Vanishing and Other Stories

by Deborah Willis

  She has been teaching the subjunctive all week—que je sois aimée, que tu sois aimé. None of the Margarets and only one of the Jennys is clear on the use of this verbal mood. And she and David haven’t been for a walk in over a month. He is making big sales and rushing renovations. When he does return to the motel—to shave, shower, eat—he kisses her forehead roughly and says things like, “How’s my girl?” He is distant, like a husband returning from time with his mistress.

  Now she eats cheese cubes and talks to Gérard. He is a good listener and, to her surprise, he doesn’t laugh.

  “A similar thing happened during the war,” he says. “Women got engaged to two or three soldiers at once, to hedge their bets.”

  “What did they do?” Penny leans against the wall, which is keeping her steady. “If more than one of their fiancés survived?”

  “Good question.” Gérard sips his wine, which has tinted the inside of his mouth purple. “I suspect they rarely faced that issue. I suspect they had more pressing problems.”

  Penny nods. “More pressing problems.” She thinks of the contraceptives in her garbage. She’d spent the entire afternoon on her hands and knees, picking through them to see if any had torn. She thought—she almost hoped—she would be punished, like the heroine of a cautionary tale. But everything seems to be in order. She will return to Montreal at the end of the month. Her ticket is booked, and Andrew expects her.

  “I’ll probably just keep going west,” she says. “Get on the train and go all the way to Vancouver.”

  And then she starts to cry, holding one of the host’s napkins to her face. Gérard puts an arm around her, and no one at the party seems to notice.

  “We should get married,” says Penny. “We get along.”

  “Possibly.” He touches her hair. “We should at least have a dance.”

  They move awkwardly to music that is said to be popular in Europe now. The tempo and rhythm are like nothing Penny has heard before, but the lyrics tell the same old story. Penny leans against this man and he presses her to him. He holds her the way he held his young fiancée during the war, as they listened to the boots and trucks outside their Paris window. The way Katherine held her daughter after that grade-school heartache, a first disappointment. As though it might change something, they hold each other and dance.

  r e l y

  PEOPLE JUST DISAPPEAR. My wife’s gone. My mom made it to a sturdy old age then faded away. And I hardly see my daughter anymore. Alicia’s in Vancouver now. She lives with her boyfriend—they’re both in med school, that’s how they met—and she’s usually too busy to call. When we do talk, the conversation is rushed. It’s like she’s practising her doctor’s voice with me: concerned but efficient, just checking in.

  So when she calls and says, “I hate this city,” she sounds like a different person.

  “It never stops raining here,” she says. Her voice has the rawness of morning, but it’s five o’clock at night. “It never, never stops.”

  This is her first phone call in over a month, but I hadn’t been worried. People are always spiralling off in other directions, like twigs knocked around by a river current. I try to be the still point, a rock on the bank. I stay put, so that when my daughter calls to say, “I hate this city,” I’m right here to pick up the phone.

  “I can’t stand it here,” she says. “All the rain and the grey make me want to kick the wall in.”

  Her voice echoes, and I figure she must be in the bathroom to get some privacy. She’s probably in the empty tub with the shower curtain drawn. Her mom used to do that when we were married, when she was having all kinds of conversations she didn’t want me to overhear.

  “Gavin’s always at the clinic and I’m always in the library,” Alicia says. “We don’t even have time to buy groceries. We live on ginger ale and cereal.”

  Out the window, I see patterns of frost on the windshields of parked cars.

  “I haven’t slept in weeks, Dad.” Alicia whispers this. “I can’t even sit still.”

  “You should come out here,” I say, and that surprises me—I never ask her to come home. I’m not one of those fathers who are always calling and sending emails, talking about how much they miss their kid. I don’t wear my need on the outside. “You should stay as long as you want.”

  I hear her exhale. She sounds done for. Maybe that wet Vancouver air is making her sick.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Okay.”

  And that surprises me too.

  THE THING IS, people also come back. They return just when you thought they were gone for good, when you were finished even missing them.

  Take all the boyfriends my mom had. They were men who’d seen lots of the world, who were worn down by it, and they never stuck around. There was this one guy, George. He was the best of them, the one I hoped would stay. A decent, slow-moving guy. He liked caramels, the kind that come wrapped in clear plastic. When I was a kid, he taught me how to toss them in the air and catch them in my mouth. “You two are a pair of wackos,” my mom would say. She used words like “wacko” when George was around. She laughed a lot too.

  Mom wasn’t with George for his looks. He was balding and had a sac of skin that hung under his chin. He also had a belly that seemed to move on its own, like it was alive. I used to pretend it was a soft, furry animal that had curled up next to him and that he hadn’t bothered to shoo away.

  I haven’t seen him in years, decades even—not since I was seven—but lately I meet him every day. Especially when I look in that little mirror at work, the one above the sink that runs only cold. The mirror is so small that I can only see one section of my face at a time, and there’s a bit of George in each part. I don’t have that soft, swaying stomach yet, but he’s there in my face. My tired, unshaven skin—that’s George. The crease along my forehead: George. The pouches under my eyes, like I’ve been storing my disappointments there. That’s George too.

  I’M A FINISHER. I do handrails, boat hulls, car parts. I spray them with powder then bake them in an oven. There’s some skill to it—getting the colour on evenly, and setting the temperature right so there aren’t any bubbles. I like the work. The monotony is lulling, almost addictive. And I don’t mind being alone. I like having time to think.

  Mostly I think about Alicia. I try to picture her in Vancouver. She lives on Cambie, in an apartment. I’ve never seen it, but I’ve looked Cambie up on a map. She takes the bus to the university, I know that. She says it takes about half an hour.

  I don’t know what her classes are like, but I guess they sit in desks and take notes. They also carve up bodies—cadavers. She described a cut-up hand to me over the phone: the skin, bones, nerves. And last year she called and said, “Dad, guess what?” She was out of breath. “I helped deliver a baby!”

  That’s why I work six, seven days a week—to hear Alicia happy. To help her pay her tuition and go off and live her life. She appreciates it. She told me so last time I saw her. That was over a year ago, because she didn’t come home this past Christmas. She spent the holidays in Puerto Vallarta with her boyfriend and his family. The boyfriend’s mother had called me up a couple of months before, to see if Alicia could go with them. They rented a house and the whole family went every year. Grandparents, uncles, kids.

  “We’d love it if Alicia could join us.” The mother had a sunny voice, the voice of someone who’s never had to earn a living. Her husband is a radiologist, and Gavin plans to be one too. “It’s always such a fun time.”

  I wanted to tell this woman that Christmas is my only holiday. Christmas Day, Alicia and I go for a skate, make a simple dinner. We take it easy. With Alicia in Mexico, I knew I’d spend the day in bed with a bottle of champagne and a pizza I’d order from any open restaurant I could find.

  The mother—Diane is her name—said they’d pay for the ticket. “Airfare is next to nothing these days,” she said, and I almost hung up on her.

  That was over five months ago, and now Alicia’s coming i
n for three days, maybe even four. I’m leaving work early to pick her up from the depot. I wash my hands and face in the sink, the one that only runs cold. I’ve been spraying Matte Blue, and the powder sticks to my eyebrows, my hair, the insides of my ears. I leave this stuff everywhere—on my clothes, furniture, the soap in my shower. I usually don’t think about it, but with Alicia coming I see things differently. During the drive to the bus depot I notice it under my nails, on the dash of my car, embedded in the plastic of the wheel.

  GEORGE USED TO GIVE all kinds of hugs. Bear hugs, alligator hugs, elephant hugs. If he was being an elephant, he’d swing his arm like a trunk and pick me up. The bear hugs were my favourite. He’d pick me up, squeeze me to his chest, and growl in my ear. His breath was warm and cavernous, coming from deep inside that body.

  That’s how I want to hug Alicia. I see her before she sees me. She hops off the bus and picks up a half-empty backpack. She wears a flimsy raincoat and jeans. She’s thin and jumpy, and her movements remind me of the magpies that skip around on my balcony. I want to pick her up and hold her, but she’s an adult, a woman, and maybe too old for that sort of thing.

  She sees me, waves, and walks over. “Dad.” She laughs. “You’re blue.”

  She rubs her hand through my hair the way she liked to do when she was a kid. Blue powder sprays from my head and floats between us. “Snow,” she says, which is what she used to call it. I notice her skin: it has a grey tinge, the same colour as the slush piled at the curbs. I give her a quick hug, pat her shoulder, and she smells like she needs a shower.

  “I didn’t have time to get many things together.” Her eyes are glassy, like scraps of ice. “I didn’t know what to bring.”

  Her coat is unzipped and she wears a T-shirt underneath. On her feet she has blue canvas shoes, bad for this weather. “You’ll need a better coat,” I say.

  “No, I’m fine.” To prove herself right she takes my hand and presses it to her forehead. “See?”

  Her skin is hot and damp, and it reminds me of when George held me so tight that I couldn’t breathe and I’d start to sweat. Sometimes it felt like my ribs were cracking. When he put me down, I’d wobble foot to foot, catching my breath. I’d be dizzy, light-headed, and I’d look up at him and he’d seem different—bigger, almost dangerous.

  Alicia sees my car and walks toward it, ahead of me. She nearly slips on the ice, then regains her balance. And I remember how, when I steadied myself, caught my breath, George would go back to being George—that sweet, soft-spoken guy. And I’d grab his sweater. “Again,” I’d say, and pull his sleeve. “Again.”

  WHEN WE GET TO MY PLACE, Alicia kicks open the door as though she still lives here. “It’s exactly the same,” she says.

  We used to live as a family in this place, a two-bedroom off Memorial. I didn’t move after Claire left because I didn’t want to upset Alicia even more. She was only seven years old, and I thought too many changes would confuse her. Anyway, it took me years to believe that Claire wasn’t coming back. By the time I understood that, I’d lived this way so long it didn’t seem worth changing.

  Now that Alicia’s here, the first thing I want to do is feed her. Then sit her down and ask her questions. Why she’s so thin. Why she’s so wrecked. But she throws herself onto the couch and adjusts one of the green, craggy cushions under her head. The stuffing is worn down, which I didn’t notice until now. Alicia used to trampoline all over that couch.

  “You look tired,” I say. “You look like you could use a nap.”

  “I know I shouldn’t sleep in the middle of the day.” She closes her eyes. “But I don’t give a shit.”

  And with that, she’s asleep. Her breath makes a wheezy sound like the spray gun I use at work.

  I tiptoe through the apartment, then sit in the kitchen and try to read a magazine. I go onto the balcony and stand there until my toes lose all feeling. Then I go back inside and try to read again. It’s a business magazine, with news about oil and all the other money in Calgary that I’ll hardly touch.

  I can’t remember when I’ve had so much time to fill. After work I’m usually so wiped that I heat a can of soup, spoon it from the pot, and go to bed. It’s been a long time since I had anyone else in the house, and it makes the place feel strange. There are things I’ve never noticed: the squeak of the bathroom door, or the sucking sound the fridge makes when you open it. I’m afraid to make a noise, can’t remember whether Alicia is a light sleeper or not. So I just sit in a chair I never normally use and watch her. Then I cover her with a blanket. Under it, her body looks like a pile of bent hangers.

  ON HER DAYS OFF, my mom and George liked to go for drives in her Volkswagen Rabbit. It had been a lipstick red, but that must have been a cheap paint job because it faded to a paler, milky colour. The Rabbit was small but could travel fast, and that’s how my mom drove.

  “This city was built for me,” she’d say as we blasted down wide roads, past subdivisions. “One big highway.”

  George didn’t drive anymore, but he loved being on the road. He talked about the BMW he used to own. “I lived for that thing,” he said. “It was a beaut.”

  Sometimes we drove all the way to Cochrane, where we bought ice cream, even in winter. I was allowed to buy a double scoop of chocolate, I remember that. We ate in the car, and had to turn the heat up to keep warm. We ate the ice cream fast, before it could melt.

  ALICIA SLEEPS SO LONG that the sun starts to set and I can hear rush-hour traffic outside my window. I write her a note, put on my jacket and boots, then head out to pick up some pizza. I order pepperoni-mushroom but then realize she might not like pepperoni-mushroom anymore. Who knows, she might be a vegetarian, or one of those people who never cooks their food. So I stop at the grocery store to pick up some other things too. Just in case. Dill pickles, a block of cheddar cheese, precut carrots, salt-and-vinegar chips, oatmeal cookies.

  When I get back, Alicia’s pacing the kitchen, flipping through that magazine. “I should drop out and move back here.” She’s awake now and talking fast. “Here’s where the money is.”

  “Not if you have to make rent,” I say.

  “Did you get food?”

  “Hope you like pepperoni.”

  “I don’t think I’ve eaten in a while. I don’t think I’ve eaten all day.”

  While we have dinner, we play Scrabble. Alicia’s clever, a bit too competitive. She makes words like hence and cudgel, and when I put down pal she adds pitate.

  We drink Dr Pepper and Alicia eats only the topping from her pizza, leaving the dough in a greasy pile on her plate. I put the chips in a bowl for her, but she hardly touches those either. I want to figure her out, get inside her brain and find out what’s making her antsy and sick. But I’ve always given her privacy. I never rummaged through her stuff or read her diary when she was growing up. And this is the first time in months my daughter’s been here, at my table. I don’t want to ruin it.

  I try an easy question. “How’s Gavin?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know. The same.”

  “Yeah,” I say, though I’ve never met the guy. “How’s school going?”

  “My supervisor says I’ve got a terrible bedside manner.” Alicia shuffles her letters, her eyes scanning the board. “I told him I want to do obstetrics and he suggested I try surgery.”

  She puts down break, which means it’s my turn, and I’ve got nothing but consonants.

  “What was I like?” Alicia asks. “As a baby?”

  “You were fat.” I remember the snowsuit I used to dress her in: green, with attached feet, and rabbit ears on the hood. “Healthy.”

  “I was probably a cranky kid.”

  As soon as the water froze, I spent every Saturday morning with Alicia. I wrapped her in a scarf, mitts, toque, and we’d head over to the ice. When she was young, she loved being able to see her own breath. It fascinated her to pass her mittened hand through it.

  This was before my wife left, but Claire never joined us. Sh
e liked to stay home and have the morning to herself. “I need a break,” she’d say, and while we were gone she’d make a cup of tea, add a shot of amaretto, then sip it in the bath.

  “Do you remember your first pair of skates?” I turn change into changed—it’s the best I can do. “The ones with the double blade on the bottom?”

  By the time Alicia and I would come back from our skate, Claire would be in a terry cloth robe. She’d open the door and pull us into the apartment, saying, “Hurry, you’re letting the cold in.” I’d grab her waist, kiss her neck. I loved her skin then. It was warm and smelled clean.

  “Not really.” Alicia drinks from her can of Dr Pepper.

  “You always stopped fussing when I brought you out on the ice. You practically learned to skate before you learned to walk.”

  “It snowed in Vancouver last winter, and Gavin refused to leave the house.” Alicia shakes her head. “He said he didn’t want me to go outside either, in case a power line fell on me.”

  “You took some bad falls when you were a kid. Once, you slid across the ice and your whole face collected snow.” I look at that face, see how thin it’s got. “You had skid marks on your chin for a week.”

  All of a sudden, she smiles. It’s the kind of smile my mom used to have when George was around. “This is the first time I’ve relaxed in months,” she says. “At home, I never stop working. I have to take two Ativans just to be able to sit on the couch.” She puts down deft, using my d. “An overmedicated med student. That’s funny, isn’t it?”

  I don’t know what to say to this. My daughter used to be different: driven, athletic, happy. “It’s ironic, I guess.”

  “No. That’s not quite the right word.” She bites her lip as she rearranges her letters. “It’s funny, that’s all.”