16
I UNDERSTOOD OUR FORTUNE COOKIE MESSAGES BETTER THAN I HAD ORIGINALLY THOUGHT
Dear Mr. Richard Gere,
While sitting in the backseat of the Ford Focus, listening to the robotic woman navigate and watching the flat, white, empty land pass by, I became very tired—too tired to think about all that had happened, let alone try to make sense of any of it.
Somehow—even though Max kept yelling, “Cat Fucking Parliament!” intermittently—I fell asleep.
In my dream, I woke up and I was in my bedroom, in Mom’s house.
Mom and Father McNamee were standing next to my bed, holding hands.
Is this a dream?” I said to them.
But they only smiled back, looking extremely proud.
Are you two together in heaven?”
They just kept smiling.
Why won’t you talk to me?” I said. “Please. Say something. Let me know that you’re okay, at least. Give me a sign.”
Mom pulled Father McNamee in a little closer, they looked each other in the eyes, and then they simply blinked out of existence.
Mom?” I yelled, and tried to get out of my bed, only to find that I couldn’t. The blanket was strapping me down, binding my torso, wrapping me like a giant anaconda—I couldn’t even free my arms. “Father?”
And then I was being shaken, so I opened my eyes and saw Max looking back at me from the passenger seat of the Ford Focus.
What the fuck, hey?”
You were dreaming,” Elizabeth said as she drove. “You were yelling.”
I’m sorry,” I said, and adjusted my seat belt.
Elizabeth told me to fucking wake you up.”
Thank you.”
No one said anything else, and I looked at my reflection in the window.
I felt so empty all of a sudden, so lonely—and I felt guilty, like maybe I hadn’t been a good enough son to Mom or Father McNamee, like I should have told them I loved them more when they were here, or I should have done more things—or maybe just one thing—to make them proud. And I wondered if my being a fat, unemployed, friendless man made them feel terrible about themselves, like their love had created this monster of a son who embarrassed them endlessly. The worst thought was this: Even if I managed to do something worthwhile with my life in the future, even if the miraculous occurred and I finally got my act together in some small way, Mom and Father McNamee were no longer around to see it. They had died knowing the Bartholomew of the past, and I was not happy with the Bartholomew of the past—not one bit.
Also, now that I knew Father McNamee’s first name was Richard, that I had misinterpreted Mom’s calling me by your first name, that Richard was an identity double entendre of sorts—at least in my life—I was finding it harder and harder to pretend that you, Richard Gere, were my friend and confidant. And so even though I am still writing you letters, I feel as though I am now writing to a dead person or a figment of my imagination—a fictional character—which also makes me feel like a gigantic moron.
Writing you and talking with you when you appeared to me felt so right before that now it feels doubly bad—knowing that it was all fake, that I had been mistaken.
Regardless of all that, I feel like I should tell you the rest of the story, maybe just because I need to tell someone.
When we arrived in Ottawa, we asked the GPS system to find us a hotel, and she was able to do that no problem.
There was a valet service, and we used it, so they gave Elizabeth a small piece of paper in return for the keys to the Ford Focus.
Elizabeth told me I’d have to use my emergency credit card that Mom had given me long ago, because the receptionist might ask for my passport when we checked in at the desk, and it would need to match the name on the credit card, which seemed logical, so I did as she suggested. We rented one room for the three of us and said we’d stay two nights. The whole time Max paced behind us, because he was so eager to go to Cat Parliament in the morning that he had planned to go to bed as soon as possible so that the night would pass more quickly.
You’re all set, Mr. Neil,” the receptionist said, and then handed me two rectangular room keys.
We keyed into our room on the fourth floor, and Max immediately began to get ready for bed by changing into his PJs—which were dotted with cat silhouettes and had these words blocked in red across the chest: THE CAT’S PAJAMAS—brushing his teeth, washing his face, and then diving into the bed closest to the widows. “Time to fucking sleep,” he said.
Max, it’s only eight and we haven’t eaten dinner yet,” Elizabeth said, but he was snoring almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Should we get dinner?” I asked, and Elizabeth nodded.
We bundled up and walked into the snowy city, feeling the sharp wind whip off the Ottawa River.
It looks like England here,” Elizabeth said as we strolled by the Parliament Buildings. “Clocks in high towers and whatnot.”
Have you been to England?”
No. You?”
Never.”
But wouldn’t you say this looks like England?”
I guess so.”
We walked sort of aimlessly for a long time, taking in the city, feeling the cold on our cheeks, and it felt good to walk after driving from Montreal.
Elizabeth stopped in front of a window full of Chinese zodiac symbols, behind which a fat jade Buddha sat cross-legged, and she said, “Do you want to eat here?”
Sure,” I said, and we went in.
She ordered lo mein, so I did too, and we waited in silence for the food to come, while some sort of Asian-sounding melody played—high-pitched flutes and what sounded like a depressed music box.
I thought maybe lo mein would taste different in Canada, but it didn’t.
When we finished eating, the fortune cookies came.
Elizabeth’s read: THE ONLY THING WRONG WITH HARMONY IS THAT BY DEFINITION IT CANNOT LAST.
Mine read: A FRIEND IS A PRESENT YOU GIVE YOURSELF.
What do they even mean?” Elizabeth said.
I didn’t have a clue, so I shrugged.
We sat there for a time, drinking the rest of the green tea that came in a black kettle shaped to look like a dragon, which we poured into little white cups that had light blue Chinese symbols painted on them.
Why do you think we’re here together in Ottawa?” I said. “I mean, what are the odds?”
Elizabeth stared out the window at the passing traffic, and her face seemed to turn to stone.
When I had paid the bill, she stood, I followed her lead, and we ambled around the snowy city of Ottawa for what seemed like hours.
Elizabeth kept her lips sealed, and so did I.
We just walked.
And walked.