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  Jamie Francis hardly ever spoke to anyone. When he was home, he stayed in his room practising his guitar or listening to records. He threw David Cassidy away and said John Denver was for kids. He had posters of KISS in their scary makeup and platform shoes, and one of Angie Dickinson in her Police Woman uniform. He stopped letting Mamma Shirley cut his hair, so it was long and hanging down in his eyes. He wore a blue bandana all the time to hide the pimples on his forehead. He told Emma he wore it so he could look like Jimi Hendrix and Robert Plant. He said Zeppelin was “heavy,” and Hendrix was “off the hook.” Emma wondered what hook, but didn’t ask. “Nobody ever messes with those guys, not even that Freddie Mercury from Queen. And he wears makeup and everything,” Jamie Francis told Emma once when he was in a good mood and decided to let her in his room. “Francis is only for a girl when it’s a first name,” he said. “And besides, you spell it differently for girls.”

  Even Lester was different that year. That was because of the skunk they saw on the way to school one day.

  “Oh Jesus,” Mamma Shirley said when she saw it, all mashed up with its guts spilling out like hamburger on the side of the road.

  “What happened to it?” Lester asked, walking over to get a better look. There were flies on the hamburger and a bad rotten smell all around it.

  “The poor thing must have been in an accident. Likely a car just smacked into it and drove right off. Sheesh. The least they could have done was call the city and get someone to clean it up. It looks like it’s been here all weekend.”

  “A hit and run?” Lester asked, his eyes wide. “The skunk was in a hit and run?”

  “Yes, Lester, Jesus, come on now. It stinks,” Mamma Shirley said, holding her nose.

  Lester didn’t move. He stared at the heap of skunk guts till Emma came and pulled him away by the arm.

  “Not all car accidents are like that though, Lester,” Emma told him.

  Lester didn’t seem to hear Emma, but he let her lead him back to the sidewalk anyway.

  After that, Lester stopped dressing up in his bow tie and shiny shoes, stopped playing truck driver with the garden spade, and never talked to anyone at Foster’s house about his parents coming back to get him again. At school it was a different story though. At school, Lester started telling everyone that Emma was his real sister, and that their parents were away on parents’ day, doing big important jobs. Once he said that their dad was an astronaut, and their mom worked in a newsroom like Mary Tyler Moore. Another time he said that their parents were big stars in Hollywood and were going to have their own TV show soon, just like Sonny & Cher.

  Emma didn’t call Lester out, or say he was a liar right in front of everyone, but if any of the other kids asked her afterwards if it was true, Emma would whisper, “No. Lester’s mixed-up. We don’t have the same parents. His parents are dead, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. Hit and run.” As for Emma’s parents, she didn’t have much to say on that because she didn’t know where they were. Mamma Shirley said, “Beats me,” and that nobody in the office at the place where she got Emma knew either. Emma wondered sometimes if Lester was right, and maybe her parents were still alive doing something super cool out there somewhere in the world. Emma thought she remembered her mom though, and didn’t think that she was really Cher, or anybody else on TV, just a normal lady. As for her dad, Emma had no idea who or where he was. She had a feeling though, that he was the reason she was so brown and different from everyone. Emma wished whoever her dad was, that he was someone else instead. Someone more like a normal person.

  15.

  AN HOUR INTO THE PAPERWORK on her grandmother’s dining room table, Rachel took a break. It was time to try to get caught up on her phone calls. It would be only a few days before the funeral. She pulled out her cell, but at the same time that she noticed it was dead, she realized that she had forgotten to bring her charger with her. She’d been doing too much forgetting lately. I need to be sharp now, she thought. Time to smarten up. She was about to pick up the house phone, an old dial-up model that Grandma had refused to give up in spite of Rachel’s protestations.

  “But you can’t use any Touch Tone services with this phone, Grandma. What about when you’re calling the bank or something and have to deal with an automated system?”

  “Then I wait Rachel, and eventually a real human being comes on the line and says hello. I’m not getting a new phone. There’s nothing wrong with this one. That’s that.”

  In the morning, before she had started in on her paperwork, Rachel had left a message at the funeral home about coming in to sign the contract. She had wanted to get that done as soon as possible, before they found any other new charges to add on to the bill. The clunky old receiver was in her hand, and her finger ready for the workout of dialing, when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Rachel yelled, though she doubted Emma heard and didn’t know why she bothered anyway. She was always the first to the door. Old habits die hard. She looked through the peephole and saw a burly man in a black leather jacket standing outside with the screen door wedged open. He had on some sort of uniform that Rachel didn’t recognize, so she decided to shout through the door.

  “Hello?”

  “Delivery,” the man said, holding up a sealed white envelope in his hand.

  The probability of being robbed in the middle of the afternoon, in full daylight, on a quiet downtown street in a nice neighbourhood was likely in the single digit percentile. Rachel opened the door. Without a word, the man handed her a clipboard to sign. Rachel glanced at the paper. It was a typical delivery receipt, nothing out of the ordinary. She signed, took the envelope, and the man turned and walked down the driveway.

  As she closed the door, Rachel recognized the return address in the corner. It was from the estate attorney. She called him the day Grandma passed, while Emma was napping. George Robertson was his name. Rachel had met him already. He had helped with the paperwork that gave Rachel power of attorney when Grandma’s health started to go downhill. He had said it would be simple sorting out the estate – a straightforward allotment of assets. Rachel tore open the envelope as she walked down the hall to the bedroom.

  Emma was lying on the bed in Grandma’s purple bathrobe. Rachel couldn’t see her face, but knew she was crying from the sound. Dear god, it had been less than an hour, and already Emma was crumbling. Rachel looked at the closet, expecting to see the rest of the clothes still hanging there. Instead, the hangers were empty, all except one, from which hung a plastic grocery bag. Rachel took the letter in her hand out of the envelope. Emma rolled over quickly, seemingly startled.

  “What? Nothing,” she said, though Rachel hadn’t said anything. “I’m just resting my eyes a minute. I know. There’s more to do. I know. I just took a minute okay?” Emma wiped her eyes, and Rachel couldn’t help but feel for her for a moment. What would it be like to be so skinless? To walk around the world letting everything that happened touch you so deeply that you were left unable to function? Rachel had seen Emma cry at the oddest things. A sunset. The moon. What an existence. Really, it was to be pitied. Rachel vowed to try harder, at least in these early days, at least until after the funeral and garage sale. Then they would be done with each other for a while, and each could go back to their comfortable existence halfway across the country from each other.

  Rachel sat down on the bed, and was about to read over the letter when Emma got up and bounded toward the closet.

  “This is for you,” she said, handing over the plastic bag, on the side of which was written in black marker, for Rachel.

  Rachel took the bag from Emma’s hand, and Emma took the letter from Rachel. As she opened it, Rachel smelled something escape with the air inside like an exhale. Before her brain made sense of it, her nose delivered the message: garage sale, goodbye, tuna-fish sandwich. Wonder Woman. As her mind brought the jumble of words and olfactory triggers together, her eyes
delivered the final clues. Inside the bag was her grandmother’s sun visor, the white one with the green see-through brim. The poker player, wheeler-dealer, what you see is what we get, and that’s that visor. Rachel had looked for it a couple of times over the years – rummaged around in the basement to see if she could find it. She never thought to look in here. Never thought that her grandmother would have put it aside for her all these years.

  Rachel wanted to put the bag to her nose and get more of it, but she resisted. She’d wait till she was alone. She wished she were alone now, instead of with Emma, who just stood there, watching Rachel with an expression of concern. Rachel didn’t have the energy to explain. She closed her eyes. If Emma tried to hug her, she didn’t know what she’d do. Likely nothing, but it would take effort to overcome the urge to either laugh or slug her. Rachel felt the weight of her sister as she sat on the bed next to her. She knew she should open her eyes. Get up, go to the bathroom, and splash some cold water on her face. Just a moment of privacy, Rachel thought, and she’d be fine.

  “Oh wow,” Emma said and Rachel’s eyes flew open to look at her sister, who now held the letter open in her hand. Her face had gone white, or at least a paler shade of brown. Oh wow, what? What now, for god’s sakes?

  Emma handed the letter over to Rachel, who read it while the other hand held the visor pinned down to the bed.

  Wanda. It was about Wanda. There had been an earlier version of the will. Of course there had. Wanda had been included in that one, listed as an heir to the house. According to the letter, the house wasn’t covered in the new will at all. Yes, the insurance, and the bank accounts, the Florida apartment, and even the beat-up old furniture had been mentioned. Oversight, the letter read, as if that were a sufficient explanation for Mr. Robertson’s obvious ineptitude. How could he have not noticed? So now, the house could not be settled without Wanda’s consent.

  “It looks like we’re going to have to find her, Rachel.” Emma was using her soft, empathetic voice. Like she was talking to a baby or a kitten.

  Rachel stood up, and brushed off her lap as if it were full of crumbs. “This is bullshit,” she said. “I’ll get him on the phone. Sort it out. How the hell can we wait till Wanda shows up? It’s been thirty-five years. Who knows where she is, or even if she’s alive at all anymore? No. I’ll get Mr. Robertson on the phone. Sort it out. He just doesn’t understand the situation. It’ll be fine.” Rachel turned away, feeling Emma’s eyes on her back as she walked to the door.

  “I’m pretty sure she’s still alive,” Emma said. Rachel turned back

  “You’ve heard from her?”

  “No. Well yes, sort of. I thought I saw her in Gastown once. But it could have been someone else.” Rachel waited. “No. I haven’t heard from her. Not really.” Emma’s face went blank. Rachel knew better than to press the issue. Any sentence of Emma’s that began with both “yes” and “no” would always end with confusion and a baffling lack of both clarity and facts. Rachel shook her head, and left Emma without asking her to explain further.

  Back in the dining room, Rachel picked up the phone again, and dialed the number for the law office. The dial mechanism took forever to click through the numbers. How did people have the patience for this back in the day? Finally the line connected, but it was an automated answering machine. Press one for this, two for that. Rachel waited for the message to end, and for the operator to come on to direct her call. Nobody. Nothing. Just an option to repeat the message, then dead air.

  Rachel could hear Emma in the kitchen. Maybe she had a cell on her? Emma never had a cell phone that Rachel knew of, but it was worth a try.

  She walked to the kitchen, but stopped short in the doorway. Emma was staring at the list on the fridge. Rachel took a step back, out of sight. She wanted Emma to finish reading before she came in the room. She waited, but Emma continued to stand and stare. The handwriting was legible enough. What was taking her so long?

  Rachel watched as Emma’s legs buckled and she collapsed on the floor. This is a put on, Rachel thought, another episode of the The Emma Show. But Emma hadn’t known she was being watched, so what was the point? Emma was down on her knees in front of the fridge, as if she was praying to a monolithic stainless steel God.

  “Emma!” Rachel hadn’t meant for her voice to be so sharp when it left her, but once outside her head, she knew it sounded like a bark.

  Emma snapped her head around towards the doorway. Her eyes were streaming. She looked like she wasn’t right in the head. Grief is one thing, but –

  Emma used the refrigerator handle to pull herself up.

  “Don’t say anything, okay?” Emma used her own stern voice now. “Not a word. I’m not a robot, Rachel. It’s normal. Happens to people all the time. Emotions get too heavy and pull you down. Legs go out all of a sudden. Whoopdy-do for you that you can hold it together. I don’t think it’s healthy, but it’s your business. Just no commentary, okay? To each her own.”

  Rachel left it alone. At least her moment of rebellion had brought Emma’s backbone out. Hopefully, it would help keep her standing.

  “So the basement then?” Emma asked.

  “What?”

  “The basement. It’s the next item on your list. I’m done with the closet, so the basement is next. Let’s box up the basement,” Emma said, this time leaving Rachel standing in the middle of the kitchen as she headed toward the stairs.

  16.

  EMMA AND LESTER were in the first grade now. Jenny was in a different class from them, but she was still Emma’s best friend. After school, Jenny’s grandpa picked them all up, and they all walked home together. That was the best part of the day for Emma. Everything was okay; no matter what happened during the rest of the day, as long as Emma got to walk with Big Jim, and listen to him tell her things. Sometimes he told her with words that were inside her head, if it was a something that only she needed to know, and sometimes he talked out loud, so Jenny and Lester could hear as well. It reminded her of being with Barney, and just like with Barney, when Emma spoke without making a sound, Big Jim could understand.

  “You see those two peaks up there?” Big Jim said, pointing at the mountains over North Vancouver one day during their walk home. “Everyone calls them the Lions, but that’s not their real name. They’re called the Two Sisters. That’s the name we gave them a long, long time ago.”

  Jenny piped in, solemn. “The Sisters remind us that family is the most important thing in the world.”

  Lester looked down for a moment, but only Emma noticed. Big Jim was looking at Jenny, laughing.

  “And what about animals?” Emma blurted.

  “Animals are important, but they’re not as important as family,” Jenny replied, though Emma was barely listening. Instead, she sent the rest of her message right to Big Jim, inside his head.

  Big Jim looked at her for a long moment, nodding his head, before he said anything at all. And then he told her, in his silent voice that was just for her.

  “Yep, I talk to animals all the time. They use me, move through me when I go to heal people. I sit with the sick person, and after a while an animal comes – not just his voice, but his whole spirit. He sends his brand of spirit healing from that place of being, his fox medicine or turtle medicine like you have, and it goes through me and into the person to heal them. Animals aren’t like people. They like to share, and I’m an open channel. A middle-man,” he said, and began laughing out loud.

  Lester was startled, and jumped, which made Jenny start laughing as well, and made Big Jim laugh harder. Emma didn’t laugh, just looked up at the mountains, glad to finally know their real name.

  That was one of the last times they all walked home together, because in grade two, you’re old enough to walk home from school by yourself. It’s also old enough to know that some things you talk about, and some things you keep under your hat. Like talking to people or animals in
your head, Emma didn’t tell anyone about that. She hadn’t even told Lester, in case he told someone else by accident.

  Emma especially didn’t want Mamma Shirley to know. Nina had already told Mamma Shirley that Emma was retarded, so there was no point in adding crazy to it too. That was the kind of trouble Emma didn’t need. She’d had enough to deal with since that sitcom Good Times came on TV. Ever since then, Johnny Craymore started calling her Buffalo Butt.

  “Hey Emma, did you watch Good Times last night?” Johnny asked in the schoolyard at recess. “They all look like you on that show. Is that what you are? A Buffalo Butt? Look like one to me.”

  Emma couldn’t think of anything to say. All she could think of was how the kids playing dodge ball stopped and listened to Johnny, and how, if he kept yakking away, soon everyone would be looking, and would guess that she wasn’t an Indian after all. Then the trouble would really start.

  “Well, what have you got to say for yourself, BB?” Johnny sneered.

  Emma was frozen. Possum. She wished she were invisible. Jenny grabbed her arm, and pulled her away to the other side of the dodge-ball court.

  That night, Jenny must have told her grandpa what happened, because the next day he was there at the school when they all got out.

  “Which one of them is calling you names?” he asked, looking at Emma from under his brown cowboy hat.

  Emma pointed at Johnny, who was coming out the school doors. Big Jim didn’t say anything. He just stood there in his hat and fringed leather jacket, his grey-and-black hair long and flat down his back. He looked at Johnny Craymore as if he was a bad smell. Johnny turned around all of a sudden, like he got the feeling someone was watching him. Then he got this scared look on his face. He looked at Emma, who was still pointing at him, then he turned and started running, disappearing around the corner of the school.