giving her part of my liver.”

He started laughing again, shaking his head. He laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes.

“You don't have to be cruel.” I stood to go. “I came here because you're my last resort. Forget it.”

“Wait.” Omar moved ahead of me to the door, serious again. “It's just—you might want to change your story. It's too far-fetched.”

“Will you give me the money or not?” I entreated, taking hold of his hand. I was desperate.

He looked at me skeptically. Then he disarmed me by reaching for my other hand, stepping in close as if he wanted to kiss me. He looked out the window again. It was nerve-racking how much he checked that window. “Come back in a week.”

“Really?”

“For old times' sake.” He hugged me, his chin reaching my forehead. He was that much taller than me.

“I'll repay you fast, I swear.”

“You don't have to pay it back.”

“I don't?” His body heat was affecting my thinking.

“Nah.” Omar had a teasing, devious glint in his eyes. “You can return the favour some other way.”

“Like how?”

He touched my waist before leaning against the door, his hand on the deadbolt. “I'm going to make it easy for you. Sex or art theft. Your choice.”

THREE

THIRTY-SIX

I
CONTINUED TO DROP
in on Viv regularly. There were protein shakes all over the counter, and syringes for her vitamin injections. Cups lined with cigarette butts and too many pill bottles to count. When she ate—if she ate—she poured sugar on everything: on her pasta, vegetables, toast, and ice cream.

She wasn't faring so well. Her hair was thinned out and knotted, extending from her Technicolor toque. The eyeshadow and blush she applied to her cheeks to give her face colour looked garish. She pulled spasmodically at her eyebrows and eyelashes until there were hardly any left. Her palms were red, her nails were split, and she scratched at her skin as though there was an itchiness there that she couldn't get rid of.

There were times I was suspicious she might still be drinking or doing drugs. Like when her cell rang and she didn't answer, telling me it was cold callers as “Blocked” flashed on the screen. I wondered about her clean garbage too. Why had she suddenly started emptying it? When I checked the bins outside by the fence on my way out, I found the usual trash.

Mostly when I showed up she'd be knitting or reading the self-help books I brought her. She winced when she moved but insisted she wasn't in pain. Typically she lay on her side. She reminded me of a Magritte painting. The one of a woman resting on a daybed, only the woman was a wooden burial box.

“I'm chilled through my bones. Like one of Dad's winterscapes.” She wore a shapeless knit sweater that had one arm shorter than the other.

A white, handmade scarf and mitts had been placed discreetly on the card table. She picked the scarf up and wound it several times around my neck, fumbling with the tassels. “For when the cold arrives,” she told me.

It was early August and the hottest summer in a decade. While most of us survived it by moving from one air-conditioned space to another, I knew Viv turned her AC unit off after every one of my visits.

I thanked her and hesitated, asking, “If you can knit, why can't you hold a brush?”

Viv yanked the scarf tight around my neck then crossed her arms. “The knitting needles are gigantic, in case you hadn't noticed. I'm doing this to keep occupied.”

She stood in front of the notepads and charcoal pencils stacked beside boxes of noodles on the microwave. “Two months down, four to go. Seems like an eternity.” She gave me a vanquished look, full of doubt.

“You'll paint again, Vee. There's a way out of this,” I coerced.

“I can't make amends. You have no idea. The people I've hurt. I never told you about my—I thought the Con was a bad mother, but I'm the one—” Her eyes went big and glossy as if she was having a vision.

I tried to focus on the positive. “Before long we'll be riding elephants and visiting ashrams.” I took the game of Scrabble from the kitchen cupboard and set it up on the bed.

“I wish I could have been like you.”

The letters fell on the board, scrambled.
You could have,
I felt like saying.

I'd once heard this theory. That when you die, you'll be measured up against all the yous you could have been, in which case my sister would find versions of herself as a notable artist, wife, teetotaller. But I couldn't imagine her as me. She was too special to be me.

I got up again and poured us some lemonade, taking a puff off my Ventolin.

“I thought coming home would erase what happened in between,” she said, her voice barely audible.

I wanted to bring her back to life. But when I approached and put my arm around her, she pulled away.

*   *   *

T
HAT NIGHT
, I made fish and chips for supper. I thought about the rogue wave drawing I'd wrecked. I thought about Theo and his leaking eyes and the trust he had in some mysterious bird that kept him going.

I washed my dishes and called Raven. “What are you doing?”

“Reading Rumi. Although I find with poetry you don't get as much bang for the buck. Too few words, you know?”

“Mhmm.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You sound manic.”

I listened to her inhaling her Friday night joint, holding the smoke in, blowing it out. “If you had to steal art or have sex with someone for money, which would you choose?”

I heard her close a door. “Buzzkill. What are
you
reading?”

“Never mind.”

“Your sister in some kind of sordid clusterfuck again? I hope you've changed your mind about that preposterous surgery.”

“No. She's okay.”

“Don't let her pull one over you, Edith. Addicts are untrustworthy liars.”

I regretted mentioning anything. “I damaged a drawing.”

“Jesus, who cares. By the time anyone catches on, we'll be dead.” She had a coughing fit then added, “Steal.”

“What?”

She cleared her throat. “I'd choose stealing over sex. It's more dignified.”

After we hung up, I extracted the old janiform head from my jewellery box. Back when Serena had given it to me I didn't understand the meaning of Janus and I wasn't interested. But now I knew all about the god of gates, of entrances and exits, of doors opening and closing, of time and endings. I'd studied him inside out and backwards, this two-faced deity symbolizing youth and age and the transition from one condition to another. I often thought I was like a janiform bust, straining for what lay ahead with one face yet unable to look away from the past with the other.