Page 71 of Your Echo
I stop at the edge of the park and uncork the champagne. Thepopmakes a group of teenagers on a blanket turn to look at me. They cheer. I raise the bag-covered bottle to them and keep walking. Once I’ve rounded the edge of the pond and found a corner of the park that’s not crawling with people, I sit down on a bench and start gulping down champagne.
When I’m almost halfway through the bottle, I pull my phone out in the fading light to glance at the time. Almost nine now. There are a few new texts from Matt, urging me to check in with him. I missed a rehearsal today, but managed to convince him it was because I was with Stéphanie and lost track of time. He’s been sending me reminders about tomorrow’sLa Rentréeschedule ever since.
“Une gorgée pour moi?”
I look up at the sound of the ragged voice asking me for a sip and find a homeless man pushing a shopping cart up the path in front of my bench. He stops and digs out a thermal mug, holding it out to me.
I shrug. “Why not?”
I pour some champagne in his mug after he shuffles over. He glances at the empty spot on the bench next to me, and I shrug again. He clinks his mug against the bottle, then takes a long sip.
“Tu parles fran?ais?” he asks.
“Ouais,” I answer, “but I think I’m too drunk to speak French right now.”
We each take another sip of champagne, and then, just for the hell of it, I ask, “You ever been in love?”
He gives me a blank stare.
“You know? Love?” I urge. “Have you ever been in love with a girl?”
He lets out a laugh that’s close to a cackle. “Love.Hein. Fuck love,mon gars.”
“Fuck love,” I repeat. “Cheers to that.”
We clink our glasses again. I don’t know if the new alcohol hits my bloodstream at just that moment, or if it’s because there’s a blonde girl holding hands with a guy down by the pond and the sight is like a bullet in my chest, but I start to tell this guy everything.
I tell him how I met Stéphanie, how she looked when she danced on stage, how fucking her felt like madness and magic, and how the voices in my head all got quiet when she was around. I don’t even know if he speaks enough English to understand me, but I pour him more champagne and keep going.
“I grew up in Westmount,” I explain. “My parents are rich motherfuckers who barely do anything for themselves. I swear they probably pay someone to wipe their asses for them. I know they sure as hell didn’t wipemyass. I was raised by nannies. My parents hardly ever spoke to me, unless it was to tell me I was doing something wrong.”
I take a long pull from the bottle.
“The only thing my dad ever did around the house was the trim the hedges outside. I wouldn’t be surprised if he jacked off to those hedges; he loved them so much. When I was maybe six years old, I got this idea in my head. I wanted to impress him. I wanted him to like me. I took his gardening shears, and I went outside. I was six, so obviously I made a fucking mess of it. When he got home...”
I shudder and blame it on the growing chill in the air.
“My dad only ever hit me that one time, but it was enough. It wasn’t even the pain that broke me. It was the look in his eyes. He didn’t see me as a person. He didn’t see me as his son. I was like...like a pet. I was just an annoying dog that misbehaved, and he wasn’t afraid to be cruel to me. I never acted up again. I tried to stay out of his way. I broke my finger once when I was eight, and I spent the whole night crying over it, alone, because I didn’t want to bother my parents.”
I sit in silence for a moment, untilMonsieurFuck-Love points between his mug and the bottle. I hand him the whole thing.
“This one time when I was ten, I had the day off school, and my nanny couldn’t come over. I was supposed to stay in my room all day and keep quiet. It was winter, and I stared out my window for hours, watching the snow come down. A woman came to the house. I didn’t know who she was at the time, but I learned later that she was one of our cleaners. She had her daughter with her, this girl about my age with a long blonde ponytail. She was making a snowball, and I was wishing I could be out there playing with her. Then her mom fell down the stairs.”
I can’t tell if my voice is faltering because of the alcohol or the story.
“The girl looked right at me in the window. She was screaming in French, asking for help, and I...I just backed away. I wasn’t supposed to leave my room. I wasn’t supposed to bother my parents. I know how fucked up it seems now, but you have to understand how much my dad scared me shitless. Youhaveto understand...”
The homeless man thumps me on the back as I cough, choking on a sob.
“The girl kept screaming and screaming, and I was pulling my hair out in chunks and smacking my head against the wall, and she.Just. Kept. Screaming.Then I was screaming too, over and over. I don’t remember much of the rest. My dad came in my room and had to hold me down. I was having some kind of fit. I bit my tongue. I remember tasting the blood. When I finally calmed down enough, they tried to put me in the car and take me to the hospital, but the ambulance was there, loading up the girl’s mother. I saw her lying on the stretcher, and I thought she was dead. I really did. I started screaming again. I thought I killed her. My mom had to drive us while my dad pinned me down in the back seat.”
My cheeks are wet now, and the tears drip all the way down to my mouth. They taste salty, just like the blood that day.
“I didn’t speak to anyone for two weeks after that. Not one single word. My parents thought I had gone crazy, but they wouldn’t take me to a therapist. They couldn’t handle the thought that someone might find out. When I was twelve, they sent me to boarding school, like I was just some dust they could sweep under one of their fucking Persian rugs.”
The man clearly has no idea what I’m saying, but he keeps thumping me on the back and muttering, “?a va, ?a va.”
“After boarding school, I went to McGill like they wanted me to. Being away from them for so long had made me start to see them for what they were, but fear is a hard habit to kick. I had joined my band by then, and when they found out, they tried to put a stop to it. They were going to pay off the band members and the manager to kick me out. Couldn’t have me tarnishing the family name. I saved them the trouble. I hadn’t been using their fucking name for years anyway, so I made it official. I brought them the documents, told them I wasn’t Acton Thompson anymore. I wasn’t their son. I told them to leave me alone, or they’d see how crazy I really was. Then I set my dad’s hedge on fire.”
