In Between Dreams Page 4

  He hears me come in and I see his back tighten at the sound.

  ‘Did he do anything to you?’ he asks and his voice is full. I shake my head, stepping into his view. ‘Don’t lie to me, Frances.’

  ‘I promise, he didn’t.’

  He stands up but doesn’t come near me. He looks away. ‘Go to your room.’

  ‘Will you come?’ It is the first time I have ever asked him. I can see the shock on his face.

  ‘No, Frances.’

  I start to cry and he is beside me in an instant. Hush baby, it’s okay. His arms are bigger than Tom’s and fit around my entire body. ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t do this anymore.’

  I take his hand and put it under my dress, amazed at my own boldness. His strong fingers slide into me and I let my head fall against his shoulder. The days have stretched on forever without you, but now you are here and they have stopped and become full. He tears his hand away and steps back. His blue eyes are wide with horror and his chest rises and falls too quickly. I smile at him even though he refuses to meet my eye. I turn and leave slowly. After a second or two, he turns off all the lights and follows.

  ‌5

  ‌St Albert. May 1992

  The notes have stopped filtering into my locker. Although I still get offers from boys to meet them behind the bleachers or to let them drive me home, my status has been diminished, reduced to that weird girl from the party—you didn’t hear what she did? and once again, everyone leaves me alone. It doesn’t affect me much; being alone has become a natural state for me and I don’t mind it any longer. I am too busy always thinking of him, itching to be back home where I know I will only have to wait a couple of hours before he is sliding out of his coat and smiling at me. And only a few hours after that, he will be in my bed and he will touch me and everything else will be forgotten.

  Every night except Wednesdays.

  ‘Let’s go to the movies,’ she says, her eyes hopeful and excited. ‘We haven’t done anything as a family in so long.’ She looks at the three of us expectantly.

  ‘Okay.’ His smile is uncomfortable and he ends up licking his lips nervously. He tries to look at Bubbie but she is quietly pushing food around her plate.

  Last night I made a sound. He clamped his hand down tightly over my mouth and I tried not to giggle.

  ‘Sorry,’ I whispered, throwing my body back on the pillow. ‘It couldn’t be helped.’ As I did this, I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror and had to blink twice to make sure it was me. The person staring back didn’t look like a girl anymore.

  He got up quickly, his eyes darting around the room like he didn’t know where he was or what had just happened. He crept to the door and pressed his ear against it and then, all of a sudden, jumped back.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘I heard something.’

  ‘You’re just imagining it—there’s no one there.’

  He opened the door slowly and I started to stop him but he looked so determined, so frightened, that I didn’t. ‘I’m going to bed now,’ he whispered. ‘Goodnight.’

  Now, his eyes are searching her old and empty face, trying to gauge if she heard us, but she keeps her head down, piercing her food with her fork.

  ‘What do you say, Mom?’ he asks. His voice trembles and he stops, annoyed. ‘Do you want to go?’

  My mother and I look at him. Why are you asking her? She won’t answer you, you know that.

  Bubbie shakes her head slowly.

  ‘What was that?’

  Silence. His chest flares.

  ‘I didn’t hear you. What did you say?’

  My mother puts a hand out to stop him. ‘James, what are you doing?’ but he brushes her away.

  ‘Speak up woman. Marienne asked you a question.’ He stood up and leaned over the table at her. ‘It’s been three years since you’ve said a word and I’m sick of it. All I’m asking is for a simple yes or no. You want to go or not? It’s as easy as that.’

  Bubbie sits back in her chair and closes her eyes. He bangs his fist down on the table so that everything hops up noisily and then clatters back down. I press my knees together to stop the flooding in my stomach. His eyes are a lovely dark color when he is angry.

  ‘Say something, for God’s sake!’ he shouts. ‘Anything. Don’t you have something you want to say to me?’

  She straightens up and her lips begin to move. For one, awful moment, I think that she will say something. His jaw slackens and his eyes drop and she turns back to eating.

  ‘James,’ my mother glances apologetically at Bubbie. ‘Stop it. Just stop.’ She rises and puts a hand to his cheek. I have to contain myself in my seat. ‘It was only a suggestion.’

  He pushes his plate away. ‘No. We’re going. She doesn’t have to come.’ He looks at me and there is something attractive in the way his lips are held tightly together; something desirable in the way he addresses me so harshly. ‘Get your coat, Frances. Let’s go.’

  He bends down to Bubbie on his way out of the dining room. ‘What’s the point of you being here?’ he asks quietly, ‘silent as a statue? You might as well be dead.’ Then he stops, reels back from his own cruel words. She looks up at him and when he starts to apologize, she holds up her hand and shakes her head.

  We leave in such a rush that no one sees her raise her eyes to us. No one hears her croaky sound, except for me. She says two words and her eyes are incredibly sad. It’s crisp and short and final.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  There is only one cinema in our town; a small, dilapidated building surrounded by an enormous parking lot that is a common hangout for students. But today, although it is full of cars, there is no one drinking beers hidden in brown paper bags or sneaking a kiss behind a fogged-up window. We make our way to the busy, loud building and as soon as I open the door, laughter and voices come over us in a rush.

  ‘Popcorn?’ he asks and I grin.

  ‘Salted?’

  ‘Sounds good.’ He chuckles and rubs my hair.

  ‘I’ll get the tickets,’ my mother says and leaves us alone.

  While we are waiting in line, I wrap my arm around his waist and hug him tight. I slide closer to him and my hand begins to rub against his shirt. He unwinds my grip and steps a little further away. After a few seconds, my hand finds his and I intertwine our fingers. I can’t seem to stop wanting to touch him; I will never stop marveling at the way it makes me feel. He pulls his hand away and glances quickly around the room, turning to see if there is someone behind us but there isn’t.

  ‘Frances.’ His voice is so soft, only I can hear it. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Why?’

  He seems surprised that I could question him; I have never done it before. ‘Because I said so. What’s wrong with you?’

  I feel the tears pressing up against the back of my eyes almost immediately. ‘Fine.’ The embarrassment of being refused chokes me. ‘Fine, I’ll never do it again.’

  He sighs, almost irritated. ‘Come on, you know that’s not what I meant.’

  People are starting to filter into the movie and from the corner of my eye, I see my mother making her way to us. I grab the popcorn he has ordered and refuse to look at him. Guiltily, he tries to reach out for me but I step away.

  ‘Everything okay?’ My mother looks at me with concern.

  My father takes her arm, kisses her hair and whispers something while doing it. Then he clears his throat and says out loud, ‘Everything’s perfect. Come on, the movie is starting.’ They walk ahead of me and I notice with bitterness that his fingers crawl into her palm and intertwine themselves with hers.

  In the darkness of the theater, he sits between my mother and me. She is leaning against his shoulder, glowing in the movie light and they are still holding hands. But I no longer mind because his other arm hangs loosely by my knee, the side of his hand grazing my thigh purposefully so that I can’t pay attention to the screen and all I feel is the slow warmth of h
im working his magic.

  When we get home, it’s completely dark and the silence, when we call out for Bubbie, is louder than ever.

  ‌6

  ‌St Albert. June 1992

  A couple of weeks after Bubbie’s funeral, my mother slides an application form under my door that reads, ‘Academy of the Holy Family’ written in bold letters at the top. I rip it into as many pieces as I can and leave them in her ashtray. She doesn’t mention any of it to my father and even if I had wanted to, he wouldn’t have listened. The empty spaces Bubbie has left behind; the tall-back chair at the head of the table, the pink-pillowed rocking seat just beside the television, occupy all of his attention. I see him look up in between bites of his casserole, as if he is getting ready to talk to her before realizing she is no longer there.

  Unused to being ignored by him, I have a sudden urge to remind him of me so I slip off my shoe and slide my foot up the length of his leg. His muscles strain beneath my toes and I have to put a spoon in my mouth to keep from making any noise. He pushes me away without glancing up.

  No one has used her bathroom since the day we went to the theater, when we came home to find Bubbie floating in the bath, looking so peaceful that, at first, I thought she had fallen asleep. There was an empty bottle of sleeping pills that had dropped from the corner of the tub, the cap having rolled close to the door, making it stick so he had to shove it with his shoulder before we could get in. After the ambulance had left, the blue-red of its sirens still flashing in our minds, my father reached into the bath and pulled the plug and we heard the water draining in the backyard. He locked the door and keeps the key under his pillow or in his pocket and sometimes, I catch him playing with it, as if his fingers are searching for her in its bronze scratches.

  He comes past my room at night and each time he passes, darkening the doorway, my body rises to meet him. But then his footsteps drag on and the floor creaks as he sits down against the banister, facing the bathroom. I crouch beside my door, pressing my ear to it, but I can’t hear a thing. Something holds me back from going to him. He doesn’t want me right now. I only hear him again when the sun comes up and he has to go to work. Another sleepless night spent apart goes by.

  Two days after I found the form, I walk into my room to see a completed one sitting on my bed, propped up against the pillows, alongside the green rosary Bubbie used to wear around her neck when her wrist grew too thin. Tear it up all you want, my darling. I’ve already sent it in, my mother’s writing taunts. I sit at the windowsill, burning holes into the paper with a lighter I find downstairs. I keep it flickering against the line that says, ‘provide young women with a strong sense of Christian values.’ When the paper begins to crumble in my hands, I toss it out of the window and watch as the embers fly away and die on the pavement. I turn the flame to my wrist, waiting for my blood to catch on fire. My skin prickles to its defense and when I take the heat from it, I find a scattering of soft, white lumps. I press my fingers to them, one by one and then all at once. The pain shoots from my arm to the middle of my chest and floods my mouth, making it numb and sweaty. She can’t make me go. I’ll run away and take her husband with me.

  I look around my room; at the glow-in-the-dark stars he helped put on my ceiling when I was seven and at my desk, under which I have carved our initials. Thinking of him pushes me toward the bed as my body begins to crave and ache, forcing me down on my stomach. He is alive in the hand that slides down in between my legs. My dress rubs against my blistered wrist and the pain of my skin eroding away is excruciating. I sink my hand into the mattress and my waist lifts up; I reach inside myself—I can’t reach far enough. I thrust my body forward, pushing it into my fingers and stroking; everything at the same time, the arc of my thumb rubbing over it again and again, forcing my breath to hiss out and making me clutch the bedcovers, crying out his name into my pillow. Don’t let her do this to us. Don’t let her do this, James.

  That night when I don’t hear him come past my room, I slip out and creep toward his. I hear them talking quietly and I fold my body into the door. Her voice is soft; his is softer. For a while he says nothing but okay. She keeps giving explanations even though he keeps giving in.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t discuss this with you before,’ she says. ‘I know Whitehorse is far away, but I think the distance will do her some good. And it’s only two years—she can come back here to finish high school.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately,’ my mother says. ‘She’s become so rude, so distant—and all that lying about the party.’ Her voice becomes full and she stops talking. ‘It really shocked me. I don’t understand what’s happened.’

  ‘I was surprised too.’

  ‘Sending her away to a boarding school was your mother’s idea.’ At that, I can feel him stiffen. ‘She was so adamant about it and at first I couldn’t bear the idea of Frances not living here.’ Her voice lowers and I stop breathing, scared she might have heard me listening. ‘But with the way she’s been acting recently, having all those problems in school, she needs a fresh start.’ She pauses. ‘What do you think?’

  At first, he doesn’t reply. I hear the familiar, comforting sound of his clothes falling to the floor and the wood closes around me, warm. I wait for him to say something, anything that will make her change her mind. I imagine him storming out of the room, threatening never to speak to her or touch her again if she sends me away. The idea is so strong in my mind that I almost miss, and don’t quite believe, what he says next.

  ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s a good idea.’ He becomes loud, unrecognizable. ‘With everything that’s been going on—maybe she does need a change of scenery. New people, a new place.’ He sighs. ‘This place can be suffocating.’

  I bite down hard on my fingers, twist them in my mouth so they can’t hear me crying.

  ‘I’ve spoken to some people who know about the school,’ my mother says. ‘They say it’s a great place. The Head Nun is a real disciplinarian—I think she can really help us.’ The sound of sheets being pulled away drown out my mother. ‘And we need help. I just want what’s best for her and I don’t know what else to do. I can’t see any other way, after what happened on her birthday…’

  There is a brief silence and then she speaks again, somewhat fearful. ‘Do you think she knows—’ There is a catch in her voice that is impossible to miss and for a brief moment I wonder what she means, but then I hear him and everything else is forgotten.

  ‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘She can’t possibly. I’ll talk to her tomorrow,’ he offers.

  She smiles. I can hear the satisfying stretch of it; the way it causes her body to relax and shift against the bed. She falls silent when the space between them is taken over by him; overwhelmed that for the first time in a month, he is sleeping in their bed instead of spending the night on the carpeted corridor outside Bubbie’s room. ‘About your mother—’ she says, trying her luck.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he says, almost coldly. ‘I don’t want to talk about her.’ Silence. And then, ‘She didn’t even have the decency to leave a note.’

  ‘We have to sort her things out.’

  ‘No.’ I know he is shaking his head, his lips are tightening. I wanted him to defend me this way. ‘I can’t do it, Annie. I can’t clean her things out. It’s all I have left of her. Please, don’t ask me to do that.’

  I want to bang on the door; hammer on it until the wood caves and drives into my fist.

  ‘Okay, honey. It’s alright—I know how much she meant to you. Whenever you’re ready, just let me know.’ Their lights turn off. She has won.

  I wait for both of them to leave the next morning before taking the key from under his pillow and opening the bathroom door. The stench of Bubbie roars at me even before I am inside. She has seeped into the cracked tiles and she is dripping from the walls; powdery and full. Her perfume bottle still sits on the sink and I spray some of it onto my neck befor
e pulling off the top and spilling the rest of it into the bathtub. I have brought up my mother’s cleaning supplies and I pour the blue fluid all over the bathroom, the scent of ammonia filling the back of my throat and spilling poisonous tears down my cheeks.

  I throw away Bubbie’s creams and lipsticks and her favorite hairnet, which smells of talcum powder. I hold it to my face for a moment and the scent of it sends an electric shock of memory charging through my nerves. I throw away her floor mat because she has touched it and I throw away her soap because it has touched her.

  I move into her bedroom through the connecting doorway and pause. I had never realized how close she had been to me this whole time; separated only by a thin wall. I blush, though I’m not sure why. Then I continue the process. I fold her clothes and push them into dark bin bags, watching as her memories fall away like dust from their creases. I find a picture frame hidden in the back of her closet, made from dried-up pasta and holding tribute to a smiling family of four. There he is, grinning across at his father who is staring back out at me. There is a baby cradled against him. I am suddenly angry that there is a history to my father’s life that I am not and can never be a part of.

  I work slowly and steadily throughout the morning until there is no trace left of my grandmother except for the faint smell of roses that comes from one of the incense sticks I keep. Making sure the bags are tied tightly and securely, I gather two in each hand and leave, sneaking out the back door and into the startling brightness of the afternoon.

  I drop the bags down heavily, their contents shaking and causing loud echoes around me. During my brief stint of popularity, I had forgotten about this cave and now I touch the walls of it, feel the wet moss underhand and I’m happy to be back.