Songs for the End of the World - Saleema Nawaz Page 0,58
brother to ask for his advice.
“Aren’t you at work?” Elliot said, right after “hello.”
“Yes, you know I am.” Her brother still treated Call Display as a novelty, and he flagrantly abused the feature when it came to fielding calls from their parents.
“So this is when you’re catching up on your messages?” His voice sounded faint and windblown alongside the roar and rush of passing cars.
Sarah ignored him, as she knew his teasing was more of a reflex than a barb. “Where are you? Can you talk?”
“We’re on food delivery duty today, if you can believe it. In between active calls.” The street sounds quieted and Sarah could hear Elliot’s partner Bryce talking to someone over an intercom. “A hell of a lot more people in quarantine now.”
Sarah felt the usual queasiness in picturing her brother on duty, in harm’s way. “I guess it’s a nice change of pace from patrol?”
“Nothing nice about it.” In the background, a sardonic laugh of agreement from Bryce. “There’s a lot of panic out there. People can’t afford to get sick anymore. Some seem more worried about losing paycheques to a Q-notice than they are about catching the virus. Anyway…” Elliot seemed to want to change the subject. “I’d like to see Noah tonight.”
“We’d love that,” said Sarah. “Now, tell me what you think about something.”
“Can’t we talk when I come over?” Elliot’s breathing became laboured, as though he was climbing stairs.
“No.” Once Elliot was anywhere near Noah, Sarah might as well be invisible. Her father Frank said they got along like peas and carrots, but it went well beyond side dishes as far as Sarah was concerned: they were each the other’s favourite person in the world. It didn’t hurt her to acknowledge their bond, because they were both her favourite people, too, and she loved how much they loved one another. But she wanted Elliot’s attention while she had a hope of holding it.
“I need advice on how to handle someone.” She quickly told him about Owen Grant, and Elliot listened without interrupting. He and Noah were the only members of their family with that particular gift. “If I can’t get him on board, I think I’m out of a job.”
“Tell him that,” said Elliot. “Show him his actions affect other people.”
“No thanks. I already feel pathetic enough.”
“Suit yourself. But it’s a lot easier to get what you want if you just ask for it.”
Sarah heard someone clearing their throat, and when she looked over her shoulder, Dory was standing there and frowning at her in a pair of red-rimmed glasses. Owen’s book fell out of her lap and clattered to the floor.
“Gotta go,” she said quickly to Elliot, then she hung up and spun around. “Dory! I wasn’t expecting you.” Her boss was rarely spotted in cubicle territory.
Dory unfolded her arms, seeming amused. “Did you get Owen on the phone?”
“Yes.” Sarah nodded, more emphatically than necessary. “We had a great chat last night.”
“Really? That’s wonderful.” Dory sounded surprised but willing to take Sarah’s success in stride. “You know, Colleen is convinced he’s pulling a Salinger or something. Becoming a total recluse,” she said, already walking away.
“Not at all,” said Sarah, raising her voice as Dory retreated. “He’s actually working with me on a plan I think you’re really going to like.”
When Dory was out of earshot, Sarah dialled Owen from her cellphone, sure he would recognize the number and pick up. But this time the phone just rang and rang.
* * *
—
After Elliot left that night, Sarah tried Owen again, but her calls continued to ring into the void. She put Noah to bed with a sinking feeling that if she couldn’t make Owen talk to her, she was doomed to forfeit the little sliver of life she had built for herself and her son. She pictured herself handing out resumés, screwing up job interviews, her bank balance racing ever faster towards zero. Then: packing up their tiny apartment, moving back to Lansdowne, living with her parents. Becoming known as the single mom who ordered takeout three nights a week. What she valued about the city was its protection of her solitude. The only people privy to her decisions were the ones she’d chosen as friends. Back in her hometown, she would always be her parents’ disappointing daughter. The feeble-minded Bolivian-brainwashing victim.
She held open Noah’s book, turning the pages automatically, only half listening as he lisped out the words. The women at the daycare always wanted to talk to Sarah about