Lost Together
That fall, Liam went on what he called a walkabout. He said he wanted to see the Pacific Ocean, packed his Jeep and started driving west. Apparently, he’d told Karen his plans at her father’s funeral. It was what they’d been fighting about. In hindsight, the week he’d spent in Toronto was a farewell of sorts. In Sudbury, Pat moved back in with his girlfriend Blonde Dawn. During Thanksgiving at the Miltons, he let everyone know he’d dropped out of his Paramedic program and started a course to teach ESL.
Around that time, I started seeing a man named Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. I’d actually been introduced to him six months earlier by Charles, who had interviewed him for his research. The first time I laid eyes on Marcus, he was naked (except for a pair of diapers), tarred and feathered from head to toe, and standing in a pile of pigs’ intestines, alternating between reciting nursery rhymes in a little baby’s voice and throat singing in the tradition of the Siberian Tuva people. He did this non-stop for twenty-four hours, cordoned off within a square of red velvet rope inside a warehouse art studio in the west-end. People paid money to see him, drank cheap wine out of plastic cups and exchanged discreet commentary in hushed, reverent whispers. It was a fundraiser for Tibet, and the overall effect was fantastical and disturbing. Charles had seen a lot of performance art in his time, but confessed this piece was particularly unusual. Incredibly, Marcus had won multiple grants and awards for similar avantgarde productions over the years. His vitae was more than impressive. After three wine spritzers, I signed a guest book that night, and within days found myself accepting a Facebook Friend Request from Mr. Diapers himself. I was shocked by his self-portraits. He was, in fact, a physically beautiful man, with the flawless and androgynous features of a Renaissance saint. I figured the images must have been seriously Photoshopped, until the day Marcus approached me while I waited at a streetcar stop.
“You’re Daniel Garneau,” the soft-spoken, pale-faced individual poised in front of me said. He was wearing cords and Doc Martens, a camel cashmere coat and a moss-coloured scarf. On this occasion, his neatlytrimmed hair was thick and glossy chestnut brown. Snowflakes settled on his eyelashes as we spoke. Even though I recognized him instantly from his Facebook images, it took me a moment before I could form a reply. Then he said his name and smiled at me, his hands resting at his side.
“I know who you are,” I said.
“You were at my fundraiser for the Dalai Lama.”
“You were wearing a diaper.”
“That’s right. You’d come with Charles Ondaatje. I never forget a face. Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
“The diaper wasn’t really meant to be part of the piece. I was simply wearing it so I could pee.”
“I see.”
“Mind you, I’ve staged other performances where I have urinated and defecated in front of an audience.”
“Oh, okay.” The streetcar was nowhere in sight.
“I’m kidding.” He smiled at me sidelong.
“Right.”
“How did you like the show?”
“That chanting you were doing ...”
“Overtone singing.”
“That was really interesting. I’ve never heard anything like it. How’d you learn to do that?”
“I trained with a sheep herder from Siberia. It took over a year and a half before I was able to master the technique.”
“You’ve been to Siberia?”
“Oh no, it was at the Kadampa Meditation Centre here in Toronto.”
“Okay. Well, it was pretty cool.”
“Thank you. Charles tells me you plan to be a physician?”
“I should stop telling people that. I haven’t even applied to med school yet.”
“The human body is truly a miracle of nature.” He stood perfectly still when he spoke. I couldn’t help but feel he was undressing me with his hazel eyes.
“I suppose it is.”
“Capable of all sorts of things.”
“No kidding.”
“If you’re interested in overtone singing, Daniel, let me know. I’d be happy to instruct you. It’s all a matter of muscular control in the mouth, larynx and pharynx. It can be a very powerful experience.”
I didn’t know if he was flirting with me or if I was just chronically, pathetically horny. “Okay, I’ll keep it in mind.”
My streetcar had arrived. After I boarded, he stood waving as I pulled away. Later that night, I found a link to Marcus’ official website. Apparently, while overtone singing was best known as a Tibetan Buddhist tradition, it spanned many world cultures, from Inuit to Irish to Indian. I looked up a tutorial on YouTube and was practicing when Karen walked into the apartment. “What on earth is that hideous noise?” she called out, unpacking groceries in the kitchen.
“Nothing.” I cleared my throat and quickly closed the lid to my laptop.
After Charles broke up with me, I found myself continuing to follow Marcus’ activities. That spring, I secretly attended a live reading at his book launch, a compilation of poems and short stories entitled, Tales from the Bottom of My Sole. I was sure he saw me in the back row. Afterwards, I slipped away as quickly as I could. Later that summer, I took Parker Kapoor to the Art Gallery of Ontario where Marcus was one of nine individuals featured in an exhibit of up-and-coming Toronto-based artists. I didn’t tell Parker the real reason why I’d come. To my amazement, he’d actually heard of Marcus Wittenbrink Jr.
“He’s a freak,” Parker said. “He goes out of his way to be outrageous. He’s all about shock value. Look at this, it says here he identifies as two-spirited. That’s ridiculous. His parents are whitebread lawyers from Burlington.”
“People think he’s one of Canada’s top young emerging playwrights.”
“All I’m saying, is here we have this privileged white guy who goes native and everyone thinks he’s hot shit. Woohoo. Look at this, the Globe & Mail writes: ‘What Tom Thomson did for Canada’s geographical landscape in the 20th century, Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. does for Canada’s cultural landscape in the 21st century.’ The Toronto Star calls him ‘quintessentially Canadian.’ What on earth is that supposed to mean? That his underarms smell like maple syrup? The truth is, if he wasn’t so incredibly good-looking and prone to taking his clothes off half the time, he wouldn’t be half as popular. All this postmodern neopaganism is a little pathetic. You know I heard he performed naked once chanting in a pile of pig shit? How much Ontario Arts Council money is this guy getting?”
“It was pig intestines. And he was wearing diapers.
And it was Tuvan throat singing. And it was a fundraiser for the Dalai Lama.”
“Okay, Mr. Fanboy.”
“Don’t patronize me, Parker.”
“Fine. I’m just jealous, alright? I admit it.”
“You’re jealous?”
“Of course I am. Look at him! He’s gorgeous. Who has a body like that? I’m sure he’s got groupies following him everywhere. I’m the same age as him, and what have I got to show for myself?”
“Um, you hold the high score on every pinball machine at Playdium?”
“I’m done with that.” Parker collapsed on a bench. “That is so yesterday. I need a change.”
“Why don’t you try writing?”
“Writing? Are you kidding me? That would take discipline, that would take focus. I don’t have either, I have ADHD. It takes me forty-five minutes just to decide what breakfast cereal I want to eat in the morning.”
“You could write your memoirs.”
“My memoirs?”
“You’ve been around the block, Parker. You’re always making observations of the people around you. Think of all the craziness that happens at the group homes. You could write it all down. The Adventures of Parker Kapoor. I see a movie deal in there somewhere.”
Parker’s eyes swivelled wildly in his head. “I should, shouldn’t I? Dinner conversation at the Kapoor household could fill up half a novel by itself. You have no idea what it’s like being the youngest in this family. I should invite you over during Diwali just so you can witness the spectacle for yourself. The Misanthropic Misadventures of Parker Kapoor. Daniel, you are a genius.”
“I try.”
Parker pressed his nose up against a semi-nude image of Marcus tied to a tree and shot through with arrows. “You think I’d ever have a chance with this Wittenbrink guy? I could be a groupie. Do you think he hosts Bacchanalian orgies? I’ll bet he does. What do you think?”
“Parker, I don’t think you’d make a very good groupie. You should focus on your memoirs.”
“You’re probably right. When I’m famous I won’t forget you, Daniel. I promise.”
“I’m holding you to it.”
A month later, I attended Marcus’ one-man show Philophobia at the Tarragon Theatre and brought Karen along. During intermission, to our surprise and delight, we bumped into Charles and Megan.
“You were in the front row, weren’t you?”
“How can you tell? Oh, of course, you can see we got splashed.”
“Just a bit.”
“Don’t worry, its water-based and comes out. It says so here in the program.”
“I totally wasn’t expecting him to do that upside-down thing.”
“Which upside-down thing?”
“That thing with the giant puppet.”
“Oh, I thought you were talking about that thing with the gymnastic rings.”
“I didn’t know he could beatbox.”
“I didn’t know he was double-jointed.”
“I knew he was double-jointed.”
“When was he doing anything double-jointed?”
“When he was upside-down on the rings.”
“Oh, I thought there was something weird about that. That last tableau was kind of like a Picasso.”
“Holy shit! That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“He’s amazing.”
“He’s a genius.”
“He’s in my thesis.”
Charles wanted to meet him backstage after the performance. By the time Marcus had showered and cleaned off the body-paint and gotten dressed, all of the audience was gone except for the four of us. We greeted him in the green room where the walls were plastered with dozens of faded posters from past productions. He came out wearing a plain black dress shirt and jeans. The first thing he said was: “Daniel Garneau, you look well.” He stood back appraisingly. “You must be Megan Calderon and you must be Karen Fobister. Charles, your friends here are even more beautiful in real life.”
“Real life?” Megan squeaked.
“Facebook,” Marcus said. “It is a new reality. I think my next project will be a deconstruction of Facebook.”
“Marcus,” Charles said, “has a photographic memory. Be careful what you put on Facebook.”
“That one image, that expression on your face, Daniel, when you were just about to come,” Marcus said thoughtfully, “out to your brothers, it is sacred.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Karen scratched her nose. “Daniel, remember? I tagged you on that picture I took of you, on Christmas Eve, two years ago.”
“Oh, right.”
“Megan, you and Charles were truly meant for each other. Have you thanked Daniel and Karen for bringing you together?”
“Um, no,” Megan stammered, clutching Charles’ arm. “Not yet. Karen, thank you. Daniel, you too.”
Karen and I glanced at each other. “You’re welcome,” we said in unison.
“Thank you for coming to my show,” Marcus said. “It is always humbling when people take time out of their lives to notice my work. Charles, you have been a constant support over the years. Daniel, I missed speaking with you after my book launch at Hart House. I wanted to ask your opinion of my title poem. My stage manager will close up here.” He regarded each one of us. “Shall we go for a drink?”
At Charles’ suggestion, we ended up cabbing across town to a bar on Queen West called The Beaver, an eccentric and packed little hole-in-the-wall. As it turned out, Marcus had no money on him. The rest of us took turns paying for rounds. At one point, the waiter served up five shots of Goldschläger, compliments of the house. Everywhere Marcus went, people’s heads turned. He was even more beautiful in real life. When his hand came to rest on my knee beneath the table, I banged my teeth against the edge of my glass. He was speaking to Charles and Karen about the appropriation of aboriginal culture and the works of this well-known artist and that well-known artist. He didn’t glance at me once. But his hand massaged the inside of my thigh as he spoke about the Woodland School of Art and the troubled life of Norval Morrisseau. Then he leaned back, removed his hand and took a sip from his pint. He nodded towards me politely. “What do you think, Daniel?”
Everyone’s head turned. “I think,” I said carefully, “there are some people who feel you’re a privileged white guy gone native.”
“I see,” Marcus said. “Well, I am. That is clear. But what do you think of it?”
“I think,” I said, “your work does for Canada’s cultural landscape what Tom Thomson’s work did for Canada’s geographical landscape.”
“This is why,” Charles said, laughing and tousling my hair, “I dated this guy.” He draped his arm over Megan and hugged her close. I’d never seen Charles this relaxed or happy before.
Later that night, when Karen and I returned home, I asked her how her evening went. “It was interesting. I had a good time. Thank you for taking me out.” She untied her hair knots, collecting pins in her mouth. “It was great to hang out with Megan and Charles like that. We should do it more often. Your friend Marcus seems to really like you.”
“He’s not my friend. He’s Charles’ friend.”
“You’re friends with him on Facebook.”
“Yeah, and three thousand other people. It’s like his professional Facebook page.”
“Was it weird?”
“Was what weird?”
“Being at the Beaver. You know we were just a block down from the Drake Hotel. Your ex Sean was spinning there tonight.”
“Oh, Karen, you know what? That wasn’t even on my radar.”
“Okay, Daniel. Just checking in. You and this Marcus guy, you’ve got some chemistry going there.”
“What?” I threw my shirt in the hamper and went to brush my teeth. “Are you kidding? Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. is so out of my league.”
“Daniel Garneau.” Karen followed me to the washroom. “Do you know how pathetic you just sounded there?”
“No. Karen.” I focused on squeezing the last bit of toothpaste of out the tube. “I’m just being realistic.”
“His hand was on your knee half the night.”
“Oh. I didn’t think anyone noticed that.”
“I noticed.”
“I just don’t want to be another groupie.”
“A what?”
“He probably sleeps around with all of his fans. He probably hosts these Bacchanalian orgies.”
“You’re a fan?” Karen poked me in the butt.
“That”—I waved my toothbrush—“was just a figure of speech.”
“Daniel, you like this guy.”
“He’s interesting.”
“And so are you. You should go on a date.”
“What would we have to talk about?” I was frothing at the mouth but I didn’t care.
“Tom Thomson?”
“Oh, shit, Karen, I was just quoting a newspaper article. I’m Fruit of the Loom, remember? This guy’s been featured at the AGO, he’s been nominated twice for a Dora Award and who knows what else. He knows how to Tuvan throat sing, for chrissake.” I rinsed and spat.
“This isn’t like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You used to think more highly of yourself.”
“This isn’t Sudbury, Karen.”
“No, this is Toronto. You and me, we have a right to be here just like anyone else.”
I opened and closed my mouth. I raised and dropped my arms. Finally, I put my toothbrush back in its holder and just shook my head. “Fine. I’m just not so sure where here is.”
“We’re right here.”
“I think.” I sighed. “I think I’m just feeling a little lost.”
“You’re not lost. You’re right here.”
“I worry about Grandpa. I worry about Liam. I worry about Pat. Fuck, Karen, I worry about you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m serious. I’m doing okay. It was hard having Liam leave like that. The timing sucked. But I’m okay.”
“Karen.” I drew a breath. “I’m so sorry about your dad, I should’ve been there, I really should’ve been there.” I was crying again. It was ridiculous how much I cried. But I couldn’t help it. “Why didn’t you tell me about him? You told Liam.”
“That man wasn’t my dad. He was my biological father, okay? I barely knew him. Look, Daniel, it’s over now. Really, it’s over.”
“I’m so afraid I’m losing you.”
“Daniel, you know I’m leaving Toronto after I finish this year.” I nodded. “And you’re applying to med school. I know we don’t talk about everything. And after this year, we’re going to go our separate ways. But listen to me. You’re never going to lose me. Never. You and me, we’re gum stuck to the bottom of each other’s shoes, alright? We have one year left together here. We have this amazing apartment. We have friends who live right upstairs. We have us. Let’s make the best of it, okay? Did you notice they had sweet potato burritos on the menu?” I shook my head. “Well, they did. You and I, we’re going to go back to The Beaver and check it out. There’s a million things in this ridiculous city we haven’t done yet. We’ve barely scratched the surface.” She gripped my shoulders. “I want you to promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I want you to ask this Marcus Wittenbrink guy out on a date.”
“Oh, shit, Karen.”
“Promise.”
“Karen.”
“I mean it.”
“C’mon.”
“I mean it.”
“I promise.”
“Good boy. Now make me a nightcap, and you’re having one with me.”
“I just brushed my teeth.”
“I don’t care.”
“Alright. What do you want?”
“Surprise me.”
That Christmas season, I performed half-naked in Marcus Wittenbrink Jr.’s gala multimedia art production. We’d been seeing each other exclusively for almost three months. His parents were coming down from Burlington for the show, a one-off staging at a fundraiser for the Royal Ontario Museum. I was one of twelve actors he’d incorporated into the script which he’d written to be staged inside the Michael Lee-Chin Crystal accompanied by a string quintet and an all-female taiko drumming troupe. It was a black tie affair. As usual, there was nudity in the production. In my case, I had to show my ass. I was wearing a mask, so I didn’t feel so bad about it. When it was over, we got a standing ovation.
Later, when I’d changed and slipped back into the crowd, I found Karen by the punch bowl. Glittering holiday garlands and lavish wreaths, emerald and gold, decorated the canted walls and cavernous space. The string quintet played by the stairwell. “These heels are killing me,” Karen said. “You were great, by the way.”
“Thanks. Have you seen Marcus?”
“I think he was talking to the Governor-General over by the cheese table. But that was ten minutes ago. You look good. Here, don’t move.” I stood still while Karen fixed my bow tie. “Remember the last time you wore a tuxedo?”
“No, when was that? Oh, right.”
“Senior prom. You came out to me that night.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Daniel Garneau, you did.”
Karen was wearing a red satin dress she’d bought in a Kensington Market thrift shop called Courage My Love. She’d had one small stain removed and restitched a loose seam. It fit her perfectly. She’d also had her hair done up in blue-black ringlets highlighting her cheekbones. “Karen, you look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. You really look great.”
“You know these pearls are fake, right?”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, mister, you’re looking pretty darn fine there yourself. Mind you, that ivy leaf thong you were sporting earlier was pretty cute.”
“We were animistic spirits.”
“I’m sure you were. Speaking of which, let’s grab a drink. It’s an open bar.”
“Thanks for waiting for me.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve already had three glasses of wine. ’Tis the season. Oh my, and here come the cougars. Let me get us those drinks.”
Two middle-aged women wearing what looked like barbed wire encrusted with semi-precious stones circled me hawkishly. “I’d recognize that jawline anywhere,” the taller one said. “You, my young man, played the forest god.”
“Um. I was an animistic spirit.”
Her companion squinted. “Was he the one with the antlers?”
“Of course he was, dear. He was the Horned God, the personification of the life force energy of wild beasts and the primordial symbol of male virility. Can’t you tell?”
I cleared my throat. “In the script, actually, it just said I was ‘animistic spirit #6’.”
“Didn’t I see you on Degrassi: The Next Generation last season? I think my youngest daughter is your biggest fan.”
“No! No, I’m not an actor. I just ... the director just asked me to wear that costume and stand on stage. I was doing him a favour.”
The shorter woman glanced archly at her taller companion. “The Horned God?”
“The Horned God is born in the winter, he impregnates the Goddess and dies in the autumn. Then he is reborn again by the Goddess at Yule.”
“That is fascinating. Well, sir, your performance was excellent. The production was most engaging.”
“Thank you.”
“Most engaging.”
“Indeed.”
“Ah, here comes your lady friend. Let’s leave these young lovers, shall we? It was a pleasure.” The taller woman proffered her hand. On an impulse, I pressed her knuckles to my lips, and did the same with her companion.
Karen handed me a wine glass. “You little devil, you,” she exclaimed in a low voice, watching the two women depart.
“I am the Horned God. I am the paragon of male virility.”
“I thought you were fairy #6.”
“I wasn’t a fairy, Karen. I was an animistic spirit.”
“Whatever.”
We eventually found Marcus by the ice sculpture chatting with a woman in a dark pant suit and a man with silver sideburns. “Daniel,” Marcus said. “I’d like you to meet my parents, Linda and Marcus Senior.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Daniel is my boyfriend.”
Marcus Senior stiffened. “Let me freshen your drink.” He took his wife’s glass, said something in German to her and walked away.
Linda Wittenbrink adjusted her holly corsage. “And what do you do, Daniel?”
“I’m a student at U of T.”
“He’s going to be a physician,” Marcus said.
“You’re in medical school?”
“Um, no. I’ve just applied this year.”
“I see.”
“And this is our friend Karen.”
“That is a beautiful dress, Karen.”
“Thank you.”
“Is it an Alfred Sung?”
Karen blinked. “Why, yes, it is.”
“And how long have you known our Marcus?”
“Not long. We met through Daniel. This is the first show of his I’ve seen.”
“And what did you think?”
“It was very special.”
“He is quite the celebrated golden boy, isn’t he?”
Marcus bowed his head. “Mother and Father both wanted me to study law. Join the Wittenbrink Firm. Carry on the family tradition.”
“Your son, he’s very talented, Mrs. Wittenbrink,” Karen said.
“Obviously. Now where has your father gotten to? Marcus, we’ll be heading back to our hotel. I know you must have many people who want to congratulate you.” She handed him two tickets. “Fetch us our coats, and see us off. It was a pleasure meeting you, Daniel. Karen.”
The string quintet had begun to play Pachelbel’s Canon. “Your parents,” I said, “they’re very nice.”
“My mother is an ice queen,” Marcus said, “but she can be civil. My father’s just a bastard. Period.” He took my wine glass and drained it. “They have no understanding whatsoever of my work. They don’t even try. My grandfather was a Nazi officer who collected and burned art in bonfires. Did I ever mention that to you?”
“No, you haven’t.”
“My life is a cliché,” Marcus said, sighing. “Karen, those pearls aren’t real, are they?”
“No, they’re not.”
“I didn’t think so. The cellist was playing like shit tonight. You’d think he’d never rehearsed. I’ll have to speak with his union. Let me get these coats. Daniel, go get us another drink?” He strode away.
After a moment, I said: “Don’t take it personally.”
“How often is he like this?”
“Rarely. Sometimes. He has his ups and downs. He’s an artist.”
“Then he is a cliché.”
“Karen, please don’t let him ruin our evening.”
“It’s his evening. It’s your evening. It’s not mine.”
“It is yours. It’s our evening.”
“Is it? Are you here with me or him? Anyway, look at me. This isn’t me. I don’t belong here. And what the fuck is an Alfred Sung anyway?”
“Karen, c’mon. We were having fun ten minutes ago. We’re here, we’re right here. Right? You and me.”
“Daniel, go be with your boyfriend. He needs you. I love you and you’re my best friend. But I don’t need you. Seriously. Go.”
“No.”
“Go.”
“No, Karen. And you’re not going either. C’mon. Look at this. How often do we get to do something like this? There’s an open bar. You look beautiful. They’re serving lobster bisque and fancy pâté. It’s Christmas. I want to take a picture of us. Let’s take a picture of us.”
I stood next to Karen and rummaged out my phone. Reluctantly, Karen let me put my arm around her waist as I held it out at arm’s length. The flash went off and Karen pulled away. “Okay, Daniel.”
After that, I got three more drinks from the bar. Karen downed hers and set the empty glass aside. Finally, I said: “How are you getting home?”
“I’ll walk.”
“It’s really far. I don’t want you walking.”
“I’m fine.”
“In this weather? C’mon. Karen, take a cab. Your shoes are hurting you anyway.”
“Fine. I’ll take a cab.”
I held her hand. “I can’t leave.”
“I know.”
“Text me when you get in.”
“Okay.”
I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“Are you coming home tonight?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Be safe.”
As it turned out, Marcus wanted to sleep alone that night. He had a lot on his mind and needed space for himself. By the time I arrived home, the apartment was dark and Karen’s bedroom door was closed. When I got out of the shower, I stepped on something hard and round. It was a single pearl. Then I noticed Karen’s pearl necklace in the waste can. I wrapped a towel around my waist and, for the longest time, stood at her door. But it was late and I didn’t knock. Eventually, I changed into my PJs and went to bed.
On Christmas Eve in Sudbury, Pat told me that both he and his girlfriend were going to move back home to live with Grandpa. Apparently, Grandpa and Blonde Dawn had already met on a number of occasions. They’d gone bowling and cooked meals together. She’d visited Grandma more than once in the nursing home, and had even spent a weekend up at the Good Medicine Cabin.
“So when do I get to meet this Blonde Dawn?” I asked.
“She’s vacationing in Disney World with her nephews and nieces right now,” Pat said. “She’ll be back in the New Year. You’ve seen pictures of her. She’s great.”
I had seen pictures of her. She was blonde and busty, covered in tattoos. Since returning from tree planting in the fall, she’d been working full-time in Sudbury as a paramedic. “Is she still in a band?”
“No, man, that fell apart. But we’re thinking of forming our own band. Definitely.”
“Well, I look forward to meeting her.”
“She’s awesome. She’s crazy. She’s crazy awesome. She’s so totally dying to meet everyone.”
Pat and I worked in the kitchen, our sleeves rolled up, preparing food for the next day. I had shortbread cookies cooling on the counter, and Pat was energetically mashing a big pot of potatoes on the stove. Tomorrow morning, I would put the turkey in the oven and make the gravy. Grandpa already had a dozen freshly-baked sugar pies in the freezer. Like last year, he was spending the night with Grandma. But this time around, the family plan was to bring Christmas dinner to the nursing home.
“Guys,” Karen shouted from the living room, “he’s here! Liam’s back. He’s here.”
Liam’s Jeep pulled into the driveway, headlights cutting through the falling snow. Karen ran outside in her T-shirt. He’d been gone just over two months. He stepped out of the Jeep wearing an enormous parka. When Jackson bounded into the house, I knelt in my kitchen apron and gave him a hug. He wriggled from my arms, raced through the living room and dining room, around the Christmas tree and out the front door again trailing silver tinsel. I vaulted a couch and caught the tree just as it was tipping over. Ornaments rolled everywhere. Liam staggered into the house carrying Karen in his arms, knocking over Grandpa’s deer antler coat rack and tracking snow across the hardwood floors. Jackson wouldn’t stop barking and jumping, his bushy tail whipping back and forth.
“Welcome home, little brother,” Pat yelled. He emerged from the kitchen with two beer bottles dangling from each hand. “How was the Pacific Ocean?”
“I got to dip my toe in,” Liam said, putting Karen down. He pulled off his gloves and drew back his furlined hood. “The heater’s not working in the Jeep. It’s good to be back.” He wore an unkempt beard and his hair was longer than ever. He looked like Jesus. I hurried to stand up the coat rack and gather up the scattered jackets and scarves.
“You look like Jesus,” Karen said.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Liam said, laughing. “What do you expect?” He gave Pat a bear hug and then me. His eyes were red-rimmed and he smelled unwashed. An unpleasant odour of pot and whiskey clung to him. I wondered if he’d been drinking and driving.
Karen pulled out her phone. “Well, it’ll be Christmas Day in eleven minutes. You’re right on time.”
“Smells good in here. Who’s baking?”
Pat jabbed a thumb at me. “Who do you think? By the way, we’re all volunteering tomorrow at the nursing home. Grandpa’s already there.”
“Alright. Looking forward to it.” Pat handed out the beers. Liam raised his bottle. “Santé.”
“Okay, wait, hold on,” Karen exclaimed. “Hold on. Everyone, squeeze in. Hold on hold on hold on.” She positioned her phone-camera on the edge of the stairs. Liam sat down cross-legged and hauled Jackson into his lap. Pat and I crouched and huddled close. Karen hit the timer and ran to join us, clambering up onto our shoulders. “Cheers, guys. Merry Christmas!”
We all held up our beers. “Cheers!” The flash went off. “Merry Christmas.”