I Spy

 

Ever since London I have been in a fog. The angry male voice is back repeating the same message I used to hear over the winter. Hundreds of times, round and round, like a tape being played in my brain

You're no good
You will fail
You will never succeed at anything

Hundreds of times. A vicious mantra.

I never told anyone about the voice, like an angry father predicting ruin. I didn't want to worry my parents. They have enough on their minds already, that we don't talk about. Since my dad went into hospital, for a nervous breakdown last December, they have been turned into shadows.

While my mom does the dishes in the next room, my father confides:

"They're not doing anything good down at that hospital."

I look away from Gilligan's Island and try to focus on answering him. My bald old dad.

"But Dad - They're just trying to help you.

He snarls. "Don't worry. I didn't tell them anything."

We are joined by my mother who has the worst case of "galloping rheumatoid arthritis" her doctor has ever seen. In constant pain, she sinks into her chair next to the sofa.

Now that they're both home again, recovering, we all avoid one another by watching television.

Dobie Gillis, all American teenager. The Twilight Zone with Rod Serling. I Dream of Jeanie.



After track and field week comes exam week at school. They have decided to make us write exams - to accustom us to this in future. Our sixth grade teacher prepares us for the upcoming ordeal where our knowledge will be tested.

Normally I only hear the voice late at night when i'm in bed, but on the morning of our History exam, it tracks me to school. As the teacher hands out sheets of foolscap, I read the first question.

"Who were the Fathers of Confederation?"

The voice is now grinding in my head, and works its way down my wrist to my hand that holds the pen poised to write. It tries to arm wrestle me. It's getting louder and drowning out my thoughts. This is a test. "You will fail."

I must not let them paralyze me again.

The voice keeps growling, putting down roots, engulfing my mind but the pen is my sword. I will not be defeated.

I look around the room, the other kids scribbling away. Do they hear the voice? I don't think so. I brought it from home. But it came from downtown, the hospital --

I force my hand to write a sentence. And then another. And another.

"The Charlottetown Conference was the first step that led to uniting the provinces..."

I finish and hand in my exam sheet. The next week we hear the results. I have come first in History. And everything else except Math. I collect my prize on the last day of school: a hardcover book entitled "All Kinds of Courage."

I never hear the voice again.


My dad comes home with a deluxe edition of Verdi's Requiem. His retirement present from his colleagues at the high school. He's furious.

"Talk about poor taste," he says. He's been stung again. It's the last time.

Down at the hospital, Dr Cameron is quietly dismissing patients. He has come under review by his CIA backers. In a few months he and his files will be gone. The tape recorders with the repeating messages: "You're a bad girl. You killed your mother" -- will be silent. But I don't know that then, or at what cost this is happening.

It's summer vacation.

My dad is loading up the car. We're not going to our cabin on the river. We're driving to the Rockies. We might be moving to Alberta next fall. Or maybe we're fleeing something we can't hear or see. Wahoo.

This news comes as a shock but my twin brother and I are used to those. We climb in the back seat behind our parents and prepare for two weeks on the road, silently crossing Canada in our station wagon.

A normal family out for a long drive in the country. Two weeks of gazing out the window, playing I Spy With My Little Eye.

Something Black.










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