Watch How We Walk

by Jennifer LoveGrove

  Please God, Jehovah, please don’t let them notice I’m gone. You know I’m just getting Lenora to come home. Please don’t let them worry any more. Please make this work.

  She takes a deep breath and unfolds the paper, chanting, Please let me find my sister. Please let me find my sister. If I can make Lenora come home, I promise I will always pay attention during every single meeting, even the assemblies. I won’t fidget anymore or daydream during sermons. Please just let me find my sister. And make her not be mad at me. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

  Emily’s hand no longer aches beneath her cast, and it’s due to come off in a week. Still, it takes her a little longer to do things with her hands, and her awkwardness frustrates her. She rallies what shreds of patience she has left and unfolds the page torn from the H section of the phone book, picks up the phone, drops in her coins, and dials the number for Lenora’s secret, worldly boyfriend.

  The phone rings four times.

  — Hello?

  — May I please speak to Theo?

  — You got the wrong Hansen. Try P. Hansen in the phonebook.

  Emily thanks him and digs in her pocket, hoping she’s brought enough change. She hadn’t planned for wrong numbers, but there are three Hansens on the same street. She dials P. Hansen’s number and again asks for Theo.

  — Yeah. That’s me. Who the hell’s this?

  — This is Emily Morrow. She pauses, cringing.

  — So?

  — I’m Lenora’s sister.

  — Like I said, so what?

  There is laughter in the background, shrill like a banshee. Emily doesn’t know if it is the television or a real person, but it is definitely not her sister. Lenora’s laugh is deep and full and sophisticated.

  — Well . . .

  — Spit it out, kid. What do you want?

  Emily rushes, spits it all out as fast as she can, before he laughs at her or hangs up or both.

  — I’m trying to find Lenora. Is she there? I’m not at home, I’m calling from a payphone, and I promise I won’t tell, she won’t get in trouble, I just need to know if she’s there, and I need to talk to her for a second. I’ll be really quick. It’s important. It’s an emergency.

  Theo laughs, but he doesn’t hang up. Not immediately.

  — Listen, kid. Your sister and me aren’t going out anymore. I don’t know where the hell she is, and I don’t give a damn. So you and your freak family can fuck off and leave me alone.

  The dial tone hums indifferently in her ear.

  Emily stares at the numbers on the telephone for a long time. Her hands are numb and she drags her coat sleeve across her nose.

  — I’m not crying, I’m not crying, I’m not crying.

  This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. This is what being punched in the stomach must feel like; this is what people must mean when they say, I got the wind knocked out of me. Emily lets the receiver dangle in the phone booth and puts her hands on her knees and leans over, breathing like someone who has been running for hours.

  A few cars zip past the truck stop, and Emily starts to breathe normally again, though she feels like she has just woken up and doesn’t know where she is. The incessant recording tells her to please hang up and try your call again. Emily shakes her head, hangs up the phone, and stuffs the page from the directory back into her pocket and, having no other great plan to find her sister, starts toward home.

  When she gets back, another couple of elders — Brother Maxwell and Brother Bouchard — are just coming up to the back porch, so she stashes her coat there and enters the house with them, as though she is letting them in. Her absence appears to have gone unnoticed.

  She pushes through all the men in the living room, past Brother Wilde pointing at the map with his pen, past the brothers pulling on their coats and getting ready to leave. She heads into the kitchen, where a clump of elders’ wives cluck and sigh and shrug.

  — Well, you know what I heard, don’t you?

  Sister Bulchinsky purses her lips, narrows her eyes, and glances sideways at the sister standing closest to her.

  — She was running with a worldly crowd, those freaky kids with the spiky hair and safety pins.

  — Bad associations spoil useful habits. Amen.

  Someone nudges Sister Bulchinsky and they stop talking and look at Emily, their eyes glassy, their heads tilted in pity.

  Stupid gossips, Emily thinks. They don’t even care about Lenora, not really; they’re only here so they don’t miss anything. Emily glares at each of them in turn. Sister Bulchinsky puts an arm around her and coos softly.

  — There, there, let’s pray together and ask Jehovah—

  Emily pulls away as though burned.

  — Don’t touch me!

  Her voice bounces off the fridge and stove and back toward her and it’s far louder than she meant it to be. She tries to walk away, but the kitchen is thick with grasping women and sniffling toddlers and she is surrounded; they all move as one, and she cannot escape the throng. They all stare at her.

  — Get out of my house! I hate you, I hate all of you!

  Like pillars of salt, they fall silent and unmoving, and Emily hears an echo of herself, someone unfamiliar and horrible.

  — Get out get out get out!

  Emily stops in the middle of the kitchen, looks down at the green and yellow linoleum, closes her eyes, and tries to pray silently to Jehovah. She wants to ask to be forgiven for hating her fellow sisters; hatred is a sin. But this time, praying doesn’t work. She cannot force the words out. She pretends to pray, but it doesn’t calm her down or make her believe that everything will be okay.

  — Oh, you poor lamb. Sister Bulchinsky clucks and sing-songs.

  — Everything will turn out fine in the end. Are you hungry? I left a tuna casserole in the fridge. Do you want some?

  Emily fights back the urge to scream or, better yet, throw all the dishes and cutlery — including the knives — at their heads. She doesn’t need their pity. They don’t understand Lenora, her beautiful and complicated sister, no one does. Except maybe Emily. At least, a little bit.

  — I hate tuna. She glowers over her shoulder and leaves the kitchen.

  In the living room, her dad has his arm around her mom, something Emily has rarely seen. The others organize who is driving where to look for Lenora. Some are going as far as King Street in the city, where all the record stores are. It doesn’t seem as though anyone heard her outburst in the kitchen, or if they have, they don’t say.

  — Excuse me, Brother Wilde. Emily taps him on the elbow and he starts, as though he hadn’t noticed her before. He looks at her, then at her parents, then back down to Emily.

  — Yes?

  — Which car will I be going in?

  — What do you mean, Emily?

  — Who am I going with to find Lenora?

  His arm flops down to his side and he looks back toward her parents.

  — You’re going to stay here, Emily. Her mom looks up at her from the couch.

  — But why? I have to go! I’ll find her! Emily squeezes her eyes tight, trying not to shout. She had truly believed that Lenora was just at Theo’s, and that he would tell her the truth, that they would be co-conspirators, together, for Lenora.

  She has to make up for that mistake.

  Her mom takes her hand and pulls her into the bathroom. She puts the seat and lid down on the toilet and sits. She pulls Emily onto her lap, and even though she is too old for that, Emily slumps against her.

  — We’re going to stay here in case Lenora, or someone with information, phones. We need to maintain a home base, okay? It’s the most crucial job of all.

  Emily doesn’t believe her but knows enough not to fight. She is tired of being told to stay home, to keep out of the way, to be quiet. She knows her sister best, so surely she should be the on
e to find her. But does anyone ask her to help? No. And so she must find Lenora herself. That will show them.

  Twenty minutes later the house is empty except for the two of them. The cushions are dented and askew, mugs sit half empty on the coffee table, there’s a pool of slush by the back door, and someone has dropped a black woollen scarf on the floor. When her mom goes into the bathroom and shuts the door, Emily knows exactly what she must do.

  She slips silently to the back door again, pulls on her boots, and gets her coat and hat from the porch, as well as the emergency flashlight they keep out there. This time she remembers her mittens. She puts them on as she runs across the back field toward the woods.

  The snow slows her down — it’s slippery and she falls once, bashing her knee against a rock, but scrambles up quickly, ignoring the pain. She knows her mom might see her from the kitchen, so she runs full speed and hopes she doesn’t look out the window. Once in the trees, she knows no one can see her.

  Emily has no plan. She thought she’d find Lenora because that’s how it should be — she deserves to be the one to find her. Now she has no idea how to do that. She decided on the woods out back because that’s where Lenora goes on long walks. And besides, no one else thought to look out there. She doesn’t know which path through the trees to follow first. The wind hisses through her coat, and so she decides to start walking in the same direction as the wind.

  Emily pulls her hood over her toque to shield her eyes from the late afternoon sun glaring off the snow, and thrusts her hands deep into her pockets. She walks for half an hour, finds nothing indicating that Lenora was recently there, finds nothing at all, but isn’t ready to give up. She yawns and slaps at her cheeks.

  — Keep going, keep going, keep going. She must stay alert, she must find a clue, just like Trixie Belden, who would never give up just because it’s cold out. Then again, Trixie always had Honey and Jim to help her, but today, in the woods, Emily has no one. She walks faster. The sun is behind the trees now, between layers of blue and yellow and purple — the colours of a bruise. There’s less than an hour left before it will be completely dark.

  The snow crunches where it had melted and frozen over again. Trees glint in the remaining light and she squints. Her only plan is to look for footprints. Her eyes scan the snow for Lenora’s Doc Marten imprints or anything indicating that someone has been trudging through there recently. Maybe Lenora found an abandoned cabin, once used by hunters, and she’s warm and dry, hiding out with her friends. Maybe Theo lied about breaking up, to throw her off. Even though Lenora’s not supposed to have a worldly boyfriend — or any boyfriend, for that matter — Emily doesn’t want to believe that they’ve broken up.

  — Concentrate, concentrate. She mumbles aloud as the leafless branches continue to shake around her, as though they’re trying to tell her something, as though they know something she doesn’t, and far past the trees, on some farm on the other side of the woods, a dog howls. Emily wraps her arms around herself and pulls her thick wool toque down over her ears.

  Please Jehovah, let me find Lenora’s footprints. Emily trudges along, counting her own steps as she prays. Let me find her footprints before it gets too dark. Please.

  35

  DJ MORG AT THE CAVERN. New Wave & Punk. Every Monday night. Dress code enforced.

  There was no lineup when I arrived. I checked the address on the flyer that Theo had dropped on the street. This was the place. My feet throbbed and my empty stomach gurgled in fear. I had never been to a place like that, or to any night club, and I was so nervous, I hadn’t eaten all day, afraid I might throw up. What if they didn’t let me in? What exactly did the dress code consist of? What was I supposed to do when I found Theo? He’d been so scared of me when we collided on the street. Maybe, because of all the makeup, he wouldn’t recognize me. I deserved another chance.

  The bouncer was impassive, his face, a boulder. He glanced at my identification and waved me in. I exhaled in relief and tossed my license back in my purse, not bothering to shove it in my wallet. I had been terrified that I may not pass the dress code. Inside, the lights were dark, with occasional flashes of blue or green or red. The music was loud and the bass rattled the floor. I didn’t recognize the song, and it was far too early for anyone to dance. There weren’t many people there yet, just a few ageing punks with mohawks playing pool, a group of girls in black eyeliner reading Tarot cards by candlelight in the corner, and a dozen or so others in black leather, crinolines, and army fatigues clustered around the bar.

  I felt conspicuous as I weaved between a handful of small tables along the sides. I hoped no one could tell what a fraud I was. Could they kick me out? What was I doing there?

  I locked myself in a bathroom stall for as long as I could stand it. The graffiti was the same as anywhere: who loves who, who’s an asshole, favourite bands, and pseudo-philosophical quotations. Despite my obsessive and pathological need for solitude, I wished I had a friend with me, someone who would encourage me to talk to Theo, and reassure me when I panicked.

  I’m scared. What do I do when I find him?

  You’re always scared. I already told you what to do.

  Pick up where you left off.

  That’s right. You owe me.

  The person next to me flushed the toilet. My cheeks burned. I hadn’t heard anyone else come in. I waited until she left before I came out, and washed my hands and smoothed my hair at the mirror. Then a girl with spiked pink hair and a pierced lip lumbered in. Her fishnets were torn and she had a bottle of beer in each hand. Black Label. She didn’t acknowledge me. A drink seemed a good enough way to kill more time until Theo showed up. I headed for the bar.

  It was the first beer I’d ever bought for myself. Despite all the drinks I served at work, I never stayed afterwards for a pint with Kameela and Grant and the other staff. They thought I was a freak, and I didn’t want to unintentionally do anything else to reaffirm their opinion.

  It didn’t taste as bad as I had expected, and I sipped it slowly, getting used to it, alone at a small bistro table on the edge of the dance floor. I had a good view of the entrance area and the bar, and watched more and more black-clad new wavers and punks arrive. I was relieved that I wasn’t the only person to show up alone; apparently it was the kind of place where it was cool to be solitary. People gradually straggled onto the dance floor, kicking their legs to guitar chords and slamming into each other. I didn’t know all of the songs, but I recognized a few from Lenora’s tapes or the radio, which was better than I expected.

  I craned my neck to survey the growing crowd around the bar. No sign of Theo. I didn’t want it to look so obvious that I was waiting for someone, but no one appeared to watch me anyway. They either chatted to one another in the booths along the sides of the club or stared at the floor while dancing. I went to the bar for another beer.

  — Thanks. I nodded to the bartender and dropped my change into the tip jar. Both his arms were covered in multi-coloured tattoos. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  — Black Label, huh?

  I looked behind me. My stomach turned inside out. The crowd cheered as the opening bass line from Alien Sex Fiend’s “I Walk the Line” boomed. Theo laughed. If he recognized me from last week on the sidewalk, he didn’t let on. I took a huge swig from my beer and nearly choked.

  — Easy there!

  — Uh . . . yeah. Black Label. I stared at him. He lifted his own bottle of Black Label.

  — Cheers.

  — Cheers. My heart beat so hard I thought my ribcage would shatter. I was grateful for the loud music.

  Theo held out his hand. He wore a plain black t-shirt, black jeans, and eight-hole boots like mine.

  — I’m Zack.

  Zack? Isn’t this Theo?

  Yes. He’s lying.

  Instinctively, I shook his hand, still staring at him in disbelief. His hand was rough and dry.
>
  — And do you have a name?

  — Uh, yeah. Sure.

  He watched me.

  — So what is it?

  I took a deep breath and exhaled.

  — My name is Lenora.

  36

  EMILY TAKES OFF HER MITTS and blows on her hands again to warm them, then struggles into the left one, tugging it over her cast. The light is now bright orange and dark purple and blazes through the trees as though chasing her, and the icy branches rattle dully in the wind. Her skin prickles and she shivers and trudges farther into the woods.

  If Lenora really is out here, Emily hopes she’s warm enough; there’s no smell of wood smoke in the air, and the ground is so cold it crunches when she walks. She hopes she found somewhere warm and dry to sleep, and has enough food. After three days, she must be hungry. Emily should have brought something for her to eat, even just a peanut butter sandwich. Why didn’t she think of that? Why can’t she do anything properly? She could have made a sandwich, even with her broken hand. Then again, maybe Lenora is just hiding out at some friend’s house like everyone keeps saying, listening to music and laughing at them all for trying so hard to find her.

  — You’d better not be!

  It feels good to say it aloud. Maybe Lenora doesn’t know how worried everyone is, or how much trouble she’s going to be in when she gets home. It’s better that Emily gets to her first, to warn her, to advise her on the best time to come back. Like tonight, while everyone else is out of the house. Lenora should say she was out walking in the bush and fell, hit her head hard on a rock and got amnesia, and that’s why she couldn’t remember how to get home. Emily’s familiar face would snap Lenora out of it, and they’d come home together like nothing had ever happened. Lenora will be impressed that Emily thought of that. Everyone will be so grateful to Emily for bringing her back, they won’t even be mad at Lenora anymore. Emily will be a hero.

  The wind whistles like a living thing and pushes at her back, coaxing her to keep looking. It’s almost dark, and Emily is glad she remembered the flashlight. The exhilaration of having escaped the house has worn off, and she fights off the fear that seeps through her coat and into her skin and chills her blood. She must be brave. Trixie Belden was never scared away from solving a mystery, and Lenora isn’t afraid of anything. Emily starts to sing to make herself feel stronger.