Checking my resentment, I ask, ‘How long will it take to get the results?’
‘I don’t think it will take long. I already did my part of it.’
‘Oh?’
He shrugs. ‘It’s not that complicated, I guess. Once they have his, it shouldn’t be more than a day or two.’ After another drink service, during which I order a club soda and Reid orders (and is given) a scotch on the rocks, he ventures, ‘I’m not sure what happens after that. Everything is complicated by the fact that you went to Texas,’ he lowers his voice to a whisper, ‘to have him. The relinquishment does no more than take my rights away –’
‘You don’t have any rights –’ I hiss.
‘Think of the title of the form, Brooke. If no rights existed, I wouldn’t have anything to relinquish.’
Oh, God.
REID
This after-party is the most over-the-top event I’ve ever attended. The hotel ballroom looks as though someone took a slice of Vancouver’s Gastown district and airlifted it to New York. One wall boasts an animated projection of Burrard Inlet, while the remaining three walls are covered in convincing replicas of storefront façades. Bistro tables line the bricked ‘streets’ while globed street lamps cast spheres of light on squares of real grass and paths dotted with light-strung trees. In the centre of it all is the Gastown Steam Clock, which – through the magic of CGI – is blown to smithereens in the next-to-final scene of Mercy Killing.
I snap a few photos and text them to Dori.
Me: Isn’t this ridonkulous? I wish you were here.
Dori: I wish I was in LA. Mom just called. Esther isn’t doing well.
Me: She’s sick?
Dori: I don’t want to interrupt your night. I’m a mess. Maybe we could just talk tomorrow, please?
‘Talk to me.’ I’ve found a private niche outside the ballroom. People are milling around in the hallway, and the band from inside the party is audible, but this is as discreet as it will get until I get back to my hotel and in my room.
Dori is crying. No. She’s bawling. The sound squeezes my heart like someone has reached inside my chest cavity and seized it, and all I know is I would do anything – anything, to stop her anguish.
‘Reid.’ Her voice is already hoarse. God knows how long she’s been distressed over this while I viewed my stupid film and accepted accolades from the audience and the crowd waiting outside. The sound of her sobs turns me inside out. ‘I don’t … I don’t want to ruin your big night. Can we please talk tomorrow?’ She’s covering the phone so I won’t hear the sobs between the sentences. As if I can’t feel it anyway when she speaks.
‘Baby. Please talk to me. Nothing is more important to me right now. What happened?’
She wrestles with herself to stop crying, her breaths coming in slowing stutters. ‘I knew this was coming. Esther has lived a long, good life. She’s my age. Did you know that? When we adopted her, they knew her birthdate, and it was the same as mine – the same exact day. Dogs don’t live this long. I’ve been so lucky.’
I’m about to snap this phone in two, I’m so frustrated that I can’t comfort her.
This long-distance thing is complete ass.
‘She started limping last week, and Dad took her to the vet. She’s got …’ More sobbing comes from her end and I turn towards the wall, clenching my jaw. ‘She’s got multiple tumours. All over. The last few days, she’s been whimpering when she walks, and she stopped eating yesterday. They’re taking her to the vet tomorrow morning.’ She dissolves again and I curse under my breath.
‘It’s just – the last time I saw her was the last time I’ll ever see her, and I didn’t know it. I didn’t get to say goodbye. Just like …’ More tears.
Just like Deb. Oh, f**k no. No goddamned way.
‘Dori. I need to go. I’m going to call you back in like – ten minutes. Maybe fifteen, okay?’
‘You don’t have to call back – Reid, seriously, thank you for listening –’
‘When I call, you answer. Okay? Swear.’
She takes a deep breath and squeaks out a heartbreaking, ‘Okay.’
I fight the urge to punch the stone wall in front of me. Breaking my hand will solve nothing.
When she answers, she’s more hoarse than before, but not crying. ‘Hello.’
‘Hey, baby. I’ve got some instructions for you. Do you have a pen?’
She sniffles. ‘Uh, instructions? What?’ There’s a paper-shuffling sound. ‘Okay?’
‘Are you in your room?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, good. Write this number down – it’s important: 1360. That’s your flight number. I want you to start packing. Now. A car will be waiting outside the Starbucks to take you to the airport. That flight leaves in just over an hour, and it’s the last one of the day.’
‘What? But you can’t –’
‘Do not argue with me – you don’t have time. Pack a bag. Get to the Starbucks. Get in the car. The driver will drop you at the right gate. Go inside and head right to the first-class counter to get your boarding pass. Don’t forget to take your licence, by the way. I learned the hard way a couple of years ago that they don’t let you on the plane without ID. When you land, there will be another car – the driver will have your name on a placard – and he’ll take you straight home.’
She starts crying again, and I’m afraid she’s going to fight me, but thank God, she just rasps, ‘Thank you.’