What Z Sees Read online

  Yes, you are going to do it, I channel to him. I’m doing it. We’ll be fine. We will.

  Somehow the fact that he’s trying to cover over his nervousness with a cheesy grin and a middle finger makes me feel braver. Stronger. More willing to actually just go and get this over with.

  We’ll be okay, I say out loud. Just hold your breath and count to ten. Or something.

  He nods. I’m going to crap myself, he thinks. I’m going to throw up, for sure. I’m going to die.

  No, you won’t, I shake my head at him. His fear shatters into more fear and multiplies. It hangs around him like a crystal chandelier. I can practically hear it clinking.

  Then before I realize what’s happening, the floor of the plane is gone and I’m spinning, dropping. Did I jump? For a second, I don’t know. I can’t even tell what happened or where I am. I feel like I’m higher than the plane, falling up instead of down. I must have been pushed, there was no last second to think about it. It happened to me. I didn’t decide.

  It’s dizzying. I close my eyes. I try not to be aware of the air being snatched away from my nose and mouth. I’m gulping. How can I be breathing? Okay, okay, think of something safe: Cake. That’s it: Cake. Cake is good. The food and the band and my horse, also named Cake. Cake is sweet. Cake is fun. Cake is safe, in all three contexts.

  Axel is safe.

  Cake and Axel. Axel and Cake. My two anchors.

  Safe, safe, safe.

  How can we still be falling? An eternity has passed. Have I inhaled yet? Exhaled? Whoa. I open my eyes and the earth is coming at me with some kind of ridiculous speed. Like the speed of light.

  There will be birthday cake later. With candles. Two cakes. Thirty-four candles. That’s safe. That’s good. I feel myself relaxing slightly.

  The air becomes a trampoline, bouncing me back up with a snap that feels like being tossed against an electric fence. I’m jerked upward, my head smacking back hard against something: Skip’s jaw? Looking up, I see the chute opening.

  Safe.

  It takes a long time to hit the ground and we land so hard it’s like the earth is walloping me to punish me for leaving. Well, fine. It’s not like I’m ever going to do it again.

  In fact, I can’t seem to make myself stand up. My knees are like the white fluff filling in Mallomars. (Mallomars! I wish I had one right now, the rush of sugar might somehow help me. Mallomars are great: chewy, chocolaty, crunchy. My favourite cookie.) Not that I’ll be able to chew one again. I have no muscles left. The adrenalin that still is pumping through my body like gas through a fuel line feels all wrong. My muscles feel like they are dissolving. I wonder if I should tell someone.

  No, probably not. It will likely pass. No need to get hysterical.

  The instructor (Biff? Dex?) hoists me to my feet. His eyes are gleaming. Even the sweat on his pockmarked face looks happy. Self-satisfied. He’s almost dancing, his excitement can’t be contained, his body jitters seemingly without his notice. He lifts off his goggles and there is a bright rim of red around his eyes that makes him look deranged. I probably have that, too. Hopefully not with the accompanying crazy look, though.

  Wasn’t it awesome? he asks. Awe-some. What a rush. What a rush. I never get over it. Whoo-OOO! Whoo.

  Yeah, I say. It was just... great.

  Whoo-ooo, he says. Whoo.

  His last whoo trails off into an exhalation, which looks like the end of his speech, but then he suddenly and powerfully beats on his chest with a fist. I can’t believe he did that. I make the sort of snort noise that I make when I swallow a laugh. I’m dying to laugh out loud. It’s like a nervous reaction. He stinks like body odour and some kind of stale alcohol.

  My knees wobble. I don’t take off my goggles because it’s possible that my arms won’t ever move again. They feel like bags of lead hanging at my sides. At least my legs keep holding me up. That’s a good sign. I will walk again! I want to shout. But I don’t because the only person in the world who gets my sense of humour is Axel and he’s ... well, busy.

  Looking up, I get an eyeful of sun, and then through the veil of black sun dots I see my brother; falling. Frankly, he looks like a burnt dead moth falling like ash from a light bulb. I stop myself from blinking, keep my eye on him as though that will somehow help him to land okay. The tiny speck of him spiralling toward us is so surreal. As he gets closer, I can see that his arms and legs are at odd angles, like that’s how they first splayed and he’s going to hold them stiffly in place for fear that any movement will cause the chute to fail. His instructor’s arms move around behind him, making the two of them in tandem look like a tree that is only partially being blown by the wind. While Axel can be totally, graceful (especially on horseback), in things like this (is there anything else actually like this?), he’s apparently stiff as a board. Awkward. All bony knees and jutting elbows.

  The chute is open now, not failing. There. That’s okay then. Neither one of us died or will see if their watches keep ticking after an earthbound crash, like in that dumb TV commercial. There won’t be a story in the newspaper about how much of the earth gave way at impact, how deep the trench was that was created by the force of the fall. Which, to be honest, I was sort of already picturing on the front page. I finally exhale, still seeing spots. I hope they aren’t permanent. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. His chute is a blue one, dark like the sky just after sunset. Darker than the blue of his eyes. And mine, too, of course. Our faces are so much the same, after all, even though we’re fraternal. Except the freckles, of course. I got enough for both of us, blurring my face out so that my eyes peer from behind a cloud of dots. Axel doesn’t have that. He’s perfect.

  Our blue eyes are Maman’s. Most of our other features are Dad’s, handed to us so directly it’s as though the artist was tired and simply shoved Maman’s eyes into Dad’s head and called it a day.

  As Axel gets closer, I can make out better what he’s thinking. I hope I don’t puke on anyone, he’s musing. I hope I don’t faint. I’m such a wuss. God. This is supposed to be fun. His anger at himself for not loving the adventure, the thrill, is like wisps of red smoke.

  When he lands, he gets up by himself, shaking off the instructor’s hand, but I can see that it’s a struggle. That was great, he says, wasn’t that great? Great, he repeats. (He’s smiling, but that’s because he’s so happy to have survived it.) Great, he says one more time. Too emphatically to be believed.

  I hug him tight, super tight. Feeling his familiar form hugging me back just as hard.

  I can’t believe we did that, he says. I can’t believe we did it. What a rush. What a weird freaky thing.

  He’s breathing hard against my shoulder. I can smell his sweaty smell. He’s so familiar to me, so much a part of me, it’s like hugging myself. Except, of course, not exactly. I won’t tell him that I knew he was afraid. What’s the point? He already knows, or he doesn’t.

  I can’t believe it either, I say. I can’t believe what it felt like. I can’t believe I didn’t have a heart attack and die.

  I hitch my arm through his and we run (mostly stumbling) across the field of grass and patchy gravel to where Maman is sitting in her wheelchair. She’s clapping. Hurrah! she yells. Wasn’t that incredible?

  Yes, we say simultaneously, like we’ve planned it. Of course.

  Thanks, Maman, I say, kissing her cheek. It was totally...

  Yeah, it was great, says Axel. Great. He’s hopping up and down in a way that’s making me nervous.

  Go! says their mother. Vite! Hurry! Go change and we’ll go for dinner. You’re probably starving now after that.

  Sure, I tell her. You know, you could have done it, too, Maman. You could do it hooked up to someone like that. You don’t need to be able to ...

  I know, says Maman. I’m going to. One day, I will. You two had to try it first, though, she laughs. To make sure it was safe for your Maman.

  We both kiss her cheeks. Axel musses her hair, and she brushes us off like pup
pies (like the German shepherd puppies she breeds that are almost always clamouring on her, the blanket over her knees now covered in a silky pattern of lost dog hair) and we make our way back to the shack to get rid of the gear and get out of there. Axel is hurrying, I can feel him hurrying, wanting to move onto the next thing. To put distance between himself and this patchy, unforgivingly hard field. I don’t blame him. I’m done with it, too.

  Maman thinks we thought it was great, I say.

  It was kind of great, he insists.

  Sure, I say. I give his arm a squeeze. Because I know he doesn’t mean it.

  It was, he says. When you think about it.

  I know, I say. Me too.

  You’re weird, he says, jerking his arm away. What are you saying? Why don’t you just admit that you were scared shitless yourself? Why can’t you just say it?

  I did, I say quickly. I mean, of course I was. I... Maman should have done it herself. She would have loved it.

  Before her accident, Maman was a thrill-seeker. She’d have done anything. She had done everything: white- water rafting, rappelling, free diving, caving, ice climbing, swimming with sharks, hang-gliding, parasailing. Tons of things. Not anymore, though. Now things are different. Now she’s scared. I might not be able to read her like I can read Axel, but I can see her fear. It’s like moths’ wings sticking to her skin.

  She couldn’t do it, dummy, says Axel. She doesn’t do that stuff anymore.

  True, I say, but she could. Maybe if she did, she wouldn’t be so scared.

  I wish she would, thinks Axel. But she won’t.

  Me too, I say out loud. I think it would make her different, you know?

  Stop that shit, he says. If I don’t say it out loud, don’t answer. It’s not right. It’s fucking creepy, okay?

  Lately, he’s become more and more short-tempered with me. It’s like bang, he’s mad. It scares me. It’s too much like Dad at his worst. Dad after a big gambling loss. Dad after too many drinks.

  We agreed a long time ago that no matter what weird- ness is going on with Maman and Dad, we’ll stick together. Solid. We won’t get angry. We’ll be unified, always, like one person — those were his words, not mine. Like one person. I reminded him of that a while ago and he just rolled his eyes and said, We were nine, idiot, things change. I guess that’s true, they do. I don’t want them to, though. I really don’t.

  He’s growing up, sure. I’m growing up. But can’t we grow up together, in parallel? Why does it mean growing apart?

  He says he just wants his own space. I can get that, I’m not stupid. I understand. But more and more lately, well, it’s like there’s a Plexiglas bubble around him that I can see right through but he doesn’t want me to, so there’s a tint to the bubble. A black tint. It’s his not wanting to let me in that throws me off. His not wanting to share. His not knowing what he wants.

  It’s me, I want to say. It’s just me.

  But I don’t say anything. I can’t change him. I can’t change anything. I can just watch it change.

  See you in a few, I say breezily, heading for the ladies’ change room. But I don’t feel breezy. I feel sad. I feel funny. More than just the cold sweat drying on my skin and the wobble of my knees. There was something about the strength of his desire to get away from me coupled with his desire to not hurt my feelings. I could see it. Feel it, like some kind of fabric, rough like raw wool, except stronger than that. More like blades of saw grass. Scratching at me.

  Hurting.

  I start to cry. I can’t help it.

  In the corner of the change room there is a sad, flimsy- looking shower stall. Seeing my blotchy, crazy-looking face in the mirror, my hair sticking straight up, mascara smeared under my eyes, I decide to go for it. It’s creepy but necessary. My hair will be wet but it’s better than being stuck upright with sweat. The pipe is rusty and lets loose a burst of brown water before running clear. I step carefully, trying to avoid moving my feet around, the tiles feel markedly unclean. The water hurts. Needle-sharp. I let it get warm and then blast it cold to jar me out of my own head. That always works. It’s how I wake myself up on mornings when I have to go down to the barn early. (We take turns, alternate days, unless Dad is home to do it, which is increasingly rare. It’s only fair that way and it doesn’t take two of us to let the horses out, muck out the stalls, set up the feed for the day.)

  Showering is how I snap myself out of bad moods. It’s how I stop myself from crying when I’m sad. It’s how I calm myself down when I’m freaking out for no good reason. Like now.

  In spite of the sharpness of the water drops, the shower feels good. I can almost tell myself that I wasn’t falling, that the jump from the tiny tin-bucket of a creaky plane happened to someone else, and not to me at all.

  Almost.

  Then it flashes up in front of my thoughts again, and I grab the sink to stop myself from falling. Falling and falling. Like the ground itself is ready to let me go.

  I slap my cheeks hard enough to leave marks. Trying to bring myself back into the moment. For a few seconds, red blazes against my skin and then vanishes.

  Then I’m done, I’m dressed, hair combed straight back and dripping on the back of my new sundress, and we’re in the car. Axel’s driving, Mamart is laughing in the passenger seat. Throwing back her head and howling. That’s one thing about Maman, she’s always gut-splittingly out there. Since the accident, she’s changed, she’s more afraid. But she’s still so full: experiencing every emotion like it’s everything. The moment. Today that mood is simple joy.

  She exudes happiness. Pleasure. Like a fragrance, it hangs around her in a cloud.

  I lean my head against the glass of the window, which is still warm from the trapped heat of the day, watch the airport give way to yawning fields, to the patchwork suburbs and then the sun is setting. The sky darkening to indigo, the street lights blinking on. The city is coming up toward us, all twinkle and traffic and dazzle and I smile, too. Tonight will be fun. Our birthday celebration. All our friends. Family, except Dad. He couldn’t make it, he said in a voicemail this morning. Too tied up. But still, it will be a great party. A big dinner.

  And cake, of course.

  So why do I feel so strange?

  AXEL

  Chapter 2

  ON THE SURFACE, everything is great. Nothing to complain about. Not really.

  He did okay in school, better even than he’d thought he’d done. School is easy enough to forget about now that it’s summer, anyway. He’s not one of those kids who obsesses about which college will take his GPA. He just takes it for granted that he’ll ride his way into a good life. A life doing what he wants to do. He has a great horse that is in great shape. His schedule is looking good for tons of summer lessons and shows. He has a girlfriend, who by most accounts is both cute and nice. He has good friends. Awesome friends. The best friends anyone could have.

  And he has Zara, which is both good and bad. It’s sort of cool having a twin but sometimes it’s a bit crowded in his space, that’s all, with all her kooky shit about birds and knowing exactly what he’s thinking every minute of the day. Not that he doesn’t love her, he does. He just sometimes wishes she’d back off a bit. Or a lot. Let him be himself. Let him be alone.

  It will happen, anyway, with time. He knows it. He’s a way better rider than hen His future is mapped and hers is much more flaky. He has a “gift,” totally, and he loves riding, which matters, too. Devotes himself to it. Works at it. He’s trying out for the national junior team at the end of August. If he makes it, it will change his life completely. And he’s pretty sure that he will: his horse, Detritus, is in his best form ever.

  Zara won’t make it. Zara likely won’t even try. It’s not what she wants. Already her attention is drifting away from the horses more and more often. He mostly has to talk her into every event, every show. Come to think of it, he’s not so sure anymore why it seems so important that she’s always there. Maybe he’s almost ready to go it alone. Event
ually, anyway, he’ll have his space. He just kind of needs it now, too.

  Axel’s a young, good-looking guy. He takes care of himself. He eats vegetables and works out. He’s smart. He has a family who love him and totally support him. He has enough money from Grand-mere’s trust to get by without having to have some kind of horrible job that eats up all his time.

  Nothing is wrong.

  Not one thing.

  So why does he have to remind himself of that?

  There’s something bugging him. Something nagging that he can’t pinpoint. Like something he’s forgotten to do, but worse than that. It’s big, but he doesn’t know what it is. Not exactly. It’s a tingling spidery sense that he’d rather not be having, something he wants to shut out. Not creepy, not in that I-see-dead-people kind of way from the movies, more in a don’t-look-too-closely-because-you-

  might-notice-something-isn’t-really-what-you-think-it-is way. Like something trying to get his attention all while he’s trying very hard to look away.

  He’s afraid, that’s the weird thing. He’s scared. He keeps looking over his shoulder. Is someone there? That’s the weird feeling. Like someone is about to go “Boo!” and he’ll jump.

  But worse. Something bad. Irreversibly, awfully bad, on the scale of what happened to Maman two years ago, when he found her on the floor of the barn, conscious but motionless, tears running down her cheeks, after Mavis rolled on her, crushing her spine. From a distance, he’d thought she was dead. The fingers of dread and horror making him turn and retch into a feed bucket before he dropped to his knees to check. He saw the tears and that her eyes were alive. But she was so quiet. The rest of her was so impossibly still. That was the worst day of his life.

  What he’s feeling now ... Well, it’s like that. Ominous. Knowing that something has happened, or is about to happen. Something awful. Doom. Maybe he’s going to die. That’s honestly what he thinks, even though he doesn’t really believe it. It’s just a feeling. A creepy, bad feeling. But he can’t shake it.