THE DAY SHE DIED
THE DAY SHE DIED
S.M. FREEDMAN
Copyright © S.M. Freedman, 2021
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All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Publisher: Scott Fraser | Acquiring Editor: Rachel Spence | Editor: Shannon Whibbs Cover designer: Laura Boyle
Cover image: Composite image: rain: istock.com/1001slide Landscape: shutterstock.com/ OksanaGoskova
Printer: Marquis Book Printing Inc.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: The day she died / S.M. Freedman.
Names: Freedman, S. M., author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200319655 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200319671 | ISBN 9781459747401 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459747418 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459747425 (EPUB) Classification: LCC PS8611.R4355 D39 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada.
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For Hannah
Who walks beside me from afar
Everything you can imagine is real.
— Pablo Picasso
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Acknowledgements
About the Author
ONE
EVE GOLD WASN’T SURPRISED to die on her twenty-seventh birthday. The Angel of Death’s greasy fingers had been pressing against her spine for ten years — maybe longer — and in the underground of her mind where truth squirmed away from the light, she knew that it was just a matter of time before press turned to shove. No, death wasn’t much of a shock. The real surprise was everything that followed.
She left the gallery early, hoping to get home before the storm hit. Six of her paintings about life on Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside were set to debut the next day, as part of The Other Side exhibit. After years spent hiding behind her role as an event coordinator, her artistic debut was causing Eve heartburn and night sweats. Her birthday was a perfect excuse to leave work early.
The rain hit as she left the bakery, and it meant business. It pummelled her blind and deaf, and by the time she ducked under the Starbucks awning to wait for the southbound bus, she was soaked to the skin. Her feet squished inside her boots and her hair dripped into her eyes. Even worse, the cake box sagged from her fingers by a twist of string, waterlogged and threatening collapse. Button would be ticked.
Over the years, her grandmother had worked hard to perfect, and then weaponize, THE LOOK. Her lips would pull downward and her eyes would deepen into pits of sorrow. THE LOOK could penetrate Eve’s walls like nothing else, and there was nothing else needed to keep her in line.
Which was why she still lived at home, why she had no social life, and why she kept up the illusion that all was well. That she was well. On every one of her birthdays, she’d sit next to her grandmother, choking back coconut cake and watching The Golden Girls on their flat-screen TV, smiling and laughing and pretending she was glad she’d been born. She did it for Button, who cried less often but still roamed the house at night in search of some lost object she would never find. Wherever Donna had gone, she wasn’t stashed behind the linens in the sideboard.
Lightning cracked, and across the street the courthouse’s glass atrium mirrored the blinding flash. Her mother had died in that building, and Eve wondered if Donna still haunted those darkened courtrooms, unable to sleep until justice had been served.
Shaking off a fresh surge of apprehension, she turned away from the damp wind whipping around the corner. She pulled her scarf over her nose and mouth and breathed deeply of the woollen fabric, hoping to mask the acrid smell of coffee. The scarf still held the clean scent of her moisturizer, which didn’t remind her of her mother in any way.
From the corner of her eye, she watched a man step through the sheets of rain pouring from the awning. He wore a long overcoat and fedora. His shoes were square-toed and highly polished. He paused at the door to the coffee shop, turning to her with a friendly smile.
“Eve?”
He looked familiar, and her first thought was that he was one of the art gallery’s trustees. She could never keep them straight. Hector had once made her a chart of all the old farts she shouldn’t offend. He’d typed their names under their pictures in a screaming red font, as though trying to burn the information into her brain. It hadn’t worked.
The man cocked his head to the side, as though waiting for her to recognize him.
“You look just like your mom. Like Button, too.”
Was he one of Donna’s old colleagues? But no, he knew her grandmother, as well. Seconds stacked up, and Eve was still drawing a blank.
“I’m sorry, where do I know you from?”
His smile widened to reveal stained teeth and pale gums. “Just take my hand. I’ll stay with you.”
She stepped back, pressing against the glass display window. It felt cold and slick against her back, even through the fabric of her coat.
He moved closer, reached for her hand. His ring finger was gone from knuckle to tip, which sparked a jolt of recognition she didn’t have time to process. His eyes were the colour of dark amber. She wondered if they’d spark in the sunlight, like hers did. Donna used to say she had eyes like fool’s gold.
“Take my hand,” he said with more urgency.
“No,” she wanted to say, but never got the chance.
Tires screeched, followed by a loud popping noise. Her body lifted from the ground and slammed through the display window, which exploded in a spray of glass sharp enough to pierce even her lie-toughened skin.
Eve flew over people and chairs and tables like a broken missile. The cake box soared from her grip. People scattered for cover. A Rorschach of blood droplets splattered t
he glass display case. She was above it all, seeing everything but comprehending nothing. She smelled bitter coffee and sweet coconut, tasted the salt of her own blood — all reminders of who she was and the things she’d done.
She slammed to the floor and the air whooshed from her lungs. Her eyes fixed on a brown stain on the ceiling, where a teardrop of water formed. It grew fat-fatter-fattest, wobbled with anticipation, and dropped. It splashed into her right eye and slid toward her temple.
Strangers surrounded her, spoke words she couldn’t understand. They had worried faces and sad faces, moon faces and balloon faces.
“It’s okay,” she tried to say. “I’m not hurt.”
To her left, a woman screamed. It was like an electric shock that jolted Eve’s body to life. She tried to look, and the bones in her neck ground together with a protesting creak. Her head felt soft on that side. Mushy.
The front end of a silver Lexus wedged through the Starbucks window like a ship run aground. The hood was crumpled, dripping, one headlight smashed. And of course it was silver. Silver like moonlight on a pond, or secrets kept.
“Take my hand now. It’s time. Let me help you.” The old man bent toward her. He’d lost his fedora and his hair was a gossamer cloud around his head.
She opened her mouth and felt a gush of something hot and wet spill over her lips. She remembered the trail of vomit on Donna’s cheek, and the dead man in the forest, and how quiet the river had seemed once the screaming stopped.
“Take my hand.”
At the touch of his fingers, the top of her skull popped open. The inside of her head became a wind tunnel spiralling toward a blinding, horrifying white light.
Like the last pea in a can, she shook loose from the centre of her brain, spun in nauseating circles, and was sucked up into the whirlwind. She whipped to the opening, toward light that screamed — and somewhere beyond, she felt certain she would find her reckoning. No way was she ready for that.
She skidded along the curved bone of her skull, moving faster and faster. Desperate to burrow back into herself, she kicked backward and dug into the meat of her. She slowed to a stop and the light flickered and went out. A tidal wave of pain slammed her back and down, flooding her with inky silence. Like a spider swept toward the bathtub drain, all she could do was curl into a ball and hang on. When she tried to scream, her mouth filled with salt water. Or maybe it was blood.
TWO
Eve’s Sixth Birthday
“IT’S A DOLL!” Sara said before Eve had even finished tearing off the pink wrapping paper. Her new friend bounced on the couch, full of cake and soda.
“Do you like it? I wanted to get you an American Girl doll, but Mom said we couldn’t spend that much money so we got you a cheap knock-off instead.”
“Sara!” Mrs. Adler said.
“What’s a knock-off?” Eve asked. “Is that like when you play Scat?”
The adults laughed and she felt her face grow hot. “You know, like how you have to knock when you get thirty-one?”
“It’s not like that.” Mr. Adler’s voice was kind. “It means that your doll isn’t actually an American Girl doll.”
“Oh. I like her, anyway. She’s got curly hair like me.”
“I knew you’d like her! Wanna play dolls? I’ll go get Fiona.” Sara jumped up and ran from the room.
Donna leaned forward. “What do you say to the Adlers?”
“Thank you,” she said, trying to free her doll from the box.
“Leigh!” Mrs. Adler said. “Bring the scissors from the kitchen, would you?”
“It’s so kind of you to have us over like this.” Button placed her empty cake plate on top of the pile of boxes they used as a coffee table. “And that was delicious. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble.”
“It’s just a mix.” Mrs. Adler waved a long-fingered hand in dismissal.
“Well, it’s a treat. And I think the girls are getting along nicely.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Adler said. “We were worried Sara would have trouble making friends. New school, new neighbourhood. She can be shy, so it’s been a hard transition for her.”
“For all of them,” Mr. Adler said.
“I can’t find them!” a boy shouted from the back of the house.
“Check the junk drawer!” Mrs. Adler turned to Button and Donna. “Moving is the worst, isn’t it? On Sara’s first day at the new school, Eve ran right over and invited her to play.”
“How nice,” Button said.
“They’re not here!” the boy shouted.
“Oh for heaven’s sake. Dear, would you mind?”
Dutifully, Mr. Adler got up and left the room.
“Sara was so thrilled to make a friend so quickly.”
“Eve usually isn’t very good at making friends,” Donna said. “She’s so awkward.”
Eve’s head snapped up from the box she was having no luck opening in time to see Mrs. Adler’s eyelids flutter.
“She’s just choosy,” Button said quickly. “Some of the girls in their class aren’t very kind.”
“How do you know? She’s never invited anyone over for us to meet.”
“I know because I listen to your daughter,” Button said.
“And you believe everything she says.”
“Du fangst shoyn on?” Button said in Yiddish, and Donna’s jaw tightened. Turning to Mrs. Adler, Button asked, “How many children do you have?”
Mrs. Adler let out a breath. “We have three girls — Sara’s the youngest, Margie is eight, and Danielle is ten — and one boy, Leigh, who’s eleven.”
“You certainly have your hands full,” Donna said.
“Yes.” Mrs. Adler turned in her seat. “Have you found those scissors yet, dear?”
“Here, Mom,” a boy said, loping into the room.
“Catch!” He pretended to throw and grinned when the adults ducked. “Just kidding.”
“Leigh!” Mrs. Adler barked, clutching her chest.
“That’s not funny.”
The boy looked down at his feet. “Sorry, Mom.”
“I thought it was funny,” Eve said, feeling bad for him. Being yelled at in front of strangers was no fun, she knew.
Turning toward her, he smiled. “You must be Sara’s new friend.”
“Yeah.”
“Yes,” Donna said.
“Happy birthday.” He sat on the carpet beside her, turning his back on the adults in a way that made them seem suddenly less there. He tucked his long legs to the side and hunched down so he was on her level. “Do you want some help with that?”
She handed him the box and watched as he cut her doll free. He had to keep pushing his hair out of his eyes and his arms were long and skinny, his knuckles covered in healing scrapes.
Handing her the doll, he asked, “What are you going to name her?”
“I don’t know.” Eve rubbed a finger over the doll’s hair. It felt coarse, and she touched her own curls for comparison. She was glad her hair felt much softer. “What do you think?”
“Hmm.” He scrunched his brow in concentration.
“Gertrude?”
She shook her head, stifling a giggle.
“Henrietta?”
She slapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head emphatically.
“I know. Persephone!”
She laughed. “That’s not a name!”
“Sure it is. She’s the queen of the underworld.”
“Really?” Eve rolled the name around in her head. She kind of liked it. “What does that mean?”
“Don’t frighten her, Leigh,” Mrs. Adler said. “He did a school project last year, and now he’s obsessed with Greek mythology. Would you like more coffee?”
As the adults turned back to their conversation, he leaned close enough that she could smell his bubblegum.
“When she was just a young innocent girl, she was playing in a valley with all her friends. She saw the most beautiful flower. But when she bent down to pick it, the earth
under her feet broke open and this chariot burst out, pulled by giant black horses. It was Hades, the god of the underworld. He wanted to marry Persephone, but her mom had said no. So, he grabbed her and dragged her down to the underworld.”
She blinked at him, feeling a thrill of fear. “What’s that?”
“It’s the kingdom of the dead.”
“Is it scary?”
“It’s really dark and there’s all kinds of beasts. Like centaurs and Gorgons.”
She didn’t know what those were, and decided she didn’t want to know. “What happened to her? Did she die?”
“Hades made her his wife. Kind of romantic, right?”
She didn’t know what the word romantic meant, but sensed he was testing her. Maybe he was waiting to see if she’d burst into tears or tell her mother that he was scaring her. But she wasn’t a baby. Straightening her shoulders, she looked him square in the eyes. “Persephone. I like it.”
He smiled at her, nodding his approval. “You’re cool, Eve.”
Her cheeks heated with pleasure. “I know,” she said, and then flushed even more when he laughed. But his laugh was like an invitation into a private joke, so after a moment she joined in.
“Eve!” Sara bounced into the room, clutching a doll with yellow hair to her chest. “This is Fiona. Wanna come play in my room?”
Jumping up, she looked to her mom for permission.
“Ten minutes,” Donna said.
Turning to Leigh, who sat on the carpet with the empty box in his lap, she held up her doll. “Persephone says thank you.”
He gave her a grin and a little salute.
She bounced out of the room on Sara’s heels.
“It’s my birthday in a week,” Sara said as they climbed the stairs, moving around boxes and toppling piles of clothes still attached to their hangers. “I asked for another doll. And I want a bunk bed for them to sleep in. I saw one at Walmart that has pillows and blankets and everything. This is my room. It’s green right now but Daddy said we can paint it any colour I want.”
“It’s big.”
“Yeah,” Sara said. “Hey, it’s cool our birthdays are so close. It’s like we’re princesses and this whole week is about us.”
The Day She Died Page 1
