Elizabeth gave me a look that was half happy and half on the verge of tears.
When she forced a smile, I nodded, because I knew that’s what was required of me even though I was terrified on the inside, and I didn’t even know who was paying the bills associated with Mom’s house, and maybe I never would, now that Father McNamee was dead, and I also wasn’t sure a passable existence was actually possible for me, let alone the three of us together.
I didn’t really know anything for certain at all.
But I believed I could pretend again for Elizabeth, pretend to be stronger than I really was, because that’s what the moment required of me, and so I did. I pretended to be strong, and I tried to show Elizabeth compassion. As I did, I wondered if Father McNamee and Mom would be proud, Richard Gere. I’m pretty sure the Dalai Lama would be happy with my actions that night, because Elizabeth began to cry right there and then, not just little tears either, but she sobbed and sobbed until I reached out and held her in my arms, and then I began to cry too, because I missed Mom so much and Father McNamee was gone and I was just starting to understand the finality of it, that I would never get to have a father ever, that there was no mystery anymore, it was all solved and certain and over, and Elizabeth hadn’t been abducted by aliens but had experienced something even more terrible than the teenagers who broke into Mom’s house and pissed on my bed and shit on Mom’s and put our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ in the toilet . . . and how did we end up in Canada, and why were our lives so much stranger than the lives of regular people?
Was there any hope for us?
As Elizabeth sobbed into my shoulder, I decided—whether it was true or not—to believe in The Good Luck of Right Now enough to take action, even to find a job if need be, so that I could give Elizabeth the fairy tale, like you did so many times in your movies, Richard Gere.
Mom would never have the fairy tale, but maybe Elizabeth could.
Maybe.
“Are you two okay?” the bartender asked, and when I looked up, a strand of Elizabeth’s hair was caught in my mouth, and the several people in the hotel lobby bar were staring at us.
When she saw everyone looking, Elizabeth ran out of the bar, and I followed.
In the elevator, I didn’t know what to do.
Elizabeth was still crying, but much more softly now—and yet I got the sense that she didn’t want to be touched or comforted or spoken to.
Her face was bright red and snot was running out of both nostrils, even though she kept wiping it with the sleeve of her coat.
I kept my mouth shut.
When we arrived at the door to our room, she composed herself and said, “I don’t want to wake up Max, okay? And I don’t want him to know about any of this. Tomorrow is his big day. Let’s make it beautiful for him. Agreed? It’s what we have left. Let’s make it beautiful for all of us. Okay?”
I nodded.
She put the card into the slot and the little rectangle turned green, but she didn’t open the door.
“If we sleep on opposite sides of the bed, will you promise not to roll over? Will you promise to keep at least a foot of space between us at all times?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Can we really live with you until we get our lives together?”
“Yes. I’d like that very much. And there’s no time limit either.”
“You promise? You won’t change your mind?”
“Never.”
Elizabeth nodded again and sort of winked both eyes at the same time, which I caught, even though she was hiding behind her hair again.
It was like she was maybe making a wish and sealing it with a double blink—or at least that’s what I imagined.
We entered the room, but we didn’t put the lights on.
She changed in the bathroom, and I slipped into my pajamas while the door was closed.
I dumped her bottle of pills in the toilet and flushed; I didn’t want her to have an exit strategy.
She picked the right side of the bed, so I hugged the left edge all night long.
I didn’t let myself sleep, because I wanted to keep my promise—I didn’t want to risk accidentally rolling over and touching Elizabeth in the middle of the night.
So I listened to her and Max breathing and stared at the electric alien-green numbers of the alarm clock.
At 4:57 Elizabeth whispered, “Bartholomew?”
“Yes?” I whispered back.
“I’m sorry if I weirded you out tonight.”
“You didn’t.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
At 5:14 Elizabeth whispered, “Thank you.”
“Thank you too,” I said, and then we just lay there in the dark for two hours, until Max woke up, started jumping between us on our bed while screaming, “CAT FUCKING PARLIAMENT!” over and over.
I have to admit, in spite of all that had happened, Max’s unbridled childlike enthusiasm lifted my spirits considerably.
It was nice to have friends.
And I started to think I understood our fortune cookie messages better than I had originally thought.
Your admiring fan,
Bartholomew Neil
17
THE STRAY CATS OF PARLIAMENT HILL
Dear Mr. Richard Gere,
Max told us everything we needed to know about Cat Parliament as we walked through Ottawa to the main event.
According to local legend, the Parliament Buildings were kept rodent-free by a supremely talented colony of hunting cats until the 1950s, when poison became the preferred method of mouse and rat extermination. Out of the kindness of their hearts, people who took care of the Parliament Buildings and their surroundings continued to feed the cats for decades, and then some locals got together and created a special space for the stray cats of Parliament Hill to live together as a family—or a colony.