Split

Chapter 1 Aunt Fran dropped by today. She wanted to see the new condo. Her face had some color to it this afternoon. She set her thin fingers on my cheeks and kissed my mouth. She still smoked those rotten cigarettes, even with this terrible prognosis hanging over her head. She probably thought I couldn’t smell the cigarettes on her breath, but mint or not, I could. “Very neutral, Derek.” There was a hint of dissatisfaction in her raspy voice. “Modern, I suppose.” I helped her slip off her long white coat. She wore a beautiful purple blouse over black slacks. “A little bland to my taste.” She ran a fingertip on the mantle, then c****d her head, scanning the premises with her sharp green eyes. Though the cancer had eaten half of her weight away, she still carried the same energy, and because of her frail built, that energy seemed to have expanded. “This is new.” Of course it was. Everything in the condo was brand new. From the black rugs to the white blinds. “Looks expensive, too.” Her eyes narrowed a little. Yes, expensive. Very. She had no idea. And as a matter of fact, neither did I. “The lighting is nice. Very crisp. Soothing, I suppose.” I supposed, as well. “May I see the bedroom?” I bowed and pointed to the far end of the three-bedroom condo. She walked slowly, as one would through a museum, stopping often to observe and comment. I followed. “This it, dear?” It was. White blinds. White oak bedroom set consisting of two nightstands, a six-drawer dresser, a commode, and a corner desk. The white room was punctuated with black and red accessories. A large frame of oriental birds hung over the four-post bed. The birds could have been oriental, I wasn’t sure. “And you and Nathan have s*x in here?” I flicked off the light. “Aunt Fran, you promised.” She gave me a quick nod and turned on her heels, heading straight for the kitchen. In there: Stainless steel appliances. Marble counters. Bay window overlooking a third floor terrace. All of Nathan’s decisions. Aunt Fran plucked open a cupboard and pulled a bag of dried mushrooms off the shelf. “Thought you hated mushrooms.” I held her ardent green gaze. “It’s an acquired taste.” Her eyes were two slits of suspicion. “I see.” She set down the bag. “Let’s have a glass of rouge, shall we?” She wasn’t supposed to drink, but what was chemotherapy to Aunt Fran? I uncorked a bottle of Jacob’s Creek. “How’s Diego?” She ran her painted fingernail along the rim of the glass and sighed. Very theatrical of her. “Still trying to find himself. I’ve cut him loose.” I chuckled. Diego was Aunt Fran’s new boy toy. Not anymore, I guessed. “I thought Nathan would be here.” She’d already finished her first glass and was pouring herself another. “Or maybe I misunderstood. Those filthy drugs they’ve been pumping me with have me just about as clear-headed as Keith Richards.” “Aunt Fran, I’m sor—” “Oh please, don’t get all mushy on me.” She slapped my hand. Quite hard, too. “Why is it that every time I see you, you look more beautiful than the time before? Look at you. You’re candy for your old auntie’s eyes.” Aunt Fran had always managed to fluster me. I believe she enjoyed it. She winked. “So where is Mr. Alpha, anyway?” “Why do you insist on calling him that?” “Let’s see. Because Nathan is domineering, arrogant, completely self-absorbed, and—” “He’s also consistently charming, immensity driven, quick-witted, and passionate.” “And what about his—” she cleared her throat and leaned in “—performance in the sack?” “Oh, aren’t you dying to know.” She exploded into a fit of laughter that soon turned into a coughing spree. She was wheezing and struggling for the next breath. I clutched the counter, waiting for it to subside, and watched helplessly. Her eyes filled with tears. Her fingers turned white from the effort. Slowly, the air seemed to settle into her dying lungs and she cracked a sardonic smile. “That one wasn’t too bad, now was it?” She left her stool and went to fetch her bag. “I’ve got something for you, hon.” As she pulled out a black binder from her large printed purse, my cell phone buzzed on the counter. On the other end of the line, Nathan’s voice was full of sleep. “Hey, babe,” he said. I glanced down at my watch. Montreal. Eight P.M. So it was past midnight, London time. “Hello, stranger,” I said discreetly. “Can’t sleep?” Aunt Fran refilled her glass again and stepped out on the terrace. She huddled in the far corner, hunched over like a thief. Obviously smoking. “How was your day off?” There was tension in Nathan’s voice. He’d been pushing himself lately, but there was no sense in trying to slow him down. The man was a machine. “Nice. I got ahead on a few things.” “Derek O’Reilly, tell me you haven’t been working on your only day off.” “Nathan Ross, if you intend on lecturing me on over-achievement, I suggest you rethink your sermon.” “All right.” A smile seeped into his smooth voice. “But promise me you’re going to take it easy tonight. Get yourself a movie, or read one of your dreadful books.” “I will promise no such thing. Now go to sleep.” “Not until you tell me you love me and miss me.” Aunt Fran gently inched open the patio door, as though a smooth entrance would absolve her of all guilt. “Der? You there?” Nathan asked. “Yes, Nate. Consider yourself loved and missed. Good night.” An uneasy silence filled the line. “Derek, why don’t you ever say it?” Aunt Fran’s gaze roamed all over my flushed face, as though she’d heard Nathan’s question. I pressed the phone closer to my ear. “My aunt is here.” “That troublemaker? She better not be smoking in our con—” “Nate, I have to go. Call me in the morning, okay? Good night, sleep tight.” Annoyed, I flipped the phone shut. After a long moment of silence, Aunt Fran pushed the black binder my way. “Found this in the old Verdun apartment. I was there today, cleaning it up a little. New tenants are moving in in three weeks.” I looked down at the binder. “What is it?” She patted my hand. “Open it.” I stared at her a little, and then, humoring her, flipped the cover back. My heart leaped. Memories rushed through me in one big jolt of past tense. My dearest Bump. I’d forgotten about you. Seventeen years had passed since I’d last written you. “I have to tell you, Derek, I was dying of curiosity, and I did read a few pages. Hope you won’t hold it against me?” My gaze was still fastened to the page. A page filled with my own handwriting. “You have a gift for storytelling.” Aunt Fran’s voice grew stronger. “Hon? Are you listening? I think you should pick that habit up again. It would surely do you some good.” That long-ago winter of 1987. Seemed like a million years had gone by. Holding my breath, I skimmed my fingertips across the pages that had been written by a skinny, red-headed boy who’d struggled to make sense of the world around him. And that beautiful name, the one I’d managed to push into the deepest corners of my soul for all these years, now, like a forgotten prayer, a chant, an incantation, an omen, and a promise, echoed through my mind. Nicolai Lund. My blue-eyed dream. “I wonder what happened to them all,” Aunt Fran whispered, searching the horizon. “Those wonderful kids.” I looked away from the meticulous handwriting of a boy I didn’t know anymore. * * * * Yet, later that night, cozy in bed, I couldn’t resist opening the binder again. As I sipped a cup of tea, my gaze raced along the words, and I knew I was opening much more than a binder… July 1987 Dear Bump, I didn’t know it was possible to be brand new, then dead on the same day. You know, I waited a long time for you. I’d marked August 2nd with a red X, but instead, you came the day before yesterday. You came, but never home. I’m not really supposed to talk about it though. Dad said, “Derek, you better be quiet when Mom gets home, and you don’t say his name. Not one time.” I don’t think I’m supposed to write about you either, so I’ll just call you “Bump.” That’s what Mom used to call you when she found out you were coming. I had an asthma attack that morning. I sucked on my medicine and let her comb my hair. “Don’t get so tight, Red,” she said. “Your little brother’s gonna like playing soccer. Your dad won’t mind so much about all your reading anymore.” Boy, was I looking forward to that. But now, not only are you not going to play soccer with Dad, you’re not even going to be alive. Since she came home from the hospital, Mom’s eyes are glossy like dish soap and our apartment is like an empty coconut. Dad is the only one allowed inside their bedroom. I’m not allowed past the bathroom. * * * * Dear Bump, After dinner, I have to yank some weeds, but when I’m done, Boone says he has a surprise for me. Boone is my best friend. He’s a Lund kid. The Lunds are our neighbors. We share the same yard. They’re from Norway. That’s a country near Sweden where it’s all mountains and blue lakes. There’s three kids in the Lund family and Boone is the middle one. He’s been in my class since kindergarten. Their father is a locksmith, that means he opens doors when you need a door opened and you forgot the key. Dad is, well, was an electrician for a company called mothahumpinasslicor, but he was laid off last fall. That’s probably why he was upset when Mom said you were coming. They fought about you until June. You were supposed to come in August, but you came in July. Like me. July is a good month to have your birthday. You can have a pool party. If you have a pool. We don’t have a pool, but we have a sprinkler. It belongs to the Lunds, and they let us use it sometimes. It rained on my birthday, so we didn’t get to use it. Anyway, I’m twelve. I shouldn’t be playing in a stupid sprinkler. * * * * Dear Bump, Mom cut off all her hair yesterday. She left some on top, but not much in the back. I noticed how small her face is. Or maybe her eyes are bigger than I thought. Dad doesn’t like it. I can tell because he keeps staring at her ears. They stick out a little. Like an elf, I guess. I didn’t tell you about Boone’s surprise. It wasn’t much. Just a dirty magazine he stole from his cousin. He made such a fuss over it. I thought he was going to reveal something important to me. Thought maybe he’d found a treasure map, but it was only a bunch of jiggly boobies. He asked me to meet him by the river, behind the Auditorium. “O’Reilly, you’re not gonna believe this.” I waited for him for ten whole minutes. Then suddenly, Boone shot out of nowhere, riding his BMX bike down the steep hill like he was made out of rubber. He almost rammed into me. “Check this out,” he said, pulling out a sticker album from his backpack. “But you can’t have it. Not even for a day. I gotta bring it back before my cousin finds out it’s missing.” “What is it?” My heart thundered with sweet anticipation. His blue gaze scoured the bank. “It’s naked girls. All kinds.” Boone is obsessed with girls. In kindergarten, he’d have pockets full of bubble gum and coax the girls into showing him their privates. He thinks I don’t know that, but I used to watch him do it. It’s funny, none of the girls ever asked for the gum. I ended up chewing a lot of gum that year. “Lene wants to kiss you on the mouth on Tuesday.” We were trekking back home. “No, B—boone. Don’t wa—ant to,” I stuttered. Lene is Boone’s sister. She’s nine. She has a crush on me. She always sticks love notes in my running shoes. I’m probably going to marry her, but first I need to travel to Asia. All the grown men I know have two things in common: They drink too much brown liquor and have never gone to Asia. I think there’s something there. If I want to be successful, I need to visit Peking. Later, Mrs. Lund asked me to stay for supper. She was making something colorful. It wasn’t meat, and it smelled nice. I wanted to stay, but the last time I stayed for supper, I puked, on account of my nerves, you know. My throat closes up like Dad’s fingers around his beer mug. I can’t blink. I forget how to breathe. My face burns. My brain hums. And sometimes, I get this funny feeling deep inside my stomach, like a hot liquid pouring into my shorts. It only happens when Boone’s older brother sits at the table. He mostly doesn’t because he’s seventeen. But I can’t take that chance. Sometimes, Boone’s brother doesn’t come to the table until dessert is served, and that’s the worst because I love Mrs. Lund’s tapioca pudding, but I just can’t seem to swallow anything down whenever Nicolai Lund is around.