I'll Be Waiting, page 3
For good reason. But Jin doesn’t know that part. Neither does Libby. It’s my secret. My family’s secret.
Jin continues, “Keith is the one making you feel ashamed of what you’re doing. I love the guy, but he can be judgy, and he’s judging all over the place here, even if we know he’s only worried about you.”
“He’s being overprotective,” Libby says. “But yes, it feels like judgment, and it’s driving you to hide what you’re doing. Driving you to get help from Shania, who’s a sweet kid but…”
“She wants to make contact even more than I do.”
Both of us blinkered by our losses. Smart people doing things that our brains know are foolish, but when you’re lost in the darkness of grief, the light of emotion is the one that guides you.
“Okay,” I say. “So what’s the solution? Keep blowing money on mediums until I get the answer I’m looking for? I’m already that old definition of insanity—doing the same damn thing over and over and expecting a different result.”
“Which is why we’re suggesting one last attempt,” Libby says. “You agree to try one more time and only one more time, and we do it right. We find a good spiritualist who might actually be legit. We take every step to do this exactly right.”
We’re talking about a séance, not a dinner party. You can’t plan something like that “exactly right” any more than you can plan a unicorn hunt exactly right.
Except this isn’t like a unicorn hunt, because I don’t believe in unicorns. I might not want to believe in ghosts either—and some days I don’t, convinced I’d misinterpreted everything that happened twenty-two years ago. But deep down, I know there is something out there, and if it’s contacted, things can go horribly, unspeakably wrong. Only this is Anton, who would never hurt me.
That voice from earlier whispers up from my memory.
Janica. Careful.
“Nic?” Jin says.
I shake myself. I imagined it. Imagined Anton warning me that I was being tricked because deep down, I already knew it.
I look from Jin to Libby. I don’t think either of them believes in ghosts. Hell, they never thought I would either, and if asked, they’d say it’s my grief opening me up to the possibility. I need ghosts to exist, so I believe they do.
Libby and Jin want to do this for me. Not because they really think I can contact Anton but because they know I need to try. That is friendship, and I am grateful for theirs, and even if a séance isn’t the kind of thing you can do “exactly right,” I need to let them try because I need to end this.
One last time. A time where I haven’t half-assed it, allowing a medium to convince me to hire them rather than actually finding one I consider legitimate.
Get everything right. Then, when it fails, I can’t seize on an oversight as an excuse to try again.
“And Keith?” I say.
Jin straightens. “We don’t tell him. Libby and I will arrange everything. You can help if you like, but as far as Keith knows, we’re arranging a much-needed getaway for the three of us. All he has to do is take the kids for a few days.”
“So we lie to him? How’s that going to make me less ashamed of what I’m doing?”
They glance at each other.
“Nic’s right,” Libby murmurs. She looks at me. “What do you suggest?”
“I tell him I’m doing this. You guys don’t need to get involved. I say it’s like having one last blowout party before embracing sobriety. He might not like it, but it’s my life and my money.”
Jin shakes his head. “No, we tell him we’re doing this.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I will. He’ll understand, eventually, and he’d rather we were there with you.” He looks from me to Libby. “Settled then?”
We nod.
Jin takes out his phone. “So where do we start?”
* * *
When someone knocks on my condo door that evening, I don’t need to check through the peephole. There are a very limited number of people with my downstairs access code, and I know exactly which one this is.
I open the door. Keith stands there, looking like he rolled out of bed still dressed in his Bay Street banking exec suit. His top button is undone, his tie is askew, his hair is rumpled. Is it possible for a face to be rumpled, too? Then his is.
He looks like he’s been up for three nights straight, and I’d feel terrible about that, if my brother hasn’t looked like he missed a night of sleep since he was a teenager. That’s just Keith, always slightly tired, slightly disheveled, and when he sees me, he sighs and leans on the doorframe, as if I’m responsible for his exhaustion. Which, to be fair, is usually accurate.
I used to envy Keith. Despite that perpetually tired look, he’s obnoxiously healthy. He doesn’t need to spend two hours a day in treatment for a chronic illness. He doesn’t need to take pills before he eats. He didn’t grow up needing to be hospitalized for infections once a year.
What I realize now is that it’s not easy to be the healthy sibling of a chronically ill child. My parents were very careful to give Keith an equal share of their attention, but of course, there were the little things they didn’t consider, the responsibilities they gave him from a young age.
Look out for your little sister. Make sure she’s taking her enzyme pills at school. Keep her amused during her daily treatments. Entertain her when she’s bedridden with an infection.
Even their will favored me. They wanted to be sure I had money for all possible care when my health failed. The bulk of their estate was to be held in trust, and whatever I don’t need for my health will pass to Keith when I die.
Our father died of a stroke six years ago. Cancer claimed Mom almost exactly a year later. When the will was read, I wanted to give Keith half, no matter what our parents intended. Of course, Keith refused. So if he gives that long-suffering sigh at my doorstep, he’s kinda earned the right to it.
My brother has spent his life playing a role thrust on him, however inadvertently. He learned to subsume his own needs and do what was expected. Which is why, even though I’d always suspected he was gay, he did what was expected. Found a woman he cared about, married her, and had two kids.
It was Libby who realized the truth and tugged him from the closet. That doesn’t mean the breakup was easy on her. It can’t be, under those circumstances. But they figured it out, and four years ago, she introduced him to Jin, a radiologist at the hospital where she’s a psychologist.
Keith may not have been born onto the easiest path, but life has made up for it by giving him a loving husband, two amazing kids, and an ex-wife who still talks to him. So I won’t feel too bad for the guy.
“Jin spoke to you, I presume,” I say.
He sighs again.
“Oh, cut that out,” I mutter. “Come in and have a beer. Or should I make it a coffee? You look like shit.”
“I can always count on you to make me feel better.”
“No, you can count on me to be honest. You’re working too hard for corporate assholes who don’t appreciate you.”
“They pay me, though.”
“Not enough. Coffee? Knowing you’ll be leaving here and going home to work for another three hours?”
“Please and thank you.”
I start the machine. I know I’m deflecting by bitching about his job. Doesn’t stop me from doing it, though. Just like feeling guilty about dragging him into my madness doesn’t stop me from saying, “I’m doing this last séance. I know you don’t want me to, but I am.”
He sighs again, and I resist the urge to whip a dish towel at his head and settle for wrapping it around my hand.
“Preparing for battle?” he says.
I look down to see that the dish towel does indeed make me look like a boxer taping up for a bout. I unwind it.
“I don’t want to fight about this, Keith.”
“Neither do I.” He pulls out a table from the breakfast bar and sits. “Which is why I’m not going to try to talk you out of it. I’m just…” He rubs a hand over his mouth.
“Worried,” I say.
“I don’t want you to be disappointed, Nic. If I thought you could contact Anton, I’d have helped as soon as you started hiring these people.”
He lowers his voice, as if we aren’t alone in the condo. “I’m worried that you keep trying because of what happened the last time. You realize you girls didn’t actually contact a ghost, right? Patrice just … She had problems, and those problems led to…” He trails off, unwilling to fill in the rest.
“That’s not why I expect it to work,” I say.
Liar.
“I don’t even really know why I’m doing it.”
Liar.
“It just feels like something I need to get past. I know that probably doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it does. Losing Anton was…” He sucks in a breath. “Devastating. But all that viral-story nonsense?”
“It messed me up?”
A quirked smile. “Nah, you were always messed up.”
“You like sugar in your coffee, right?” I lift the bowl. “Lots and lots of sugar?”
He ignores the threat. “Yes, it messed you up. Interfered with the grieving process.”
“You’ve been talking to Libby, haven’t you?”
“The point is that I’m trying to accept that you need to do this. I trust Jin, and I trust Libby, and if they say this is the way to handle it, then maybe it is. I’m an economist. I don’t know anything about how the mind works.”
But you know how grieving works, Keith. You grieved for the end of your marriage to Libby, and we both grieved for our parents. We’re still grieving for them, in our way. It felt as if I’d just buried my parents, and then I was burying my husband, too.
Keith continues, “Jin says he and Libby are setting this up, and Jin is going to be with you.” They’d originally both wanted to be there, but Libby finally admitted that her skepticism would get in the way. “I’d like to be there, too.”
“I don’t think—”
“Please, Nic. I just … I want to watch out for you. I know Jin can do that, but he doesn’t know what happened with Patrice, and I don’t think you want to tell him, right?”
I tense instinctively. “No.”
“I agree. So can I be there? Please?”
“All right.”
FOUR
A month has passed since we agreed to do this. We found a medium with a stellar reputation. He’s a parapsychologist and a university professor, a scientist who started his career as a skeptic, which is exactly what we want. Dr. Cirillo lives in Chicago, but he agreed to come for half his usual fee, in return for being able to document the event—using aliases in a purely written narrative account with no video or audio recordings.
We asked Dr. Cirillo how we could provide the ideal environment, and he said it should be a quiet spot that would invoke good memories for Anton. That made the choice a simple one.
Anton and I both grew up in Alberta, but his grandmother lived here in Ontario, where she had a huge rambling house on the shores of Lake Erie. When she died, fifteen years ago, the house was sold and turned into a bed-and-breakfast. It’s now a short-term vacation rental, and we’d gone there for our first couple getaway.
That makes it the perfect place for the séance. Anton had nothing but good memories of staying there as a child, and we’d built our own good memories there with three visits over the years. I worried it’d be too late to rent, but being ahead of the beach vacation season, we were able to get it on short notice.
Next we need a participant who didn’t know Anton. Dr. Cirillo says it’s easy for everyone to get caught up in our memories of Anton—his voice, his image, even his scent. Having an outsider there, in addition to Dr. Cirillo himself, helps eliminate a false positive. I don’t even need to look for someone. When Shania catches wind of this final séance, it’s obvious that she’d love to come, so I invite her.
I’m also supposed to bring items from Anton’s life, and that’s easily done, too, since I haven’t gotten rid of anything. Shania also suggests that I tell Dr. Cirillo I have one particular thing: Anton’s ashes.
Anton wanted to be cremated. He gave no instructions for spreading his ashes anywhere. That’s usually illegal, and he’d never have put that pressure on me. He expected they’d go in a memorial garden, but I want to do more.
No, that’s half a lie. I’m not ready to let them go, so they’re in an ornate wooden box on my dresser. I’m reluctant to ask Dr. Cirillo if I should bring them—it seems a little macabre—but I finally do, and he says yes, absolutely.
Everything is settled. There’s just one problem.
Keith.
I agreed he could join us, and he’s done nothing but interfere. He micromanaged, as he always does, except we aren’t his office interns and he’s not the expert here. Every step of the way has been a battle.
A house on the lake, Nic? Are you sure? They get a lot of windstorms this time of year, and your CF equipment needs reliable electricity.
Do you really want to take that Shania girl? Isn’t she the one who found that last quack?
Are you sure you want to fly someone in from the States? There must be local experts.
You’re taking Anton’s ashes? Is that a good idea? What if something happens to them?
A week before we leave, Libby calls.
“I’ve been offered a chance to attend a conference in Vancouver next week,” she says.
“That’s great,” I say. Then I pause. “Which means you’d need Keith to look after the kids. When he’s supposed to be at the séance with me.”
“Right.” She clears her throat. “I don’t have to go to this conference. Only I was thinking … maybe you’d like me to?”
Maybe I’d like an excuse to do the séance without Keith. That’s what she means.
“I’d be a coward if I said yes, wouldn’t I?” I say.
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says, “I really hate getting between you and Keith. I always have. He’s being a pain in the ass. It’s only because he loves you, but if we’re trying for the perfect setup, everything just right…”
“Having Keith there is going to mess it up. He’ll interfere, and we’ll fight, and Jin will get caught in the middle, and after it’s done, I’ll have an excuse to say that’s why the séance went wrong.”
“I do have a conference invitation, and it is unexpected. If Keith strongly objects, we can revisit it. But I think, while he’ll fret, he trusts Jin to be there for you. You just might have to tolerate daily phone check-ins.”
“Okay, give him a call. If he will stay home, I’d rather he did.”
* * *
Keith is staying in Toronto with his kids. He’d done exactly as Libby expected. He grumbled, but gave in on the understanding that there would be daily phone calls and, when the séance was over, he’d bring Hayden and Lucy to join Jin and me for a weekend at the lake.
While Jin had offered to drive, I feel more comfortable with my own car. Since starting on the new meds, I haven’t needed to be hospitalized for an infection, or even have a nurse come to dump antibiotics through the shunt permanently embedded in my arm. I still don’t like being an hour from the nearest major hospital without feeling free to hop into my car at 2 A.M. if I need to. I also have a lot of stuff to bring—my airway-clearance vest alone comes in its own carry-on-sized wheelie bag. Yep, I don’t travel light. But I do travel, and that’s the important thing.
Before we leave, I do my daily half hour with the vest and my forty minutes with the nebulizer. I also do my workout in the condo gym.
When people hear I have CF, they offer me car rides for short distances or help carrying bags. I appreciate that, because I know they mean well. It’s true that, with my shitty lungs, exercise-induced asthma is a concern, and I’m no longer running the half-marathons of my university days. But exercise has always been an important part of my treatment. I might even be a touch neurotic about it, and knowing I won’t have a gym at the beach house, I’m getting in an hour before we leave. Once there, I’ll make a point to rise early for long walks.
I’m in decent shape. Weight is often a concern in CF—our difficulty absorbing nutrients and processing food can lead to us being underweight and even malnourished. Heading into my thirties, I got a lot of “Oh, you’re still so slender” and “No middle-age spread for you, huh?” Again, I understand the sentiment, and I only smile and don’t explain. My focus is on keeping up a healthy weight and staying as strong as I can for as long as I can.
I pick up Shania and Jin and then start the trek to Lake Erie. Toronto is on Lake Ontario. Erie is to the west, which means an hour drive along the highway and then another hour south through farm country until we reach the shore.
There are no major cities along the Canadian shore—they’re all at least a thirty-minute drive north. Halfway across Lake Erie it becomes the United States, with Buffalo at one end, Detroit at the other, and Cleveland in the middle. Where we’re going is across the lake from Ohio, only visible as a glow of nuclear plants at night. Okay, that’s not true. Sometimes you can also see smoke from the plants during the day.
The town nearest the lake house is big enough to have a name but too small to have much else. There’s a beachside stand for fries, a couple of bait shops, a pier, and a half-dozen small RV parks, just starting to fill as we’ve passed the Victoria Day long weekend.
Our destination is lakefront but not beachfront. Along this shore, Lake Erie is mostly cliffside viewing, and that cliff is eroding fast. When we pull onto the road leading to the house, Shania gasps.
“Look at that view,” she says. “Can we get down to the water?”
“There’s a path if it’s still safe,” I say. “We can do that later, maybe at sunset. It looks like we’ll have one today, and they’re stunning.”
I pull into the semicircular drive in front of the two-story red-brick house.
Jin rolls down his window to gape up. “Okay, when you said ‘lake house,’ I expected a cottage. Do I even want to know how much this place cost to rent?”
