Poles Apart Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  NO RELATION

  Winner, 2015 Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour

  “As with his past novels, which include The Best Laid Plans and The High Road, Fallis employs an easygoing yet compelling writing style. The subject matter turns serious, at times, but Fallis keeps things light, finding humour in dark situations.… So what’s in a name? When it’s Terry Fallis, you know it means a good book.” – National Post

  “Terry Fallis is fast becoming a master of fiction writing.… In No Relation [he] employs his understated whimsy and sense for irony in a hilarious chronicle about a hard-luck fellow who loses his wallet, his copywriting job and his girlfriend one fateful day.… What delightful lunacy Fallis has concocted here, with a dollop of intrigue and even romance.” – Montreal Gazette

  “Terry Fallis writes with a light touch and fine sense of the inherent humanity of humour, while still addressing one of the biggest questions we all have to face: Who are you? Who are you really?” – Will Ferguson, author of 419, winner of the 2012 Scotiabank Giller Prize

  “Fallis fans, rejoice! Terry is back! … A humorous and heart-warming tale.” – CBC.ca

  “Reading a Fallis novel is like watching The Big Bang Theory or some other well-scripted TV sitcom. You laugh, you are entertained, you return to your regular life slightly refreshed.” – Quill & Quire

  “An enjoyable romp.” – Kitchener-Waterloo Record

  “Born of a cheerful mood and a clever mind, Terry Fallis’s No Relation is an endearing book with a big heart.” – Trevor Cole, author of Practical Jean, winner of the 2011 Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour

  Also by Terry Fallis

  The Best Laid Plans

  The High Road

  Up and Down

  No Relation

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 BY TERRY FALLIS

  McClelland & Stewart is a division of Random House of Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication is available upon request

  ISBN: 978-0-7710-3619-4

  ebook ISBN: 978-0-7710-3621-7

  McClelland & Stewart,

  a division of Random House of Canada Limited,

  a Penguin Random House Company

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  v3.1

  For Nancy

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part Two

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Three

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part Four

  Chapter 16

  Acknowledgements

  Women in The WORLD

  Women in Canada

  “That the principle which regulates the existing social relations between the two sexes—the legal subordination of one sex to the other—is wrong in itself, and now one of the chief hindrances to human improvement; and that it ought to be replaced by a principle of perfect equality, admitting no power or privilege on the one side, nor disability on the other.”

  John Stuart Mill

  The Subjection of Women, 1869

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  Grounding your wedge in a bunker is normally a two-stroke penalty. But for my father, only one stroke was assessed—the one that caused him to drop his club in the first place and crumple to the sand with empty eyes. This is how the whole thing started.

  “Wait, Mom, you mean he just let go of his sand wedge in the middle of his shot and keeled over?” I asked.

  “Sandwich? There was no sandwich involved. The doctor just told me he was swinging a golf club when it happened.”

  “Mom, a sand wedge is a golf … never mind. When did this happen?”

  “I just got off the phone with the doctor a few minu—?”

  “No, not your talk with the doctor,” I cut in. “When did Dad have this stroke?”

  “Oh, last Thursday.”

  “Last Thursday? Hold on a second! My father has a stroke, and my mother waits nearly a week to tell me? What’s up with that?”

  I was not happy. Apparently, neither was I in possession of the full picture.

  “Whoa, back off, Ev. Don’t dump that on me. This is on your father. I just found out about six minutes ago when he called me from some rehab hospital in Orlando. Your dad and I spoke for a few minutes, but then he had to get back to his Jell-O, so he passed the phone over to his doctor. I called you immediately after,” she replied.

  “Bizarre! Did no one think to call his next of kin? Isn’t that standard operating procedure at hospitals?”

  I was upping my volume with each word.

  “You know your father,” my mother replied, clearly exasperated. “It seems he told the doctor that his golfing cronies had already called me with the news. Then he told his posse to keep their yaps shut. They’re all idiots, your father included.”

  “So he’s been in the hospital for nearly a week, alone, without telling us?”

  “Well, he’s actually been in two hospitals,” Mom clarified. “He was golfing in Longwood, so the ambulance took him to, um, just checking my notes, to South Seminole Hospital. He spent a couple of days there but was then transferred to the Orlando Health Rehabilitation Institute and he’ll be there for a while.”

  “But why the silent treatment?” I asked, in a tone that was the equivalent of a pout.

  “Come on, Ev. We’re talking about your bullheaded, proud-to-a-fault, jerk of a father,” she said. “A stroke is a sign of weakness, a chink in his armour, a tear in his cape. He got his ass kicked by a blot clot, and he was sensitive about it. They also told him he was already improving, so he kept it from us until he was feeling better. It’s completely consistent with your father’s past behaviour. Isn’t it?”

  “Well, when you put it that way, I mean with your impressive collection of metaphors and all, I guess we shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Well, I wasn’t surprised. I’m not sure why you were. We’re talking about Billy Kane, here. Remember?”

  I suddenly realized that I’d spent time taking offence at my dad’s solo approach to stroke management before covering off a question that was certainly more pressing than my own bruised feelings.

  “Um, is he okay? Will he be okay?”

  She sighed and paused before continuing.

  “It seems it was a minor to moderate stroke on the right side of his brain. That’s why his speech was not affected. Unfortunately, he sounds the same to me. But, physically, it’s done some damage. He has suffered what the doctor calls ‘physical deficits’ on the left side of his body. He has reduced function in his left arm and particularly in his left leg.”

  “So it will get better? He will get better, I mean, over time, right?”

  “Well, he’s now a resident of this rehab hospital and will be for a month or so at least, as he relearns how to use his left side. The doctor says he has to forge
new pathways in his brain for walking and other simple tasks that were lost in the stroke. He’ll be in daily physiotherapy sessions and is expected to do a lot of walking on his own around the grounds.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad. But I wouldn’t want to be his physiotherapist. That’s going to be ugly,” I said. “Hey, who’s going to pay for all this medical care? We’re talking Florida, here. It’s going to cost a fortune.”

  “His Ford benefits cover the whole thing, so there’s no financial hit.”

  “You mean for Dad. But his next Ford might cost a bit more,” I said.

  “They can afford it.” She paused again. “So anyway, um, I need you to do something for me, for us, for the family.”

  That did not sound good.

  “Okaaaaay,” I said in my best wary, sing-songy voice.

  “Ev, even though he didn’t call until today, your father needs you, and I need you, now. I’m asking you to fly down to Orlando and kind of take care of him as he gets through this. You just have to be with him and walk with him and talk with him. Wait, before you answer, I’m stuck here in Vancouver and simply cannot get down there myself right now. I’m in the middle of strat planning and if that weren’t enough, I’ve got a major, major $200-million deal on the front burner and my time isn’t my own. I need you to step up, Ev. Your father needs you to step up.”

  This was not good.

  “Gee, Mom, I’d like to help, I really would, but I’m a freelance writer. I can’t just pack up my life on a moment’s notice and fly to Florida for an indefinite period. I’m in the midst of a big assignment right now.”

  There was silence on the end of the phone, except for the not-so-silent sigh. Okay, the sigh was quite audible, loud, even.

  “Ev, let’s go through what you’ve just said, step by step,” she started.

  This really was not good. I could see her end-game already.

  “I’d really rather not …” I began.

  “You’re living in a condo that I purchased as an investment property and you’re paying no rent.”

  “Just till I get on my feet …”

  “Are you in any kind of a long-term relationship with anyone right now?”

  “Well, um, I see my local Starbucks barista almost every day.”

  “I think you know that’s not the kind of relationship I mean. Are you involved with anyone romantically?”

  “Yes, of course! Well, sort of. Um, no, not really. No.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. What happened to what’s-her-name?”

  “Cassie.”

  “Right, Cassie,” she said. “Wait, let me guess. You did it again. I can’t believe you did it again. What’s this? Three in a row, now? And after I warned you. Still, you went and did it again. Ev, just stop already! The poor girl never had a chance.”

  I snorted, but there was no heart in it.

  “Mom, that’s ridiculous!” Good, start strong, I thought. “It wasn’t like that at all …” Uh-oh. I could feel myself nearing the ledge. “Well, not exactly … um, well, sort of …” I stepped off. “Okay, it was quite a bit like that,” I said, officially in free fall, as I watched the ground race up to meet me.

  She sighed, but her tone softened.

  “Honey, you got to stop doing that. Promise me you’ll stop. It’s unnatural. It’s not how men work. And it freaks women out. It’s just weird. They can’t keep up. Dial it back, or keep it under wraps for as long as you can. Or you’ll die alone and deserve to.”

  “Wow, thanks, Mom.” I exhaled like it was my last breath. “I don’t know when I’ve felt such parental warmth, encouragement, and understanding.”

  I suffer from a mild sarcasm habit.

  “Honey, the truth is hard to hear sometimes,” she said. “Okay, enough of that. Let’s get back on track. We’re not quite finished here. So what’s this new project you have?”

  “Well, I’ve got a contract to write a big profile piece for a national trade magazine. It might even be the cover story,” I said, trying not to sound desperate and hoping she wouldn’t ask me which magazine. “It’s a big deal and will take a lot of work.”

  “Congratulations, honey, that’s great news. And do you have a laptop computer?”

  “What? Of course. Every freelancer I know has a laptop,” I replied, walking into the propeller. “It’s getting old and weighs about the same as a late-model Honda Civic, but it still works well enough.”

  Actually, I was lying. Not about laptop’s automotive weight class, but about how well it worked. To get it to turn on, I had to use both hands to flex the laptop diagonally while using my chin to hit the Power button—embarrassing while in Starbucks, but almost always effective.

  “And do you sometimes carry it places with you so you can write outside of your—I mean, my—condo?”

  “Come on, Mom.” That didn’t slow her down.

  “And do you have this newfangled thing, oh what’s it called again, I want to say something like … ‘email’?”

  Okay, now you know where I got my sarcasm habit.

  “Mom, I know what you’re doing, and I know where you’re going …”

  “Stay with me, Ev, we’re almost there,” she interrupted. “And if I’m not mistaken, they also have this email wonder service in the United States, including in that beautiful and temperate oasis known as Orlando.”

  She paused to take a breath, but it was a short one.

  “Oh yes, and there’s one more thing. I seem to recall, given your birthplace, that you enjoy dual Canadian-American citizenship, so you’re able to work in either country without risking deportation. How convenient. What a lovely tight little package we seem to have.”

  She already knew from my breathing that I was unfurling my white flag, but she went for the big finish anyway.

  “So in summary, when you said that you’re a freelance writer and can’t just pack up your life on a moment’s notice and fly to Florida for an indefinite period, what you really meant was that you’re a freelance writer and you actually can just pack up your life on a moment’s notice and fly to Florida for an indefinite period.”

  “Wow, Mom. I don’t remember you being like this when I was growing up. When did you become so tough and ruthless and—cynical?”

  “You know the answer to that question.”

  “Yes, I do, Mom. But I was asking rhetorically.”

  “So you’ll go?” she asked, already knowing.

  I moaned a bit, but not for long.

  “I guess I could juggle a few things around and head south for a bit.” I sighed. “But I’m not going to live with him. That I will not do.”

  “No, I agree, that would be pushing it too far,” she said.

  “Remind me never to negotiate with you,” I said. “I just caved so fast.”

  “Ev, honey, you didn’t ‘cave,’ as you so delicately put it. You did what families do in these situations. You did the right thing. These moments of responsibility seldom come at convenient times. And you won’t be on your own for long. I’ll be down to do my part as soon as I can. I promise,” she replied. “And I’m not even married to him anymore. But you’re still his son.”

  “Yes, and you’re still my mother.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “Okay, Ev honey, here’s the deal. I’ll buy you a new laptop of your choosing. I’ll cover your return airfare and rent for as long as you’re down there. I’ll give you enough cash to keep you in groceries and beer. And you’ll always have the undying love and affection of your parents, even though it’s hard for them to spend much time in the same room together. Deal?”

  Ten minutes later, after she gave me Dad’s number at the hospital, I said goodbye to my mother and goodbye to my life in Toronto, at least until my father could walk again and pick up a dime with the fingers of his left hand. I also found a moment to visit the Apple website and pick out a new laptop. Finally, I did a quick Google search on strokes. Yes, I know. I should have done my stroke web browsing befor
e I headed to the Apple website. I know. As it turns out, strokes on the right side of the brain don’t just affect motor control on the left side of the body but can also impair what Wikipedia euphemistically calls “perception and judgment.” I didn’t like the sound of that. Then again, I didn’t think my father was particularly well-endowed in that department to begin with, so perhaps this wouldn’t be an issue.

  So, free flights, free rent, free cash, and a brand spanking new MacBook Pro with Retina screen to use while living temporarily in sunny Orlando, Florida. You might think I walked away a winner from the call with my mother. And I confess at the time, I was not that unhappy with the outcome. Then again, you don’t know Billy Kane.

  I am their son, Everett Kane. Somehow, I think my name would be cooler in reverse, as in Kane Everett, intoned in a deep, raspy, movie-trailer voice. But even in its original configuration, it’s not a bad handle, I suppose. An only child, I was born in Oakville, Ontario, Canada, thirty-seven years ago. Despite some parental pyrotechnics just as I headed off to university, my childhood seemed quite conventional. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  My father is Billy Kane, the one now with partial paralysis on his left side, and perhaps even lower scores on the “perception and judgment” meter, though he didn’t exactly rock that particular needle before his stroke. Billy Kane. I know. It sounds like a name in a novel, or a TV show, doesn’t it? Billy Kane! He was sixteen years old when he met my mother, Evelyn, in the corridors of the Detroit high school they both attended. She was thirteen years old, and Canadian. Her parents were both visiting professors at the University of Michigan in Dearborn. They moved from Toronto when Evelyn was ten years old.

  Billy’s father worked on the line at the Ford plant. In fact, he died on the line, too. He was found sprawled out on the rear bench seat he’d been installing in a Mercury Marquis as the car slowly moved down the line to the next station. Heart attack. Billy revered his father and only ever wanted to follow in his footsteps, minus the early coronary. Without getting into all the details, Billy and Evelyn fell in love, early and hard. They were inseparable through their high school years. He wasn’t the captain of the football team, and she wasn’t the head cheerleader, but their relationship had that vibe. They were certain of their lasting love, and much too young to doubt it. At the insistence of both sets of parents, Billy and Evelyn waited until she graduated from high school at eighteen before the inevitable storybook wedding.