The nightmares persisted for months, but the memories began to fade. The bruises on Hannah’s belly faded as well, although she found she still sometimes woke in the night, scratching out an X across her belly button. The startling brightness of the Texas sun and how it heated the pond’s rock enclosure made the dankness of the swamp seem surreal, the open space erasing the enclosed feeling of cypress trees packed together.
It was too hot for fish, but she’d found lizards with bold, iridescent scales sunning themselves, one leg languishing in the warm water. Gavin liked to be set a small distance away from them. He’d dip his finger in the water and wait with infinite patience, statue-still, until their webbed feet tapped over his hand. The eyes, set like gems in scaled faces, made Hannah’s hairs stand on end. Some unremembered dream teased the edges of her mind.
Each morning, Hannah made their bed with sheets the color of granite. When Callum entered her, one hand pasted over her mouth, the mattress didn’t sag with the imprinted memory of former bodies. She arced her back happily, with abandon. The birth had caused tearing, and when she was well enough to have sex, they moved slowly. She felt each thrust like a war drum.
They were synchronized, passing coffee and orange juice back and forth. Synchronized, too, in their mutual refusal to discuss that day. Sometimes she caught Callum watching her, the trauma of so much unexplained brutality obvious in the unconscious way he chewed the inside of his cheek. The day she dropped on one knee and slipped a simple silver ring onto his left hand, saying only, “You mean everything to me,” his arms closed around her back like a second skin. Like a turtle’s hard shell.
One night, in the dry June haze, Hannah slept fitfully. She dreamt that she pulled on a terrycloth robe and stepped into the Texas night, the moon gleaming over the sand like a lesser, arctic sun. She had the sense that something was calling her, on a frequency too low to hear.
The garden looked frost-tipped in the cold light, and she touched the violet blooms of the purple sage bush as she passed. She unlatched the back gate and stepped into the expanse. Small eddies of dust rose like temporary towers.
She didn’t see it at first, so camouflaged against the desert. The spiny ridges down its back shone like ivory. Its body was pointed away from her, its head turned over its shoulder. Hannah looked down at her bare feet and saw the telltale smear of sand leading up through the open gate and toward the house. When she turned back, it was gone.
She awoke standing at the entrance to Gavin’s room. His mobile drew shapes in colored lights on the walls and released lilting xylophone notes. Beneath the glow, he was standing, gripping the bars of his crib.
“Sweetheart, you did it,” she said. She moved quietly, trying not to startle him. “I’m so proud,” she said. Her hands covered his own impossibly small ones.
His mismatched eyes met hers, then drifted over her shoulder.
“Gavin?” she asked, leaning closer.
He peered intently at the empty space behind her and burst into a chiming laugh.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my parents and my family, without whose love, patience, and trust none of it would have been possible. I am so lucky. Thank you for never letting me stop striving, hoping, hammering through.
Sincere thanks to the countless educators and mentors who have helped me along the way, with special mention to David Baird, Mr. Pearce, A.F. Moritz, and Myna Wallin.
Thank you to the University of Toronto and Rosemary Sullivan for spearheading a tremendous M.A. program, which introduced me to the indispensable mentorship of Jeff Parker and Camilla Gibb, and a solid group of fine people—Andrew MacDonald, Laura Clarke, Spencer Gordon, Catriona Wright, E. Martin Nolan, Matt Loney, and Jon Simpson.
Special thanks to my agent Sam Hiyate (and the Rights Factory), who stood strong by this book during its many tweaks and turns.
Many thanks to the whole wonderful team at ECW Press, in particular Jen Knoch and Crissy Calhoun—your humor, kindness, and keen eyes turned the editorial process into a true pleasure.
Finally and importantly, more love and thanks than I can express to my husband, Mark. Your belief in this, support for this, and influence on this can’t be measured, and neither can my gratitude. Thank you for teaching me how to write a love story.
Alexandra Grigorescu has a Master’s degree in creative writing from the University of Toronto. She lives in Toronto. This is her debut novel.
Copyright © Alexandra Grigorescu, 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by ECW Press
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Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4E 1E2
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LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Grigorescu, Alexandra, author
Cauchemar / Alexandra Grigorescu.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77041-234-7 (pbk)
978-1-77090-718-8 (pdf)
978-1-77090-719-5 (epub)
I. Title.
PS8613.R584C39 2015 C813’.6 C2014-907602-9 C2014-907603-7
Editors for the press: Jennifer Knoch and Crissy Calhoun
Cover design: Natalie Olsen/Kisscut design
Cover images: house on water © michaelmuecke/Photocase, mosquitoes >© gernot1610/Photocase
Author photo: Maja Hajduk
The publication of Cauchemar has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and by the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,793 individual artists and 1,076 organizations in 232 communities across Ontario, for a total of $52.1 million. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities, and the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
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