Belinda's Rings Read online

  IV

  IT WAS LATE IN London. Belinda had pre-booked a room for the night at the Renaissance Hotel, a five-minute shuttle-ride from the airport. It had been years since she’d stayed in a hotel. She followed behind the bellboy, who wasn’t actually a boy but an older, white-haired man, as he lugged her two suitcases and duffel bag down the hall to the elevator.

  Visiting England for an extended period, Ma’am? he asked, wheezing.

  Yes, well — sort of, she said. I haven’t decided yet. Are you sure I can’t take one of those bags from you?

  Quite sure, he said, setting the bags in front of the elevator doors with a thump. Belinda pressed the ‘up’ button. They waited.

  Are you meeting a group in the morning? he asked.

  I’m catching a train, Belinda said. To Salisbury.

  Salisbury? he said. I’m from there. My mum lives there still.

  Belinda smiled. What a coincidence, she said. I mean — that I’m going there. I’ll be meeting some people. Not family.

  The elevator doors opened and Belinda stepped inside. The interior was covered in mirrored panels, walls and ceiling. Belinda looked around her, examining the various angles of her reflection. The bellboy dragged her bags inside, watching her.

  A tad unnerving, isn’t it? he asked. It’s as if you can’t escape yourself.

  No, no, Belinda said. It’s interesting. I like it. It’s like being inside a telescope.

  He chuckled. A rather large telescope, that is, he said.

  Well, she said, the bigger the better. The bigger they are, the further you can see.

  Hm, he said, scratching his neck. I suppose that’s true. But you’d see very little from here. Bloody cloudy this time of year, he said, giving her a wink.

  That evening, she couldn’t sleep. It was the jetlag, she told herself. She could always tell she was tired when memories began to invade her thoughts. Old memories, some of them even false, fabricated by her wandering mind. Almost all of them were staged in her mother’s garden at the home in Wiltshire where Belinda grew up. There were several about Prim, although Belinda knew she couldn’t possibly have accurately remembered her. But that night, she saw a scene in her head that she had seen before; it returned to her from time to time, like a recurring dream. As a child, she had a curious fear of the sour cherry bush that grew in a shaded spot along the side of her mother’s house. The bush was spindly from lack of sun, and the scant peppering of cherries that would appear on its branches each year looked to Belinda like beads of blood. For the longest time, a sheet of newspaper had been lodged at the base of the bush, and whenever Belinda saw it there, she thought of a person — Prim — squatting there, using the newspaper as a mat, like a homeless person. Prim was skeletal, her skin gray with dirt. Her mouth gaped, a dark, empty hole. Of course, Prim had never been homeless and starving, at least to Belinda’s knowledge. She decided that the spot under the cherry tree was where Prim would go to hide from their mother. Belinda couldn’t remember if she’d made this decision when she was a child, or as an adult looking back. But each time the image returned, Belinda reminded herself that it wasn’t real. It came from some recess of her mind that had been shut away long ago.

  Belinda called Calgary again, hoping to get Jessica. It was three in the morning her time, but only eight pm their time. Sebastian picked up.

  Mummy? he said. Guess what, I remembered all the words. I sang today and I remembered all the words!

  You sang? Belinda asked, smiling to herself. That’s right, she said, it was your concert today. That’s great, honey. Just great. She felt her eyes burning, but she quickly wiped them. It wasn’t the end of the world, she told herself. She couldn’t possibly be there all the time.

  Is Jessica there? she asked, sniffing.

  Yeah, he said. But Daddy’s right here. He wants to talk to you. She could hear Sebastian passing the phone over before she had a chance to protest.

  Bell? Wiley said. He sounded like he’d just woken up.

  Have you been sleeping on the couch again? Belinda asked him.

  Yeah, he said mid-stretch. Can’t sleep in the bed without you.

  Oh for Chrissakes, she said, you’re going to ruin your back.

  Doesn’t matter, he said like a sulking child.

  You’re acting ridiculous, she said. It’s a bad example for the kids.

  I can’t help it, he said. I’m. . . depressed, okay? I’ve been having these terrible thoughts. . . Wiley had been brandishing that word — depressed — for months. His depression was like mould on bread: you could cut off the visible patches, but the infection was still there, infused into each atom of every cell.

  Please come home, he whined.

  I just got here, she said. I can’t. This is something I have to do.

  A long silence followed.

  I have to go, Belinda said. I’ve got to go to sleep. She hung up, and reminded herself that it was not constructive to call home so often. They would be fine without her.

  For hours after, Belinda couldn’t stop her mind from whirring. She’d pushed her thoughts away from the phone call and back to her conversation with the bellboy. It had lasted only five minutes, but in that time it had struck a chord. Telescopes. She believed that the telescope was the truest scientific instrument ever invented. An arrangement of mirrors, angled to face one another, with the power to collect, reflect, and magnify light. The telescope brought near what was far, revealed new worlds. But its lenses could not capture anything that didn’t actually exist in the visible universe. For Belinda, it disproved the existence of God.

  The photographs of the Eagle Nebula were Belinda’s proof. The Hubble took them just the previous year, although scientists had known of the nebula since the eighteenth century. It was named after its shape: the cosmic gases and stardust spread to form wings and a hooked beak. Belinda could remember seeing the photos for the first time and feeling the sudden urge to cry, then thinking herself a nitwit for getting emotional over a cluster of stars. One of the photos showed three arms of billowing auburn clouds reaching up into a starry expanse of blue-green mist. If it weren’t for the stars, Belinda might have mistaken it for an aerial photo of a sandy delta pouring furiously into the sea. It was a scene that undoubtedly occurred all the time in outer space, and yet to Belinda it appeared to be a monumental event: either the miraculous beginning or the glorious end of something beyond human understanding. Scientists hypothesized that the dark areas in the clouds were the birthplaces of protostars, which sounded to Belinda like an easy guess. The photo had been appropriately named “Pillars of Creation,” as if it were taken directly out of an ancient Greek myth.

  Looking back, Belinda realized that what she’d really been emotional about was her own naïveté. The Eagle Nebula was 6,500 light years away from earth, and its wings spanned twenty million light years. It had become clear by looking at those photos that the human race knew nothing beyond the petty workings of the earth, and that God was just a way to fill the void left by ignorance. The telescope could only offer evidence that the universe was so vast it might as well be endless.

  That was when she began her research. She went to the public library and found an article that explained how the Hubble worked on the same basic principles as all reflective telescopes. She discovered that in their simplest form, telescopes were made up of concentric shafts that slid in and out of one another. If you looked straight-on at the lens of a collapsed telescope, you would see a series of circles radiating from the same centre, like the ripples made by a raindrop in a puddle.

  Concentricity. She’d been as moved by the images of the Hubble as she’d been by the first images she’d seen of crop circles. Then there was the UFO sighting. And the coincidences kept multiplying and circling back to each other the more Belinda thought about them. They were all signs, radiating from the same centre. She wore her coincidences like rings, all on one finger. They travelled with her wherever she went, and each was just as important as the rest.
/>   5 Old vs. New

  I SKIPPED SCHOOL THE day after Mum left. Just fifth and sixth period. But I’d never skipped before. I always worried the school might call Mum’s work number, but it turns out they just have this automated calling system where a recorded voice says Your child missed one or more classes blah blah blah, and usually it gets left as a message on people’s home answering machines. So the trick is, if you get home before your parents, you can just erase the message and they’ll never know. Of course, I only found this out when Mum was gone anyway, so it didn’t matter.

  After fourth period, I just kind of walked out, down the hallway, got my coat from my locker, and walked casually out the front doors. The whole time I felt like a criminal, like I was swiping a pearl necklace or a video game. A kid in my grade had been caught stealing a Nintendo expansion pack at the mall a few days before. Simon Fulton, nerd extraordinaire. One of those frizzy-haired kids with braces you never would’ve thought had it in him. I had to keep telling myself to walk slowly, look casual, look casual, and I kept looking behind me, side to side, in case any teachers were around. When I got close to the doors, I started running. I couldn’t help it. I was even holding my jacket together, pulling it over my ribs, like I was clutching that new Smashing Pumpkins CD I’d been wanting underneath.

  My mission was to get to Squid’s school. The week before, he’d told Mum he’d be singing in the assembly and he was all excited until Mum reminded him she’d be gone by then. She didn’t even say sorry. He made a face like he’d just dropped his ice cream cone in the gutter. I’d decided then and there that I was going to show up at the assembly and surprise him.

  I knew the number 77 bus would stop in front of Squid’s school. The number 77 is the bus I take every morning, except Squid’s school is somewhere further along the route. Earl Grey Elementary. It’s a cinch to remember ’cause my name’s in it, except spelled ‘Grey’ instead of ‘Gray.’ I like to imagine myself as the school’s mascot, Call me Earl Gray, dressed up in shiny purple pantaloons and a wide-brimmed hat with a green feather.

  When Mum told me Squid would be switching to Earl Grey Elementary School, I asked her if he was going to learn how to make tea all day. Mum just looked at me.

  Like the tea, I said, Earl Grey. Get it?

  Don’t discourage him, Mum said, making her lips into thin wrinkled lines. I hadn’t known it was a special school, a ‘developmental learning’ school. I just thought it was a funny name.

  Maybe your school is shaped like a giant teacup, I said to Squid on the morning of his first day.

  No, he said with a big silly smile on his face.

  Are you sure? I asked him. I put on my best confused expression. I heard it was shaped like a teacup, I said, and the handle is a slide that takes you from the third floor to the second floor.

  Really? he said. Squid loved that, even though he knew I was faking it. I saw him eyeing the handle of Mum’s teacup the whole time he was eating his cereal.

  Mum says they won’t make me do the mad minute, Squid said.

  Oh yeah, I said. I remember the mad minute. I narrowed my eyes and stroked my chin like an old man remembering some ancient tale. I hated the mad minute. Way to make kids feel bad about themselves. So I can’t do a whole bunch of useless math equations in sixty seconds flat — who cares? I suggested to Squid that we get Wiley to fire up the barbecue so we could burn all his mad minutes, but Mum said Are you crazy? For Chrissakes, Grace, don’t put crazy ideas in his head.

  Crazy ideas, crazy ideas! Squid cheered. He bounced up and down in his chair like it was made of rubber.

  Old Wiley would have been all for the idea too. He’d get that big toothy grin on his face, like a little kid. And then he’d say something really cheeseball. Something like Let’s rock! And then the singing would start.

  Wheel-a-Fortune Sally Ride! Heavy meddle suicide! Complete with air guitar. Anytime anybody mentioned something about fire, Wiley used to break out in “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” Old Wiley practically lived for ’80s rock. But when I asked New Wiley about burning Squid’s mad minutes, he looked at me as if I’d just clubbed a baby seal to death.

  Why would you want to do that? he asked. When did you become so . . . destructive? He took a slow sip of his beer. He was sitting on the patio, watching Mum weed the back garden. He didn’t say anything else after that, just shook his head, watched Mum shuffle around on her knees, digging in the dirt.

  New Wiley hadn’t left the couch since Mum dragged her suitcase out the front door. In the morning I’d found him asleep sitting up, head back and mouth lolling open. There was a bag of Cheezies lying on his belly and he had orange powder smeared all over his face and down the front of his shirt. It looked like he’d been snacking in his sleep.

  I knew Wiley wouldn’t notice if I skipped school. Probably wouldn’t care, even if he did. But neither would Old Wiley, for different reasons. My Social teacher in grade seven, Mrs. Clarke, once gave me 78% on a news article I wrote about Jim Morrison’s suicide, said that it wasn’t a ‘current event.’ Wiley called her a prune-crotched ol’ battle-axe. Excuuuse me? Mum said, her nostrils flaring. That made it even funnier. Basically, that sums up what Wiley really thinks about school.

  Anyway, once I’d gotten off school property and was waiting at the bus stop, I didn’t feel so bad anymore. There was an advertisement on the bus bench for Len T. Wong: putting a personal touch on home-buying. Somebody had drawn on the ad with permanent marker so that it said PLen T. Wong: putting a personal touch on homo-buying. There was a picture of Len T. Wong too, with a pointy Fu Manchu drawn like an icicle on the end of his chin and a black comb-over scribbled across his shiny bald head. I sat on the bench, thought about the time in grade seven when Julie Sanders pointed at the little black hairs sprouting out of my chin and declared to the whole cafeteria that I was turning into Genghis Khan. I looked up and down the sidewalks. Nobody.

  Then I heard the sound of the school doors slamming behind me. Footsteps. Gavin Mills appeared on the sidewalk, started walking towards me. His long hair was hanging over his eyes in greasy ropes, so he didn’t notice me sitting at the bus stop at first. I stood up. Sat back down again. For some reason, my heart started beating really fast. It wasn’t ’cause I was afraid that Gavin would tell on me. I knew he wouldn’t. It wasn’t ’cause I liked Gavin either. It was just this weird feeling where I felt like running away. Away from the bus stop and away from PLen T. Wong and his ugly prosthetic Fu Manchu. I stood up again.

  Gavin looked surprised when he saw me. He smiled. I realized I’d never seen Gavin Mills smile before, except that one time he told Sabrina Chowdhury that her tits were showing. We’d been outside for field hockey, and she wasn’t wearing a bra under her Bow Valley High gym strip. You could see her nipples, and one of them just happened to be sticking out like a pushpin right in the hole of the ‘o’ in ‘Bow.’ Gavin had smiled that sly, tightlipped kind of smile that guys never use on other guys. But the smile he cracked when he saw me was a real smile, complete with teeth. I smiled back, couldn’t stop myself, even though I knew it made me look like a horse ’cause my upper gums show too much. I stood right in front of the bench. My arms felt like limp noodles hanging at my sides so I put my hands on my hips.

  Hey, Gavin said, combing his hair back with his fingers. It fell right back over his eyes and he flicked his head, held it kind of up and to the side so the hair would stay tossed across his forehead. You skipping? he asked.

  Yeah, I said, I didn’t feel like listening to Mr. Pearce ramble on about the House of Commons.

  We finished that unit like three months ago, he said.

  Oh really, I said, I guess I don’t pay much attention. I laughed. It came out sounding really high and chirpy. I could tell by Gavin’s face that he thought I sounded like a total ditz.

  But you always get good marks, he said, scrunching his eyebrows. Didn’t you win the Social award and the LA award last year?

  Oh yeah, I said, that was a l
ong time ago. That was Junior High. It was just a dumb award thing, it didn’t really mean anything.

  You got those plaques, Gavin said, with your name carved in them.

  Yeah, I forgot about those. I don’t even know where they are anymore.

  Gavin gave me this are you kidding me kind of look. He could tell I hadn’t forgotten about the plaques. Actually, they were hanging on the wall in Da’s home office.

  Anyway, I said. I started putting my backpack on for no particular reason. I gotta go.

  Aren’t you waiting for the bus? Gavin said.

  Yeah, that’s my bus, I said, pointing to a bus waiting at the traffic lights on the other side of the road. I forgot which one I was supposed to take, I told Gavin as I started jaywalking across the road. Gavin just stood there, watching me. I hadn’t noticed that a car was coming and it screeched to a stop in front of me. A little Aah! sound came out of my mouth and I ran to the other side, staring at my feet.

  Gavin waved when I got to the stop. I watched the bus coming up the road, pretended not to notice him. I could feel cold sweat soaking through the pits of my t-shirt.

  The bus was a number 37. I had no idea where it would go. I got on and chose a seat at the back. When I looked out the window I saw Gavin standing up on the bus bench. I don’t know why. He wasn’t doing anything, just standing and staring straight ahead like a statue, his greasy hair flapping around his ears in the breeze. Everyone on the bus was looking at him. As we drove away, I could see Len T. Wong’s eyes between his spread legs, following the bus down the street.

  I didn’t think about what I was going to do until we turned the corner. I was about to ring the bell for the next stop so I could get off and run across the street to wait for the 77, but then I didn’t know if Gavin was going to be getting on the next 77. So I just sat in my seat and started biting my hair, which is what I always do when I’m nervous about something. One day you’ll cough up a hairball, Jess always says when she sees me doing it. Not likely, Mum had once corrected her, she’ll need surgery if she’s got a hairball. Hair gets lodged in the small intestine, Mum said, I saw it on TV. Ever since then I’ve pictured this ball of brown hair with food bits all stuck in it, sloshing around in my gut, but it still doesn’t stop me from biting my hair.