In Between Dreams

by Iman Verjee

  ‘That’s great.’ I reach for her hand and she takes it, squeezes it.

  ‘Thank you. We’re so excited. He’s decided he wants nothing to do with it so he’s given his share to us.’

  My smile is beginning to waver; I think I know what they are about to tell me but I don’t let myself imagine it. Suddenly I want to be anywhere but here. I can’t speak, so Nova carries on talking.

  ‘Remember I told you,’ I start shaking my head, no, you can’t say it. Please. But she carries on regardless. ‘I told you that I want Alex to grow up on the farm like I did.’ My eyes go to Joseph and he is watching me sympathetically. ‘So—’

  ‘You’re leaving.’ I say bluntly.

  ‘Yes.’

  We sit that way in silence and when I look at them again, I see it. They are a family; the three of them. I’m just an outsider who has been lucky enough to be invited in, asked to sit on this couch and be near them.

  ‘When?’ It’s all I can do to keep calm; asking the mundane questions, hoping that the real issue will disappear.

  ‘We’re going to start moving everything in a couple of weeks, so perhaps by the end of the month.’

  ‘What about your job?’ I ask Joseph.

  ‘I gave in my resignation today.’

  ‘That’s why you went to see Sister Margret.’

  Strange that this little fact that he went to see her for something else, that I was just a side thought, should be the thing to hurt me the most.

  ‘Yes.’

  I can feel myself getting angry but remind myself that I have no right over them; they are not mine to keep. Not mine to love. ‘That’s wonderful for you.’ I speak through the blockage in my throat.

  ‘We’re going to miss you,’ Nova says. It’s not enough.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘It’s getting late.’ He shifts on the couch. ‘You have school tomorrow, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I speak through a painful daze; he looks distorted and angular. His voice seems menacing. It doesn’t suit him and it scares me. There is a black pool of fear spreading like spilled ink in my chest, coating my organs with poison.

  ‘Let me drive you back.’

  ‘I’ll walk.’ I get up.

  ‘Frances, it’s dark and cold.’ He has come closer; he is clear again, his eyes are concerned. ‘I’m driving you back.’

  At the door, I hesitate with my jacket hugged close to me.

  ‘We’ll see each other before we go,’ she pulls me into a hug. ‘You can come over on the weekend. Help us pack.’

  ‘Okay.’ I ruffle Alex’s hair, he says goodnight to me and I bend down for him to give me a kiss. We all laugh, joined together in our affection for him, and this solidarity makes me feel more lonely.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Joseph ushers me out. ‘I’ll be home soon.’

  And I see her, with Alex held against her body, looking just as she did the first day I saw her; but now we smile at each other, she tilts her head and waves, goodbye, honey, before the door swings shut and she is gone.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  The question makes me jump out of my reverie; my head is leaning against the window and I stare out at the speeding tarmac falling beneath the wheels. Slowly being destroyed, car by careless car, and it doesn’t know how to escape.

  ‘What?’

  His eyes are trained on the road. ‘I know we’ve all gotten pretty close recently.’ The profile of his face, half-lit by light, part in shadow, gives him a devastating sharpness. I want to trace my finger down the dangerous slope of that cheekbone, travel all the way down to the slender neck.

  I turn away, reminding myself that it’s wrong to think of him that way. ‘Yeah. We have.’

  ‘And I know it’s sudden—this move,’ he shrugs apologetically. ‘But with it being the beginning of January, it just seemed like the perfect time for a new start. Before we lost our nerve.’ He shakes his head, gives a strained laugh. ‘Change can be a terrifying thing,’ he says. ‘I’ve lived here all my life—I can’t imagine myself without it.’ He pulls up outside the school, turns off the ignition.

  ‘So why don’t you just stay?’ I try to compose my voice.

  ‘Alex,’ he says. ‘Nova has always wanted him to grow up there, to go to the school she went to. She’s a romantic.’

  ‘What about you? Aren’t you scared to leave your home?’

  He shifts onto his side so that he is facing me. I can’t bear to look at him so I continue staring straight ahead. He exhales through his nose. ‘Life won’t stay the same way forever, you know. Something is bound to shift and that’s the beauty of it. You grow up, you get married, you have children,’ he pokes me on the shoulder. ‘You meet unexpected people.’ I can’t help but smile and his grin grows wider. ‘We’re here now, so change can’t be all that bad, can it?’

  ‘No,’ I say, finally facing him.

  ‘You’re a wonderful girl, Frances,’ he says to me. ‘Don’t forget that.’

  When my body starts to lean in to him, I think at first that I am going to kiss him, but instead, my arms go around his neck and I hug him tightly. My chin rests on his shoulder; it is a warm but formal embrace. There is such goodness in him, such kindness, that I can’t bear to ruin it. I don’t want to do something that will compromise him, that he will end up feeling guilty for even though I know he would push me away and it wouldn’t be his fault. I love him in so many different ways that it pains me to have him so close and know that he can’t be mine, but something in me is also calm in the face of this fact—it feels right that it’s this way.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. I don’t want to think about them leaving. I still have a month. ‘For everything.’

  I pull away and open the door but just before I leave, I turn back once more. There is something in his eyes that tells me no matter what hasn’t been said between us, he understands all of it.

  ‌35

  ‌St Albert. April 1989

  She had grown tall; he could feel the way her toes grazed his shin. She had never been able to reach there before. And her muscles felt hard in some places, rigid and uninviting.

  ‘How old are you now?’

  ‘You know how old I am, Daddy.’

  They were lying side by side on the picnic blanket Marienne had set out for them two hours ago, staring up into the sky. He looked straight into the sun until his eyes watered and his line of vision was nothing but tilting, dancing spots.

  ‘Eleven in a couple of weeks.’ Marienne sat down next to them, let her daughter’s head fall into her lap. He tried not to feel jealous. ‘What shall we do?’ She pretended to think, tapping her bottom lip. ‘I know. Let’s have a party.’

  Frances sat up straight. ‘Really?’ turning to her mother, ‘Like a real, grown-up party?’

  ‘Ask your father.’

  ‘Well?’ He heard her voice from above him but kept his eyes closed, his voice even.

  ‘What does a grown-up party even mean?’

  ‘It’s one where there are no parents.’ She poked him in the stomach. ‘You have to stay upstairs. Or in the basement, whichever you prefer.’

  He didn’t like it when she was like this; when she acted like he was nothing to her. ‘Why would you want that?’ he asked, trying to hide his snide tone. ‘Is there a boy you like?’ It was childish, he knew, juvenile and beneath him but he couldn’t help the way he felt.

  ‘No,’ she blushed, confirming what he had long suspected. She had been acting strange recently, always hovering near the phone, waiting for it to ring and when it did, she would pounce on it and there would be a momentary seizure of panic and then her face would relax. ‘Hello?’ he would hear her say in her practiced voice; in the slow and careful way Marienne spoke. And then someone would ask for him or Marienne and her face would drop and she would hand them the phone almost grudgingly, telling them not to take too long. And when they were finished, she would wrestle past them and go back to watching it. She took longer than usual to get ready f
or school and every time he drove her, she would fidget and play with her skirt, push her fingers through the roots of her hair.

  ‘You’re too young to care so much about the way you look,’ he told her once.

  ‘You don’t understand, Daddy,’ is how she replied and he hated the thought of this growing distance between them.

  She had been secretly his for six years. He knew every inch of her; that scar from when she had been riding her bike and it flew over a bump and she ripped her skin on the tarmac, or that beauty spot hidden in her scalp. He knew her from what she said, what she might say next; and he knew that her hair seemed longer at night, tangled around his wrists.

  She asked him once, at the beginning, what he was doing when she was facing the wall and her back was to him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You make funny noises.’ And the bluntness with which she had spoken had hurt him and he hadn’t touched her for three days. But then, when his guilt wore off, as it always did, he found himself back in her bed, holding her tightly and explaining.

  ‘Do you know what a snore is?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s the sound most men make when they’re sleeping. Because of this, here,’ he took her hand, pressed it to his Adam’s apple. ‘Sometimes we find it hard to breathe.’ Lying was not difficult anymore.

  The only difficult part of it was worrying that Frances might let something slip, that Marienne might catch on. He knew she would never believe it—how could she when he hardly believed it himself? ‘Remember, don’t say anything to mom and Bubbie about this,’ he would always whisper before he left her room. ‘It’s our secret, right? I’ll be very upset if you do.’

  ‘I won’t tell,’ she would say as she fell asleep. ‘I promise I won’t tell.’ and he knew she wouldn’t because she didn’t understand what was happening. Because he always held her on top of her clothes; it was a barrier he refused to cross. Yes, he loved running his hand over her smooth arms, touching his mouth to her neck, but he never went further than that. He pressed her against him, feeling the fabric of her nightdress against the thin material of his pajamas and it was enough.

  But at ten, she was forgetting him as soon as he left her room. It was as if she didn’t think twice of what he was doing; perhaps she didn’t want to. Perhaps she loved him too much, trusted him implicitly and wouldn’t allow herself to know what was happening.

  ‘So, what’s his name?’ Marienne asked, making a face at James. He had his sunglasses on and pretended not to see her.

  ‘Sam.’ She covered her face with her hands, gave out a squeal. ‘I’m so embarrassed. Stop talking about it.’

  ‘Is he your friend?’

  ‘He’s on the dance team with Kylie.’ She couldn’t stop smiling.

  ‘Well, you have to invite him to the party,’ his mother said.

  ‘There isn’t going to be a party,’ he interrupted.

  ‘Of course there will. He’s just teasing,’ Marienne rubbed Frances’s shoulder.

  ‘No.’ He raised his voice; straightened his spine. Declared it loudly. ‘I’m not comfortable with the idea.’

  ‘James!’

  He ignored his wife. ‘Sorry, Fran. Maybe next year, when you’re older.’

  And they watched as she got up and stormed to the car, crossing her arms over her chest and trying not to cry. She had never been able to argue with him.

  ‘Come on, honey.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Annie. I said no.’ He got up, started clearing up the plates. He didn’t care that they were upset. The birthday would come and go and eventually they would forget about it. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’

  Two nights later, she said to him, ‘I don’t want to have the party anymore, anyway.’

  Marienne had already left for work and his mother was asleep. They could hear her sounds from the room next door and he was glad for the thin walls.

  ‘Why are we still talking about this?’ he said, annoyed, but then turning to her and seeing how her eyes dropped, how disappointed she was. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘Sam doesn’t like me,’ she told him.

  He felt a rush of relief. ‘I’m sorry. But I’m glad. I don’t want you spending time with any boys.’

  ‘I’m eleven, Dad. You can’t pretend I’m going to stay a child forever.’

  He looked at her face; the bones bending, forming and starting to fit into her features. ‘No,’ he said and his voice changed. ‘You’re definitely not a child. Look at you; at how beautiful you are.’

  She blushed at his tone. ‘You think so? Sam said I wasn’t his type.’

  ‘Sam sounds like a silly boy,’ he murmured, but had forgotten all about him already. His hands went to her hair, thick and strong in his fingers. ‘He’s obviously talking about someone else.’ He turned on his side so that they were face to face. ‘You have the most beautiful face.’ His fingers traced the freckles across her cheeks. ‘Those eyes are the bluest I’ve ever seen and this nose,’ pinching it slightly and she giggled. ‘It’s the nose of a queen,’ moving closer, moving her closer with his words. ‘And this neck,’ sliding his hand down to the hollow space there, pressing lightly. ‘And these shoulders, and these knees,’ she started to laugh as he tickled her behind her knee caps. He lowered his voice. ‘There’s nothing about you that’s ordinary.’

  ‘You think so?’ Her voice was hushed, pleased.

  ‘I know so.’ He smiled, his hand dropped from her. ‘Now come on, give me a kiss.’ And he offered up his cheek but she went for his mouth. It was something that terrified and excited him and the shock of it made him pull away. She was wide-eyed.

  ‘I’m sorry, was that wrong?’

  And he had the chance to do the right thing. He put his hand back up to her cheek and the words swelled in his chest and he felt an incredible and surprising pity for her. But the feeling of her on his mouth was lingering and strong and he couldn’t speak. When she did it again, it was long and sweet and clumsy and it changed everything.

  She acted strange with him in the days following. Every time he looked at her, her face became pinched and her eyes turned messy. She couldn’t speak to him without blushing. When he went to her room at night, he discovered she had started wearing lipstick.

  ‘What’s that for?’ he had asked, her lips plump and clownish.

  ‘It’s lipstick. Mom wears it all the time.’

  He gave her a tissue, couldn’t look at her when she was like that. ‘Please take it off.’

  ‘I thought you would like it.’ She looked ready to cry.

  ‘You’re gorgeous, just the way you are,’ he said to her. ‘You don’t need crazy colored lipstick to make people see that.’

  ‘I love you,’ she said. Not I love you, Daddy. Just, I love you, and it sounded strange but also true. As if she had plucked the confession straight from his heart and recited it back to him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You make me feel special.’ She said it and then buried her face in her pillow, kicking her legs against the mattress. He put his hand on her back to stop her.

  ‘That’s because you are.’

  She tilted her head up to him. ‘Do you love me?’ she asked, almost breathless.

  ‘Of course I do. You know I do.’

  ‘No,’ she hesitated. Stammered. ‘I mean, like a boy loves a girl.’

  And it wasn’t until she had asked him; it was only because she pointed it out, that he realized he did. That she was the one he could say anything to, do anything with. That around her, he wasn’t afraid—she knew the worst he had done and still she stayed. Still, she looked at him with those adoring eyes and despite everything that had happened between them, she made him feel clean. But she was his daughter and even if she didn’t know it, he knew it was wrong and the right thing to do would have been to tell her no, that he could never love her like a boy loves a girl because that wasn’t right. Instead, overcome, he nodded. ‘Yes.’

 
; ‘Me too.’ She spoke in a rush, jumped on him and his arms captured the length of her waist. There was no going back from this.

  It could have gone on forever; it could have finished in a day. That was the nature of their relationship; no one knew about it and so it was as if it didn’t really exist, or existed in another dimension that belonged only to them. It was their secret and they were in charge of it. She was a good actress; an even better liar than he was, and they could have probably carried on deceiving everyone if it hadn’t been for the flu epidemic that came sweeping in that winter. The stuffy noses, the sore throats and feverish skin, forcing everyone to their beds. Everyone but his mother. Instead, a heavy head and a burning throat led her to get up and go downstairs, into the kitchen, in search of an aspirin.

  It was a Saturday, which meant that Marienne stayed at the hospital for longer than usual. She came home around midnight, sometimes later, so he didn’t force Frances to button up her collar, didn’t take out the arm that was wrapped around her chest, tightly encased in her nightgown. He was curled up into her, his face buried in her neck. He must have been telling her a joke because she laughed but he couldn’t remember what it was because of what happened after. In the next ten minutes, Frances had fallen asleep. She grew hot against him and he pushed in closer to her, saying I love you, I love you, and then he heard the footsteps but it was too late.

  The door swung open quietly before he could pull away, and a beam of yellow hit his face and froze him. He saw his mother, watched her squint, but then she backed out and it was dark again. He wasn’t sure if she had seen them; was certain that she couldn’t have missed it, and he lay paralyzed against his daughter, his breath so short, he might not have been breathing at all. He wanted at once to forget that she had been there; if she asked him tomorrow, he could just pretend it had been a trick of the light, that she was getting old and seeing things. He could even get Frances to admit that she had snuck a boy into her room. But he had to know now and this urge pushed him out of the bed, even though he thought he was going to be sick from the fear. He buttoned his trousers with shaking hands, pulled on his T-shirt and then without thinking, opened the door and let himself into his mother’s room.