The Answer To Everything Part 14

"I don't know. There are dead people here. Yeah, they'll probably search the house. And ayahuasca's one thing ... but 'shrooms, pot and acid are something else."

"s.h.i.t!"

"I can't believe that tree ..."

"I know. And there was a tent under there. With a wood floor and blankets."

All of that was gone. Incinerated. From the distance we were at, I could just barely make out the melted metal remnants of the tent frame, lying twisted on the ground among the bodies and branches.

"Who's out there, anyway?"

"Everybody!" she said, instantly hysterical. "Oh my G.o.d, even Staci!"

"Jesus Christ! What the f.u.c.k?"

"I told them to go back in the house! They wouldn't listen!"

"What was she doing out there in the first place? Jesus, Amy!"

"Maybe we should just leave? Pretend we weren't here?"

"A, I wasn't f.u.c.king here. And B, you're a little late, since I just arrived via taxi. You think there's no record of that?"

"OK. Sorry. I'm not thinking straight!"

"Obviously."

"Stop yelling at me!"

"I'm not yelling. You're the one who's yelling. Just f.u.c.king chill, OK?"

"OK. Sorry ..."

"Just go to Eldrich and Steve's room and flush whatever you can find. Then go through Scheibling's room and do the same. Then call 9-1-1."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'll be there in a sec. I'm just gonna ... you know ... have a look." Something in me needed to look.

"Really? I mean, maybe you were right. Maybe we shouldn't disturb them?"

"I don't think they'll mind."

"That's not funny."

"You'd better go, OK. We need to call as soon as possible. I won't touch anything."

As Amy hurried away, all my bravado seemed to hurry away with her. I thought I'd be able to approach and observe, but as I inched closer and started seeing details, I had to stop. For one thing, it was f.u.c.king scary out there-dark woods, howling wind, dead bodies (Scheibling, I'm sickened to say, had been stabbed through the belly with a long splinter of oak-pinned to the earth like an entomologist's beetle). But to be honest, it was seeing Catelyn that did me in. Or, more accurately, seeing her boots. I had taken note of these months earlier when she brought them home and modelled them for Heather. Stiletto-heeled ankle boots with a faux-leopard fringe around the top, a gold zipper up the back and a tiny metal heart to pull it. So awful. And she was so absurdly in love with them, high-stepping around the kitchen, but feeling guilty for buying them. All her money was supposed to be for Staci and Staci's bright future. She told Heather she was going to return them. But Heather told her not to. She said a mother had to take care of herself as well, that every woman had to have at least one impractical and beautiful thing in her wardrobe. I remember thinking, Keep looking, babe, and chortling about how happy she was to keep her ugly-a.s.s boots. But that night, seeing them sticking out of the snow, all burned and muddy, with the zippers melted together ... it just made me want to f.u.c.king weep.

I stumbled away from the carnage and sagged against a tree. I felt dizzy, like I was going to pa.s.s out. I pressed my face against the cool trunk and leaned there for a bit, deep breathing, grappling, not looking at anything in particular, just the dark interior of the woods and its dark shapes, when my eyes found and deciphered Eldrich's gruesome garden: heads ... heads in the soil-one of them (Tyson), looking past me with a death stare, the mouth open in a gasp (only later did I learn of Eldrich's insane plan to dig under trees in the middle of a storm). A blast of adrenalin sent me lurching directly into a low-hanging branch. I staggered, bleeding and frantic, toward the closest shelter-the bubble. I had to get away. I had to get indoors. My overriding desire was to make it to MAMA, to hide inside and seek what Freud called the "soothing oblivion" of the womb.

Alarmingly, I wasn't the first to have that impulse.

As I neared the tennis court, I heard her. Faint and creepy. The heartbeat, the uterine whoosh, the soothing voice.

Catelyn's voice.

Mama loves you ... Mama loves you so much ...

The bubble was illuminated only by glowing gla.s.s eyes. I moved slowly closer, afraid to open the door on the womb, afraid of what new horror I'd find next. But when I finally worked up the nerve to approach and lift, I was met with a fine sight, one that made me sob with relief: Heather and Staci, in their matching green sweaters, curled inside like fiddleheads.

Asleep. Safe. Oblivious.

About to be reborn.

Eldrich

You want to know what is in my heart and I will tell you.

Faith. Pure and unyielding. Faith in G.o.d the Father. Not lawyers, journalists or judges.

I have come forth into the light of things. Nature was my teacher.

Nine hearts watched and received as G.o.d spoke his miracle into them. Nine souls came forth into the light and went gloriously home in the arms of G.o.d.

It was not an accident. It was not a tragedy.

It was a divine and wondrous event. A beginning, not an end.

My friends my friends my friends my friends ... closer to G.o.d than they have ever, ever been.

I truly believe that.

I do. I do.

Amy

I'm very sorry for the Seekers who lost their lives that night. It's tragic. And horrible. But I know that, at least for a while, they found kinship and salvation in the Inst.i.tute. I'm glad of that. I take comfort in that. For many, it was the first time in years that they had any kind of help or happiness or companionship.

The Inst.i.tute was a positive place. People thrived there. I saw it with my own eyes. People perking up, getting stronger, growing ... I mean, I know it wasn't perfect. Certain elements were maybe getting a bit out of control. And I'm not trying to whitewash how it ended. I'm especially sad and sorry that Staci lost her mom. I am. But there's no doubt in my mind that she'll be better off in the long run with Heather. I think even Catelyn would agree. She was terrified of falling off the wagon and causing Staci more trauma. Above all, Catelyn wanted Staci to have a future. With Heather she'll have one. And now Heather will have one too. She saved Staci, which I'm sure, psychologically, will help mitigate the pain of not being able to save her own child. And now she has a purpose-to take good care of Staci, which I know she'll continue to go above and beyond to do.

So maybe the powers that be, whatever and whomever they may be, knew what they were up to. Maybe this all went down for that reason. Maybe Staci is fated for some important task and she needs Heather to get her there. Who knows? I don't know. It's equally possible that everything is totally random and meaningless.

Either way, I'd like to think that, on balance, the Inst.i.tute did more good than harm. And given that, maybe I shouldn't be sorry that I was a part of it. Right?

Of course, now I have to figure out what to do next. I'm not going back to school, I know that much. Trying to compete with my sister in academia no longer seems like a wise use of energy. I should probably just try to relax and take a few months to figure it out. It would be foolish to make major life decisions before all the legal issues have been resolved.

In the meantime, I've been feathering my nest. It's a one-bedroom plus office in a funky new low-rise in Liberty Village. It has super-high-end features and finishes, one and a half baths and a small terrace that can accommodate a few chairs and a barbecue. Oh, and the bedroom and full bath are upstairs, so the place feels more like a house than an apartment. It's really a gorgeous s.p.a.ce. Even my parents were impressed. And it wasn't a bad deal either, considering it's a two-story. I love that aspect of it. I think a two-story is perfect for me. Best of all, it has an ensuite washer and dryer-full sized and never been used! So I don't have to share laundry, which is something I've been dreaming about for years.

The only drawback is that I'm the first person to move in to the building. I bought a model suite, which was the only one that was ready, and from what I could tell from the floor plans, the nicest. I a.s.sumed the rest of the units were close to being finished, but most haven't even been drywalled yet. During the day there are tradespeople on-site, sales people and prospective buyers milling about, but at night the place is totally empty. It's just me. And I'm not used to that. Apart from a short blip after Barb van Vleck, I've never lived alone. Ever since I left my parents' house I've had at least one roommate. And, of course, at the Inst.i.tute I was surrounded by people. Plus I had John. For a while, anyway.

It's nighttime now and everyone's gone. The suites all empty and dark.

But it's a beautiful unit. The bathrooms are finished in real Italian marble.

And I got a nice postcard from Raine the other day-technically, we're not allowed to be in touch, so no texts/emails. He said that when all the legal stuff is over, I'd be welcome to come down for a visit. So that's cool. I mean, I know it's going to take a long time and maybe nothing will really come of it, but it's something to look forward to.

I'm actually really looking forward to that.

John

You know what p.i.s.ses me off? All the "act of G.o.d" talk. What happened behind Phil's house was not an act of G.o.d. It was an act of unstable air meeting moist air, followed by acts of baffling, unconscionable stupidity.

G.o.d did not "save" Staci and Heather. Heather was sensible enough to coax Staci inside when she heard thunder. Staci had been curious about "the lady" in the tennis court; Heather enticed her indoors by promising to show her the sculpture.

G.o.d didn't save. Common sense saved.

Art f.u.c.king saved.

At this point, I don't care what happens to MAMA. When I finish something, I move on. Artists are like sharks. Keep moving or perish. I'm onto my new project already. Heavy into it and feeling the throb. I rented a studio at Lansdowne and Dupont, and have more than enough for materials. The fridge is stuffed with organic cherries and gra.s.s-fed beef. The bar is stocked with Aberlour A'bunadh. I have all the time in the world to work.

So why I am so out of sorts?

I'm out of sorts because I can't sleep.

I can't sleep because I'm subconsciously irrational.

Intellectually, I know I'm not responsible for nine deaths or any deaths. I cannot and do not accept culpability for people's bad and stupid choices (i.e., burrowing under trees in the middle of an electrical storm). And yet I'm up every night with my heart pounding hard. It blasts me awake and keeps me that way.

My brain says one thing. My ticker says another.

One thing they agree on is that it's all very sad. I feel sad about those people. Especially Phil. Phil was a neat guy. Funny. Endearing. I really miss our daily confabs. Our Storage Wars bed-and-smoothie parties.

I find myself flashing on one particular night at the Inst.i.tute. It was during our perfect summer. Before things went south. July 1. We had a Canada Day bash in the yard. Big barbecue. Lots of Seekers and friends of. Kids. Popsicles. Hot dogs. Sparklers. Much drunkenness and dancing on the lawn as the sun went down. Phil had the place wired for sound, and Mushroom Steve had made an all-Canuck playlist to groove to. "Sunny Days"; "Blow at High Dough"; "My Definition of a Boombastic Jazz Style." It was a warm night. Flowers blooming moist and humid, gra.s.s freshly cut. Everything smelled sweet and good. Especially after the neighbours down the street started lighting up the sky with fireworks, adding that delicious gunpowdery top note to the air. We danced and danced. Barefoot on soft gra.s.s. Kids darting around, waving their sparklers with hectic, allowed-to-stay-up-late energy. It was during the Alternaverse period, and there was a lot of crazy-a.s.s strutting going down on the lawn. I myself was looped on tequila and jumping manically to Teenage Head's "Let's Shake" when I noticed Phil watching wistfully from the deck stairs, smiling at the spectacle, too weak to join in. I pogoed over and scooped him into my arms. He laughed and hooted and threw his head back as I danced him into the centre of it all. The man was tiny and, at the time, practically weightless-an infant in my arms as I jumped and jumped in the middle of the madness. He couldn't stop laughing. Then the song ended and the first slow one of the night came on. It was something I'd never heard before (but have listened to a hundred times since). "The Valley" by Jane Siberry. Sung by k.d. lang-a live version. It was incredible. Otherworldly. I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. That voice. That strong, clear voice, married to that lilting, gorgeously sad swoop of a song.

I danced Phil through it, floated him all the way through-dipping, gliding, soaring, plunging-while the kids swirled their sparklers and Seekers clung to each other, swaying. When the song ended, Phil sighed and rested his head against my chest. "Handsome, thank you," he said. "I die happy now."

Poor Phil.

Poor all of us, for that matter. Poor everyone, trying to make it in this hard world. Like plants in concrete. The tender shoots can't do it. They're not strong enough to push through. So they reach for anything that might help them gain purchase-drugs, G.o.d, booze, art-whatever gives them the strength to push through. But only the toughest weeds make it.

So far I've been able to find the cracks. But it's getting harder and harder. And sometimes, honestly, I just want to not try.

Sometimes, I just want to lie in the dark on a duvet that smells faintly of lemons, and have long cool fingers trail up and down my spine.

I really need to stop thinking about that.

Griffin.

I had the solution. I knew how to tell the story. I emailed the editor and asked if I could please take her out for lunch to discuss it (rather than send an outline). She agreed to coffee. We were to meet at the Starbucks around the corner from her office at 11 a.m.

At 11:10 she sailed in like the Queen Mary. Large, steady, imperious. I bought her an Iced Hazelnut Macchiato and got straight to the point.

"Fiction," I said.

She looked at me with heavy-lidded eyes behind thick-framed gla.s.ses. "Fiction?"

"Yes."

She sipped her macchiato.

"You know what Ralph Waldo Emerson said? 'Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures.'"

A thin smile. Swathes of linen and sizable chunks of silver jewellery shifting, adjusting.

"It would be a veiled account of what happened at the Inst.i.tute. You know, 'inspired by.' I'd set it in a different city, change the names and some details. And unlike the article, which was largely about one follower's experience, I would really get into the hearts and minds of the organizers and the guru."