No Good Asking

by Fran Kimmel

  “Our daughter,” Ellie said, her voice hoarse as she choked on the words.

  “You’re shaking.”

  “Lily.”

  “Ellie, let’s not do this now. You need a doctor.”

  “Please. Don’t call anyone. This is our family.”

  Eric wrapped a towel around her and helped her to bed. She couldn’t remember what happened after that. When she got up the next morning, the bathroom was clear. The garbage had been removed. There was no sign of the sheet.

  Eric brought her breakfast on the wooden tray. Toast and jam and a pot of tea with honey. He’d placed their daughter in his treasured wooden box, the one he’d carved himself with geometric designs along the sides. Sometime in the night, he’d gouged six petals on the lid, a long-necked lily.

  “I wrapped her in a washcloth,” he said.

  “I want to see her.”

  “No, Ellie, you don’t.” He held the box away from her. “She’s gone now.”

  But Ellie tore the box from his hands and opened the lid, peering in at the blistered body, her daughter a fraction of the size she was. She would blow away like dust if you breathed on her.

  Christmas morning came and went, a sorry affair. They both tried for Danny’s sake, feigning interest in the new train set and floor puzzle that Santa brought. As the day wore on, Eric drank too much and then ordered Chinese while she lay on the couch and watched Danny bounce on the floor between them.

  It took five more days before she had the strength to bury her daughter. Still weak, pressed down, sick of looking at blood, she and Eric went to the hill beneath the mountain. It had been an unusually mild winter, the ground still pliable. They dug the hole beside the tree where Eric had carved their initials.

  Now she heard a noise beyond the window. They were back? She tried to stand, panicky in that dark place, but her legs collapsed and she fell back into Myrtle’s chair.

  No. It was not her husband and son, just a tendril of ice from the eavestrough, crashing to the ground.

  —

  His dad put the girl in the front seat for the drive to the Neesley hospital; she was wrapped in blankets from head to toe. Her dead cat was in the car trunk. She wouldn’t leave without it, so his dad had said, all right, all right, calm down. He went back into the house and came out again a few minutes later with the cat wrapped in a towel.

  Daniel sat in the back beside a green garbage bag stuffed with the girl’s clothes: jeans, t-shirts, sweaters, underwear—whatever he could find as he was fumbling through her drawers. He’d never touched a girl’s clothing except Melissa’s, and only once, her tight sweater with buttons small as red-hot cinnamon hearts, her speckled bra with its lace straps and wire bottom and complicated back hook.

  He wanted to ask questions as they raced across the snow and ice. What had happened? What would happen? But when the girl stayed quiet, he did too. He let himself sink down and feel like a child, lulled by his father’s soft assurances telling them to hold on, they were almost there, everything would be all right. The words were meant for the girl, but he clung to them anyway.

  When they got to the hospital, his dad carried the girl past the nurses’ station, his footsteps slapping against linoleum. Daniel wasn’t allowed to go behind the maze of curtains, so he sat alone in the emergency waiting room. There were just six chairs in two rows of three, facing each other, as if this town could not imagine a bigger crisis.

  His dad came back out once, stopping first at the vending machine down the hall and choosing a can of Coke; he passed it to Daniel as he sat down beside him.

  “You okay here?”

  He nodded, afraid to look his father in the eye.

  “Dan?”

  “Yeah. I’m good.”

  His father dug into his pocket and pulled out a fist of change. “Take it.” Daniel opened his palm. “There’s chips down there too. Doritos.”

  “What about Mom?”

  “I’ll call her.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Not sure. She’s in X-rays now. Hang tight, okay?”

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?” He’d stood by this point, about to leave.

  “What’s her name?”

  Her name was Hannah. She tried to run away. His dad found her on the road that very afternoon. She got put back and then got taken out again, like milk from the fridge.

  After the Coke, his dad disappeared. Daniel could hear the hurt down the hall behind the closed curtains. There was a guy moaning, a woman yelling for something for the goddamned pain, and a baby’s endless crying. Fits of coughing and barfing. He imagined sawing noises and a leg coming off. He listened for his dad’s voice or the girl’s, but they’d disappeared.

  His phone sat in his pocket like an empty wallet. He was used to checking in every few minutes, but there were no cell phone signs everywhere, and tonight of all nights, he was paranoid about rules and consequences, so he’d turned it off. Oddly, it was his mom’s voice he needed to hear. He thought he’d long since grown out of needing her to comfort him.

  The smell in that tight room soon became unbearable, his sweat mixing in with that hospital stink rising up off the white-grey walls, same as the equipment room at school only sourer and more antiseptic. He stood, his legs soupy from sitting so long, and wandered out into the hall. The nurse standing behind the main desk looked up from her charts, not bothering to smile, and then returned to her scribbling as if she couldn’t see him, so he turned the other way and stomped past the vending machines, past the glass boxes displaying crocheted doll clothes and wooden bird feeders. As he rounded the corner, he crashed straight into a round woman. Her large breasts collided with his rib cage, her clipboard pinging to the floor, papers scattering everywhere.

  “Whoa,” she yelped.

  “Sorry. God. Sorry.” He got on his knees to collect the stray papers, postponing the point where he’d need to look her in the eye. She laughed a deep booming laugh. He recognized the sound of it. He looked up to see her adjusting her ruffled self, hands heaving her breasts like bowling balls. That too he’d seen before, a sight he’d found hard to forget.

  “My fault,” she announced, seemingly satisfied that her lady parts were back where they should be. “I have this ridiculous habit of walking with my head down. Let me just—”

  He was still down on the floor. She eyed him closely as he passed up the papers. “Land sakes. Daniel? Daniel Nyland?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet. “Well, you’ve grown a mile. Why, you’re a strapping young man. Handsome to boot. It’s Betty. From Child and Family Services. Not that that’s relevant. It’s just what I say, I don’t know why. I suppose if I worked for the post office, I’d say it’s Betty from the post office.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Holt.”

  “So you remember. And so polite. Call me Betty. My mother-in-law is the only Mrs. Holt in this town and, Lord knows, you don’t want her involved.”

  She was his dad’s school friend. She used to stop by his grandparents’ house every Christmas when he was a kid, a walking decoration: dangly, flashing light-bulb earrings, a red sweater with a huge yellow bow covering her chest. Every time she broke into laughter, jiggling and stomping, Thorn started to howl. She even got his grandpa to slap his knee and laugh out loud.

  “Sorry I crashed into you, Mrs. Holt.”

  “Betty. I’m in at least two crashes a day.” She patted her papers into a neat stack and jammed them under the clip, then looked up at him and smiled. “It’s been ages. And look what I’ve missed. You turn around and the future is here.”

  He only then made the connection. She was here because of the girl.

  “Did Dad call?” Did he tell her he almost killed a guy?

  She nodded. “You’ve had quite a night. Nasty business. How’s she doing?�
�

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know where they are.”

  She laughed again, the boom echoing through the hallway. “Well, this is Neesley. Not even a mouse can hide around here.” And with that, she hauled him by his coat sleeve and marched them down the hall.

  When they got to the desk, the nurse on duty looked up and sighed. She ignored him and leaned across the desk, rested her chin on her arm, and whispered to Mrs. Holt, “Will this night never end?”

  “Marlene. You look like death eating a cracker. That bad?”

  “Christmas. It brings in the crazies. We’re jammed full. Not one extra bed.”

  “Jesus had the same problem his first Christmas. So where is she?”

  “She’s down in—”

  In unison, the three turned toward the hall. A cart, wheels squealing, had exploded from a set of giant doors, pushed by a dopey-looking guy in a green smock, Daniel’s dad right behind.

  The nurse swivelled on her heels to the whiteboard behind her, checking the box beside Hannah Finch’s name. “You timed that right. That’s her.”

  He snuck a peek at the girl before Dopey whisked her behind the first curtain. She seemed so small and flat under the hospital blanket.

  His father strode toward them. He looked dog-tired, shoulders slumped, much older than he had at their supper table. “Betty. Thank you.” He squeezed her hands and she squeezed back. Daniel rocked on his heels, uncomfortable. It felt like there were a million little things he hadn’t noticed about his dad before.

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” she said. “Good to see your instincts still work. You were right to go back.”

  “You remember Dan?”

  “Sure I do. Glad to bump into him.” She winked at Daniel, who couldn’t help smiling.

  “Anything broken?” she asked his dad.

  “The X-rays were clean. Or at least nothing recent. Swelling and bruising. Some nasty welts. Dan, sorry, just a bit longer. I need to talk to Betty about a couple of things.”

  And off they went to the waiting room. The nurse at the desk ignored him as he stood in the open area, her head buried in paperwork, so he tiptoed toward the girl’s curtain.

  She was on her side, facing away from him, her skinny arm cradling her head, the rest of her covered with the blanket. His fingers jangled the curtain, which made a terrible screeching noise. She turned and stared right at him.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.” He jammed his hand into his pockets and fingered the change he found there. “Do you want a Coke?”

  “I’d rather have an Orange Crush.” Her voice was surprisingly strong considering what she’d been through. There were enormous dark circles under both eyes.

  “I don’t think the machine has Orange Crush. But I can check.” He started to back away.

  “No, it’s okay. I’m not really thirsty.”

  “There’s chips. Barbecue. Salt and vinegar.” He’d never been this close to someone beaten up like this.

  “You were at my house. You live across the road.”

  “I was supposed to wait in the car.”

  “But you didn’t.” She was sitting upright now, eyes wide, squeezing her pillow to her chest. “Are you going to get in trouble?”

  Daniel couldn’t even imagine her kind of trouble. “I banged up my grandpa’s truck. I’m kinda already in trouble.”

  “Oh.” She stared at him with concentration, then her shoulders relaxed and she sank back down on her bed. “You don’t look banged up.”

  His accident seemed petty now, and he was embarrassed he’d mentioned it. “How come I’ve never seen you before? You live right across from us.”

  “I’ve seen you driving up and down the road with your dad.”

  Practice runs, after he got his learner’s permit. They should have gone to the same school, taken the same bus. “Where do you go to school?”

  “I’m home-schooled,” she said, scrunching her nose like it left a bad smell. “Is he taking me back there?”

  “Who?” As if he had answers.

  “Your dad?”

  “He’s not my real dad.” Why did he tell her that? Eric was the only father he’d ever known. He felt ashamed: was he trying to compete with her for the worst story? He needed a wall to press against. He felt exposed, clutching the folds of the flimsy curtain. “I’ll ask him.”

  As he turned to leave, she called out his name. He couldn’t remember even telling it to her.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Nigel Wilson. He’s not my real dad either.” Then she looked away, pulling the green sheet up to her chin.

  Daniel crossed the hall and sank into a waiting-room chair across from his dad and Mrs. Holt sitting against the opposite wall. They were leaning into each other, her lap piled with paper, whispering in hushed tones, when an RCMP guy clipped down the hallway and stopped in front of them.

  “Good, you’re here,” Mrs. Holt said, looking up.

  The constable looked too young to shave and too skinny to bring down a bad guy. His dad and Mrs. Holt stood, while Daniel stayed put.

  “Constable Bradley King, this is Eric Nyland and over there is his son, Daniel.”

  “It’s an honour to meet you, Sergeant Nyland.” The constable shook his dad’s hand enthusiastically. “Rolly Adams worked for you up in Griffins. He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Adams is a good man. Just Nyland will do. Not Sergeant,” though his dad seemed like he was the one in charge.

  “Let’s get this mess sorted, shall we,” Mrs. Holt said. “You’ll need statements, Bradley? We can use the consultation room.” And off they went.

  They were gone awhile, which gave Daniel plenty of time to think about how his dad had almost killed that guy. He had no point of reference for this. From what he remembered of his dad’s cop days, he dealt with fender benders and neighbour disputes and stumbled over rehearsed lines at the front of the school assembly. Now he drove around the gas plant, searching for holes along the fence line. He was the guy who walked in their front door, dropped his keys somewhere inconvenient, and then melted into the backdrop of their family’s mess. He was a lot better than some dads, certainly better than Max’s, who had a beer gut like Santa with none of the jolly. Daniel wasn’t ashamed of his father; he’d simply looked at him so little since they’d moved to Neesley so as to not see him at all.

  He replayed his father’s actions. The way he held onto the girl. The way his body sprang forward like a lynx. The deep growling from his throat as his fist smashed down. And later, the exactness with which he checked the guy’s breathing, rolled him onto his side, and supported his neck. He didn’t recognize his father’s voice when he phoned 9-1-1, relaying precise details, coordinates, instructions. Or how he drove fast like that, so oblivious to the winter around them, under them, as if he’d spent a lifetime racing down those same tracks.

  After an impossibly long time, his dad came back alone to the waiting room and sat in the chair beside him.

  “They’re talking to Hannah now,” he said. “We can go home soon.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “No.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared at the floor. “Maybe. It depends on Wilson. He has to give a statement. He’s sobering up at the detachment.”

  The RCMP station in Neesley was just a hole in the wall. Daniel had thought he might get sent there, after his accident, but a constable, an older guy, had come to their house instead. “Is there a jail at the station?”

  “There is. Just a couple of cells.”

  Hannah had asked Daniel if she was going to be sent back. Of course they wouldn’t send her back; that would be the world’s dumbest idea. “What’s going to happen to her?” he asked his dad.

  “It’s up to Betty and Hannah. They’re talking right now. Hannah has to tell Betty
and Constable King what happened, before a decision can be made.”

  Daniel’s ears burned. “We know what happened. He hit her. Probably a bunch of times. We were there.”

  “But we didn’t see it. Hannah has to tell. Assumptions aren’t good enough.”

  Adults always missed the obvious. “That’s totally stupid. That’s why there are so many criminals on the loose.”

  His dad looked at him and smiled. “At the risk of repeating myself, you watch too much TV, Dan.”

  “So when she tells them, where will she go?”

  He sighed and closed his eyes. “Betty will find something, a foster home, group placement. I don’t know, Dan.”

  His dad stayed slumped forward, flexing the fingers of his right hand, his knuckles swollen and bruised. Daniel wondered why they didn’t just go home; it was almost midnight, his mom would be hysterical. But he didn’t want to leave and miss what came next. They stayed quiet and waited. When Mrs. Holt came back, his dad stood.

  “All sorted then?” he asked.

  “Constable King is still with her.” Then she lowered her voice, speaking directly into his dad’s ear. “Bradley hasn’t had much experience with kids.”

  “I guess we can head out then,” his dad said, reaching for his coat on the chair.

  Mrs. Holt tilted her head down and stared through the top of her glasses. “There’s been a wrinkle,” she said.

  His dad turned toward her. “Hannah wouldn’t make the disclosure?”

  She shook her head. “Oh no. Hannah’s spilled the whole gruesome story.” Mrs. Holt just stood there, lips pressed together as she looked at his dad. Finally, she said, “She’s asked to go home with you.”