In Between Dreams

by Iman Verjee

  ‘What did you say?’ my voice is a low, mean growl. ‘Try and say that again.’

  Her eyes are wide. ‘You’re crazy and I’m not surprised your parents didn’t want you anymore.’

  My hand comes up and I’m about to strike her. One of us shouts but then strong arms are pulling me back and all her friends suddenly swarm around her, protecting her from my flying fists. Joseph is behind me and I am held tightly to his body and I hear her crying and all I can say is I hate you. I fucking hate all of you.

  Someone comes to get me at lunchtime from my room, which I have been secluded in since that morning.

  ‘Frances, you’re wanted in Sister Margret’s office.’

  I stand up. There is a dull ache in my arms and it pulls and sharpens when I roll my shoulders. I smile at the nun as I walk by and she shrinks away from me. I am certain that this is enough to get me out of here. Surely I am going to be told to pack my bags and I can’t wait to show Sister Margret my suitcase, already packed and ready to go. But when I get to her office, she is standing outside it, waiting by the door. Her eyes flash at me and her mouth curls into a different smile this time. She tells me to go inside.

  ‘You have a phone call,’ she says.

  I go in and she closes the door behind me. I pick up the large receiver that has been left lying on a pile of papers on her desk and when I hear him, everything inside me springs awake. The past two weeks’ events, this morning, the feel of Judy’s body giving in to my strength and anger; all of it disappears and becomes inconsequential. This is all I need.

  ‘Hello, Frances.’ His voice is slow and deep and snaps me back into myself. The world tips and dances for a moment and when it straightens out, everything is in its place.

  ‘Oh God, I’ve missed you so much.’

  He is silent. I think that the call has been disconnected and I panic. Hello? Are you there? Please be there—hello?

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Why haven’t you called me? How could you forget about me like that?’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten you.’ He sounds irritated. ‘It’s been less than a month since you left.’

  ‘I know and every time I’ve tried to call, you never answer.’

  ‘I’ve been busy, Frances.’

  ‘Busy doing what? We both know you never go anywhere.’

  ‘I told you, there’s a reason why you’re there.’ He is almost shouting now. ‘Why are you causing such a scene? You almost hit a girl in the face, for God’s sake!’

  ‘But I only thought that—’

  ‘Don’t you think people will wonder?’ He is rushed and quiet and speaks over me; doesn’t want to hear what I am saying. ‘Don’t you think they’ll find it strange, you sneaking out at night to call me? Find you strange?’

  I hold the receiver away from me and stare at it. He doesn’t sound the same. He sounds distant; like a disgusted stranger who doesn’t want to talk to me. I want to be at home more than ever; to hug him and kiss him and bring him back to me. He carries on talking. ‘You were almost expelled today. Do you have any idea how hard it was to persuade Sister Margret to keep you there?’

  ‘You did what?’ I try to shout but my words are lost—trapped in the short, half-breaths of my disbelief. My lungs narrow and I have to sit on the floor, dragging the phone down and holding it between my crossed thighs. I bite down on the cord to keep from screaming. ‘You told her…’ breathe, ‘you told her—oh my God.’ A wave of nausea hits me hard. ‘How could you do that to me? That’s what I wanted! Do you know how hard I’ve tried? I want to come home so we can be together.’

  Again he is silent.

  ‘Answer me. Hello? Answer me!’

  ‘You need to be there, Fran. I told you, you have to get some distance from everything that has happened here.’ His tone softens into the sleepy, loving one that I know. ‘I need you to be strong and listen to me when I tell you it’s only for a year and things are going to get better.’

  ‘And if I get expelled?’

  ‘You aren’t coming home, Frances.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I don’t want you here.’

  I knew those words were coming. I had felt them so many times; seen them in his eyes for so long and now they are out, they hurt, but they are also, in some strange way, a relief. I don’t have to wait for them any longer. In one moment, everything has turned to nothing. A long, soft wail escapes my lips; it’s deep and guttural and doesn’t sound like me. I don’t feel like myself anymore.

  ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  ‘Please don’t cry. I’m sorry. You’re my daughter and I love you and that’s why you have to stay there.’ His desperation is too much to bear. I don’t want to hear it—I don’t like the way it makes me feel about him.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  There is no answer. I lie down on the floor and think of my packed suitcase, waiting eagerly for me by the door. I think of everyone who hates me and how there is nothing for me here. I let the tears fall into my hair.

  ‘Frances?’

  I push down the lump in my throat and force my response through it. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘I’ll stay here. Only for a year and then I’m coming home and you won’t be able to stop me.’

  ‘And you’ll behave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And try to make some friends?’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘Frances?’

  ‘I’ll try and make some friends.’

  ‘Good. Thank you.’ He clears his throat and his breath has deepened and slowed down. ‘That’s my good girl.’ He has regained himself and is calm but he also seems astonished at his power over me. The way I can’t seem to disagree with anything that he wants.

  ‘Can I call you at least?’ I hate myself for asking. I hate that I still want to hear his voice, hear it again even as I am talking to him. That I can feel myself slowly breaking under those words; I don’t want you here.

  ‘We’ll call you,’ he says. ‘I’ll call you very soon, I promise.’

  When I finish with the phone call, I wipe away my tears and clear my throat. I smooth back my hair and make sure it’s neatly tied. I tuck in my shirt and walk to the door. Sister Margret is still waiting outside.

  ‘I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting,’ I say. The words come out dead but she has been waiting for a victory and this seems to satisfy her. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘You’re going to make a formal apology at the assembly tomorrow,’ she says. ‘And also, personally, to Judy. She says she’s afraid to stay in the same room as you and I want you to assure her that nothing like this will ever happen again.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And you will continue with your chores until I am convinced you have learned your lesson.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t want to see this kind of behavior from you again, is that clear?’ She glares down at me and today I don’t meet her eye. ‘I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Frances.’

  I don’t hear anymore as I start to walk out into the foyer. The mean, final ring of the dial tone continues to trail behind me, screaming in my head for the rest of the day.

  I sit alone that evening during our free time. It’s raining so most of the girls are inside the library or upstairs in their rooms. The rain makes everything smelly and wonderfully gray. It brings out all the noises and the scents and they assault me until my brain grows weak and drunk off the rhododendrons that are crawling up the metal arc around me. His words become mixed up in all of this. I want to cry but feel empty because I know it will be no use. My stomach has opened up and everything is falling into it but nothing ever seems to go anywhere.

  ‘Hi.’ Joseph is coming toward me, moving fast out of the rain and stepping under the low veranda. His skin glows and I see drops of water shine at his cheek. They run down his chin and slide down his neck, collecting in the same spot my mouth found so many
nights ago; near his Adam’s apple. He runs a hand through his short hair and shakes the water from it. He sits down but far away from me. My father’s words come at me again. Don’t you think they’ll find you strange?

  ‘Hi.’ I pull a red flower off the vine and start tearing at its petals, my eyes following their floating trajectory as they fall into a puddle at my feet. I wonder what it feels like to be that way; to have nothing inside you that hurts even as someone slowly picks you apart.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asks. I think he might say more; mention what happened that night he dropped me home, but he sits there patiently, waiting for me to answer.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about what happened this morning?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He looks shocked at my question. ‘With that girl, in the pavilion.’

  The day has gone on for so long that I have forgotten about everything that happened that morning. Now I recall how the violence exploded inside me, the taste of it as it came up to the roof of my mouth. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

  ‘She thought you were about to hit her.’

  ‘I was.’ I pull another flower and it resists before breaking off with a quiet, sad snap. I start to curl the petals downward and up over the end of the stalk—something Bubbie taught me how to do.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She asked for it.’

  He slides a little closer to me, taking the flower and letting it lie in his large, open palm. The color is stark against his skin. I look up at him. His wrist drops to hand me back the flower but I don’t take it so he lets it fall into my lap. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘I know how difficult it can be to make friends in a new place,’ he tells me.

  I slide the flower up the side of the metal structure and let it grow soggy from the rain that is running slowly down, watching the petals tear and fall away. ‘It’s not that,’ I say softly but he hears me.

  ‘You miss home.’

  ‘Yes.’ I’m glad for the drops on my face; he won’t be able to see me crying.

  ‘That’s natural,’ he says gently. He puts a hand on my shoulder but then reconsiders this, and it ends up draped across the back of the bench. ‘Can I give you some advice?’ He leans in a little closer so I nod. ‘You’re a sweet girl. You just have to give them a chance to see that.’

  I don’t like the way he is invading, presuming to know me. The way he is coming in without asking first. He doesn’t understand that something has happened to me; that I am different now, strange, and I will remain that way forever.

  ‘Look, it’s none of your business.’ I stand up so quickly, he has to move away so I don’t hit him. ‘Why are you so interested anyway? It’s not like you care about me. No one does.’ I run down the slippery stairs and I think that he might follow. But for the second time, he only sits and lets me go.

  ‌18

  ‌St Albert. June 1976

  When they first got the news, a couple of months after his visit to the hospital, James sat facing the doctor, holding Marienne’s hand. The doctor’s words moved slowly over the desk, taking so long to reach him through the fractured silence and even when they did, he wasn’t sure how to feel about them.

  ‘But it was just an infection,’ Marienne tried to argue. ‘That’s what Dr. Banes told me when I went to see him.’

  ‘Mrs. McDermott, Dr. Banes referred you to me for a reason.’ Calm, unmoving gray eyes reaching out to them, preparing them for something neither of them had expected to hear. ‘He thought he saw something abnormal in your tests and I’m sorry to say—’

  Marienne shook her head, stopping his words. ‘Well, do the tests again,’ she said. ‘Do them again because I know you’re wrong.’ She pulled her hand from James’s grip, clenching her fists together on her shaking knees, her knuckles growing white and hard.

  ‘It must be quite a shock, I know,’ a sympathetic pause in breath, ‘but sometimes these things happen. I’m very sorry.’

  Those words must have been repeated a thousand times by this doctor, changed up and reused with so many other young, hopeful couples. But no matter how you spun them, or what order you chose to place them in, the message was always the same. It still caused the same anguish, the same relief.

  ‘Look, I know what I’m feeling,’ Marienne said, leaning forward. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine. My body is perfectly fine so I’m asking you to do the tests again. I’ll do as many as you want.’ She stopped, closed her eyes and whispered, ‘I’ll do anything you want.’

  Dr. Grayson pushed back his chair and stood up, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his palm against his bearded chin, reaching up to pinch the sharp hook of his nose. He walked slowly to the small, rectangular bed by the wall, absently smoothing out the white sheet with his fingers. The short moment before the doctor turned to them allowed James to process the information given to him and the room thickened with his anticipation. He hoped Marienne wouldn’t sense the relief that pulled a sigh from him, causing him to sink back in his chair. Dr. Grayson leaned loosely against the bed frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He chewed down on the arm of his glasses, clicking it against his teeth before he continued.

  ‘Our bodies can be very tricky,’ he said slowly; a man carefully assessing his situation and planning his words accordingly. ‘Sometimes they can make us believe that they’re alright and everything is functioning as it should be.’ He came back, sliding into his chair. He wiped his glasses clean before putting them on again and tapping his hand on a large, brown envelope that lay beside him, pressing a fingertip to Marienne’s name that had been thoughtlessly scribbled across its center. ‘But these tests tell a different story.’

  ‘Then we’ll go for a second opinion,’ Marienne said. ‘And a third and fourth one if we have to.’

  Dr. Grayson, accustomed to the anger that tripped and weaved through Marienne’s fast-flowing speech, extended his arm across the table to stop her.

  ‘You’re more than welcome to do that—in fact, I would recommend that you did.’ He was still holding the envelope and now he pushed it toward them. ‘I know this is all very overwhelming, so if you would like, I can explain what I found in your tests before you leave. It might help you understand the situation a little better.’

  ‘You just want to convince me that you’re right,’ Marienne said.

  James put a hand on her wrist and she paused, midway off her chair, glancing down at him in surprise.

  ‘Just listen to what he has to say, Annie.’

  She sat back down and they waited as Dr. Grayson pulled out a small chart from the bottom drawer of his desk. He laid it out in front of them and when Marienne saw the title, ‘Main Causes of Female Infertility,’ she chewed down hard on her bottom lip and pulled at her fingers.

  The chart was divided neatly into two columns and several rows of different colors highlighting the various causes of infertility and what they meant. James was surprised to see how easily organized and defined the problem was; color-coordinated according to the severity of each category, possible causes and symptoms added to further help the patient understand their diagnosis. It made him wonder if all problems could be as cleanly categorized and explained; their roots as systematically analyzed and solved.

  ‘You have what is called Premature Ovarian Failure,’ Dr. Grayson began, pointing at a purple row near the top of the chart. ‘It’s caused by abnormally low levels of estrogen, and to put it quite simply, it means you’ve stopped producing fertile eggs.’ The cold, smooth science of the doctor’s explanation, the half-relaxed posture and authoritative tone it inspired in him, hinting at the sureness of his diagnosis, broke the rigid stance that Marienne had taken up when they first entered the office. Her shoulders fell forward as she leaned heavily into the desk. As she stared down at the chart, something registered in her body, tightening as she asked in a shaking voice,

  �
�Does that mean I was at some point?’

  ‘Was what?’

  ‘Producing eggs. Do you mean that if James and I had tried earlier for a baby, I might have become pregnant?’ James felt his breath catch in his throat. ‘It’s important for me to know.’

  ‘There’s no way to tell that,’ Dr. Grayson said, ‘but usually the onset of POF is at a very early age.’

  James followed Marienne’s eyes to the chart, hypnotized by its glossy writing; its smiling curves and teasing loops.

  ‘It says here that five to ten percent of women with this condition can spontaneously become pregnant,’ James read. Dr. Grayson’s lip twitched a little with annoyance but his eyes and voice never lost their sympathetic composure.

  ‘That’s right,’ and sensing Marienne had lifted in her chair, he continued quickly, ‘but I don’t want to get your hopes up unfairly. The possibility of that happening to the two of you is very low, probably non-existent.’ He paused, giving them time to digest this information, folding up the chart, ready to leave them with their loss. ‘I’m very sorry to be so blunt here but I think it’s important to be realistic in a situation like this. To know what you’re up against.’

  ‘Which is what, exactly?’ James pushed him to say the words, wanting to hear them in the same straightforward, clean manner in which the doctor had offered up his diagnosis, so that there could be no mistaking what was being implied.

  ‘I’m afraid the chances of you never conceiving are very high and I would say it’s extremely unlikely that the two of you will ever have a child together.’

  She was silent as James drove her home but as they passed as sign-board that said, ‘Happy Faces Daycare: where we look after the most important little people in your life, she started to cry and said, ‘fuck.’ He stroked her hair but she slapped his hand away. ‘If we hadn’t waited,’ the words turned soggy from her tears and he struggled to hear her. ‘If we had tried earlier, maybe it would have been okay.’