by Iman Verjee
‘There are some drawers under the bed and here,’ she points and opens the cupboard. ‘That should be enough space for you.’
‘I don’t have that much,’ I say. ‘Like I told you, I won’t be staying for very long,’ I can’t help but add and then oddly feel as if I am betraying her kindness toward me.
Sister Ann sits at the edge of my bed. She takes my hand and holds it in both of hers. Her fingers move against my skin as they would against the beads of her worn-out rosary and I wonder if it has become a reflex now, if they always move like that, even when she is sleeping.
‘I know it’s difficult, Frances,’ she says, ‘and I’ll be there to help make it as easy for you as I possibly can, but you’re going to put in a little effort as well. Do you understand?’
When I nod, she stands up, leaving my hands to fall at my sides, grown alive at her stroking touch, and she pats my hair. ‘Good. The bathroom is down the other way—would you like me to show it to you?’
‘I’m sure I’ll find it if I need to.’ I want her to leave now. ‘Thank you. I’m just really tired.’
‘Of course. You must be, with all that traveling.’ She glides back to the door. ‘We wake up at six-thirty sharp. A general alarm will go off on the floor and the prefects will come around to make sure everyone is awake.’ She pauses, her body part-shadow from the moonless corridor. ‘Sweet dreams, Frances.’
‘Thank you.’
She leaves and I turn off all the lights. I step out of my sticky clothes, slowly, until I am left standing on the stained carpet in nothing but my underwear and the thin vest I wore all day under my blouse. I walk to the window and push back the curtain. The room overlooks a wide, neat field and in the distance I can make out the blurred, night-edges of another stone building, smaller than the one I am in and less imposing. I wonder what it is used for but I am too tired to care. The darkness has cooled my frenzied skin. It has slowed the pace of my terrified heartbeat and left me drained. I throw my clothes into a corner and fall back onto the creaking mattress. I wrap the sheet around me and the blanket on top of it, the hard threads poking through and irritating my already sensitive skin. It has been an endless two days and I can hardly believe where I am. I push into the corner, only taking up half the bed, leaving as I always do just enough space for him. Sister Ann’s words ring in my ears.
Sweet dreams, Frances.
10
Edmonton. Winter–Spring 1966
January would remain in his mind as the month his life was saved. He wanted to think it was because that was when he met Marienne for the first time, struggling up the snowy hill, tugging at her wet jeans and pushing her hair away from her face all in one movement. He walked carefully behind her, hoping she wouldn’t hear him, but when she dropped her satchel and caught his eye, he felt he had no choice but to catch up to her.
‘Need some help?’ Even as he said it, he wished he could snatch the words back, swallow them whole before they reached her. She smiled gratefully, pausing to hold out her hand. He shook it, drawing his fingers back the moment they touched hers and curling them into a fist in his pocket.
‘I’m Marienne,’ she said and her voice was high and girlish.
‘James.’ The name came out broken, nervous. ‘I live down there.’ He pointed toward his house and realized for the first time how isolated it was.
‘Looks nice,’ she said politely as he picked up her fallen bag, slinging it over his own shoulder. She started to walk, checking to see that he was following. He didn’t speak but listened to the breath straining in her throat; saw the way the effort of pushing through the frozen slush caused the blood to thicken in the veins of her cheeks, pushing red against her skin. She tightened the hood of her jacket around her ears and when they reached the top of the hill, he hoped to leave her there in view of the main pathway. Yet she never asked for her bag back and fell into step with him as if they had been walking to school together for years.
‘You’re going to William High, aren’t you?’ she asked with a wide grin and when he nodded, she said, ‘Just checking.’
He had to slow down his pace to let her keep up with him. When she tried to talk to him, he pretended not to hear her over the wind rushing at their faces. Walking with Marienne made him aware of how secluded he had become after the incident on Suicide Hill. Her banter, which expected to be met with an eager flirtatiousness, was too loud; her movements beside him too distracting that they caused him to stumble once or twice. So when they reached the school gates, he pushed the bag into her hands and started to move off, when her voice stopped him.
‘Maybe you could show me around?’ She saw the startled way his eyes grew wide and hurried to add, ‘just for today, at least.’ Then she stared down at her glitter-laced loafers, right heel crushing the toes of the left. The childish gesture, so heavy with anticipation, touched him and left him unable to say no, although he desperately wished he could leave her there and not have to think of her again.
She told him she was from Toronto, staying with ‘Dolly,’ her mother’s eccentric third cousin and when he asked where her parents were, she waved her hand in the air and said, ‘Oh, you know. In New York, waiting for The Beatles.’ He didn’t ask if she had wanted to go along because when she looked up at him and blinked hard, he had his answer. She asked about his family and he responded with the standard answers, mother, father, only child, his eyes falling at the last one, feeling hugely resentful of her. Her new-student status, made infinitely more interesting by her strange bob and colorful clothes, constantly drew attention to them throughout the day, dangerously allowing countless eyes to fall upon them; eager gazes he felt sure would see right through him and know what he had done.
During lunch, when she leaned against the stone-wall entrance and pulled out a foreign-looking packet of cigarettes, he moved further away from her. He didn’t like how it looked on her; a big town girl too large for this small city. When she began to blow perfect, smoke-shaped circles into the frigid air, James felt the curious eyes of every passing student scrape against him as cold and grainy as sandpaper.
So it was a relief to leave her at the bottom of the hill that evening; to turn away and head toward the crusty sunlight hovering at his house windows. With every furthering step, his body slid and settled back into its familiar silence and, as he crossed the doorway, Marienne slipped away from him like the melting snow from the soles of his boots. She was the farthest thing from his mind when he sat down at his desk, pretending to do his homework but instead straining to hear his parents’ soft whispers. He didn’t think of her all night until the next morning when he happened to glance out of his window and saw a slim figure waiting where they had separated the previous day.
He paused and pressed his forehead against the cold glass, confused at his jogging heart that pushed out a small smile to fog the window even as he wished she would go away. He watched as she rubbed her hands together, blowing on her exposed fingers and stamping and spoiling the fresh snow and he dressed quickly. It took him a while to find something to eat for breakfast. The kitchen cupboards were bare and he tried to remember the last time his mother had left the house, to do the shopping or anything else. He found an almost empty box of cereal and poured the remaining flakes directly into his mouth. He ate hurriedly, standing in the stooping darkness of their small kitchen, and when he finished he left a note for his mother before closing the door quietly behind him.
Pretending not to see Marienne, he walked with his head down until he drew close enough and she handed him her bag with a blushing laugh.
‘I’m not very good with directions,’ she told him as they began to walk. ‘I know I would just get lost in all this snow.’ She paused to gauge his reaction. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
He shook his head, feeling a slight tremor of pleasure in his stomach. As much as her attention made him uncomfortable, it felt good to be acknowledged. It made him feel solid—enclosed warmly in her gaze. He gestured toward the hill
and watched as she trekked up ahead of him, pulling her collar around her and tucking soft, black strands neatly behind her ear.
He had English period just before lunch and he sat at the far back, blending into posters explaining volcanic eruptions, the workings of the solar system and a sad poem about someone’s dead dog. He saw her come in, felt what her new presence did to the boys around him. They shifted and nudged and grinned. No one looked at him. He had left her by her locker that morning and now she was flanked on either side by fast-talking girls, sit here, sit there, eager to have some of the attention deflect off her and onto them. Eventually she sat just where she wanted, in the middle of the classroom, catching and holding his eye as she settled in. She smiled and the room held still. He thought everyone paused to follow and contemplate that look, tried to understand what it meant, and how did she possibly know him? Then he looked away and the noise started up again. A half-crumpled ball of paper whizzed somewhere over his head. A low whistle, what’s your name, doll? and laughter all around.
‘Okay, okay. Quieten down everyone.’ In a waft of chalk dust and coffee, Mr. Simon closed the door loudly behind him and came to sit down on the desk, hitching his left pant leg up while the right foot tapped impatiently on the floor. ‘I know it’s just before lunch and you’re all hungry and eager to be outside—please don’t think I feel any different, but let’s just get on with it, shall we?’ regarding the still noisy classroom, ‘and maybe we can all leave a little earlier.’ Immediate silence at this empty promise. He picked up a book. They were reading Great Expectations and James had already read it twice over the break. It was his mother’s favorite. He felt a slight clenching of his gut and ground the pencil into the desk. The wood broke around it and he felt a momentary thrill of satisfaction.
‘Hal, let’s start with something easy, shall we?’ Mr. Simon’s eyes trained on a boy sitting near the door, his backpack still on the desk, hiding his face. ‘Put the bag down, please.’ A low, reluctant thud. ‘Good. Now, what’s the name of the house where Miss Havisham lives?’
‘Who?’
Quiet sniggers, relief that they weren’t the ones being picked on.
‘Miss Havisham.’ Mr. Simon pronounced it slowly, the sh a whistle in his throat, giving the boy time to reflect on the answer. The name was met with bemused eyes, a rapid, panicked blinking. Hal opened the book and flipped uselessly through it. Then he looked up and shrugged. ‘Sorry, sir. I don’t remember.’
Mr. Simon sighed. ‘You don’t remember or you didn’t read it?’
Silence.
‘Satis House.’ Slight musical intonation, soft and tentative, the answer raised in slight question at the end, as if she wasn’t entirely sure of it.
Everyone turned to look at Marienne. James couldn’t see her face but from the way her hands were twisting themselves under the desk, he could only assume she was blushing under the attention.
‘Miriam, is it?’ Mr. Simon checked his attendance sheet.
‘Marienne, sir.’
‘Marienne. Right. And why does she wear a wedding dress every day of her life?’
‘Because she was abandoned by her fiancé on their wedding day after she realized he had duped her.’
‘That’s right.’ He turned to Hal, who was now whispering to someone beside him. ‘Hal.’ A breath through the nose. ‘Mr. Parker, I find it interesting and slightly disturbing that Marienne, who has just joined us today, knows more about this book that I gave you the entire holiday to read, than you do.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘I read it at my old school,’ Marienne said apologetically to Hal as he shifted around to glare at her.
‘Okay, well then let me ask you this,’ Mr. Simon paused, a glint in his eye, ‘what does Miss Havisham come to realize toward the end of the novel about her actions?’
Marienne glanced around the room; she might have turned to James but he was concentrating on making black holes in the wood. Then she answered, almost guiltily, ‘She realizes that instead of achieving any kind of personal revenge, she has only caused more pain and has broken Pip’s heart the way hers was broken.’
‘Something like that, yes. Good. Very good.’
She sank back in her chair but Mr. Simon stopped her. ‘I have one more question for you.’
‘Okay.’ She sounded wary, anxious for him to turn his attention elsewhere. But he was enjoying this too much; a student who had actually read and understood the book was too valuable to let go.
‘One of the main themes of the novel is social class,’ Mr. Simon started, stopped, and then asked, as an afterthought, ‘do you agree?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice tripped, unsure.
‘Good. How does Pip’s attitude toward social standing change throughout the novel? What does he come to learn?’
The class watched her, waiting to hear what she would say. It seemed to be a judgment; a collective voice saying her answer would tell them whether or not she was worthy of being their friend. She sat straight and tall in her seat and it was only the nervous tapping of her foot that gave her away. She didn’t have a clue.
An answer was forming on his lips and his heart began to flutter, pounding in his mouth. He never spoke in class, and now he tried to practice how to string the words together, not sure if they would make sense once they were out. But he felt them starting up in him, eager to be heard, eager to help her out.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
‘Try,’ Mr. Simon prodded. ‘Come on, I’m sure you can think of something.’
‘I really,’ she shook her head helplessly, ‘I really don’t know.’
‘I think that the theme of social class is central to the novel’s plot and to the ultimate moral theme of the book.’ His mouth moved on its own and for an absurd moment, he looked around just like everyone else to see who was talking. It was only when the teacher dragged his eyes away from Marienne and fixed on him that James realized it was his own voice filling up the classroom.
‘Mr. McDermott.’ Mr. Simon sounded surprised. It had been a long time since James had done anything to draw attention to himself. The teacher looked back at Marienne who was now fiddling with the hem of her skirt. ‘Care to elaborate?’ he asked.
‘When he falls in love with Estella, he wants nothing more than to become a gentleman, a part of her social class. He thinks that this will make him happy, and when he does receive a benefactor, he shuns his old friends and his old life.’ The words were rushing out of him; how did he even know how to say this? Was he even making sense? He spoke with speed, wanting it to be over quickly. He wasn’t sure why it had started—only that he had felt responsible for her. A film of sweat began to tickle his upper lip and he resisted the urge to wipe it away. He kept his eyes trained on the chalkboard at the front of the room. ‘But when he comes to admire Magwitch, he realizes that wealth and class are less important than loyalty and inner worth and that being wealthy does not necessarily mean you will be happy.’ He finished in a breathless flourish, something pulsing in his throat. His head felt so light that he thought it might float away. He put his hands under his thighs so no one would see how they were shaking.
Mr. Simon cleared his throat. Students shifted in their seats, someone shouted nerd and was told to be quiet. The teacher stood up. ‘That’s very good, James. Excellent.’ He started to write on the board, and eventually all eyes followed him. Except hers. Her neck craned backward, she stared at him until he was forced to look up. Her eyes were too bright.
‘Thank you,’ she mouthed. He felt exhilarated, empowered and inexplicably protective over her. He thought he smiled back but felt so disengaged from his body that he couldn’t be entirely sure if he did.
Somehow, she managed to escape from her new friends and found him at lunch. He looked up and the bread of his sandwich turned dusty on his tongue. He washed it down with a sip of water.
‘Hi.’ She pulled nervously at her ponytail.
�
�Hello.’
‘I just wanted to,’ licking her lips, ‘say thank you.’
‘What for?’ he asked, although he knew what she was referring to.
‘For helping me out like that in class.’ Blood pooled in her cheeks and her lips seemed to fill with it. They grew soft and large, more like a young girl’s than a teenager’s. It was that—the sweet childishness she seemed to embody without meaning to—that had made him want to help her in class. He took his eyes away and shrugged.
‘You did it for Hal, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
He started again, tried to be more generous. ‘Mr. Simon has a tendency to pick on people,’ he explained. ‘He gets a little carried away sometimes.’
The words found and presented themselves; he didn’t have to search for something to say. He hadn’t found it this easy to communicate with someone in a long time, let alone a girl of his age. It was something her unhidden interest inspired in him; she made him feel less self-conscious and a little flattered.
‘I can see that,’ she grinned. ‘You don’t know how relieved I was when you jumped in. That was brave of you.’
It was his turn to blush. ‘It’s not a big deal. It’s one of my favorites, so I know it pretty well.’
‘It was still very nice of you to come to my rescue.’ She was jovial now, pulling out a chair to sit opposite him. ‘You’re my knight in shining armor.’ She said it, saw his face and blushed. ‘Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.’
‘No.’ He fiddled with his food, rearranged the items on his tray and tried to keep his face neutral. ‘It wasn’t stupid at all.’
The bottom of the hill became their ritual morning meeting place and each time Marienne would hand him her satchel and they would climb the snowy slope and walk the fifteen minutes to school together. He knew she could have made other friends if she had wanted to. There was something endearing about her indifference to the people around her that made them want to reach out to her, as if to shake her and remind her of their presence. Yet, day after day, she would wait for him by his locker or seek him out at lunch, always ready with a story about Dolly or a letter from her parents.