Swallow

by Theanna Bischoff

  &After our fight, I didn’t talk to Patrick until after Papi’s funeral. A four-day record. I drove the four and a half hours back from Sudbury in a little rented Toyota without stopping, despite a growing urge to pee. Carly slept in the back for three hours, across the seat like an infant, with her bum in the air. Our mother had elected not to make the trip, saying she couldn’t get the time off work. “Plus,” she’d added, “I haven’t talked to Elliot in years. If you want to go, you go, but don’t try to guilt me into it.” I hung up.

  When Carly finally roused, she had the seat pattern indented on her left flushed cheek. “I have so much homework to do!” she moaned. “The Cold War is complete jibber-jabber, I don’t understand it! You’re going to edit my essay when I’m done with it, right?”

  “Sure. Email it to me.”

  By “edit,” we both knew, she meant “rewrite the majority.” Whatever it took to get her to pass.

  After dropping her off, I doubled back to the rental lot. I parked the car and dropped the keys in the after-hour box before realizing I should have prearranged a cab. In the rain, I sprinted to the nearest convenient store and dialled my cell phone with wet hands. Back home, I slept fitfully, dreaming of Papi, sick and trying to care for an apartment full of cats.

  The next day, after catching up on my errands and feeling renewed, I emailed Patrick, simply, I’m back.

  He replied minutes later while I was buttering toast, I missed you.

  I dialled his number.

  “I’m coming over,” he said.

  “I guess,” I said, trying to make it sound like a concession.

  When he came over, he hugged me longer than usual, smelling my hair. When he pulled away, he said, “What’s that?”

  Kipling lay stretched across the top of my futon, her ears alert.

  She’d spent the first two hours in my apartment exploring each corner and crevice, sniffing out the dust under the radiator, working her way inside the box-spring of my mattress to find a cave. More confident now, she sniffed the air, sensing this new person.

  “That’s Kipling.”

  Perhaps knowing she’d be his last kitten, Papi had named her after the subway station farthest West, the one closest to Pearson International Airport. The shelter had been glad to let me take her after Papi’s funeral. My roommate for one day, she’d already destroyed my Ikea lampshade.

  “Whose is she?”

  “Mine.”

  As Patrick approached, Kipling ducked off the futon and skittered underneath it, just white whiskers and the tip of her nose visible.

  “Okay. . .”

  “She belonged to my Papi. I’m keeping her. It’s what he would have wanted.”

  Patrick watched her scuttle out from under the couch and dart around the corner into my bedroom. “She’s cute. You hungry?”

  “Sure.”

  He made pancakes, telling me he’d been craving breakfast. He attempted one in the shape of a D, but, overzealous with the batter, it ran together, as did the heart he attempted next. He put them and a plate in the oven on low to keep warm. I kept waiting for him to ask about the funeral, about Papi. Instead, he took the remaining eggs from the carton and scrambled them in the pan, the way I liked them, with pepper, without milk.

  “I missed you,” he said, as he had in his email, now with a mouthful of eggs. “I’m sorry your grandpa-guy died.”

  &After I moved out of Patrick’s place and into Andrew’s basement suite, Andrew and I began carpooling to work. We’d driven in together a few times when Conor pulled into his parking stall at the same time as Andrew, just a few spaces down.

  “You probably don’t want to let admin know you live with Andrew,” Conor pointed out when I went over to say hello. He struggled to pull a mesh bag filled with basketballs from the bowels of his messy backseat. “In case they think there’s something more going on.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like living in sin — and with a co-worker!” He reached deep into the car again to retrieve a set of multicoloured hula hoops. “Just be careful. I don’t want either of us to get canned.”

  “They never found out that I lived with Patrick,” I reminded him. “And you’re the one who came up with the idea that I take the basement suite, anyway.”

  He cocked his head. “I thought it would be temporary.”

  Temporary. But, a year later, we stood outside by the school’s front entrance on the last day before Christmas break, watching the kids depart for vacation. Conor lifted a mound of snow with his bare hands and began packing it together.

  “So, are you going to get a place of your own one of these days?”

  “I’ll look for a place when I get back from Toronto. Seriously, how can you do that? I’m freezing over here.” The dry cold settled in my bones, making me sleepy.

  “I’m Calgary born and bred,” he reminded me, “I’m like a seal. I have a giant layer of fat under my skin.” He was big, but it was all muscle.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever acclimatize.”

  “Poor, weak Easterner.” Conor’s gaze tightened, and he shouted “Hey, Rachel!” across the playground.

  The student looked up, a second-grader I vaguely recognized, with dark pigtails tucked under a striped knit toque. She held the hand of an older man in a puffy ski parka and a black baseball cap who had her backpack slung over his left shoulder.

  “Gimme a sec,” Conor said, and jogged over to them. I lifted my chapped hands to my face and blew on them, then shoved them into my pockets. Conor exchanged a few words with the man, then waved over Rachel’s teacher.

  “Merry Christmas, Ms. Nolan!”

  Momentarily distracted, I turned to the grinning face of sixth-grader Katie Ross.

  “Merry Christmas! Have a good break, okay?”

  “You too!” She smiled again and then skipped towards the entrance.

  “What was that about?” I asked, when Conor returned.

  “Oh, I just freaked out a little bit. That kid, Rachel, her parents are in a giant custody battle and I didn’t recognize that guy.”

  St. Sebastian policy dictated that children were only supposed to leave with a parent or a caregiver listed on file at the main desk.

  “So who is he?” I asked.

  “Her uncle. Her mom called the school this morning and let them know he’d be picking her up. Her teacher was in the know. I just wanted to double check.”

  “When we were kids, our school just let us leave with anybody. My sister and I walked home by ourselves, until my mom got us a babysitter, this man who lived in our building, and he just started coming to pick us up and no one questioned it. Two girls going home with an old guy nobody knew.”

  “Yeah, my brother and I walked home alone, too, right through a ravine. Easy target for kidnappers.”

  “Actually, when I was a kid, there was a kidnapping right near my school.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “No kidding? Scary shit.”

  “Hey, watch your mouth,” I joked, gesturing to the kids running past us, happy and eager for the extended break.

  It had started snowing again, just faintly, reminding me of summertime in Toronto, when the air was so heavy and humid you couldn’t even feel the rain at first. You saw it before you felt it, the freckled sidewalks in front of you.

  “Do you think you would have freaked out if Rachel was leaving with a woman you didn’t recognize?” I asked.

  Conor seemed to consider it. “Maybe.” He glanced back at Rachel’s uncle, now helping her into his minivan. “Why?”

  “People always see men and little girls and think pedophile. But our babysitter — we called him Papi — he was like, my beloved grandpa. He was the one functional grown-up in my life.”

  Rachel’s uncle’s car pulled away from the curb.

  “I guess,” Conor mused. “I mean, anyone can be dangerous.” He smiled. “You, in particular, are a total creep. I wouldn’t trust my kid with you.”

  I rolled my eyes, too col
d to be amused.

  &This is how I imagined it happened.

  Stefany lay on her back in the grass in the dark. The sun hung low and slimy in the sky, its runny yolk spilling out across the horizon. Stefany had tried to get Kristen to play outside with her, but Kris had been painting her nails and had squealed at Stefany to get out. Their mother had permitted Stefany to play outside by herself but only as far as the little island of land right beside the apartment. A balmy breeze dawdled across her face. She thought she could smell a late dinner stewing from the open window of one of the ground floor apartments nearby. The scents danced across to where she lay on the island, warm tomatoes and beans, yeasty bread with garlic.

  Outside, she didn’t have to be Stefany Beale, who, earlier in the day got her math test back — a first C. She imagined herself tingling and dissolving, re-emerging, a butterfly. She spread her arms out, fluttering her wings. For her fifth birthday, she and her mom and her sister went out to Toronto Island and Stefany and Kristen tried to catch butterflies in the palms of their hands.

  Stefany came close to one that had settled feather light on the lip of a leaf. But then, she’d come too close, and it flickered away, sparkling pink and purple into the sky. Kristen ran fearless into a flock of fat pigeons.

  Stefany waved her arms and legs, making snow angels in the grass. A couple strolled out of the church next door, laughing and talking, and spilled into a nearby car, taking their clamour with them. Stefany lay still, her wings spread and bright, waiting.

  And then, the hand closed over her mouth.

  “Stefany!” She heard the noise in the distance, a mother on a balcony, calling her daughter home. She fought against the pressure — a butterfly screaming.

  “Stefany!” Her mother called again, the word carrying slight annoyance. Stefany heard her own name as a man pulled her to her feet. Instantly she felt tired, her body shutting down, cocooned.

  She could smell him, strong, like mouthwash.

  She knew, then. She was already gone.

  &While I kept my boyfriends away from our mother and Dick, Carly started bringing Ryan over to the house, which I understood likely made being there more bearable. When I called and asked for Carly, Mom told me she and Ryan were hanging out in her room.

  “You let the two of them be alone together in her bedroom?”

  “You worry about everything,” she retorted. “They’re just kids. It’s puppy love.”

  Puppy love. I’d grown up around animals, felines weaving in and out between my scrawny legs, rubbing their chins and foreheads against my shins and the furniture, their deep contented vibration a motor, propelling them to love and lick and be loyal. Puppy love — exactly what she needed.

  &When Carly turned three, she became old enough for Sun day School at St. Peter’s, so we went together, Carly with the little kids, me with the eight-to-tens. I asked to go because my Grade Four teacher, Mrs. Reiner, volunteered as the Sunday School teacher, and a couple of my classmates went every week. Mrs. Reiner had a picture of her two little boys on her desk at school sitting on Santa’s lap. I wondered what kind of presents they had under the tree. I imagined Mrs. Reiner was the kind of mother who baked gingerbread men and read Love You Forever. The previous Christmas, Carly and I received matching baby dolls. What did I need a doll for? I already had a baby sister. At least my doll didn’t cry. When Carly tantrumed her way through the terrible twos, my mother closed her in the closet and told her to come out when she stopped crying. Being trapped in the dark only intensified Carly’s screams. Years later, she claimed claustrophobia.

  The same gift as my whiny little sister. I’d written out our lists for Santa: a Barbie for Carly and a Nintendo for me. Mom eyed the letters and took a large bite of her tuna fish sandwich. “Barbie’s a slut,” she told Carly. I could see the chewed fish as she talked. “Why don’t you just ask for a boob job for Christmas?” But she let Carly keep the hand-me-down Barbies Aubrey passed our way, never one to pass up a freebie.

  After Mass ended, I’d drag Carly up the church stairs by her chubby little wrist and try to find my mother in the congregation. Sometimes I spotted her in the vestibule, waiting. Sometimes we waited for her until she returned, sweaty and smelling of coffee. I began to think that she just dropped us off but didn’t actually stay for Mass — just wandered the nearby streets to get an hour to herself.

  I, too, craved some time away from Carly, some time with kids my own age. Thank God for age-segregated Sunday School classes.

  We were learning about saints. A lot of the kids at Sunday School had saints’ names — Alexander, Dominic, even Hillary. But Saint Darcy did not show up in any of Mrs. Reiner’s books. No Saint Freddie, either. For two Sundays in a row, Freddie Owen had the Batman symbol buzzed into his brush cut.

  “I’m not named after a saint,” Freddie announced. I wondered what it would feel like to touch the back of his head. “I’m named after my mom’s favourite actor, Freddie Prinze. He was on Chico and the Man. And you know what? He shot himself. Dead.”

  We gave Freddie wide stares.

  Mrs. Reiner waved her arms. “Boys and girls! Listen! You must never, ever take your own lives. Not ever. This is a very, very bad sin. If you ever take your own lives, you will never get into Heaven. Never.”

  Across the church basement, I could hear Carly crying. Her Sunday School teacher carried her over to me. She reeked of urine; I could see a dark stain on the bum of her overalls.

  “Darcy, can you go find your mom? Your sister had an accident.”

  Years later, the older cousin of one of my Grade Six students, Matthew Ross, also killed himself. Matt’s desk stood empty while he attended the funeral. He came back over the lunch hour, dressed in a grey suit.

  “Who’s Kirk Cobain?” he asked, while we waited for the other kids to come back into the classroom.

  “Kurt Cobain?” I said. “A singer. Why?”

  “My mom said my cousin Zach killed himself because of Kirk Cobain. She said Kirk Cobain did drugs.”

  “Well,” I said, “Kurt Cobain had a very hard life.”

  Matt fiddled with the buttons of his blazer. “Did he kill himself?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “My mom didn’t even come with us this morning. She stayed at home. She said Zach killed himself, so he had to go to Hell. My dad wouldn’t talk to her.”

  I put one hand on his shoulder. “That sounds pretty hard.”

  “Yeah. My mom said Zach did drugs, too. But I liked him. I liked playing PlayStation with him, even though he always beat me.” The bell rang, loudly, signalling the end of the lunch period. “Do you believe that?” Matt asked.

  “Do I believe. . .?”

  “About Hell. Because of what he did.”

  I thought of Mrs. Reiner. How to give the correct Catholic Schoolteacher response without crushing the kid?

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Maybe Jesus would forgive Zach, because of his problems and stuff. Maybe Jesus let him into Heaven anyway.”

  My other students started filing in, distracted by recess conversations, shedding their coats.

  “I hope so,” I said.

  &Diane (pronounced Dee-Ann) Arbus, the photographer behind the lens that shot a pair of identical twins in itchy corduroy dresses, looked just like my grandmother, my father’s mother. This I noticed when I began researching Diane for my art history paper.

  I have but one memory — sitting on the countertop in our kitchen, watching her cook. She’d taken the food out of the frying pan and went around the corner to put the dish on the table. From my roost, I watched the bubbles of oil leap and spit. Then, suddenly, with a whoosh, flames leapt up from the pan. Grandma rushed back into the kitchen and picked up the frying pan by its handle, holding it straight out in front of her. I put my hands on the counter behind me and scooted back, backing into the cabinets, too small to get down by myself.

  Grandma then began to wave the pan back and forth by the handle. The f
lames swished and surged, but did not die down. Then, she lurched towards me, towards the sink, and dropped the pan into its belly. The flames blazed only a foot to my left, raging hot, the oil sputtering angrily. I cried out, “Grandma!”

  She leaned forward and turned the tap on. The water hit the oil full force and surged for a moment.

  And then, just as quickly, the flames sputtered and extinguished. My Grandma walked out of the kitchen and I heard the bathroom door slam, the muffled sound of her sobbing. I sat on the kitchen counter stunned and scared, until Mom came home, her pregnant belly entering the apartment first, her arms full of grocery bags. When she lifted me off the counter, I felt my baby sister’s eager kick.

  I took a book of Diane Arbus’ photography out of the library for my art history project. In one of the photos, an emaciated blond boy grinned maniacally, the strap of his overall shorts falling off one shoulder, one hand clutched tightly around a toy hand grenade. His knobby knees reminded me of the flamingos in Alice in Wonderland. The look on his face suggested he thought the toy was perhaps real, that it might wreak irrevocable damage, if wielded correctly.

  I thought back to what Patrick had said about his own mother’s taste in artwork, the photographs of babies dressed like bunnies or squished into flowerpots. Why would Diane Arbus photograph something so unnerving? Sure, Anne Geddes’ work was cheesy and repetitive, but it didn’t make my stomach contract. I flipped back to the photo of the twins, the one my father had hung on my parents’ bedroom wall.

  Identical Twins, Roselle, New Jersey, 1967. The twins in the picture were probably still alive. I thought of them walking around, somewhere out there in the world. My father was walking around somewhere out in the world, too.

  A photograph is a secret about a secret, one of the books on Diane Arbus read. The more it tells you, the less you know. Just like my father had told me.

  “I feel like I’m doing a psychology paper more than an art history paper,” I confessed to Patrick during our next class. “My artist named her daughter Doon, took pictures of kids playing with weapons, and then offed herself with pills and a razor blade.”