In Between Dreams Read online

  ‌1

  ‌St Albert, Canada. April 1992

  I keep running even though I know there is no one behind me. I like the strength of my feet as they hit the mud, still drying from yesterday’s rain, bringing up brown flecks that hit my ankles. The tall field bends at my outstretched fingers and above me extends blue sky, miles of it.

  I know I’m close when the ground begins to dip. When its smoothness turns bumpy and surprising and I slow my pace as, all of a sudden, it is upon me. The track that leads up to it is jagged and uneven from disuse and I struggle to get down it with my bare feet. Small stones dig into my heels and stay there, sending pinpricks of pain up my legs every time I take a step. I reach the end of the path as it drops down to the mouth of the cave, dark and wet with waiting. Using my hands and feet, I follow it, pausing to unhook my skirt from where it has snagged on an upturned root. I land on the slippery moss and hold onto the opening of the cave, inhaling its ancient, wild smell. Back again, I hear it say in its deep, booming tone and I smile and hold up my shoes, laces looped around my fingers like a greeting to an old friend. Or an angry God.

  I go in surrounded by echoes of my breath and tired footsteps, allowing my vision to adjust to the cave’s particularities; the smooth, inviting roundness as you enter, the jutting structure as you go further in that has caught me unaware several times. Now that I am used to the cave, a part of it even, blending into the walls and feeling for my body prints as I go along, I move in it with ease. It feels good to be back.

  A bag full of books and a torch lie in a corner, next to a bean bag I dragged here from home. I fall into it, feel the hard earth beneath me, and smile. I have become so accustomed to this pillow that it’s difficult to sit on anything else without squirming. I don’t reach for the bag. Today it won’t help me.

  I discovered this cave a few weeks back, having stumbled upon it accidentally when I was skipping school. There was something about its secrecy, the musty, enclosed space of it, that made it feel like it was alright to be alone—like being lonely was something special. But now, the darkness is too pressing. I tilt my head back and force out a scream and the resounding noise just reminds me of my isolation. I scare a bat out of its sleep and though it dashes manically about, swirling the air above me, it doesn’t come when I call it.

  There is a pain in my gut; the kind that doesn’t hurt but whose presence is annoying and it has been there for days. My muscles are exhausted and my legs suddenly seem longer than I can ever remember them being. I have tripped and crashed through the entire week, hoping that tonight I will fall asleep and tomorrow will pass me by. That it will come and go and no one will notice that I have turned fourteen, that my mother has thrown me a party and no one has come.

  It’s only when the sky begins to fall into the blue hour of twilight that I decide to make my way back home. The road stretches ahead of me but my house comes into view too quickly; the sprawling, dirty whiteness, the sprinkling of lights indicating the busyness going on inside. I know she is making preparations; probably last-minute changes to the menu or hunting the neighborhood for the perfect dish for the cake. I step into the driveway and reluctantly press the doorbell. My father’s umbrella has not been dropped into the basket on the porch and I consider coming back later, when I know he will be home. But it’s too late. She has pulled open the door and is smiling at me. My annoyance at her has ceased to surprise me. It started weeks ago and the time and fast-approaching fact of tomorrow has only made it grow stronger.

  ‘Finally, you’re home.’ She gives me a quick kiss and ushers me in. ‘There are still so many things we need to do.’

  ‘I told you I didn’t want a party.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s your birthday,’ pushing me further inside. ‘You’ll thank me one day.’ There are gift bags stacked in a corner and decorations have already been strung in every available space with a big ‘Happy Birthday’ banner swinging in the entrance between the living room and dining area.

  ‘You told me you weren’t going to make a big deal out of this,’ I say, pulling off my shoes.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asks, frowning down at my dirty socks. ‘Take those off. I just cleaned the floor.’

  I ignore her question and repeat mine and it’s only when I have removed my socks, rolled them into a small ball and pushed them into my shoe, that she answers.

  ‘All your friends are going to be here,’ she says. ‘I have to make it special. That reminds me,’ she moves into the kitchen and gestures for me to follow. When I reach the door, she is leaning against the counter and holding up a stack of invitations. ‘I thought you said you had given them out already.’

  My heart jump-starts in my chest but I am prepared. ‘No one gives invitations anymore,’ I say. ‘That’s lame. Where did you find them anyway?’

  ‘You left them lying by your bed. You told your friends, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Too many to count,’ I can’t help but say.

  ‘Frances.’

  ‘Alright.’ I pretend to count in my head, judging the pile in her hands but there is only a clear, perfectly round zero swimming in my mind. ‘Around twenty.’

  I don’t know what will happen when she finds out I haven’t told anyone. That I have no one to tell.

  ‘Perfect.’ She is like a little girl, intertwining our arms and dragging me toward the oven. ‘I wanted it to be a surprise, but I’m just too excited.’ She points to the cake she has made and for the first time there is a small, horrible spark in me that wishes the day could turn out as it already has in her mind. It has two layers and the white, flake-shaped icing is soft and perfect, reminiscent of a bright and thick winter morning. The warmth of the kitchen smells like sugar and bread and I have to stop myself from reaching out to it.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Her face glows and my rush of irritation comes back.

  ‘Can I go to my room now?’

  ‘But we still have those gift bags to do—’

  ‘I have a test next week that I have to study for.’

  The words die in her mouth and she turns back to the cake, nodding slightly. ‘Okay, whatever you want,’ and I pretend not to hear the dropping tone. I leave her standing in front of the cake, her hands twisting tightly around the plate and setting it in the corner near the window, where she can be sure no one will touch it until tomorrow.

  When I hear his voice downstairs, everything in me bursts into flight and the swift cheerfulness of it dissipates the nerves in my stomach that have been bothering me all week.

  ‘Where’s my birthday girl?’ The words dance themselves up the stairs.

  I am out and rushing down to collide into them, throwing myself into his arms where he catches me tightly to him.

  ‘It’s not my birthday yet,’ I say, but can’t help the shift in my emotions; the high color in my cheeks and the warm, circling pleasure in my stomach.

  ‘Then I guess you don’t want this just yet?’ He holds the present high over his head and I jump for it.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow, now that you’ve reminded me.’

  ‘No!’ I start to tickle him around his waist and he doubles over, laughing into my hair. His breath is hot against my scalp and he smells wonderfully familiar, peppermint, and instead of grabbing the gift, I put my arms around his neck and press my face to his cold cheek. He holds me there for a long moment before we hear footsteps and he shifts away. I take the opportunity to snatch the box from him and eagerly start to unwrap it.

  ‘What’s this?’ My mother comes over and kisses him quickly on the lips and I try not to look. I still feel the stinging roughness of his stubble
against my forehead.

  ‘Just a small gift for my daughter.’ He wraps his arm around her narrow shoulders but she looks strained.

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘It’s just something I picked up on my way home from work,’ he answers quickly.

  I pull out a square, blue box with silver writing on it and toss the cover aside. I suck in the air around me. It’s a delicate, gold necklace and the charm that hangs from it is a long key. Nothing has ever felt so wonderful in my hands. It’s weightless and beautifully heavy at the same time.

  ‘Will you put it on for me?’

  ‘Of course.’ He lets go of my mother and comes around me, lifting my hair. When his fingers graze the back of my neck, I glance swiftly at my mother to see if she has noticed. But she is distracted, chewing her lip with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. He fastens the necklace and lets the hair drop back down around my shoulders. The chain is smooth and cold against my throat and I play with the charm.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, bringing his face down to kiss his cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It suits you,’ he lays a hand on my cheek. I start to dance out of the room but he stops me. ‘It’s from your mother too,’ he calls out. I pause, turn to her, but don’t go any closer.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome, darling.’

  As I move out of the foyer, I hear her turn to him in heated whispers. The angry sounds settle warmly in my chest and although I love the necklace he has bought me, the pleasure of it gets lost in the knowledge of her aggravated eyes and tight lips; slight yet significant actions that are just that small bit more wantingly beautiful.

  ‌2

  ‌St Albert. April 1992

  He wakes me early the next day and I rouse to his face, blurred and close to mine. His finger is pressed against his lips. Ssh. Come on, let’s go, and for the first time, in the slanting darkness, as I struggle to pull on my pants through sleep-blind eyes, with him laughing and assisting me, I am excited that it’s my birthday.

  He takes my hand and leads me quietly down the stairs, and when we get to the door he helps me with my coat and pulls my hat down low and close to my ears. He bends, a strand of blond hair falling, as always, into his left eye and he kisses my nose.

  ‘Happy birthday, beautiful,’ and then we are outside, into the chilly, rain-coated morning with my hand securely in his, the warmth of his body warming mine. We walk hard and fast, basking in the absolute silence around us; the limitless freedom it provides as if all of it—the wet, gray street, those trees shiny with dew, the birds tilting their heads back to the lavender morning light—belong exclusively to us. We laugh and skip and hold tightly to each other, allowing everything to fall away behind us, seeing nothing but the pale pink fingers of sunrise creeping up ahead over the horizon, calling us forever forward.

  He takes me to the park, which is always at its most beautiful in the spring. Everything smells young and fresh; reborn after a harsh winter, eager to please. Once we reach it, our footsteps slow to a leisurely swing and we walk in comfortable silence with the occasional shared smile. As we turn the corner toward the small lake, he bounds a little ahead of me. Come here, I think I see a duck, and he looks brighter, sharper, surrounded by all this loveliness. His hair is a magic carpet of colors, sunflower blond with a chestnut tease, sliding into sophisticated silver whiskers at his temple. A throat that rises from the collar of his blue sweatshirt, stretching infinite and golden. He moves with such an assured grace that a part of me is jealous. Long, sturdy strides, arm outstretched behind him, calling to me. But I ignore him, wanting to watch him from a distance. Trying to figure out if the way I see him is the way other people do as well.

  He drops down, balancing steadily on his heels, and extends his palm to call the bird to him. Pushing through the brackish water, the bird flaps its wings noisily and approaches my father, cautious and staying just a little out of reach.

  ‘Aren’t you a pretty little thing?’ he says in that low-down voice, measured and slow, and the sound of it, the chuckle deep in his throat as the bird pushes its beak forward into his fingers, draws me to him. He wraps his arm around my waist as I approach and I lean my hip against his shoulder. For a long moment, the world falls still and smiles. I feel his eyes roving my face and my skin prickles in acknowledgment.

  ‘Fourteen years old,’ he shakes his head. There is a slight tremor along his upper lip and he gathers it between his teeth. ‘Time goes by so fast, doesn’t it?’ And he stares out into the spreading water, rippling in the wind. The sharp nub in his throat moves as he swallows hard. ‘Before you know it, you’ll be all grown up and forget about me.’ He stands up, dusts the dirt off his knees.

  ‘That could never happen,’ I say and my words are urgent. ‘We’re going to stay together forever.’

  He laughs at this but after glancing down at my face, he turns serious. ‘You shouldn’t say that.’

  ‘But it’s the truth.’

  He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and smiles a little sadly. I hold his hand and he brings my fingers up and kisses my palm. When he lets my arm drop to my side, I can’t read his expression. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s walk.’

  She is waiting for us when we get back, standing in the doorway and tapping her foot anxiously. She smiles as we get closer and holds out her arms.

  ‘Happy birthday, honey,’ gathering me close, pressing her cold and dry lips to my cheek. ‘I wish you had told me you were going out, I would have come with you.’

  ‘It was so early,’ my father moves behind her, kissing the top of her head and winking at me from above it. ‘I thought you might want to rest a little before the party.’

  At the mention of the party, my happiness from this morning turns sour. I had forgotten all about it.

  ‘Let me make you some breakfast,’ my mother says, pushing us inside and taking my coat. ‘What do you feel like? Pancakes?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘I can make it with the chocolate stuffing you love. We haven’t had that in a while,’ she continues, moving toward the stove.

  ‘I said I don’t want anything.’ The stiffness in my voice causes an awkward silence to fall over us. She stares at me and then, before she can speak, my father clears his throat.

  ‘Chocolate pancakes sound good, Annie,’ rolling up his sleeves. ‘Let me make them. You’ve been working so hard.’ He kisses her temple and cranes his neck back to look at me. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind, Fran.’

  I can’t help but smile, unable to refuse him. ‘Okay, just one.’

  I sit down at the dining table and it’s only then that I notice my grandmother, silent as ever, hunched over three balloons, struggling to tie them together.

  ‘Let me do it, Bubbie.’ I pry them gently from her old fingers and she pinches my chin, planting a wet kiss on my cheek. ‘Where do you want them?’ I ask, after I’m done. She points to the door. ‘You want me to hang them on the door?’ She shakes her head, thrusting her hand in the direction of the window, pointing out to the street. ‘Outside the door?’

  It has become easy to read her gestures; I don’t remember how we used to communicate before she stopped talking. At her nod, I get up and stick them to the outside of the door. One unties itself from the bunch and floats down the driveway. I let it go. It’s not like anyone is going to be looking for this party, anyway.

  I wonder what I will tell my mother; how long it will take for her to realize that all her hard work has gone to waste. Tears prick the back of my eyes when I think of the embarrassment I have yet to face, all the explaining I will have to do. And then I hear him calling my name, first pancake’s for the birthday girl, and I move back inside, into the direct line of his smile and it no longer matters that no one else is going to show up. As long as he is with me, nothing can go wrong. I kick the door swiftly with my foot, despite my mother’s repeated pleas not to do so, hearing the resolute slam as it
shuts us away from the rest of the world, just as the first of our neighbors are beginning to stir and yawn awake.

  I have never really noticed the nature of silence before today. The mugginess of it; how uncomfortable it can sometimes make you, pressing down on your ears and your chest. How unbearably noisy it is.

  My mother goes to the window and leans out. ‘I don’t see anyone coming.’

  Bubbie is staring at me but I refuse to meet her eye. My father has gone into his study, grinning as he left, saying, ‘Don’t want to be in your way, ladies,’ and I wish that he had stayed.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be here soon,’ I say, trying to keep the nervousness from my voice, hating her as I say it. Hating the way her black hair falls thick over one shoulder as she stretches further out, the shine of excitement across her cheek. The way her foot taps impatiently on the hardwood floor. ‘Stop doing that,’ I say irritably.

  She turns to me. ‘Don’t talk to me that way, young lady.’ Her voice shakes; she is still unused to my recent behavior.

  ‘Sorry.’

  She sighs and falls into a chair, glancing up at the clock. It’s one thirty. ‘Are you sure you told them twelve?’

  ‘Yes.’ I know I should just tell her. The longer I prolong her anticipation, the worse it will be. But I can’t bring myself to say the words and I wish that she would just give up, leave the table and never ask me about it again.

  At two fifteen, I pop one of the balloons that has drifted down from the corner of the ‘Happy Birthday’ banner. My father came out of his study twenty minutes ago and now he leans over the table, his fingers intertwined, trying to catch my roaming eye.

  ‘There’s something you’re not telling us.’

  ‘Maybe I got the day wrong.’

  ‘You forgot when your birthday was?’

  I look around the room. This morning, it had been beautiful. My mother had pushed back the heavy curtains in the dining room, letting the long, wide windows stand open, the clear, afternoon sun spilling through in a golden spotlight, warming everything it touched. The table was tastefully set; a new, white tablecloth and colorful plates and cups with matching napkins. An impressive crystal bowl held a large volume of bright pink punch in the center. The radio, having been brought down especially for this occasion, sat blinking red and quiet. There were balloons everywhere.