The Empty Room

by Lauren B. Davis

  “Thanks.”

  In the bathroom, Colleen ducked into one of the three stalls and sat down with her purse in her lap. She found the friendly bottle, unwrapped it from its plastic overcoat, opened it and tilted it to her lips. Just a little and she’d relax. She smiled. Colleen had never been a great test-taker. The vodka slipped down her throat and skipped along her nerve endings. She took three, four more drinks. Good Lord, was that half the bottle? But she hadn’t filled it, and there was the cranberry juice to consider.

  The bathroom door opened. Someone came in and walked to the stall next to the one Colleen occupied. Colleen stood, replaced the cap on the bottle, and flushed the toilet, even though she hadn’t used it. She thought a breath mint might be in order. She tucked the bottle under her arm and poked around in her bag. Yes, there was a blue plastic container of mints in a side pocket. As she reached for it she moved her arm a little. It didn’t take much, just a small unthinking adjustment, and the salad dressing bottle slipped. She felt it go and snatched at it, but was too slow. She watched it fall to the tile floor and as it fell she thought, Maybe it won’t break. Maybe it will just fall and I’ll be able to nab it and stuff it back in my bag with no one the wiser. Maybe it will be all right.

  The corner of the bottle hit the unforgiving tile and didn’t merely break, it exploded. Pink vodka flew everywhere. The woman in the other stall yipped, and for a moment Colleen feared a piece of glass might have struck her.

  Then the room went still. Fumes rose to Colleen’s nostrils, acrid and unmistakably alcoholic.

  “Is everything okay?” a woman’s voice said.

  “Fine, thanks,” said Colleen. The woman, whoever she was, didn’t respond, and Colleen felt obliged to explain. “I dropped a bottle of salad dressing.”

  A moment’s silence, and then “Bummer,” followed by a flush.

  Colleen looked down at the mess at her feet. A hunk of the bottle, with some fluid still inside, rested near her foot. She could actually picture bending down and lifting that unholy vessel to her lips, draining the last drop. She wouldn’t do that—she considered the possibility of glass in her gut and the horrible death that would result. She even understood how simply thinking such a thing was evidence of a certain degree of madness, but this had been, and continued to be, such a very bad day. A little madness could be expected. In fact, a little madness was kind of attractive just at the moment.

  COME AND GET IT!

  It was mid-October, three weeks after Colleen’s fourteenth birthday, and it had been a bad week. The bank had called every day, asking questions about unpaid mortgage and car payments. Colleen’s father stayed away four nights, from Monday to Thursday, and every night her mother sat in the basement TV room, smoking cigarettes and telling Colleen stories about what a bastard her father was, how he spent every paycheque on booze and other women and how, given his job as an airline executive, they should have been living high off the hog, but because of him, that weakling, they’d probably lose the house and Colleen would be sent to a foster home because she certainly wouldn’t be able to take care of her. This last comment was meant as a threat.

  Late Friday night of that week, Colleen was getting ready for bed in the upstairs bathroom, which always smelled of the bleach her mother applied to the surfaces each morning, vigorously trying to wipe out any trace of the pathogens she maintained lurked in every crevice. She heard her father’s key in the front door and the scramble of Pixie’s feet on the stairs followed by her yelps of greeting.

  “Well,” said her father. “Somebody’s happy to see me.”

  Colleen wondered if her mother would come up from the TV room and confront her father, but she didn’t, so Colleen went to the top of the stairs and waited. It would not please her mother if she went to her father, but she would stand where he couldn’t fail but see her. Pixie, butt wiggling, stumpy tail a blur, sidled from the vestibule and looked up at Colleen, mouth open, tongue lolling, as if to reassure her everything would be all right now.

  Peter Kerrigan stepped out after the dog, glanced around and caught sight of his daughter. He looked a little oily. His hat had flattened his dark, thinning hair and left a ridge on his forehead. His suit was rumpled.

  “Hey, pet, how’s my girl?”

  Colleen came down the stairs and hugged him. He smelled of whisky, cigarettes and the musty scent of commuter train and musk-laden perfume, which was so familiar. “Dad, where have you been?”

  “Had to stay in the city. Big labour dispute with the baggage handlers. Ramp rats always wanting more than their fair share. You know how it is. Your dad’s the one who has to go in and mediate. Averted a big strike this time.”

  Colleen raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. It didn’t sound convincing to her, so she doubted her mother would buy it. “Mum’s in pretty bad shape.” She chewed her upper lip and then said, “We’ve been getting lots of phone calls. You know, money calls.”

  Her father’s smile, which up until that moment had been resolute, now faded. “Where is she?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “You should go on to bed, pet.” He kept his eyes on the shadowy stairs leading down to the TV room.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Oh, I’ll just settle in for a few minutes and then I might just head on up to bed myself.”

  “I don’t think you should have any more to drink, Dad.”

  “You go on to bed, sweet pea.” He gave her a kiss on the top of her head. “Go on, now.”

  She did as she was told, and it wasn’t long before her mother clomped up the stairs. Pixie scrambled along the hall to Colleen’s room and jumped on the bed. The dog turned around in circles a few times and then plunked down with her head on Colleen’s stomach. Colleen stroked Pixie’s soft fur. She put her transistor radio up against her ear, turned low, trying in vain to block out the voices.

  You’ve never been any good. I don’t know why I married you.

  You’ve got what you wanted—got the house in the suburbs and the kid and the dog. You can’t say I don’t provide.

  You better not have asked my father for any more money.

  Don’t tell me what to do. I’m dying in this suburban hell.

  If you take another drink I’ll kill you myself, I swear I will.

  And so on.

  In the morning, hunched over black coffee at the kitchen table, her father was pasty, sweaty, with trembling hands. His lips were purplish and his eyes red and watery with crusty yellow bits in the corners. He smiled weakly when he saw her. Pixie was under the dining-room table on the other side of the kitchen, where, presumably, she could keep an eye on things while staying clear of everyone.

  “I think your mother’s sewing,” said her father when she asked.

  Her mother’s sewing room was just a cleared-out space in the unfinished basement next to the TV room. Surrounded by damp hanging laundry, she sewed with furious intensity on an old pedal machine that had been her mother’s. The fact she was already down there was not a good sign.

  “What are you doing today?” asked her father.

  Colleen got herself a glass of orange juice and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Your mother’s just a bit nervous. She gets her moods.”

  “I know.” Colleen leaned up against the counter. “I think I’ll get dressed and take Pixie out into the woods.”

  “Good idea.” Her father sipped his coffee, holding the cup with both hands.

  The woods behind the house were a refuge for Colleen and she was grateful the day was dry and sunny. Crimson, garnet and amber leaves fluttered from the trees. Pixie bounded after squirrels and then ran back to Colleen. When they came to the stream with the big rocks, Colleen sat down and Pixie flopped beside her, resting her chin on Colleen’s leg.

  “Heffalump,” said Colleen affectionately.

  All around them water gurgled, birds sang and leaves rustled in the breeze. Pixie heaved an enormous sigh. “Yeah,” said Colleen, rubb
ing the dog’s ear. “Me too.”

  Colleen had brought cheese and crackers, a handful of chocolate chip cookies and an apple. She had also brought The Hobbit and so had something to occupy her between throwing sticks for Pixie and watching the dog chase rabbits. They stayed on the rocks by the stream for a long time, and then they walked through the woods to the horse farm. Colleen shared the apple with the big chestnut horse that ambled over to greet her. His nose was like velvet and even Pixie liked him. The horse hung his head over the fence and Pixie reached up and they had a nice long sniff. Colleen climbed the fence and sat astraddle the rail while the horse rubbed his long head against her shoulder. He almost knocked her off once, and she laughed.

  The shadows were starting to lengthen by the time she said to Pixie, “I guess we better get back.”

  Why did the walk back home feel so short? She always imagined she’d managed to get farther away than she had. The ground she’d gained in an entire morning and afternoon was lost in the brief hour it took to retrace her steps.

  From the outside, the house seemed quiet. Maybe her father had gone out, but where would he go? If he didn’t go golfing—and it was too late in the season for that—he didn’t go much of anywhere on the weekends. The hardware store sometimes. He puttered in the garden, or watched sports on the television.

  Colleen climbed up the steps, Pixie behind her. She waited a moment before ringing the bell (she wasn’t allowed to have her own key), listening for raised voices. Nothing. That could be a good thing, but then again, it might be her mother had locked herself in the bathroom again, or barricaded herself in her bedroom. Her father slept in his own room, halfway down the hall between mother and daughter. Her mother’s room, the master bedroom, had big white and gold dressers, and blue carpets. It held twin beds, so nobody would know her father slept in the other room, the one like a motel, with the narrow bed, the plain bureau, the gooseneck lamp. Sometimes he took long naps on weekend afternoons in his little room, with the door ajar, because her mother couldn’t abide a closed door, not even if you were in the bathroom on the toilet.

  She waited a minute longer, until Mrs. Baker drove along the street. She slowed down, and Colleen knew she was about to ask her if everything was okay, so she waved and smiled and rang the bell. Mrs. Baker drove by. It took a long time, but eventually her mother came to the door. She flipped the lock on the screen door but didn’t open it, so Colleen let herself in. The whole house smelled of cigarette smoke. That wasn’t good. Pixie scampered up the stairs to Colleen’s bedroom and disappeared.

  “Where have you been all day?” Her mother puffed a cigarette, burned down almost to the filter, and blew the smoke at Colleen.

  “No place, just out in the woods. I went to see the horses. The big one had burrs on him so I picked those out. He’s a good horse. He stood really still and didn’t even stomp when I pulled them out of his mane, which I bet hurt, you know, like having knots combed out of your hair, and I gave him some apple.” It was important to keep talking, because as she talked, she could try to see where her father might be and figure out what her mother had been doing just before she came in. Apparently she had been in the kitchen, because that’s where she headed now. Colleen wiped her sneakers off on the mat and followed her without taking off her corduroy jacket.

  In the kitchen her mother stood behind the speckled white and gold laminate countertop and butted out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray positioned next to a bottle of scotch and a half-empty glass.

  “Your father’s downstairs.”

  Colleen knew she should acknowledge the bottle of scotch and the fact her mother was drinking during the day, which she never did; daylight drinking was Peter Kerrigan’s province. She knew this, and yet she didn’t want to say, Why are you drinking, Mummy? The whole room looked like a stage set, the props arranged just so, for maximum effect, and way down deep inside Colleen’s stomach curled a teensy worm of contempt. All that drama, it got tired after a while, and seemed cheap.

  “Do you want help making dinner?” Colleen asked.

  Her mother lit another cigarette. “What makes you think I’m going to make you and your father dinner?” She blew the smoke from the side of her mouth and screwed her eyes up as she did.

  “You don’t have to make dinner.”

  “Well, thank you, Your Highness. I’m delighted to have your permission.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” When her mother was sour and snide like this, Colleen knew it wouldn’t be long before she really blew up. Her mother was never really satisfied until everyone felt exactly as she did. Colleen didn’t want to feel like her mother.

  “How did you mean it?” her mother said.

  “I just meant that if you’re not feeling well, I can make dinner.”

  Colleen’s mother knocked back the scotch in her glass and poured more. “What makes you think I’m not feeling well? Do I look unwell?”

  The turquoise kitchen walls reflected coldly in the light from the overhead fixture and her mother’s skin looked clammy. “You look fine,” Colleen said.

  “Then why say I’m not feeling well?”

  “Mum, I only meant—”

  “Oh, I know what you meant. You need somebody to take care of you. Everybody needs somebody to take care of them, don’t they?” She reached over to a bowl of onions sitting on the counter and picked one up. “Fine. I’ll make the dinner. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Sit and keep me company like a good daughter. You can pretend to be a good daughter, can’t you?”

  For a moment Colleen thought her mother might throw the onion at her. She sat. The brown plastic of the chair seat squeaked.

  Colleen’s mother opened the Lazy Susan and pulled out a big wooden cutting board. She slammed it on the counter before reaching into a drawer and snatching a large butcher knife from the cutlery tray. She hacked at the onion without peeling it. She put one hand on her hip and with the other she whacked and whacked at the onion, sending pieces flying everywhere. Bang! went the knife on the wooden board. Bang! Bang! Bang! From the corner of her eye Colleen saw Pixie slink from her bedroom and huddle by the stair railing. Don’t come down, puppy, don’t come down. The knife was very sharp and the smell of onion was bitter in the air.

  “How’s that? No, we need something else, don’t we?” She spun round to the refrigerator, the knife still in her hand, opened the door and grabbed a bunch of carrots. She threw them on the counter. They hit the remains of the onion and onion bits fell to the floor. “What about this?” She held a raw chicken aloft. “Chicken! Brak-brak-brak-brakkkkaaaa!” She made chicken noises and then laughed in that madwoman way she did sometimes, the laugh that warned Colleen the funnel cloud was forming. Then she threw the chicken to the floor and stalked out of the kitchen.

  Colleen grabbed the chicken and tossed it into the sink. She had to do this right away, she thought, because she didn’t know what would happen next, and if things went really bad she’d forget about the chicken and Pixie might eat it and chicken bones would kill a dog. She knew this was an odd thing to be thinking and that it was odd she had time to think it. Her mother’s crazy chuckle slipped around the corner. In the sink the chicken looked obscene, its legs flopping, the hole in its middle gaping. Time had slowed down, as though folded over on itself.

  “Hey, Peter!” her mother yelled. “Peter, come here and tell me what you want for dinner! Peter!”

  Colleen followed her mother and found her standing at the top of the stairs leading to the landing where the door to the garage, Colleen’s playroom and the powder room her father used were, and past that the second flight of stairs that led down to the television room.

  “Brak-brak-brakkkaaa! Come on, Peter. Come and get it!”

  Colleen’s father appeared on the landing and looked up at his wife standing above him, waving a butcher knife. His face was grey except for red patches on his neck and under his eyes. Colleen couldn’t tell if the patches, especially those on his neck, were just
from fear or if they were marks of some earlier violence.

  “What are you doing, Deirdre?” he said, and his voice held something like awe. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Come and get it, you chicken. Come and get it, big spender!”

  She stepped down two stairs, jabbing at the air with the knife. With her left hand she gripped the banister, as though for traction, and her knuckles were white and purple.

  Colleen locked eyes for just a second with her father, and then he bolted out the door to the garage, not even bothering to close it behind him. Colleen assumed her mother would go after him, but Deirdre Kerrigan turned and walked toward her daughter. Pixie barked and dashed down the stairs from the upstairs hall.

  “Do you want it? How about it?” She moved her arm sinuously, making the glinting blade move like a snake. “Do you want this?”

  Colleen backed up, Pixie beside her, barking.

  “And your little dog too,” her mother said, and laughed at her own joke.

  Colleen lunged for the front door and pushed Pixie out in front of her. “Come on, Pixie. Run!” They ran down the steps, across the driveway and around the corner of the house.

  Her father leaned against the brick near the garage’s side door, doubled over, his hands on his knees.

  “Daddy!”

  She wanted to throw herself in his arms, but he stood up and held his hand out, warding her off. He looked past her, the fear still in his face.

  “Is she coming?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out his keys. “I was coming to make sure you were okay. You go to a friend’s house or something, pet. I have to go out.”

  Go out? “Where are you going?”

  He walked back into the garage.

  “Where are you going?” she cried after him. He couldn’t be leaving. He couldn’t leave her, not with her mother like this. He wouldn’t.