Epilogue: A Cure Was Not to Be

I’d like to think someday I’ll know how to deal with death. I’d like to believe that someday I’ll know exactly what to do when somebody tells me they’re thinking of taking their own life. I hope someday I’ll be perfect at understanding people around me who suffer with mental illness.

For now, I’m going to choose to forgive myself.

Now that all this time has passed, I feel relieved. I feel angry. I feel sad. I feel happy.

And I don’t feel bad.

We put a poem in the newspaper on the anniversary of her death, and it ended like this:

“So when I saw you sleeping so peaceful, free from pain.

I could not wish you back

To suffer that again.”

Some people didn't understand when they read it, and maybe I was one of those people, but that was okay.

Now I understand.

Scene 12: I Just Can't

Setting: the Mountains near Jasper, possibly represented by a slide and sound effects.

Shawn:

I can usually cheer myself up if I want to. If things aren't going my way, I’ll just give myself a distraction. It doesn't really matter what it is. It could be a movie, dinner out, a phone call with a friend, or a trip somewhere.

I remember when we decided Mom need a trip somewhere.

It seemed like she was in a rut. No matter how nice and comfortable things were at home, she was sad. She was distant. She wasn't herself.

Our family loved the mountains. There was a time when we went every year, and it was always at the right time, and the way I remember it, we all felt better after a nice long trip.

So we decided to take her to Jasper.

The weather was perfect. It was a pleasant drive on a warm, late summer day. I’m sure we listened to oldies on the drive out there, and Mom was quiet as usual. I’m sure she slept most of the time.

It always seems like it shouldn't take that long to get out to the mountains, but it was a pretty long drive. We didn't get started out that day until later than usual. When Mom was feeling good, she was like a drill sergeant, and she would've had us out on the road just after 6:00 am.

But she wasn't feeling good.

It was already mid-afternoon when we got there, so we drove out to one of the lakes to take in the scenery. I remember going for a nice walk on a path that followed the lake, and it ended up going pretty high to a lookout point where everything looked like a painting. The sun was starting to almost set, so we decided to head back. Mom looked like she was feeling pretty peaceful, so I knew the magic of the mountains was working on her.

We had a nice dinner somewhere not too far from the lake and started to head to our room for the night. There was just enough light left for us to watch the fish jump out of the water. There was a special feeling to the evening. I noticed a smile on my Mom’s face.

Success.

When Mom felt good, I felt good.

We made our way back to our room, and I noticed Mom’s smile slowly fade. That’s okay, she’s not a clown, and I don’t need a smile painted on her all the time. I figured she was still feeling better, just on the inside.

And then the morning came.

She looked tired, distant, not herself. I couldn't believe it.

I had to say something.

“Mom, I don’t understand. Don’t you remember yesterday? We had a great walk down by the lake, we took some pictures, and we even saw the fish jumping out of the water. Didn't that make you feel good? Wasn't it nice to be there?"

"Why can’t you just be happy?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I just can't.”

…

I didn't understand. I thought the mission had been accomplished. How could she go back to feeling sad so quickly? Why couldn't she just hold onto that feeling and ride it out until she felt better?

Because she just… couldn't.

Have you ever had a delayed epiphany?

It took me 15 years to understand what someone means when they say they just can’t feel better. It’s so much easier for someone like me to just not get it, and just think that everyone can give their head a shake… Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Snap out of it! What is this accomplishing? Don’t you want your life back? Don’t you want to do something? Don’t you want to feel something else? Why would you stay this way when you know all the people around you love you so much and support you? If not for yourself, why won’t you try for us? We want you back, don’t you understand that?

Why won’t you try?

“Because I just can’t.”

If I could have that moment back. But I just can’t.

I love you, Mom. I’m sorry you feel this way. Just know you are loved, that’s all I want to say.

I’m letting you go, for both of us.

I’m letting you go.

Scene 11: Laughing at Death Part 2

Setting: A funeral home, empty stage

Shawn:

I remember the first time I saw her after it finally happened.

Nothing seemed real to me so far. It’s one thing that I was told she was gone, but despite all logic, there was a part of me that needed to see her to prove she really wasn't alive.

There was a starkness, and grim formality to the funeral home. All that space between everything made me feel more alone than usual, and under-dressed. There was faint, indiscernible music somewhere in the background, and I remember realizing it was elevator music, which I guess is really the only choice given the occasion.  I probably wouldn't have wanted to hear anything recognizable or inappropriate.

I remember waiting for a while before seeing her. I guess I understand, it’s not supposed to be an in and out kind of thing, there should be a little bit of dignity and respect, or maybe just a little more time to take a deep breath and prepare yourself.

What will she look like?

How will her face look? Serene and peaceful? I hope. I don’t want to see any pain.

How do I react when I see her? Am I still human if I don’t cry?

Will her neck look okay? Will they have to do something to hide it if it doesn’t look okay?

I shouldn't even think about that.

Will there be a… smell? Fuck, I’m such an idiot. Who thinks that?

And while all those thoughts were swirling around in my head, we were called in to see her.

Suddenly the elevator music was quite audible in the room we entered. Typically, I think the only way I've ever heard elevator music was very quiet, so there was something quite unsettling about it. The room was unnecessarily huge in my mind, and we had to make a big dramatic cross to get to the coffin.

There were no words, but I could pick out the tune:

“And I think it's gonna be a long long time, ‘til touch down brings me round again to find, I'm not the man they think I am at home…”

Christ.

The journey across the room seemed both dramatic and bizarre, given the soundtrack. I started to see her head, just the hair at first, and I knew something wasn't quite right.

“Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids, In fact it’s cold as hell, And there’s no one there to raise them if you did…”

Mom was never one to get too made up for anything. She did her hair very simple, and most of the time, there was really no makeup to speak of. Now and then, if she was feeling really wild, she’d do lipstick and eye shadow.

Looks like they decided to give Mom a makeover.

Here was this woman, with well-done and very big curly hair. She had dark eye makeup, a nice deep blue with additional smokiness I’d never thought possible. Her cheeks were done up in a rosy red blush, and her lipstick was a deep Merlot.

“I'm a rocket man
Rocket man!
Burnin' out his fuse
Up here alone…”

I could feel a smirk creeping onto my face. This was not making things feel more grounded in reality at all. If anything, it was making things feel completely dreamlike and surreal.

“And I think it’s gonna be a long long time… And I think it’s gonna be a long long time…”

I relaxed. All the tension left me.

I knew we’d have to say something so that they could have her… altered… to look more like herself, so I was glad for the viewing. In a strange way, it might have gone exactly how I needed it to go.

I don’t know what to do with death, and at that time it seemed like death didn't know what to do with me, so we were getting along just fine.

Scene 10: Eulogy

Setting: A church, with a music stand representing the pulpit.

Shawn:

My Mom was important to many people for many reasons.

For her family, she was a loving mother and wife, a caring sister and daughter, and a supportive aunt and cousin. Her smile brought happiness to the whole room, and her passion enriched the lives of us all.

For her friends, she was an open ear, a shoulder to cry on, and cheerleader for their successes.

For her co-workers, she was a fierce defender of their rights, a leader, a helping hand, and a voice when nobody would listen.

But the best thing about my Mom is she didn't do any of this to leave her mark so people would remember or adore her, or because she hoped to be promoted to a higher position, or because she expected anyone to return the favour.

She did it all because it was the right thing to do. She was completely selfless because that’s the life she found to be perfectly natural.

I didn't know how lucky I was to have her in my life. Sometimes, I thought she was too strict, too blunt, too loud, and too embarrassing.  I didn't understand her completely, and I now wish every day 

I could tell her that I was very privileged to have her as my mother.

She stayed at home when we were young so our family could be completely cared for, and I’ll never be able to thank her for that.

She talked for hours with her friends and family, in person, and on the phone, rarely if ever bringing up herself, just being there for others, and I wish I could have told her how much I admire her for that.

She worked night and day for her Union, poring over notes, writing reports, and meeting with countless friends and foes, all because of her deep belief that everyone should be treated fairly and should be rewarded for excellent work.

I know it’s too late, but I want my Mom to finally hear the words I should have said long ago: I’m proud of you, Mom. For people you've changed for the better and the lives you have touched, I’m proud of you.

Scene 9: The Blame Game

Now more than ever, I needed to know who was responsible for this.

It doesn't make any sense. Think about it! Why was she in there in the first place? It was because she’d become a danger to herself, and she needed help so bad, she couldn't do it by herself. She couldn't be trusted by herself. So, as logic would have it, she shouldn't have ever been alone.

It shouldn't have been possible.

So where was the staff? Huh? I’d like to know that. I mean, they have to have 24 hour staff, watching the patients at all times, right? So what was going on? At the very least, there’s security, right? They would have seen her get up, leave her room, and go into the staircase.

She shouldn't have been able to hurt herself.

She took her own life on their watch. They need to be exposed. They need to be shown for how incredibly incompetent they are. I’ll make a film. I’ll make a documentary.

I’ll put them on the spot. I’ll pretend it’s just a project I’m doing for a class or something and it’ll be just informational, and I’ll get one of them on camera.

What was Sheila Pallier specifically diagnosed with? Did you have more than one diagnosis? Where is her file? What does it say? What medications was she on when she was here? Which, if any, were working at all? Didn't you notice any behaviours of hers that could have prevented this? How many times has she been in here? How many times has she been in places like this?

Did the shock treatment work?

What medications had she tried to overdose on before this? What kind of ways did she try to take her life before? Have you ever even tried anything besides medications and shock treatment? Do you even know what her triggers were?

And then I stood before them. They invited us to the hospital. All the staff that worked with her, and we sat around a big table. And what did I say to them?

Nothing.

I could see it on their faces, and I truly decided, even if I didn't understand, that they weren't to blame.

So who was?

She removed herself from us a lot. I would go up to her when she was in bed, and I’d try and talk to her. She would just be laying there sometimes, maybe asleep, but other times, she’d get upset and defensive, essentially telling me to go away.

It must be nice. I really mean that, it must be nice sometimes to be able to withdraw, and be responsible for absolutely nothing. I mean, she wouldn't even get up sometimes to take a bath, or get ready, or anything really. And then, if she did, we all had to walk around on eggshells, waiting for the next outburst or accusation.

I guess this would be the best way to remove herself from us completely.

I’ll never get the chance, but what would I say to her if I did?

Nothing.

I know the truth. I know who’s really to blame. It’s me.

What did I do when she needed me the most? Nothing. I’d see her laying there, and I’d just get frustrated, and I rarely offered any words of encouragement, or any help at all. If she’d yell, I just wanted her to stop, and I felt like we were all victims of this lady who wouldn't give us a minute of peace. That’s how I felt about my mom.

How would have that made her feel? I didn't need to say it. She'd know.

And then, I abandoned her. I abandoned her so many times. The minute I was out of High School, it was off to some different city, far away. As soon as she was in hospital, it was maybe a couple of visits, and then never again. With a “see you real soon” no less.

There was so much I could have said to her, and I didn't. Now, there was only one way to let anyone know how I truly felt.

Scene 8: Downstairs

I went downstairs in what was now just my Dad's house a few days later. Nobody was home that day.

Not that long ago, it was all of our house. My Dad, my Mom, my sister, but now, just Dad... I used to spend a lot of time in the basement, it was kind of a place that only I went to most of the time.

There was still nothing so far. The only reaction I really had was right when I found out. I had let my close friends know what had happened, but there wasn't a lot of emotion... I just told them about it, and said if they wanted to come to the funeral when it was, but no pressure, I didn't want them to go out of their way or anything.

But I didn't really feel anything, and  I hated myself for that.

So, I forced myself.

I pushed myself to be normal, to be human and respond.

I went into the bathroom, and into the shower. All alone downstairs. I didn't take my clothes off or anything, but I did turn off the lights. Downstairs, I could make it completely dark if I wanted to. I didn't have to have anything distract me or make me think of something else.

I could just lay down inside the shower and try to be normal, and try to be human.

And I called to her.

"Mom?... Mom?"

And I got louder and louder. I got so loud I thought she would respond for sure. When I'm in the dark, I sometimes try to time travel, like it's possible this is all a dream, and I'm just waking up, and she'll be not in the hospital, not being taken away in an ambulance, not sad, not anything, just there.

I shouted louder and louder. "MOM?... MOM??" but she didn't answer. And that made me angry.

You ever heard about John Lennon, talking about Primal Therapy? Primal scream? All I could remember about it was that it might be a way, maybe a way to get whatever I was repressing out, get me out of my head and maybe find it in my body somewhere. I felt fucking ridiculous, but I gave it a try.

"WHY DID YOU DO THAT? CAN'T YOU SEE? I WAS JUST ABOUT TO MAKE IT! YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN HERE AND YOU WOULD HAVE SEEN IT. SO WHY?... WHY?... NOW YOU'LL NEVER SEE WHAT I'M GOING TO DO, AND WHAT I'M GOING TO BE! YOU'LL NEVER KNOW AND BE PROUD! WHY DIDN'T YOU WANT TO SEE THAT? WHY??"

And I felt a little better.

And it might have been the shouting, and it might have been the rage, but it was almost like I was feeling something. Maybe I'm human after all.

Scene 7: Laughing at Death

I don't know what to do with death.

Back when I was a kid, I can only actually recall couple of funerals - Grandma Liddle and Grandma Pallier. I can't remember anything specific... Except for one thing.

Just before I went up to see my Grandma Liddle's body for the first time, I was observing the ritual that others were involved in - Basically, it was this: See the body, look solemn, tear up, cry into the shoulder or chest or whatever of the person beside you, move on.

I felt fairly certain I could swing that.

So, I went up to the body, looked solemn, tried to tear up, and then I laughed.

I thought I did cover it up pretty good. I made sure to bury my face in the arm of my Dad, hoping the suit would muffle any audible laughter and maybe it would look like sobbing if I jerked my shoulders just right.

Nailed it. I was pretty sure nobody noticed.

Then came the conversation.

My sister said something like this to me, "So, was it hard for you to see Grandma? Did you cry?"

I tried not to hesitate.

"Uh huh. I cried pretty hard."

"No you didn't. I was right there. You were laughing."

There I was, laughing. With Mom and Dad and Michelle and God and Baby Jesus and Grandma's ghost all staring at me, appalled. But that's what happened. And I can't change it.

In fact, I can't say with any degree of confidence that I've ever cried when I'm supposed to. It's always something stupid, like during "Homeward Bound" when Shadow comes limping from the horizon even though you were sure he was dead, or when during some rock documentary when the underdog finally gets a moment to shine. That's when I cry.

But I don't know what to do with death.

We were standing in the back doorway at the house, myself and Dad. There was a police officer in the house. My Dad had picked me up to take me over to the house when they had my sister try and call me over so that they could tell me, but I was not going to come at first, saying something like, "Come on, what could be so serious that I have to go over there? Did somebody die?"

So Dad picked me up, and there we were. I don't think the officer even finished telling me that she was gone, when suddenly my improv skills kicked in. I thought to myself, "I don't know if I'll cry, I don't know what I'll do, I don't even know how I'm supposed to react... Well don't just stand there man, go limp!"

And I did, and slowly hit the floor.

I was lucky, and I had been given permission to let my emotion come out any old way when I was joined on the floor by Dad and Michelle, the three of us embracing in a sort of huddle, looking at each other, realizing it had finally happened.

I think my tears came more from relief, and I was disgusted by myself for that.

I lived for a long time not knowing what was going to happen with Mom. I knew I wanted her happy, so I tried everything I could. Sometimes I could bring a smile to her face, but sometimes I couldn't, and I knew if she wasn't showing a sort of ferocity or emotion that those were the times I should worry the most... Sometimes, I wish she'd just die so at least there'd be and end to all this, is what I'd probably thought more than once.

Now I wanted that thought back. I wanted it back so bad... because, I know how ridiculous it sounds, but I sometimes think of my life as some sort of Truman Show, where everybody's watching me - kind of like this - and can hear my thoughts and maybe, just maybe, I caused this. If I hadn't of thought that, maybe the producers wouldn't have written it into the script.

But there we were, in our huddle, and I was crying just like I was supposed to. Maybe the reason I was crying was deplorable, but it's hard to say for sure. They could have been tears of happiness because she was finally free, and that would certainly be acceptable, but I can't really say that for sure.

April 6, 2000, she took her own life in the Alberta Hospital, and I was going to have to learn what to do with death.

Scene 6: I Could Disappear

Setting: A classroom.
Scene 6
The whiteboard/chalkboard/white sheet/ is still there, and it gets flipped to a fresh page. Shawn thinks about writing on the new page, pauses, and then takes the whole thing offstage.

Shawn:
I'm the distracter.

I think that word was invented just for me. I'm sure Oxford will add it some day.

The best thing I can do is take myself out of the equation. I think she would be able to think clear if I wasn't around. I mean, how is she supposed to really deal with things if there's someone around always trying to make her laugh, tell her stories, and trying to manipulate her into thinking about just about anything else?

However...

Without me, what if she gets lost in her thoughts? I mean, being depressed can be a slippery slope, right? And if nobody's trying to throw you a rope, you just slide further and further down. And who could blame her for that? I mean, this isn't the greatest time in her life... Her kids are growing up and leaving. That's a big change, and maybe she isn't ready for it yet.

She definitely isn't ready for it yet. So here we are.

The lights snap to a disconcerting bright green shade.

You'd think it would be the most important detail in a hospital where people are supposed to be getting well that it would be in a comforting environment. You know, something that almost looks like home... But this place doesn't look like home. It looks like a place where Billy, Charlie, Martini, Dale, Max, Jim, the Chief and Mac might listen to "Charmaine" all day.

Do they really have to surround her with sick people constantly?

I know she really needs me right now. It's just a really hard place to visit. I'm probably wrong about what it's like here anyway... It's the green though. The green walls, "hospital green" I think they call it. And it's also the conversations with strangers. You'd think that since I can talk to a bunch of strangers at once I'd have no trouble speaking with just one. But, you know, these folks can be a little unpredictable.

You never really know what they'll say to you or try to do.

The truth is, I don't think I'll be able to visit that often. But she won't be here forever.

"I'll see you real soon" was the last thing I ever said to her.

Scene 5

Setting: A classroom.
Scene 5
A whiteboard/chalkboard/white sheet/paper is available to write on.

Shawn:
It is my responsibility to understand her.
What could I have been watching for so it didn't get like this?
What can I do to make sure this doesn't happen again?
What do I do if this happens again?

What is it like to be suffering like she is?

I could make notes.
I could find out more about what medication she's on.
I could find out if she's taking the right medication.
I could never get in trouble again.
I could never raise my voice again.
I could never get angry again.

I could disappear.

There must have been something going on that I should have recognized.

I should have noticed when she was working too hard.
I should have noticed when she wouldn't get out of bed.
I should have realized it wasn't funny when she gazed off into space.
I should have been more sensitive to her feelings.
I should have talked to her at breakfast.
I should have taken her emotions more seriously.
I should have taken her reactions more seriously.

I should tell her I'm sorry.

What is it that she's really diagnosed with? How old was she when this started, and how long did it take for her to get help? I'm sure they've changed medication over time, so was there a time when some of it was better and is it an option for us to go back to that? How did people decide she was showing enough... symptoms to get help, and did she get help on her own at first, or did somebody else take her to get help? How many times has she been in hospital, and was it always because she tried to take her own life? How many different ways has she tried? Is it always an overdose?

And why do we always go back to the beginning and start all over again?

It is my responsibility to find out. It's my responsibility to help her.

A Nagging Little Voice

Kelly could see the rubber uselessly dragging over the windshield, smearing the ice, making matters only worse. He'd buy new wipers, he told himself again.

The blue, blinding light was bearing down on him, blinding him through his frost-streaked mirrors.

Again.

Every morning, a new asshole.

He'd told himself not to get angry. It doesn't help the situation, and it only served to ruin his morning. He glanced down at the speedometer, jaw tightening when he noticed again, this morning like every morning, that he was going well over the speed limit, but it didn't stop the relentless truck from bearing down on him, as one always did.

He'd come up with a story for this kind of person. They fit the stereotype he'd carefully crafted. The exterior was easy; He'd be wearing a pair of white Oakley sunglasses, and his shirt, or maybe his jacket, would inevitably say something about the MMA, Racing, or motorbikes. This was easy to prove with a quick glance.

It was the personality that would involve a little more conjecture.

Kelly figured the driver must be as racist as modern society now allows, that would be a given. And, of course, despite living in the near arctic tundra, he'd talk about American sports all day, and he'd likely try to name-drop athletes only by their nicknames.

The driver of the truck would blame all his irrational rage on others and mutter "I need a fuckin' cigarette" at least 3 times a day. He'd gather together in groups of clones of himself every weekend and talk about or watch things involving off-roading, MMA, racing, motorbikes, American sports, white Oakley sunglasses, and how much they hate that brown guy down the street. Or, better yet, that brown guy in the bar right beside them.

That was the kind of asshole Kelly invented behind the wheel every day.

He knew how to deal with this kind of asshole: Stare at him when he passed him by. That would teach him.

The problem was, they didn't always pass him by. He figured they got so close to his bumper to taunt him. That must be why. They could sense, nay, SMELL how weak he was. Kelly unconsciously gripped the wheel, twisting it, the grinding sound of his hands matching that of his teeth.

My god, He thought. I can see the whites of his eyes.

I could slam on my brakes, he thought. A small, awkward smile formed on his chapped lips. He'd buy new lip balm, he told himself again.

But then, a nagging little voice took over his thoughts.

Maybe the man in the truck has had earth-shattering news about someone he loves. He just took off, just a few minutes ago, after having a life-altering experience. He just found out his wife is leaving him, his daughter is moving away, his son is going to jail, or his mother has died.

Great Caesar's ghost, the man's mother has just died.

Maybe the man in the truck has just found out something about himself that is going to change him forever. He was at the doctor, and found out he's going to lose a foot because of his diabetes, or he has an unspeakable disease from a one-night-stand, or he just found out he's got cancer.

Holy Hell, he's going to die.

Maybe the man in the truck just got great news, and he's rushing to the airport to pick up his son who got back from a tour of duty, or his daughter just told him over the phone that she's going to get married, or maybe she's already married, and she's been pregnant and ready to burst and now she's going to have the baby and he's got her in the passenger seat but she's laying down and he's got to get her to the HOSPITAL RIGHT NOW!!

LEAPING LIZARDS!! HE'S GOT A WOMAN IN LABOUR RIGHT THERE IN THE TRUCK, AND YOUR SELFISH TERCEL IS BLOCKING THE ENTIRE ROAD, KELLY!!

Given all these possibilities, Kelly knew what to do in these situations.

He flipped the man off and gave him a very icy stare as he sped by.

That will teach him.

Tomorrow, Dear

Wallace touched the prongs of his fork. He imagined if he played them, he could make beautiful music. But alas, plucking at them had only resulted in broken nails in the past. If he was going to make a sound at breakfast, he was going to need a second spoon... but he had no rhythm.

"Wallace!" Janine bellowed, attempting to snap him from his dreams of becoming a utensil virtuoso.

"Wallace, can you hear that?"

He pictured himself at Carnegie Hall.

"Wallace, that's rain. It's raining, Wallace. You know what that means?"

He closed his eyes. The rain used to mean something to him; it meant a fresh renewal, and he'd see the grass would suddenly look greener, and the streets would be stunningly cleaner. Now, it only meant one thing.

"I've seen them, and they're not getting smaller, Wallace. The yellow stains in the ceiling. In the bedroom, Wallace. THE BEDROOM. What do you think we're breathing in? Do you think that's healthy? You've said you'd do something about that. Remember?"

Wallace opened his eyes, and looked helplessly at the dining room ceiling.

"We could always move the bed in here. It looks fine to me right here."

Janine was in no mood.

"When, Wallace?"

"Tomorrow, Dear."

Ah, tomorrow. They both knew what tomorrow was going to bring. The room suddenly got colder.

"I see." Janine said, quietly. "It's March 3rd tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Yes, my dear."

"Are you still going through with it?" Janine said, never believing it for one moment.

"Yes. But I could do it late at night, so I can get whatever you need me to do done during the daytime. Yes, I'll figure out just where that leak is and I'll have it taken care of tomorrow, dear."

Janine turned her back to him, and busied herself with the one cup that was in the sink. 35 years she had been with him. 35 years, and she never believed she'd actually know the day her husband would die. Well, the day her husband WANTED to die. She felt he was truly a silly man. She always felt that way.

"We make promises to ourselves, Wallace, and we don't have to go through with all of them."

"I know, dear. But it's my time."

March 3rd marked the day his hero, Ivor Cutler, died.

Ivor was fascinating to Wallace; He had a life like no other. He wrote books and poetry, he wrote music and recorded albums, and he even rubbed shoulders with The Beatles. THE Beatles. Can you imagine?

But was almost... no... likely the real reason why he was so obsessed with the man was the way he lived. Against the grain, without any concern about how other people acted, dressed, spoke, thought, or moved. No, Ivor was a man who was completely unique. And Wallace never met him, and never would meet him.

Ivor Cutler would die on March 3rd, 2006. He was 83 years old.

Now, Wallace was 83 years old. And now, it was March 2nd.

Wallace was not a religious man. Of course, his parents were devout Calvinists, and that might have played into his dwindling interest in religion as a whole. Despite his lack of faith, he did believe in... something.

He couldn't define it, and couldn't explain it to his lovely wife. Not even one bit.

Janine washed the cup. It was Vitrelle. Butterfly gold. She ran her fingers over the big butterfly, then the little butterfly. She didn't care much for the flowers, but she loved the little plants on it the most. They looked like little frogs, smiling at her. They made her feel at home. And they NEVER broke. Well, they RARELY break, and when they do, it's, well, horrifying. They don't make them any more, and they sure let you know when they break. They leave a ringing in your ears, and dangerous shards unlike anything else you've ever seen.

She liked the fact that she had the cups with the normal lip. She didn't ever want to have one of those turned-up lips. They only made the ones with the turned up lips after a certain time, and then they didn't make them at all.

"I've been thinking, dear... Is there anything else you need me to do tomorrow? I'd like to, well..."

Janine didn't turn around.

"Oh, there's a lot I'd like you to do, Wallace."

Ivor Cutler never belonged. He couldn't be categorized. Was his art celebrated? Wallace wasn't sure -- All Wallace knew is that when he was younger, Ivor was always on the radio. He was mysterious yet simple. Blunt yet surreal. His performances were thoroughly engaging no matter what they were.

Wallace, on the other hand? He was... predictable. Monday to Friday. Saturday and Sunday.

No, Wallace was not a religious man. Did I mention that?

 He was ordinary in every way. The talent he wanted? It wasn't there. When he tried to write music, it all came out like "Canon in D", which is fine if he was Pachelbel, but of course he was not. Every poem he ever wrote deteriorated over the lines into a dirty limerick. Every book he wrote was unfinished.

He never said it out loud, but it was his belief that there was some sort of magic in his plan. After all, if they were the same age, and it happened on the same day, well, then... Well, maybe, right?

He pondered if Ivor would be proud of him.

 "Yes, there's a lot I'd like you to do." Janine sighed.

"And I'll do them all. Starting first thing tomorrow."