The Mitochondrial Curiosities of Marcels 1 to 19. Jocelyn Brown

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СКАЧАТЬ up again. ‘Did everyone see Dree’s beautiful work on Leonard’s – ’

      ‘Box,’ I say. ‘It’s a box.’ I hear a hushed oooh, possibly internal because once I’m in front of Rita, I know what acid reflux + clamminess + room spinning equals. I totally would have made it, but Rita pulls on my arm. The dam breaks. Unspeakably gross. I actually hear a splash. Joan springs like a panther and propels me to the bathroom like mothers do. It is de finitely one of my top ten disgusting moments – in fact, next to when the hamster exploded, the most disgusting moment of my life – partly as a gastrointestinal event, partly as female bonding ritual. Every female in the building is now in this bathroom. Between rounds two and three I lock my door to keep them out of the cubicle.

      ‘Is she all right?’

      ‘We’re sure going to miss him.’

      ‘It’s her birthday – ’

      ‘Joan told me –’

      ‘Well, he tried – ’

      ‘Oh, honey, we’re so sorry,’ someone says to Paige.

      ‘She had too many pancakes,’ Paige says.

      ‘She looks so much like him.’

      I try to say, Could you leave please? It comes out like Kwoodlepees.

      The door swings yet again and clickety click, the sound of Rita shoes. ‘Joan, what can I do, I feel terrible.’

      ‘Nothing, Rita. There is nothing you can do.’ Joan’s voice is flatter than my hair.

      ‘George can give you a ride to the house.’

      ‘We won’t be going to the house, Rita.’

      ‘I will,’ I try to shout. It’s like someone cut the power. Silence.

      ‘Dree, this is awkward?’ Paige whispers through the crack of the door.

      Joan’s right there too. ‘Honey, your –’

      ‘Do not say birthday,’ I say.

      *

      Okay, so, hopefully, I’ll have no memory of the memorial, but you’d think it would feel significant to have your father’s ashes on your lap while sitting in the chair you helped him choose at Sears. But no. Life is totally banal and, surprise, so is death.

      Upstairs at Rita’s house, weirdly alone because Joan and Paige refused to come, I go through everything, including the computer. My backpack’s full of his magazines and office supplies, mostly paper clips which he loved and so had multiple boxes of and also his favourite pens, the Bic R3 Fineline. I have his overdue library books and a bunch of little things and I don’t want anything uncontained so, yes, the little plaid suitcase comes with me too. It has lived on the bottom shelf of his bookcase forever, home to the most hideous art on the planet. He’d put up the clown painting every few months or the creepy sketch of death and always Joan would say, ‘For god’s sake, Leonard, take that damn thing off the wall.’ I get the worst jolt of all when I unsnap the case because now I’ll never know why he liked these pictures and also, there’s the box of teeny white envelopes he used for treasure hunt clues. Blank. I check the side pockets. I check them again. And again. I rifle through the envelopes. He was all excited when he found them at a garage sale. ‘Will you look at these, girls? We’re in business.’ Not anymore, Dad. I take the pictures out despite deep empathy for their ugliness and leave them on the shelf for Rita.

      Another low rumbly laugh comes from the living room where George and the other Grill guys tell stories and drink George’s secret scotch out of coffee mugs. But the AA and yoga people provide the main soundtrack. They’ve merged to chant around the house with Rita. When they finish, they’ll scatter ashes. They’re almost done. I can feel them closing in.

      I pretend to be Paige and sit still, pretend he’s still here and try to absorb. There’s the tragic plaid wallpaper border I tried to talk him out of. Here’s the table he made out of a big door he found somewhere, my most glorious find, he called it. I scrape off the ladybug sticker on the doorknob. By tomorrow, everything that’s him will disappear. That makes me so tired. I lay my head on the keyboard. It smells like cigarettes. Thank god he didn’t quit smoking because how lame would that be, to quit and die anyway. I try to make my face heavy against the computer keys.

      A new chant starts up, something like parcha parcha oh oh oh. It’s now or never. The cardboard box is easy to open but there’s a black plastic box inside that’s not, then there’s the plastic bag of ashes all sealed up with a metal tag. Dad, I hope this doesn’t screw up your next life. The tag’s impossible and the chanting’s almost in my ear, so I stab a pen into the bottom corner of the bag and pull until there’s a decent hole. His coffee cup is empty, hopefully because it was a fabulous final cup. There’s dust and panic but I get three quarters of a cup of Dad before the invasion.

      It’s one of my quicker exits. Rita and I slip by each other, her looking at the suitcase I’m carrying in one hand, me focused on keeping the cup in my other hand out of sight. There are long sticky words, but no one tries to hug me, and I get to the kitchen unscathed.

      I think seriously of taking his cappucino machine, but it takes up half of the counter, so, really. There’s a toonie on the table and also Rita’s purse. It’s more of a bag, really, no major clasp on top or anything. Anyway, Rita’s all about Buddhism which I think means nothing’s real. Also, don’t be attached.

      So, wow. Five tubes of Lancôme lipstick. Two things of pills, possibly convenient, but no, she’d notice. She’s got coupons and a daytimer, her phone and a book that features a suspiciously happy woman on its gold foil cover. Heavenly Riches. Talk about tacky. One zippered pocket with change. The other one jammed with paper. No, not paper. Well, yes, paper – but envelope paper. Two teeny white envelopes. For me. Me, Rita, not you. One envelope is empty with symbols on the front, which I so totally get. The other is blank with something small and hard inside. Thank you, Dad. Thank you. A key. A tiny key. Way to go. I totally get this, Dad. First clue, last clue. We’re in business.

      ‘I can take the bus,’ I tell George, but all five guys get up at once and put their coffee cups together on a side table. ‘Take ’er easy, buddy,’ they say to each other and everyone pats George’s shoulder and nods at me. My face is wet, so I must be crying, but my mind’s too fixated on the key for emotions. I’ve got to move. The last thing I see in House of Rita is Leonard’s grey sweater hanging on the coat rack. Outside, I let the cold air snap me into place. George comes out, and I give him the suitcase and say I’ll be right back. ‘All set?’ he says when I come back out with the sweater. He’s wiping his eyes and I don’t have to say anything all the way home.

      The Treasure Hunt

      Go ahead, people. Scoff. Treasure Hunt sounds très lame, I’m not saying it doesn’t, but who cares about terminology. Treasure Hunts mean 1) several clues in public places; 2) random prizes; 3) fun!; 4) secret cleverness. My father was a TH genius. This afternoon, most of him was sprinkled around his barbecue, but some of him was sprinkled around:

      That was the main clue he left me. That and a key I shouldn’t get too excited about but am because that’s what you do СКАЧАТЬ