by Iman Verjee
‘I can’t do this.’ Gina’s eyes were wide and frantic, darting around as if the true, full weight of everything that had happened finally dawned on her. ‘I’m going crazy staying at home all day with Frances and I can’t come out because everyone talks about me. They treat me like I’m some sort of fucking pariah.’ She twisted her hands in her scarf. ‘This isn’t what I wanted my life to be like. It’s too difficult.’
‘Well, I’m sorry.’ He took the pram from her, pushing Frances out onto the street. He snapped, his own guilt and frustration turning to anger directed at her. ‘But no one said it was going to be easy.’
It wasn’t as if he never thought of her; he tried not to but sometimes, he would be sitting in his armchair and something would catch his eye. The silly lamp she got from a garage sale with beige tassels that continuously shed on their coffee table and over which they had their first fight. The quilt she had lovingly stitched for him when he had just started work and had hardly been home at night. He kept it on his knees always, tracing the inscription on the underside, forever dancing to the beat of your heart, and always felt the familiar twinge that came whenever he reflected on the past months, when he remembered everything he had been forced to let go of, everything he had done to Marienne. Then he would turn his face up and whisper an apology to the air and remind himself that she was better off without him.
He kept his distance from Gina, asking politely about her day and helping when she needed with Frances, but never venturing deeper than that. They lived two separate lives that joined briefly in the evenings, for dinner and vague conversation. He knew he should try harder; she was the mother of his child but every time he looked at her, he still saw the stranger that had stumbled her way to him through a snowstorm. The woman who had bulldozed his marriage and left him scarred and angry and had forced upon him the one thing he was determined to escape.
She had been there half a year when she attempted to take their relationship a little further. He had come home that night to her sitting in his armchair, the sound of a badly acted soap opera blaring out at her.
‘Can you turn that down?’ he asked her irritably. ‘You don’t want to wake up Frances, do you?’
‘What does it matter?’ she said, turning the volume down and looking at him. ‘She’ll be up in a couple of hours by herself anyway.’
He wanted to pull her out of his chair and remind her that this was his house but instead, he collapsed onto the larger couch, tilting his head back to rest against the pillows, glad for the support. His tie hung undone around his quivering throat, arms lax by the sides of his thighs. He wasn’t sure how long he had sat that way when he felt Gina’s hands on him, her fingers sliding into his collar. He jumped slightly but it felt good to be touched after so long, so he kept his eyes closed and his body as still as he could. She kissed his neck using her tongue, trailing it upward to his earlobe and biting down hard on the softest part of it. His hands responded without his assent, sliding up her shirt and circling her back tightly. She let out a quiet moan at the urgency of his touch and her head slid down onto his shoulder.
‘I love it when you’re angry,’ she whispered, growing bolder and adjusting her knees on either side of him. When she pushed down, he came up to meet her, everything unfolding and coming loose inside him. In the periphery of his mind, something dark was creeping in.
Without opening his eyes, he grabbed her hair roughly and turned her over so that he was lying half on top of her. She wasn’t small like Marienne and her body was still fleshy from the pregnancy. He took care to avoid these areas; her hips, her thighs, keeping his hands firmly on the sides of her face, or at the narrow space between her shoulder blades. She undid the buttons and zipper of his pants quickly and he pushed hard into her, feeling her legs come up and around him. He was in another time now, sometime in the future when her red hair was long and wavy. She was wearing a summer dress that had a flower pattern on it and her skin was soft and smelled like oranges. She was sitting on his lap and leaning back into his chest. He grabbed Gina’s knees and pulled her closer to him; he needed something to contain him in case he decided to break free. Her small palms held tightly onto his lower arms, sweaty and light.
‘Oh.’ Gina’s breathless exclamation as her body arched underneath his and he responded, stretching fully above her, his knuckles turning white at the windowsill above her head. She reached up to kiss him but he turned his head away at the last moment. Pushing his knees into the soft material, he thrust upward one last time, to the contorted faces in his dreams, his fingernails scraping against Gina’s slick skin and losing their grip. He was losing his mind and letting it go and even when Gina stopped moving, he continued, afraid for it to end, afraid of what it meant. Her legs came off from around him and he collapsed against her, his breath wet on her skin. He never touched her again.
The rest of Frances’s first year passed too quickly and before he knew it, the three of them and his parents were gathered around their dining table, looking at a cake with pink icing and one long, lone candle melting amidst the awkward silence that cloaked the room.
‘Blow out your candle, honey,’ he leaned over his daughter’s highchair, kissing the top of her head. He was determined to make this a special day and he blew out the candle with an exaggerated breath whoosh that made Frances clap her hands giddily and both his parents laugh.
He cut the cake and plated a little piece for everyone, looking toward Gina, trying to encourage her with his eyes to help. To do something. But as usual, she sat stubbornly quiet at the head of the table, not bothering to get up and wish their daughter a happy birthday. He wasn’t even sure she was aware his parents were in the same room as them. His father looked over at him and he shrugged helplessly.
‘So, Gina, James tells me you’re a nurse?’ His father tried to make conversation.
‘I used to be.’ Her voice was indifferent and quiet and the three of them had to lean in to hear her. ‘Not anymore, though.’
‘Why’s that?’ his mother asked before he could stop her.
Gina’s face jerked up, the corners of her mouth turned into a hard sneer. ‘Because I’m the town whore.’
‘Gina, come on,’ he said warningly, but he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She used to be so attractive, so well-groomed and assertive, but now she sat in front of him in a loose gray sweatshirt that did nothing to hide the baby fat she still carried and her face was sallow and bloated. The skin under her eyes was a startling murky color from lack of sleep; everything about her was lazy and uncared for. When she stood to pass him, he couldn’t help but stare at her chipped toenails, overgrown and weak. He hadn’t noticed up until that moment. He had been so busy with his daughter, spending whatever time he could with her, cherishing these simple days when she was still toothless and wild, when she meant nothing more to him than she was supposed to.
Once Gina had left the room, his mother said, ‘I’m officially worried.’
‘She’s fine, Mom.’ He scooped up a small piece of cake on Frances’s plastic spoon, let her take it from him and watched in delight as she aimed for her mouth and missed. He laughed and wiped her face with her bib.
‘I’m talking about Frances.’
He turned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘No one should grow up with a mother like that.’
‘I’ll fix it,’ he said, standing to clear the plates.
‘You’re a good man,’ his father said and James stood frozen in front of him, the plates balanced in his hands. One quivered and looked like it was about to fall. ‘You’re an excellent dad,’ his father leaned back, exhaling and patting his stomach. ‘Much better than I ever was.’
‘That’s for sure.’ His mother took her husband’s hand and they stared at each other, shining with pride.
And he forgot what he was holding, where he was going, and simply stood in front of his parents and asked, not for the first time, for their forgiveness.
After that day, Gina only b
ecame worse. She spent hours in bed, hardly touching Frances or ever looking at him. She became a ghost; as quiet as she had been loud, as sad as she had been so full of life, so he wasn’t sure why, when she told him she was leaving, he was shocked by the news.
‘I got a phone call from my brother a week ago in Montreal,’ she said, her eyes darting impatiently toward the door. ‘He said he knows someone who’s directing a movie. He says they can give me a part in it.’
‘I don’t understand.’ He tried to grab her and they tugged stupidly at each other until he finally relented. ‘Everything was going fine. Where’s this coming from?’
She laughed and he saw how his words made her face curl in disgust. ‘For you it was fine,’ she almost snarled. ‘But what about me? Spending every minute with that baby, not being able to go out, not having any friends—I couldn’t even go back to my old job after what happened.’ She took a step closer to the door, as if she was afraid he would realize what she was doing and lock her in here forever.
‘You can’t just leave our child.’
She paused and he saw a glimmer of something at the edges of her eyes but it went away just as quickly. ‘I owe it to myself to go and try out for this part. I’m still young—I have my whole life ahead of me.’ When that explanation didn’t suffice, she continued. ‘I just need to sort things out, to get myself back to normal, then I’ll come back and we can figure this all out.’ But they both knew that once she walked out of the door, she was never coming back. ‘Besides, she’s your daughter too.’
‘So you’re just going to run off? Become an actress?’ He had to laugh. ‘You know that’s not going to happen. Especially with the way you look right now.’ He was shouting now and it was a mean thing to say, he knew, but he was afraid; not of losing Gina but of being left alone with his daughter, with no one to keep her safe. Gina pushed her bags down the steps wordlessly, not looking back at him. There was a cab already waiting.
‘I want to start new. I’m miserable in this town and that will never change,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, James. We only get one life and I’m wasting mine here. I didn’t ask for this and it’s not fair.’
‘I hope wherever you go, you remember what you’ve done,’ he called after her and didn’t care if the neighbors could hear him. ‘What kind of mother you were.’
She stopped, tilted her head to the side, pursed her lips and regarded him with some pity. ‘That’s exactly my problem,’ she said simply. ‘I was never any good at caring about anyone but myself.’
28
Whitehorse, Yukon. December 1992
I wake up to someone pushing at me. I groan and stir, wondering why Judy is back so early.
‘Why are you sleeping on my couch?’ It’s a child, curious as he pushes his face against mine.
‘What?’ I roll over onto my back and pry my eyes open. It takes a few seconds before everything settles into order. ‘Oh. Hi, Alex.’
‘Why are you sleeping in my house?’ he repeats, now up on the couch, looking at me with interest.
‘I—’ as soon as I start to talk, he changes the subject.
‘Want to play?’
I push myself up. ‘Let me wake up first.’
‘Let’s go play in the snow.’ He is pulling at my arm, excited at this unexpected change to his usual mornings.
‘It’s cold out.’
‘I want to make a snow angel.’ He is looking at me adoringly, as if last night has made us the best of friends and I can’t refuse him. He is sitting so close to me that if I wanted to, I could pull him down under the covers and hug him.
‘Okay, come on.’ I tumble out of bed and he hurries in front of me, shouting behind his shoulder. ‘Ssh, quietly.’ I catch him by the door before he leaves without a jacket. ‘Hold on, let’s get you into something warm.’ It’s difficult to get his arms into his winter coat because his body is so impatient, his eyes darting outside as if he is scared it will stop snowing at any minute. I zip him up and wrap Nova’s scarf around his neck. Then I put on my own coat over last night’s clothes and open the door. The morning air is a blast in our faces but he doesn’t seem to notice, scrambling down the stairs and delightedly into the snow.
‘Hurry up, Frances!’ When he says my name, it gathers tightly in my chest and I want to hear him say it again. I run toward him, my body surging for this laughing child who has welcomed me into his life without question. I grab him and spin him around in the dappled sunlight, the snow glittering and dancing with us. He squeals with laughter and when I put him down, he falls into the new snow. His dark skin glows, wet with snowflakes and innocent excitement and his body moves like a sleeping jumping-jack. When enough repetitions are done and he’s dug his way almost to the dead grass below, he holds out his hand.
‘You have to help me up so I don’t spoil it.’ I take his small hand in mine and pull so hard that he comes up in a blur and I catch him by my side. He turns immediately to his snow angel to check that there are no footmarks around it and when he sees that there isn’t, he throws his arms around my waist and screams.
‘It’s perfect,’ I hug him back. ‘Look how beautiful it is!’ We stare at it together until he tugs at my hand.
‘Your turn!’
I hesitate, already feeling the chill of winter under my jacket. ‘Why don’t you do another one?’
‘You have to,’ he insists. ‘I did one and now it’s your turn.’
I zip my coat further up, not wanting to spoil his happy mood. ‘Okay, okay.’ I get down slowly, wincing as the wetness presses against the back of my neck. He crouches down a little way away.
‘You have to move.’
‘Like how you did?’ He nods, his hands balanced on his knees, leaning forward. The snow crunches and breaks apart as I move through it, falling into my face and clothes. I don’t feel the cold; all I see is the eager way his head moves and the quickness in his voice when he says, ‘more, more, faster, more.’ The sun is shining into my closed eyelids and everything is still and soft. I never want to stop moving.
‘You have to get up now,’ he stops my arms.
‘How do I do that without spoiling it?’ I ask.
‘Jump.’ He demonstrates, leaping through the snow. ‘Like that.’
I get up slowly, balancing on my heels and then projecting myself forward and out of the figure I have made.
‘You did it!’ He hops around me. ‘Look, you did it!’
We stand together once more, looking at the strange figures. When I feel his hand crawl into mine, his cold fingers closing around my palm, I think I will burst from the feel of it.
‘Good morning, you two.’
Nova is at the doorway, her dressing gown pulled tightly around her.
‘We made snow angels,’ Alex tells her.
‘I can see that.’ She looks at me and for once, it’s without suspicion. ‘They’re beautiful, honey.’ His hand struggles out of my tight grip and he goes to her where she receives him with a sweet kiss on the cheek. The gesture sends up a spark to my brain, it makes me feel nostalgic though I’m not sure what for. ‘Come on, I’ll make breakfast.’ He disappears into the warmth of the house and I stand by our angels, already losing shape because of the falling snow.
‘Come on, Frances,’ she calls. ‘You must be freezing.’
When I reach the doorway, she puts her arm around my shoulders. I stop, surprised, but then follow her as she guides me in, using her foot to slide the door shut and closing out the world behind us.
I stay with them all morning. Alex sits in my lap at breakfast and doesn’t stop talking or moving, his eyes jumping around the room, taking it all in, forming a memory. Nova sits opposite us, sipping her tea and laughing along with him. She involves me easily in conversation, as if her son’s adoration of me is all the confirmation she needed to trust me. I help her clean up and wash the dishes as Alex goes into the living room to watch T.V. and she keeps up a constant chatter, not minding that I don’t say much. She doesn’t
mention anything about last night.
We are sitting together a few minutes later, Nova reading a story and Alex curled under her arm. I am lying on the floor and every time he looks up, I wink or laugh and I join in with the jokes and story, and the movements are natural and easy, as if I used to do it all the time. Then Joseph comes down. I hear his footsteps and my heart jumps to my throat. A low, hot awareness starts somewhere deep, churning its way up to my cheeks when I hear his voice from the stairs. My palms start to sweat and I keep my face turned away from the door, focused on the carpet, prolonging the anticipation of seeing him. I gather up the memory of our conversation last night and blush with the pleasure of it.
When he comes in, we all stop what we are doing. Nova smiles up at him as he comes toward her, kissing her lightly on the lips. I wonder what it would feel like and touch my own mouth. He turns to his son.
‘You’re up early,’ he says.
Alex points outside. ‘We were making snow angels. Like how you taught me.’
‘Is that right?’ Joseph follows his finger and looks at me. ‘How did you sleep?’ he asks.
The simple question feels loaded with meaning. ‘Good. Nice. Okay, yeah,’ I mumble. I have never been nervous before—have never let anyone close enough to me for their words to affect me so much. If anyone notices, they don’t say anything.
‘Great.’ He pinches his son’s cheeks. ‘Maybe we should always have you here if it means this little guy gets out of bed.’ They all laugh but I don’t because becoming a part of their family is so precious an idea to me, so beyond my reach, it seems cruel for them to tease me so easily with such a prospect.
‘I should probably get going soon,’ I say, even though I don’t want to but it’s difficult to sit here and not have his full attention; to watch them being so carefree. ‘Are you sure they didn’t mind that I stayed here?’
‘No. In fact, Sister Ann said that if we needed you to babysit again, that would be fine. She thinks it’s a great idea.’ The three of them look at me, waiting for an answer, as if it isn’t obvious already.