by Iman Verjee
‘Great.’ I stop trying to hide my smile.
Handing the pillow and blanket to me, he pulls the couch out easily and it squeaks a little in protest. He pushes on it and I see the lines of his muscles move up and down as he checks the sturdiness of the mattress.
‘Should be fine,’ he says, throwing the blanket over it. It fans out and falls with a soft wisp.
‘Thanks.’ I put the pillow down, picking at a strand of loose string.
‘Hey,’ he is smiling at me. ‘How about a cup of hot chocolate before you go to sleep?’
A warmth is starting up in me, circling my belly. ‘That would be nice.’
For an extra treat, he grates a cinnamon stick and sprinkles a little on top of each of our drinks.
‘Alex loves it this way,’ he says. ‘I have to hide it from him though somehow he always finds it.’
‘He’s a smart boy,’ I say, thinking of our story time. Of how he lay looking at me sideways, his strange words almost sinister in the purplish glow of his night-light.
‘Yes, he is.’ Joseph takes a sip and licks the froth from his lips, holding the cup loosely between both hands. The slanting shadows of the kitchen make it look like its ready to fall but it stays steady, half-tilted. ‘Gets that from his mother.’ He laughs and then falls silent, putting the cup down and rubbing the heels of his palms over his eyes. ‘Jesus, what a family.’
‘Is she alright?’ I ask again. Flecks of cinnamon stick to the underside of my teeth.
‘She’s fine,’ he says. ‘She just finds going to her brother’s house a little difficult, that’s all.’
‘Why?’ My curiosity licked, I am eager to know more about Nova.
‘Money problems, love problems,’ he waves his hand in the air. ‘Things you are too young to be worrying about.’
‘You think so?’ I ask. ‘Even love?’
‘Especially love.’ He nods slowly. ‘It’s a serious business and you shouldn’t be wasting time on it at your age.’ I let his words settle over me, sink into my brain. He notices my silence and slaps his hand down on the table. ‘Anyway, tell me more about yourself.’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I say nervously. This is dangerous territory and I navigate it cautiously, afraid I might let something slip.
‘There must be something,’ he says. ‘Everyone has a story to tell.’
‘Mine’s boring.’ I look down into my mug, brown foam sticky on the rim. When I glance back up again, his face is angled close to mine.
‘Now if there is one thing I know about you, it’s that you’re definitely not boring.’
The way he addresses me, like he has done since the first moment I met him, as if there was nothing strange about me at all, makes me wish I could say something that would please him. But when I think back to when I was at home, all I can remember are those perfect nights. I had thought they would never end and now that they have, I realize that there are no other memories to my name. Everything else wasn’t important enough to stow away, to pay attention to; whatever I did was tied to him—to the erratic pacing of his body, his sweaty palms gripping my shoulders. I raise the cup to my lips for something to do and find that it’s empty.
Sensing my nervousness, he smiles at me and I am instantly warmed. ‘How about I ask the questions and all you have to do is answer?’
‘Okay.’ The ugly feeling rising in me is quickly quelled.
‘What’s your name?’ He looks at me with childish seriousness and we giggle softly together.
‘Frances Elizabeth McDermott.’
‘Good, strong name.’ He nods with approval. ‘Brothers or sisters?’
‘None.’
‘An only child. Lucky you,’ he says. ‘Growing up, I had to share everything with three sisters and a brother.’
‘I like that,’ I say. ‘Sometimes it can get lonely being alone.’
‘You don’t say.’
We laugh again. Now that I have started talking, it becomes easier and I start to loosen up, throw my arms over the counter-top, adapting to his relaxed pose. ‘Where are your sisters and brother now?’
‘All over the place,’ he says. ‘Busy with their own lives.’
‘Do you miss them?’
‘All the time,’ he nods. ‘But we always make an effort to see each other. They all have children around Alex’s age, so it’s always a good time.’
I try to imagine what that would be like; to have such a full family. To love more than one person—it seems impossible to me but something about it also makes me desperate and empty.
‘Another question?’ he asks.
‘Sure.’
He twirls his cup between his fingers. His body sits at a forty-five-degree angle, his legs sprawled out and touching the tip of my chair, always at ease.
‘Do you like the Academy?’
‘I’ve started to,’ I say.
‘I’m glad.’ His eyes crinkle in the corners. ‘It just takes time, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ I like the softness of his voice; how unforceful and gentle it is, yet so reassuring. ‘It’s a beautiful place.’
‘It definitely is.’
‘Especially the forest—there’s something magical about it.’ I find myself blushing as I say this; as if I have exposed too much of myself.
‘That’s why you were there the other day?’
‘Yes.’ I lie, thinking it could be true. ‘Why were you there?’
‘I love trees,’ he says to me and when he sees my eyebrows wrinkle, he explains. ‘I used to be a carpenter.’
‘Really?’
‘I made that chair you’re sitting on.’ He reaches out to touch it, tracing the old lines. ‘And the table.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ I say, because now, when I look at them, old and rough as they are, they seem faultless.
‘Thank you.’ His hand stops to rest in a groove, circling it. ‘I only make sculptures now, and I usually go into the forest to collect wood for them.’ We are silent and then he continues. ‘It’s the smell of the trees, I think, that really gets me. As if in all their years of existing, they’ve collected the entire world in their trunks.’
‘And all the secrets.’
He looks at me and I think I’ve gone too far. Then he smiles in acknowledgment. He sits up straight, collecting the empty mugs. ‘See, I told you, didn’t I?’
‘Told me what?’
‘You’re not boring at all.’
My stomach twists with painful happiness. Then I remember the things that he doesn’t know about me; things that if he did, he would never look at me the same way.
He says goodnight at the stairs. ‘Thank you for babysitting tonight.’ He pats my head.
‘If you need me to again…’
Time’s pitiless fingers are closing over this moment. It will be over soon and I am gripped with a manic need to hold on to it.
‘I’ll know exactly who to call.’ He starts up the stairs. ‘Let me know if you need anything else,’ he calls softly and disappears into the darkness.
I crawl into bed. Perhaps it’s the strangeness of being in a new place, or the foreign sensation of being found interesting enough to talk to, to listen to, but that night my dreams are different. He is in them as always, but this time, he is made of wood; old and lovingly polished, smelling of turpentine. There is a vagueness to him that was never there before and the blurriness of his features are compensated by someone else’s unflinching, tranquil ones; solid like a steady ocean that will never be tricked into changing direction.
27
St Albert. November 1978–October 1979
He thought he would never get used to her; a loud, almost bullish presence in his home. She disturbed the quiet equilibrium he and Marienne had established in their few years of being married. Now the house seemed to rattle and shake as she moved through it, rudely jolting everything awake. She was without any of the feminine sympathies that had made living with Marienne so easy and he thought it was n
o wonder her first husband had left her.
She made him wince as she tossed plates and cups carelessly into the sink, not bothered if they chipped or broke. He found coffee rings left to dry on the counters and tables and even though he tried to wipe them away, they never fully disappeared; only faded into a dull, ugly green. She never cooked nor showed any inclination to want to clean up after herself. She had moved all her belongings into the house without asking first and he found pieces of her scattered in every room. He couldn’t seem to get away from her.
He bought a second-hand crib and put it in their room. ‘You have that empty study,’ Gina said to him. ‘Why don’t we convert that into a nursery?’
Something in him resisted; he didn’t want a space where he would have to be alone with Gina. ‘The book I’ve been reading said we should keep her with us at all times—at least for the first few months.’
He thought that having a baby would soften her, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. She went through the basic motions of feeding and cleaning their daughter but it was done in a mechanical, almost bitter way, only managed because she had to. Oftentimes, he would catch a look galloping across her face, reigning in the muscles of her mouth, as if she was trying to keep from screaming. It was a bright, caged panic he recognized in himself, clawing its terrible way through her and he wondered how they had ended up in this place, trapped together helplessly. He offered to call his mother for help, but Gina refused.
‘I can handle it myself,’ she said. ‘I don’t even need you. You don’t have to keep us here if you don’t want to, you know.’
‘I do want you here,’ he tried to assure her but sounded unconvincing, even to himself. ‘Of course I want you both to stay.’
She rocked the baby against her shoulder. It looked unnatural on her—stiff and difficult and he remembered what she had said to him at the bar that day; how glad she was that she had never had any children. ‘Then why don’t you start helping me out?’
He could have refused—he could have told her to take a walk down the street and see which men helped change their children’s diapers or burped their babies—that wasn’t his job, but there was something keen in him, drawing him to his daughter even though he warned himself not to get too close.
Frances hardly seemed to move; she just lay in the cot with her knees bunched up to her stomach and her hands around her face, always with some noise cooing in her throat. She would hold up her closed fist and he would slip his hand inside and the happiness leaked from his mouth in a sad, little laugh.
‘You can start by changing her diaper,’ Gina told him one day, cornering him in the living room, baby in her arms.
‘I don’t know how.’ It seemed wrong to him, to expose her like that.
‘That’s exactly my point.’ Gina gestured for him to follow her upstairs. ‘I have to go back to work sometime, so we have to share the responsibility.’
She handed Frances to him and he took her, his heart beating wildly against his chest. Sensing it, Frances started to cry.
Gina turned and saw him standing dumbfounded and paralyzed. She sighed. ‘Just give her to me, will you?’
‘I don’t know why I have to do this.’
‘Let me explain something to you,’ putting the baby down on the blanket. ‘I’m not like all those other women, not like Marienne.’ She was furious, unbuttoning the cloth around Frances. He couldn’t hear her anymore; her voice faded in what was being revealed. ‘I expect you to help me out, do some of this.’ All the clothes were pushed to the side now, just soft, white skin. ‘Do you think I know what I’m doing? I’m new at this too.’ She held the powder out to him. ‘Now, come on.’
He went to her, half in a dream and took the bottle.
‘Put some of it in your hand,’ she instructed. The powder fell against his shaking palm; he was quiet, still trying to think of a way out. He must have stayed that way for a long time, white flakes falling between his fingers and onto the carpet, before she jolted him out of it. ‘What are you doing? You have to rub it in, like this.’ He closed his eyes, starting somewhere up near her shoulders. ‘James!’ She took his hand, roughly forced it down. ‘Not there, here,’ to where it was newest, the most beautiful folded skin. Moving his hand, covering the entire area.
‘Enough. That’s enough.’ He pulled his hand away and the crying started.
‘Ssh,’ Gina hissed, leaning over the baby. ‘Ssh. Let’s just get this finished and we can get you to bed.’
‘Is that it?’ he asked, standing up. ‘Are we done?’
‘No.’
He didn’t wait for her to finish. He just stood up and walked out. She would have known, if he had stayed any longer. She would have figured out something was wrong. Leaning against the door, he held his right wrist in his left hand, his fingers still holding the memory of her. The gravity of the situation hit him hard; the sounds of Gina and the baby becoming louder and more solid, planting their roots into the floorboards and etching themselves into the walls. We’re here to stay. Since the day at the hospital, he had moved in a daze—perhaps the shock had numbed him, made him half-asleep, but now, with his daughter upon his hand, he could no longer run away from the truth. He would live his life now forever in fear and, unknowingly, so would she, skipping and dancing around the house, never aware that there would be danger lurking at every corner, ready at the slightest whim to snatch her up and destroy her.
It was a Sunday and she woke him up early. He sat up on the couch, massaging his neck and cracking it from side to side. He winced as a sharp pain shot through his arm.
‘Maybe you should sleep in the bed, then,’ she said from above him. He ignored her.
‘What is it?’
‘We’re going out.’ That was when he noticed Frances in her arms. It amazed him how much she seemed to grow in just a few short months. Now, her body was finding its rhythm and instead of moving in experimental jerks, it had direction—a determined purpose.
‘Have fun,’ he said, closing his eyes and trying to forget what he had just seen.
‘You’re coming with us,’ Gina said and pushed Frances into his arms. She moved a little and almost started crying. He gave her a little shake. ‘It’s been nearly three months and we never do anything as a family,’ Gina said. ‘That’s what we are now, I suppose.’ The thought seemed to comfort her a little. She went to get the pram and he turned to his daughter.
‘Morning, darling.’ It was an instinct; the heat in his voice that came out when he talked to her. The spread of feeling in his chest; joy and pride that she was his. ‘You want to go for a walk?’ He placed her carefully in the pram, smoothing down her hair, electric on his fingers.
‘Are you ready?’ Gina looked at him expectantly, half-breathless as if she knew he was going to refuse to go along. And he nearly did, but looking down at Frances, the way she almost instinctively smiled up at him, it dawned on him that these were the few years that life would be easy for them both.
‘I’m just going to have a quick shower and then we can go.’
The look of relief on Gina’s face was evident. She nodded, breathing easily again. ‘We’ll be waiting.’
There was something about stepping out together, appearing as a family, that made him proud. He pushed the pram in front of him, Gina holding onto his arm and carefully stepping around the mounds of dirty snow. It crunched pleasantly under his boots.
‘Are you sure she’s warm enough?’ he asked Gina.
‘She’s fine.’ She sounded irritated that he had asked. ‘We don’t always have to be worrying about her. Can’t we just enjoy this time out?’
He leaned over the pram; felt so full of pleasure that he couldn’t stop talking. ‘I’m just checking. Don’t want my little girl freezing, now do I?’ he grinned down at her and she gurgled a laugh back up and he thought he had never loved anything so fully nor so surely. He saw Gina wave to some women across the street. They gave her slight nods and then turned their backs to her an
d at once started talking. Gina pushed her hands into her pockets.
‘Oh for God’s sake. Surely there must be other things to talk about.’ She looked ready to cry. ‘I’m trying here, I really am. I wish everyone would just forget it and let us get on with our lives.’
‘Stop being paranoid,’ he said to her and then had to pull the pram to an immediate stop as their neighbor, old Mrs. Nolan stepped in front of them. ‘Good morning, Harriet,’ he said.
‘Morning—haven’t seen you in a while.’ She stood before him on wobbly knees, dragging a shopping bag behind her.
‘Work’s been busy,’ he said with a smile. ‘Have you met Frances?’ he gestured to his daughter. Look! Look at how beautiful she is!
‘What a sweet thing.’ Mrs. Nolan bent down as far as she could. ‘Reminds me of my own granddaughter at that age.’
‘Thank you.’ Gina’s voice was a little thicker than usual. It was the first time he saw a glimmer of pride in her eyes and he understood it. Mrs. Nolan ignored her. She straightened up. ‘How’s Marienne?’ she asked.
It was unexpected, hearing her name like that, and he stumbled on his words. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, feeling his previous light mood blunt a little.
‘We all miss her around here,’ looking at Gina, her old eyes sharp.
‘We’d better be going.’ Gina grabbed the pram from him and pushed it roughly down the street.
‘Enjoy your day,’ he said to Mrs. Nolan.
‘She was a gem, that Annie,’ the old woman called after him. ‘She really was, I tell you.’
When he caught up with Gina, he saw that she had been crying.
‘I can’t take this anymore,’ she said. He pushed her onto a side-street so no one would see them. ‘Do you know what they’re saying?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘They’re saying that I couldn’t keep my own husband so I had to go out and steal somebody else’s. They’re saying we ruined Marienne’s life, that she’s miserable—’
‘Stop it.’ His voice rose, his anger stopped her.