Fractured Read online

  Honestly, it was just talk. My hands shook so badly that I dropped my spade. Life did not flash before my eyes, but I could almost smell that roast pork.

  “Just my luck to be stuck with two fucking Indians, a Chink and a Jap. Getting rid of you must be my ticket to heaven.”

  Who talks like that anymore, really? It didn’t even make sense. If China was out of contact, so it stood to reason that a good few billion non-Christians made it to heaven if it really was the end of days. But, Tom wasn’t right in the head. It made sense to him, and that was all he needed.

  “Get away from Mr. Kagawa right now, Tom,” Ying said.

  I didn’t realize she was standing there till then, with her hand on the trigger of one of the Snows guns.

  “Or I’ll shoot, and you’re going nowhere but in the dirt. Now go away, and don’t ever come back around here.”

  Cool as a cucumber that one. I owe her my life. I told her she looked convincing, and asked her where she learned to shoot.

  “Video games, of course.” She smiled.

  Kids these days.

  Three months after D-Day

  The Snows secured a small boat and are going to go back to Campbell River to see if anyone’s still there. They want to go home before the weather gets bad and I don’t blame them. I joked that they wanted to get away before paying up on their bet, and I wished them luck. We all know they won’t win this one.

  Ying avoided saying goodbye. She spends most of her time in the office now, has a bunch of scavenged computers hooked up to the generator. I couldn’t tell you what she’s doing. Still looking, I guess.

  I don’t want to think about how quiet it will be without the Snows. I’ve never minded the quiet but this is something else, isn’t it? Sometimes I think I hear your voice and I feel a little bit less lonely.

  Five months after D-Day

  You can hear the city falling apart. All the windows in those glass towers? They’re starting to crack from the cold. The electricity’s gone out in most areas, thanks to a windstorm a few weeks ago. Some lights on timers sometimes still go on and off, but they’re not going to last – two people can’t keep a city going.

  Ying’s taken over a giant house a few blocks away, all to herself. She says that she wouldn’t have been able to afford a house that big no matter how much she saved in her life. The rooms aren’t full of furniture but what looks to me like junk. Cell phones, computers, laptops, tablets, all the cables you can think of. She’s always tinkering away on something.

  She checks on me once a week and we have Sunday dinner together. She worries about me, she says. She worries about me? Can you imagine, it should be the other way around! I worry about the quiet, mostly. She’s got no one for company but an old fart like me. I know you think I’m a ball of laughs, but you always did have odd taste.

  But the house is warm, thanks to the generator and the solar piping the Snows helped install on the roof before they left. I sometimes boil water for an extra-hot bath. Mostly I cook on the grill these days, or eat out of cans. With everyone gone, there are more than enough cans to last a lifetime even if I never cooked again.

  When it’s quiet like this and I’m all alone in the house, I like to pretend you’re at work, and the kids are young again and away at school. Sometimes I want to stay there in those moments and linger.

  Ten months after D-Day

  Happy birthday, love. Of course I wouldn’t forget. This year I’d hoped to take you on a cruise because I know how much you always wanted to travel the world. I’m sorry that I kept telling you that we couldn’t afford it, because of the kids and all. I’m sorry I had such a hard time keeping a job when we were just starting out. I would have loved to travel the world with you. Just my luck, this would be the year. I hid the brochures in the garage so you wouldn’t find them. I was going to book the tickets for your birthday.

  Instead, I invited Ying over and we ate the biggest cake you could imagine. It tasted like shit, because you know I can’t bake but, damn, I tried. We put a candle on it, and sung you “Happy birthday” and everything. I miss you.

  One year after D-Day

  I caught Tom lurking around the house the other day. He seems right out of his mind. I didn’t want to show it but I was terrified, shaking. I grabbed that gun in the kitchen, stuck a steak knife in my belt, just to look a little more intimidating, and walked out onto the front porch. I pointed my gun straight at him and told him to scram.

  He shouted at me, rambled about fallen angels, but he left. I’m still shaking now.

  Oh love, you might be proud of me, but God, do I wish you could hold me close and whisper that into my ear. Sometimes this house of ours, when I’m by myself, is too big, and too empty, and I can’t handle it. It’s not like me to be this serious. Sometimes I worry I’ll end up just like Tom.

  Two years after D-Day

  Nature sure is something else. I’ve seen wolves and deer in the city! Mostly they leave me alone, though I am more cautious about where I throw my trash. Every day I go for a walk in Queen Elizabeth Park and feed the ducks with some crumbs. The waterfall no longer falls unless there’s been a good rain and the observatory’s crumbled in places.

  Sometimes I think I see the coloured birds that escaped, flying around town, in little flashes of orange and red. The ornamental gardens are overgrown now, but I rather like them that way. It looks wild, beautiful in a way that can’t be created artificially.

  Flowers still grow, and sometimes I pick some and put them in your room.

  I’ve gotten used to the quiet now. I’ve stopped looking out the window to check whether or not the world has gone back to normal, but I still miss you terribly.

  Three years after D-Day

  Judy and Bob Snow came calling, right out of the blue! They brought some fresh crab and smoked salmon. We had a feast in our kitchen. Thank goodness the generator’s still up and going. We didn’t have a care in the world while they were here. They’re doing great those two. The salmon are back, they say. Campbell River’s gone wild like it used to be, but that’s the way of things. They never met anyone else, but it sounds like they’ve built their own little paradise.

  They’ve got the right attitude, in my opinion. You take what you get, and do your best with it. My god, that salmon was amazing. I can’t remember the last time I had fresh food. They built a cabin, and have gone back to the ways their grandparents lived. Judy’s pregnant too, wouldn’t you know? It’s amazing. They thought they were too old, but there you go. Sometimes miracles do happen, even in the strangest of times.

  They invited me and Ying to come live with them. They say an old man shouldn’t be living on his own like this, but you know me. I can’t leave this place, just in case you come back and look for me. I know if you came back you would come straight here. And I know you would, if it were possible.

  Ying doesn’t want to leave her “batcave” (that’s what she calls it). I tried to convince Ying to go with them, but she’s as stubborn as you are. She babbled something about reestablishing a digital order. I have no idea what she’s going on about. Should I be worried?

  The Snows were disappointed. Maybe one day they’ll understand, but I’m old. Sooner or later, one way or another, I’ll leave this place that you and I made our home. Until then, I take comfort in the memories we made in this city. Everything reminds me of you, and when I’m here, I can almost believe you are too.

  Day… I don’t know.

  I’ve done something terrible. Ying told me that she saw Tom around, so I went and checked out her place. The poor kid was so terrified she nailed up boards on the windows, and installed extra locks on the doors.

  Tom smashed the generator in the yard, but Ying said she could fix it so she wasn’t worried. She was more worried about Tom, and I don’t blame her. I told her I’d look for him.

  I put on my heaviest coat, because of the winter chill, and put the gun in my pocket. I tried not to think about it while I walked. (You know me, I’d be
likely to shoot my own foot off by accident.) I also loaded up a bag with a few supplies.

  As I’d suspected, there were signs that Tom was hiding out in the nearest church, Holy Name, just a little bit farther down Cambie Street. I found sleeping bags and pillows piled up in a nest near the altar, all lit up prettily by the stained-glass windows, but Tom was nowhere to be seen.

  I dumped rat poison in the fountain of holy water, and all over his food supplies. I hope that God forgives me. If I’ve been damned, it’s too late anyway. Maybe this is why I have been left behind. Maybe there is a defect in my soul. Maybe He knew I’d commit murder, and therefore wasn’t worthy. But I can’t afford to think like that or I’ll end up just like Tom. I can’t. I won’t.

  You want to know the truth? I don’t feel bad about it, just relieved.

  Five years after D-Day

  Ying and I haven’t seen Tom again. I’m afraid to go back to the church, only to find him there rotting as evidence of my sins.

  I still go to the house from time to time, but my knees, in the winter, they don’t work so well anymore, love. The house has a great view, but climbing those stairs is something that’s harder and harder to do. I’ve found a lovely little rancher by the seaside and Ying helped me set it up. I know you would love it.

  This is hard for me to write, after all these years. Ying still comes by from time to time to check on me. She seems to be doing all right, just gone a little feral like the rest of us. I haven’t seen the Snows in a while. I hope they’re doing okay, and that their baby is growing up plump and happy.

  Some days I hope I’ll disappear too, and maybe I’ll end up wherever you are.

  But when you do come back, love, I know you will find these words I’ve left you in our house. Meet me on English Bay, near that old apartment we lived in before we had kids, where you came to meet me that one sunny day, when I bent down on my knees to ask you to marry me. When I close my eyes I can almost see you there.

  Just like then, I’ll be there at 12 noon, waiting. It’s a date.

  I’m still sure I’ll win that bet.

  MATTHEW, WAITING

  A.C. Wise

  He watches the Annes down by the shore. He hasn’t sorted the latest batch yet, hasn’t determined whether she is among them, the one he’s been waiting for. At the moment, they’re all Anne, because they all have the potential to be. An eternal optimist, he is.

  Laughter drifts to him on a salt breeze. The Annes dart into the surf, holding their skirts up, but getting their hems wet nonetheless. Their bare feet turn red with the sand and they plunge their hands into the waves, as if anything good to eat remains since the Change. They won’t find anything. Not that they really try. Not like the Dianas, who are off gathering lupins by the armful. At least parts of the lupin are edible, and might help them survive another year. The Annes are all full of hope, when they stop to think, which these ones rarely do. Mostly the Annes splash each other and laugh. Mostly they push each other into the surf, one pretending to be indignant, one pretending to scold, one pretending to drown.

  It’s all a game with the Annes, it always is, but not enough of a game. Not yet. The right level of imagination hasn’t yet been displayed, and he hasn’t yet found The One. She hasn’t returned, but one day, she will.

  He sighs. Soon, it will be time to call the Annes home. Gather them back to the house where they will all do the best they can, cooking what greens and weeds the Dianas have scavenged, adding it to whatever the Gilberts have managed to hunt. They’ll light candles – they have those still – and when they run out, they’ll burn driftwood, filling the house with the scent of old salt and the faint odour of ruin, washed in on the tide.

  From the dunes and the long grasses gone wild above the red sand he waves. “Time to come home now, girls, I guess.”

  He doesn’t wait to see if they’ll follow, but trudges back toward the house. His breath is shorter these days. It’s harder to wade through the long grass no one tends. He doesn’t need to call the Dianas or the Gilberts; he trusts them to find their way back. Besides – they don’t matter as much anyway.

  It’s the Annes. Always the Annes.

  When he finds her, the Anne, the right Anne, he can rest.

  She’ll come again. He knows she will. She always has before.

  The orphanage called it a mistake, but he knows. She was meant to be in his life. She saved him before, and she will again. Even though this time the story has turned out wrong. He’s lived longer than he should. He remembers too much.

  (Hold on. It’s okay, hold on, we’ll get you help. It’s… Of course there are still ambulances, there have to be. What do you think we pay taxes for? Just… just hold on. Not for me. That little girl needs us. What will she do if you go?)

  He climbs the stairs, his old bones aching. How did he ever manage to live this long? Salt breeze is in his veins, red soil replacing his blood. It leaves him stiff. Every day it’s harder.

  His heart is bad the doctors say. Or said, before everything Changed. And now? He hasn’t seen a doctor in years. He hasn’t seen anyone but the Gilberts and the Dianas and the Annes. The occasional Miss Stacy, doing her best to hold onto the knowledge of the old world. Sometimes a Josie, trying to turn every situation to her advantage. And every now and then an Allan, alone or in pairs, preaching the word of the lost God and declaring the difference between Now and Then to be God’s judgment for the world’s sins.

  He doesn’t believe a word, not from any of them. The only important thing is finding her, his Anne.

  Below, in the kitchen and the parlour, in the much abused rooms never meant to be a functional holdout against the end of the world, he hears a riot of movement and voices. Annes and Dianas and Gilberts colliding, bickering about the best way to cook the day’s salvage on the tiny stove meant for tourist-show, not every day work.

  Everything they cook on it now smells of the rotten tide anyway. Or the mouldering furniture salvaged from neighbouring houses, fallen to ruin while they mysteriously remain. Or the trees, gone sickly, gone dark and wrong and riddled with beetles and worms, but still good enough for burning when nothing else remains.

  He fingers The Book, one of only a few remaining copies. The rest have disappeared, lost to age, or perhaps resentful Annes setting out on their own, taking a remnant of his heart as a souvenir. Or perhaps it’s the Dianas, ever practical, burning them for fuel. He’s certain he’s seen words in the ashes, fragments holy enough to weep over, to gather in time-gnarled hands and press to his wrinkled cheeks.

  This copy is foxed, the pages worn and water-stained. Mould has begun to creep in, and there are chunks of text missing. He fills the gaps with memory. For instance: Marilla was always the practical one, the sensible one. Why did she have to leave him? He was never supposed to outlive her. What will he do without her?

  ( Hang on. You have to hang on. Just a little longer. And of course he knew she wasn’t really his sister, but it was easier when he had to keep her talking, trying to keep her awake just a little bit longer, waiting for the ambulance that wouldn’t come. It was easier, fighting the Sickness, to tell her shared stories of a childhood that never was. Remember when…? And when he ran out of those stories: when his imagination failed, there were stories any and every book he could call to mind. He told them over and over again. As long as he could. Until the memories ran out. Until his voice grew hoarse. Until the words were too thick with tears.)

  He runs his thumb over the pages, taking comfort in the rustle of ivory turning to old bone. It doesn’t matter that they’re not all there. The important ones are – the ice cream, the raspberry cordial, the Lady of Shallot, the puffed sleeves. And most importantly, Anne holding him in her arms as he dies.

  This is what he’s been waiting for. This is what he needs. It’s been a long road, and he wants to lie down, but can’t. Not until he sees her again.

  (I never wanted a boy. I only wanted you from the first day. Don’t ever change. I love my little gir
l. I’m so proud of my little girl.)

  His throat hurts. It’s hard to breathe. He wipes his eyes and turns from The Book, from the window, where he can see the last of the Annes and the Dianas and the Gilberts coming home.

  He makes his way slowly down the stairs. The kitchen is crowded. Now, instead of raucous noise, he sees only a fullness he is fond of, something that makes him feel less alone. He watches, unobtrusive, as the tumble of boys and girls move about the space – all elbows, all feet – crashing into each other when they don’t mean to and whenever they can.

  He pays particular attention to the Annes. For all he knows, one of them could be her.

  “Cordelia?” he whispers, whenever one passes close, a whirlwind, orbiting him briefly for half a turn before spinning away again.

  None of them answer. The first test failed. He leaves out a dress with puffy sleeves most nights, but none of them gravitate toward it. He watches for the way they do or do not braid their hair.

  “Are you okay?” A hand touches his arm.

  He looks up, realizing he’s leaning against the wall, sliding down it really, while his breath wheezes. He wipes his eyes – they are rheumy these days, always weepy whether he’s sad or not.

  “Fine.” He straightens, trying to see the young woman in front of him. Is she a Diana or an Anne?

  “Are you sure? Maybe you better sit down.” She pulls a chair for him. In a moment, she brings him tea.

  It tastes like salt. Who knows how it was brewed. He doesn’t ask, only wraps his fingers around the cup, breathes and swallows deep.

  She continues to watch him, concerned, chewing her bottom lip. She’s quieter than most. Is that right? Sometimes the memories get muddled and some days he can’t remember what Anne – his Anne – should be.

  Amidst the bustle of the kitchen, the flurry of who knows what cooking on the overworked stove in the too-small space, she pulls up another chair beside him and takes his hand. Her fingers squeeze his. They are cold. Or perhaps it is his skin that is cold, the chill transferred to her. She glances around, looking to see whether the others are listening, then whispers conspiratorially to him – her words the only thing he can hear in the din despite their hush.