“I’m warm.”
Leigh smiled at her. “That’s wonderful.”
“It is wonderful. Like being in a bath without getting wet.”
“How are you feeling, otherwise?”
“Hmm? Oh, okay I guess. What happened?”
“You had the ECT, remember?” he said.
“Oh.”
“It went well. No repercussions from the general anaesthetic, which can be a concern. But you handled it like a champ.”
“Well, that’s good,” she said dreamily. “Hand me a bucket. I’m going to throw up.”
Cleaning her up after, he said, “That’s a common reaction to the anaesthetic. Nothing to worry about.”
“Not worried.” She closed her eyes. “Leigh?”
“Yes?”
“I think she’s gone.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sara’s Ninth Birthday
LEIGH YANKED OPEN the door to her art studio, making Eve shriek and drop her paintbrush. It hit the floor in a splat of bright yellow.
“There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
She placed a hand against her chest. Her heart thundered beneath her ribcage like it was trying to escape. “You scared the crap out of me!”
“Shh!” He eased through the door and closed it behind him, looking around with interest. “So, this is the famous art studio. Sara’s so jealous she’s turned green.”
“Why is she green?”
“Green with envy.” When she continued to look at him in confusion, he waved it off. “Never mind.”
Bending to pick up her paintbrush, she tried to ignore the eruption of nervous heat that started in her belly and climbed all the way up to her scalp. He must have been there to talk about the maybe-dead man in the forest — a conversation she’d been awaiting this past week with no great enthusiasm.
But she also felt nervous that he was seeing her studio, as though each painting would expose to him a little piece of her soul. She pressed into the corner near Sara’s desk to give him room.
He moved through the studio with interest, his lanky body seeming to take up more space than it should. “I can see where you got the name Doodlebug. What’s this one? It looks like my back fence.”
“Sara says those flowers are called bloodroot.” She thought about telling him the sap was poisonous, but didn’t.
“Is that me?”
“Yeah,” she said casually, but her flush deepened. With sudden panic, she realized how many of her other paintings he was in, like her own personal Where’s Waldo? What if he noticed? He’d think she was a total creep!
Faced with this mortifying possibility, she decided to dive face-first into the only thing that might distract him.
“Was he dead?”
The back of Leigh’s neck was covered in a soft fuzz of hair, golden-white in the natural light. “Yeah, he’s dead.”
“Oh. Um, I’m sorry you had to …”
He turned to face her, watched her squirm. She felt like she’d missed something, but she couldn’t think what it might be.
“Thank you?” She was unsure about the etiquette in these sorts of situations.
“Do you want to know where …?” he asked.
“The pond?” she said, and then shook her head emphatically. “I’m sorry. Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“But you know what he was doing there, right? Why he was watching you?”
“Sure.”
He looked her up and down, as though judging whether or not he should believe her. “Well, anyway. I wanted to make sure that we’re cool.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She nodded, although she felt more lost by the moment.
“Because I don’t want us to get in trouble.”
Her stomach wobbled like a ship in a storm. “Trouble?”
“With the cops. I mean, they might think that we, you know, murdered him or something. Because of what he was doing.”
“But we didn’t!”
“Look, it’s okay. If you tell me you didn’t do anything wrong, I’ll believe you.”
She let go of a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “I didn’t. I swear. I — I thought he was Annabeth and the glitter gang. That’s why I chased him. And then he tripped.”
He considered, and then nodded. “I figured it was something like that. But the cops might not understand.”
“You don’t think? Maybe if we tell them together —”
“Sure, if we’d gone to them right away,” he said, his brow furrowed in thought. “But a week later?”
“I guess that doesn’t look too good.”
“No one knows we saw him. And no one will ever find his … him. I promise.”
“But he must have a family, or someone looking for him?”
Leigh shook his head. “A man like that? I doubt it.”
“That’s kind of sad,” she said, and he gave her a strange look.
Her head was starting to hurt. She rubbed her temples, thinking it through. “So, maybe we shouldn’t do anything?”
He looked thoughtful, and then nodded agreement. “You might be right. I don’t want either of us to go to jail. But it means you can’t tell anyone.”
“For sure.”
“Because if someone finds out, we’ll be in big trouble. And I’m older than you, so I might end up in jail for a long time. If you told someone —”
“I would never.” She shook her head emphatically.
“Not even Sara.”
“Right. Not even Sara.”
He moved closer, and she automatically took a step back. “So I can trust you.”
“You can. I swear.”
Leigh stopped a couple feet away from her, so she had to decide whether to stare at his chest or crane her neck to look up at his face. She chose his chest. It seemed safer.
“One thing I’m wondering about,” he said.
“What?”
“Why am I in so many of your paintings?”
She felt tears of humiliation sting her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, not even sure why she was apologizing.
“Do you have a crush on me?”
Eve stared miserably at her feet.
“I can’t trust you if you’re not honest with me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“So no secrets?”
She nodded.
“I promise I won’t tell anyone that you like me. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you and I are the same. I don’t think anybody really understands you. For sure not your mom. Maybe not even your grandma, or Sara. You feel pretty alone, don’t you?”
“Sometimes.”
“I feel that way, too.”
“You?” she asked, finally looking up into his face. “But you’re so popular, and you’re good at sports, and …”
“But no one really gets me.”
She was stunned. The idea that Leigh Adler — the Leigh Adler — might feel just as lost as she did? It didn’t seem possible.
“I think you’re really different.” He said it like a compliment.
Her cheeks warmed yet again — this time with pleasure. “Thanks.”
After a moment of silence, he asked, “So, are we cool?”
“Yeah.”
He gave her arm a quick squeeze. His hand was so big it wrapped all the way around her biceps with room to spare. After he let go, the skin he’d touched crawled with heat for a long time, like she’d been branded.
Moving to the door, he told her, “I’ve got to get to football practice. Are you going to come watch me play sometime?”
“Yeah, okay. Sure.”
“Are you coming to dinner tonight? Mom is making Sara a chocolate cake.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Cool.” He ducked out the door.
For long minutes after he left, she picked at the drying paint on her fingertips, her stomach rolling with unease. The whole conversation had been unsettling. She felt like s
he’d missed something important, but whatever it was remained elusive.
Without cleaning her brushes, she left the studio and went to her bedroom to lie down.
TWENTY-NINE
BEFORE SHE STARTED to slip, they had several good years. They were peacefully forgettable, filled with the monotony of easy days. The electric blankets went into storage. Leigh grew his medical practice, Button grew obsessed with making jams and preserves, and Gabriel grew from baby to toddler to preschooler.
“D-O-G spells dog,” Gabriel said, his chubby fingers tapping the tablet screen until he received a chime of success.
“Well done, sweetie.” Eve stroked burnt umber onto the canvas.
“C-A-T spells cat.” There was another ding.
“You’re going to be reading before kindergarten at this rate,” she said.
“I read already. How you spell snake?”
She called out the letters and the tablet chimed.
“Good job, Mommy.”
“Thanks,” she said with a laugh.
“Mommy?”
“Mm-hm?”
“Button said you was sick when I was a baby. She said you was in the hospital.”
“Did she, now?” She turned to look at her son and noticed how the sun cut through the blinds at just the right angle to turn his dark curls into a golden halo.
“Hang on. Don’t move.” She grabbed her phone and snapped a picture. Showing him, she said, “See? You look like an angel.”
“Mommy, angels aren’t real.”
“Then how am I looking at one right now?” Turning to clean her paintbrush, she asked as casually as she could, “So, what did Button tell you?”
“She told me you was sick. Are you sick now, Mommy?”
“No, sweetheart, I’m all better.”
“So, you’re not going to die?”
“Gabriel!” She turned back to her son. “How do you even know that word?”
Gabriel pointed in the direction of the house next door. “Missy’s cat died and she put it in a hole in the backyard.”
“Oh.” She laid the paintbrush aside. “I’m sorry to hear that. I know she loved her cat very much.”
“She told me that people die, too.”
“Well, yes. But only when they’re very old, like Missy’s cat.”
“Is Button very old?” His amber-coloured eyes were wide with worry.
“She’s older, yes. But she’s still very healthy and active. I hope she’ll live a long, long time.”
“Me, too.” Gabriel gave an emphatic nod, his curls flopping across his forehead. He needed a haircut.
“When are you going to die, Mommy?”
“Not for a long time,” she told him firmly.
“But what if you get sick again?”
“I wasn’t sick in my body, sweetheart. Something went wrong in my brain. Remember I told you that my head got hurt really badly, once?”
He nodded uncertainly.
“Well, it made me think funny things for awhile. That’s why I was in the hospital, so they could fix it.”
“Like Bob the Builder fixes things?”
“That’s right.”
“Did they use a skew diver?”
“Something like that.”
Gabriel kicked his legs, banging the sofa beneath him. Thump-thump-thump. “What happens when you die?”
Her stomach twisted with nerves. “I don’t know.”
“Button says good people go to heaven. But I don’t know what that is.”
“I guess it’s a nice place.”
“What about mean people? Do they go to a mean place?”
She patted his shoulder. “Let’s go grab some lunch, Gabe.”
“Mommy.” He squirmed away from her. “Your hand is so cold!”
She stuffed her hands into her armpits, trying to calm the immediate swell of panic. Because he was right, her hands felt like blocks of ice.
“Maybe you are sick? ’Member when I had that fu and you put lots of blankies on me?”
“Flu,” she said.
“I’ll make you soup.” Gabriel’s chest inflated with pride.
“Button showed me how. Come on!” He tugged at her shirt.
“Don’t forget your stuff,” she said.
Gabriel picked up the tablet, which had a neon yellow cover, and then tried to scoop up his pile of Hot Wheels cars.
“Why don’t I take your tablet?”
“Thanks, Mommy.”
They moved slowly across the backyard to the kitchen door. Through the window she saw her grandmother ferociously scrubbing the kitchen counter, a silk scarf tied around her head to protect her curls.
Jars of spiced apples sat on the windowsill, cooling after their hot-water bath. The smell of sweet cinnamon tickled her nose, and her chest tightened with something that felt an awful lot like grief.
For the first time in forever, she felt so cold. The ice seeped, quickly and inexorably, into the marrow of her bones. What was next? Would she start losing track of time again? Would she hear the silver tinkle of laughter? She could feel the confusion closing in on her like a fog.
Gabriel pushed through the kitchen door and dumped his cars on the table, where they clattered and rolled. “Mommy has the fu!”
“What?” Button asked, dropping the cloth and moving toward her granddaughter.
“Don’t get too close. I might be contagious.”
Button’s face pinched with worry. “Maybe you should go lie down?”
Eve tried to give her grandmother a reassuring smile, but her face moved with the stiffness of a mask.
“Come on.” Gabriel dragged her to the bedroom. “I’ll tuck you in and get Doc McStuffins. She’ll give you a checkup.”
She crawled stiffly under the covers, while her son disappeared and returned moments later with a pile of blankets from his bedroom. He laid them on top of her, one at a time, and propped his Doc McStuffins doll on the pillow beside her.
“You rest now,” he said in a stage whisper, and then tiptoed away.
She burrowed beneath the weight of the blankets, tears leaking from her eyes and pooling in the cups of her ears.
“Gabe said you’re sick.” Leigh leaned across the bed to feel her forehead. “You feel cold.”
She gave him a plastic smile. “I’m nice and toasty.”
“Sore throat? Headache? Anything like that?” She heard the hope in his voice.
“Yes,” she lied.
“You’re rundown,” he said. “You’ve been working too hard.”
Her fourth art show, Lost Homeland, was launching at Hector’s art gallery the following week, and she was nervous. It was a series of abstract portraits exploring the fear and hope of refugees who had fled war-torn countries.
A Syrian Boy was her favourite of the twenty-painting series. The boy was the same age as her son, but lacking the chubby good health of Gabriel’s privilege. He’d lost an eye during a sniper strike, and the eyelid was a twist covering the sunken well of his eye socket. In contrast, the remaining eye stared with a haunting clarity that told his story more deeply than words.
She’d also painted Waiting, a portrait of the boy’s mother and older sister. She’d captured them from behind, standing side by side at the window of a dingy Downtown Eastside motel room. Beyond the window was an endless grey winter rain. The mother clutched the back of her daughter’s dress with fierce, muscled strength.
The husband had sold everything they owned to pay the cost of his family’s escape, promising he’d find a way to join them as soon as he could. Every day, the mother explained, she stood watch at the window. Every night she dreamed that he’d died.
“Have you had any hallucinations?”
“No,” Eve told Leigh truthfully. “I’m just rundown, like you said.”
“You need to take better care of yourself.” He stroked the hair off her forehead, and they both pretended not to feel the difference in their temperatures.
“I just need a co
uple more hours to finish the last painting.”
“Not tonight, okay?”
“I’m not leaving this bed tonight. Promise.”
“Gabe and I will bring you your dinner. He’s making you a card, too. Act surprised when you see it.”
They grinned at each other the way parents do, mutually in love with the little life they’d created. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, his hair falling across his eyes the way it had when he was a boy. His breath was hot and smelled of peppermint.
“Love you,” she said.
“You’d better.”
She felt the bed shift as he stood up, and heard the creak of the door as he eased it closed behind him. Left alone, she drifted into troubled dreams. Out there in the quicksilver, a woman waited.
“Mommy!” Gabriel shouted, barrelling through the door with enthusiasm. “I made you soup!”
“Did you?” She sat up and propped the pillows behind her back. “It smells delicious.”
“It is,” Gabriel said, as Leigh pushed through the door and lowered a tray over her lap. “It’s chicken noodle. And crackers. And a card. Open the card, Mommy!”
“Did you make this for me? Thanks, buddy.”
“Open it!” Gabriel bounced from one foot to the other.
“He wouldn’t even let me see it,” Leigh said. “Insisted it was a secret.”
“You’ve used some beautiful colours here, Gabe.” Eve ran a finger over the concentric circles her son had drawn on the front of the card. He’d used almost every colour in the crayon box, weaving them together.
“Open it, Mommy!”
She did.
“Well? Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful, Gabe,” she said faintly.
“It’s a silver garden,” he told her proudly. “That’s where you go to get better. Now I’ll feed you.”
Scooping a spoonful of steaming soup, he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll blow on it.” He did, blowing spittle and spraying soup.
“Maybe I’ll wait for it to cool down. Could you please get me a glass of water?”
Gabriel strutted off on his mission.
She didn’t dare look at her husband. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
He didn’t answer. Instead he turned and followed Gabriel out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Eve awoke to the sound of Leigh snoring. Easing out of bed, she wrapped herself in an afghan. Leigh stirred and rolled over. Moonlight streaked through the blinds, making his bare shoulder look like it had been gilded. She shivered and turned away.
The Day She Died Page 17
