The Gallery of Lost Species (26 page)

He looked beat. “She white-knuckled it till spring, then it all started again. I couldn't keep bailing her out,” he said, as if seeking forgiveness. He paused and squeezed his eyes shut. “She bragged about you constantly. Said you were the smart one who'd go places. I have no idea where she is, but I wouldn't concern myself too much if I were you. She'll turn up. And when she comes back, I can't get involved again. My wife's losing patience. We have kids, things are different.”

He steadied his gaze on me with those clear, almost neon eyes that had immobilized me as a girl. Before me was a burly, cynical man fighting back tears. Blaming himself for what I now knew was no one's fault. I didn't see the point in upsetting him with Viv's current diagnosis.

He glanced through the doors that led to the library. “If it wasn't the potluck, it would have been something else. There was always one temptation or another around the corner with your sister.” He reached for his coat. “How is your mother, by the way?”

“She won't talk about it.”

“I never met her, but I sometimes got the sense that Vivienne worshipped her.”

“What do you mean? She couldn't stand her.”

And then he gave a defeated smile. “From what I heard about your mom, they seem alike, those two. Sad, unfulfilled. Haunted by God knows what.”

THIRTY-NINE

A
NOTHER WEEK PASSED WITH
no news. I decided to file a missing persons report. Even though Constance said don't.

Grief was untidy. My mother wanted no part in its damage to her composure. She'd had shingles since my sister's hospitalization, although she didn't complain about the belt-like pattern of blisters erupting along the side of her chest, which I'd noticed on her last visit.

“
Heureusement
this prevents you girls from doing that outlandish surgery. She is a grown-up and must care for herself. She is
not
your responsibility, Édith.”

I waited for her common sense to kick in. Neither Con nor Henry had siblings. I shouldn't have expected her to understand the enduring allegiance I felt toward my sister. How this fidelity transcended the ill will.

“It was an imbecilic plan,” was all she kept saying from her condo in Florida. “She'll come home when she is ready.”

But this time Viv's disappearance was a complete fade away.

I brought the camping picture with me to the police station. When the administrator stapled it to the form, the fastener ran across my sister's forehead. I filled out Viv's personal information and a physical description from when I'd last seen her.

“Be sure to include unique features. People always forget that,” she said.

“Like skills?”

“Like a birthmark or scars. Dentures or a hearing aid. A missing limb, tattoos, a limp. Any attribute to help us identify her.”

When I finished, she brought me to a desk where an officer was sitting at a computer, playing solitaire and eating a healthy-looking wrap. He gave me the once-over, flipping through the form attached to the clipboard.

“This photo's terrible.”

“It's from an old camera.”

“You sure she's not with relatives or friends?”

“I'm sure.”

“Has she gone missing before?”

“Sometimes we don't hear from her for long periods.”

Wiping his hands and making a sucking sound through his teeth, he said, “Visit the places where you've found her in the past. Call hospitals and shelters. They usually refuse to divulge anything, but there are exceptions. What was her state of mind?”

“She was coping. She's never been a happy person.”

“Drugs?”

“I'm not sure.”

“This isn't the time to hold back.”

“Maybe prostitution.”

“Drugs, then.”

“She can't afford drugs.”

“Meth's five bucks a hit. Cheaper than booze.”

“I only ever saw her drink. And do ecstasy recreationally.”

“They all go together. Users switch up.” He checked the form again. “Says here last seen in September.”

“We were getting ready to go to India. I was collecting the money we needed.”

“You give her any?”

“Not much.” Before she'd gone on her retreat, I'd ended up sliding an envelope containing a few hundred bucks under Viv's door, with a note telling her to dump the old duffle bag and get a new suitcase and some clothes for the trip.

He looked dubious. “Anything else?”

“She had marks. Behind her knees, even. She said they were old. And she had to use needles to inject vitamins, so it was probably just that.”

“You can inject meth. And junk, and crack. But tracks are a myth unless you shoot in the same places. Most have plenty of fresh veins to choose from. Marks mean your sister scarred easily.” He kept typing. “What else?”

“She used to be a painter.”

“Houses?”

“Pictures. She has a paintbrush tattoo.”

“Where?”

“Left shoulder blade.”

“Alcohol and cigarette brands?”

“Anything she can get, I guess.”

“Is she on meds?”

“For her liver.”

“You note her doctor here?” He flipped the page. I nodded. He handed the form back to me. “I can't file this.”

“Excuse me?”

“I'll do you a favour and put her in our registry, but I'm not filing your report.” He could see I didn't follow. “Your sister's not
missing,
missing. She's just gone.”

“That makes no sense.”

“If facts indicated foul play, we'd investigate. That's not the case here.”

“Of course she's missing. We can't
find
her! She could be in trouble, and you're not going to do anything?”

“We have about a hundred reports registered here every month, miss. Walking away without telling anyone isn't a crime. When you can prove otherwise, here's my number. The name's Quinn.”

“That's it? What am I supposed to do?” My voice reverberated back at me, borderline hysterical, when he gave me his card.

“Secure her belongings. Conduct phone and Web searches. Was she active in a chat room or other social network, or did she leave behind her cell or written materials like a journal?”

I shook my head.

“If you feel the need to pursue it, hire a licensed PI.” He stood up then, opening his office door for me to leave. “Give him contact details for her dentist. And if you have a toothbrush or a hairbrush, drop them off too.”

*   *   *

I
N THE
G
ALLERY'S
heart, through the trees and flowers of the garden court, hidden from view unless one really looked, lay the entranceway to the Rideau Chapel—a sanctuary saved from demolition by volunteers, and reconstructed piece by piece.

I walked by angels made from pine and stood under the fan-vaulted ceiling. The sound sculpture
Forty-Part Motet
played there on a loop. Spotlights flooded in through stained glass windows in simulated sunlight, torching the altars and balcony, the marbled columns and stencilled walls.

The artist said she wanted to climb inside the music. So she put forty speakers on stands in a horseshoe, creating eight choirs. From each speaker there came a separately recorded voice, beginning with a single chant from the first set of sculptures. Others lolled in like an undercurrent, each voice eclipsing the previous one as the fugue traversed the chapel. Then all the voices rinsed together and split apart in a torrent of sound passing through me as the choirs belted a final, harrowing culmination. All at once the voices were snuffed out until the loop commenced again.

Some said
Forty-Part Motet
was a clearing in the woods and the speakers were trees around its perimeter. The empty space in the core of the forest meant the absence of God.

I thought about how being killed by a unicorn would be like being killed by an icicle or by alcohol. There would be no evidence afterwards. No weapon.

When the voices rose in unison, a shrill, piercing sound escaped me until my vocal chords burned. I dropped to the floor, as the singers carried on.

FORTY

A
MONTH INTO MY
sister's disappearance, I still slept with my cell by the bed. One night it went off, a melodious ring tone set to the sound of a harp. The caller ID was
Château Lafayette.

There was a lot of noise in the background. Rough voices, glasses, and country music. “Viv?” I said, too loudly.

“Your sister was here.”

“Who's this? Can you put her on?”

“Andy. Bartender. Hadn't seen her till tonight.”

“Is she okay?” I sat up and switched on the lamp.

“I'm not a mind reader. It was busy.”

“I'll be right there.” I checked the clock. It was 1:49 a.m.

“Don't bother. She left.”

“What? Where?” I opened the curtains and the window. It was so stuffy in my room I could hardly breathe.

“Closing time soon. Just wanted you to know she was here.”

“Why didn't you call me right away?” I paced and returned to the window. “You shouldn't have let her go.”

“Listen, I can't babysit all these freaks. Fine by me if you don't want to hear—”

“Wait, don't hang up!” The sound of clanking glasses was deafening. “Please, she needs to be in a hospital.”

“Don't we all. I told her you were looking for her. Said for you not to worry.” He breathed in and out, slow and deep. “That's the only reason I'm calling.”

“There must have been something else. What else?”

“Gimme a sec.” I heard the till opening and closing, and coins being poured into a receptacle. A tray of glasses smashing to the ground, and Andy cursing before he came back on the line. “Nothing to tell. Had a rye. Said it was her last drink. That she was going home to paint the golden lights or something. The usual drivel.”

“To paint gold? Is that what she said, to paint gold?” Beneath the shadow of the oak tree a bat shot past, then another.

Andy sounded more introspective. “That's it,” he said, “exactly.”

I bit a hangnail and pulled the skin with my teeth. “You're sure it was her?”

“It was her.”

She'd been ten minutes away the whole time.

When I hung up, I couldn't loosen my grip on the phone. I sucked on my bleeding finger. Then I sped to the Market in my pyjamas, winding through the streets and alleys. Two patrol cars circulated nearby. The area was dead, everyone hiding in the neighbourhood's hovels and crack dens.

I parked across from the Laff and sat in the dark. When the cops came to my window with their flashlight, I showed them Viv's picture and asked if they'd seen her. The female officer's hair was pulled back in a pageant-tight bun. With tedium she said, “Hon, you don't belong here. Look for her in daylight.”

Daylight didn't come. As I drove home in the blue hour—the hour of sweet light for artists, changing like the purples of a bruise—a fog was settling down over everything.

When I lay on the couch and closed my eyes, I heard my father's supplicating voice.
Find her, kiddo. It's on you.

I showered and dressed for work. I made toast, spitting it out at the taste of rancid butter. There was no food in my fridge since she'd gone missing. I'd stopped keeping up with groceries and cleaning.

I walked in early, reaching the Gallery before the fog lifted, while the city was still muted. The taiga garden at the mouth of the parkade was breath-catching, like a painting evading clarity. Hardly anyone noticed it, but the rocky site—the dry undergrowth and stern trees, the neglected stretch of deep earth tones—was inspired by the Group of Seven's Canadian Shield imagery.

Through the dim air I heard a rhythmic clomping. Then Theo emerged from behind some stunted poplars. With his walking stick, he made small jumps on one leg, landing on the same foot and bending down now and again to scout the ground. I watched him a while longer then called out to him.

“What are you doing, Theo?”

“Investigating tracks,” he said, breathless. “And the distances between them.”

“What are they?”

“Possibly cougar.”

“In the city?” I scaled the rock and approached the bog rosemary.

“Ecotone.”

“What's that?”

“When two ecological worlds collide.”

I bent to touch the tracks in the dirt, approximating those of a large dog. “These are dried up,” I told him. “Whatever it was is long gone.”

“That does not mean it will not return.” Theo rubbed the imprints. “There is a saying: Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. You see the space between the markings? A dog cannot leap like that.”

I pictured an alien big cat stalking up the Gallery's glass ramp. Theo's mind was a bestiary. From what he told me, he hadn't actually found any of his animals. He'd spent his life trying to reverse extinction, yet it seemed to me his occupation of resurrecting lost species was a futile one.

He gestured toward the Great Hall dome, though we couldn't see it. “I keep hearing voices.”

“That's the
Forty-Part Motet.
”

He was still absorbed by his discovery. “Edith, you are living in an era of animal kingdom casualties,” he said, staring down at the track. “In your lifetime, fauna once common will be eradicated. The whale, the elephant, the gorilla, the tiger. One day they will be illusory, like Gauguin's bird.”

“How did he die again?”

“Hmmm?”

“Gauguin. I forget how he died.”

“Inconclusive. Presumably arsenic and alcohol.”

The fog was lifting. The savage plot unfurled itself before us.

“I have a sister who's dying like that,” I blurted through some windswept pines. “Her name is Vivienne.”