For all her bravado, she looked away. She knew.
She was gone the next day.
At first I wasn’t so sure, although something nipped at the heel of my mind. The house was quiet, but then it always was in the early morning. But there was something. In the same way you can tell, sometimes, when someone is in a house, you can also feel it when they’ve gone. There was a dry stiffness to the place, a space that echoed lightly with Hattie’s voice.
“Where’s my mom?”
Elliot pulled a banana off the counter and tried, in the way that children are never successful at, tweaking the stem, frustrating himself at smooshing the top of the fruit. “Is she still here?”
Something about the question made me think that she wasn’t still here, wasn’t here anymore at all. I tore open the banana and bit off the mushy top, handing it back to Elliot, who walked away, his hair in all directions.
“Will you draw with me?”
My boy was an exceptional artist with a bright imagination, and yet he loved for me to copy pictures he would find in some of the old books and magazines that Hattie had brought home from her job with the spy-specialist author. There were books of war planes and tanks, of submarines and spying technology that looked to be a jumble of wires and buttons. The books smelled of old cigarettes and bookshelves, that dingy sour scent that makes the book a repugnant treasure. Our dining-room table was a mess of discarded paper and pencil shavings, piles of books with dog-eared corners, as we drew out new worlds of unimaginable secrecy.
I put on the kettle, stood still for a moment, listening. She was gone, I was sure of it. Gone off in a huff, our mother would have said. Hattie was always doing that when we were kids: storming out and away when she knew she was beat. We learned from our father how to run away; we learned from our mum how to stick it out. When she was a girl, we’d find her in cupboards or in the basement, or, once, having tea at an elderly neighbor’s house. But now she was gone, and I had stayed. I didn’t know for how long she’d be gone, or where she was. I knew that she was enraged and embarrassed, that her well of sadness was deep, and that she might exact some kind of revenge before returning, if she ever did. But that wasn’t for now. Now was for me, and for Elliot.
And then, my hands shaking just a bit, I took a pencil and pulled up a chair with my son.
24
I sat at the table one evening after Hattie left, Elliot tucked into bed, and read the local paper. So little had changed in St. Margaret’s since I was a child, and I couldn’t resist the town paper for all of its articles, notices, classifieds, garden sales, and photos of local kids with painted faces at one festival or another.
There was a stillness in the house now that Hattie was gone. I couldn’t relax, not fully, but I tried to let myself enjoy the silence, and tried not to wonder where she was or what trouble she could cause.
There were the usual wedding announcements with black-and-white photos of smiling young couples, as well as obituaries and anniversary notices. There were a few for stags and does, small-town fundraisers for couples raising money for their weddings. The more people, the better; cheap drinks, loud music, and it gave folks something to do on a Saturday night. The couples in the paper were familiar faces from our high school. I immediately pictured Hattie out with them all, slinging back shots with Mac Williams. I couldn’t shake the feeling of suffocation. I stood and folded the paper, heading down the stairs, as deep as the house could hide me from my fears.
The basement, where I was still living, was teeming with boxes of our things, mine and Hattie’s, since neither of us was inclined to give anything away. Records and books, stuffed animals, clothes, letters, magazines, all closed off in the playroom where no one played anymore. A mausoleum of childhood. Nothing was even really organized, although I do have a dim memory of one of Mum’s friends haphazardly packing up my room and taking boxes downstairs after the wedding, when Hattie was staying at the house with all its hauntings. And now that the tables had turned once again, and the plates and cups and all else were in my lap, I looked around me.
I wandered into the large room where I hadn’t ventured for at least a decade. I opened the doors, smelled drywall and the dust that was hanging in a scant sunbeam coming through the window on the far end. A ping-pong table, its net hanging limply in the middle, dominated the room, and I thought of the occasional evenings of boredom in my early high-school years, when Hattie and I had challenged each other with nothing else to do, snow built up on the window. Soon fiercely in the game, competition raising the color in our cheeks, the only sound our heaving breathing as we battled it out, batting the ball crazily until one of us lost.
I ran my finger through the dust on the green tabletop and wondered why Hattie hadn’t brought Elliot down here. It seemed a trove of exploration potential, a place where children in the middle of playing had up and left. She had no real instincts for children, Hattie. Maybe it was my years working at a daycare, but all around the house I saw missed opportunities where she could have done more with Elliot. Part of me thrilled at the thought of my days ahead with him, while pushing down a wave of guilt.
I lifted the lid on a box full of stuffed animals, their eyes staring vacantly in all directions. A box of cassette tapes—mixtapes with happy faces scrawled beside the titles in my and Hattie’s handwriting, early seventies hits, the soundtracks of riding in our mum’s old car, of sitting in our rooms. I found a neatly folded bag of clothes, and I pulled out pieces, remembering times I’d worn them. Unlocking rooms of memories that I had long-since forgotten. I sat down and leafed through postcards and letters from friends sending summer missives from their cottages or trips, brimming with exclamation marks and the giddy drama of youth. And so I found that once I’d started, I couldn’t stop because here it was, my life, her life, laid out before me. And if I could have gone back to any of these moments—the firecrackers in a jar, the tiny teeth and bones for drawing, the beads and crafts for Hattie’s necklace-making craze, the experimental photos of the trees in the yard, badly written poetry and diaries full of angst, collages made from cut-out pieces of magazines, photos of Hattie and me that our mother had taken, letters from me to Hattie, when I was away at school—if I could go back to all of this, would I do it differently? Could I find the spot where it veered off track and change the course? Maybe you could, Mum. Maybe you think that I tied rocks to Hattie’s kitten feet, but don’t you know that she jumped in on her own?
* * *
Later, the phone rang. It was Hattie.
I asked where she was.
“I’m in the city, staying with a friend for now.”
“How long are you planning on staying?”
“Until I can find my own place.”
I exhaled with a chuckle. “You really are more like our dad than I thought. Are you even going to ask about Elliot?”
Elliot was in the backyard playing with one of his little friends. They kicked a soccer ball between them, their feet dancing around the ball.
“I dunno,” I heard her murmur defeatedly, almost to herself. “Maybe it was all a mistake.” Then, to me: “You’re right. I need to sort my shit out, Penny. I rushed into having a kid. Well. I mean, you know. I want to get my head on straight. I’m not good for him right now.”
“How nice for you.”
“Sorry?”
“How nice for you to be able to choose that you’re not good for him so you are going to take some time. I’m sure there were times Elliot would have left you, given the chance. You’re a mother. Get your head out of your ass.”
I hung up the phone feeling a rush of smugness, then guilt, but it didn’t last long. In fact, I didn’t even really want her to return. I was his mother. This was my house.
I opened the door and called the boys in. Sunday night, an early dinner before Elliot had his bath. A treat, to have a friend over on a school night, but I allowed it, trying to encourage new friendships that had begun to blossom in his first-grade class. It was November
, and their cheeks were chilly and their breath husky when they ran in, huffing and puffing and making a mess of kicked-off shoes by the back door.
“Jamie, do you want to play Sorry! while we eat?”
Jamie, a cautious child, looked at me for permission, and I nodded, smiling.
“Okay,” Jamie said, wiping his hands on his pants after washing them in the bathroom. Elliot grabbed the game from the sideboard and began setting it up between the plates of spaghetti on the table. I brought over glasses of milk.
“Are you his mom?” Jamie asked me, making, I was sure, the connection between food and parents. Yes. Yes. Yes.
“No, sweetie. I’m his auntie Penny. His mom isn’t home right now.”
“Oh.”
“My mom has to work a lot, but she’s really nice. You’ll meet her one day,” Elliot explained, straightening the Sorry! cards and slurping noisily at his milk. “My dad lives in another house. With a tree house! Auntie Penny, can Jamie come there one day?”
“My dad isn’t at my house, either,” said Jamie. “My mom sometimes goes on dates.”
“Sure, Elliot—I’m sure your dad would love to have Jamie over.”
There was, in fact, a pretty fantastic ship-shaped tree house at the house that Jameson was living in. I suspected that was part of the reason he’d rented it in the first place. It was nearby, and he’d made sure that Elliot’s life was as unchanged as possible since he had moved out. Maybe he thought it was temporary, hoping she’d come around. He hadn’t pushed for custody or any formal legal agreement. Hadn’t even fought for more time with Elliot, but made sure it was split almost exactly. He knew that I was here now, and I think he hoped this would help Hattie, help bring her back. When in fact, it had done just the opposite.
Happy chatter, games. I wiped down the countertop and felt a little like I was playing house. Earlier in the day, I had brought up from the basement trove a few of our old toys and games and shown them to Elliot and his friend to wild delight. I felt in this moment that I could do no wrong. With the sun setting early and the leaves flying around in the wind on the driveway, with two kids gabbing and laughing at the table, with the dryer tumbling warmly in the other room, I was a making a home. Was it someone else’s? That was a trick question. My house, her house, our house. My son, hers. I had staked claim now, though. I knew what was best. Who was best.
I pulled out some bread and peanut butter to make Elliot’s lunch for school the next day and thought of Hattie, wherever she was. I didn’t allow myself to think of all the secrets, of Buddy and Jameson, but they were there, lying beneath the surface like bodies under water. I was still worried that she would tell someone, that it would all come out, that our secrets would unravel and I would lose everything, but here we were. Almost like the fire had never happened. It was, after all, so long ago: that thing that happened. It was hard to imagine crafting anything like that now.
I spread the peanut butter, poured a little honey in, and closed it up with a soft piece of bread. Jamie asked for more spaghetti, please. Elliot asked for just meatballs. Hard to imagine saying such a plan aloud, let alone pulling it off, pulling it out like a terrible magic trick of flaming red scarves. Thick as thieves, Mum used to say, that we sisters were thick as thieves. I looked over my shoulder and saw that I had pulled off a master heist.
Bath time, story time, bedtime. Routine, for Elliot and me. A life that felt like it had always been this way, even though I’d only been with him for two years. In the quiet evening that followed, I opened a beer, sat in the old wingback, and called Jameson.
“Have you heard from her?” I asked.
“Yeah, she called me. Nothing much to report.” He paused and said, “It’s so frustrating. I’m so disappointed in her, Penny. She’s abandoned her son. And I mean, what irony, right? After how much your dad leaving messed with you two?”
“I know.” I sipped at my beer, letting the silence stretch out between us, feeling for that connection that I was sure had never disappeared completely.
“If it’s okay with you, I want Elliot to keep living there, with you, half the time. The less that things change for him, the better.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “He loves you.”
My heart leapt, in spite of everything. I smiled, shyly.
He paused, then said, sighing, “God, I hope she figures herself out.”
“I think she will. She just needed a break. Motherhood is hard,” I said, knowing that in this I was serving to protect us both, Hattie and me, again.
I moved onto the logistics of the following week, to pick-ups and drop-offs and the sticky business of keeping the family ball rolling. I was so grateful to Jameson. He was such a calming force amidst this storm. He was my family, the father of my child, a dear friend, and under it all, I felt sure there was more. I couldn’t blame Hattie for assuming there was more than mutual respect between us, for of course there was, more than she knew.
“Thank you, Jameson,” I managed to say.
He laughed and said that he clearly owed me more than I owed him. We chatted some more, shared some funny stories about our son, things that only we might find charming and brilliant and witty. I finished my beer and said goodbye, putting the phone in the cradle and listening to the silence of our old house. My house.
I stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the room. I had won. I was back where I belonged, and all was good. Fortune had smiled on me because I knew, truly in my heart, what was right, what was my right, and I took it. It was hard-earned, of course. Hattie was a formidable opponent; I had always known that. I was the only one who had ever recognized what she was capable of, how her actions threatened the safety and happiness of our home. She wasn’t up to it, but I was. I always had been. Life was as it was fated to be now, and it was because I had fought for it. I knew it would work out.
I hadn’t been rash. I had thought carefully, not impulsively. I had paid attention, I had listened and watched, and I would not be taken by surprise.
I had kept my eye on Hattie at all times.
Mum could be proud of me now.
25
Months had gone by with no word from Hattie, but we were getting along just fine, now. At first, Elliot had woken some nights, crying for his mom, but I was there now, and his nights were peaceful. I woke one morning to the sound of Elliot calling me from the main floor. I sat straight up in a panic, then lay down again.
“I’ll be right up, darling.”
“Okay. Auntie Penny, can I have some cereal?”
I heard him rooting around in the boxes, then the telltale sound of cereal pouring all over the counter. I smiled as he called to me again. To be needed, isn’t it one of life’s pleasures?
On the way to drop Elliot off at school.
“Hey, I don’t know if your mom told you, but I have a farm.”
“A real farm? What kind of animals are there?”
“Okay, so, none, but there is a barn. Do you want to go there with me sometime?”
“Why don’t you have any animals?”
“I do. His name is Elliot.”
A giggle, a shove against my side.
“Want to see it? After school, maybe?”
“Can we get ice cream first?”
“I fail to see why you’ll need ice cream to see the barn.”
Elliot’s toothy grin, different now that his big teeth were coming in. “Ice cream is very important.”
“True. Smart kid. Although maybe you can help me figure out what to do with the barn. Put in a swing or something?”
“Okay!” A skip to his step.
There were leaves spread out beneath us, and Elliot picked many up, asking me to save them for later, which I did. A collection gathered inside the door of the house, and a musty autumn smell, as they curled and dried out, losing their sheen and impossible loveliness, but I couldn’t bear to throw them out.
I kissed him at the door to the school, where he hastily ran after Jamie, whom he spotted by the portable
s. His knapsack thumping against his back as he went. I had the day off, and I turned, and caught sight of Jameson pulling up on his bike. He dismounted gracefully, deftly handling it with his one arm, and walked over to me. We hugged and something inside came unclasped. Relief.
“Plans for the day, Penny? Your day off, right?”
“I think I’ll go visit Joseph. It’s been a while. You’ll come get Elliot after dinner?”
“You got it.”
“Do you want to stay for dinner? We’d love to have you.”
Jameson smiled, and demurred. “No thanks, Penny. I’ve got some grading to do, so I’ll just grab on the go.” In time.
I left, the fall breeze blowing my hair off my forehead. It had grown a lot, waving somewhere near my chin. Echoes of Buddy and his preference for long hair had faded, mostly. I saw him in my dreams still, a shadowy and frightening presence who usually strode in from somewhere else, lighting a cigarette and tossing a net of obscenities. Sometimes the dreams would end with me cornered by him against a wall or a bank of cupboards, trying futilely to push back, my fists useless, and I would wake with a start to the sound of my alarm. But he felt like part of another life. For so long, he, the torment, the fire, had become so firmly entrenched into my being that I thought I’d never move on. Yet in the same way my childhood had drifted into a foggy memory, that middle part of my life had become a barely perceptible scar. I marveled sometimes how easily I had been able to move on; I had survived. Made it.
* * *
There is something about making friends with older people that makes it all the more heartbreaking to witness their aging. Joseph was losing weight, and his skin seemed to hang on his large frame. He was still wiry and strong and tall, and when he grinned, his eyes sparkled. But he was tired, and now had a stool with him at the workbench, whereas I had only ever known him to stand in the time before I left. And still, he greeted me as he always did.
Sister of Mine Page 16
