The last half of his cycle from UVic to his parents’ place on Sunnyside Avenue was the best part of the ride. Usually. But the closer he got after his verbal tussle with Gloria, the more anxious Robbie became. My parents’ place? When had he started calling it that instead of home? It’s their mess, he figured. All the bombs primed and triggered were theirs to defuse.
When had the tables turned, he and Gloria trying to figure things out for their parents instead of the parental units mapping out futures for them? When did all that happen? he wondered. Had his mother and father been so fixated on him and Gloria before the two of them left the nest—that and their work, he reminded himself, always work—that they didn’t have any time for each other?
They had become bio-bots—he smiled at the coined term—manoeuvring about the house with the mindless purpose of robots, blaming each other for the emptiness of their nest. After he and Gloria left, it was like they had nothing to buffer and discharge their pent anger. They started bumping into each other, as well as the walls and furniture.
Head down, eyes on the vanishing point.
He liked pedalling hard, muscles flexing and releasing to the cyclical rhythm of the bike, hands gripping the bars, body leaning into curves or standing to leverage his momentum up the hills. Not that it was a race, his spins through town on his second-hand Rocky Mountain Whistler.
What was it his father had said in that awkward man-to-man they’d had at the Schooner, a year after Robbie had graduated from high school, and still hadn’t figured out what to do with his life? “There’s a big difference between being in a race and being in a hurry, son.” Then, when Robbie had responded with a puzzled look, “I hope you’ll remember that when the time comes.”
When the time comes? Robbie laughed. Into his third undergraduate year, he still hadn’t decided between philosophy, psychology, or a joint major. Or did he want to push reset and become a marine biologist? He’d stacked his electives to make that not impossible.
Meantime Gloria had powered her way through uni and was ‘apprenticing’ with an upscale architectural firm downtown. She was already putting on airs as a professional woman. Subtly, he acknowledged, but none-the-less annoyingly. Decisiveness. That was the thing he noticed more. Her questions weren’t so much asked as stated. They were challenges from the perspective of a woman who already knew the answers. Definitiveness, too. When you tried wrestling her onto the spot, she adopted that know-it-all tone, which pissed him off. Royally!
He slowed down, approaching the Selkirk Trestle. There were too many pedestrians on the bridge for him to continue at speed. Besides, he liked taking in the view up and down The Gorge. Never tired of it. As he drew closer, his attitude shifted. This does feel like home, seeing Deadman’s Island off one side of the trestle; the little dock at Banfield Park off the other.
Home isn’t a place anymore; it’s a memory I arrive at from somewhere else and leave behind at the end of each visit.
Feels good, though, he allowed.
The trail forked right into Banfield Park at the end of the trestle, heading for another favourite part of Robbie’s ride—cruising around the little bay, along the arced path, past the dock where he and his dad used to set out on their invariably unsuccessful fishing trips in the rubber tubby.
Hubby in the tubby
floating on the waves,
Robbie in the bobbie
looking very grave…
He smiled at the little ditty his mother had made up. Remembered how she’d laughed when he’d recited it a couple of months earlier at a family get-together. Flashback! he’d thought. To a time when her smile tickled, so he had to smile too and laugh. “I do have a degree in English Literature,” she’d reminded in an affected, rather bad British accent. “Life is poetry, my dear.”
The warbling of his mobile when he reached the foot of Sunnyside disturbed Robbie’s idyllic recollections. Normally, he would have let the call go to voice, but it sounded somehow urgent—a cry for help, he would later recall. He braked hard. “Hi,” he barked, wondering why Gloria was dialling him when they’d be getting together in a couple of minutes. She probably wanted him to pick something up, and he was preparing to refuse, reminding her that she had the car and that he was on his bike. My time’s important, too, Sis.
“Robbie,” she whispered conspiratorially when he answered. “It’s a fucking disaster.”
“What?”
“Dad’s left; Mum’s a wreck.”
“What do you mean, left?”
“There was a note on the dining room table when she got home. Said something about him going off to find himself. She won’t show it to me, but I’ve got the gist of it, and it’s bad. Real bad.”
“How is she?”
“Mad, shattered, like I said, ‘a wreck’.”
For a moment, he couldn’t think what to say, what to do. “Want me to call Dad?” he offered.
“Already tried. He’s not answering.”
“I’m almost there, Sis. Just at the foot of Sunnyside…”
“Maybe steer clear. She’s really vulnerable right now, Rob. I think one-on-one would be best. You know Mum. She wouldn’t want either of us to see her like this, is my guess.”
“Gotcha,” he stifled his resentment.
She’s my mum, too! he wanted to shout.
“Why don’t you focus on Dad? See if you can get through.”
“Okay.”
“Call me if you do.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t be angry, Robbie, please,” she pleaded.
“Okay.” He punched the ‘End Call’ button.
Where to from here? Robbie looked down Sunnyside, frozen, not wanting to turn away. “Fuck!” he yelled, an anguished cry, like you’d make if something precious had just fallen off a shelf and shattered at your feet, a contorting spasm that left him emptied and forlorn. Even the idea of home is fucked, he mourned, getting up enough momentum to execute a wobbly turn and pedal away.
“Ding!” his phone summoned.
“Let’s get together later, Robbie. Please!” his sister had texted. “Take care.”
“Sure,” he responded. “You take care too, Sis.”
Out upon the water
angling for a wish,
son and loving father
hoping to catch a fish.
Robbie made it as far as the Banfield Park dock. He rolled his bike down the companionway, set it on its kickstand, and sat cross-legged at the edge, looking out across The Gorge. What will he say when I get through to him? Robbie didn’t really want to know, on the one hand; yearned desperately for an explanation on the other.
A sound came to him then, like fabric tearing. He glanced round but couldn’t identify its source.
Next: Café Olé