In Between Dreams

by Iman Verjee

  ‘This is Frances. She just joined the Academy.’ His wife gives him a quick look which he responds to with a reassuring grin.

  ‘Hello, Frances. I’m Nova.’

  ‘Hi.’ What am I doing here, on one side of the corridor, faced with this happy family? I feel more miserable than ever.

  ‘She just needed to use our phone,’ Joseph says. He is moving back into a room and gesturing for me to follow, so I do, treading wearily, as if the ground is filled with hidden traps.

  I go into a small room where the blue glow of the television burns my eyes and I can hardly make out Joseph’s outline near the steep staircase. When I reach him, he clicks on a small table lamp and hands me the receiver, telling me he is going into the kitchen.

  ‘Take your time,’ he says and leaves me in the quiet darkness, the sounds of their family coming through the door and pricking my chest.

  ‘Hello, darling.’

  She is supposed to be at work. I check the clock hanging on the wall above the phone to make sure I have the time right. She comes in throaty waves through the receiver. I had been so sure he would pick up and an acute eagerness moves in me, making me shake so that I have to hold the phone with both hands. When she answers instead, I snap at her.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be at work.’ It doesn’t matter how this makes her feel. I want to speak to him.

  ‘I have the night off. It’s Wednesday, remember?’ Her tone recoils, injured, but she carries on talking. ‘How are you, sweetheart?’

  ‘I hate it here.’ And surrounded by this sudden disappointment and the cheerfulness in the other room, I really do hate it. ‘I hate you for sending me here.’

  ‘Frances—’

  ‘How could you do this to me?’ My voice is rising and I don’t try to lower it. I let it carry up everything. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like here? What I’m going through? I hope you’re happy.’ I start to cry somewhere in the middle. ‘Please, let me come home.’

  I picture him sitting in that favorite chair of his, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, chewing thoughtfully on a pencil as he attempts to do a crossword. Every so often, his eyes will rise from the page and he will smile at me and we will think of our secret, but I am missing all of it. ‘I promise, I’ll be good. I can’t stand it here anymore.’ She stays silent and I give it one last fight. ‘Please, Mom.’

  She sucks in her breath and the word hovers between us, growing larger the longer our silence extends. Mom. I know she can’t remember the last time I called her that because I don’t remember it myself.

  ‘I’m sorry, Frances, but I can’t do that,’ she says. ‘You have to trust me—we know what’s best for you. Besides, your tuition has already been paid for the year.’ The finality in her tone stops my tears.

  ‘Just give him the phone. I don’t want to talk to you anymore—I don’t want to talk to you ever again.’ I am sure that I can convince him; that he misses me just as much as I miss him and he will come and get me if I ask him to. I imagine him coming through these doors and sweeping me, laughingly, into his arms, just as Joseph did with Alex. Hello my best girl. I’ve missed you.

  ‘He’s not here.’

  My heart falls, drops down and leaves a crater in my chest. ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  ‘I’m not. He’s gone round to one of the neighbor’s houses.’

  ‘Well can you go and get him? I’m sure he wants to speak to me.’

  ‘How about I tell him to call you tomorrow?’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ I say and drop the receiver back onto the cradle without saying goodbye.

  I sit on the carpeted stairs, drained and listening to the now quiet sounds coming from outside the room. I can’t hear what they’re saying and when I step outside, I see Joseph and Nova standing in the corridor and they stop talking when they see me.

  ‘Did you speak to him?’ Joseph asks. I nod but don’t reply because the only thing that will come out is a resigned sadness. They look at each other:

  ‘Would you like something to eat? Some tea, maybe?’ asks Nova. My stomach is packed with anger but I don’t want to go back to the Academy just yet.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Their kitchen is small but clean and there is already water boiling on the stove. I can hear the soft bubbling of it, rising above the slim orange flame. I sit down at their table and my knees come up right to the edge of it. It is a table made for children and pretend tea-parties. Joseph has to sit sideways, his legs extended outward and crossed at the ankles. Alex climbs into his lap.

  ‘You should be in bed now, young man,’ Nova says from the stove and the boy smiles sleepily at her.

  ‘What’s ten more minutes?’ Joseph winks down at his son, stroking his forehead.

  ‘Here you go.’ Nova puts down three mugs of tea and goes back to the cupboard for a plate of cookies. She sits down and stares at me over the dim lights. She is a tall woman, with strong shoulders and sloping, almond eyes. In the darkness, with her jutting cheekbones and graceful limbs, she looks more like a feline; an animal protecting her territory. She takes Joseph’s hand and holds it in her own. Their fingers come together effortlessly, as if his hand has been molded especially for hers to sit in.

  ‘Have one,’ he says, pushing the plate toward me. ‘Oatmeal and raisin—Nova’s special recipe.’ It is soft and perfectly crumbly and I chew down on the sticky pieces of fruit, pulling them apart between my teeth. My leg stretches out and accidentally grazes Joseph’s. She can’t see what I am doing and I let my knee sit there, barely resting against him.

  ‘So where are you from?’ Nova asks.

  ‘St Albert.’ The tea is sweet and milky; just like a mother should make it. I drink most of it in a few gulps.

  ‘What are you doing all the way here?’ She speaks softly, in a friendly tone. Politely curious.

  ‘I came for school,’ I say.

  ‘Surely they have schools in St Albert,’ she says.

  ‘Nova, stop interrogating the girl.’

  She looks at Joseph and then gets up, asking if I would like some more tea.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She pours Joseph and me some more tea before picking up Alex. He opens his eyes and then falls straight back asleep. ‘I’ll go and put him to bed.’ She leans down to kiss Joseph, then whispers something in his ear that he nods at. His hand lingers on hers at his shoulder and then lets it go at the last minute, only when he has to. ‘Goodnight, Frances. Good luck with school.’

  I thank her again for the tea and then it’s just the two of us. There is no more talking; all I hear is the quiet crunching of biscuit in his mouth and all I see are the taut muscles in his cheek working as he chews. I drink slowly to prolong my leaving, and pick the crumbs off my skirt and put them in my mouth. When he is finished, he pushes his mug away from him.

  ‘So was it nice to talk to your father?’

  I nod. ‘Yes.’ I think of him at one of the neighbor’s houses, not knowing how sad I am or how much I want him; how angry he will be with my mother when he comes home and finds out that I have called.

  ‘I’m sure he misses you very much,’ Joseph says. I press my leg further into his and this time he notices my weight and shifts away from it. I follow him without knowing why, so now our toes are touching. ‘Is this your first time away from home?’

  I chew down on a cookie, only half-swallowing so that some of it lodges in my throat and blocks off my tears. ‘Yes.’ I finish the tea and let the last sip sit in my mouth and burn my gums.

  ‘Frances, you know that I’m going to have to let the Academy know what happened tonight.’

  ‘Why?’ I pull my leg away. I know she has told him to say this. This is what they were talking about in the hallway.

  ‘It’s my responsibility. And if anyone was to ever find out and I haven’t said anything—’

  ‘They won’t. I’ll keep it a secret.’

  ‘I can’t take that risk. I’m sorry, but I have to let them kn
ow.’ He pats my hand. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t be in any trouble.’

  It occurs to me then that perhaps I will be. Maybe they’ll kick me out and my mother will have no choice but to let me come back home.

  ‘Okay.’ I try to look sorry. ‘That’s okay, I understand.’

  ‘I knew you would.’ He stands up and ruffles my hair, as if he has been doing it my entire life. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you back.’

  I watch the road speed by, picking up signs and cues that I might need should I ever want to come to his house again. A broken streetlight. A pub with a loose sign hanging outside; the picture of a rearing black horse swinging in the night wind. The Barn. Around the bend and climbing up a steep hill that will be easy to run down. It doesn’t take us long to get back to the school and he parks the car, looking up at the locked gate.

  ‘How will you get back in?’ he wonders out loud.

  ‘The same way I got out,’ I answer.

  He turns to me and laughs. ‘And how is that, exactly?’

  ‘I climbed the fence.’

  He turns serious. ‘I’m not letting you do that.’ He starts to get out of the car. ‘I’m going to get someone.’

  ‘No, please. Just wait until tomorrow before you tell anyone.’

  He stares at me, pauses, and sighs. ‘Alright. I’ll help you.’

  We stand at the edge of the iron fence and he blows in his hands and rubs them together. ‘Come on, then.’

  I start to climb but freeze when I feel his hands on me.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks. ‘Are you scared? I can still go and get someone to open the gate.’

  I shake my head, but all of a sudden I am afraid and I don’t think that my legs will help me because my muscles have turned to liquid. I step down and then feel too light, like I’m falling, when his hands leave me. He snaps his fingers.

  ‘Hold on a second.’ He goes back to the car and fumbles for something in the glove compartment. He pulls out a set of keys and grins like a boy who has found treasure. ‘Can you believe it—I forgot I had these?’ We walk over to the gate and he tries a few keys before finding the right one and we hear it slide and click into place. He keeps up a constant chatter, maybe to make up for my sudden silence or because he is afraid that he is doing the wrong thing. ‘They gave them to me a month back when I had to bring someone in late at night. I haven’t used them since.’

  The gate stands wide open between us and he looks up at the building, his arm loped around one of the spikes. ‘How are you going to get back in?’

  ‘I’m going to go through the library window.’

  He stares down at me. ‘And I’m going to pretend I never asked you that.’

  I don’t want to leave him but it’s late, although he is too polite to rush me. I start to walk through the gate but he catches my wrist and kneels down beside me so that our faces are almost level.

  ‘Hang on,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to see you walking down these streets alone again. You need something, ask. I’m here to help.’

  And then suddenly, my arms are around his neck and I am hugging him, feeling the bones beneath his shirt. He laughs quietly and gives me a formal pat on the back, trying to move away, but I won’t let him go. I press my face into his neck, craving the physical contact of someone else. ‘Frances—’ I don’t hear him. My lips open up against his skin and I feel it on my tongue, the sharp taste of salt. ‘Frances—what are you doing?’ He struggles backward and his face has changed. It is no longer relaxed but creased with shock. His smile has gone but his eyes are still kind. I look up at him for a moment and when he opens his mouth to say something, I start to run. He doesn’t shout after me but I feel him looking until I am lost in the darkness and he can’t see me anymore.

  ‌16

  ‌St Albert. March 1976

  The colors of Stolleri Hospital were red, purple and yellow; a smiling building that was dimly lit and cold inside. The vast foyer filled him with an inexplicable sadness, so complete that he wondered if it had been growing inside him all this time and he had just failed to notice. It wasn’t because of the sickness that hung in the air, smelling of cheap disinfectant. It wasn’t even because he had slipped out of his house early that morning without telling his wife where he was going, what he was planning on doing. It was because he saw, near the glass entrance, just beyond the stretch of morning light, a man sitting on a concrete bench facing the parking lot. His son was standing in between his knees, gently tilted against his chest. The boy’s waves were gathered in his father’s fist, held loosely at the base of his neck as if it were the most natural position to be in. This innocent display of love, ordinary to everyone except him, made James ache in a way he never had; somewhere deeper and more painful—a pinch he couldn’t locate and whose evasiveness only made it seem larger.

  He had taken fatherhood for granted when he was younger. It was something he had convinced himself he could do without in his early twenties. But now, knowing the finality of what might happen in the doctor’s office, he was tempted to call Marienne and tell her just how much he wished they could have a baby.

  ‘Mr. McDermott?’ A nurse stood above him, holding a clipboard to her starched, uniformed chest.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Follow me, please.’ As he got up, he looked around quickly, sure that the people sitting near him could sense the selfish cruelty of the simple action of moving from his chair to the closed, tinted doors of the doctor’s room. The office smelled of furniture polish and a sweet, aniseed smell he couldn’t quite place, a welcome change from the cold cleanness of the waiting area. When the doctor heard them enter, he held his arm toward the seat in front of him.

  ‘Sit, sit,’ he said. ‘Please do have a seat.’ He reached for the nurse’s clipboard and she left them, closing the door behind her and letting it shut with a loud click. James ran his tongue over his lips, facing the small, shifty-eyed doctor who was staring at him, waiting patiently.

  ‘I—’ James started but didn’t know how to finish.

  ‘You called in to ask about the vasectomy, didn’t you?’ The word was weightless in the doctor’s mouth. It rolled off, unforced and pleasant, as if he were talking about something easy and inconsequential—a decision most men made without consulting their wives. He realized then that he was the spouse George had warned him against; he was exactly like Melissa.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, right.’ The doctor spoke in a quick, mumbling tone and James had to lean in closer, pressing his hands to the oak desk that seemed too large for the other furniture; a giant stranger in the room.

  ‘I only wanted to know what the procedure involves.’

  ‘Well, it’s a very straightforward operation. In fact, I often do it in here.’ The doctor gestured around the cramped room. ‘It should only take about forty minutes.’

  Forty minutes could be a meeting. It could be time spent stuck in conversation with someone he had met on the way home. Forty minutes could be covered up, painted over, easily lied about.

  ‘And the recovery?’

  ‘Well, it’s usually about a two-day recovery period. Three days at the most and there won’t be that much pain but you’ll have to take it easy for a while.’

  ‘And will there be any scarring?’ He got right to the point.

  ‘A small one.’ And then, as if he knew exactly what James was thinking, the doctor said, ‘But you won’t be able to notice it unless you know it’s there.’

  James leaned back against his chair. It seemed to be the perfect solution; quickly done and even quicker to forget. She would never know and wouldn’t blame him anymore for not trying. Yet just as he was about to say, ‘That’s great, when can I book an appointment?’ the words hid from him, getting lost somewhere in the forest of other words and thoughts that stuck in his throat. The doctor watched James carefully, his fingers forming a pyramid under his chin.

  ‘Before you decide whether or not you want to go through with this, I’m goin
g to have to ask you a few questions.’ The friendly tone was gone, disappearing into a slow seriousness.

  ‘What kind of questions?’

  ‘Mr. McDermott, do you understand that this surgery is irreversible?’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’

  ‘Right.’ The doctor paused, taken aback by the sting in James’s words. ‘And are you married?’

  ‘What does that matter?’

  ‘Given the impact of this decision, we usually like to talk to both partners involved. To make sure you understand the consequences and are alright with the choice being made.’

  Caught off-guard, James fumbled and stammered. ‘We made the decision together,’ he said, collecting himself. ‘My wife is busy, so I came alone. She’ll be here if we decide to go through with it. You can ask her then.’

  ‘Of course.’ An uneasy smile; a quick darting of the small, black eyes. ‘I’m also going to have to ask you your reasons for wanting this surgery.’

  He could have let the truth out then. Watched as the doctor’s weak shoulders shrunk back in horror and his small, rounded mouth trembled in disgust. He might grab the picture of his pretty daughter off the desk and slam it into his drawer. He might call the police. Or perhaps, he would take matters into his own hands and force James down on the oak desk itself, shiny with the reflection of his determined face, and do the surgery at that very moment.

  ‘That’s my private business, Doctor.’

  ‘I understand that, of course. We just recommend that you don’t make the decision if you are going through a big change in your life or if you are under any increased pressure from work or other areas in your life.’

  ‘Is that all?’ The doctor’s questions were throwing James further into a doubt he hadn’t expected to feel. He thought about the father and son he had seen sitting outside; how peaceful they had looked. Was it possible that in two years, five years, he would be able to feel that same way? That he would be able to look at a child of his own and love it how he should? Then came the whispering desire, stronger than anything else, and it helped him find the words he had been looking for. ‘I have to think about it.’