Waiting For Sarah Read Free Page A

herself, by baking delicious little treats for the entire third floor — samosas and gulab jamans. There isn’t one person who can resist them. Once people got to know Dolly and like her, well, the problem was solved.”
    Norma drove him out to the Burnaby cemetery so he could see the grave. The day was cold and crisp under a blue sky. She pushed him along the path between the headstones. A thin layer of frost on the grass had started to melt. He helped push his chair onto the grass. Norma had brought flowers, chrysanthemums, which she placed on the grave, removing those withered by frost.
    He stared at the granite stone and the names of his family: “Died August 15, 1998.” His eyes stung.
    â€œIt was a lovely funeral,” said Norma. “The Reverend Butterworth read the eulogy. So nice. Everyone was there — Robbie, the kids from Carleton High and Sanderson Elementary — looked to me like every kid in the neighborhood turned out — and teachers, and people from the school board. ‘Tell Mike to hang in there,’ they said. You were in people’s minds. It was like you were there with us, Mike.”
    He said nothing, thinking. Then he said, “How come if there were so many kids at the funeral none of them came to see me in the hospital?”
    Norma was surprised. “But they did! You were always sleeping, or perhaps you don’t remember because of the painkillers. The nurses allowed onlytwo people at one time and had to send many of them away. You sent many of them away yourself. Do you remember?”
    He shook his head, then thought for a while longer and said, “So there was a big crowd at the funeral?”
    â€œEnormous. There were women from MADD — Mothers Against Drunk Driving. A very sincere group of women, I’m sure, but to tell you the truth I could have done without the TV cameras.”
    On the drive home Norma wondered aloud why he had never asked about his home, their three-bedroom townhouse on Fairview Slopes, the one they had moved into when Mike was only five, the place where Becky was born.
    â€œWho cares about a house!”
    â€œIt was your home, Mike. Anyway, there were mortgage payments. So I arranged for it to be sold. You should know that there’s a small equity from the sale and a small amount from insurance. It’s in trust for when you reach eighteen.”
    He shrugged. He didn’t care about the money.
    â€œAnd I had a few things put in storage. One or two pieces of furniture Joanne was fond of. And your father’s stuff — golf clubs, medals, his computer hardware; it’s all there if you ever decide to use it. I couldn’t deal with it, so just had everything boxed and stored. You might feel like going through it after a little time has passed. I kept some things from your room separate — your posters and CDs, things like that; they’re stored in my locker in the co-op basement if you decide you want them.”
    He said nothing; he was thinking of gravestones.

6 ... there are no answers
    He really did care about his home, sold now, which meant that everything was gone. His whole life was gone, like a torpedoed ship at the bottom of the sea, leaving him a lone survivor in an empty ocean with nothing to cling to — except for Norma and Robbie. Dolly Dhaliwal and her “wonderful future” indeed!
    He remembered his room. And Becky’s. And downstairs, the worn living-room carpeting and shabby sofa his mother talked about replacing, but never did. The family eating together in the evenings. Rules and arguments about behavior and chores and the Internet and TV watching. Ordinary lives that were meant to go on in an ordinary way for many years, but were now just memories.
    â€œWhy is this building so damn noisy?” he asked Norma one afternoon.
    Norma pulled a face. “It’s the workmen mending leaks in the building. You must have noticed the blue tarps around the