In Between Dreams

by Iman Verjee

  He turned away. ‘I loved you too, you know. More than I ever loved anyone.’ He looked out at the pond, remembering them as young as they used to be. He remembered how she had looked the day he had asked her to marry him. She was wearing a dark pink dress and her hair was in curls because they had just been to the fair and he had won her a pillow in the shape of a diamond ring. The real one had burned in his pocket all day. ‘You were my best friend.’

  ‘How did we get to this place?’ she asked, looking over at Frances.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I can’t stay with you, James,’ she said, her hand on his knee and her voice resolute. ‘Not this time. I’m sorry.’ She leaned in and kissed his cheek, pressing her forehead to the sweet circle of heat it left there. He could have trapped her face and kissed her if he had wanted, but he no longer had the energy and wasn’t sure anymore that it would work. He caught the smell of her; lavender. He had forgotten and to remember it now was too painful.

  ‘I wanted to give you this.’ She pulled out a small picture frame from her purse and handed it to him. He turned it over in his hands. It was one of the four of them; him, his parents and Alison. ‘I must have accidentally put it in my suitcase that night.’ She stood up, pushed his hair back. ‘Goodbye.’

  It was only when she had disappeared back around his house and he heard the loud rev of her engine that he turned back to the photo. It had been taken only a few days before Alison had died and the glow in his mother’s eyes made him smile even now. He had made the frame out of old bits of pasta and glue, while his mother lay almost dead upstairs with sorrow. She hadn’t moved in the days following Alison’s funeral and he had thought it would make her feel better. But she had hardly looked at it and so he went downstairs and put it on the mantle, sitting all night in front of it and asking God to forgive him.

  When the tears came now, they were fast-flowing; muddled and confused and he wasn’t sure who he was crying for. Perhaps he was mourning for everyone; for the time gone by, the mistakes made and the regrets accumulated. For the simplicity of that other time and for all that they had lost and could never get back.

  That night, at dinner, he asked his mother if she wanted to come back home with him.

  ‘Really?’ She dropped her fork and her face sagged in relief. He felt guilty for not having thought about it before.

  ‘Yes. I can’t leave you alone here.’ I don’t want to be alone there anymore.

  She turned to Frances, who sat in her highchair, bouncing. She was always moving now. ‘Did you hear that, sweetheart? Grandma is coming to live with you.’

  He tried to smile at the two of them. To have someone else’s hands on his daughter—it was something he would have to get used to.

  It took two weeks for them to pack up the house. Marienne never came back and he didn’t try to find her. He didn’t want to spoil her life any more than he already had. When they finally locked up, standing back to look at the towering, lonely house, the years of his adult life fell upon him. He couldn’t recall how he had got to this point in his life, only that he had promised himself he never would.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he asked his mother, rolling the key around his hand. She nodded and leaned her head against his shoulder.

  ‘I’m going to miss him,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’ The key slipped into his pocket, the cool metal pressing against his skin through the thin material of his trousers. ‘I’m going to miss him too.’ He continued to stare up at the empty house. It looked heavier without anything in it. Maybe now. Maybe after all of this, I can make it right.

  They walked over to his car, crunching feet over the gravel. They got in and he let his mother securely fasten Frances into her car-seat. Then he turned the car quickly, pulling out of the driveway, staring back at the fading house in his rearview mirror until there was nothing there but air.

  ‌30

  ‌Whitehorse, Yukon. December 1992

  I discover a missing childhood when I’m with Alex. A world in which everything is equally new and exciting—nothing is tainted. In his company, I color outside of the lines and marvel at my masterpiece. I spend hours watching talking ducks with lisps and gray rabbits dodging death. Nothing matters except what we are doing in the moment. His life hops along with a carefree loveliness that I seem to have skipped over.

  ‘That’s enough T.V.’ Nova comes into the living room. ‘Come here and help me with this cake.’

  Alex jumps over me, grabbing my hand in the process and dragging me into the kitchen. The smell of the hot, waiting oven is a familiar one in this house. During the past two weeks, I have spent most of my time with them. Being here changes me; I become giddy and fun. I talk without reserve, never worrying that they will send me away. I am never quiet, always moving but calmer than I can ever remember being. Here there is nothing to worry about. Everything is simple, straightforward and right.

  She gives me the icing to whisk and after a minute I scoop up a finger of chocolate mix and touch it to Alex’s nose. He squeals and Nova laughs, shaking her head.

  ‘That’s to eat, not to play with,’ she scolds us lightly but rolls her own finger in the bowl and drags a streaking line across her son’s cheek. He yells and scurries under the table. Nova and I share a secret grin. Sometimes, I adore him as much as she does.

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ she asks, taking the mixture from me and expertly whisking it, the chocolate light and giving under her hand where it was hard and stiff beneath mine.

  ‘They’re having a Christmas lunch at the Academy,’ I say.

  ‘You and the other five people left?’ she smiles. There is a jest to her demeanor now that she trusts me. She teases her son and husband endlessly and has recently started doing the same with me.

  ‘Exactly.’ I stick my finger in the bowl, narrowly missing the whirring motion of the whisk and I steal some to eat. Like everything she cooks, the taste is hers alone. ‘I could eat your food all day,’ I say.

  ‘Then come home for lunch tomorrow, if they’ll let you,’ she says. ‘I’m making a feast.’

  I purr at the invitation, never tiring of being included in their activities. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. You can even help me cook.’ She glances at me from the corner of her eye. ‘And by that, I mean wash the dishes.’

  I giggle. ‘Okay. I’ll ask.’ But I know, even if they say no, I’ll find a way of making it.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Is it just the three of you?’ I ask.

  Her hand movements slow down. ‘This year, yes. I don’t think my brother and his wife will be joining us.’ She takes a napkin and rubs some margarine on it, coating the baking tray.

  ‘What happened?’

  The mixture bends and folds as she pours it in without spilling a drop or letting it touch the edges of the tray. She pushes it into the oven and closes it with her foot. Alex is playing with an imaginary plane that flies in between my legs and around our waists.

  ‘When I was younger, I used to live on a farm.’ She sits down, pulls out a stool for me. She catches Alex as he sprints around her, pulling her to him even as he tries to escape. ‘Not so loudly, darling,’ she murmurs. Then she turns back to me. ‘It’s not far from here—about an hour or so away. I remember once a month we used to come into the city for the Farmer’s Market. My mother was the best saleswoman you ever saw. She could sell meat to a vegetarian.’ She chuckles and I smile with her, afraid she will stop. But she is lost in her thoughts, letting the words fall and land where they will. ‘When she died last year, she left the farm to my brother and me. He wants to sell it—well his wife does anyway.’ Her chest heaves. She puts her head in her palm and tilts it toward me. ‘But I can’t seem to let it go. The more I think about losing it, the more I want Alex to grow up on it, like I did. Or at least to be a part of it.’

  ‘That’s why you’re always going to his house.’ I know they go there at least once every two weeks. Sometimes they stay there an hou
r or two, sometimes most of the night, but Nova always comes back altered; tired and snappish and lost in her own world.

  She plays with a dishcloth. ‘We used to be so close, but now,’ her words fail. ‘It’s hard to be around him. Greed can do a lot of damage to a person. I hardly recognize him anymore.’

  ‘That’s why Joseph goes with you?’

  ‘Yes.’ At this, she smiles lovingly. ‘He’s very good with them. Keeps his cool when I can’t. You know how he is.’

  I feel an acute stab of guilt at this. You know how he is. Though I have come to like Nova, my feelings for Joseph differ; they are stronger and much deeper. When he is at home, I can hardly open my mouth to speak to him but always wait in the hope that he will address me. Invite me to stay for a cup of hot chocolate and look at me in that certain way of his, like everything I say is worth something. I shift in my seat.

  ‘Do you want some tea?’ I ask.

  ‘That sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day.’

  I move around the kitchen as if it were my own; the wood cabinets and their large, silver knobs feel like home under my hands. I put two steaming cups in front of us. She plays with the string on the tea-bag.

  ‘You’ve been a big help to me, Frances,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry I was harsh with you before.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ I feel guilty about my feelings for Joseph; she is being so kind to me and I have come to admire her, to care about their family in a way I had not expected. The tea sits uneasily in my stomach.

  ‘So what are your parents doing for Christmas?’

  It’s been days since I have thought about him. He called me at the Academy a few days ago but I was rushing out of the door to meet Joseph and I told Sister Ann to tell him I would call him back. By the time I had the chance, he was already far from my mind. This growing distance between us saddens me but at the same time, there is a freedom in not needing to hear from him. ‘They’ve gone to visit my aunt in Toronto,’ I lie.

  ‘You’re not so homesick anymore,’ she says, as if she can read my mind. ‘I can tell.’

  ‘I’ve gotten used to being without him,’ and then hastily add, ‘them’. I glance at her to see if she has caught my slip but she sees nothing odd in what I have just said.

  ‘It’s been a while since you’ve seen them.’

  I nod. Talking about him makes me miss him again. Thinking of Nova’s mother and her estranged brother, the sadness in her face as she spoke about him, makes me realize how much a part of me he is. I will never be able to get away from that feeling and I’m not sure I ever want to. ‘It’s been about four months.’

  ‘I’ve made you sad.’ She gets up to hug me. I press my face into the shoulder of her cardigan and clutch her arms, grateful for the comfort.

  I pull away and try to smile. ‘I really hope you get to keep your farm. I hope you and your brother stop fighting.’

  She tucks my hair behind my ear, gathering it up into a neat ponytail and then letting it fall. ‘Of course we will,’ she says. ‘He’s family and if there’s one thing we can never stop caring about, it’s the people who were there with us from the beginning.’ She pats my cheek. ‘He’ll realize it soon enough. Come on, let’s go see what that little one is up to.’ Then she stretches out her hand and I reach out for it, jumping off the stool and holding onto her so tight, I’m surprised she doesn’t pull away in pain.

  When I get back to the Academy, my head spins with joy when I see Joseph’s car parked near the fountain. I wonder where he is and if I can catch him before he leaves. Maybe he is down by the river again, collecting logs for his sculptures. From one of the windows, Sister Ann leans out.

  ‘Frances, you’re back. Come on in—we’re just about to start a game of charades if you want to join.’

  Before I go in, I stop at the steps of the entrance and today, I look at the school in a different light. It looks like it’s smiling at me, opening its wide door to welcome me in. It is no longer strange or scary to me, rather, I can’t remember what it felt like to be out of place here, so sure are my feet on this paved driveway, my hand on the door handle. Sister Ann’s words come back to me. Pretty soon it’ll feel more like home than home does. Four months ago, I had scoffed at the idea but now I am stunned to see that she was right.

  ‘Frances.’ He comes down the driveway as I thought he might. He is holding some large logs and though they must be heavy, as usual, he doesn’t look like he’s struggling.

  ‘Let me help you,’ I say, almost running to him.

  ‘Are you sure you can hold one?’

  ‘Yes.’ The wood is rough in my hands and again, I wonder how he made the smooth table in the kitchen, its perfect chairs, out of this plain, splintered piece of wood. I help him put them in his trunk and then he slams it shut and leans against it with a large exhale.

  ‘I love the forest in the winter,’ he tells me. ‘Wet wood makes the best material.’ He wipes his hands with that green rag that is always in his pocket. ‘Where have you been?’ he asks.

  ‘At your house, baking a cake for tomorrow.’

  ‘Nova makes the best cakes,’ he says. ‘Are you coming for lunch?’

  ‘I’ll ask.’

  He ruffles my hair and I almost catch his wrist there. ‘Great, I’ll see you then.’ He starts toward his car and stops. ‘Oh, while I have you.’ He takes something out of his pocket and hands it to me.

  ‘What is it?’ I turn it around in my hand. The wood is a myriad of different browns; soft and light all over but a dark, rich red within its swirling grooves. It’s perfectly smooth; every line and shape unbroken so it looks like it was found that way, belying the obvious effort that must have gone into making it. It’s a small sculpture of four bodies intertwined by their hands, forming a tiny circle, their heads bent low and close together.

  ‘Alex and I made it.’ He points at the two taller figures. ‘That’s Nova and I,’ his finger falling to the shortest one. ‘That’s Alex,’ slowly rising to one that is a little taller. ‘And that is…’ he pauses and my heart flutters in my chest.

  ‘That’s me?’ My voice is barely audible.

  ‘Exactly.’ He looks so beautiful, grinning down at me, that it makes me wish away time. I want the world to close in on us here, to draw still, yet my happiness is tinged with the sad knowledge that the end of this moment is inevitable. Very soon, all the students will be returning. School will resume and I won’t get to see them as often as I do now.

  ‘It’s so lovely.’ I don’t know what else to say. It takes my breath away and I slowly touch the figure that is meant to be me; me being a part of something.

  ‘My pleasure.’ His voice is deep and full. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  I watch him drive away and when he is gone, I can’t resist pulling the statue out and looking at it again. Every time I touch it, it sets off a feeling so strong and good in me that I store it somewhere in the corner of my heart and tell myself never to forget it.

  When I get to their house the next afternoon, Nova is laying the table. It’s bursting with flavors and colors; pink cranberry, sweet potatoes that are orange and steaming and the turkey sits in the middle, a perfect golden-brown. She puts down a small vase of roses as the centerpiece. She is all about the small touches, that little extra something.

  ‘Great, you’re here.’ She gestures toward the kitchen. ‘Alex tried to sneak a little gravy and he’s spilled some on his pants. Will you help him change, please?’

  ‘Sure.’ I love when she enlists my help; the wry smile we share whenever Alex has done something wrong.

  I take him upstairs into his room.

  ‘Did I spoil them?’ he asks.

  I open his cupboard, pull the second drawer out. ‘Of course not. We’ll wash it and it’ll come right out. Just take those off.’ I rummage through the pile and when I find a similar match, I turn around with them in my hands.

  My heart catches in my throat. ‘Alex.’ I try to speak, but a throbbing shame burns my
mouth. I wonder why, since I have done nothing wrong.

  ‘Alex!’ Nova is at the door, rushing at her son. ‘I’m sorry, Frances,’ she seems embarrassed as well, but not angry. Not upset with me. She pulls his underwear up, turns his face toward her. ‘You can’t do that, sweetheart,’ she says to him. ‘There are some parts of us we have to keep covered in front of other people. Remember I told you that?’

  He looks ready to cry; his face has gone puffy and his lip trembles. I want to comfort him, but there is something that holds me horribly still. There are some parts of us we have to keep covered. There are some parts of us that are private, that can’t belong to anyone. I hold onto the cupboard and breathe deeply. An idea is forcing its way into my mind but I don’t want it there. I don’t want to see. I’ll never be able to go back if I do. I give Nova the pants and she helps Alex put them on. When he is finished, I kneel beside him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  I take his face in my hands, pull him close to me. ‘You did nothing wrong,’ I say, trying to convince us both. I’m glad for his cheek against my mouth so she won’t see the way it’s shaking, the way my throat constricts and chokes, trying to hold my tears back.