LITMIR.BIZ

      “What the heck is going on? I can’t find my car keys. Does anybody know what happened to my car keys?”

      I had not been awakened by the sound of my father’s voice in a long time. Invisible and silent had been his style. It was good to hear his voice. I climbed out of bed and stumbled down the stairs.

      “Martin, do you know where my keys are?”

      “I’ll help you find them.” Somehow, I always knew where the lost car keys were.

      “I always keep them hanging up here by the refrigerator. Always.”

      “I know. Did you have any breakfast?” Sometimes I worry that my father is not taking care of himself.

      “I don’t have time. I’ve got a meeting with Product Development in twenty minutes. And I can’t find my darn keys.”

      Ever since my mother died, my father stopped using swear words. When she was alive, he was a bit foulmouthed for a father. He was a nice guy, don’t get me wrong, just a big fan of four-letter words. Now he only used “heck” and “darn” and other replacement words — like “schist” — that came close to sounding like the real things. This was a kind of tribute to her.

      I saw the keys to the van. “Here, Dad. They’re here by the toaster.” I knew they were there even before I looked. Or rather, the other Martin, Martin number three, knew. And that made me feel a little spooked.

      But my dad was happy. “Thanks, Martin. You saved the day.”

      He almost gave me eye contact but he turned quickly. “Remind me to get an extra set of keys made for the van.” He was doing that father rushing around bit, slurping coffee from a cup, spilling it, and getting his arm stuck in the sleeve of his suit jacket.

      He was just about out the door when he turned. “Martin?”

      “Yeah?”

      He looked at his watch. “Later.”

      The door closed.

      The van, which my father now started up and backed out of the driveway, was a family decision. Back before we knew my mother was sick, there was this plan to drive it all over North America — on weekends and during the three weeks my father had off in the summer. Lilly was not in favour of the plan unless Jake could come along. “When hell freezes over,” my father used to say. My father and Jake never got along.

      My mother had maps of all the states and provinces. She really wanted to go to Alaska. She said she would do all the driving. I wished I were old enough to do some of the driving. I wanted to drive my family to Alaska — but not with Jake along.

      Every time I got into the van now, I thought of my mother driving us to Alaska. My father would be reading the map and we would be in the Yukon somewhere, lost. When we stopped for the night, my mother would set up an easel and do a painting of a moose or a mountain. My father would cook supper over an open fire. I liked to think that all of this was happening right now in some sort of alternate timeline or parallel universe. My family is lost on a small back road in the Yukon. I can smell the shish kebab my father is cooking. There are mosquitoes the size of model airplanes but they are not biting. My sister is doing her nails. I am thinking about fishing. My father and I talk about going fishing, but we never really do it because we don’t like having to kill fish.

      “Holy shit!” my parallel father suddenly screeches out loud. One of the model airplane mosquitoes has bitten him on the neck. The shish kebab stick he had been wielding goes flying into the wilderness and probably lands on a moose turd the size of a squashed basketball.

      After school I had to go for my visit with Dave. He had this once a week thing going. I never fully decided if I liked the idea of counselling. But I liked Dave and he was unconventional. All the kids at school knew I was going to the weirdest shrink around and some of them started asking their parents if they could go for counselling too, but most got turned down because Dave was fairly expensive. Three trips to Dave

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