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“Duncan McCann! Can you come in here for a second?”

I stop gagging and stand there, motionless, like a video on pause. I thought the house was empty. Something in Dad's voice sounds different. I remain still. I've got a pretty good imagination. If I pretend something, I can even forget what I was doing before. Five seconds go by. Then I walk into the living room. There's this blond lady sitting on the couch with Dad. Weird. Unbelievable. And Dad looks kind of nervous or something. Even though he's smiling.

“Duncan, I'd like to introduce you to Terry. She's a friend of mine,” says Dad.

“Hey, Duncan,” the lady says. She's smiling. She's taller than Mom was. And sort of all-right-looking for an older lady. Dad's fifty. And Terry's probably forty or something. She's wearing a leather jacket. Mom would never have worn a leather jacket. Not in a million years.

“Hi,” I say. I'm still holding my backpack. I drop it on the wood floor. It weighs a ton and makes a loud noise, like a kick drum.

“Yes. So anyway, Duncan. You'll be seeing a bit of Terry around the house. I mean, we're…well, seeing each other. She and I.”

I was getting it now. Dad has a girlfriend. This lady. She smiles and holds out her hand.

“Okay,” I say, shaking her hand. Then I pick up my pack and run upstairs to my room. I slam the door. I fall on my bed, face into my pillow, which sort of smells like corn chips. I'm not crying. I mean, I'm fifteen years old now. I'm not crying, but I feel like it.

After a while, I turn over. My face is still hot, but I feel better. I look around and—this may sound dumb—but I pretend I'm all alone on a desert island. Like I'm washed up on the beach, waking up with the tropical sun beating on my back. Then I look up. The walls of my room are mostly covered with posters of bands. I'm crazy about music. There's one of Death Cab for Cutie. An old Beastie Boys poster.

There's also a painting on the wall that my mom made. It's of a cabin by Shawnigan Lake. We once rented it for two weeks one summer. I was ten. That was my best summer. We swam in the lake almost every day. When I dived down, I could see green shafts of sunlight underwater. After swimming, me and my friend Jason would go to the corner store to buy candy. We walked in the dirt beside the road. Brown powdery dust squished up between my toes. Sounds dumb now, but back then I thought that was the greatest.

I've got Mom's beat-up old record player on my desk. I've got all her records too. She liked the Beatles a lot. I put on her favorite song. It's called “Here, There and Everywhere.” It's a sappy ballad, but I like it. I think about Dad and this Terry lady, then about Mom. And then—I'm embarrassed to admit it—I start crying. For real. Blubbering all over the place. What a loser.

My cell phone buzzes. It's Jason's number. I don't answer. I don't feel like talking. Instead, I go back to pretending I'm on that desert island. I'm facedown on the bed, pretending my ship has gone down. It's late morning, and the sun's killing my back. Pretty soon I've gotta get up and build my shelter. Maybe find some food. Like turtle eggs. I read once how some guy on a desert island had to eat turtle eggs. Would that be like chicken eggs? Probably not.

I roll over, kind of slip-sliding off my bed onto the floor. Then I get my bass guitar out of the closet. Put the record-player needle back to the beginning of “Here, There and Everywhere” and start to play along. It sounds all right. I got my bass about a year ago. Actually, Dad bought it for me. But for a long time I didn't feel like learning to play it. I was pretty depressed. I even had to go to a psychiatrist for a while. Dad was worried about me because I got real sad after Mom died. For a while, I didn't want to get out of bed. Maybe for, like, two weeks. After that, Dad made me go to that stupid shrink.

After “Here, There and Everywhere,” I try to play along with some other songs on the Beatles record. But it doesn't sound as good. Then I hear Dad yelling from downstairs for me to set the table. That's one of my jobs. Also, I clean one of the bathrooms every weekend, take out the garbage and sometimes help Dad make dinner.

Terry has gone home, so it's just me and Dad at dinner.

“Duncan,” he says, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “Did you know Terry is a bank teller?”

“Nope,” I say.

“Yes. She's quite an interesting lady. We were, you know, talking about films. Movies. And her favorites are…let me remember. Oh yes.
When Harry Met
Sally
. And that other one, you know, about that large ship that hits an iceberg.”

“
Titanic
,” I say. I cram some peas into my mouth. How can Dad not know that?

He goes on to tell me that Terry lives in Esquimalt, which is part of Victoria, where we live. I don't ask Dad one thing about Terry. I'm kind of mad or confused or something, which is actually how I feel a lot of the time. It's like my emotions boil up and it's hard to control them. Weird, I know.

I help do the dishes after supper. Dad talks a lot about some guys at his work, and who said what to who and what so-and-so thought about so-and-so. It sounds mean, but I wish he'd shut up, because it's incredibly boring. But I don't want to hurt his feelings, so I just dry the dishes and say nothing.

I go back up to my room, leaving Dad to watch some dumb tv show. Something about monkeys. Dad is crazy about nature shows. If there's a monkey or a giraffe or a lion or a koala bear on tv, he has to watch it. I like action movies—like James Bond movies or
Collateral
—or shows about police detectives trying to solve old murders. Cold cases, they're called. I like it best when they dig up an old skull or hold up the rusty, crappy old hammer some maniac used to kill some poor guy, or when they look at a bloodstained pillowcase under a microscope. I guess that's sort of weird. But I make no apologies.

I put the Beatles record back on and play along to “Here, There and Everywhere” again. Then I get under my covers, not even taking my clothes off. I shut my eyes, sniff my smelly old corn-chip pillow and pretend I'm on that desert island again, thinking about those turtle eggs. They'd be all mushy inside, right? But, hey, you gotta eat to survive.

After a while my thoughts get all confused. You know how it is just before you fall asleep, and your mind starts to go into free fall, where anything goes? From the desert island I go back to that summer at Shawnigan Lake, swimming in the green water with sunlight shafting into the deeper brown-black water. Some big dark fish are down below— it's scary for some reason. And then I'm dreaming…dreaming that I'm sinking deeper and deeper, and that I can still see the sunlight. But it's far, far above. And then I'm asleep.