Billy decided to pack it in early. There was a July Birthdays party in the other wing, and all the dementias were invited. They’d each get a carnation and eat cake and drink coffee and clap when the birthdays were announced and then listen to a guy with a banjo. Sarah said that Evie should go, that it would be good for her to be with her new friends. His grandma could care less about new friends (he didn’t tell Sarah that), but he wanted her to get a flower. He was invited too, Sarah told him, but he couldn’t stomach being trapped with a hundred old people and a banjo, and he wanted her beside him for the hillside—she mixed colours better than him—so he packed up the painting supplies and took off on his bike.
He rode aimlessly, looping up and down streets, imagining which house he’d live in if he had any choice. That two-storey one with the apple tree out front. His grandma could have the main floor; he’d be upstairs. But even as he imagined it, he knew she was better off where she was. That certainty had hit him hard one morning, days ago now. Billy remembered going into his grandma’s room to find her in the shower, an aide by her side. He had stood with his ear pressed against the bathroom door, absorbing the soothing instructions, gentle and unhurried, their conversation light and filled with laughter. He nearly sunk to his knees to think of all the things he didn’t have to worry about anymore. Yes, his grandma was in the right place. Now if only he could feel that way too.
He pedalled hard and found the school across from the pond, Thomas Berkley Junior High, the one Nick said he’d have to go to in the fall. A group of shirtless boys were shooting hoops in the school’s playground. He stopped his bike at a safe distance and pretended to work on his chain while he watched.
These boys made it look easy; not the hoop shots, but the bond between them, the hollering and high-fiving. He’d lost that easiness a long time ago. During his first years of school, he and his buddy Jason were as close as blood. Jason lived with his grandparents too, which both brought them together and set them apart. They ran back and forth between houses, sharing secrets and sandwiches, bug nets and baseball cards. They worked a month of recesses digging a tunnel in the snow with their pencil tips. Spent a good chunk of a summer constructing a makeshift tree house using old bed sheets and branches. Jason was the bright sun around which his life orbited. And then he was gone, like that. Jason’s grandparents moved him from their dinky town of Chetville to the other side of the world—Munich, no less—which might as well have been a different solar system. Billy started grade six without Jason beside him, Evie having one bafflingly bad day after another. Things really exploded when he brought a few classmates to his house for a science project, and Evie waltzed past them in the living room wearing nothing but a paint smock. While those eleven-year-old boys stared at her exposed backside, mouths gaping in mocking laughter, Billy understood in that moment how risky life had become. He could not bear to let others see her that way, afraid they’d make fun of her, and even more afraid of what she’d do if left on her own.
Billy now watched as the boys dogpiled and rolled on the basketball court. He’d had plenty of experience with their type in junior high. These were top baboons, he was sure of it, the ones who tossed backpacks, stole cookies from lunch bags, taunted the old ink-smeared lady who got lost in the school hallways. He wanted to douse them with black paint, splash away their creepy grins. He felt inside-out hot, hair plastered to his helmeted head, bugs gnawing on his sweaty bits. He did better on his own anyway. And he couldn’t afford to get caught gawking, that would be too easy, so he turned his bike around and headed to Nick’s.
As he weaved closer to home, swerving around garbage wheelies and parked cars, he tried to picture where Candace lived. Nick said her place wasn’t far. He couldn’t imagine a girl like her in a regular house with a fridge and a stove and a bowl of apples on her counter. She was intense, but intriguing too, like a slow-motion crash that couldn’t be stopped. He could still feel the sticky heat of her round breasts crushed against his ribs. Still hear her husky drawl, Well, look at you, sweetie. He had tried to sketch her from memory, but Nick lurked around the corner whenever he got started, and he couldn’t get the shape of her lips right. He wouldn’t mind seeing her again; he’d be better prepared a second time.
Billy stripped the minute he got in the door. Helmet, runners, socks, shirt. The house was baking hot and smelled like old shoes, so he slid up the windows to let in some air. But the screens had gaping holes, which meant the flies swarmed in too, so he slammed the windows down again, hauled out the big fan from the closet, and stood in front of it with his arms stretched.
He hoped his grandma had fun at the party. Hoped she got two pieces of cake and a red flower. He was hungry. He pulled out everything he could find in the fridge. Lunch meat, tomatoes, cheese, pickles, leftover chicken. He slathered bread with mayo and ketchup, dumped everything on top, slapped on more bread and pressed, ketchup oozing onto his plate. He brought out the milk jug and cereal box next, poured himself an overflowing bowl, and sat.
He jumped in his chair, startled by the still unfamiliar ring in his pants. Nick—who else would it be—surprised to learn Billy was home already. He’d be late, a stop-work order three hours out at the Crimson Hills development. He’d pick up fish and chips, but Billy might want to grab a banana or something to tide him over ’til then.
He dug into his heaped plate and powered up Nick’s computer. He googled LIPS, scrolling through the words and images. Fat lips, skinny lips, red lips, chapped lips, sugar lips, shiny lips, devil lips. None of them right.
He wolfed down the sandwich and googled BOOBS. Droopy, puckered, as flat as poached eggs. Pointing up, pointing down. Round, rounder, holy shit humongous. He choked on a spoonful of cereal.
He typed in SEX next—why shouldn’t he—and scrolled down the list of videos. There was too much to choose from. He couldn’t stop clicking. He couldn’t look away.
He felt sweaty and light-headed, all their rushed and heavy breathing.
He was about to explode when he was snapped back with a knock at the door. Candace? He was sure he heard it. There it was again. He had barely enough wits to click out of the video. He’d willed her here. There was no way he could be alone with her. He sat frozen, trying to stop from panting. A flashy ad popped up on the screen—BUTT NAKED NASTY—but as soon as he closed it another popped up, SINGLES IN YOUR AREA, then another.
He slammed the computer shut. The knocks became heavy fist bangs. She had to have heard the racket coming from the speakers.
She would not go away.
He death-marched to the door. He would tell her he had the stomach flu, he’d been barfing all day, and she couldn’t get near him.
He inched the door open and blinked several times. It took a minute for his brain to register that it did not see her standing there. He swung the door open and stared at the couple, harmless enough, a man and woman. They stared back. They looked well put together, too good for this street. The man was tall with silver-tipped hair and a weathered face from spending time in the sun. He towered beside her. She was pretty for an older lady, white hair with floppy bangs, an oval-shaped face. Their shiny SUV had pulled into their driveway by mistake. They had the wrong house, obviously.
“We’re looking for Nick,” the woman said timidly, her small hands folded against her chest. “Is he here by chance?”
A magpie, not used to company, screeched from across the yard. Billy could see his long tail sweeping down from the top branch of the crab apple tree. “No, sorry. Nick’s working late tonight. He won’t be back for a couple hours.”
“Oh.” A pleading expression brushed over her face before she brightened again. “We’re his parents. I’m Cathy and this is my husband, George. We took a chance, hoping we might catch him.”
Nick’s parents? This was a freaking disaster.
“Ni-nice to meet you,” Billy stuttered. Who knows what they’d heard? At least he’d got his jeans zipped. He looked down to be sure.
George put his arm around Cathy’s shoulder. “Who are you?” He had a deep voice, no nonsense, like he was used to getting answers.
“Billy. Billy Peat.” Billy extended his sour and unwashed hand, and they shook. Then Cathy had a turn. She seemed a lot more coherent than his grandma, with her straight back and crisp collar and articulate sentences.
George cleared his throat. “I guess what I’m asking is how you know Nick.”
Nick was to blame. For not telling them. For screwing his mom without a condom. For bringing him here. He probably had surprise kids holed up in small towns all across the country.
Billy wanted to hurt him, and this fancy couple too, so he took a deep breath and blurted, “I’m his son.”
The magpie stopped screeching. George stared at Billy, jaw clenched as he gripped Cathy’s shoulder. She dipped slightly, a pink flush high on her cheekbones and near the tip of her nose.
“How old are you?” George asked.
“Fourteen.” He supposed he should say more. “He and my mom hooked up at the campground. Your campground. Back when you had one. She’s dead. She died when I was little. My grandma’s here too. At Prairie View. That place for old people.” He flung his arm behind him. “Over at the edge of town.”
That was the sum of it. There was nothing more to tell.
Cathy’s eyes were watery bright, blinking. She reached out her hand to him and then took it back, letting it hang by her side. “Billy? I’m so sorry. We didn’t know.”
He felt ashamed he’d made her sorry. This wasn’t her fault.
“That’s okay. Nick didn’t know either.” He made it sound like it was no big deal. He didn’t know what they’d expected to find at their son’s house. Not him.
George extended his hand again, which Billy took, the grip studier and longer this time. “It’s good to meet you, son,” he pronounced decisively, although Billy was sure it was not.
“You can stay if you want until Nick gets back.” Please God, no, no, no, don’t let them stay.
“No, we shouldn’t,” Cathy said in a shaky voice, lip trembling.
George shook his head. “No, we’ll get out of your hair, Billy. Please let Nick know we stopped by. Tell him to call us. Tonight. Tell him to call us tonight.” It was a command, not a friendly request.
They started down the porch steps, but Cathy turned back and took his hand and kissed him on the cheek. She whispered in his ear, “We have a dog named Bear. He’s going to love you.”
He waited until they backed out of the driveway before closing the door. Then he ran across the room and locked himself in the bathroom. He leaned into the sink, appalled by what he saw in the mirror. Helmet hair, blown into a frenzy by the fan, sticking up every which way. A knife wound of ketchup across his left cheek. His scrawny bare chest, pimply and blotched.
I’m your grandson. Your son’s huge mistake. So happy to meet you.
Sarah swooped into the staff room, fifteen minutes late for her shift, Carter on her heels, dragging his grubby backpack behind him. Mrs. Brandon had a toothache—a toothache!—and couldn’t possibly be expected to mind children today. Sarah learned this thirty minutes ago when she rang the woman’s bell. As she stood on Mrs. Brandon’s front porch, it hit her like a stab to her heart first, then a beating on the inside of her forehead. She had no one. No aunties or sisters or girlfriends, no church ladies or gym partners. No favours to call in from a roster of happy new acquaintances. She’d orchestrated this lonely planet, this series of choices that led to her unpopulated life.
She could not afford to miss a day’s pay. Carter had a dentist appointment next week, his overdue first, and with time off to get him in and out of the dentist’s chair on top of the bill, she was already tapped out for the month.
She’d run back home, stuffed his backpack with everything she could think of to keep him busy, and here they were. But what had she been thinking? Bringing her little boy to work? It was bloody insane. Verging on child neglect.
She scurried about the staff room, whipping on the sturdy runners she kept in the closet, pinning her name badge to her uniform, barking orders like a haggard sergeant lost in the woods. “You have to be good, and quiet, like we talked about in the car—you’ve got oodles to do. I’ll keep checking on you, but you must stay here in the staff room. Are you listening? Carter? Carter?” She unzipped the overflowing backpack. Hot Wheels and Sharpies spilled out, skittering across the floor.
She was extracting him from his helmet when Rachel walked in wearing neon pink tights and a tie-died shirt that hung to her knees. She held a cookie tin painted with cherubs and roses.
“Oh,” Rachel said, as she surveyed the chaos. “I’ve brought cookies for the staff. Oatmeal chocolate.”
“Mrs. Brandon has a toothache,” Sarah said stupidly, wanting to cry. “This is Carter. I had to bring him.” Rachel stood, unmoving. Disgusted, perhaps.
Sarah played tug of war with the helmet now in Carter’s sticky hands. “Look, it can go right here, on top of the fridge, beside Billy’s. This is Rachel, Carter. She’s the one who gave Billy his helmet.”
This helmet news impressed Carter. “Billy is my best friend,” he told Rachel, who smiled and nodded as he blathered on. “Billy’s an artist and I am too, and my mom is an artist, but she only draws monkeys. Did you know there’s murals around here? I can show you if you want.”
“Carter, scoot down there and pick up those toys. Hurry, please.” She should have had Edith’s room cleaned by now.
Carter slid along the floor like a flapping seal. Rachel burst into laughter, a rusty sound that filled the room. Then she clapped too, which caused Carter to exaggerate his gyrations on the linoleum tiles. “This is better than a basket of puppies,” Rachel said between snorting fits. Carter obligingly yelped.
Sarah felt woozy and bleak and put off by the pair’s exuberance. This was never going to work. Carter had been overjoyed to ditch the dreaded Mrs. Brandon, but he couldn’t sit quiet and alone with his toys all day. It would be like cramming the rabbit into the tortoise shell.
She must flee the building. She must exit right now.
Rachel strode over and placed her hand on her arm. “Sarah, you go do your rounds. Carter can help me with my mother. I’ll take him to her room with me. And the cookies too.”
Carter brightened. “Can I, Mom?”
He had no idea what this meant. Neither did Rachel. “I can’t let you do that,” she said firmly. “He’s a handful.”
“Nonsense!” Rachael squeezed her arm. “He’s a breath of fresh air. And besides, I could use a handful. My mother has been rather dull lately.”
She was quite sure Rachel had no children of her own. Quite sure she hadn’t the vaguest notion of a five-year-old’s brain, especially a brain like Carter’s, that leaped and bounced and zigzagged every which way.
Yet Rachel pressed harder. “You’ll know where to find us and can pop in and out. Carter, what do you say? Should we go through my makeup bag.”
Carter shot off the floor and stood in breezy solidarity beside his new friend. “Can I, Mom? Please.”
Rachel whisked him away before Sarah could object. She had regrets within seconds of their leaving, a running diatribe of imagined calamities in her head—Carter frightened of the skeleton under the covers, Carter, not frightened, jumping frenetically on the poor woman’s bed. Carter in a tantrum, peeing his pants, breaking Rachel’s lipsticks, blurting out wildly inappropriate questions, driving her mad.
She swallowed her panic and jumped into her rounds. The hallway filled with the usual pacers trundling along. The congestion started near the train mural. Billy and Evie were at their posts, spectators lined up across from them. More chairs had been added since yesterday, a bigger crowd, even Violet, who never sat still, not even for meals.
It was an astonishing sight, not just the mural, which could have rivalled a museum piece, but the joy of the residents, who sat as if posing, as if they too were being woven into the scene.
Billy perched on his ladder, focusing on the skyline. Evie stared intently at the wall, a brush in one hand, her pallet in the other. Sarah waved to them both as she flew by. She would start at the far end and work towards her boy. She might have an hour before all hell broke loose in Rachel’s room, and by then she’d be close by and could intervene. With luck, Dorothy would stay off the floor and be none the wiser.
She vacuumed, dusted, polished. Opened curtains and windows. Gathered laundry, hung shirts and dresses, returned underwear to drawers. Redirected residents stuck in closets or lying on the wrong bed. Fished dentures out of the garbage and soap bars out of the toilet. As each explosion-free moment ticked by, she felt a swelling debt of gratitude.
By the time she had worked her way down to Violet’s room, her forehead was shiny with sweat, and that sudsy sludge of trepidation in her stomach had all but disappeared. She looked in on Rachel and Carter who were across the hall. She wished she could take a picture, the image opening her heart and blooming like a flower. There was her son with a cookie in his hand, a pirate now, painted moustache and eye patch, a jagged scar crisscrossing his cheek. Rachel had given him her bright green scarf for a bandana. They sat across from each other, the contents of the endless backpack dumped on the table between them. He was describing every little thing, This is a smelly marker, this is a Skywalker, this is a Minecrafter book.
Carter turned and saw her in the doorway and said, simply, “Hi, Mom,” as though she bore witness to nothing extraordinary.
“You’re a pirate, buddy. That’s so cool.”
Rachel turned and waved. “Ahoy, Matey.”
“Want to play with us, Mom?”
“Afraid I can’t, buddy. I have to keep working.” She glanced at the bed, Victoria blissfully sleeping, gumming her lips like a newborn infant. “Are you doing okay, Rachel?”
“Arrr,” she said in her pirate growl. “We’re perfectly fine. Did you know that an Apatosaurus swallows plants whole, without chewing a bite?”
Sarah laughed. “I can’t thank you enough. You’re an angel.”
“She’s not an angel,” Carter said indignantly. “She’s my prisoner.”
“Shiver me timbers,” Rachel said. “Be ye gone and let meself get about me business.”
Sarah felt teary for no reason. “I’ll be right across the hall. And then I’ll grab Carter for lunch so you can have a break.”
Violet’s room was empty. She had few of the knick-knacks that the others seemed to collect—no photographs in cheap plastic frames, no decorative plates on her walls. Violet had no family, at least none that came around. Dorothy had told her that she’d arrived before the carpet, cooped up in here for nearly a decade.
Her wrinkled blanket pooled on the floor. Sarah stripped off the sheets and blanket and started over. She was fluffing the pillows when she heard a familiar shriek.
She turned to see her boy peering in behind the armchair, hands on hips, face flushed. She hadn’t heard him sneak into the room.
“There’s a baby in the corner!” Carter thrust out his moustached lip. “I think it’s dead.”
“Why aren’t you with Rachel?”
“She’s in the bathroom. I think it’s really, really dead.”
“Let’s see then, Carter.”
She marched over to the heavy armchair, pushed it away from the corner, and reached in.
“It’s Violet’s new doll,” she said, handing him the doll in its lacy pink dress and bonnet.
“It’s a girl.” He took it from her carefully and held it inches from his face.
Sweet Rachel had brought in the new doll for Violet after her other one went missing. She’d dumped the doll in the staff room without fanfare, a note taped to the box that read, For Violet. It was exquisitely made, so soft and baby-like. The staff took turns bringing it to their noses to breathe in its talcum scent.
Carter delicately placed the doll on Violet’s just-fluffed pillow and ran his finger across its eyelashes. “Maybe the lady who lives here forgot she lost it.”
Violet hadn’t lost it; she’d hid it. She wanted nothing to do with her new doll. When the staff tried to put it in her arms, she pushed it away and made deep growling noises. If she could still use words, she would have demanded what she wanted—her old doll with the missing eye and bald patches. It was heartbreaking.
“That’s a good place to leave Violet’s doll, Carter. She can find it there for sure.”
He pulled back the blanket, dragging the doll under by its neck. If she didn’t get him out of there, he’d have the whole bed unmade.
She took his arm and tugged gently. “Come on now. Let’s go back to Rachel. Then we’ll have lunch.”
Carter darted out and across the hall and through the wrong open door. Sarah sprinted behind him into Audrey’s room, only to find Dorothy with her back to them, rifling through one of Audrey’s open drawers.
“Where are we?” Carter yelled.
Dorothy turned with a start and dropped her hands to her side before slamming the drawer with a bang. “Sarah. What’s this?” She stared at Carter, her expression as blue-black and threatening as the roiling sea.
Sarah instinctively reached for her son, but he’d flattened himself against the wall. Dorothy glared at his smeared eye patch and sooty face. The woman terrified him and rightly so.
“Can I go to Rachel?” he stammered in his faint little boy voice.
“Yes, go,” Sarah said. “Rachel is right next door.” She pointed, pushing him away. Carter ducked around her and bounded out of the room, leaving the two women face-to-face.
Dorothy stepped closer, blowing air through her nose. “Yours, I presume.”
“Yes, that’s my son. His name is Carter.”
“So now you’re bringing your preschooler to work with you?”
“No, no. Of course not.” But that’s exactly what she’d done. “I can explain,” she started, though it seemed stupid to try. She took a deep breath and spoke slowly, grasping for notes of credulity. “There was an emergency with daycare this morning. This meant I was given no notice, nor could I give any to you. I didn’t want to leave the unit short-staffed and have you and my colleagues scrambling for coverage. Rachel Moss kindly offered to watch Carter.”
Dorothy shifted from one giant foot to another. “It’s highly inappropriate. You can’t expect family members to look after your son all day. And Rachel Moss? Her mother palliative, no less. We have rules.”
Sarah stood tall, chin high, though her insides were flopping about like a caught fish. “I know there are rules, Dorothy.”
“Well obviously you’re willing to break them.”
Sarah could feel heat rise from her chest to her ears, a raging fire that she needed to douse. “Bringing Carter here this morning seemed like the best solution from a list of few choices. As a contract worker, I’m not entitled to personal days, as you know.”
“Of course, I know!” Dorothy narrowed her eyes, her expression hard and impenetrable. “I hired you. And you accepted the terms. Eagerly, you might remember.”
“You’re right, I did, yes, and this job is important to me.” A roof over their heads required any number of humiliations. “I want to do my best. I’m truly sorry. This will not happen again, I can assure you.”
“Go home. Get yourself straightened out.” Dorothy turned away dismissively, a great swirling of stale air. “Now!” she added, before stomping off.
Sarah leaned against the door frame, feeling small and beaten, a prisoner of war. Rachel and Carter stared at her from their doorway. When she got to them, Rachel said, “We heard the whole thing.”
“Heard what whole thing?” Carter clung to Rachel’s tie-died shirt.
Rachel whispered in her ear, imitating Dorothy’s cutting voice. “And Rachel Moss. Her mother palliative, no less. I’d like to bitch-slap that woman until her ears bleed.”
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I should have never put you in this position.”
Rachel scoffed. “Sorry? I’ve had the best time in ages. I’m thinking of changing careers, taking over a pirate ship. Carter can be my first mate.”
“Can I, Mom?” Carter asked. “What’s a first mate?”
“We’ve got to go, buddy. Say thank you to Rachel. And let’s give her back her scarf now.”
“Nonsense,” Rachel interjected, before Sarah could untie the knot. “Every pirate needs a bandana. Let him keep it.”
“Can I, Mom?”
“Not unless you say thank you first. Now, go grab your toys.”
He wrapped his grateful arms around Rachel’s neon leg, grinding his painted face into the shiny pink fabric before skipping to the table.
As he crammed his treasures into the backpack, Victoria stirred, a slight fluttering of sheets and the mewing noises of a little blind kitten.
Rachel looked at the deathbed and sighed, a sadness in her eyes. How unfair and random, the burdens for some and not others. Soon, she and Carter would walk out her door, leaving her stuck there.
Rachel’s eyes glistened, a far-away look. “I wish you didn’t have to go. I was doing good with Carter, wasn’t I?”
“Of course, you were. He adores you. You’ve been so kind, and I can’t thank you enough.”
Victoria choked and sputtered, a wet rattly sound. Carter spun around from the table, startled to find a dying woman lying there.
Sarah needed to get them out of that room. She grabbed Carter’s hand and left Rachel alone with her mother and the wounds still between them.