The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing Page 11

  I home in on the radio because it’s obvious that Gage and I don’t have anything left to say to each other. He hasn’t even bothered to explain himself beyond his minimalist sorry. I don’t have a “Pocketful of Sunshine” like Natasha does, but as I listen to the lyrics I find that they fit my situation after all. It’s one of those I’m gonna be all right no matter what anyone tries to do to me songs. Go, Natasha! Go, me! Goodbye, Gage.

  But what did I do wrong?

  Nothing, I remind myself. It’s not you, stupid. It’s him.

  We veer into my driveway, a thumping hip hop tune replacing Natasha’s triumph. Gage turns the volume down and glances at me, his hand back on his neck, kneading away in full stress mode. “Thanks for coming out tonight,” he says. Maybe he’s in a band after all and expects me to applaud.

  I nod silently. If I open my mouth he’ll know how upset I am within two seconds.

  “I’m sorry, you know …” He drops his gaze for a second before pointing it back at me. “I should’ve taken you somewhere else.”

  “Maybe,” I mumble, unbuckling my seat belt. I open the door, slip out, and slam it shut behind me without another word.

  Gage stares out at me from the car. He rolls down the window and leans over the passenger seat. “Are you okay?” He sounds concerned, but I’m not going to poke my head into the window and explain what he should already know. He didn’t have to yell at me and practically shove me off him, making me feel like a leper.

  “Fine.” I wave him away, forcing myself to deliver an almost casualsounding, “See you.”

  I step away from his car, the thought that Devin would’ve written Gage off from the start jumping up and down inside my head, making it ache worse than my throat.

  Devin’s not here but he’s still right. I am here and I’m dead wrong. Time to evolve into that new, improved version of myself Genevieve was talking about. I’m a little screwed up, I know, but I have no intention of being anybody’s cautionary tale.

  ***

  I score fifteen out of fifteen on a science quiz the next day, which is funny because I feel unfocused and tired. Jon Wheatley bumps into me on the way out of class and catches a dazed expression on my face when he glances over to apologize. “Hey, your heart still pumping oxygen to your brain there, LeBlanc?” he asks as we head into the hallway. “You look like you’re about to go zombie.”

  So maybe that’s what’s wrong with me: I’m about to go zombie. Who knew that people were so fuzzy-brained just before they turned? The state’s eerily similar to what it feels like to be shunned by the good-looking guy from the drugstore while your missing brother shambles along Queen Street, probably looking for drugs and/or the money to buy them.

  “Check your pulse,” I tell Jon. “You’re the one who walked into me, Wheatley.” I smile like I’m just kidding, but by the time the lunch bell rings I’m heavy with a sadness that I can’t hide. I stride up to Nicole in the cafeteria and command her, “Walk with me.”

  Nicole’s eyes darken.

  “Walk with me,” I repeat, my face falling. “C’mon, Nic.” My voice cracks, and Nicole’s up in a shot, her shoulder pressed against mine as we stomp across the cafeteria together and into the hall.

  “What happened?” she asks on the other side of the door. “Is it Jacob?”

  I shake my head and rub my eyes, catching any tears before they can wet my skin.

  “His turd friends?” she continues worriedly. “What? Tell me what’s going on, Serena.”

  “Maybe nothing.” I squash another tear under my finger and begin to describe Tuesday’s crucial events. They’re not the only reason I feel like someone ran over me with a semi, but talking about seeing Devin is easier than confessing what happened last night.

  Nicole and I hang out between the inner and outer doors to the north parking lot and she listens to me, curving a hand around my shoulder. “Do you think he saw you?” she asks when I pause. “Maybe that’s why he jumped on the streetcar.”

  “I don’t think so. He never even looked in my direction. I had my eyes on him the entire time.”

  “Like a private detective,” Nicole comments. “Maybe you should hire one. Have him tracked down.”

  “That would cost a fortune. They’re something like forty bucks an hour.” I looked it up on the Internet when Devin walked off last June. Part of me was sick to death of all the drama and almost relieved that he’d written himself out of the family picture but there was still a huge chunk that needed to know I could find him if I had to — or at least that my parents could. I never asked them if they thought about hiring someone, though. I held the idea in reserve. A last chance.

  The funny thing about the Devin drama is it didn’t end when he walked out; it just mutated into the way my parents and I live now, like we’re forever waiting. I’m not even sure whether it’s something good or something bad we’re waiting for. Both probably. Hope for the best. Expect the worst. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

  Nicole nods thoughtfully. She folds her arms in front of her and leans against the wall.

  “You can’t say anything,” I warn. “I told Morgan I wouldn’t let our parents find out.” Nicole’s head slants up, and I begin to explain our reasons for the secrecy, knowing that’s the question on her lips. I’ve never gone into any depth about Devin with her or Genevieve before. Unloading some of the details makes me feel at least two pounds lighter. “And maybe it wasn’t him anyway,” I add. “He could’ve lost more weight by now. I haven’t seen him in seven months. I might not even recognize him anymore.”

  I know this is a logical thing to say, but in my heart I still believe there’s a good chance it was Devin I saw swallowed up by a Toronto streetcar. I wonder if that’s how Gage felt about seeing his father’s ghost. He admitted he could’ve imagined it but somehow I think he believes what his heart told him, just like I do. My lungs twinge at the thought.

  “So …” Nicole says slowly. “Do you think maybe you can just think of it that way — decide for yourself that it wasn’t him and move on — or do you feel like you actually have to know?”

  I freeze in place, my eyes dry. That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? “I don’t know.” My mascara has clumped. I stroke my sticky lashes. “I think maybe I should at least go back to Toronto, walk around. See.” I know that the odds I’ll find Devin waiting for a streetcar in exactly the same spot as last time are a thousand to one, but I can’t shake the feeling that I need to retrace his steps along Queen Street. If he passes by there a lot, someone might recognize him.

  “We can comb the area,” Nicole suggests excitedly. “Bring a picture of him. Do you have one from before he left?”

  I’m touched that she wants to help, and I realize I might have better luck if she, Genevieve, and maybe even Aya make finding Devin a group effort, but I don’t think I can do it that way. Even with what I’ve told her, Nicole doesn’t have any real idea of what it was like to live with Devin those last few months. Only my parents and maybe Morgan know what it was like to watch him be possessed before our eyes. Somehow involving anyone else would make the effort feel small, like a summer project to build a deck. I know Nicole has only the best intentions and I feel bad for not being able to work my way around the feeling that Devin is our problem — Morgan’s, my parents’, and mine — but I just can’t.

  “I’m going now, Nicole,” I say. “I’m going to ditch my afternoon classes, and you have that presentation in English later.”

  “We can go tomorrow,” she tells me. “It’s Saturday, we’ll have all day.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about him.” I glance down at my shoes. “Being here feels like a waste of time. I’ll call you later, okay? Let you know if I find anything.”

  Nicole frowns. “How’re you even going to get there?”

  “I’ll take the bus.” There’s one at the Glenashton mall that hoo
ks up with a commuter train travelling west to Toronto. My dad used to take it to work before he opened up his own audiologist practice in Glenashton. It’ll take me close to an hour and a half to make it to Queen Street, but it’s doable.

  “You sure?” Nicole’s hair obscures one of her eyes as she tilts her head. “What if you need backup? What if he gets weird or …” She shrugs. “You sure?” she asks again.

  I am. I let Nicole write a note excusing me from class for a dental appointment. “What’s your mom’s name?” she asks.

  “Tessa. But she usually signs her name T. LeBlanc.”

  Nicole signs my mother’s name as I described. It looks nothing like my mother’s real signature but at least Nicole will feel like she’s done something to help.

  I hand in the note at the attendance office and then bus it over to the train station. In total my journey is a bus ride, one commuter train, and a subway ride long. An hour and forty-five minutes later I’m roaming along Queen Street, past clothing stores and coffee shops. It’s not as cold as it was on Tuesday but I can still see my breath in the air. Here and there, sitting outside convenience stores or in doorways that are the closest thing to warm you’ll find outside, homeless people sit begging. Some of them have signs explaining why they’ve fallen on hard times or what they’ll do with any money you hand over. I feel guilty strolling past them. Devin could be feeding himself this way, for all I know.

  An old guy with a scraggly white beard and a spotted dog sitting next to him looks up at me as I approach. “Have any change for me, darlin’?” he asks. His cheeks are lined with broken blood vessels.

  The dog looks up at me too. He has sadder eyes than the man.

  “My best friend in this life,” the old guy tells me. “Everyone should have one.” I glance down at the tin can in front of the man and his dog on the sidewalk. I wonder how much money he’s gotten so far today. His cardboard sign doesn’t explain his life story; it simply reads: “Donation$ appreciated.” I notice his navy jacket is thick and has a good hood on it. I hope it keeps him warm.

  “What’s his name?” I ask, pointing to the dog. “Or is it a her?”

  “He’s a he.” The guy’s gloved hand lands affectionately on his spotted dog’s head. “Call him Bucky. Another old friend gave him to me. Got sick. Couldn’t take care of him no more.” I nod and listen to the man continue. “Not sure that I can do such a good job myself but at least we keep each other company.”

  The beginnings of a sob are forming in my chest. I nod again to keep it trapped under my ribs. I don’t have much cash on me, and now that we’ve been having a conversation it feels like an insult to give the man money, but at the same time I know he could use it. I wriggle a five-dollar bill out of my pocket and press it into the man’s glove.

  “You’re very kind,” he tells me, his lips jerking up. One of his bottom teeth is missing but he still has a nice smile.

  I pull my cellphone out of my knapsack before I lose my nerve. “Do you think you could have a look at a photo for me and tell me if you’ve seen the person in it?” The man stares up at me, bewildered. I guess I don’t look much like a cop. “He’s my brother,” I explain. “He’s been missing since summer. I thought I saw him around here a couple of days ago.”

  “Well, then.” He scrutinizes the image on my cell. It was taken about a week after Dad first brought Devin home from Queen’s University last March. He’d already lost about twenty-five pounds, and by the time he left in June at least another fifteen had vanished. Mom cooked up his favourite foods nearly every night (and even some mornings): steak smothered in mushrooms, chicken and ribs, fettuccine alfredo, fajitas, potato pancakes, deep dish peach pie.

  I ballooned up worse than ever for a while, before the stress level surrounding Devin crushed my appetite. Sitting next to him at the table became the worst moments of each day, a test he almost always failed. He’d manage only a couple of bites before either making some lame excuse for why he didn’t have an appetite or just pushing the food restlessly around his plate until it got cold. Later he started getting angry with Mom, accusing her of wanting to keep him fat and saying things like, “The kind of things you’re putting in front of me, no one should be swallowing that garbage. What’re you trying to do — give me a heart attack before I’m thirty?”

  “You’re wasting away, Devin,” Mom would lecture in a weepy voice. “Do you think we don’t know why you’re never hungry? You have to eat something. Your body can’t just run on …”

  Mom couldn’t bring herself to use the word meth or even drugs.

  “Here we go,” Devin would say, his mouth and eyes full of disdain. “Cry,” he instructed. “Cry. You never stop, do you? You can’t leave me alone for two seconds?” He’d push his chair away from the table and storm off, his food barely touched on the plate.

  The Devin on my screen doesn’t look sick, but that’s a lie. He’s sitting in the kitchen in a khaki striped hoodie and smiling an overly bright smile, annoyed that I’m taking his picture. I didn’t think it’d be the last photo I ever took of him. I was just testing out my new phone at the time. Snapping everything in sight.

  The old man in front of me is sitting on a flattened cardboard box. He takes his time staring at Devin’s image, like he really wants to be sure. Finally he looks up at me and hands back my phone. “Sorry, darlin’,” he says regretfully. “Can’t say the fella looks familiar to me. You say you saw him around here?”

  Bucky’s glossy brown eyes are suddenly alert. The dog sniffs the air as an Asian woman strides by with a pizza box in her hands. I can smell the cheese and pepperoni too, and agree with Bucky that it’s unjustly tempting.

  “I thought so,” I tell him. “But I’m not positive. It could’ve been someone with a resemblance.” I tuck my phone away again. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Ask around.” The man stretches his arms out to indicate the scores of people passing. “Don’t take my word for it. Someone else might have seen him.”

  I thank the man and continue slowly along Queen Street, searching out friendly faces, my hand clinging to my phone in my coat pocket, ready to pull it out. Some people don’t even wait for me to finish asking the question before shaking their heads at me and striding off. I give five dollars each to the two other homeless people I ask, feeling guilty for requiring something of them when they have so little. An Arab guy in a convenience store studies the picture on my cell before advising me that I shouldn’t approach people I don’t know because someone’s liable to steal it on me or worse.

  “I’ll be careful,” I assure him.

  Inside a coffee shop I question a cute barista guy with spiky blond hair and a barbell through his eyebrow. In Club Monaco two employees with sleek dark hair glare disapprovingly at my cell like it’s covered in Ebola germs. Restaurant hostesses, shoe store employees, and people behind deli counters, nobody has seen Devin.

  I’m disappointed, but I don’t take it as proof one way or the other. I could come back down here a dozen times and never find a trace of him, even if he’s living around the corner.

  Morgan wouldn’t be happy with my undercover work. I fully expect to run into my golden boy oldest brother at any moment. He lives just blocks away himself, and the MuchMusic studio is only about a hundred feet away from where I’m standing right now, my face getting prickly as the wind picks up. Above me, a mass of grey is gathering. Soon there’ll be snow. Do Bucky and his master have someplace to go when it snows heavy?

  The cry I resisted earlier rumbles around in my lungs. I think of that morning in early June when Devin left us. He’d taken my mom’s car the night before. He wasn’t allowed to drive it anymore but that didn’t stop him. I had a geography exam at one o’clock and didn’t have to be up for hours but my parents’ frustrated voices woke me. Mom was due to leave for work and Dad was pacing the kitchen, his eyes bursting with tension. By then several of Mom’s crystal fi
gurines had already gone missing, including one of her favourites, four lovebirds perched on a branch. Money slipped periodically out from my father’s wallet and mother’s purse. Morgan’s old flat screen TV, which he’d left on top of the walnut bureau in his former bedroom, disappeared into the night along with a ten-speed he’d stored in the garage.

  “Nobody even cares about that old thing,” Devin said when Dad raised the subject of the disappearing TV. “It’d just been abandoned there. I didn’t think it mattered. If it’s so important I can see if I can get it back for him.”

  But Devin didn’t return things. They slipped through his fingers never to be seen again. Like the night he knocked at my door at 1:47 a.m. and said a friend of his was in trouble and did I have any money he could borrow?

  I stared warily at him in the dark. “Devin.”

  My brother’s jaw tightened. He shoved both hands into his sweatshirt pocket. “Serena, you know I’m getting help. You know that. That’s what I’m doing back here. Mom and Dad, they don’t trust me anymore and, okay, I can see why. But I’m trying to change.” His running shoe tapped up and down on my floor, the motion silenced by my bedroom carpet. “This isn’t about any of that. I have a friend with a big problem and she needs my help. You know how hard it is for me to ask you this? I’m like …” He turned and faced the wall. “Jesus, Serena. You know I’d always help you.”

  “Help me get high?” I asked in a low voice. Inside I felt sick, incredulous that I could speak to him that way.

  A bitter chuckle dropped out of Devin’s mouth. “Right,” he said flatly. “Because that’s all I do and all I am. Nothing’s ever about anything else and anyone I’d know isn’t worth helping anyway.” He pulled his hands out of his pocket and crossed them against his stomach. “Thanks, Serena. I don’t have to guess where I stand with you.”