No Good Asking

by Fran Kimmel

  He needed her to tell him it was enough, as if he could not see the stinginess of her heart, as if she had actually earned the right to make such a pronouncement. His trust in her was astounding.

  She tried anyway, to sound convincing. “We can use Sammy’s old stocking with the hole in the toe, stuff in some tissue. It’s at the bottom of the decoration box.”

  “I’ll get it,” he said, slipping out their bedroom door. She sat down where he’d sat, letting the warmth that he’d left seep under her skin.

  When he got back, they wrapped the last of the presents. Ellie was humbled by Eric’s choices, the perfectness of the colours and how he’d selected the right size.

  For the sweater, they dug up an old Sears box and used the end-of-the-roll mistletoe paper. Ellie folded the ruby red cardigan in tissue, soft as a dove with its velvet piping and patch pockets. Hannah’s jacket went into a large Gala Apples box wrapped in silver glitter paper and a sparkly bow. The jacket was a lovely aqua blue with fur around the collar, a zipper and snaps to keep the cold from seeping through, and extra deep pockets to hide treasures.

  After several false starts, Eric wrote on the tag, “To keep you warm. Your friends, The Nylands.” There was no room for more and no right words anyway.

  Part Five

  This Inexplicable and Titanic Shift

  Tuesday, December 24

  Twelve

  Ellie looked out their frosted bedroom window at the driving snow. A single raven perched on the telephone line, head tucked in close, feathers fanning behind like a peacock’s. The ruthless north wind had risen with the sun, hours ago now, its bitter bite of eddies and undertows, gorging on anything not properly tied down. Eric had strung a safety line between the house and the barn for times such as these, times when you could so easily lose your way. God knows it had happened before in this county: Erdman Croeger got his Ski-Doo turned around in a blizzard and drove it in circles until it ran out of gas. They found him the next morning, miles from the Ski-Doo, trudging through the deep snow, half-naked, recognizing nothing and no one. He survived another week before his frozen heart stopped beating, just days before his seventy-first birthday.

  Ellie stared at the tattered raven. She couldn’t understand the mechanics, how the bird stayed upright, its skinny claws attached to the wire. Or the cows out further in the Jorgensen field, beached whales, still as ice sculptures. How did they endure it, hour after hour, no barn or windbreak to protect them from the worst? She was grateful for their solid walls, as dry as brushwood, and the warm air wheezing through the ducts from the overworked furnace.

  It had been a good day, finer than she ever imagined. Sammy and Hannah spent the morning building a fence around his Lego city with a stack of alphabet blocks they found in the closet of Hannah’s room. (Odd how Ellie thought of it as Hannah’s room now, Myrtle pushed against the wall like her straight-backed mannequin.) It thrilled Sammy to no end to create a barrier between what was his and the world’s. Hannah could not know this—she was not even twelve—but her instincts were uncanny when it came to Ellie’s youngest son.

  Daniel too seemed surprisingly merry. He had a spring in his step and a silly grin he didn’t try to hide. He kept running up and down the stairs, first for a box, then scissors, then scotch tape, then a ballpoint pen, yelling each time, No one come down, don’t come down, as if he hoped for a skirmish in front of his closed door.

  Eric had stayed unusually close, hovering over Sammy and Hannah, making excuses to stay near. He admired their alphabet fence, knocking on the gate, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf. He spread old newspaper on top of the coffee table and glued the ear back on the old reindeer that Myrtle had hammered out of wood decades ago.

  Every time Ellie glanced his way, Eric was busying himself with something new. First, he rearranged the lights on the highest branches, blues beside green, purples with yellows. Then he prowled about, stops and starts, filling the basin under the tree with the Pyrex cup and adding a splash to the poinsettias against the wall. He even got down on his knees and fiddled with Walter’s wobbling table leg.

  When he looked around to see what might come next, she asked him to give her a hand, and he rushed to the kitchen, grateful to have a job. They worked side by side, hips swaying to the classics, Hannah belting out the words in the background. “Let It Snow.” “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” They peeled potatoes and turnips; sliced onions and carrots; mixed the bag of cranberries with sugar and orange juice and a splash of bourbon, stealing swigs from the bottle and stirring the mix over the burner until berries popped like little guns going off. Eric brought the giant roasting pan out from under Walter’s bed and scrubbed it shiny with an S.O.S pad. The turkey was downstairs, dunked under cold water in the utility sink with a brick on top to keep it submerged.

  Ellie had crossed off almost everything on her two-page list, her movements uncomplicated and weightless as she glided through her morning from cupboard to drawer, fridge to stove, pantry to closet, Eric underfoot, the comings and goings of the children working through their important business. She forgot to tap her forehead or chant her ridiculous mantras, forgot to worry about Sammy’s future or Daniel’s collision course to manhood.

  Now she stood in front of their bed, surveying the stack of presents piled on the quilt. She had held back the stocking stuffers from Santa, bringing the rest out of hiding from the back of her closet. All that was left was to put them under the tree.

  At some small noise, she turned and found Hannah at the bedroom door, staring wide eyed, mouth open, not breathing. Hannah’s wonder made her laugh.

  “Come in. I could sure use your help.”

  Hannah stepped forward tentatively. “There’s so many,” she said.

  “I know, I know, it’s crazy.” Ellie threw up her hands. “We went kind of overboard this year.”

  “The paper is so pretty.” Hannah came nearer to the bed.

  Ellie smiled at her. “Don’t look too close. I’m not good with corners. We need to get all these under the tree. Want to help carry them into the living room?”

  Hannah jumped forward and scooped up a load of wrapped boxes and odd-shaped packages and shot off down the hall. She moved so fast that Ellie couldn’t fit in a word about where they should go under the tree: Sammy’s spaced so they were not touching; Walter’s hiding in the back, in case he started poking around with his cane, recognized his name, and started tearing off the paper. No matter, she could rearrange the gifts tonight after Hannah and the others had been put to bed.

  A piece of wrapping had come undone on Sammy’s new pajama box, so she searched through the drawer of her night table for a roll of scotch tape.

  Hannah was back in an instant, ready to fetch more.

  “What’s Sammy doing?” Ellie had her head in the drawer. It was a delicate balance with Sammy. She did not want him so overwhelmed by glitz that he’d turn sour on the whole idea. “Is he sniffing around the tree?”

  “Is he allowed?” Hannah asked.

  “Of course he’s allowed.” Ellie thought it strange to be asked, as if she ruled over every little thing. She found the tape at last and turned to face the girl.

  Hannah could not tear her eyes from the pile of gifts on the bed. “Sammy is in his room. He’s drawing another picture. Should I go get him?” she asked, clearly not wanting to, as if the presents might disappear.

  “No, no, just wondering, that’s all.” Ellie wasn’t used to a girl underfoot, pointing out ribbon and bows, scrambling to be helpful. Should I wash the dishes? Does the cheese go in a Ziploc? Which knife should I use? Where do these newspapers go? Should I go get Sammy? Her questions were exhausting. But then it was more than that: they required Ellie’s attention, all of it, forcing her back into this world.

  The jacket box had caught Hannah’s eye, the largest of the gifts, and Hannah reached out to test its weight. “I’
ll take this one by itself,” she announced before skipping away.

  Ellie ripped off a piece of tape and pressed it into the fold of Sammy’s pajama paper. When she pulled it taut, it tore a jagged hole right down Rudolf’s flank. Cursing, she started over with a new piece of snowflake-patterned paper from the box under the bed.

  It took several minutes to get the wrapping just right. And Hannah? The girl was taking so long she could have marched into the forest and back out by now. When she finally re-entered the room, Ellie saw her spark had disappeared, her steps heavy and dragging.

  “That present had my name on it,” Hannah said, more a question.

  Ellie smiled. “It did? Imagine that.”

  Hannah stared at Ellie without blinking, then leaned over and checked the rest of the tags. “And this one does too.” Her cheeks were pale and shadowed. What on earth could be wrong with her?

  “Are you okay, Hannah?”

  She was biting her lip. “You got me a present,” she announced, a warble in her voice. “You got me two.”

  “Of course we got you a present.” Ellie tried to ignore the mounting disappointment, both hers and the girl’s. She had wanted this to be a nice surprise. “It’s nothing much. Just a little something for Christmas this year.”

  Hannah seemed unable to move, uninterested in carrying another armload to the tree.

  “If we had more time, we would have done more,” Ellie said. Would she? Or would she have let her petty fears, wrapped round and round and round, leave no extra room under the tree?

  They didn’t look at each other, Hannah rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, Ellie biting her lip, drumming her twitchy fingers along the sides of her thighs.

  Finally, Hannah said, “Do you know where Eric is?”

  “He’s not in the living room?”

  Hannah shook her head, running her finger along the top of the quilt. “I need to ask him something.”

  Ellie blushed. It was as if she’d been caught on video throwing the goddamn lotions on the checkout counter.

  “Hannah, what is it? You can ask me. You can ask me anything.”

  Hannah stood next to Ellie for the longest time, her pointy elbows sticking out, hands cupping her chin. She sucked air through her teeth, lips parted.

  “That’s okay,” she said with conviction. “I’ll go find him.”

  Ellie watched her go, the world spinning a little, pulling her sideways.

  —

  Eric was not one of those idiots who thought, We’ll have a kid, it will fix the marriage. God knows, that’s what wrecked them in the first place, all their relentless trying. But this was more. It wasn’t this girl herself, or where she’d come from, but the string of moments between before-her and now. It was this inexplicable and titanic shift in their world as he knew it, and in the people he loved, as if they had collectively dropped into a new country like tourists. The boys seemed to have a renewed interest in each other and the things around them. There were whispers, teasing, high-fives in the air. Sammy had found his pastels, no longer satisfied to draw amoebas in caves. Since the shadow puppets, he’d become interested in animals again, stringing happy cows and tigers along sunlit fields. He took his time, adding crooked but bold Sammy signatures before shooting each coloured page under Hannah’s door.

  Daniel had crawled into the cramped space under the stairs in search of the old Crokinole game. Then he’d lugged it up to the kitchen table, insisting they play in teams, Daniel and Hannah against the parents, and then mixing it up, girls against boys.

  But it was the changes in Ellie that unsettled Eric the most. She would announce matter-of-fact things like It’s only another few days or Of course she’ll be gone soon. But there was a glaring incongruence between her tossed-off words and the way her eyes followed Hannah from room to room, the way her shoulders relaxed and her face softened when Hannah was down on the floor with Sammy, or huddled beside Daniel and the iPad, or hovering over Walter and his puzzle.

  It was nothing he could articulate on a witness stand. My wife is different, Your Honour. There’s a girl in my house and it’s changed her. I’m afraid of what will happen when we send her away. A judge could question his hypothesis ad nauseam, but Eric could not be more precise. He could only stare into the future blankly, the most unreliable of witnesses.

  Now here he was in the van, Hannah seated beside him with her hands on her lap. It was the day before Christmas and he was taking her back to that house. Every cell in his body screamed bad idea, but by this point, the girl could have asked him to pluck down a star and he’d have found a way.

  She would only say she needed to get a few things. She said it was important or she wouldn’t have asked.

  He offered to take her into town instead, to buy whatever it was she wanted, but she adamantly declined. It was her bedroom she needed to get to.

  When he’d called Betty, she’d said, Well, of course, Hannah has the right to retrieve her belongings. But she should go with one of the constables! When he told Betty that Hannah didn’t want that, Betty said more sternly, She’s the child, Eric. You need to tell her what’s best.

  He’d already tried that. He’d explained to Hannah that the police had to escort her; he could call them right away. When she shook her head, he reminded her that Nigel Wilson would be there. She had just looked at him without blinking and said, But you’ll be there too.

  —

  Hannah could barely breathe. She told herself she would not be scared because she was doing the right thing. Eric was unhappy about taking her back, Ellie even more so, and their disapproval had nearly stopped her. But they’d gone to so much trouble to make her feel special. There were presents under the tree, beautifully wrapped and just for her. Two, not one.

  They were only going across the road, driving not walking, so that she could load up with as much stuff as she wanted. She promised herself she wouldn’t cry. She’d get in and out, quick as a wink; steer clear of Nigel as she ran up the stairs. She knew exactly what to look for and where to find it. Eric had promised to stand guard at the front door, although he hadn’t said a word since they’d stepped into the van. She wished he would promise one more time.

  As they pulled into the driveway, Eric blew air out of his mouth and stopped the engine. “Are you sure about this?” He didn’t take his eyes off the house. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  Hannah undid her seat belt and pushed open her door. She placed both feet on the uneven ground, lungs filling with frozen air. Eric was beside her then—she would not cry—and as they walked side by side to the front door, she reached for his hand.

  She didn’t ring the bell, just walked right in, Eric now behind her, his hand on her shoulder.

  Nigel came out of the kitchen but just barely. He stayed on the far side of the living room. His eye was ringed with purples and greens, and the side of his face bulged like he had stuffed an orange in his cheek. There was a cut above his lip. He looked frightened to see them standing there. Whether he was afraid of what he’d done to her in the cellar, or what Eric might do to him now, she had no way of knowing. She felt a moment of guilt seeing him like that, so shrivelled, but then she thought about Mandy and her teeth clenched.

  Nigel kneaded a tea towel in his hands. She wanted to run upstairs, like she’d planned from the get-go, but she couldn’t make her legs move.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” Nigel said. “I’m not allowed to be around her. Or you.”

  “She’s not staying.” Eric squeezed her shoulder to let her know he was still there. “She just needs to pick up a few things.”

  Nigel wouldn’t look at her; he focused instead on Eric, who towered behind her. “So she’s with the Nylands now. One big happy family.”

  “She’s with us over Christmas.” Eric’s voice sounded different. Mean. “You didn’t leave her a choice.�
��

  Nigel cupped his hand over his swollen cheek. “You always did get what you wanted, Eric. Things always turn out for you in the end.”

  Eric moved beside her, feet planted wide. She could see his hand clenched into a tight fist. Nigel could see it too, dropping the tea towel, stepping back until he stood pressed against the grandfather clock. None of them said a word. Eric and Nigel just stared at each other, until Nigel finally said, “Hannah, take your reindeer sweater. It’s Christmas and you always liked that one best.”

  She wanted to scream at him. It was the sweater her mother had knit her. She’d outgrown it ages ago. She didn’t even have it anymore. Eric pushed her a little. “Go,” he said. “Go get your things now.”

  That was all her legs needed. She flew up the stairs and into her room, shut her door, and leaned against it, panting. She could hear no thumping below, no creaking on the stairs, no Mandy there to greet her. Move, Hannah. She dug her nails into her palms until she winced. Then she was down on her knees, pulling out the box from under her bed, then at her dresser, opening drawers, the lid of her jewellery box. She worked quickly, lining her treasures in a row along her mattress.

  For Ellie, her most prized possession: 150 of the Most Beautiful Songs Ever, the book her mother had saved weeks for. When it arrived in the mail, her mother cried out, It’s here, it’s here, which made Hannah cry too. Every night before bed, her mother let Hannah choose which songs to sing. “Climb Ev’ry Mountain,” “Fly Me to the Moon,” “A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes,” “These Are a Few of My Favourite Things.” Her mother seemed so close she could feel her breath in her ear.

  For Eric, the wooden key holder she’d made at Brownie camp. Her painted hearts were less than perfect, not nearly enough, but there were three solid hooks for his always-missing keys.

  Her toy kaleidoscope was for Sammy, a present from a man in a broken wheelchair at Sunnybrook. She put her eye to the hole and turned the cylinder to be sure it still worked. They were all still inside, bits of spinning glass Sammy could find patterns in.