The Answer to Everything (24 page)

The thing had literally split in half.

Then I saw the shapes of bodies, covered in snow, like those people buried in situ in Pompeii.

And then I ran.

I was awake when she called. Lucky for her, because I’d left my phone on vibrate on the coffee table. If some assclown hadn’t pulled the fire alarm at 1:47 a.m., I would have been asleep and unreachable in her old room instead of eating cereal out of the box and watching a rubbishy Greer Garson flick on Turner Classic Movies.

She was instantly hysterical. Not what I expected, although maybe the phone spinning madly on its axis as if possessed should have been a clue. When I saw
Amy
on the display, I assumed it was a case of drunk dialling, and in the brief moments that it took to actually bring the thing to my ear I had already fantasized her plaintive, vodka-soaked plea for forgiveness and reconciliation, one that would culminate in me allowing her to come over and make it up to me with a tender though maximum-effort blow job. Wrong.

“Hello?”

“Oh thank God! Thank God you’re there!” She was hyperventilating. It sounded like she was running.

“What’s the matter?”

“Can you come over? Take a cab! I’ll pay.”

“Why, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know …” She started to sob. “Please! I’m freaking out. I need your help!”

“Just tell me what’s happening!”

“I can’t. I don’t know!
Can you just please come?
”

“Fine!
Jesus Christ
.” I hung up, called a taxi and got dressed. Both elevators were busted so I had to schlep down twelve flights of stairs. Then, because of the wretched weather and fresh dump of snow, the cab alternately crawled and fishtailed its way over there, almost not making it up the hill on Yonge, and nearly killing us about twenty times. I was way more enraged than alarmed. I remember thinking:
This better be fucking serious
.

Unfortunately, it was.

One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man,

Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;

Our meddling intellect

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—

We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;

Close up those barren leaves;

Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives.

If I had even the slightest inkling that anyone might still be alive, I would have called an ambulance right away. Obviously. But I didn’t get that close. All I saw were inert bodies, their forms smoothed by a layer of snow, like they had been dipped in wax. How could I have known that Drew was lying in the woods, still breathing? I couldn’t! It was dark and I was alone and pretty much out of my mind with panic.

I called John. I did. I called the man who instigated the whole nightmare. I called the man who called me a “lying slut” and dumped me because I went swimming with Xavier Raine Maddox. I called the man who said he would make it his business to ensure I never saw a cent of Phil’s estate, the man who—I recently discovered—succeeded in getting Phil to change his will so that the Institute was disinherited and he and Eldrich were instead named individually as beneficiaries. I called the man who, when he learned of my recent condo purchase, publicly insinuated that I’d siphoned Institute funds—which is bullshit; I paid for this place with my salary and bonus. Yes, I called John. And guess what? He came. Right away. In the middle of the night. He came when I needed him. No questions asked. So I’m thankful for that.

I’m thankful that, buried under all of John’s anger, bitterness and mistrust, there was a flicker of something more powerful than hate.

I was shocked when I saw her. Emaciated and bony. Dark circles under frantic eyes. She looked ill. Anorexic. She threw herself into my arms. I was momentarily pleased, chalking it up to my absence and her guilt-ravaged heart. Wrong again.

She led me to the bodies.

Even before I got close enough to see much—Amy didn’t want to approach—I knew there was only one thing to do.

“We have to call 9-1-1.”

“I know,” she said. “But do you think—I mean, shouldn’t we …? Do you think we should get rid of the ayahuasca stuff first?”

She said “we” but meant me. I guess that’s why I’d been summoned.

“And say what? ‘Um, yeah … all these people were just sitting around under a tree, in the middle of a storm’ … doing what? Swapping recipes?”

“I don’t know. We could say it was a sweetgrass ceremony or a sweat lodge or something?”

“Yeah, well,
I’m
not messing with that scene. And since you’re afraid to even go over there, I’m guessing you’re not planning to either.”

Amy sighed. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

“But, actually, it might not be a bad idea to get rid of the drugs in the house.”

“You think they’ll search the house?”

“I don’t know. There are dead people here. Yeah, they’ll probably search the house. And ayahuasca’s one thing … but ‘shrooms, pot and acid are something else.”

“Shit!”

“I can’t believe that tree …”

“I know. And there was a tent under there. With a wood floor and blankets.”

All of that was gone. Incinerated. From the distance we were at, I could just barely make out the melted metal remnants of the tent frame, lying twisted on the ground among the bodies and branches.

“Who’s out there, anyway?”

“Everybody!” she said, instantly hysterical.
“Oh my God, even Staci!”

“Jesus Christ! What the fuck?”

“I told them to go back in the house! They wouldn’t listen!”

“What was she doing out there in the first place? Jesus, Amy!”

“Maybe we should just leave? Pretend we weren’t here?”

“A, I
wasn’t
fucking here. And B, you’re a little late, since I just arrived via taxi. You think there’s no record of that?”

“OK. Sorry. I’m not thinking straight!”

“Obviously.”

“Stop yelling at me!”

“
I’m
not yelling. You’re the one who’s yelling. Just fucking chill, OK?”

“OK. Sorry …”

“Just go to Eldrich and Steve’s room and flush whatever you can find. Then go through Scheibling’s room and do the same. Then call 9-1-1.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’ll be there in a sec. I’m just gonna … you know … have a look.” Something in me needed to look.

“Really? I mean, maybe you were right. Maybe we shouldn’t disturb them?”

“I don’t think they’ll mind.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You’d better go, OK. We need to call as soon as possible. I won’t touch anything.”

As Amy hurried away, all my bravado seemed to hurry away with her. I thought I’d be able to approach and observe, but as I inched closer and started seeing details, I had to stop. For one thing, it was fucking scary out there—dark woods, howling wind, dead bodies (Scheibling, I’m sickened to say, had been stabbed through the belly with a long splinter of oak—pinned to the earth like an entomologist’s beetle). But to be honest, it was seeing Catelyn that did me in. Or, more accurately, seeing her boots. I had taken note of these months earlier when she brought them home and modelled them for Heather. Stiletto-heeled ankle boots with a faux-leopard fringe around the top, a gold zipper up the back and a tiny metal heart to pull it. So awful. And she was so absurdly in love with them, high-stepping around the kitchen, but feeling guilty for
buying them. All her money was supposed to be for Staci and Staci’s bright future. She told Heather she was going to return them. But Heather told her not to. She said a mother had to take care of herself as well, that every woman had to have at least one impractical and beautiful thing in her wardrobe. I remember thinking,
Keep looking, babe
, and chortling about how happy she was to keep her ugly-ass boots. But that night, seeing them sticking out of the snow, all burned and muddy, with the zippers melted together … it just made me want to fucking weep.

I stumbled away from the carnage and sagged against a tree. I felt dizzy, like I was going to pass out. I pressed my face against the cool trunk and leaned there for a bit, deep breathing, grappling, not looking at anything in particular, just the dark interior of the woods and its dark shapes, when my eyes found and deciphered Eldrich’s gruesome garden: heads … heads in the soil—one of them (Tyson), looking past me with a death stare, the mouth open in a gasp (only later did I learn of Eldrich’s insane plan to dig under trees in the middle of a storm). A blast of adrenalin sent me lurching directly into a low-hanging branch. I staggered, bleeding and frantic, toward the closest shelter—the bubble. I had to get away. I had to get indoors. My overriding desire was to make it to MAMA, to hide inside and seek what Freud called the “soothing oblivion” of the womb.

Alarmingly, I wasn’t the first to have that impulse.

As I neared the tennis court, I heard her. Faint and creepy. The heartbeat, the uterine
whoosh
, the soothing voice.

Catelyn’s voice.

Mama loves you … Mama loves you so much …

The bubble was illuminated only by glowing glass eyes. I moved slowly closer, afraid to open the door on the womb, afraid of what new horror I’d find next. But when I finally worked up the nerve to approach and lift, I was met with a fine sight, one that made me sob with relief: Heather and Staci, in their matching green sweaters, curled inside like fiddleheads.

Asleep. Safe. Oblivious.

About to be reborn.

You want to know what is in my heart and I will tell you.

Faith. Pure and unyielding. Faith in God the Father. Not lawyers, journalists or judges.

I have come forth into the light of things. Nature was my teacher.

Nine hearts watched and received as God spoke his miracle into them. Nine souls came forth into the light and went gloriously home in the arms of God.

It was not an accident. It was not a tragedy.

It was a divine and wondrous event. A beginning, not an end.

My friends my friends my friends my friends … closer to God than they have ever, ever been.

I truly believe that.

I do. I do.

I’m very sorry for the Seekers who lost their lives that night. It’s tragic. And horrible. But I know that, at least for a while, they found kinship and salvation in the Institute. I’m glad of that. I take comfort in that. For many, it was the first time in years that they had any kind of help or happiness or companionship.

The Institute
was
a positive place. People thrived there. I saw it with my own eyes. People perking up, getting stronger, growing … I mean, I know it wasn’t perfect. Certain elements were maybe getting a bit out of control. And I’m not trying to whitewash how it ended. I’m especially sad and sorry that Staci lost her mom. I am. But there’s no doubt in my mind that she’ll be better off in the long run with Heather. I think even Catelyn would agree. She was terrified of falling off the wagon and causing Staci more trauma. Above all, Catelyn wanted Staci to have a future. With Heather she’ll have one. And now Heather will have one too. She saved Staci, which I’m sure, psychologically, will help mitigate the pain of not being able to save her own child. And now she has a purpose—to take good care of Staci, which I know she’ll continue to go above and beyond to do.

So maybe the powers that be, whatever and whomever they may be, knew what they were up to. Maybe this all went down for that reason. Maybe Staci is fated for some important task and she needs Heather to get her there. Who knows? I don’t know. It’s equally possible that everything is totally random and meaningless.

Either way, I’d like to think that, on balance, the Institute did more good than harm. And given that, maybe I shouldn’t be sorry that I was a part of it. Right?

Of course, now I have to figure out what to do next. I’m not going back to school, I know that much. Trying to compete with my sister in academia no longer seems like a wise use of energy. I should probably just try to relax and take a few months to figure it out. It would be foolish to make major life decisions before all the legal issues have been resolved.

In the meantime, I’ve been feathering my nest. It’s a one-bedroom plus office in a funky new low-rise in Liberty Village. It has super-high-end features and finishes, one and a half baths and a small terrace that can accommodate a few chairs and a barbecue. Oh, and the bedroom and full bath are upstairs, so the place feels more like a house than an apartment. It’s really a gorgeous space. Even my parents were impressed. And it wasn’t a bad deal either, considering it’s a two-story. I love that aspect of it. I think a two-story is perfect for me. Best of all, it has an ensuite washer and dryer—full sized and never been used! So I don’t have to share laundry, which is something I’ve been dreaming about for years.

The only drawback is that I’m the first person to move in to the building. I bought a model suite, which was the only
one that was ready, and from what I could tell from the floor plans, the nicest. I assumed the rest of the units were close to being finished, but most haven’t even been drywalled yet. During the day there are tradespeople on-site, sales people and prospective buyers milling about, but at night the place is totally empty. It’s just me. And I’m not used to that. Apart from a short blip after Barb van Vleck, I’ve never lived alone. Ever since I left my parents’ house I’ve had at least one roommate. And, of course, at the Institute I was surrounded by people. Plus I had John. For a while, anyway.

It’s nighttime now and everyone’s gone. The suites all empty and dark.

But it’s a beautiful unit. The bathrooms are finished in real Italian marble.

And I got a nice postcard from Raine the other day—technically, we’re not allowed to be in touch, so no texts/emails. He said that when all the legal stuff is over, I’d be welcome to come down for a visit. So that’s cool. I mean, I know it’s going to take a long time and maybe nothing will really come of it, but it’s something to look forward to.