Between the Stacks

Chapter 17

"Okay." From the way Wesley said it, I knew he had questions. I appreciated that he didn't ask.

We didn't seem to have a destination as we wandered through downtown Cherryhill. In the day, the city looked like a typical suburb with its wide streets and quaint storefronts. At night, with the busy restaurant patios and the people hovering in the doors of bars, it seemed almost exciting.

Wesley looked over at me. "Did you grow up here?"

"Why are you being nice to me?" I suddenly asked.

He stopped right where he was on the sidewalk. A late-night jogger had to hop out of the way to avoid him.

The neon light from a nearby pub cast his face in shadow. "What do you mean?"

I moved us closer to the curb so that we weren't holding up sidewalk traffic. "First you bail me out of a board game nightmare. And now you're asking polite questions. I thought you were my sworn enemy."

He laughed. "Only on business hours."

"A business hours enemy. I can work with that." I held out a pinky. "Promise that you won't shove me into traffic tonight."

He wrapped his pinky around mine. "Promise."

Something about the moment struck me: standing on the sidewalk, our fingers interlocked, headlights from cars flashing onto us.

"Want to keep walking before you change your mind?" I reluctantly disengaged our hands. I flexed my fingers.

"Sure," he said. "You dodged my question earlier. Did you grow up here?"

"I did. It was a nice place to grow up, but I'm not sure if it counts as home. I went to school at UBC. I really loved Vancouver and to tell you the truth, I consider that as my home, even though I haven't been there in years. Does that make any sense?"

He nodded. "Sometimes I don't think home is a place. More of a state of mind."

I mulled over the words. It was much easier to deal with Wesley when he was being a jerk. This newer, softer version was more of an enigma.

"How about yourself?" I said, gesturing broadly to the city.

"I consider myself a Toronto boy," he said. "I grew up with my aunt and uncle since I was two. I took the Cherryhill job because it's relatively close to the city. I can just hop on the bus or the train or whatever and be there in an hour."

There was a glaring hole in the middle of the story: why his aunt and uncle? Why when he two years old? He didn't volunteer the information, so I didn't ask.

We fell into an easy silence as we continued walking. Eventually the busy restaurants and pubs were replaced by closed stores and shuttered shops. The further we walked, the quieter it became.

"Let's head to the river," I said, pointing. I'm not sure what inspired me in that moment to suggest such a secluded place - perhaps a ghost had momentarily possessed me. I wasn't sure if there was a rational, scientific explanation.

The river cut through the edge of downtown. A small park, empty except for the squirrels that ran across the grass, sat just on its bank. It was hard to see as we picked our way over the grass. Somehow, whether by gravity or magnetism, we ended up on a bench that overlooked the river. In the darkness the water looked like ink.

We didn't say anything at first. I expected an awkward silence; instead, I was glad for the silent companionship.

"Look, I-"

"I'm sorry-"

We both started speaking at the same time. I motioned for him to continue.

"I'm sorry I stole Kermit," Wesley said. He was looking ahead, not me. He was speaking so quietly that it was hard to hear him over the sounds of the burbling and rush of the river. "It wasn't cool of me."

"My brother died," I said, and clamped my hand over my mouth.

I hadn't meant to say that.

The effect was immediate. Wesley shifted so that he was looking directly at me, his face a mask of familiar horror. I hated the look: eyes full of pity, eyebrows up in shock, mouth open in a small gasp. That's why I didn't tell people. I didn't want their sympathy or pity or empathy. I wanted their ignorance. I wanted to be seen as me instead of the girl with the dead brother.

I know I should have continued. I couldn't just casually drop Alex's death into conversation and then peace out.

But the words were stuck.

"It's okay," Wesley said, putting his hand on my knee.

I slipped my leg away, grateful for the anger that surged within. Anger I could handle. "It's not okay!" I said. "My brother was ten years old, and he's dead, and it's never going to be okay." I furiously wiped at the tears that burned in my eyes.

This was a mistake. It started at the board game café; I should have bailed the second Wesley had shown up. I should have taken that as an omen from the universe that the night would only get worse. I could be curled up in bed right now, and instead I was crying on a bench in front of my part-time enemy.

"Kermit belonged to Alex," I said. "He really loved the Muppets. Had posters on the wall and everything. I don't remember where he got Kermit from, but it was a prized possession. So, so after-"

I choked on the sentence. Wesley didn't try to touch me again. "I'm sorry," he said.

That's what everyone said: I'm sorry. Not that I can blame people. What else is there to say?

I was fifteen when the world slipped off its axis. Alex was bored one day, and Mom suggested he skateboard around the block. He didn't make it beyond the end of the street before the drunk driver hit him.

Life became a parade of aunts and uncles, frozen lasagnas and flowers that were sent with good intentions but ended up rotting in the front windowsill. To this day I dislike any floral scents: jasmine and honeysuckle and lavender send me back to the worst time of my life.

I can't blame Mom and Dad for their reaction: Mom, who went into denial, and Dad, who completely shut down.

Mom still thought Alex could hear us. That's why she always asked me to speak with him; she wanted me to go to the gravesite and have a chat with him, as if he could actually listen. The only way she could function was with the thought that some form of Alex is still present.

I'm not sure what I believed in terms of the afterlife. At the time, I packed up all my emotions and shoved them into a messy, barely controllable ball of rage and hurt and the most terrible sadness. "I'm fine," I said at the time. I lied to be left alone. I lied so that I could try to maintain a semblance of normal life.

"Anyways," I said, trying to bring myself back to the moment. "That's why I kind of freaked out over the Kermit thing."

Wesley grimaced. "I really am sorry."

"You didn't know."

"And-"

I cut myself off. When I first met Wesley, the very first time I saw him when he walked through the library doors, he said something unforgivable to me. I wanted to explain. Maybe that's why we got off on the wrong foot - I was offended from the start.

"And?" Wesley prompted.

I shook my head. "Never mind. Want to head back?"

"Back where?"

"Downtown, maybe? I'm sure we can find something." Now that I had been thinking of Alex, I didn't want to be alone. I knew I would dream of him tonight. I wanted to delay that as long as possible.

"Sure," Wesley said, a bit dubious. "As long as you're okay."

I wasn't. I hadn't mentioned Alex to anyone else - no one else knew, not even Melissa. There was a rawness, an emptiness that seemed to creep up the back of my neck.

"Let's get out of here," I said. I wanted to chase the memories away any way that I could.