Consent

by Annabel Lyon

  “You are a masochist.” Saskia was ready for more than a kiss on the hair. “Maybe when my father’s out, next time.”

  “No, I liked him. He’s just—focused on Jenny. He doesn’t have room right now for anything else. I get it. I’d like to get to know him better too.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Saskia said.

  * * *

  —

  The Christmas season came: strings of coloured lights in the rain, and the wise old owl’s knitting went from baby pinks and blues to scarlet, evergreen, and gold. Saskia thought they might skip decorating the house this year since her mother was still away, but one afternoon her father surprised her by making the journey under the stairs himself to unearth the boxes of ornaments. They drove to the parking lot of a big-box hardware store to buy a tree for the corner of Jenny’s room, and spent one twilight decorating it while she slept. The wise old owl produced scarves she had knitted each of them, one for Jenny, too, and chocolate oranges. Her father poured rum and eggnog and gave the wise old owl her gift, a generous bonus cheque. Saskia turned the television to the fireplace channel and they toasted the season. She thought the pale, celadon-green angora scarf made Jenny’s skin look wan, but her father’s scarlet wool was handsome on him and he was a good sport to wear it as long as their party lasted. Her own dark green was all right.

  She had pinned Jenny’s childhood advent calendar to the wall by her bed and was pressing the windows open one by one with a fingertip, letting the forgotten images absorb her—the elf, the stocking, the apple—when the wise old owl set down her cup of eggnog and leaned forward to look at one of the monitors. Jenny opened her eyes.

  “Hello, you,” Saskia said.

  * * *

  —

  Jenny died in hospital after all. After the seizure that ended their Christmas party, she closed her eyes and didn’t open them again, though her body hung on for another month. The nurses, once kindly, now looked sidelong at the Gilberts when they came to visit. Eventually the family was asked to make a decision about life support.

  “It should be Sassy’s decision,” her mother said, with the bleak clarity of new sobriety. “She’s closer to Jenny than any of us. It will affect her the most.”

  Her father took a deep breath but said nothing. He, too, looked at Saskia.

  Saskia was appalled. “Daddy, please.”

  But in the end it was indeed Saskia who spoke with the hospital lawyer, Saskia who spoke with Dr. Zhang, Saskia who sat with Jenny one last time. Afterwards it was Saskia who called the funeral home, Saskia who informed their extended family and friends, Saskia who arranged to pay the monstrous bill for the private room, Saskia who packed her sister’s few effects into a plastic hospital bag and took them home. Saskia who booked the church and the restaurant and stipulated donations rather than flowers and dealt with the flowers that arrived anyway, Saskia who wrote the obituary, Saskia who delivered the eulogy. Saskia who held her father’s arm and kissed her mother’s cheek and accepted the mourners’ condolences and suffered everyone to look on her face and see Jenny-not-Jenny, the person she was now, because—shh—it was actually Saskia who had gone down into the hole and would not come up again. Jenny was going to be just fine.

  * * *

  —

  Professor Taillac was an asshole. “You know you could take a leave instead. Dropping out is a drastic decision when you are in a fragile state.”

  “I’m not fragile. I’m grieving.”

  “You are one of the most promising students I’ve had in a long time. That paper on the implications of consent in Réage was a breakthrough, no? Certainly I was hard on you at the beginning. Cécile said it would be good for you. I’m not quite such a monster as my reputation suggests. Already we’ve seen the dividends.”

  She could see he was pleased with that word, dividends. “My sister just died.” Her voice was husky. “I’m not interested in pornography or erotica or whatever you want to call it. I’m not interested in anything right now.”

  Professor Taillac held her gaze for a long time and she suffered it to show she could. She understood he believed he was imparting something of immense, wordless importance. “I should like to loan you something,” he said finally. “Something that was important to me at a difficult time in my life. When I was young, as you are now.”

  She watched him rise from his desk and go to the bookcase with the glass door. All the students in her program knew about that bookcase. He pulled a key ring from his pocket and opened the door with a small key, a tiny snick of metal going home. The books were arranged spine in. Professor Taillac seemed to know them all regardless, and selected a small, foxed volume with a faded green cardboard cover. He closed the bookcase, locked it, and returned to his desk.

  “We take so much into us when we lose someone we love,” he said. “We must hold what is left of them. We make choices they would have made, feel what they would have felt. This is the piece of ourselves we lose, you see, because we must make room for them. Death is a parasite, of sorts.” He set the book on the desk. “I bought this in Paris, before you were born, probably.” He pushed it towards her, but waited until she reached for it, until both their fingertips were touching the cover, before releasing it. “You’ll bring it back to me when you’re ready, and then we’ll resume your studies.”

  “My sister just died,” Saskia repeated. Was the man a halfwit? Her old life was ended. Books—why? She expected it was some kind of filth.

  “I care for you, Saskia.” He tapped the cover with a fingertip. “We’ll speak again.”

  * * *

  —

  They did not speak again; not for many years. Saskia didn’t return to the University. Instead, she got a job at a café and found a basement apartment in the People’s Republic of East Vancouver, just off the Drive. She took Jenny’s clothes with her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Spring 2016

  Sara didn’t recognize him at first. He appeared in the doorway of her campus office, thin and obviously ailing, waiting for her to remember who he was. When his name caught up to her apprehension, she found herself inviting him to lunch. He’d be easier to get rid of once she knew what he wanted.

  “Faculty club, Sara?”

  “You need a reservation. I was thinking soup and sandwich in the Student Union Building. It’s where I usually go.”

  “Soup and sandwich. I would certainly love a soup and sandwich.”

  He ate little, though, and seemed relieved when she tossed the last half of her tuna wrap so they could go outside, where he could smoke. Springtime: thin sun on wet pavement, the cherry blossoms just overblown.

  “You don’t look well,” Sara said.

  “That was probably the best soup I’ve ever tasted in my life. Some kind of vegan, vegetarian? Thai? These students have it good, eh?”

  She said nothing.

  “I found you on the University website. They list your office and phone number. Even a photo. So I knew it was the same Sara Landow. They make it easy for a stalker. What’s it been, four years?”

  “What can I do for you, Robert?”

  “I’m not a stalker.” He lit another cigarette. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t mean to scare you. I do need some help, but I’m not going to make this difficult.”

  “I don’t think I can help you.” Sara stopped walking. She wasn’t going to take him back to her office. “You’re supposed to stay away from us. Mattie and me.”

  “How is she?”

  Sara said nothing.

  “Don’t you want to know where I’ve been all this time?”

  Sara shook her head. “I know where you’ve been.”

  “All right, you checked. Of course you did.” He nodded. “After I got out, though. After my parole ended. You know where I’m living?”

  “No,” Sara said softly.

&n
bsp; “Well, the thing is, here and there.” Robert nodded again and looked around the campus as though appraising it, hands on his hips. “Here and there. I was doing pretty good until a few months ago. Kindness of strangers and all that. But you’re no stranger.”

  “I won’t give you money. I have to teach a class. If you follow me, I’ll call campus security.”

  “How is she?” he called after her. She didn’t turn around. “How is she, Sara?”

  * * *

  —

  The next time she saw him was in front of her building. He must have remembered her address from his time with Mattie; it had been on the corkboard next to the downstairs hall phone in her mother’s house. She took out her cell and phoned 911.

  “Ah, Sara.” He backed away into the dusk. He didn’t seem scared.

  A police cruiser came by after a few minutes, by which time of course he was gone. She gave them his name and explained the history. She was told she’d done the right thing and to phone 911 again if he came back. They told her to keep detailed notes on every interaction and said she might want to consider getting an unlisted phone number. They asked if Robert Dwyer owned a gun. She didn’t know. They drove away, and she went inside to make supper.

  Mattie had already laid the table—one of her chores—and was watching a musical. She got up to hug Sara, then sat down again while Sara boiled pasta and heated a jar of tomato sauce in the microwave. The music made her grit her teeth.

  “Could you please turn it down?” Sara said finally.

  Mattie knew Sara’s moods. She turned it far down, and sat tensely until Sara called her to the table. She got the shaker of Parmesan from the fridge without Sara asking and waited until Sara thanked her.

  “How was work?” Mattie asked.

  “All right. Donna says hello.”

  They ate spaghetti with tomato sauce and pre-washed salad from a bag. Sara lit the candles Mattie had set out and Mattie’s eyes flared with pleasure. Sara’s class that day had been on clinical counselling in genetics, ethics, and policy. She co-taught it with Donna August, the Associate Dean of Law, an austere woman who had turned down a judgeship to remain in academia. Donna wore a white brush cut and towering heels and severe little Mao-collared jackets she sewed herself. When Sara had mentioned the Robert situation to her, Donna remembered him. Sara had sought Donna’s advice at the time so the annulment would be watertight.

  “Oh Christ.” Donna had stopped stacking papers and together they watched the last of the students file out of the lecture hall. “Poor Mattie.”

  Poor Mattie? Sara had thought.

  “Do you remember Robert?” she asked Mattie now.

  As she watched Mattie think, she wondered what five years looked like in her mind: what kind of taffy pull, what kind of synaptic flash. Yesterday confused her, but she remembered episodes from childhood with regrettable clarity.

  “My Robert,” she said finally.

  “Have you seen him? Lately, I mean.”

  “He went away.” Mattie frowned. “A long time ago.”

  “I know, sweetie.”

  “I miss him.”

  Mattie started to cry. Sara took her to the couch and hugged her miserably until she was ready to eat again. Sara opened the Malbec she had picked up on the way home, just to let it breathe. She had a rule about not starting until Mattie was in bed.

  * * *

  —

  Over the next three months Robert appeared sporadically, but only when she was by herself. He asked for her money. He asked for her time. He asked her not to ignore him, not to disrespect him. He asked after Mattie. The fourth time the cruiser came too late, she asked the officers why they couldn’t make it stop.

  “We can’t find him.” But they were looking, they said. It was an active file. They had some leads. They asked if he’d said what he wanted the money for.

  “Shelter. Medicine.”

  “Probably meth. You think meth?”

  The thinness, the twitchiness, the sores on his face. “Probably meth,” Sara said, though of course she wasn’t that kind of doctor.

  Finally she decided to tell Mattie, to warn her. She brought home ginger broccoli, glass noodles, and green tea ice cream.

  “Listen, sweetie,” Sara said.

  Mattie seemed to understand, and not to mind, that Sara would accompany her to as many of her activities as possible from now on. She would walk her to workshop, and craft night, and her Community Living dances. Sara had negotiated a partial work-from-home arrangement with her dean until the matter was resolved. She could take her laptop to the dances and so on.

  “Will he go to prison?” Mattie asked.

  “I don’t know.” Sara started clearing the table. “I hope not. We’ve still got a restraining order—that means a judge will tell him to leave us alone. If he’s good about that, he won’t have to.”

  “I don’t want him to.” Mattie watched Sara take the ice cream from the freezer.

  “I don’t either.” Sara dished them both bowls, her own portion smaller than Mattie’s. She very badly wanted him to go away for a long time. One of these days the cruiser would make it in time. His harangues had been getting longer, lately, and she had started going outside with her phone in her hand, ready to speed-dial as soon as she saw him. One day he wouldn’t notice, and would still be talking when the police came, and they would take him away.

  After Mattie went to bed that night, Sara opened the wine and over the next couple of hours watched back-to-back episodes of a thriller she liked. A bleak farm in Sweden in November, an alcoholic detective, and a deranged killer sheltered by the sad old father who blamed himself. An ornate B plot gave the detective a troubled erotic life (he had particular tastes that had perhaps been informed by a woman who had perhaps died a long time ago). Each stark little episode featured brutal sex and lovely shots of the landscape in winter light. It was easy enough not to go to bed.

  Half past late, Mattie drifted into the flickering blue light of the living room. Sara was finishing the noodles, saltier and tastier somehow for being cold from the fridge, and she still had a good fat glass left in the bottle. She led Mattie back to bed and returned to the TV to lower the volume.

  The phone rang. “Look out your window,” he said.

  She kept the bedroom blinds closed but never those in the living room. She had a view of English Bay only partially blocked by the low-rise across the road. She could see her neighbours through their windows, and they could see her: eating, watching TV, working, reading. What was there to hide? The windows were open to the mild blue late-June night. She looked out but couldn’t see him. They were on the third floor. She heard footsteps that echoed strangely between her phone and the night she leaned into. He was close.

  “I can’t see you,” she said.

  He laughed and the footsteps stopped. “You’re drunk.”

  The TV was paused on a scene of a frozen mud field stubbled with the husks of some blond crop. In the distance was a grey stone farmhouse. For a moment she couldn’t remember what was happening in there, whether it was sad old father making tea on the hob or the killer dismembering a young girl or the detective taking it hard the way he liked. This episode, or the previous one, had featured each of these scenes.

  “Good show?”

  “I like it.” She thought about throwing some money out the window, coins on the pavement, just to make him show himself.

  “Mattie still sleepwalks.”

  “Are you asking me?”

  She heard him swallow. “Come out and play.”

  “What are you drinking?”

  “You wouldn’t like it.”

  “Maybe I would.”

  Far away, a siren twirled up into the night.

  “Fuck, Sara.” He hung up.

  She poured the fat glass and turned her show back on. It was th
e old father making tea. Green tea; the kind of detail that made it her show. The old Swedish farmer, dying of knowledge, drinking sencha for his health.

  * * *

  —

  Sara and Donna August went perfume shopping. Donna had worn Cuir de Russie to their first class together last fall, and Sara had recognized it, and that had led to a conversation wherein they each confessed to this particularly intimate hobby. Donna August’s preferences were earthy and assertive: tobacco, mushrooms, leather, civet. She savoured the shot silk effect of jasmine and shit. Umami, she would have called it, probably. Sara preferred the elusive, the fragile—watercolour flowers, tea, the wistfulness of pear. They shopped together a few times a year, and gave each other lists when one or other of them was going to Seattle and could get to Barneys or Rose de Mai. They traded samples and shared orders from Paris occasionally, also, but this was expensive, and Sara frankly did not like Donna knowing how much she was willing to spend. “An invisible dress,” a Frenchman had called perfume. Maybe secrecy and shame were inevitable corollaries of such tastes.

  “This.” Donna waved a test strip of Shalimar at Sara: orange, vanilla, smoke. They were looking for a birthday present for Mattie, Sara’s justification for an afternoon alone with her friend. She had left Mattie at the apartment with a movie and strict instructions not to answer the phone or the buzzer. She was rather hoping Robert would appear while she was with her friend so she’d have a witness, though so far that had not been his way.

  “You don’t think it’s cloying?”

  “Oh, it’s so hot right now.” Donna shrugged. “Who can tell? She’ll like the bottle, anyway.” The iconic, gaudy, tasselled blue-and-gold fan. Art deco, Sara reminded herself, unchanged since its initial design in 1925. Still.