memoir offered of the existence of the supernatural occult forces she felt so strongly surrounded her growing up in that small rainy city on the island. Why else would such a picturesque little city village fill her with such unimaginable dread? For as long as she could recallâcrib days even, those days were rattled, too.
Wendy didnât like being Canadian. She told people she was from Cleveland. She wanted to be a fullblooded American like the rest of us; she didnât want anything so insignificant as a birthplace to hold her back. She wanted American children to read her comics, buy her toys, and watch her cartoon on American televisions, and we were going to help her.
After a week bedridden with flaring rashes, fever flashes, shiversshakes, she said it out loud: Nope, I think I have what Hick had. Thatâs it. Iâm done for. Itâs that fucking memoir. You shouldnât have read it, you fools. Weâre all going to die. And she threw the book at the wall. I finished every last word so help me. Whoâs next? Wendy stumbled and pressed herself against the wall, knocking down an original Dick Tracy drawing, I have this unspeakable modern dilemma, the George Orwell disease, the gay-related plague, thatâs what the nurses whispered in the corridor, now we have it, too.
Rachael brought her hot lemonwater and sent her back to bed with a Valium she bought on a street corner in the Mission. Sleep, sweet friend, youâll be okay, she said and pet Wendyâs hair out of her face, slicked down with a cold sweat.
Teeth grinding. Wendy developed a near-permanent jaw clench after Hickâs death, and at night or when she wasnât paying attention, her molars and bicuspids would squeak and crack out of tension so loud you could hear it through the walls.
I need to see a doctor about my teeth, she told Gabby over the phone.
What about your teeth?
I grind them.
You grind. Well, yeah, sign up for our Shepherd health care plan. Thereâs plenty of options to choose from.
Goddamn Michelle Remembers .
Who?
The book may be cursed, said Wendy.
No idea what youâre talking about.
Sleep was no escapeâit was worse. She slept heavily. When she awoke her jaw was sore. All day long she was aware of a free-floating anxiety that never left her head, a grinding like a crazy caffeine rush that made her want to shit herself from migraine pain and then go carry a sign down the street with the words The End is Near!
We all needed help. So one day we did the horrible and grabbed the keys to her lime-green Gremlin and drove to see Dr. Dritz in 5D, who recommended blood tests for all of us. The waiting room was full of these elderly men in their mid-twenties and thirtiesâhair falling out, flannel jackets a size or more too big, soiled shirts, and bodies ravaged by shigellosis, pneumonia, dead veins, burnt loins, pullulating cancer scabs. The waiting room ashtrays needed to be emptied. One of these young men leaned over to Mark and said, The plague is the new black. Mark, who rarely did, laughed. While we waited we flipped through current events magazines and national newspapersâRonald Reagan was the cowboy president who survived assassination and everyone had an observation about that but not one of the journalists wrote a word about this new fashion for dying sweeping the boys of San Francisco.
The nurse let us know that unless we heard back within twenty-four hours then our bloodwork was negative. A gloom settled over us and we flinched at the sound of the phone every time it rang. Michelle Remembers was put out of view. Biz wouldnât leave her studio upstairs. Wendy began to pack her few belongings and prepared for some kind of journey. Jonjaylay on the floor beside the bejewelled tiles of the carapace of his shellacked tortoise and caressed the creatureâs glazed face, reminiscing. He missed the days taking Dorian, his ninety-three-year-old pet, on a slow walk through
Wendy didnât like being Canadian. She told people she was from Cleveland. She wanted to be a fullblooded American like the rest of us; she didnât want anything so insignificant as a birthplace to hold her back. She wanted American children to read her comics, buy her toys, and watch her cartoon on American televisions, and we were going to help her.
After a week bedridden with flaring rashes, fever flashes, shiversshakes, she said it out loud: Nope, I think I have what Hick had. Thatâs it. Iâm done for. Itâs that fucking memoir. You shouldnât have read it, you fools. Weâre all going to die. And she threw the book at the wall. I finished every last word so help me. Whoâs next? Wendy stumbled and pressed herself against the wall, knocking down an original Dick Tracy drawing, I have this unspeakable modern dilemma, the George Orwell disease, the gay-related plague, thatâs what the nurses whispered in the corridor, now we have it, too.
Rachael brought her hot lemonwater and sent her back to bed with a Valium she bought on a street corner in the Mission. Sleep, sweet friend, youâll be okay, she said and pet Wendyâs hair out of her face, slicked down with a cold sweat.
Teeth grinding. Wendy developed a near-permanent jaw clench after Hickâs death, and at night or when she wasnât paying attention, her molars and bicuspids would squeak and crack out of tension so loud you could hear it through the walls.
I need to see a doctor about my teeth, she told Gabby over the phone.
What about your teeth?
I grind them.
You grind. Well, yeah, sign up for our Shepherd health care plan. Thereâs plenty of options to choose from.
Goddamn Michelle Remembers .
Who?
The book may be cursed, said Wendy.
No idea what youâre talking about.
Sleep was no escapeâit was worse. She slept heavily. When she awoke her jaw was sore. All day long she was aware of a free-floating anxiety that never left her head, a grinding like a crazy caffeine rush that made her want to shit herself from migraine pain and then go carry a sign down the street with the words The End is Near!
We all needed help. So one day we did the horrible and grabbed the keys to her lime-green Gremlin and drove to see Dr. Dritz in 5D, who recommended blood tests for all of us. The waiting room was full of these elderly men in their mid-twenties and thirtiesâhair falling out, flannel jackets a size or more too big, soiled shirts, and bodies ravaged by shigellosis, pneumonia, dead veins, burnt loins, pullulating cancer scabs. The waiting room ashtrays needed to be emptied. One of these young men leaned over to Mark and said, The plague is the new black. Mark, who rarely did, laughed. While we waited we flipped through current events magazines and national newspapersâRonald Reagan was the cowboy president who survived assassination and everyone had an observation about that but not one of the journalists wrote a word about this new fashion for dying sweeping the boys of San Francisco.
The nurse let us know that unless we heard back within twenty-four hours then our bloodwork was negative. A gloom settled over us and we flinched at the sound of the phone every time it rang. Michelle Remembers was put out of view. Biz wouldnât leave her studio upstairs. Wendy began to pack her few belongings and prepared for some kind of journey. Jonjaylay on the floor beside the bejewelled tiles of the carapace of his shellacked tortoise and caressed the creatureâs glazed face, reminiscing. He missed the days taking Dorian, his ninety-three-year-old pet, on a slow walk through
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