When I’d first gone away to university, I’d left lots of stuff at my parents’ house in Calgary; Heather had done the same. But when our dad died, Calgary housing prices had been going through the roof, and Mom wished to downsize. I’d gone back and disposed of things I didn’t want and moved the things I did to Winnipeg in a U-Haul. And, as with most people’s collections of junk they thought was worth saving, I hadn’t looked at it since although I periodically added more boxes to the midden—doing my part to give future archeology grad students something to work on.
I drove to the storage unit I rented and began to rummage around. Most of my crap was in identical corrugated-cardboard boxes I’d bought from a moving-supply company, but some of it was in bankers’ boxes, and some old clothing—doubtless out of style although I’d be the last person to be able to actually confirm that—was in bright-orange garbage bags. I’d lived in Winnipeg during my dark time, but I figured that there should have been get-well cards from when I’d been in hospital in Calgary, and copies of police reports related to the stabbing. But I couldn’t find anything like that.
The two heaviest known substances are neutronium and cartons of books. I shifted several boxes around, getting more of an upper-body workout than I was used to. Eventually, I came across one labeled “Textbks 2000-01” in black Magic Marker. I placed it on the storage unit’s floor and used a box cutter to slit open the strapping tape.
Inside were the usual you-could-kill-a-man-with-them texts with titles such as Social Psychology, Statistics for the Humanities, and Freud and Jung in Perspective, but there were also a few science-fiction paperbacks. Ah, that half-year English elective I’d taken. There were copies of Frankenstein and The War of the Worlds and Nineteen Eighty-Four, which were titles I recognized, at least, although didn’t recall having read, and others I didn’t know at all. I picked up one with a beautiful cover painting of a steamboat in a green lagoon: Darwinia by Robert Charles Wilson. As had been my habit in those pre-ebook days, I’d used the sales receipt as a bookmark. I opened the novel to the indicated page, to see if the prose sparked any memories, but—
The receipt was from the McNally Robinson at Polo Park. That branch didn’t exist anymore, but the date—
The date was 31-12-00, one of the few in that format that could be unambiguously parsed: thirty-one had to be a day, and double-zero could only be a year, which meant this book had been purchased New Year’s Eve 2000.
Here. In Winnipeg.
And the time stamp was 17:43, which must have been just before closing on a holiday evening; even the nerdiest of nerds didn’t ring in the new year in a bookstore.
Of course, someone else might have picked up the novel for me, but—
But, no, the credit-card number was printed on the bottom of the receipt, with Xs substituting for all but the final four digits, and those I recognized; I’d had that number for many years. I must have gone in to purchase the book, planning to get a jump on my class reading over the remaining week of the Christmas break.
Yes, technically, one could be in Winnipeg at 5:43 P.M. and still fly to Calgary in time to shout “Happy New Year!” six hours later—or, actually, seven, if you take into account the time-zone change. But there’s no way I would have gone home for New Year’s Eve but not Christmas, even if my parents and sister were away. What the hell was going on?
I continued to rummage around and found a Dilbert wall calendar from 2000. I’d hoped there’d be one for 2001, as well, but there wasn’t. I flipped to the last page, the pointy-haired boss staring out at me, and looked at the days between Christmas—which had been on a Monday that year—and New Year’s Eve. There were four appointments in my handwriting spread across those six days. On Boxing Day, I’d noted “Miles 6ish.” I hadn’t thought about Miles Olsen for years; he’d been in one of my classes, and we used to get together occasionally for a beer. On the thirtieth I’d written, “Pay dorm fees.” And on the twenty-ninth and thirty-first, I’d written simply “Warkentin.” There were no classes then, so these must have been related to that research project I’d volunteered for.
I scanned further up the calendar; Warkentin’s name was written in three more times in the week before Christmas. The ink was black for the earlier appointments, blue for the later ones. I hadn’t added them all at the same time, which meant the later appointments had been made after the earlier ones; he’d asked me back for some reason—and on New Year’s Eve, for God’s sake…
I’d told Menno yesterday that I’d been in Calgary on New Year’s Eve 2000. Sure, it’s possible he’d forgotten that I was with him on that long-ago date, but he hadn’t mentioned a thing.
No, no, that’s not quite right. He’d faced me, his blind eyes behind dark lenses, and he’d said, “Let sleeping dogs lie.” I’d thought that was odd; he was a psychologist, after all—he should have been fascinated by the challenge of recovering my missing memories.
I’d used Gmail since the days when you needed an invitation to get an account, but those archives only went back to 2004. I’d had a student address here at U of M in 2001, and so I’d called up the IT department on the off chance that they kept email archives going back that far; they didn’t. But I used to have a habit of printing out emails I wanted to keep—and, to my delight, I found a file folder containing a bunch of them in the same box that had yielded the calendar: a sheaf about half an inch thick of dot-matrix printouts, one email per sheet, conveniently stacked in send-date order. I worked my way through them: class assignments, a few from my sister, but nothing that stirred any memories.
I reached the end of February and flipped the page; the next email was from March second, and—my goodness!—it was from Kayla Huron to me. The subject line was “Re: Friday,” but whatever my original message had been was lost to history; there were no quoted lines at the bottom of what she had written, which was, “Yeah, me, too. And I’d love to! You like Crash Test Dummies? They’re playing over at UW next week. Can you pick up tickets?” That was all the email said, except for the number 2.9 at the bottom.
I kept reading messages; there were twenty or so from Kayla mixed in with other things. The other things were all prosaic—I’d clearly only printed out emails that had to-do items for me mentioned in them—and, indeed, the Kayla ones all had action items, too, but they also had something else: flirtation, giving way after a couple of weeks to actual smut. Apparently, we’d been way more than just classmates.
And all her messages to me ended with the same number: 2.9. Except the last one, that is—and the action item was clear: “Pick up your stuff, asshole.”
Near as I could figure, Kayla and I had been hot-and-heavy for three-and-a-half months, until, apparently, it had all blown up. And, in about half an hour, I’d see her for the first time in nineteen years.
8
I drove along Pembina Highway, heading for my rendezvous with Kayla Huron, once again listening to the CBC. As I pulled into Grant Park mall, the 1:00 P.M. newscast began:
“Big news from Parliament Hilclass="underline" Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s Liberal Party has just fallen as his controversial carbon-tax budget narrowly failed to pass a parliamentary vote. It’s a situation not unlike the one that briefly ousted his father, Pierre Trudeau, as prime minister in 1974. Canadians will go to the polls next month to choose our next national leader…”
I walked across the asphalt, entered Pony Corral, and presented myself to the pretty young woman standing at the lectern. I don’t know why restaurants have lecterns; they made me want to teach.