Read Online Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Douglas Coupland
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and—”
“Wait—Family Number Six?”
“Yes. The sixth family I was placed with.”
“Okay.”
“So I was with Family Number Six visiting some hillbilly agricultural fair up north in Lac La Hache. This guy who brought our hamburgers to the table had two different-coloured eyes. So I said, ‘Wow, one blue and one brown eye,’ and Family Number Six froze in their seats, and remained frozen until the waiter was well out of sight. I didn’t know what the big deal was, so I asked, and finally Father Number Six said, ‘Don’t you know what that means?’ and I said, ‘No,’ and he said, ‘It means he’s related to himself.’ Isn’t that a hoot?”
“That was your sixth family?” I was still stuck on the number six.
He folded something into the eggs and looked heavenward, counting his family history aloud to ensure he was correct. “Six. That’s right.”
“How many have you had?”
“If you don’t count repeats, eleven; with repeats, fourteen.”
“I always pictured you as living down the street from me in a friendly suburb.”
“That would have been nice. I was adopted by a family up north—moose, rifles, drunk drivers and Jesus. When I was in kindergarten, they made the mistake of telling me I was adopted, and their twins, who were a few years older than me, let me know it, too. It was bad: bruising and broken bones and a burn here or there. I ran away in grade two, and because of that I was labelled a problem child. Once that happens, you only ever move lower down the foster family food chain, until you’re living in what used to be a luggage storage room owned by otherwise normal-looking serial molesters who are there merely to collect their foster care cheque from the government—which is the only reason they don’t kill you, it’d cut their cash flow.”
What could I say? I said, “The omelette smells wonderful. I’m going to have a small shot of Baileys to go with it. Would you like one?”
“You have anything else?”
“Not really. Wait—some of that Greek stuff—ouzo.”
“That’s it? How come so little?”
“Because I’m afraid of keeping booze in the house because it’ll turn me into a spinster lush.”
“Let’s pour the Baileys into coffee. Do you have coffee?”
I did. I like coffee. I made some, topped up our mugs with the Baileys, and then we sat down to eat.
This may sound odd, but it felt like I was on a date—or rather, what I imagined a date must be like. The recognition of this temporarily froze me. My long-lost son shows up and I’m sitting there with him chatting about dog species, global warming and Mariah Carey’s career arc. More to the point, I was appalled by what we weren’t discussing: why he ended up being adopted in the first place, my own family history, my attempts to locate him … But that’s what family members are for. We crave them and need them not because we have so many shared experiences to talk about but because they know precisely which subjects to avoid. Jeremy already felt like family.
We were almost done eating when the phone rang. Jeremy was closer to it and picked it up. “Liz Dunn residence.”
A pause.
“Uh-huh. No, she can’t talk right now.”
A pause.
“Because we’re having lunch. Whom shall I say called?”
A pause.
“No. As I said, we’re eating lunch. I’m sure she’ll phone you once we’re done.”
Pause.
“I’ll tell her that. Goodbye.” He hung up. “That was your sister.”
“You shouldn’t answer my phone!”
“Why not—are you ashamed of me?”
“Jeremy, chances are she’s already dialed 911 .”
“Why?”
“You know darn well why. Because in my entire adult life nobody’s ever answered my phone but me.”
“You never have people here?”
“What do you think? No.”
“You care what your family thinks?”
“Yes. I do. They’re all I have.”
“You have me now.”
“I just wanted you to meet them …”
“Meet them how?”
“Differently.” In my head
“Wait—Family Number Six?”
“Yes. The sixth family I was placed with.”
“Okay.”
“So I was with Family Number Six visiting some hillbilly agricultural fair up north in Lac La Hache. This guy who brought our hamburgers to the table had two different-coloured eyes. So I said, ‘Wow, one blue and one brown eye,’ and Family Number Six froze in their seats, and remained frozen until the waiter was well out of sight. I didn’t know what the big deal was, so I asked, and finally Father Number Six said, ‘Don’t you know what that means?’ and I said, ‘No,’ and he said, ‘It means he’s related to himself.’ Isn’t that a hoot?”
“That was your sixth family?” I was still stuck on the number six.
He folded something into the eggs and looked heavenward, counting his family history aloud to ensure he was correct. “Six. That’s right.”
“How many have you had?”
“If you don’t count repeats, eleven; with repeats, fourteen.”
“I always pictured you as living down the street from me in a friendly suburb.”
“That would have been nice. I was adopted by a family up north—moose, rifles, drunk drivers and Jesus. When I was in kindergarten, they made the mistake of telling me I was adopted, and their twins, who were a few years older than me, let me know it, too. It was bad: bruising and broken bones and a burn here or there. I ran away in grade two, and because of that I was labelled a problem child. Once that happens, you only ever move lower down the foster family food chain, until you’re living in what used to be a luggage storage room owned by otherwise normal-looking serial molesters who are there merely to collect their foster care cheque from the government—which is the only reason they don’t kill you, it’d cut their cash flow.”
What could I say? I said, “The omelette smells wonderful. I’m going to have a small shot of Baileys to go with it. Would you like one?”
“You have anything else?”
“Not really. Wait—some of that Greek stuff—ouzo.”
“That’s it? How come so little?”
“Because I’m afraid of keeping booze in the house because it’ll turn me into a spinster lush.”
“Let’s pour the Baileys into coffee. Do you have coffee?”
I did. I like coffee. I made some, topped up our mugs with the Baileys, and then we sat down to eat.
This may sound odd, but it felt like I was on a date—or rather, what I imagined a date must be like. The recognition of this temporarily froze me. My long-lost son shows up and I’m sitting there with him chatting about dog species, global warming and Mariah Carey’s career arc. More to the point, I was appalled by what we weren’t discussing: why he ended up being adopted in the first place, my own family history, my attempts to locate him … But that’s what family members are for. We crave them and need them not because we have so many shared experiences to talk about but because they know precisely which subjects to avoid. Jeremy already felt like family.
We were almost done eating when the phone rang. Jeremy was closer to it and picked it up. “Liz Dunn residence.”
A pause.
“Uh-huh. No, she can’t talk right now.”
A pause.
“Because we’re having lunch. Whom shall I say called?”
A pause.
“No. As I said, we’re eating lunch. I’m sure she’ll phone you once we’re done.”
Pause.
“I’ll tell her that. Goodbye.” He hung up. “That was your sister.”
“You shouldn’t answer my phone!”
“Why not—are you ashamed of me?”
“Jeremy, chances are she’s already dialed 911 .”
“Why?”
“You know darn well why. Because in my entire adult life nobody’s ever answered my phone but me.”
“You never have people here?”
“What do you think? No.”
“You care what your family thinks?”
“Yes. I do. They’re all I have.”
“You have me now.”
“I just wanted you to meet them …”
“Meet them how?”
“Differently.” In my head
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