told himself, was forget it. Though if everyone thought like that, he’d be out of business. His job depended on other people wanting him to dig up the past and conjure it before their eyes: the young wife who hadn’t returned from a trip to the bank; the father who left work and was never seen again; the sixth-grader who ventured out between Algebra and French and dropped off the face of the earth.
It wasn’t till his third session that Martin asked him about his mother’s death when he was four years old. Dan replied truthfully that he recalled little apart from a gathering of relatives in his apartment and the hush around them whenever he came into the room. He remembered briefly being shipped off to a neighbour’s, and later being given Popsicles before returning to live with his father.
When she died, what little connection Dan had had with his father died along with her. His father seemed to have frozen over, ice covering the distance between them. It had stayed that way till his death ten years ago, though the ice was all on Dan’s part by then. Even Kedrick’s birth hadn’t changed things. There’d been just one family visit, a brief, guilt-tinged appearance supervised by Dan’s Aunt Marge, made at her request. Dan had watched, wary, as his father took the boy in his hands and sat him on his knee. The scar on Dan’s right temple throbbed, the one he’d gotten when his father threw him against a doorjamb returning home late from school not long after his tenth birthday.
Since then he’d successfully covered the past with a shroud, convincing himself it had few holds on him apart from the ones dictated by genetics. As far as he was concerned, the legacy was unremarkable on both sides of the family. He was the son of a miner who was also the son of a miner. His father’s relatives had lived in Sudbury for more than three generations. His mother had migrated there from Manitoba, no one seemed to recall why or when, and had been variously a waitress, a beautician, and a cashier at Woolworth’s until her early death from pneumonia one Christmas.
As far as Dan knew, he was the only one in the family who had attended a post-secondary institution. He’d never been in trouble at school or with the law. Until he left home, he’d never lived anywhere but Sudbury. The only home he recalled had been the second floor of a rundown walk-up in the Flourmill District, an area uniquely devoid of distinctive features apart from the six squat cement cylinders that had lain unused for decades before being turned into a museum of dubious distinction not long after Dan was born.
“Do you have any nice memories of your father?” Martin asked unexpectedly one day.
Dan thought about it. After a moment, he nodded. “My father was sometimes nice to me when he drank. That and Christmas. Usually the two coincided. I guess he was sentimental about certain things.”
“Did it change after your mother died?”
“That was when he stopped drinking.” Dan paused. “You’d think it would be the opposite, wouldn’t you? You might expect that he’d drink more when she died.”
“Would you?”
“Yes, a normal person would.”
Martin ignored the jibe, if he noticed it.
“My father didn’t drink for a long time after she died, but he started up again during a mining strike in the late seventies. The strike went on for nearly a year. That’s when I realized he resented me. Otherwise, I suppose he could have sat around getting drunk instead of working to support me.”
Of his parents together, he had one small memory that might have been nothing more than a dream. A Christmas tree filled with lights and tinselly ornaments figured prominently. A glittery green and red bird with a shiny fibreglass tail caught his attention. He recalled reaching up and stroking it, only to have his hand slapped. From there, the memory shifted to an argument between his parents that seemed to go on a long time while he cried. He recalled his father’s angry outburst as a hush overtook the house. Outside, snow was falling. Later, a worried knocking had come at the door, followed by a strange pathetic scratching. The details were hazy. There might have been more crying. Somewhere in there was the knowledge that his mother was not coming back. Then later, definitely more crying, this time from his aunt. Whatever else was there faded out of memory. He’d dreamed the event many times and took it as being symbolic of the death of his mother rather than any sort of reality.
How did he feel after having the dream? Martin asked. Terrible, of course. Dan wondered why Martin had to ask. What child wouldn’t feel terrible on losing a mother? He wanted to ask if Martin had been glad to lose his.
Remembering his parents’ arguing wasn’t surprising, since that was the hallmark of their relationship, according to his Aunt Marge. She and her daughter Leyla were his only remaining relatives. He remembered the matronly Marge with fondness as the aunt who snuck him into the Empire Theatre for Saturday matinees and as the woman who raised him after his mother died. He thought guiltily of her now — she’d been in poor health for several years and he hadn’t seen her in some time. His cousin Leyla he recalled as the first person in his sexual landscape, a dimly lit mural of touch-and-feel one night when they were forced to share a bed. He’d been impressed by the size of her breasts. In the family, it had been touted that “Leyla failed grade eight because she went boy crazy.” He always smiled to think of it. He’d carried on the tradition, he supposed.
The receptionist stirred in her glass cubicle and glanced nervously about as though she sensed a seismic tremor coming down the hall. Dan looked at his watch. It was exactly seven. Martin opened the door and nodded.
“Come in, please, Daniel,” Martin said in the same spiritless tone he always used.
Dan followed Martin to an office almost obsessively devoid of personality. Eggshell walls and off-white trim enclosed a cream-coloured carpet with a glass table placed precisely in the centre. On a desk in the corner, a whirling screen-saver offered glimpses of what outer space might look like from the POV of someone heading resolutely away from earth. Not drowning — waving goodbye. A narrow window looked out onto the pitch of other rooflines. A Piet Mondrian reproduction — a quilt-like abstraction of crosshatches — offered the only colour in an otherwise almost obsessively bland room. It floated on the wall above Martin’s head like a cartoon image of the contents of his mind.
The client chair seemed purposely set at a lower angle than Martin’s. Dan sat and studied the thin face he couldn’t quite bring to mind outside this unremarkable room. “Invisible” didn’t begin to cover it. Even Martin’s wardrobe seemed designed for camouflage. An oatmeal vest covered an ecru shirt tucked into light-brown trousers with immaculate creases. Half the time in these sessions Dan spent wondering what made this man so indistinct he could disappear right before your eyes. The shrink who shrank. Maybe if Martin lost his temper or betrayed an emotion, he might give off some vital signs.
After the formality of offering Dan a glass of water, which he always refused, Martin sat back with his hands tented and eyed Dan over his fingers.
“So what brings you here today?”
As always, Dan was tempted to say it was a choice between seeing Martin and losing his job, and that he almost hadn’t come. Instead, he went into his preamble about his late-night talk with Steve Jenkins and his uncharitable neighbour, Glenda. Before he could get far, Martin cut him off.
“How do you feel about that?”
Dan wanted to say, “I think she’s a selfish cunt. The kind who makes living in this city even more unbearable.” Instead he said, “It’s not fair. Here’s this poor schmuck who loves his wife more than anything and she’s taking advantage of the situation.”
“So you feel a sense of injustice,” Martin said,
