LITMIR.BIZ

      Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. Coach House Books also acknowledges the support of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program.

      LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

      Brown, Jocelyn, 1957-

       The mitochondrial curiosities of Marcels 1 to 19 / / Jocelyn Brown.

      ISBN 978-1-55245-209-7

      I. Title.

      PA8553.R68724 M48 2009 C813'.6 C2009-900821-1

       for my sister Alison, with love

      One

      We miss the bus.

      We miss the bus because the car wouldn’t start, it took forever to find bus fare, forever to get up the hill, and the #5 trolley had to emerge from Middle Earth. Then we miss the transfer because in Edmonton you have to take at least two buses to get anywhere and things are timed so you always miss the transfer no matter how fast you run. So far, this bus-missing experience is no different than all the uncountable others. No one stops, and I look like crap.

      We watch the bus get sucked onto the bridge, which is also the same as ever. All of Edmonton, in fact, is desolation as per usual, like the set of a low-budget apocalypse movie, so low-budget they used old white sheets for both the sky and the ground. We watch the cars, not for poignant insights but because what else do you do in Edmonton, Alberta, on a Sunday morning? You watch traffic. It’s the only sign of life.

      It is 10:10 a.m. The memorial pancake brunch for my dad started at ten on the other side of the very long bridge. So much for parental death being momentous.

      I lean against the bus shelter panting and queasy but also scanning for clues because I can’t help myself. Leonard dying means no gala treasure hunt for my birthday, which, talk about ridiculous, is also today. I was supposed to start my new life and instead it’s all about his being over. Not to sound melodramatic which I’m not.

      I sink onto the bench where I will possibly stay forever and lean against Penny Shemkow, real estate agent with blacked-out teeth. An hour ago, I was pretty much convulsing, having had let’s say six cups of French roast in between changing the ear studs, the nose ring, the bangs, the top. When it’s your father’s memorial you think you should try your best, regardless. Now I look like hell on a stick anyway.

      Joan, mother, and Paige, perfect sister, have more faith in the goodness of bus drivers. Plus, they’re generally better people than me so they run, actually are still running when I sit down to be embraced by sloth and Penny Shemkow. At the crosswalk onto the bridge, they yell my name until I open my eyes. I wave them on, they keep yelling. ‘Leave me alone,’ I yell back and point at my head, as in aneurysm. They discuss and I look at my hands, checking myself for some sign of life, but my hands are not that. They’re upturned like dead birds, probably killed by the hideousness of the skirt underneath them. So I look up at the trees because trees are a sign of life, the symbol of life, are they not? Dead. I look at dead branches splayed against a milky sky, completely sinister, because it’s all about pollution. And I think, as I do in moments of difficulty, about my blog, which features a weekly craft, as in, potentially, crafts for emotional release when you’ve missed the bus to your father’s memorial and the skirt you made for it totally sucks and you’ve just turned fifteen meaning there could be another fifty or so years to go, and because of the planetary situation, not to mention your own psychological issues and recent crimes, which can’t be considered just now, these fifty years will be more painful than even you can imagine. Something simple, I’m thinking. And soft. Maybe with fleece.

      OMG. Paige is jumping up and down like a crazed cheerleader, shouting, ‘Dree Dree Dree.’ Joan walks towards me, doing a crackly low kind of Dreeeeee that sounds like Velcro ripping.

      So, fine, off we go. Joan says, ‘These things never start on time,’ as if she goes to pancake memorial brunches for dead ex-husbands every Sunday morning. No point in saying it and the words wouldn’t come out that way anyway, so I just plow ahead.

      There are three things about the High Level Bridge: it is high, haha, it is windy and it is très long. I look up and sleet shreds my face. Down below is the river into which at least one Edmontonian per year jumps, for obvious reasons. I keep my eyes and feet on the yellow line that runs down the middle of the walkway. When a bicycle bell rings, I don’t move over. My dad died, I think, deal with it.

      The quadriplegia zone is so windy that Paige gets slammed against the fence. We cluster, Paige in the middle, bumping against each other until the zone of certain death. If this bridge is ever going to collapse, now would be an excellent time. ‘Well, I won’t have to go for my run tonight,’ Joan says at the light. At the door to George’s Grill, she says, ‘We should be done by three.’ When the apocalypse is underway, Joan will still be making a schedule. ‘No later than three, we’ll still have time for cake and a movie.’

      ‘Joan. Let. It. Go.’

      ‘Oh no, honey. It’s your birthday.’

      ‘Not anymore,’ I say. ‘Come on.’

      ‘What? But, Mom,’ Paige says. ‘Birthday cake today? What are you saying? Exactly?’ Paige, once the apocalypse is underway, will write a book on etiquette. How to behave during a plague. I am not kidding.

      ‘And what are you saying?’ I say, still holding the door open.

      Joan’s taken off one of her shoes that she bought for this event although she pretended she had them before, and says, ‘What was I thinking, my feet are killing me. Girls! What are you waiting for?’

      Paige tells Joan she looks great, but c’mon, Joan is never going to look as good as Rita who Leonard married two years ago. Anyway, Joan, good marks for effort.

      Rita is right inside the room where the hostess normally stands. ‘Oh, thank God,’ she says. ‘I kept surrounding you in white light, but still – ’

      Really, before this moment, Rita wasn’t a problem to me. In fact I was happy – okay, not exactly happy, but relieved – when she first surfaced. She was cool to be around, reasonably, given her wardrobe, and, most importantly, she came with a house. So, as soon as Leonard hooked up with her, I knew where Leonard was. And that was very good, because visiting Leonard post-Joan/pre-Rita was dangerous. Seriously. He lived in houses for which the words icky, creepy and disgusting are tragically inadequate. We’re talking mouse poo in the sugar and smells you do not want to identify.

      Okay, here’s something truly unseemly: Rita and Joan both work in the addiction centre Leonard went to. Joan’s the admin person whose mission is getting someone fired every year, at least one person. I don’t know if she gets a raise for doing it or what, but that’s her mission. Strangely, she hasn’t gotten Rita fired. Rita’s a counsellor and that’s how she met Leonard. We don’t talk about that because I don’t think counsellors are supposed to do it with their clients. Rita also teaches yoga and I even went to one of her classes, which was my très generous attempt at bonding. Leonard was all pleased.

      George’s Grill was Leonard’s one semi-healthy habit. We came here about a thousand Sunday mornings while Paige and Joan went to church. Maybe they still don’t know. Them: small dry communion hosts. Us: fat, buttered blueberry

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