Frameshift (3 page)

The early 1980s. Ronald Reagan had recently been sworn in as president, and, moments later, Iran had released the American hostages it had been holding prisoner for 444 days. Here in Canada, Pierre Trudeau was in the middle of his comeback term as prime minister, struggling to bring the Canadian constitution home from Great Britain.

Eighteen-year-old Pierre Tardivel stood in front of the strange house in suburban Toronto, the collar of his red McGill University jacket turned up against the cold, dry wind whipping down the salt-stained street.

Now that he was here, this didn’t seem like such a good idea. Maybe he should just turn around, head back to the bus station, back to Montreal.

His mother would be delighted if he gave up now, and, well, if what Henry Spade’s wife had told Pierre about her husband were true, Pierre wasn’t sure that he could face the man. He should just—

No. No, he had come this far. He had to see for himself.

Pierre took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp air, trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach. He walked up the driveway to the front door of the side-split suburban home, pressed the doorbell, and heard the muffled sound of the chimes from within. A few moments later, the door opened, and a handsome, middle-aged woman stood before him.

“Hello, Mrs. Spade. I’m Pierre Tardivel.” He was conscious of how out of place his Quebecois accent must have sounded here — another reminder that he was intruding.

There was a moment while Mrs. Spade looked Pierre up and down during which Pierre thought he saw a flicker of recognition on her face.

Pierre had merely told her on the phone that his parents had been friends of her husband, back when Henry Spade had lived in Montreal in the early sixties. And yet she had to have realized there must be a special reason for Pierre to want to visit. What was it Pierre’s mother had said when he’d confronted her with the evidence? “I knew you were Henry’s — you’re the spitting image of him.”

“Hello, Pierre,” said Mrs. Spade. The voice was richer than it had sounded over the phone, but there was still a trace of wariness to it. “You can call me Dorothy. Please come in.” She stepped aside, and Pierre entered the vestibule. Physically, Dorothy bore a passing resemblance to his mother — dark hair, cool blue-gray eyes, full lips. Perhaps Henry Spade had been attracted to a specific type of woman. Pierre unzipped his jacket, but made no move to take it off.

“Henry is upstairs in his room,” said Dorothy.
His room
. Separate bedrooms? How cold. “It’s easier for him to be lying down. Do you mind seeing him up there?”

Pierre shook his head.

“Very well,” she said. “Come with me.”

They walked into the brightly lit living room. Two full walls were covered with bookcases made of dark wood. A staircase led to the second floor. Along one side of it were tracks for a small motorized chair. The chair itself was positioned at the top. Dorothy led Pierre upstairs and into the first door on the left.

Pierre fought to keep his expression neutral.

Lying on the bed was a man who appeared to be dancing on his back.

His arms and legs moved constantly, rotating at shoulder and hip, elbow and knee, wrist and ankle. His head lolled left and right across the pillow.

His hair was steel gray and, of course, his eyes were brown.

“
Bonjour,”
said Pierre, so startled that he’d begun speaking in French.

He began again. “Hello. I’m Pierre Tardivel.”

The man’s voice was weak and slurred. Speaking was clearly an effort.

“Hello, P-Pierre,” he said. He paused, but whether composing his thoughts or just waiting for his body to yield a little control, Pierre couldn’t say.

“How is — is your mother?”

Pierre blinked repeatedly. He would not insult the man by crying in front of him. “She’s fine.”

Henry’s head rolled from side to side, but he kept his eyes on Pierre. He wanted more, Pierre knew, than a platitude.

“She’s in good health,” he said. “She’s a loans officer for a large branch of Banque de Montreal.”

“She’s happy?” asked Henry, with effort.

“She enjoys her work, and money is no problem. There was a lot of insurance when Dad died.”

Henry swallowed with what appeared to be considerable difficulty. “I, ah, didn’t know that Alain had passed on. Tell her… tell her I’m sorry.”

The words seemed sincere. No sarcasm, no double edge. Alain Tardivel had been his rival, but Henry seemed genuinely saddened by his death.

Pierre squeezed his jaw tightly shut for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll tell her.”

“She’s a wonderful woman,” said Henry.

“I have a picture of her,” said Pierre. He pulled out his wallet and flipped to the small portrait of his mother wearing a white silk blouse. He held the wallet where Henry could see it.

Henry stared at it for a long time, then said, “I guess I changed more than she did.”

Pierre forced a weak smile.

“Are… only child?” A few words had gotten lost in the convulsion that had passed over Henry’s body like a wave.

“Yes. There—” No, no point in mentioning his younger sister, Marie-Claire, who had died when she was two. “Yes, I’m the only one.”

“You’re a fine-looking young man,” said Henry.

Pierre smiled — genuinely this time — and Henry seemed to smile back.

Dorothy, perhaps detecting the undercurrent, or perhaps just bored with conversation about people she didn’t know, said, “Well, I can see you two have things to talk about. I’ll go downstairs. Pierre, can I bring you a drink? Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” said Pierre.

“Well, then,” she said, and left.

Pierre stood beside Henry’s bed. Having his own room made perfect sense now. How could it be any other way? No one could sleep next to him, given the constant jerking of his limbs.

The man on the bed lifted his right arm toward Pierre. It moved slowly from side to side, like the bough of a tree swaying in the wind. Pierre reached out and took the hand, holding it firmly. Henry smiled.

“You look… just like I did… when I was your age,” said Henry.

A tear did slip down Pierre’s cheek. “You know who I am?”

Henry nodded. “I — when your mother got pregnant, I’d thought there was a chance. But she ended our relationship. I’d assumed if I’d… if I’d been right, I’d have heard something before now.” His head was moving, but he managed to keep his eyes mostly on Pierre. “I— I wish I’d known.”

Pierre squeezed the hand. “Me, too.” A pause. “Do you— do you have any other children?”

“Daughters,” said Henry. “Two daughters. Adopted. Dorothy— Dorothy couldn’t…”

Pierre nodded.

“Best, in a way,” said Henry, and here, at last, he let his gaze wander away from Pierre. “Huntington’s disease is… is…”

Pierre swallowed. “Hereditary. I know.”

Henry’s head moved back and forth more rapidly than normal — a deliberate signal all but lost in the muscular noise. “If I’d known I had it, I… never would have allowed myself to father a child. I’m sorry. V-very sorry.”

Pierre nodded.

“You might have it, too.”

Pierre said nothing.

“There’s no test,” said Henry. “I’m sorry.”

Pierre watched Henry move about on the bed, knees jerking, free arm waving. And yet in the middle of it all was a face not unlike his own, round and broad, with deep brown eyes. He realized then that he didn’t know how old Henry was. Forty-five? Perhaps as old as fifty. Certainly no more than that. Henry’s right arm started jerking rapidly. Pierre, not sure what to do, let go of his hand.

“It’s… it’s good to finally meet you,” said Pierre; and then,
realizing
that he would never have another chance, he added a single word: “Dad.”

Henry’s eyes were wet. “You need anything?” he said. “Money?”

Pierre shook his head. “I’m fine. Really, I am. I just wanted to meet you.”

Henry’s lower lip was trembling. Pierre couldn’t tell at first if it was just part of the chorea or had deeper meaning. But when Henry next spoke, his voice was full of pain. “I — I’ve forgotten your name,” he said.

“Pierre,” he said. “Pierre Jacques Tardivel.”

“Pierre,” repeated Henry. “A good name.” He paused for several seconds, then said, “How is your mother? Did you bring a picture?”

Pierre went down to the living room. Dorothy was sitting in a chair, reading a Jackie Collins novel. She looked up and gave him a wan smile.

“Thank you,” said Pierre. “Thank you for everything.”

She nodded. “He very much wanted to see you.”

“I was very glad to see him.” He paused. “But I should be going now.”

“Wait,” said Dorothy. She took an envelope from the coffee table and rose to her feet. “I have something for you.” Pierre looked at it. “I told him I didn’t need any money.” Dorothy shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s photographs — of Henry, from a dozen years ago. From when you would have been a little boy. Photographs of what he was like then — the way I’m sure he’d like you to remember him.”

Pierre took the envelope. His eyes were stinging. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded, her face not quite masking her pain.

Pierre returned to Montreal. His family doctor referred him to a specialist in genetic disorders. Pierre went to see the specialist, whose office wasn’t far from Olympic Stadium.

“Huntington’s is carried on a dominant gene,” said Dr. Laviolette to Pierre, in French. “You have precisely a fifty-fifty chance of getting it.” He paused, and smoothed out his steel gray hair. “Your case is very unusual — discovering as an adult that you’re at risk; most at-risks have known for years. How did you find out?”

Pierre was quiet for a moment, thinking. Was there any need to go into the details? That he’d discovered in a first-year genetics class that it was impossible for two blue-eyed parents to have a brown-eyed child? That he’d confronted his mother, Elisabeth, with this fact? That she’d confessed to having had an affair with one Henry Spade during the early years of her marriage to Alain Tardivel, the man Pierre had known as his father, a man who had been dead now for two years? That Elisabem, a Catholic, had been unable to divorce Alain? That Elisabeth had successfully hidden from Alain the fact that their brown-eyed son was not his biological child?

And that Henry Spade had moved to Toronto, never knowing he’d fathered a child?

It was too much, too personal. “I only recently met my real father for the first time,” said Pierre simply.

Laviolette nodded. “How old are you, Pierre?”

“I turn nineteen next month.”

The doctor frowned. “There isn’t any predictive test for Huntington’s, I’m afraid. You might not have the disease, but the only way you’ll discover that is when you finish middle age without it showing up. On the other hand, you might develop symptoms in as few as ten or fifteen years.”

Laviolette looked at him quietly. They’d already gone over the worst of it. Huntington’s disease (also known as Huntington’s chorea) affects about half a million people worldwide. It selectively destroys two parts of the brain that help control movement. Symptoms, which normally first manifest themselves between the ages of thirty and fifty, include abnormal posture, progressive dementia, and involuntary muscular action — the name “chorea” refers to the dancing movements typical of the disease. The disease itself, or complications arising from it, eventually kills the victim; Huntington’s sufferers often choke to death on food because they’ve lost the muscular control to swallow.

“Have you ever thought about killing yourself, Pierre?” asked Laviolette.

Pierre’s eyebrows rose at the unexpected question. “No.”

“I don’t mean just now over concern about possibly having Huntington’s disease. I mean ever. Have you ever thought about killing yourself?”

“No. Not seriously.”

“Are you prone to depression?”

“No more than the next guy, I imagine.”

“Boredom? Lack of direction?”

Pierre thought about lying, but didn’t. “Umm, yes. I have to admit to some of that.” He shrugged. “People say I’m unmotivated, that I coast through life.”

Laviolette nodded. “Do you know who Woody Guthrie is?”

“Who?”

The doctor made a “kids today” face. “He wrote ‘This Land Is Your Land.’ ”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“He died of Huntington’s in 1967. His son Arlo — you have heard of him, no?”

Pierre shook his head.

Laviolette sighed. “You’re making me feel old. Arlo wrote ‘Alice’s Restaurant.’ ”

Pierre looked blank.

“Folk music,” said Laviolette.

“In English, no doubt,” said Pierre dismissively.

“Even worse,” said Laviolette, with a twinkle in his eye. “
American
English. Anyway, Arlo is probably the most famous person in your position. He’s got a fifty-fifty chance of having inherited the gene, just like you. He talked about it once in an interview in
People
magazine; I’ll give you a photocopy before you go.”

Pierre, unsure what to say, simply nodded.

Laviolette reached for his pen and prescription pad. “I’m going to write out the number for the local Huntington’s support up; I want you to call them.” He copied a phone number from a small Cerlox-bound Montreal health-services directory, tore the sheet off the pad, and handed it to Pierre. He paused for a moment, as if thinking, then picked a business card from the brass holder on his desk and wrote another phone number beneath the one preprinted on the card. “And I’m also doing something I never do, Pierre. This is my personal number at home. If you can’t get me here, try me there — day or night. Sometimes… sometimes people take news like this very poorly. Please, if you’re ever thinking of doing something rash, call me. Promise you’ll do that, Pierre.” He proffered the card.

“You mean if I’m thinking about killing myself, don’t you?”

The doctor nodded.

Pierre took the card. To his astonishment, his hand was shaking.

Late at night, alone in his room. Pierre hadn’t even managed to finish undressing for bed. He just stared into space, not focusing, not thinking.

It was unfair, damn it. Totally unfair.

What had he done to deserve this?

There was a small crucifix above the door to his room; it had been there since he’d been a little boy. He stared up at the tiny Jesus — but there was no point in praying. The die was cast; what was done was done. Whether or not he had the gene had been determined almost twenty years ago, at the very moment of his conception.

Pierre had bought an Arlo Guthrie LP and listened to it. He’d been unable to find any Woody Guthrie at A A’s, but the Montreal library had an old album by a group called the Almanac Singers that Woody had once been part of. He listened to that, too.

The Almanac Singers’ music seemed full of hope; Arlo’s music seemed sad. It could go either way.

Pierre had read that most Huntington’s patients ended their lives in hospital. The average stay before death was seven years.

Outside, the wind was whistling. A branch of the tree next to the house swept back and forth across the window, like a crooked, bony hand beckoning him to follow.

He didn’t want to die. But he didn’t want to live through years of suffering.

He thought about his father — his real father, Henry Spade. Thrashing about in bed, his faculties slipping away.

His eyes lit on his desk, a white particleboard thing from Consumers Distributing. On it was his copy of
Les Miserables
, which he’d just finished reading for his French-literature course. Jean Valjean had stolen a loaf of bread, and no matter what he did, he could not undo that fact; until his dying day, his record was marked. Pierre’s record was marked, too, one way or the other, but there was no way to read it. If he were like Valjean — if he were a convict — then he had a Javert, too, endlessly pursuing him, eventually fated to catch up.

In the book, the tables had turned, with Inspector Javert ending up being the one incapable of escaping his birthright. Unable to alter what he was, he took the only way out, plunging from a parapet into the icy waters of the Seine below.

The only way out…

Pierre got up, shuffled over to the desk, turned on a hooded lamp on an articulated bone-white arm, and found Laviolette’s card with the doctor’s home number written on it. He stared at the card, reading it over and over again.

The only way out…

He walked back to his bed, sat on the edge of it, and listened to the wind some more. Without ever looking down to see what he was doing, he began drawing the edge of the card back and forth across the inside of his left wrist, again and again, as though it were a blade.