Burridge Unbound by Alan Cumyn

growths.
    I can’t look for long, can’t help noticing that after viewing them for a time most of us turn away and chat, avert our eyes as much as possible.
    Mom collects Dad and takes her leave. I tell her I’ll visit them but don’t say when. When I’m better. It’s understood. I’m still getting better.
    I need to leave too but can’t think of what to say to Maryse. The age-old problem. If I just go she’ll be hurt. If I open my mouth the same old crap will pour out.
    She has been swarmed by friends and supporters all evening, is now standing with the owner of the gallery and with a woman she knows from the
Citizen
. “It isn’t for profit,” the gallery owner keeps saying. “This is for art.”
    Finally I get Maryse aside. She has been enlarged by all this, could squash me like Patrick’s spider. “They’re fascinating, but very sad,” I say.
    “I didn’t really expect you’d come,” she says.
    “But you sent me an invitation.”
    “Well. You are family.”
    Family. Blood. Mine has seeped into hers and our misery is posted on these walls.
    “Thank you for Patrick’s goggles,” I say. “I think they’re an excellent idea. I’m just hoping against hope that he can stay as innocent as he is for as long as possible.”
    “He’s seen the very worst,” Maryse says.
    “Yes.” What more does he need to see? He saw me in the Kartouf video with my bones poking at my skin like tent poles and my eyes blinking, blinking against the light.
    “I’m sorry about the hospital,” I say.
    “Forget about the hospital.”
    “I’m sorry about all of it.”
    “I know.”
    It’s time to go. People are drifting away and need to say goodbye to Maryse and I have nothing more to add. Except one stupid, pathetic remark. “I’m getting better,” I say, sounding like Patrick spouting off about his goggles. Hope against hope.
    She turns to someone else. I know she doesn’t want to hear it. I know it’s the last thing in the world I should say.
    Suddenly I need to go. I turn and push my way out the door, start looking for Joanne. For a moment I’m upset that she isn’t here with a taxi exactly when I need her. Then I manage torelax a fraction, realize I’ve said nothing to her. So I turn. In a moment she’ll recognize that I’m not there any more, will come out to find me.
    But she doesn’t. Where is she? She’s got to realize that when I need to go I can’t be standing around like this. It’s like waiting for a twister to hit when you know it’s coming. Those images, so innocent from a distance. They’re not for me. I’ve seen all my eyes need to see for this lifetime. I don’t need to give my brain any excuse to drag me through the shit all over again.
Where is she?
    Pacing, pacing. These goddamn parties. Why do people need them? You chat without saying anything and stand around and nibble and drink and the words fill the room until there’s so much pressure but you can’t leave, you stay there pretending nothing is wrong, it’s all perfectly fine …
    Damn! She’s not noticing. I have to go back in. I barge back through the door. It’s time to leave, for Christ’s sake! Where is she? Towering over everyone in those ridiculous shoes. She should be easy to spot. But no. She’s disappeared. Just gone. Jesus! How am I supposed to get home? She carries all the money. She gets the taxis. She’s the one who talks to the fucking driver. What am I supposed to do if she’s not around?
Where’s she gone?
    Finally I see Joanne. Walking up to me as if everything’s fine.
    “Where the hell have you been?”
I demand. Everyone’s conversation stops at once. Too much force. “It’s time to go,” I say, trying for a more normal tone but achieving a stage whisper that echoes to the rafters.
    “Fine,”
she says, turns and leaves. Bodies part for us, eyes peer through the window as we stand on the sidewalk. She hesitates, looks up and down the street, then thrusts fifteen dollars at me.
    “This