Live it Again (23 page)

October 24 1992

Most people didn’t believe I started the
fire, and those that may have didn’t really care. I guess they figured we’d
suffered enough already. Cathy had become a well-respected young business woman
in town, and well, I was that crazy young writer. Leave them alone. Pretty sure
the insurance company didn’t believe me, but they couldn’t prove anything. We
were offered forty thousand--payable only if we rebuilt on the exact same
location. It would’ve cost that much just to clear up the mess that was still
there. Cathy was devastated. I told the insurance rep to shove the offer up his
ass, along with our policy.

No one
could ever say exactly where and how the fire began. I knew though. It was in
that in that little attic crawl space where Mary McFarlane used to hide when
her daddy came home drunk or high. She had finished with it, burned the
goddamned place down like it was meant to have burned down in 1979.

December 17 1992

Guess what? We’re still living with my
parents. Cathy is still messed up and I guess she always will be. At least
until we start having more kids. She says no, but I know she’ll change her
mind. I told her about the dream of Ben and Colonel running through the wheat
field last night. A part of me was afraid to tell her. Scared it might freak
her out, scared she might think I was going crazy talking about ghosts again.
It made her feel a lot better. Wish I’d told her sooner.

I helped mom put up the Christmas tree
this morning. In the same old spot it’s always gone, northeast corner of the
living room. I was lucky to have had so many Christmases here.

This will
be the last one with dad. A week short actually. I haven’t been dreading this
coming night, and I’m not even really that sad. I’ve stayed close with him
through the years and there are some things you just can’t change. Accepting
what’s to come is a hard thing, but once you do it can be such a relief.

Cathy returned to bed with an extra
comforter. Hugh tried to steal most of it away before she’d settled in beside
him. “Give that back,” she said, yanking it back to her side. “It’s too cold to
share.”

“I used that thing when I was a kid, barely
covered me up back then.”

“I guess your mom likes to save things.”

Not that again.

Cathy was still sore that he’d managed to
salvage his little journal from the fire, but hadn’t even considered saving the
photo album in the desk drawer beneath it. At least she hadn’t asked to see
inside its pages to see what made the little diary more special than Ben’s baby
pictures. Hugh’s mom had plenty of those, but still, she couldn’t resist
dropping one-liners now and again.

He worked an arm beneath her and hugged up
for warmth. “Can you see us staying in Braedon forever?” Big question, great
subject changer.

“It’s been hard…but I can’t see us running
out now. Maybe if we get another place in the spring, a
new
place just
out of town, maybe that will get me back to work.”

It was good to hear her talk like that,
looking ahead. “This place is just out of town.”

“Your parents live here, Hugh. I’ve heard
of twenty-eight year old guys still living with their mom and dad--but with
their wife too?”

“They’ve been good to us.”

“Oh, they’ve been wonderful to us; I love
your parents… a hell of a lot more than I loved my own.”

“But?”

“But even though they would never say it, I
think they’d like it if we got back out on our own.”

Not tomorrow morning. Mom will need us
then.

She watched him study the ceiling and
rubbed the tear away with her thumb as it trickled down his cheek. “It must be
hard coming back knowing that you’ll have to say goodbye again so soon.”

He turned to her, stunned by the words. “How
do you--why did you say that?”

“When I left home, it was one of the
scariest but happiest days of my life. You came from a big family with loving
parents. It couldn’t have been easy leaving all that behind. Even though we
lost Ben, I’ve sensed how happy you are to have come home. I think it’s going
to be tough when you have to leave again.”

For a moment, Hugh thought she
had
read
his diary. “I’m a big boy now, I’ll manage. Can we talk about something else
now?”

She pinched his buttock. “You brought it
up, buster.”

Her hands on his skin had made him start to
harden up. There had been no sex since that last night together in the
McFarlane house. Tonight felt right, she was playful and he was content. He
looked at the clock on the night table.

10:09. In his first life, Hugh had gotten
the call to come move his father’s oxygen tank at around 10:30. He wouldn’t
bitch about it tonight. And he wouldn’t have sex tonight.

“Where are you going?” Cathy asked as he
got out of bed and put on his bathrobe.

“I’m hungry.”

Marion Nance was knitting a scarf and
listening to the news, the television volume set at senior-citizen level high.
Hugh sat on the couch beside her. “How was dad when he went to bed?”

“His same old self…bitching about how his
window rattles in the wind, how heavy his breathing equipment is to move
around. I just took him a glass of Eno to settle his stomach.”

The doctor said it was a heart attack in
the end. A sore gut can be a sign of that.

“The tree looks nice.”

She looked up from her lap of needles and
wool and nodded. “The same artificial tree since you were a boy. Most of the
same decorations too.”

“Remember when I used to make Donald lift
me up to place the star on top?”

“All you kids fought over that. Gordon was
the worst one.”

Gordon had been at Ben’s funeral. They didn’t
have much to say to one another. A card, a pat on the shoulder. No hugs. “How’s
he doing?”

“He’s fine, work is going well. I don’t
think he’ll make it down next week.” It was a useless bit of information. Gordo
would be down next week, but not to celebrate the holiday. “I wish the two of
you would get together. It’s been hard for me watching you drift apart.”

“Someday, mom, scout’s honor.”

They watched a bit of the news together, the
first President Bush talking about troop deployment in Somalia. Hugh switched
the channel. Benny Hill on fourteen, the local weather on fifteen. A big green
screen overlaid with moving blue and grey swirls predicting a heavy snowfall
for most of central Canada. He settled on channel sixteen and placed the remote
down. The X-Files was on.

“Could you check on your father before
going to bed, dear?”

“Sure, mom.” He stood up and kissed her on
the forehead. “Good night.”

Hugh walked slowly down the hallway, past
the washroom, and to the little spare room that was now served as his father’s
bedroom. He’d stopped sleeping in the same bed with Hugh’s mother a year
earlier. It allowed him more space for all the breathing apparatus, the tank,
the tubes and cords, the masks and puffers.

The tri-light lamp beside the bed was still
on, set to its lowest level. Steve Nance lay in his bed, eyes closed and mouth
slightly open. A clear plastic tube ran from his nostrils, over one side of his
pillow, and snaked away from the dim yellow light into shadows and to the monster
of a machine that helped him breathe.

Am I too late?

There was a click and a mechanical hiss.
His father’s chest rose, slightly, and he licked his dry lips. Hugh saw the
brief image of King Rameses rising up, bandaged arms about to reach out.

His eyes were open, tired old eyes, the
eyes of his dad. The mummy’s image vanished.

“Dad? How are feeling?”

“Hoo?”
Hugh

“Yeah, dad, it’s me. Just came to see if
you needed anything.”

Steve Nance propped himself up on one elbow
and pointed toward the machinery. “Can you move th’ damn tank a bit closer…tube’s
stretched out too tight.”

There was another click, another hiss. Hugh
hated that thing.

He went to the corner and pulled it a foot
closer to the bed. “That better?”

“Tha’s fine, thanks.”

There was a book open on his lap. Hugh
picked it and looked at the cover.
David Copperfield.
His father had
been a huge Dickens fan, probably read every title a dozen times over. “You
finished reading for the night?”

“Jus’ about. I hope to have it done
tomorrow.” Click, hiss. “Wanna start A
Christmas Carol
before th’ season’s
over.”

This was it. Hugh couldn’t say good night.
He started for the door and stopped halfway out. He rubbed the knuckles of one
hand down its wooden surface. His throat ached. “I love you, dad.”

“Upluh th’ isiss tee ighs…”

He looked at his father and recalled the
one word he had said in return a lifetime ago.

Whatever.

Hugh walked back to his bed, leaned over. “What
did you say, dad? I couldn’t understand.”

Click. Hiss.

“Unplug th’ Christmas tree lights…waste of
electricity.”

December 19 1992

For thirty-seven years I tortured myself
for not paying attention to dad’s final words. All of that guilt, all those
terrible nightmares. And what had it been for? To shave eight or nine cents off
the next hydro bill. If his heart hadn’t given out first I’m sure dad would’ve
died laughing.

Mom’s okay.
Cathy’s doing the best she can for her. I got some phone calls to make.

December 27 1992

It was good getting together with
everyone again over the holiday. Even under such shitty circumstances. Almost
sorry to see them all go this morning.

Cathy hasn’t
said another word about finding a new place.

November 3 1995

It’s a
girl! Surprise, surprise. Dana Marie, 9 pounds, eleven ounces. She was born on
the same day but one and a half pounds heavier than the first time. I chalk it
up to her mother’s happier and healthier lifestyle.

April 2 1996

Finished
moving mom into Braedon this afternoon. Her little house is close to the
hospital and a short walk from the grocery store. Lots of old friends nearby
for her to visit. She hasn’t yet shown any early signs of senility, healthy and
strong of mind.

March 15 1997

We have
another beautiful baby girl! Julie Ann was born two days after the due date-
not two months premature like I was expecting. I’m not complaining.

July 7 1999

My second son, Colton Stephen, arrived
safely into the world at four-thirty-two in the morning. It took eighteen
hours. So much for easy second and third deliveries.

Heather called from Winnipeg this
afternoon with some more good news. She’s moving back to Braedon in the fall.
Not great news for her. She lost her last waitressing job four months ago and
hasn’t been able to find work since. To top it all off, her last boyfriend
dumped her when he found out she was pregnant.

Heather
never had a kid in my first life, so I feel kind of responsible. Something I
may have said or did probably led her for that guy. I’m doing what I can for
her. We’ve had a second house built on the farm, nothing too big or fancy, but
perfect for a family just starting out. It was meant to be a little place I
could get away to and write, maybe double as a place to put up visitors. She’s
forty-three years old, pregnant for the first time in her life, and scared. It’s
all hers.

December 31 2005

This little book my mother gave me is
almost full. I haven’t written in it daily, not nearly as faithful to it as mom
has been with her own diary. She has dozens of them. I’m not going to begin
another one--sorry mom.

I’m very close now to where I was. I’ve
found my wife and we’ve had our children again. I’ve said goodbye to family and
friends. I’ve lived with, and overcome the guilt of a thousand mistakes. So
many things have changed; so much has remained the same.

I once believed that what a man does
defines him. Actions speak louder than words and all that other bullshit. I was
an unhappy, unfulfilled, ungrateful man. I’m no saint now. I still like money,
I fantasize about other women, I curse in front of my children (not as often),
I still like eating bad food (not as much), I drink too much coffee (maybe
more), and sometimes I think of starting up the cigarettes again.

I’m an addictive, weak-willed fool.
Always have been, always will be. But I’m not as bad I was. I never take
anything for granted anymore. Life is too short…even the second time round.

One more
thing: Mom never developed Alzheimer’s. How do you explain that? Wish I could
tell that to some research scientist type people. But how the hell would I go
about that? They would probably say ‘fuck the Alzheimer’s, let’s dissect this
guy and figure out the secret of time travel.’

May 19 2010

Hugh pulled the door open and stepped
inside Reynolds Liquor Mart. An electric buzz sounded somewhere above his head
announcing his arrival. He brushed rain from the shoulders of his leather
jacket and smiled as a fat lady approached him from down the main aisle.

“Wonderful afternoon, isn’t it?” Sally
Harder said. Her great arms filled with paper bags and booze.

“Never a better one, Sally.” He stood to
one side and pushed the door open. “Need a hand outside?”

“Thank you, Hugh--just hold the door open
for another sec, and I think I can manage the rest.” She had to go through
sideways and he had to step back even further. “Running Scott’s liquor home is
about the only exercise I get these days.”

How am I supposed to small-talk my way
out of that?

“Did you buy a ticket for the big draw
tonight?” He finally asked.

“Oh, I never forget that! Ten dollars’
worth. Scott says it’s a waste of good money, but I keep buying anyway.”

Scott Harder is a waste of good skin.
“If you win the thirty-five million, you can get him to cart his own
booze around, ‘eh, Sally?”

“That and my own personal trainer.” He
watched her waddle and clink to her car as the door hissed back into place. He
walked down the worn linoleum floor, past the displays of domestic and imported
beers, the cheap liqueurs and the cheaper wines.

Gary Reynolds looked up from his newspaper;
a surprised smile lit his thick lips, the watery eyes widened just a bit. “Hugh
Nance, Braedon’s resident author extraordinaire.”

“That’s me, Gary. Can I have a number
selection sheet, please?”

“Don’t you see you in town much.”

“Well, you know how it goes, always trying
to write that next best seller. Keeps me pretty busy.”

“Read your last one, what was it? The one
where the guy murders his wife and blames it on the University professor she was
banging…”

“Class Act.”

“Yeah, that’s the one--didn’t care for it.”

“Oh well…can I get that sheet now?”

Gary slipped him the small form and a
pencil. “Pickin’ your own numbers?”

Hugh started to check numbers off in the
little boxes.
8, 12
“It would appear so, yes.”

“Big
amount
tonight. A lot more people buy when it gets over twenty million.”

20, 23
“I
can imagine. What are the odds of hitting all six, Gary?”

“Well let me see…got those figures posted
up somewhere.” He ran a long, wrinkled finger down an ‘odds of winning’ paper
encased behind a sheet of clear plastic on the wall. “Aah, here we are…1 in
14,570, 604. And that’s just for the four million starting amount. Once the
jackpot grows, more people buy, and those odds get a lot higher.”

“Ever make you wonder why people bother?”
34

“Hell no. Don’t care either. Not much money
in lottery sales for store owners. Now if they stopped buying the booze, then I
might get bothered.”

36

Hugh pushed the paper back toward him. “Done.”

“One set? Nobody but me buying your books?”

“It’s those odds, Gary. Why bother buying
more?”

Gary Reynolds made a grunting noise through
his nose, like a weak old bull with a cold. “I say a lot of shit, doesn’t mean
I don’t want your business.”

Hugh wanted to tell him to stop being such a
miserable prick to his customers, but he was feeling too good inside for that
kind of talk. “Then I’ll take a bottle of your most expensive champagne as
well, and one of these birthday cards.” He took one from the rack next to the
counter and placed it on top of his selection slip. It had a silly looking
cartoon image on the front with one of those ‘
you know it’s your birthday
when-’
sayings. He didn’t bother to read what the punch line was inside.

Two minutes and forty-three dollars later
Hugh was sitting back in his car. He placed the lottery ticket in the card, and
slipped the card into its envelope. He put it on the passenger seat and rested
the not-so-expensive bottle of champagne over top. The windows stayed up, one
could never be too careful.

He picked his
mother up on the way out of town. Heather was having the family over for supper
tonight.

***

“How many years were you a waitress?” Hugh
asked his sister as he gathered plates up from around the small dinner table.
Colton looked over at Julie and rolled his eyes, a ‘here they go again’ look on
his face.

“Too many,” she answered knowing full well
an insult was coming. “Why?”

“You must have been really good at serving
food, because no one taught you how to cook, obviously.”

“Hugh!” his mother scolded. “That lasagna
was wonderful, how could you say such a thing?”

Heather poked her brother in the side with
a dirty fork as he walked by. “Don’t let him get to you, mom. If the food was
that bad, he wouldn’t have said a thing.”

“My mom’s a great cook!” This came from eleven-year-old
Jessica, a drop of tomato sauce drying on her chin was proof to how good the
meal had actually been.

Julie leaned over and started to wipe her cousin’s
face clean with a napkin. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, girlfriend.”

She grabbed the napkin away from her. “I
can clean up after myself, thank you.”

“Just another night in another Nance
household,” Cathy said.

“Supper was great, Auntie Heather,” Julie
said pushing away from the table, “but I gotsta go now.”

Hugh was returning from the kitchen with a
steaming glass tray of apple crisp in his gloved hands. “Just a minute, young
lady, what’s the big hurry? Why are you doing the mosquito?”

“The mosquito?” Marion Nance asked.

Colton began cutting the desert into equal
portions. “Eat and run, gramma, you know? The classic dine and dash.”

“Oh.”

“I have a sleepover at Katie’s tonight,
dad! I told you that before we even came over here.”

“It’s his selective hearing condition
again,” Cathy added. “Go on sweetie, have a good time.”

Hugh stood his ground, the big green oven
gloves planted defiantly at his sides. “But it’s a school night. Since when did
we start allowing that?”

“It’s an in-service day tomorrow, dad,”
Dana said. “No school. We told you that too.”

“No one told me a thing!”

“How many years have you been a parent?”
Heather asked.

Julie kissed her still-stunned father on
the cheek and made the rounds with everyone else around the table. Colton
cringed ahead, repulsed by the thought of getting a kiss from his sister, and
afraid she might make a grab for his apple crisp. She messed up his hair
instead. “See you later, brat.”

They finished eating and cleaning and
eventually settled in different parts of the house to enjoy the rest of the
evening. Dana went home to study, cousin Jessica tagged along; Cathy sat in the
kitchen with her mother in law and chatted about new hair styles, while Hugh
sat with his son and sister in the living room.

Heather flipped through the channels and
set the remote down after finding the science fiction station. The end credits
of an old show they both liked as kids were rolling up the screen. “Talk to
Donald lately?”

Hugh had to think for a moment. “Last time
was at Easter.”

“I took Brendon there last weekend. We had
a good visit.”

Whendel’s only half an hour away, I
should take Cathy and the kids more often.

“Has he lost any weight?”

“Yeah, you know, I think he has. His doctor
told him his blood pressure was a little high, so I guess he’s trying to clean
his act up.” There was a long pause. “What about Gordo? You tried patching
things up there at all?”

“What’s there to fix?”

“You two were pretty tight when you were
young.”

“Are you serious? He tormented the hell out
of me.”

“And Donald didn’t torment the hell out of
me?”

“But Gordo was a bully…”

“Come on, Hugh, give it rest. You were kids.
All kids are mean and bullying.”

“I’m listening.” Colton didn’t look up from
his handheld video game.

“But it was different between Gordo and
me…we had issues.”

“Well maybe it’s time you worked them out.
He’ll be fifty next year, and you’re not that far behind. It would make mom
happy.”

Don’t give me that. I’ve lived too long
and lost too much for that kind of guilt treatment.

“Who’s that doofus on the TV?”

Hugh and Heather looked at the screen to
see who Colton was talking about.

Thank you, son.

“That’s Dr. Zachary Smith-reluctant
stowaway aboard the Jupiter Two.”

An old episode of
Lost in Space
was
just beginning. “I used to have the biggest crush on Will Robinson,” Heather
said.