“Nervous?” he asks.
“No,” she answers truthfully.
“Good. This isn’t 60 Minutes, there’s no angle or agenda on my part or on the part of the show. All we’re hoping for here is to help bring Rachel home to you safe and sound. All right?”
She nods.
To start with he asks her to describe Rachel as a person, what she likes to do when she isn’t in school, what she wants to be when she grows up. He moves on to the life she and Rachel lead: the piano lessons, the video store. He helps her. He clarifies, for instance, that Mika isn’t just her landlord and frequent babysitter, he’s a trusted friend. He makes no reference to his own son, not even indirectly, and she begins to think that he won’t, that the subject is off-limits. But then, after she says, “Every waking minute I’m holding my breath,” his face seems to age twenty years and he says, “I know that feeling,” and instantly she’s on her guard. She doesn’t want her feelings to be feelings he knows. His child died. She sits back, as if with the same smoothness that he conducted the interview he could pull her into his hell.
But he sits back, too. He’s done. Unclipping his microphone, he smiles and says, “Good job.” He asks if they can film the drawings in Rachel’s bedroom.
“Whatever you think will help,” she says.
“You’re a brave woman, Celia,” he tells her. “I pray that what we’re doing here today contributes to bringing Rachel home to you.” His hand bolts across the space between them and they shake. Even the reassurance in his grip unsettles her.
Downstairs, the kitchen radio is on, and Mika, Little Lynne, and Laura are all listening.
“I just think she could have made wiser life decisions,” a woman caller says.
Celia pauses, unnoticed, in the doorway.
“How so?” the host says.
“Well, for instance, I read in today’s Sun that the reason we haven’t heard anything about the biological father is that she doesn’t even know his name.”
“I read that, too.”
“Here we go,” Little Lynne says grimly.
“You know?” the caller says. “I mean, before you have sex with strangers, and I don’t think that’s right but it happens—”
“Oh, fuck off!” Laura says, slapping the table.
“I can’t listen to this,” Mika says. Little Lynne reaches for the dial.
“No,” Celia says. “Leave it.”
They all spin around.
“Celia—” Mika starts.
Celia holds up a hand for quiet.
The caller is speaking: “What I’m getting at is, there’s a side of the family, the father’s family, that hasn’t been there for Rachel her whole life.”
“That would certainly seem to be the case, I’m afraid. As to whether or not any of those family members would have been in the house on the night of the blackout, we can only speculate. Thanks for your call, Maria.”
“No child should be an accident.”
Little Lynne turns it off. “Sorry, Celia. There are always a few holier-than-thou types out there.”
Celia walks over to the table and sits. She isn’t offended.
“They make me sick,” Laura says. “You’re a monster if you have an abortion, no matter how young and alone you are. But if you decide, okay, I’m going to keep the baby, you’re a bad mother because there’s a side of the family that isn’t there. They can’t have it both ways!”
“It’s true though,” Celia says.
“What is?” Mika says.
“About no family being there.”
“That isn’t your fault,” Laura says.
“My family. My father. Rachel’s grandfather. Last Christmas she wanted us to go visit him in Florida and I told her he’d died. Can you believe that?”
Mika shrugs. “Maybe he has.”
Celia looks at him. “You know what else? A part of me was relieved that my mother died when she did so I could have Rachel all to myself.”
“You weren’t relieved,” Laura says quietly.
“I’m even jealous of you sometimes,” Celia says, still addressing Mika.
“It’s natural enough.”
She shakes her head. Only she knows how greedily she loves her daughter. Seeing her across a room or in the playground at school, what’s her first thought? Mine, she’s mine. It isn’t just amazement. Something miserly and famished runs underneath: the worst of herself, the worst of her mother in herself. A genetic fault line maybe. But that’s hardly an excuse.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“AMEN,” RON SAYS in response to the caller’s declaration that no child should be an accident. He pulls up in front of the shop but keeps the radio on to hear the news. The lead story is about the steelworkers’ strike. Rachel is next—the same report as an hour ago: a second candlelight vigil held last night; DNA samples being taken from staff and patrons of the Casa Hernandez Motel.
He turns the van off. That the mother doesn’t have ten illegitimate kids is what he finds surprising in all this. Although maybe she does and they’re living in foster homes. Or maybe Rachel is the only one she didn’t get around to aborting.
He grabs his toolbox and climbs out of the van. Across the road, Vince, who is climbing out of his truck, calls, “How’s it going?”
“Not too bad,” Ron answers.
“You’ve been closed a lot this week.”
Ron tenses. Since when did Vince start noticing his Closed sign? “Running around on house calls,” he says.
“I was just out on a call in Mississauga,” Vince tells him. “It’s raining like a sonofabitch out there.”
“It’ll be hitting us soon,” Ron says, relaxing. Vince is being neighbourly, that’s all.
The shop blinds are down, the overhead lights off. Behind the counter Nancy sits holding a cigarette she makes no attempt to conceal.
“What are you doing?” he says.
“Oh,” she says foggily. “Sorry.” She drops the cigarette on the floor.
“That’s not dope, is it?” he says, crossing the room.
“What? No, no…” She slides off the stool and grinds the butt under her foot. “Listen, Ron. I think I have the flu. I need to lie down.”
“Is Rachel all right?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. She’s playing the keyboard.”
He lowers the volume on the radio. “I don’t hear anything.”
“She was a minute ago.”
He checks his watch. According to the schedule she should be watching cartoons.
“All of a sudden I felt woozy,” Nancy says.
In the dim light her face is chalky. He switches on the lamp, and she’s even whiter. He notices the piece of paper she’s holding. “What’s that?”
“Oh. A flyer about Rachel.”
She gives it to him. He quickly reads it over. “Where’d you get this?”
“Somebody dropped it by.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. They left it…” She waves in the direction of the door. “It was in the mail slot.”
“Really?” That flyers begging for Rachel’s release are being distributed beyond the official grid is worrying. On the other hand, volunteers go where they want; it doesn’t necessarily follow that the search has widened. “They didn’t knock?” he says.
“No. Nobody knocked.”
He scans it again. “‘I am the only family Rachel has,’” he reads out loud. He snorts, then decides not to get himself worked up. “So,” he says, “Rachel’s fine.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Her indifference takes him aback. “I should look in on her,” he says.
No response. He assumes she’s mustering her opposition.
“I can ask her if she wants to see the vacuums,” he says.
“Oh. Right.”
“You don’t have to be there, do you?”
“It’s up to her.” She steps around the counter. “I need to lie down. Wake me in an hour.”
He balls up t
he flyer. For all its troubling implications, it has given him an idea, which is that to pique Rachel’s interest in the vacuums he should first show her one of his pamphlets. He gets the most recent version off the shelf and opens it on the counter. He’d forgotten about the author’s photo, but there it is. His smile is insanely wide. His hair is slicked down flat.
He finds a pair of scissors and cuts the entire panel off. Better to lose the section on Eurekas than to leave a hole in the panel and have Rachel wondering what it was he didn’t want her to see. He skims the rest of the pamphlet. There’s the odd word she might stumble on, but by and large the language is simple enough, intended for the general public.
She’s kneeling in front of the dollhouse.
Hi,” she says. His heart pounds, not just at the sight of her in her white skirt and blue-and-white sailor jersey but at the sight of her there, where he has placed her a hundred times in his imagination. “Can I come in?”
She cranes to look past him.
“I’m afraid Nancy’s feeling a bit under the weather,” he says, stepping over the threshold. “She might have the flu. How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” She shifts her weight so that she’s sitting on the foot she hurt. She thinks he’s asking about that.
He closes and locks the door.
“Did Nancy go out?” she says.
“Out?”
“Did she, like, go shopping?”
“No.” He wonders what she’s getting at. “Nancy’s here. Taking a nap.”
Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and he is treated to the spectacle of her small, protruding ears. Her only defect, objectively speaking. It is unbearably sweet to him that she shows them off by wearing pearl studs.
He gestures at the dollhouse. “See that red button? Above the fireplace?”
She twists around.
“Push it,” he says, moving closer. “See what happens.”
She sticks her hand into the living room and gives the button a quick tap. The logs glow red. A second later the mantelpiece candles come on.
“Isn’t that something?”
She nods.
In her other hand she’s holding the mother doll. “Have you given her a name yet?” he asks.
“No.”
“How about the baby, does she have a name?”
“No.”
“Where’s the father?”
She points to the office. The father is sitting behind the desk. What could be more natural than for Ron to get down on the floor, pluck the father off his chair and have him say something? Have him say, “Honey, isn’t it time to feed the baby?” Or, “How about I fix us some supper?” He takes a step closer. As if reading his mind, Rachel lays the mother doll on the veranda and flicks the switch that turns off all the lights.
“Enough of that, I guess,” Ron says. “For one morning.” He sounds anything but nonchalant. He slaps the pamphlet against his thigh and only then remembers he even has it. “Oh,” he says, gathering his wits. “You might find this interesting. It’s about my collection. I don’t know if Nancy has told you, but I collect and fix historical vacuum cleaners, some of them over a hundred years old.” He offers her the pamphlet. After a moment’s hesitation she takes it and pulls it open. “That one you’re looking at,” he says, “that’s the Constellation.”
“It’s like a spaceship,” she murmurs.
“That’s what I always thought. I thought they should have called it Sputnik. Would you like to see the real thing?”
She shrugs. “Okay.”
“I’ll just be a minute.” He hurries to the door. “You have a look at the pamphlet, see what other ones you want me to bring down.”
When he returns with the Constellation and its box of attachments, she’s sitting on the sofa, the pamphlet spread across her lap. “It’s starting to rain,” he announces, pushing the door closed with his foot. He’s out of breath. He sets the box on the side table. The machine he puts on the floor in front of her.
“Do you like the colour?” he asks.
She nods.
“It’s called Aqua,” he says. “For aquamarine. Fifty years ago you saw a lot of aqua around. Aqua fridges and stoves, aqua cars. It was a real popular shade back then. So—” He clasps his hands. “The Hoover Constellation, model eight-two-two. A classic example—I go into this in my pamphlet—a classic example of form over function. Do you know what that means, form over function?”
She shakes her head.
“It means nice to look at but not very good at its job. The problem with the Constellation is the exhaust. Somebody had the bright idea that the exhaust should blow out onto the floor under this metal ring.” As he leans down to demonstrate he finds her bare legs only inches from his face. He drags his eyes to the metal ring but now he’s forgotten what he was talking about. “Here,” he says. “I’ll plug it in.”
Of all his mid-twentieth-century machines the Constellation produces the most satisfyingly smooth whirr (which he considers ironic, given its disappointing performance). He lifts the switch with his toe, and after a few seconds of not looking at her, just listening, his mind clears. “So what happens,” he says, returning to his earlier thought, “when you have the exhaust blowing onto the floor, is that the machine is easier to drag around, sure, because it’s sitting on a pillow of air. But you pay for that little feature on the suction side.” A reckless impulse takes hold of him and he says, “Would you like to give it a try?”
“You mean vacuum?”
“There’s a bag inside, ready to go.”
She stands. He passes over the handle, not quite believing that he’s about to let her dirty one of only four unused Constellation bags in his possession.
“Should I do the sofa?” she asks.
“Why not?”
Before he can instruct her, she has started. She uses firm, straight sweeps, up and down. He should intervene—she’s pushing too hard on the bristles—but her purposeful little hips have him captivated. When she says something over her shoulder it comes to him like a voice in a storm.
“What?” he says.
“Look—” She shows him the brush. “The fuzz isn’t going in.”
He stares at her pointing finger.
“See? The fuzz is all here, and it should be going in. Right?”
“Right.” He switches off the power. The sudden silence is jolting. “That’s what I was telling you about,” he says, opening the box he brought down. “About the pillow of air…” He takes out the drapery brush and the bags. “How that…ah…gets in the way of…” He takes out the instruction booklet. “Where’s the crevice tool?” he mutters. “It should be in this box.” He paws through the remaining attachments. “Don’t tell me…” The sweat begins to drip down his forehead. Did he accidentally throw it out when he was emptying the storage space? Without all its attachments, the machine is next to worthless.
“Stay right where you are,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
WHEN THE thud of his footsteps fades altogether, she lays the vacuum cleaner handle on the sofa and walks to the open door. He has left the door at the top of the stairs open as well.
In her amazement it doesn’t occur to her to escape. All she can think is, now’s her chance to sneak her note outside. She gets it from under the toy chest. She refolds it so that the word HELP shows, then tucks it into the waistband of her skirt and leaves the room. She tiptoes up the stairs. Just inside the shop she pauses to listen. Ron seems to be at the back of the house; she hears what sounds like furniture being moved back there. She makes her away around the lawn mowers and lamps. So that she doesn’t bump anything she presses her elbows to her sides.
The front door is unlocked. She steps onto the concrete porch. It isn’t raining anymore. Cars and trucks zoom by, splashing water. Pigeons drop from the hydro wires to peck at an orange pizza box.
Where should she put the note? Across the road there’s a man leaning against a truck and talking on a cell phone. She
decides to give the note to him. She descends the stairs. She passes Ron’s van, knowing it’s his because it says Ron’s Appliance Repair on the side.
The man is getting into his truck. She walks faster. The pigeons scatter ahead of her, onto the road.
“No!” she cries, worried that they’ll get hit. She waves her arms to bring them back.
The note falls out of her skirt and is run over by a motorcycle.
It’s all she can do not to dash out into traffic. She doesn’t, though. She waits until it’s safe.
So where does the car come from? It’s suddenly there, an inch away from her leg. Behind the windshield is a black man in a turban. His door opens. He climbs out.
“Are you all right?” he says in a foreign accent. “Did I hit you?”
She steps back onto the curb.
“Little girl, did I hit you?” He moves closer.
She turns and runs.
The shop door is stuck. She bangs on it with her fists. She starts to cry.
Through the glass she sees Ron charge out from the hallway. He opens the door and scoops her up. Kicks the door shut. He carries her down to the basement. Kicks that door shut. He lays her on the bed. She can’t stop crying. “They saw me!” she cries. “They saw where I am!”
“It’s okay,” Ron says. He strokes her face. “You’re okay. I’m here. Ron’s here.”
WHAT WAS that loud noise? Nancy listens, rigid with fright. Except for the drone of voices from the shop radio, the house is quiet. She sinks into the pillow.
She was having a terrible dream: the flyer and the letter Rachel wrote to her mother this morning and the HELP note under the toy chest—they were getting all mixed up. She opened the flyer, but it turned into Rachel’s letter, and she thought, Holy Christ, these are all over the city! She looked at it again and it was the note, it said HELP in orange marker, and she thought, These are all over the city. And they were. She looked outside, and there were notes everywhere, on telephone poles, on car windshields. HELP, HELP, HELP as far as she could see.
Helpless Page 21
