Robert Sawyer - Mindscan

There wasnt anything special about this fight. Honest to God, there wasnt. Dad and I had argued a million times before, but nothing awful had happened. Oh, hed thrown me out of the house a couple of times, and when I was younger he used to send me to my room or cut off my allowance. But nothing like this had ever occurred. I keep reliving the moment in my mind, haunted by it. Its no consolation that he isnt haunted by it, that he probably doesnt even remember it. No consolation at all.

My fathers grandparents had made a fortune in the brewing industryif you know Canada at all, you know Sullivans Select and Old Sullys Premium Dark. Wed always had a shitload of money.

Shitload. Thats the way I talked back then; I guess remembering it is bringing back my old vocabulary. When Id been a teenager, I didnt care about money. In fact, I agreed with most Canadians that the profits made by big corporations were obscene. Even in supposedly egalitarian Canada, the rich were getting richer and the poor poorer, and Id hated it. Back then, Id hated a lot of things.

Where the hell did you get this? my dad had shouted, holding the fake ID Id used to buy pot at the local Macs. He was standing up; he always did that when we fought. Dad was scrawny, but I guess he felt his two meters of height were intimidating.

We were in his den at the house in Port Credit. Port Credit was what you came to if you continued west along Lake Ontario from Toronto; it was a classy neighborhood, and even thenthis would have been, what?, 2018, I guessit was still mostly white. Rich and white. The window looked out over the lake, which that day had been gray and choppy.

Friend of mine made it, I said, without even looking at the ID card.

Well, youre not seeing that friend anymore. Christs sake, Jake, youre only seventeen. The legal age for buying alcohol and marijuana in Ontario, then and now, was nineteen; the legal age for buying tobacco is eighteen. Go figure.

You cant tell me who I can see, I said, looking out the window. Seagulls were pirouetting above the waves. If they could get high, I didnt see why I couldnt.

Hell I cant, snapped my father. He had a long face and a full head of dark hair, graying at the temples. If this was 2018, that would have made him thirty-nine. So long as you live under my roof, youll do as I say. Jesus, Jacob, what were you thinking? Presenting a false ID card is a major offense.

Its a major offense if youre a terrorist or an identity thief, I said, looking across the wide teak desk at him. Kids get caught buying pot all the time; no one gives a damn.

I give a damn. Your mother gives a damn. Mom was out playing tennis. It was a Sundaythe only day Dad wasnt normally at workand hed gotten the call from the police station. You keep screwing up like this, boy, and

And what? And Ill never end up like you? I pray for that. I knew Id hit home. A vertical vein in the middle of his forehead swelled up whenever he was really pissed.

I used to love it when I got the vein.

His voice was trembling. You ungrateful little bastard.

I dont need this shit, I said, turning toward the door, preparing to stalk out.

Damn you, boy! Youre going to hear this! If you

Fuck off, I said.

dont stop acting

I hate this place anyway.

like an idiot, youll

And I hate you!

No reply. I turned around, and saw him slumping backward into his black leather chair. When he hit it, the chair rotated half a turn.

Dad! I hurried behind the desk and shook him. Dad! Nothing. Oh, Christ. Oh, no. Oh, God I lifted him out of the chair; there was so much adrenaline coursing through my veins from the fight that I didnt even feel his weight. Stretching out his gangly limbs on the hardwood floor, I shouted, Dad! Come on, Dad!

I kicked aside a waste basket with a shredder attached; paper diamonds scattered everywhere. Crouching next to him, I felt for a pulse; he still had oneand he seemed to be breathing. But he didnt respond to anything I said.

Dad! Totally out of ideas, I tried slapping him lightly on each cheek. A string of drool was hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

I quickly rose, turned to face his desk, hit the speakerphone button, and pounded out 9-1-1. Then I crouched down beside him again.

The phone rang three excruciating times, then: Fire, police, or ambulance? said a female operator, sounding small and far away.

Ambulance!

Your address is said the operator, and she read it off. Correct?

I lifted his right eyelid. His eye tracked to look at mine, thank God.

Yes, yes, thats right. Hurry! My fathers collapsed!

Is he breathing?

Yes.

Pulse?

Yes, he has one, but hes collapsed, and hes not responding to anything I say.

An ambulance is on its way, said the woman. Is anyone else with you?

My hands were shaking. No. Im alone.

Dont leave him.

I wont. Oh, Christ, whats wrong with him?

The operator ignored the question. Help is on its way.

Dad! I said. He made a gurgling sound, but I dont think it was in response to me. I wiped away the drool and tipped his head back a bit to make sure he was getting plenty of air. Please, Dad!

Dont panic, said the woman. Remain calm.

Christ, oh Christ, good Christ

The ambulance took me and my dad to the Trillium Health Centre, the nearest hospital. As soon as we got there, they transferred him to a gurney, his long legs hanging over the end. A white male doctor appeared quickly, shining a light into his eyes and tapping his knee with a small hammerto which there was the usual reflexive response. He tried speaking to my father a few times, then called out, Get this man a cerebral MRI, stat! An orderly wheeled Dad off. He still hadnt said a coherent word, although he occasionally made small sounds.

By the time Mom arrived, Dad had been moved into a bed. Standard government health care gets you a space in a ward. Dad had supplemental insurance, and so had a private room. Of course.

Oh, God, my mother kept saying, over and over again, holding her hands to her face. Oh, my poor Cliff. My darling, my baby

My mother was the same age as my dad, with a round head and artificially blonde hair. She was still wearing her tennis clotheswhite top, short white skirt. She played a lot of tennis, and was in good shape; to my embarrassment, some of my friends thought she was hot.

Shortly, a doctor came to see us. She was a Vietnamese woman of about fifty. Her name tag identified her as Dr. Thanh. Before she could open her mouth, my mother said, What is it? Whats wrong with him?

The doctor was infinitely kindIll always remember her. She took my mothers hand and got her to sit down. And then the woman crouched down, so shed be at my mothers eye level. Mrs. Sullivan, she said. Im so sorry. The news is not good.

I stood behind my seated mother, with a hand on her shoulder.

What is it? Mom asked. A stroke? For Gods sake, Cliff is only thirty-nine. Hes too young for a stroke.

A stroke can happen at any age, said Dr. Thanh. But, although technically this was a form of stroke, its not what youre thinking of.

What then?

Your husband has a kind of congenital lesion we call an AVM: an arteriovenous malformation. Its a tangle of arteries and veins with no interposing capillariesnormally, capillaries provide resistance, slowing down the blood-flow rate. In cases like this, the vessels have very thin walls, and so are prone to bursting. And when they do, blood pours through the brain in a torrent. In the form of AVM your husband hascalled Katerinskys syndromethe vessels can rupture in a cascade sequence, going off like fire hoses.