In Between Dreams Read online

  Now, he watched as his mother rubbed her stomach and smiled up at him. ‘You should go again. It’ll be good practice for when this little one comes along.’ The reminder that there would soon be a baby in his house, that it might grow into something as enticing as Donna, terrified him with excitement. What was it Uncle Roy had said when he came to visit them last month? ‘Giving into temptation is how sin is born,’ shaking his beer can in James’s face, forcing it down his throat. James’s father had laughed, smiling down at his son.

  ‘You’re preaching to the wrong person, Roy,’ he said, his eyes bright. ‘Not a bad bone in this one.’

  James knew that he had no choice but to outrun the monster that had leaped up at him that evening in Donna’s nursery, among the blue walls and painted animals. He bought a poster of Greta Garbo in an almost transparent white dress from the boy next door to prove to himself there was nothing wrong, but in the next two days, it lay crumpled in his trash, unused.

  That summer, the rain forgot to end but he was endlessly thirsty. There was Tamara Wilson on the bus, sliding into his lap, offering her lollipop to him. He stared at the slick candy, shiny with spit, and his tongue ached. He shoved her off and walked the rest of the way home.

  ‘Why are you home so late?’ his father called out to him as he came through the door.

  ‘I missed the bus,’ he said, running up the stairs in search of Greta, grunting over her and pretending it was her face he was thinking of. Again, a few weeks later, sin was mewing in his arms in the form of his young cousin, Gabriel, a scent like honey upon his whispered breath. He pushed the child into someone else’s waiting arms.

  He watched with rising terror as his mother grew larger every day, already feeling the now familiar plunge within him at the sight of her swollen belly. His mother noticed him staring one day and took his hand in hers.

  ‘I know it’s going to be a big adjustment,’ forcing his hand in full, slow circles over her stomach. ‘But we’re going to be a perfect family.’ Her eyes were closed so that she never saw what was happening to him. He almost pried them open and begged her for help.

  Her tongue was in his mouth; he could taste the sourness of her gum somewhere in the back of his throat. He tried not to touch her, not to feel the way her waist dipped and curved, its youth lost, fully ripened. She pushed harder against him. ‘Tell me what you want, James,’ her lips, her words, slimy in his ear.

  The day before, James had run into Travis in the Moscovitz’s store, pushing condoms into the pockets of his faded jeans.

  ‘There’s a party on Suicide Hill tomorrow,’ Travis had explained. ‘Have to be prepared, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Sure,’ James said, though he didn’t. It was as if he had skipped a step ahead of all the other boys in his class; somehow missed a crucial crossing point and had got lost. He watched Travis for a moment before turning to leave. He was almost out the door when he stopped and turned back around. He checked to see what Mrs. Moscovitz was doing behind the counter. She was on the telephone, the blue receiver cradled between her shoulder and chin, her stooping back toward him. He walked back to Travis, grabbing a handful of condoms, not caring in his excitement when a few scattered around his feet.

  ‘I’m going to need some myself,’ he said and Travis smiled at him. It was an easy smile and for the first time in a while, James felt the pressure lift from his shoulders and he was innocent once again.

  ‘My girlfriend’s sister is coming with us, if you’re interested?’ Travis had suggested and James couldn’t nod fast enough.

  ‘Thanks, yeah.’

  ‘Anything to help out a friend,’ a sly wink, ‘see you at eight?’

  James had waited for Travis to sneak out and disappear around the corner before he reached back into his pockets and pulled out the foil-wrapped condoms. He kept only one, safely tucked in his jacket.

  The following night, James had picked up the three of them in his father’s station wagon and they drove up to Suicide Hill. The party was already in full swing and someone had started a bonfire. James walked toward it, kicking away empty coolers and beer cans. The heat curled pleasantly against him, crisping his face.

  ‘Shall we go back to your car?’ an arm going around his waist, sliding into the back pocket of his jeans. He followed her down the winding road until the glow of the fire was as small as the corner of his eye. No one could see them. It couldn’t have been easier. Tell me what you want, James.

  ‘Cry.’ He whispered it. The word shivered in the night air, evaporated in the steam of her kiss. ‘I want you to cry.’

  ‘What?’ She sounded amused and his heart rocked in his chest. He saw the monster rise up in front of him but this time he was playing its game, following its rules. ‘If you can’t outrun a bully, outsmart him instead,’ his father had once said to him. James felt his teeth tremble in anticipation. It wasn’t too late to stop but it was too hard and he didn’t want to.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be loud, just—if you could just try.’

  She settled back on his knees so that she could see his face. She took the gum out of her mouth and twisted it around her finger.

  ‘Crying?’ She pouted, widened her eyes, blinked a couple of times, forcing them to water. ‘Like this?’

  He pressed his hands into the flesh of her thighs, buried his face in her neck. She was repulsive to look at. ‘Make a sound.’ In his desperation, he became loud, aggressive. ‘Please, anything.’ She threw back her head and so tight and helpless was the noise that came out of her throat that he felt himself involuntarily buck beneath her. He thought about skin so soft, a body still so new, it couldn’t help but depend on you. Don’t stop Hayley, don’t stop, never stop. He kept his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to see her, kept his hands on her thighs so he wouldn’t have to touch any other part of her, just listening. When he pushed himself into her, the relief was so acute, he whimpered.

  Afterward, he sat for a moment, enjoying the buzz of a body almost completely satiated until he opened his eyes. Saw the girl sitting in front of him, not a girl at all but a woman. He pushed open the door and vomited.

  ‌9

  ‌Whitehorse, Yukon, Canada.

  September 1992

  There is a long, tarmac track that juts off the main road about thirty minutes from the train station. It winds and teases through the thicket of pines that close behind us like a curtain the further we go down it. The fading day follows us; an occasional golden burst in my eye. There is music playing lightly in the front and Joseph’s fingers drum on the wheel as he sings softly along. Sister Ann turns to look at me from the front seat.

  ‘Not long now,’ she says and then points to the left. ‘The river is down that way. Sometimes, when the weather is nice, we all go there for a picnic.’ I follow the direction of her finger and don’t see anything but dark green. She looks through the rearview mirror at me. ‘You’re going to love the Academy,’ she says, ‘it’s beautiful,’ and then leaning forward, she squints her eyes. ‘There it is.’

  The trees have grown more scant, as if opening up a secret world, and in front of us lies a wide open field and a rising stone building that resembles an old castle. It’s partly lit up from the west, a burned orange from the sunset, and even I have to admit it’s spectacular. Long French windows decorate the entire face of it and its roofs are blood-red, pointing straight up to the sky. The building is split into three wings, the center one rising above the two adjacent, and bordering the school are the last of the summer flowers, bright purples and pinks, and a smell like honey hangs thick in the evening air. It seems to be smirking down at me.

  There are yellow lights beginning to be switched on from some of the windows and I see shadows pass behind the curtains. My heart constricts in my chest and my breath turns shallow. Sister Ann squeezes my arm.

  ‘It gets easier,’ she promises. ‘Pretty soon, it’ll start feeling more like home than home does.’

  I continue to stare up at the gray buildin
g, lit up fully now, and don’t reply.

  You can hear everything from the main foyer of the Academy. Its large circular floors and high domed ceilings are designed to catch and hold even the softest, most hidden sounds. I can hear girls upstairs; laughter and overlapping voices are chased down the winding staircase by half-whispered gossip and hurried footsteps. I wonder if they have been living here for so long that they have forgotten this secret or if they no longer care that they are being watched, carefully listened to.

  ‘It’ll be dinnertime soon,’ Sister Ann tells me, glancing at a large clock that sits on the high wall near the front door. ‘How about we get you something to eat and then I’ll show you to your room?’

  I nod because there is nothing else I can do in this foreign place except follow the instructions given to me.

  ‘Joseph?’ There is something about the way she says his name, with just the slightest modulation. But then she turns crisp and formal again, and the feeling I had, the inclination of something I can’t quite grasp, is lost. ‘Would you take Miss McDermott’s things up to the third floor?’

  Joseph, who up until then has been standing motionless in the dark, moves forward and I jump. I had forgotten he was there. We stand at the base of the impressive staircase and watch as Joseph, the clockwork movement of his muscles just visible under his shirt, takes long and sturdy strides up the wide stairs, not once pausing to rest under the weight of my life.

  ‘Shall we go in, Frances?’ Sister Ann asks, cutting through my thoughts and I pull my eyes away from the figure moving upward, losing itself in the shadows and grooves that my gaze cannot reach.

  ‘Yes, okay.’

  She leads me to a doorway on the left side of the staircase. The movement is neither on the tip of her toes or the soles of her feet, but floating on the curved arch. She walks as if she is used to being quiet; practiced at being invisible. A door is pushed open and I am guided through it.

  I have to hold my hand over my eyes for a moment when I step into the mess hall. The light is too bright and yellow; obnoxious compared to the low, dim welcoming of the foyer lamps. When my eyes adjust, I see rows and rows of benched tables, starting from close to the door and leading up to two large windows looking into a cluttered kitchen. The walls are an aged white, moving up into a sagging ceiling that is a patchwork of brown from countless leaks.

  ‘Why don’t you sit by me today?’ Sister Ann suggests, taking a seat at the first table, facing away from the kitchen so that she can observe everything. The smell of food behind me is strong and digs further into the emptiness of my stomach, reminding me that I haven’t eaten all day. It fills my mouth so that I can’t do anything except shrug my consent and tuck my skirt into the crook of my knees so that I don’t feel the splintered bench cut into my thighs. We sit for a moment in silence and I watch Sister Ann; see the words of what can only be a prayer start in her cheeks, move down into the willing cave of her mouth. Her face is calm; devoid of any emotion except for a betraying vein in her slim neck, sneaking up to her jaw, clenching and unclenching with every word, reaching high up over her buttoned collar.

  I sit pressed to the wall and that is where I see it. Small writing done precisely with the tooth of a fork. A small message engraved into the stucco wall; if God doesn’t exist, then anything is permitted. It is encircled by a series of waves and curves; aimless, thoughtful scribbling. I am not sure why it makes me pause; draws my eyes to it to read the words over and over again. Perhaps because it is so out of context, here in a place that I have been sent to so that I can remember Him, so that I can remember how to be good. It’s a flash of comfort, sharp and swift, before the clock strikes six o’clock and everything bursts into noise around us.

  Sister Ann finishes her prayer just as four women in stained aprons and hairnets enter the kitchen. They call out simultaneous hellos to us and Sister Ann waves and greets them back. I notice her movements because it’s hard not to. Everything about her is simple and graceful, as if she is moving through water. The women turn on the stoves and two of them slam down large, silver pots on its top and stir the broth noisily with long, metal serving spoons. Sister Ann sits perfectly straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, unfazed by the commotion behind us. Yet in her stillness I sense an undercurrent of energy and she seems too young and full to belong to a place like this.

  Then I feel, before I hear, the soft vibrations caused by the footsteps of so many girls coming down the stairs together and I am overcome by a sudden nervousness. A low aching begins in my palms and they start to sweat. I rub them up and down the cotton of my skirt. My heart stirs and jumps painfully, forcing against my rib cage in its panic, desperate to get out.

  ‘Don’t be nervous,’ Sister Ann touches my shoulder and speaks softly. ‘You’ll fit right in.’ Some of the girls wave at her and, seeing me beside Sister Ann, smile quickly before sliding into their seats. Once they have all settled down, Sister Ann stands, her hands sliding off her rising lap and clasping behind her back. She calls for silence and then says a name. Madison Rivers. From somewhere in the sea of faces, I see a blonde head emerge. Madison is saying something but I can’t hear her and it’s only when Sister Ann repeats it softly, near my ear, that I realize she is saying Grace. Bless us O Lord and for these gifts we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen. As she settles back down, the girls cross themselves and kiss their fingertips before rushing up and coming toward us. Most don’t notice I am there, even as they pass us to get to the food.

  ‘Someone different says Grace every night,’ Sister Ann tells me over the sound of plates and cutlery. ‘You can say it however you want.’ What if you don’t want to? I resist the temptation to ask.

  I am no longer hungry but force down the soup I am given. I also take a slice of bread and tear it into small, square pieces. I dip them, one after the other, into the steaming broth and allow them to grow soggy. They fall apart and drop into the soup, soft and inedible. I spoon one out and let it sit on my tongue for a few seconds, feeling it sear through the tender, purple muscle. My tongue protests, jerking in my mouth, trying to push the food down my throat, and when I swallow there are tiny bumps and raised ridges left behind. I press my teeth down on them and run them along the roof of my mouth and the pain instantly comforts me. Sister Ann asks if there is anything else I want to eat; there is a slice of meat pie with my name on it, she says, but I shake my head. I am so engrossed in my own activity that I don’t notice the hall slowly starting to clear out. Girls are scraping the remaining food off their plates and into large buckets placed beside a table near the door before exiting.

  ‘You didn’t eat much,’ Sister Ann says, and I look down at my half-eaten bowl of soup; the grayish, tepid liquid has grown thick and green from the circles of oil that have floated to the top.

  ‘I wasn’t hungry,’ I say. ‘It’s been a long day and I’m tired.’

  ‘Let me show you to your room, then.’ Sister Ann pushes back her chair, and as if I am bound to her, the legs of my seat scrape along with hers. My body rises at the same time and in the same manner; a little pull of our calves, a quick roll of our necks. If she notices, she doesn’t show it. I go through the same motions as the other girls did, pouring out the soup and watching as it splashes against the tall, plastic sides of the basin.

  We enter the main foyer again and everything has quietened. The last remaining girls move by us in pairs or small groups, linked by their elbows, heads bent together.

  ‘Hurry up, girls,’ Sister Ann speaks softly but they hear and listen to her. Yes, Sister. They rush past us and up the stairs, disappearing behind closing doors. Sister Ann tells me that it’s time for the girls to do their homework.

  ‘We follow a strict schedule here,’ she says, as if warning me. ‘Dinner is from six to six forty-five followed by an hour and a half of homework.’

  I want to ask her what happens if I’m not hungry at that time or if I finish my homework before eight-thirty and if I am
allowed to call my father before I go to sleep every night?

  We reach the top of the first floor and there is barely a stirring around us. It’s as if I have dreamed up dinnertime, as if the horde of girls I have just seen was nothing but my own over-active, tired imagination. We keep climbing up, past a similarly soundless second floor and then onto the highest level. It’s more shadowy here than anywhere else in the building. There are long, elegant windows on either side of the corridor, covered in heavy velvet curtains that cast a teasing, clandestine darkness over the rooms.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind staying at the top—I know it can be quite a climb.’ Sister Ann smiles at me as we carry on down the long hallway toward a room at the end. She knocks before opening the door with a master key that sits in her pocket attached by a string to her belt around her waist. She steps back and lets me through. The first thing I notice is the size of the room. It’s small, much smaller than my room back home and the angled ceiling slopes downward on one side, making it seem even more cramped. There is a bed on either side of the room, attached to its own desk. A long rectangular window runs along the front wall and the patterned curtains—a poor attempt at making the room feel more homely—are carelessly drawn, allowing in cracks of bluish moonlight. One of the beds has been made immaculately, its blankets tucked in, corners perfectly folded out. The other is unmade. A single sheet and a thin, woolen blanket are folded and lying on top of the spring mattress.

  ‘I told Judy—that’s your roommate—to do her homework in the library tonight. Give you some space to settle down before tomorrow morning,’ Sister Ann says. That’s when I see my suitcase neatly placed in the corner beside the closet.

  ‘Where should I put my things?’ I ask.