by Strong, Mimi
As he pressed gently, moving in fiery circles over the cotton fabric, he whispered in my ear, “Is this okay?”
“Mm hmm.”
His fingers moved up again, and then down, inside my underwear at last. His touch traveled down with the grain of the hair and then between those furrows of flesh, slipping along. The sensation was like a searing knife of pleasure, to be touched there. I cried out against his lips as he kissed me harder, his tongue firm in my mouth.
He moved his fingers up and down rhythmically, and my ears began to burn. I was going to come, just like this, any minute.
“Is this good?”
I whimpered in response.
He kept going, and kissing, and moving his body against me along with his fingers, until I gasped.
My eyes flew open and I was staring up at his face as I came, my head and my shoulders lifting up from the table and curling into him.
He slowed his hand and pulsed gently, pressing against me as I shuddered.
Again, he kissed me, only this time my senses felt different. I was aware of the hard table under my back, and the wet sounds of us kissing. I could hear him breathing, heavily, as he rocked into me, his hardness against my inner thigh.
Knocking.
I giggled, embarrassed, and he made a reassuring noise as he kissed my chin and gently bit the edge of my jaw.
Knocking.
“Someone's at your door,” he murmured.
Chapter Thirteen
The tapping at the door was insistent.
I whispered to Sawyer, “Just ignore them.”
“Do you have a peephole?”
“I don't know. I just moved in here.”
He pulled back and fastened the top button of his jeans, grimacing, then picked up his shirt from the floor. Stepping carefully, so quiet, he moved through the galley kitchen and to the door.
I whispered, “Can you see anyone?”
He pulled his shirt back on over his head as he walked back to me from the door. His voice low, but not whispering, he said, “There was a woman, Indian, not very tall. Older than us. Probably that boy's mother, right?”
“Or his aunt. He lives with his mother and aunt, I think. No men.”
He shrugged. “Blood is thicker than water. If it's family, you just don't know if she's coming to apologize on his behalf, or tear you a new one.”
Shit.
I was in trouble.
With the damn neighbor.
The moment had changed, so I pulled the band of my bra back up and composed myself, then reached for my own shirt.
He continued, “She looked like the Mama Bear type. Like you don't want to come between her and her cubs.” He winced and adjusted his crotch area.
“Is she still there?”
“No, I saw her walk away.” He looked sheepish. “I hope I didn't create more problems for you by talking to that kid.”
“You did a shade more than talk to him. Didn't you lay him out on the sidewalk?”
“That was his buddy. I barely touched your neighbor's kid. He threw himself back into the front door when he saw me about to reach for him.” He shook his head and looked down at his socked feet. “Good thing he did. I would have knocked his head into the other ones like bowling pins.”
“That's not funny.”
He grinned. “Sure it is. You ever go five-pin bowling?”
I pulled my shirt on, not sure what I was feeling. My emotions were all over the place, and I felt all this aggression suddenly, like I wanted to pick up something and throw it at Sawyer. How dare he touch me and make me helpless, then act like it was no big deal? How dare he joke about beating up some little punk kids?
He mimed throwing a bowling ball and made the hand-explosion gesture.
I snarled, “That's not fucking funny. I live in the same building as those people.”
He looked at me sideways. Without humor, he said, “And that's exactly why you need to establish rules. Don't let people push you around, and they won't.”
“Easy for you to say. You're way bigger than that kid you flung to the ground.”
He took a step back, shaking his head, both hands held up between us. “Easy now. What is happening here?”
I combed my fingers through my tangled hair and looked away. “I don't know.”
There was a long silence.
I scratched my cheek, the sound of my skin under my fingernails audible in the tension-filled space.
“Aubrey—”
“Hand me my pants?”
He moved forward clumsily and scooped them off the ground to hand to me.
I turned my back to him and wriggled back into them.
He said, “We should talk about what just happened.”
“Let's not and say we did.”
“Why are you making me out to be the bad guy here, when all I did is care about you? That kid needed to be put in his place, so that's what I did. If his mother gives you a hard time, call me and I'll deal with her, too.”
He smiled to show me it was a joke, but I wasn't in any mood to laugh. My name wasn't on the lease for the apartment. I had no rights there, at all, and had been told, in no uncertain terms, that if I made any trouble at all, I'd be out on my ass. No warnings.
Bruce and my grandparents probably wouldn't allow us to be homeless again, but that apartment was my independence, my dignity.
Sawyer's first instinct with the old beggar we saw earlier that night had been to turn him away. He didn't know what it was like to have nothing. To stand in line for food at a food bank and leave with canned meat that smelled like garbage. To pour a box of macaroni into the boiling water only to discover bugs floating to the surface, but scoop them out quietly and not tell anyone, because otherwise you'd go to bed hungry.
Something told me Sawyer wouldn't understand, and maybe I didn't want him to. Maybe I wanted him to think I was an angry, crazy bitch, and he'd better stay away.
So I didn't say anything.
After a few minutes, he stretched his arms over his head, blinked, and said, “It's getting late, and something tells me I'm not welcome to stay for breakfast.”
“I'm really tired.”
He gave me a hurt look that seared my soul. Just go, I thought. Just go back to your artsy music friends and your carefree life and leave me here with nothing but bills, dirty dishes, and an angry neighbor.
As I tried to make my face stone, he put on his shoes. I came over to the doorway, aching to open my mouth and sing out my heart, but I was already stone.
He kissed my cheek goodbye and left. No promise to call. He didn't even have my number.
I closed the door slowly, so it wouldn't make a sound, then I watched him through the peephole in the door. Halfway down the hallway he stopped and turned around, like he was going to come back.
He stared at my door like he could see me, and my hand moved to the handle. We both paused, breathing in time for a second, then he turned again and continued to walk away.
The apartment felt emptier than usual that night. Bell and I didn't have much stuff—just what we'd packed into the car before heading for the border—but after Sawyer left, the white walls were large and scolding. You don't belong here, the walls said.
The tap in the kitchen dripped on the dirty dishes with a rhythmic chant. You're only temporary.
I got into the tub and filled it with water as hot as I could stand, and I still didn't feel warm all the way through.
The woman who owned the place was named Mariah, and she'd had all sorts of safety equipment installed in the bathroom for her elderly father. The building wasn't a regular apartment building, but a strata-titled condominium low-rise. The condo was in Mariah's name, and the rules didn't allow her to rent out the unit, but her elderly father had gone to a care home, and she couldn't sell the unit because it was tied up in a legal battle to do with some big construction thing that had to be done in a year or two. She could, however, have a family member stay there, so I paid her cash as her �
�sister,” and she'd forged some documents.
Stupid rules.
Rules are supposed to make things better for people, to bring a little fairness to life. Bell and I were quiet tenants—a hell of a lot better than some of the kids who regularly had parties in condos their parents owned. They threw cigarette butts and bottles down onto the lawn, and had friends who vomited in the elevator. And those people were in no danger of being thrown out, because they were family members of owners. Inside the rules.
It wasn't fair.
The water cooled off, so I drained more out and turned on the hot full-blast with my foot.
What was I going to say to Sawyer? Assuming I ever saw him again.
Even though my heart was aching with the memory of him walking away, just a second of thinking about his kisses flooded my senses with an unfamiliar warmth. The pleasure of a real man, flesh and bone, was so much bigger than the pleasure of imagination.
I shouldn't have gotten so fucking pissed at him. He didn't know how precarious my situation was with the illegal rental agreement. Bruce knew, and he said it wasn't a big deal—that everyone did stuff like that and it wasn't hurting anyone. Bruce said the world wouldn't be a better place if the apartment sat empty, so I shouldn't feel bad. I didn't feel bad, though.
Memories of my mother's boyfriend Derek came back. My hatred for him didn't seem as overpowering tonight. Maybe Derek's lessons about taking what you want in life without apology had actually sunk in and earned him some respect.
A little too late.
I inhaled sharply at that thought, and slipped under the water. I opened my eyes under the water and stared up at the metal handholds through the haze. The soap stung my eyes. I wished I was a mermaid, and that I could stay under there in the warm silence forever and ever.
I'm sitting at the edge of the blood, next to the body. I can't look at the body, so I look at the blood. I can't tell if it's still moving, flowing toward me, or if it's stopped. The floor is linoleum peel-and-stick tiles that my mother and I put in a year ago, as a surprise. I picked the tiles. They're gray and if you don't look too closely, they could be something fancy, like real stone.
We started trying to pull off the old tiles, to do the job properly, but only a few were loose and the other ones tore when we tried to remove them, so we ended up pasting them back down and putting the new ones over top the old, lining up the seams.
The blood has run down between the seams and traveled further, so in some parts, it looks like the floor itself is bleeding, like a river is coming up from Hell.
I know I'm smart, because my teachers at school always tell me I am. I can think my way through this. I just need time to think.
The kitchen smells like raw hamburger. It's hard to believe this blood seeping up from Hell is anything like the bit of pink stuff that's left on the white plastic container after you dump out the ground beef.
I keep rubbing my hands on a dish towel. I can't feel anything, and my hands don't look like my own. My nail polish is chipped.
I pull my shirt up over my nose, so the smell of blood in the room is covered by the baby-powder scent of my antiperspirant.
Something creaks. The floorboards. Down the hall.
I jump up and look for something to protect myself with. I lean over the blood and the body to grab the other knife, the one still in the wood holder by the sink. This knife is shorter, but clean.
The floor and walls creak again. I'm not alone.
Something's moving in the kitchen too, splashing. I look down and see that I've lost bladder control, down my leg under my skirt. I'm so scared, and then I hear another creak, and I just can't be scared anymore.
I clutch the knife tightly in my hand and imagine my arms strong and sure.
Today is not the day I die.
Saturday morning, I woke up thinking I had fallen asleep driving. My heart was thumping, my breath short, and even though I saw my sunny room around me, I felt the impact of a crash. I'd never been in a bad car accident before, but my body knew the terror.
I rubbed my arms and hummed a kid's song Bell liked me to sing when she had bad dreams.
When I got up and found her room empty, even though I knew she was safe at her grandmother's, I felt a tremor of panic at seeing her little bed, still made.
I got some cereal for breakfast and ate standing over the sink, then I washed all the dishes and walked around the apartment with the spray cleaner and a rag. I stopped at the kitchen table and got down on my knees to look across it. On the shiny wood table, I could see what looked like a full-body smudge from my bare back, complete with a stripe from the band of my cotton bra. There were full hand prints on either side, from Sawyer's hands.
Smiling at the memory, I spritzed the table and wiped away the evidence. Thinking about Sawyer kissing me, touching my body, made me feel bad and good at the same time. He didn't want me—couldn't want me. Guys as young as him, as cute as him, didn't go dating single moms. And, for all intents and purposes, I was a single mom, even though I didn't feel like one. We'd had our fun and now he was probably trying to get as far away from the crazy bitch as possible.
Good.
The only person a girl can count on is herself, anyway.
After cleaning up the apartment, I went to my grandmother's to pick up Bell.
As soon as I walked in the door of their tidy bungalow, my grandfather called me over to the television room.
Grandpa Jack was in a bright mood, his amber-brown eyes twinkling. He and Bruce had the same color eyes. I hadn't grown up around very many people who were related to me by blood, so it amused me to spot all of our similarities and differences. My grandmother reminded me of my mother, from the shape of her face to the pitch of her voice. Many of the things she said sounded like questions, even if they weren't questions. Her voice rose at the end of every statement, as if she was constantly waiting for reassurance from someone.
“Look!” He pressed a button on the remote control, and the screen turned to picture within picture, a small image from a news channel in the lower right corner while the main screen showed a golf tournament.
He pressed the button again and the images reversed. He threw his hands wide to share his amazement with me. “Magic,” he said.
My grandmother came into the room. “We've had that TV for fifteen years and he just found that feature today.” She smiled at him, and I could tell by her expression that things were going well today. With his Parkinson's, he'd been back and forth a number of times, his old self for a while, and then the personality my grandmother called Blank Man.
I'd first met him when he was returning from Blank Man, taking a new pill that had originally been developed for patients with Alzheimer's. The medication agreed with his chemistry, and I'd noticed him having more personality each time I saw him. I didn't know how the magic of the medicine worked, but I was glad it did, or I wouldn't have gotten to know him.
Bell came running in to greet me, her arms raised for me to pick her up.
“No, kid, you're too heavy,” I said.
“But you neeeeeever pick me up anymoooooore,” she whined.
With a sigh, I got down on one knee, offering her my back. “Saddle up, banana breath.”
She jumped on me and exhaled audibly in my face.
“Wow,” I said. “Banana and peanut butter.”
My grandmother had her camera out, and was already taking our picture.
Warily, I said, “These aren't going on the internet, are they?”
She dismissed this idea with a wave of her hand. “Don't worry, I only upload the flattering ones.” She smiled as she reviewed the photos on her camera and then held the display up for Bell to see.
“I'd rather you didn't upload photos,” I said.
My grandmother and Bruce knew whose daughter Bell was, and that I didn't have legal custody of her, but they didn't seem that concerned about people finding out.
She said, “It's just a few of my old friends, ones who've m
oved away. I call you both my little darlings. It's always little darlings, so I don't get mixed up.”
“You're supposed to say granddaughter and great-granddaughter.” Bell was still on my back, and she was combing through my hair with hands that seemed sticky, tugging at strands.
My grandmother's lightly-wrinkled face became more wrinkled with a pained expression. “I don't like to lie.”
I wanted to tell her I didn't like to lie, that nobody liked to lie, yet sometimes you had to, but I bit my words against my tongue. She'd done so much for us already, and all she wanted in return was our love.
She said, “What's wrong? You look sad.”
“I'm fine.” I adjusted my arms and hoisted Bell a little higher on my back.
“Let's get that lunch on,” she said, nodding toward and then walking into the kitchen.
Grandma and Grandpa Jack's kitchen was the best part of their house, or any house I'd been to. The jar on the counter always held home-made cookies, and the cupboards had more food than some convenience stores. She had one tall cupboard that was on wheels and pulled out to reveal a dazzling stack of boxed food—most of it labeled President's Choice, the store-brand stuff from my grandmother's favorite store, Real Canadian Superstore. She went there two or three times a week, and had started buying clothes and other household things for me and Bell. The two-wheeled grocery cart had only been the beginning. I tried to pay her back, but she'd always say she lost the receipt and couldn't remember how much, or that they'd been part of a two-for-one deal, so she didn't technically pay anything for the socks she gave us, just the ones for herself. She didn't have any problem with those sorts of lies, and I was grateful.
Compared to how I'd grown up and been living the last few years, my grandparents seemed wealthy. It took a while getting to know them to find out they didn't have much beyond their one car and the food in the cupboards. When Jack first got sick, he had to retire seven years earlier than they'd planned for.
My main plan was to not be a burden on any of them. Eventually, I wanted to repay them and help support them when they needed it. I didn't know how yet, but I hoped something would come along. As we ate lunch together that afternoon, I noticed Grandpa Jack seemed a little fuzzy, and the spoon full of soup kept missing his mouth. I silently prayed that he wasn't getting worse, because then my grandmother would be too busy to help babysit Bell. I felt terrible for being so selfish.