That night, after the crowd of emergency personnel and nosy neighbours had dispersed, after Daktari Christ MacIsaac was snuggled in his crib with Peg to watch over him, and after Char was sedated and en route to the lockdown psych ward at the Regional Hospital, me and Willy Gimp did the only thing we could think of to ease our rattled souls. The only thing that made any sense to burn off the jangled energy of circumvented tragedy. We went down to The Wharf, smoked a monstrous gagger of a joint, made up foolish new constellation names, and fucked in the bed of his grubby old pick-up truck while the stars of The Big Dicker twinkled overhead.

After that, everything went to hell in a handbasket.

Despite all the old dolls at the church down the road praying for me every Sunday, and the handful of pills I wash down with a bucket of sludge tea every morning, I’m getting sicker. There are days when I can’t get out of bed, or see or walk or think straight. Days when all I can stomach is six Ritz crackers and a mouthful of applesauce. Char is locked up in the looney bin. Allie can barely eke out a coherent rejection when I call to see if she wants to come hang out with my sick, sorry ass. Willy has a fresh excuse every time I ask if he wants to go out for coffee. And he knows that coffee isn’t what I’m really after. Mama is cranky, and still miffed that I have invaded her space and burned her papers. The best I get from her is a prolonged pat on the head, and orders to stop sooking.

Meanwhile, Peggy has become Mother Superior, beaming a warm, serene smile as she totes Daktari Christ MacIsaac everywhere she goes, espousing a steady stream of motherly wisdom she has no business pretending to have. A whole bunch of high school people also saw me at the reunion, heard about what happened with Char, heard that I’m sick, and think I’m seeing Willy. So now they’ve all found me on Facebook and I can’t ignore their friend requests because I’m trying not to be an arsehole, in case one of them finds me half-dead in a ditch someday. The trees are naked, the water is angry, and it’s cold as a witch’s tit. Winter will clobber us soon. Mama says she can feel it in her bones.

Plus, somehow the student loan and credit card company bastards have found me. I’ve always had a knack for spending money. Paying it back, not so much. That was Dave’s job, and when we split I may have neglected a thing or two. Over the summer, I also may have racked up some new bills and overlooked some old ones. The credit card guy on the phone was none too pleased with my financial delinquency and wasn’t interested in my sob story. I told the student loans people that I was dying. They didn’t seem to care. Only a Form 37T filled out by a doctor, with triplicate signed copies faxed to their offices, allowing eight to twelve weeks for processing, can stop their now daily collections calls.