Prologue
October 2011
Every morning starts the exact same now. It’s 4 a.m. here, 11 p.m. Toronto time. That’s how I say it now: here and Toronto time. The routine is reflexive, as second nature to me as swinging my legs out of bed. Check His Facebook. No new updates. Check His MySpace. The absence of the Online Now! icon on the page has already darkened my morning. Where in the world is he? Search for tweets using variants of his name. No new articles. No new intel. No spottings posted online, either in Canada or Los Angeles. A woman in Ohio called Jane has simply tweeted, ‘This guy is a fkn genius! Greatest actor of all time!’ I check her profile for any other mentions of him, of which there are none. I’m warmed but also slightly discommoded by the compliment. I don’t want him having any more new fans. Not the way things are going for him.
After that, it’s back to checking the Facebook profiles of his friends and family for even a scrap of tidings. Another thing that, owing to ingrained habit, I can now do at speed. His cousin Rebecca has evidently been to a barbecue at a neighbour’s house, down the street in Vancouver. Over onHannah Klein’s page, she has posted a YouTube video of an old band she loved in college. Sloan. How strange. If I’d gone to high school with this man, I’d be shouting about it all the time.
I see his mother has changed her profile picture on Facebook, from one image with an exceptionally fluffy bouffant and cardigan to another, every bit as fluffy-headed and becardiganed. I look at the picture and want to dive into her bosom and be mothered.
Coconut oil is really good for smoothing ends and getting rid of flyaways, Judith, I imagine telling her as I pat down her headfluff. Something to do with its molecules being small enough to properly penetrate the hair shaft. Aren’t you glad I came along when I did?
I sure am, sweetie, she will say. You’re the best thing that ever happened to this family of ours.
The body next to me in bed shifts, indignant at the blue light coming from my phone and making shadows on the wall.
Over to his fan forum I go, where I know Violet has already long been awake. Five a.m. here, 1.30 p.m. in Adelaide. She has posted a screen grab from a YouTube video from one of his old stage productions in Toronto. It’s not a new image for any of us, but I lie back and drink it in, regardless. It’s a kind of nourishment. The Jersey cow eyelashes. The knobbly elbows. The deep forehead wrinkles, of which there are three and a half. The double chin that I see myself tickling gently, affectionately. The tufts of wiry hair springing from the back of his T-shirt. I can almost feel their coarseness with my fingers. There’s more shifting on the other side of the bed, only now I can feel warm breath on my shoulder. I feel an ache for anything new on him that feels almost physical now, like a metal-greyhunger.Where the hell are you?I want to shout out into the room, but cannot for obvious reasons.
I check my inbox, ignoring the email from work that has the header ‘Disciplinary meeting, Friday’. Final warnings, matters concerning my performance, matters will be handled transparently. It’s all moot. I won’t be at it, that much I know. I’ll be too busy running towards my next chapter.
I lie in the darkness, willing my dream life to pull me back down into sleep.
1
February 2010
There are people walking around the world right now who don’t realize that this is their final night on earth.
Some people don’t realize that within the next day, or hour, or even minute, they will meet tragedy.
Someone in the world is about to lose a leg, or their arm, or their sanity, or the love of their life, and they don’t even know it yet.
Maybe someone else out there is having these exact same thoughts, right this minute.
Different versions of all of us exist in the minds of everyone who knows us.
My mind is in overdrive in all the wrong ways, while my groin seems to be going twenty miles per hour in a cul-de-sac. This is like shagging an Oasis record.
I’ve had my toes licked. I’ve had my fingers sucked. I’ve had my hair pulled. None of which is happening in this marriage.
Last week, we had the following conversation at 10 p.m.
‘Do you fancy an early night?’ goes he.
Me, wanting to do it about as much as I wanted root canal surgery: ‘We could, I guess.’
‘“We could, I guess”?’
‘I mean, if you want to, we can. Absolutely.’
Him, side-eyeing me: ‘You do look a bit tired.’
‘Hey, don’t put this back on me.’
‘I’m not! Maybe tomorrow though.’
‘Definitely tomorrow.’
What happened to the sort of athletic sex where I yelped a bit, tits slapping against each other like clacker toys? I’ll tell you what happened: basal thermometers and ovulation kits and apps. But it’s what we do now. Johnny and I go on our weekly date, usually a Tuesday (although tonight he suggests we dust off a bottle of champagne, held over from our four-years-ago wedding and rescued from under the sink, after he trounces me at Scrabble). Sometimes, the sex feels like a maintenance thing, something to keep our marriage in an uncomplicated and decent place. It’s also become the point in the week when, handily, I also do most of my life’s thinking.
