Secret Friends

Talk to him, the doctor had said. Act like nothing is wrong. She kissed her son on the forehead. Dougie did not stir. She thought of his green, green eyes, the most beautiful shade of green, almost emerald, like no other child, no other person.

“Tomorrow I’ll take you shopping, grocery shopping, we need some things, and how about some shoes? I think it’s high time you got a new pair, your old ones look like they’re ready to walk away on their own.”

Diane could fit both of Dougie’s hands in her fist, but she was positive that the night before, when she had put her son to bed, his hands were as big as or bigger than hers. Diane decided to keep a journal, to record the length of particular limbs, his height and body weight.

Diane tugged on Little Doug’s shoulder. “Wake up,” she said. “Wake up, Dougie. Wake up, please.” Her voice stern. “Dougie, wake up now, it’s time to wake up.” What were the magic words? When they first brought Dougie into the hospital six months ago, the doctor believed the boy suffered a delayed concussion or perhaps a stroke. The EEG revealed nothing. His brain patterns were as regular and erratic as those of any twelve-year-old. Dr. Sidhu handed Diane a scroll of computer paper marked with rows of jagged lines, like nervous hand-writing. “These are alpha lines.” Dr. Sidhu pointed with his pencil. Diane noticed that the doctor always held a pencil in his hand. He left a small grey shadow on everything he touched. “When the lines are very concentrated in this way, they show your boy is in a profound sleep. He sleeps deeply, in what we call the REM sleep.” The doctor stroked his thin moustache with the pencil. “Have faith, we’ll get to the bottom of this, although it is a very unusual thing to see a boy sleeping so.”

The yellow house where Diane and her husband lived was an hour’s drive from St. Joseph’s hospital, along roads which grew progressively rougher: the highway to the lake turnoff, the twisting country road through the Indian reserve, the dirt logging trail that circled the lip of the reservoir, then finally down the steep gravel driveway to the yellow house.

Her days were the same: off to the hospital in the morning, then four hours at Barkley’s Pharma-Centre, and back to the hospital until visiting hours ended at nine o’clock. Usually the nurses let her stay with Dougie an extra half hour or so. Then the long drive home. She couldn’t wait for her moment of peace at the end of the day. She’d put on her flowered housecoat, careful not to wake her husband — it was easier if she let him be — then stand at the kitchen sink rinsing her face with cold water. Diane sipped a cup of tea as she stared out the kitchen window to the saltwater inlet below. Seagulls circled outside her window, always lots of seagulls, bumping into one another as they flew, Diane could almost see the surprise on their faces. They scuttled across her balcony, fat, armless businessmen hurrying to catch a bus. Most evenings she could not sleep. She never liked the TV. She would sit at the kitchen window and watch the world of seagulls and silence.

Thursday night, Diane’s mother-in-law called just as the kettle boiled. Mrs. Flannigan had to tell Diane her dream.

“Jesus appeared before me in a yellow robe, his arms out-stretched, light radiating from his eyes and from all about his body. He spoke not, but smiled, and I remember in my dream feeling calmed and at peace. When I awoke I turned immediately to the scriptures, reading verses at random. The Holy Spirit directed me to Psalm 121, A Song of Degrees. ‘Behold,’ the scripture says, ‘He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.’ Jesus Christ is speaking to me, Diane, he is speaking to me now. He is offering his hand. Won’t you pray with me? Let’s pray together now.”

Diane placed the phone on the kitchen table, lit a cigarette. She pushed the receiver against her fat leg until she heard her mother-in-law’s voice vibrate clear through to her stomach. When the vibrations stopped, Diane thanked her mother-in-law, and hung up the phone. She was always polite to Mrs. Flannigan, although she would have loved to tell her to knock off the holy roller stuff, to maybe just shut up for a while. People were better off if they just shut up once in a while and took a look at what was happening in their own lives instead of feeding off the misfortune of others. Mrs. Flannigan was like that. A big-headed, empty-eyed owl, alert only in the darkness of others.

The next morning, Diane had an appointment with the hospital social worker. Mrs. White — she insisted that Diane call her Helen — was a pretty, middle-aged woman with the crisp voice of a radio announcer. She was preparing Diane for what everyone believed to be the inevitable: they were working on the funeral plans.

“You can’t just passively sit there and wait for something to happen.” Helen blinked frequently as she spoke; her eyes closed and opened lazily. A lizard daydreaming in the hot sun. “You’ve got to take your own mental health into consideration. Sitting in that little hospital room all day won’t do you any good. Trust me, you’ve got to keep yourself active.”

Today Helen took Diane to the cemetery where Dougie’s ashes would be buried. Diane wanted to have him cremated. She felt that cremation would somehow put an end to things: no more sleep, just ash dissolving in the rain. She felt disappointed when she visited the site, under a willow on the crest of a hill, as the undertaker had described it, but the grass was parched, the willow small and tense. The view from the hill was of other small hills, other prickled, newly-planted willows, more acres of parched grass. A sign on the garbage can read, “No artificial flowers.” A red lawn tractor circled the field. There were no headstones, at least not in this section. Only flat markers with names and dates and small hollows where visitors left flowers. Diane saw the mower clip the flowers as it rolled over the markers.

“Isn’t it a beautiful spot? It’s so . . . peaceful.”

Diane nodded. I’ll keep his ashes at home, she decided. I’ll keep an urn in the kitchen on the ledge. Maybe I’ll scatter his ashes in the bushes at the end of the yard.

That evening as Dougie slept, he moved and spoke. He rocked his head from side to side, then arched his back, drawing his arm slowly from his chest to above his head. Once, as he lay on his stomach, he straightened both arms, lifting his head and torso like a baby about to crawl. He turned his head to Diane, then yawned and smacked his lips. But his eyes remained shut. Like a new-born cat, Dougie strained to open his eyes, but they remained shut. Diane believed Dougie was trying. She sat rigid, afraid any movement would break the spell, would somehow make him aware of where he was and give up trying. His head was on the pillow for ten minutes before Diane moved again. He mumbled something, the words impossible to distinguish but the tone matter-of-fact, sincere. An apology, Diane imagined.

“This sleep is very much as if your boy is awake, yet he very deeply sleeps. We call this paradoxical sleep because the body both sleeps and wakes. Do you see what I mean?” Dr. Sidhu doodled a crocodile on the back of the lab report. “We characterize this sleep with the rapid movements of the eye — the rapid eye movements — because the eyes move so.” Dr. Sidhu rolled his eyes under closed lids. “The movements correspond to activities in the dream. As the sleeping dog fits and jumps, so do the boy’s eyes as he sleeps. There is much other physiological activity in the body at this time: gross muscle movement, increased cardiovascular activity, vocalization, erection of the penis . . .” The doctor drew a firm line through his doodle. “I’m sorry to say, your boy still sleeps”

Saturday Diane almost passed out at the cash register. A customer came up with a few items — some plastic garbage bags, a generic shampoo the store had on sale — and asked for a carton of Vantage Lights. As Diane reached for the cigarettes she felt hot and weak, all the blood seemed to rush out of her head. She put her hand on her forehead, then bent over her register. The customer grabbed her arm. “Miss, are you all right?” He asked the question several times before calling out for help. Mr. Davis, the manager, sent Diane home.

“Don’t worry about the time off. I’ll take care of it.” He offered to pay for a taxi.

“I’m all right now.” She ran a kerchief across her forehead and noticed the sweat had made her mascara streak. “I’ll be fine. I’ll drive myself, I just need some rest”.

The ride home took forever. Her head throbbed, the pain built up behind her eyes and echoed throughout her head. Traffic along the highway was slow: an ambulance and several police cars had stopped just before the lake turnoff, where a tractor trailer lay on its side. Diane saw the ambulance attendants carry a man on a stretcher. One of the attendants, an oriental man who looked no more than twenty, had a large bloodstain on the sleeve of his jacket. He nodded towards Diane as if he recognized her. Diane strained to get a better view of the stretcher. A man holding a fox terrier was talking with two boys on BMX bikes. They blocked her view. A policeman with an orange flashlight waved her on.

The lights of the yellow house were out as Diane drove down the driveway. She could see the cold flicker of the television. Big Doug was watching a movie and didn’t hear Diane come in. He was sitting on the living room couch. His pants were undone, and his right hand rocked slowly, like a mechanical gear, under his shorts. “You’re home!” Doug slapped the VCR on pause, freezing a woman’s face, a woman with auburn hair and blue grey eyes, like Diane only much younger. The frozen woman was naked. A man reached from behind her, and she sucked his index finger as he squeezed her breast with his other hand. The box for the video lay on the coffee table: Secret Friends. No one suspected the secret’s they shared.

“You surprised me.” Doug picked up his t-shirt from the floor. “Is everything all right?” He turned the TV off. “You startled me. Is everything okay?”

That night they made love for the first time in two months. They lay in silence on the bed, then suddenly converged. Big Doug shifted and grunted for a few minutes, his black eyes tightly closed, then rolled off his wife. “I love you,” he whispered. A moment later, he was asleep. Talk to him, act like nothing is wrong. Diane got up to fix herself some tea.

The phone rang. It was Mrs. Flannigan. “I knew you’d be up,” she said in her rough hoot-voice. “I want you to turn on channel six. I’ve called the Huntley Street Prayer Line. They’re going to pray for Dougie at twelve-thirty. I can’t believe I got through! The holy spirit must be watching the phone lines tonight.”

Diane promised to watch, but once she hung up the phone, she took her place at the kitchen window. Two gulls circled in the cold glow of the moon.

. . .

The social worker wore her hair in tight, permed curls. Barely red, almost light brown, her hair had been chemically treated and curling-ironed until it became unnatural. A handsome woman, Diane thought, with a slut’s hair. And now Helen wanted her to join a group. She cornered Diane in the hospital cafeteria.

“I want you to meet some people, some friends of mine.” She fidgeted with her hair as she spoke. “They’re part of a support group I lead on Wednesday nights. We work on life skills and assertion . . .” Diane felt herself recoil as it dawned on her; Helen thought she was incompetent. The social worker put her hard fingers on Diane’s shoulder. “Look, Diane, I don’t think you realize how lonely you are, how sad and alone you seem to people. You’re going through a lot. You need support.”

Diane shook her head. No. I don’t need your help, thank you, Diane wanted to say. No. Instead, she shook her head. She shook her head and smiled that stupid, empty, silent smile.

That evening, before visiting hours ended, Dr. Sidhu slipped a small plastic bottle into Diane’s hand. Flurazepam. “I don’t know if I can find how to wake your child,” he almost whispered. “I hope these can help you find yourself some rest.”

Monday Diane dropped Big Doug at the airport on her way to work. He was off till the end of the week, a purchasing seminar in Edmonton. He promised to take his wife to Hawaii “after all this blows over.” Last time they went to Hawaii Big Doug drank seventeen maitais on the plane. He had to be escorted from the airport in a wheelchair.

At work Mr. Davis made a big fuss. He told Diane to take it easy. “We don’t want our star cashier running herself into the ground,” he said, loud enough so the other girls could hear. Later, while Diane was alone in the coffee room, Mr. Davis came in and put his hand on her arm. “I mean it.” His voice was quiet now. “If there’s anything I can do for you, Diane, please just ask. I . . . all of us realize what a very difficult time this must be for you.” Mr. Davis sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his white lab coat. “This must be awful. None of it makes sense.”

Near closing time a Chinese boy came into the store. He went straight to the magazine rack across from the sales desk. He seemed familiar; he did not notice Diane stare as he leafed through the hockey and bodybuilding magazines. Diane recalled the skinny, boyish face of the ambulance attendant; it was him, she was sure of it. After a moment, the boy reached for one of the adult magazines. They always did this, linger a while in the sports section before pawing the adult magazines. After looking at four or five, the boy selected one and moved towards the counter, trying to hide his erection with the magazine. He stopped on the way to select a bottle of cheap shampoo. They always did this. The boys never bought just a magazine. They always bought something else as a cover, an excuse.

When the boy reached the counter, Diane said “Hello,” asked, “How are you?” The boy grunted. “Fine.” He looked away. Diane could see that his hands trembled. She grabbed the magazine and turned it to read the price, her fingers scarcely an inch from the strip of bare skin between the waistband of the boy’s track pants and the bottom of his t-shirt. On the cover was a picture of a young woman with auburn hair, just like Diane’s. Her mouth was open a tiny bit, and she held her breasts with both hands as if she suddenly had to stop them from spilling out onto the floor.

“Goodbye,” Diane said, as the boy turned to leave. He stopped at the door.

“Goodnight.” His voice was calm. He did not turn around.

Diane thought about the Chinese boy on her way to the hospital. She imagined that his name was Ricky. He was twenty-four years old, although he looked much younger. Ricky sat beside her in the car, and she ran her free hand along the inch of bare skin just above the waistline of his track pants, then she undid the string that held the track pants up and slipped her hand inside. His penis was slender but very hard. She imagined that she took him to the empty yellow house and that he kissed her by the big window in the kitchen, and that he held her wrists in his strong, small hands when they made love, he held her wrists away from her body so firmly that she felt she could not move. She was under his control. And as they made love Ricky growled obscenities at her: “This sleep,” his voice was hesitant,“is a paradox. We sleep and wake. The eyes are shut, but there is much physiological activity: gross muscle movement, vocalization, erection of the penis . . .”

They lay side by side a long time in utter quiet. Diane believed that only in such silence could they communicate.

There was no doubt about it. Dougie’s wrist was narrower, a good centimetre smaller all round. His index finger measured 0.5 cm shorter than on Thursday. Dr. Sidhu said it was to be expected, the boy’s body atrophied. “The muscles and tendons, they get no work, see? They contract, they withdraw to give the appearance that the boy shrinks. He probably is in fact shorter than when he came to us.”

Diane imagined her son growing smaller and smaller, his skin drying and cracking, mud in the sun, until he was a fragile insect tiny enough to fit in her apron pocket. She saw herself hop around the kitchen, tea in paw, a kangaroo mother and her larva.

“I’m sure it’s for the best,” Mrs. Flannigan said. “It’s almost like a miracle, if you think about it. It’s almost like a miracle in reverse.”

Diane felt sick. Why do I even let her come with me? She excused herself and left the doctor and her mother-in-law standing in the waiting room. She ran to her son’s room and dropped on the end of the bed. Diane was crying now, the tears just came. She shook her son by the shoulders, first gently, then with increased force until his head swung with such violence Diane feared she might snap his neck. “Wake up! Wake up, god damn it!” She let his head drop to the pillow. She put her hands to her throat and cried. Not loud, just the short, irregular breaths of a woman gasping for air.

Little Doug was looking at her, she felt it. If she lifted her head, his eyes would be open, silent emerald eyes, just as she remembered them. He did not speak, just looked at her, his eyebrows furled in a puzzled expression. Diane felt for his hand. “Hello?” she said. He seemed alert and calm, there was no mistaking that he was awake. Diane heard his head turn on the dry linen. He was looking out the window. Then his breath stopped, his eyes closed and his breath stopped. The mother opened her eyes.

Little Doug was awake. Little Doug was dead. Those were the simple solutions. Big Doug was fat and insensitive. Diane was adrift in her loneliness. Little Doug was awake or dead or something at least that was not lost somewhere in between, something that was not this shrinking energy, diminishing at every moment until it became invisible existence. Little Doug was awake or dead, those were the correct solutions, the perfect, disappointing conclusions; but still he went on sleeping.

Diane lifted her legs onto the bed, she lay on the bed, wrapped her arms around her son. She closed her eyes. Let me sleep, dear God, let me sleep. She reached in her pocket for the small bottle of pills Dr. Sidhu had left her. A moment later she felt herself drift away, she felt her skin retract as the slow air-conditioned wind blew across it. She imagined herself falling asleep, shrinking in half-lives until she was visible only to the eye of a seagull, an atom-woman entwined in the arms of her sub-molecular son, the invisible particle lost in the space of a secret lover’s fist.