Théodora Armstrong - Clear Skies, No Wind, 100% Visibility

Rich turns to look at him, blinking a little in disbelief. “Thanks, Big Chef.”

Charlie and Rich stand side by side on the hot line and as the minutes tick by the streamer of bills gets shorter. Sweat is pouring off Rich’s brow and his normally gravity-defying hair is limp and plastered against his forehead, but his eyes are sparkling now and he’s slapping the English muffins on the plates with gusto. Charlie’s singing and Rich joins in and James keeps saying it’s the end of the world.

Despite the disaster, the feeling in the air is almost festive. The noise of people’s voices, the clank of cutlery, the dishwasher going in the back. He can hear the dish boy — Tim, it suddenly dawns on Charlie, Tim is his name — singing along to Metallica. Which means if he can hear the new stereo, it’s too loud — but for some reason this morning he doesn’t care. He pulls a bewildered Tim into the kitchen to make salads. Everything comes together inside the restaurant in a way that is purposeful and meaningful. The food looks more colourful and smells better. There are many mouths to feed. It’s their busiest brunch of the year, and for this Charlie feels happy.

As soon as the last plate goes out, Charlie takes off his apron and heads for the door. In the back hallway, he interrupts something between Rose and Susan as he rounds the corner, the two standing close with a crate of empty bottles at their feet. “Good work this morning, ladies,” he says cheerfully, bustling through them and enjoying their confounded looks.

He sits in his car for a minute and watches Rose skip down the steps carrying the milk crate of empty bottles, which she dumps in the recycling bin with a loud clatter. He rolls down his window and calls after her as she goes back up, taking the steps two at a time. She stops in her tracks and turns, squinting in his direction with a hand on her hip. “What is it? I’ve got a table.”

“Aisha had a girl.”

“Oh!” He can see by the way she moves down one step that she wants to approach him, extend a hand or a hug, but she stops herself. “Well, congratulations,” she calls out. “What’s her name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are you here?” she says, shooing him, her arms batting the air. “Get going!”

“I’m outta here,” he says, starting the car’s engine. But once she’s up the stairs and back into the restaurant, he lets the car idle. The motor’s vibrations surround him and his face feels tight with dried sweat. He stares at his empty hands in his lap, strange in their stillness. He rubs the thick callus on his right-hand index, where the edge of the knife’s blade creates friction. Even if he gives up cooking, the callus is something that will be with him for a while, maybe even forever.

Over the ocean, the sun is breaking up the clouds and he blinks back the bright light. He pulls down the visor and the yellow envelope falls in his lap. After a moment of turning it this way and that, he rolls down his window and chucks it into the dumpster, sending a seagull into the air. “Take it with you,” he yells at the bird.

He pulls out of the restaurant parking lot and heads for the hospital — the barnacle needs a name.

I EXPECT MY SISTER, Carin, to look surprised when I walk into the restaurant, but when she sees me she just smiles, almost wickedly, like you’re in for some trouble now. For a split second I want to leave, drive back down to the coast and my routine. It’s the same feeling I used to get when we were children and our desire for mischief became overbearing. I knew if I didn’t go play by myself, Carin and I would soon be covered in permanent marker or picking gravel out of our knees or lighting our dolls’ hair on fire. Retribution was always swift in our house, as Mom was on her own. Sitting on a straight-backed kitchen chair, I’d get the lecture — the one about being older and more responsible — until the tears ran down my cheeks and I got my back rub and glass of milk. Carin, in her defiance, always got the worse punishment.

I sit at a table near a window while Carin moves around the room, chatting up customers, dropping off beers for the afternoon drinkers. She makes waitressing look like fun, like a good career move, something you could be happy doing for the rest of your life. She glides by my table to set down a colourful drink and I get a whiff and glimpse of hair from her armpit — still a hippie. “I’ll be off in fifteen,” she says. “And by the way, June, what the fuck are you doing here?”

I smile and take a sip of my drink. It tastes like booze and strawberries. Out on the strip the squat motels sit up and down the sand-swept road, trapped forever in peach or sea-green paint. Nothing ever changes here. Mom is gone now, but otherwise everything is exactly the same, as though I’ve stepped into one of our round-cornered photos from the seventies, all the colours tinted gold-brown. The only new addition is a huge inflatable plastic mountain floating in the lake with kids scrambling and falling off the sides into the water. It looks so temporary, like it could disappear with the prick of a pin.

Carin comes out from the back room, her apron gone, a big bag slung over her shoulder, and steps behind the bar to pull a six-pack of coolers out of the fridge. The bartender cocks an eyebrow and she flashes him a grin. “I’ll get you back.”

“Sure you will,” he says, rolling his eyes.

Carin comes around to pull me close in a hug. I stiffen involuntarily, the smell of her sweat sweet like overripe fruit. “She’s getting married,” Carin declares to the bartender, who shrugs with indifference. “Not for a couple of months,” I say. The bartender has already turned his back to slice limes.

“Is it that soon?” Carin gives me a rough kiss on the cheek near my mouth.

“You look good,” I try, giving her an approving nod.

“You hesitated.” Arms akimbo, she takes a moment to look me over before batting a hand at me and laughing her way out the door. I fall in step beside her as we head down the strip. Teenagers hold hands along the promenade, and on the beach kids sit at their parents’ feet, digging holes in the sand. Every second storefront is selling ice cream or sunscreen or bikinis. Carin holds her bronzed arm next to my pale one. “Don’t you get any sunshine in the city?” She throws her arm around my shoulder, the way she used to when we were kids. “Are you checking up on me?” she says, squeezing me around the neck, and then without waiting for my answer, “Did you bring a bathing suit?”

ONLY SIX HOURS AGO I was in the city with Anton, standing on the street in front of our condo, trying to explain the reason for my impromptu trip to visit Carin. Along Davie, businesses were setting up for the day; the window seats in the coffee shops full; The Elbow Room packed, a single frazzled waiter buzzing among the tables; the salespeople pulling and tugging at the mannequins in the boutique windows. Earlier this morning, between showering and breakfast, I was struck with an urge beyond reason to see Carin. It was impossible to wait; I had to see her this very day. So I called in sick to the insurance office where I worked and packed a small bag.

“Doesn’t your sister live in a shack with hippies?” Anton asked. He was sitting on the hood of my car as I searched for my keys, his eyebrows stitched with worry.

“She lives in a trailer,” I said. “She’s sick. The flu. She doesn’t have anyone there.”

In fact, I hadn’t talked to Carin in months, so for all I knew there was nothing wrong with her. I kissed Anton’s hand and put the car in drive, sending a resolute wave out the window as I drove away, a gesture that said: I have a job to do. But in all honesty, I have no idea why I was so desperate to drive five hours through the mountains to see my sister. A tension had been building inside me for a while now, but it was only last weekend at my own shower that I realized something was wrong. I wasn’t the only one getting married — in fact, it seemed all of our friends were. For the past several months my calendar had been packed; I was organizing engagement parties and showers, attending weddings. I was thirty years old — it was that time in our lives. But on the day of my shower nothing felt right. The backyard garden looked trapped in the aggressive hands of a five-year-old girl: pink napkins spread out on knees, rose petal plates, miniature food, and heart-shaped balloons. It all left me feeling nauseous. I was alarmed by the sight of a cluster of women (my friends) gathered around a large sheet of paper fastened to a tree with several loops of masking tape. Each one of them, armed with a crayon, added lewd details to an anatomically incorrect life-size male (my husband). One of them waved a long, skinny balloon in my face. “Who’s pinning the first penis on Anton?” I was alarmed, but the strange thing was, I had organized parties exactly like this one.