* * *
A call from Hattie after a long period of silence. She sounded so cheerful that it was almost brittle, talking quickly about Elliot’s advanced progress and all the fun they were having.
Until she said, “A lot of people are asking after you.”
“Oh yeah?” I put the kettle on the stove and withdrew a mug from a cupboard. There was a pause on the phone that was characteristic of the long-distance connection at the time, but also felt loaded.
“Yeah. So … I ran into Mac Williams the other day. He looks like a bag of shit.”
“That’s not new.”
“Yeah, well. He looks worse. Apparently he’s been in prison. He asked me where my ‘frigid bitch of a sister’ had gone.”
“Wow. Nice guy.” A shiver ran up my spine, and I pictured Mac loafing about town like a ticking bomb.
“Yeah.” She put her hand over the phone and I heard her tell Jameson to take Elliot for his nap. I heard her wait, then return, and whisper into the phone. “There’s more. Remember Iain?”
“I could hardly forget,” I said drily.
“He’s a detective now, big promotion, but I wanted to tell you, he came by the house.”
“Why?” I was standing frozen with my hand on my tea mug.
“He brought something for you. Said he was,” she paused, and dropped her voice, “looking through our file. He thought you’d want it. It’s your wedding picture from the house. I guess it survived the fire. I sent it to you, but Penny, why was he looking through the file?”
After I hung up, I remained in the kitchen, standing still for a long time. The thought of Officer—or Detective—Moore filled me with a cold dread, and the room around me seemed to freeze into hyper focus, even the fan seemed to hold still. Why had he been looking through the file? Why had he kept that picture of me and Buddy? I knew the picture, and as promised, it soon arrived in the mail. I studied it for a long time: Buddy grinning at the camera. My gaze was out of frame, I had glossy eyes and a worried mouth. Mum’s green emerald earrings sparkling in my ears. In the background, someone was dancing. The camera had caught the hem of a party dress, an arm thrown back in gleeful celebration. Was it Hattie’s? I thought of her saying, all those years ago, that Buddy had it coming. The last straw.
Collarbones themselves are like straw: sitting like fragile frames around our stronger bones. They shouldn’t be crushed in a fall or feeling the bottom of a boot.
What was my last straw? Was it the same for Hattie?
* * *
Hattie had been avoiding coming to the house I shared with Buddy. She felt guilty for the attention he was paying her and worried about how I had read it. Did I think there was more there? Sure, part of me did. I wasn’t certain. Hattie’s loyalty was, as always, reassuring to some extent, but I had become suspicious of everyone.
And then Buddy happened upon her one night. She had been picking up extra hours at the local bar, Dusty’s. She was gathering up darts, and when she stood up, Buddy was standing over her, she told me after. Suddenly too close to Hattie, the wall behind her, the darts falling sharply. A mumbled slew of comments on her body, her youth, her hair, what they could do together. His rough mouth on hers before she knew it, and then her nails in his arm, her knee in his crotch, but not strong enough to help her get away. Not if they’d been alone. But they weren’t, and there were shouts of Alright, alright, Buddy from Mac, who pulled Buddy away from Hattie, chortling, Take it easy, would you, Hattie? He’s married. The two of them laughing as they lumbered away and left her against the wall.
That night, I woke to my long hair being snatched, lifting me off the pillow, knocking me onto the floor, my collarbone breaking as I hit the cheap hardwood beside our bed. I would never have long hair again after that. It was a noose, a weapon against me. My scalp throbbed. Buddy’s angry breath as he pulled down my pajamas. Taking what he deserved. Every thrust like a jolt through my body as my neck and shoulder howled.
He put his hand over my mouth and called me Hattie.
Hattie.
Hattie.
He climbed into the bed and passed out. I lay on the floor, in the dark, where I heard her name over and over, ringing in my ears.
Hattie cried at my side the next day, at the doctor’s office. Shh, Hattie. Shut up, Hattie. It’s okay, Hattie. She told me what had happened, how he’d kissed her, but she had hated it. I believe you, I told her in a choked voice, trying to push the image from my mind, of course you did. I trust you, always. She blamed herself. She never thought that he could be like this. She was sorry. I said, Don’t worry, Hattie. I love you, Hattie. It’s him, not you. We stick together.
I stared straight ahead. My collarbone sang furiously, but my mind went calm. In the face of roaring evidence, I had to be still while I took stock, counted out pieces of fury, my currency of justice, tucked in my pocketbook of madness.
A sling. A haircut. A plan.
* * *
Hattie had none of this chemical, emotional preparation, no protection. In the end, the role she played had a ripple effect that I hadn’t foreseen. She came undone, laces of her life lying around, and I was the one to tie her back together. She clung to me to help her breathe. She was broken inside. And Elliot, the boy, the bodily distraction of parenthood, was an attempt at repair.
I hoped, as I turned the key and locked my flat, so far away from her, that she was whole now. But that wasn’t all that hung in the balance. Iain Moore, the file on our fire. My worries started to unspool, threads running away, out of my control.
20
I didn’t go home for almost four years. In the rare times I spoke to Hattie, her voice had changed, like something had slipped sideways for her. At first it was little things: She missed the life she and Jameson had before Elliot’s birth. Then she claimed her little boy hated her, that he wouldn’t hold her or cuddle her, but demanded all her time. That she wasn’t a natural mother, that I would have done better. I brushed off these comments about being Elliot’s “real” mother, such was the weight I gave her feelings. Or mine. I had almost convinced myself that I hadn’t given birth to him—anyone—that it had never happened. My stomach was stretched but I pretended not to notice. The dreams I had about going into labor became more frequent, but I forced myself to forget them when the sun came up, putting on the radio and allowing the kettle to whistle loudly and for too long, trying to put the thoughts out of my mind. So much time had passed. More, I put so much faith in Jameson’s ability to steady Hattie that I hadn’t accounted for the fact that he might not want to.
And one day, I heard his voice on the other end of the line.
“Hi, Penny. It’s Jameson.”
I felt the familiar ache that Jameson provoked in me and my resentment. Even after all this time.
“Is everything okay?”
“Everyone’s fine. Nothing has happened. Well. Everyone’s fine.”
“Okay …”
“Okay, look. I’ll just get right to it. Hattie’s really not in a good place, Pen.” His familiarity with me still gave my stomach a jolt, and I tried to stay focused.
“What do you mean? She seems fine,” I lied.
“Well. It surprises me to hear you say that. She’s not. And look, the last, and I mean last thing I want to do is go behind her back—”
“Again, you mean,” I said, but my barb reached him at the same time that his voice came to me with the phone delay.
“I mean, she’s not good. Things are not good with us, she’s not happy. Half the time, I bet she’s drunk when she calls you.”
This, I knew, was true. I hadn’t admitted it to myself, hoping that she was sounding simply tired and overworked, but I had known the telltale sound of Hattie after a few drinks.
“I don’t know if you can call it postpartum when your kid is four, but she seems to be in a very dark place. She’s angry, and to be frank, pretty nasty sometimes. Not to Elliot, not really, but she’s stopped trying … or something. She’d be really
great with him if she’d give herself a chance.”
“I’m so sorry, Jameson. My God. I had no idea.”
“I mean, it’s not bad all the time or anything. But I needed you to know. Maybe you can talk to her. She doesn’t even want to be near me anymore. She has accused me of not knowing the real her, of never really knowing her.”
My eyes widened. Risk. I felt the risk. I felt the immediate and painful surge of needing to be back with her. For her sake and mine.
“Oh, Jameson. This is terrible. Is she still working?”
“Yeah. She still goes to work. She’s working all the time for that author-researcher guy. He’s a bit of an old piss tank, too, if you ask me. I don’t know how he can afford to pay her; she seems to be just paid to organize his life and his crap. Half the time she doesn’t come home until after Elliot’s gone to bed. There’s nothing fishy going on with him, I’m pretty sure he’s not even into women, but she seems to fall down a hole of old papers and photo albums, and sherry, and then comes out hours later not knowing who she is.”
I heard him sniff into the phone.
“I don’t know what to do. I think she might leave me and Elliot, to tell you the truth, Penny. She’s becoming so withdrawn and so private, but then she goes out a lot of nights.”
“She goes out?”
“Yeah, you know, she goes on walks and hikes, or to catch up with old friends or whatever,” he finished lamely. Hattie didn’t have any old friends. I pictured her, going on hikes alone, up near the escarpment. Her fears propelling her higher and higher into the rocks.
“And I know that Elliot needs her.”
“Of course—”
“I mean, he’s fine—totally a happy kid. You would love him. I know you would. He’s funny and smart and creative. He’s the best. Did Hattie tell you how much he looks like you? I’m sure you know all about it. People are always saying so.”
I said that yes, I’d heard, but my mind was racing. I needed to reel her in again. I’d been pretending that a taut line hadn’t connected me to Hattie all this time. As though I could ever get away or trust her to go on without me. She was my burden, my responsibility.
“Maybe it’s time for me to come home,” I said, surprising myself.
There was a pause, then, “Really? For good? Oh, Penny. Thank you. I feel like you’re the silver bullet here.” He laughed. “But, no pressure.”
“It’s time. I was thinking of moving home anyway,” I said, looking around my apartment and wondering how quickly I could leave.
“She’ll be—we both will be—so glad to see you.”
She was drawing me back to her, and I was powerless to resist it. She was my sister. She was my own dear heart. And she was a risk.
21
The airport was busy and full of cheery transition. I didn’t have a lot of bags, having given away most of my old things to second-hand stores in Paris, and keeping only those things I really felt I needed. I had a large knapsack on my back, and while it was bursting, it really wasn’t a lot, considering I was restarting a life.
I handed over my passport and waited. Watched the face of the woman at the desk, wondering if the impassivity of her expression was what they were taught to do when flagging a criminal for security. I stood still, fighting off the urge to look around me, listening for the footsteps of authority, but they never came.
“Je rentre chez moi,” I said, smiling. I’m going home. Took my documents and walked away, my hands shaking at my sides.
* * *
Perhaps it was the jet lag or the simple fatigue of travel, but I hadn’t given Elliot much thought as I wheeled my suitcase into the arrivals area, foggily sweeping my eyes across the crowd for my sister. And then there was Hattie, waving energetically with one arm, and holding the hand of a child with the other.
I wasn’t prepared for him, this little person I had steadfastly refused to visit. He looked not only like me, but like our mother and grandmother, and Jameson—an echo of all the people I’d loved and those I’d lost. My heart clenched like a fist, and I coughed to stop the pain. He shyly held out his hand as I knelt down and shook it, his palm warm and damp.
“How do you do, Elliot.”
He was wearing a cape made of green velour that was tied in a knot at his throat. Black curls in all directions. People jostled and hugged around us, and I was right back to the night I’d given birth, to handing the wriggling baby to my sister. And now he was this lovely boy. And in spite of everything, I started to cry. I covered it up with a laugh and stood, burying myself in a hug with Hattie, who was beautiful but a little more tired, her hair mussed, bags under her eyes.
“Welcome home, Penny.”
“Thank you, Hattie.”
And at first I thought it was mouthwash, that minty pungent whiff in her kiss, but it was more, I discovered later. It was the smell of coping and forgetting. She took up one of my bags and hustled us all, in a wave of happy homecoming, to the parking lot, Elliot’s cape catching a bit of air as he ran.
Hattie at the wheel, occasionally handing snacks back to Elliot, who chomped solemnly while playing with two action figures.
“How’s Jameson?” I asked.
She looked in the rear-view mirror and changed lanes. “Oh, you know. Fine, I guess. He’s always in my face.”
“What do you mean?”
“Who’s face?” Elliot piped up from the back seat.
“No one, Elliot. I’m trying to talk to Auntie Penny, please. Here, here are some stickers. You can decorate your cup.” She thrust a pile of stickers at Elliot that she had uncovered from an overflowing space between our seats. She rolled her eyes at me as she did so. I looked at Elliot, who took the stickers silently, his eyes on mine. I winked at him. He regarded the plastic cup lying in the seat beside him, as if evaluating how to decorate it.
She continued, “I feel like he’s breathing down my neck all the time. Judging me.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case, Hattie.” I turned again to Elliot, who returned my smile with a stony face. I looked at Hattie. “We can talk about this later. I’m exhausted. Not retaining much right now, and, uh, I don’t think we should talk about this in front of him, do you?”
“Whatever. If we waited until we were alone, I’d never get to talk to you,” she said darkly.
And yet I had energy enough for the joy I felt when we pulled up to the old house. Our childhood homes, don’t they carry that irreplaceable spot in our hearts? That house is still the setting of most of my dreams. I know the hallways, the lighting, the dark corners and the bright places where the sun comes through in the morning. I know the view from my room when I first wake up, the rustle of leaves outside my window. I will always remember these things. They are as much a part of me as a birthmark.
I stayed in the car while Hattie unbuckled Elliot, who was whining about having to pee, and I watched her gently tug him up to the front door, struggle with my bag, then drop her keys and snap at him. She left the door open, and a whirl of leaves circled into a frenzy on the porch. I closed my eyes and fell almost immediately into a slumber, the autumn breeze touching my cheeks, my hair, through the open car window.
Soon Hattie shouted my name, and I woke, disoriented, my mouth open. She was standing there with her arms out as though to say, Really? Come on before turning in a haze of red hair and going back inside. I gathered my things and followed her, shoes scuffing on the driveway gravel. The sun was a bright blur, and my eyes watered as I went up the front steps, regarding the door like a soldier home from the front. I smiled to myself. Home.
Jameson met me with an enormous hug. I grinned and saw Hattie over his shoulder, and she rolled her eyes and proffered her hands in a see? gesture.
“Let me get your bags,” he said, while I looked a little closer at the face I hadn’t seen in far too long. He looked like a worn and frayed version of what I remembered.
“I already did it, Jameson,” Hattie grumbled from the kitchen. Jameson shrugged, sm
iling, and patted me on the back, unable to hide his relief that I was there, swooping in to rescue … whom? Hattie? Him? Myself, once again.
The house was a mess. Mostly, I suspected, it was messy due to the busy nature of life with a young child. There were books and clothes, newspapers, craft supplies, little pieces of construction paper everywhere like confetti, lifting off tables when someone walked by, floating to the floor. Trains and their tracks littered a round braided rug that I didn’t recognize, and there were also random things like some large buttons, the eye of a toy that stared up at me from the floor, and a large bike horn, which gave me shivers to think of the noise it could make.
Under this, though, there was another kind of mess. The leaving it in the sink for too long, sad kind of mess. I noticed a few empty red wine bottles and a very stained glass pushed to the corner of the counter in the kitchen. Hattie had never been very tidy, and Jameson not much better, but there was something here that pushed me into the edge of worry. Jameson caught me looking and rushed to the kitchen to clean. Elliot chirped happily around the house. Hattie found reasons to bicker with Jameson. I watched them all, this family. My family. I kicked off my shoes and joined in.
When I had told Hattie I was coming home, I was very clear that I was going to find my own place, see if Joseph would take me as a tenant again, or maybe even shack up in my barn for a while. But she’d insisted, on the verge of a shrill beg, that I stay at the house, at least temporarily. I relented and was relieved. I needed to keep an eye on Hattie, and, now that I’d met Elliot, on her son as well. My old instinct to keep my family close had kicked right back in. And I was tired. Tired of pretending and trying to start again. It’s difficult to reinvent yourself. There are parts of you that won’t change: made of something hard like a bone that just won’t bend another way. And you can chip at it, you can break it altogether even, but you can’t take it out. It’s there. And it was there for me. Home. Walking through the foyer, hearing Hattie’s nattering from a room over, touching chairs and opening windows just to hear the creak they made, I was happy. Happy in a travel-weary, tired-drunk fog. I willfully turned away from that whispered sadness that I knew was there, pretended not to hear it over the chatter, pretended not to see it, that under-painting beneath the whole picture. And it was because of that haunting underneath that I needed to keep an eye on Hattie, to be there. Because I loved her, sure, but because there were more people at stake: little Elliot, Jameson. This family needed stability. I could help.
Sister of Mine Page 14
