The Substitute

by Nicole Lundrigan

  This did not surprise me in the least. Since Button was a baby, I had warmed her bottles and trained her on the toilet. I had trimmed her bangs and clipped her screwed-up toenails. I had layered extra blankets and offered her popsicles when she was sick. When the appointments arrived (and there were plenty), it was me who pulled her in the wagon toward the doctor’s office. Me who heard the doctor say her developmental milestones were in the lowest percentile. Her growth and speech were considerably delayed. They suspected food and animal allergies. Problems with her vision. Impaired brain functioning. There were serious concerns, and he wanted her to see an internal specialist.

  At the end of each appointment, the doctor always ended with the same sentiment. “Though, I must say, she is the most jubilant child I have ever encountered.” Jubilant! Then, “Tell your mother what I’ve said. Have her call me, okay? It’s important. We should get support in place.” I never told my mother anything. Instead, I dragged jabbering Button through the streets in that shitty rusty wagon with the wiggling back wheel. I bought her vanilla soft serve in a cup using the change I stole from my sleazy aunt’s plastic purse.

  “Come on, come on,” I yelled at her. Button was breathing heavily. Her stumpy limbs were not built for hiking swiftly over wooded terrain. When I saw her retch from exertion, I paused, knelt, and she climbed onto my back. “Fine. We’re almost there.” My knees wobbled, but I was able to carry her heft the last stretch.

  I had discovered this gem two days ago, when I was wandering through the woods on my own. Someone had abandoned a large canvas tent. It was big enough to house a family and I could easily stand up inside of it. There were small tears in the corner, and something dark coated the inside. When we came into the clearing, I could see my treasure was still there. Button slid off my back.

  She began to move toward it, but I gripped her wrist, said, “Wait.” I went to the front of the tent, flaps tied back, corners held securely with rope and pegs. I unzipped the door, then returned to Button.

  “There are rules.”

  “Yub.”

  “You need to follow my instructions. Do you understand?” She nodded. “Shut your eyes and move slowly. Don’t flail about.” She tilted her head. “I mean, don’t move your arms in a fast way. You have to be slow and steady.”

  “Oday.”

  “Just be quiet and keep your mouth closed.”

  She closed her eyes and squeezed her entire face. I guided her through the open door, and once we were inside, I re-zipped it. Then I had her lie down on the floor. The air was warm and stale and strangely sweet. For a moment I stood over her and stared at her white hair and swollen abdomen. Due to her oversized thighs, her legs stuck out from her body like drumsticks. She started to smile, perhaps aware I was watching her. “Keep your mouth closed up. Tight,” I whispered, and lay down next to her.

  There was a faint hum in the tent. “Can you hear it?” Button nodded. “Do you feel like it’s alive in here?” I twisted my head, saw her nod a second time. “Okay. Are you ready?” She gripped my hand, pushed her warm body against mine. I could feel her shaking with excitement. “Now listen. And don’t open your mouth.”

  “Oday.”

  “I said, don’t open your mouth.”

  “Mmo-mmay,” she said through sealed lips.

  “Good job.”

  I reached my arm behind me, and struck the main tent pole with my fist. In an instant, the walls and ceiling appeared to explode. Every upper surface on the inside of the tent had been covered with a tight blanket of black flies, and with the sudden vibration, they all lifted off, flew in a cloud of dizzying circles, striking one another, striking walls and floors, our faces and arms. Catching in Button’s white hair. The buzzing sound was nearly deafening. I do not know what it did inside Button’s mind, but in my own, the sound and display drowned out every thought. For those moments, I was suspended in fluid. Floating in nothingness. Like a fish in a perfect tiny tank. Then, as quickly as they had burst forth, they settled again. Re-establishing their living blanket of black.

  Button had opened her eyes, and I saw the wonder there. She clutched my hand, nodded and smiled. “Mouth closed,” I said. She was not skilled with remembering instructions, and repetition was required to refocus her. I struck the tent pole again, and the tent teemed with its deafening display of insanity. My heart beat inside my chest. I liked sharing this experience with Button.

  Just before I struck the pole for the third time, I heard someone yanking at the zipper, saw two white hands reaching through the door, jerking the canvas apart. It was our mother. I knew before I saw her oily face.

  “Get out of there. Jesus. Jeeee-sussss. Get out, right bloody now.”

  The flies were quiet. I sat up. “How did you find us?”

  “Does it matter? Some nosy lady came to my door. Actually came and knocked on my door. Got me up from my show. Said she saw you two idiots horsing around in an abandoned campground. God only knows what you could catch here. Last thing I need is to be hauling your backsides in for tetanus shots.”

  As though she would.

  “Careful,” I warned Button as we crawled out. “Don’t injure any of them. They don’t deserve it.”

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “Learning.”

  “About what?”

  “Order and chaos.”

  My mother rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s disgusting.”

  “Yes,” I replied, taking Button’s hand in mine. Most beautiful things are.

  [10]

  “War?”

  The front door creaked open, and he felt a chill slither around his bare ankles.

  “Warren, sweetheart, are you home?”

  Nora. Finally. He sat up, felt his lungs reinflate. “Yes, yes. I’m here,” he said, scraping the corners of his mouth. “I was. Um. Taking a short rest.” Which was not really true. He had been taking a long rest. Once he had captured Stephen, he sank into the couch, and though the sun had slipped below the horizon, he had not gotten up.

  “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

  “Dark?” Warren looked around him, realized he could only see the outlines of grey furniture, grey doorways, a grey rug. Her grey face. As a boy, he used to fear the dark, the unknown, but he always knew his father would arrive to banish it. That stopped when he was eleven, and he had no choice but to grow up. “Oh. I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized.”

  “I should be the one apologizing, War. I wish I could have come earlier. I had to work. You would not believe how many people get their groceries on a Sunday! And then I rushed home and made sure Libby had found something to eat, and was doing her homework. You know, that daughter of mine’d do nothing if I left her. And then the afternoon just vanished. I tried to call, but couldn’t reach you.”

  “I didn’t hear the phone.”

  She placed a knotted plastic bag on the coffee table, then eased in beside him. “You okay?”

  “I just feel really tired. Exhausted.”

  “Of course you do. What a day. To have something as terrible as that happen right in your own backyard. Would suck the good out of anyone.”

  “Yes.”

  “Everyone is talking about her. Her mother must be beside herself. I don’t know what to say about that lout of a man she’s married to, but I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. What goes through your head to up and leave your family? He was a decent person, and they were doing well for themselves. Then to drain every cent from their house, their accounts? And take off?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “I heard he just gave it away to a group. Some charity. Had an epiphany of some sort. Can you believe it? Leaving your family in ruins, young girl still growing up, not two nickels to rub together. I think of Libby, and how much she needs me. I’m like her backbone, and the whole thing just boils my blood. I think they’re renting, now. A
few houses up. Though to be honest, I don’t even know how she manages that. Subsidies, I guess. His family’s well off, but they can only help her so much. She got nobody.” Nora frowned, shook her head. “Can you imagine?”

  Warren shrugged, shook his head in time with hers. Her voice was tinny. Shrill, even. But he ignored that, focused on the number of words that leapt out of her mouth.

  “Have you eaten, War?”

  “No.”

  “I brought a soup. Just something left over from last night. Nothing fancy, but it’s decent. Lots of vegetables, so at least it’s healthy. You need to eat.”

  As she tore open the bag, pulled out the Styrofoam container, Warren’s eyes began to sting. He slid his hand underneath his thigh, and pinched the thin skin. How could she be so thoughtful? Sometimes when he lay beside her in her bed, he imagined her late husband, stricken with his digestive problems, his lung issues, his swollen joints and kidney disease. Trips back and forth to the hospital. Tubes and machines, and eventually, that never-ending beeping sound. How had she not lost her ability to nurture? So unlike his mother. After his father died, bitterness had bloated her.

  “I heard someone say there’s going to be an investigation.”

  “Investigation?”

  “You know how women talk. It was never-ending chatter today, and of course I’m stuck slicing off ham. I can’t help but listen.”

  Warren blinked, touched the corner of his glasses.

  “It’s not all cut and dry, the way she was hunged up, but I’m sure it was an accident. Or kids messing around. There’s really no other possibility.” She rubbed Warren’s back, and as her warm hand moved up and down his bones, his muscles began to relax.

  Maybe the nurturing was innate, and Warren’s mother never had the capacity. Maybe Nora and her husband had been in love, while Warren’s parents only existed side by side, circling but never touching. Maybe Warren’s father was broken, and his mother never bothered to tape him to her, the way a doctor would tape a broken toe to its stable neighbour. Maybe she had tried, but the tape never stuck or the roll had simply run out. He could not think in those terms, though, that his mother had actually made an effort. After blaming his father’s death on her for years, Warren was unable to step onto that slippery slope toward forgiveness.

  “They asked me a lot of questions,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Someone. A woman detective. I don’t know the other one’s name.”

  “Why? For God’s sake.”

  “I do live here. It was my backyard. And she was my student. Maybe they thought I could help them.”

  “Yes, but. Help them how? What sort of questions?”

  He focused on the painting above the fireplace. The eye-ears. He shook his head, said, “I don’t even remember.”

  “Well, never mind that now. Come. Eat something. I already re-warmed it, and even brought a plastic spoon.”

  Warren hated plastic cutlery, the weakness of it, how it reminded him of his mother’s laziness, but he would not mention that to Nora. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for thinking about me.”

  “It’s terrible, you know, War, but you can’t let it swallow you up. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know.” Though he did not know with absolute certainty. Perhaps he could have done more. He had recognized Amanda was depressed. Maybe he should have spent time with her when she appeared at his house. Like most her age, she only wanted someone to listen, to offer reassurance, but Warren’s goal was to nudge her out. Gently, of course, but still. He had wanted her gone.

  “Well, then.”

  “But it’s not just that girl, it’s —”

  “What, darling? Just let it out.”

  He could not tell her that after seeing Amanda dangling from a tree, he had spent the entire afternoon thinking not just about her, but also about his father.

  Insignificant things. The white hairs in the scruff on his father’s chin. The way his shoulders slumped, as though gravity overwhelmed him. The way he rarely spoke to anyone besides Warren, unless it was to assist a customer or encourage his struggling seedlings. Even his sister, Beth, who followed their father relentlessly, was largely invisible. During dinner, mostly canned food, dry toast, milk, there was total silence. Warren grew to hate the sounds of a meal — slurping, chewing, pushing lumps down the throat. Sounds that were all about staying alive, but nothing about living. While he ate, he tried to keep his ears covered, one pressed to his shoulder, his free hand clamped over the other. Relief always came when the final crumb was crunched, and Warren could escape outside, to a place full of grass and insects and sweet clean air.

  “There’s so much left unanswered.” He lowered his head, not meaning to say that out loud. About Amanda. About his father.

  “Of course there is. Listen to me. It’s going to take time, War, sweetheart. To figure this out. To get past it. Libby says everyone really liked her. She was really nice. Smart. And popular. Everyone’s beyond upset about it.”

  “I should have asked. Is she okay? Libby?”

  “Fine, War. She’s fine. Undone, of course, but don’t worry. Kids bounce back from anything, don’t they?”

  Warren shifted his body, and Stephen awoke, stretched to the point of shaking, then dropped off the couch, went to his bowl, and crunched kibble.

  “I am starting to feel a little hungry,” he said.

  “Well, I arrived just in time, didn’t I? I’m going to turn on a light. Is that okay?”

  “Do you mind?” he said. “If we just sit here?”

  “Not at all. I can see well enough.” Nora stood, glanced out the window. “Will you look at that.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, no. Nothing wrong. Just a few nosy neighbours. Having a bit of a gawk.”

  Warren knotted his fingers together, shook his head. “But why? There’s nothing to see.”

  “Pay it no mind, War, darling. People got too much time on their hands.” She yanked the curtains closed. “Obviously.” Then she took the blanket off the arm of the couch, placed it over Warren’s legs, and tucked it in around his hips.

  “Time to take it easy,” she said, as she peeled the plastic lid from the container, stirred the soup with that plastic spoon. “Misery’s over for today.”

  His heart skipped a beat. When he was a boy, his father would say almost the exact same thing. Every evening at bedtime, Warren would pull the sheets up over his head for a smothering wait. When his father arrived to say goodnight, he took the cotton corners in his soil-stained hands, and folded them across Warren’s chest. “Time to rest, son. Drudgery is done for now.” Though his father had always said this with a faint smile, Warren’s child mind set to work. His brain travelled back through those scattered hours in his childhood, plucking out every scrap of sadness, every worry, every fear, and lined them all up. Surely there was goodness there, hiding behind that impenetrable hedge, but he did not care. All Warren wanted was to lend truth to his father’s words.

  [11]

  Though I could not articulate it, I knew from a very early age that my aunt was a useless slut. Button and I were her attention props. Designed to make her appear maternal and family-oriented if a particular role required it. Every six or seven weeks, she would arrive at our home reeking of perfume, her swollen breasts busting out of a too-small top. Freckles on her neck and face masked by smears of shitty makeup.

  “You must meet my friend, Harvey,” she announced this time. It was always a name that ended in that annoying long e sound. Larry. Bobby. Tommy. Practically interchangeable. “My very close friend.” And she flushed slightly, bent down. “Button, darling? This is Uncle Harv.”

  “Heddo, Mistah Ahv.”

  (Score! I had told Button over and over again not to address these flea-riddled cat toys with the term uncle. Button had learned.)

&nb
sp; “Kiddle?”

  I, of course, would never reply to her prompts. Just gaze at Chump or Loser until he shuffled his feet, and dipped his grimy hands into the pockets of his jeans. My screw-up aunt could not grasp that these men did not want to see her props. They only wanted to see her naked.

  The man blew air out through his mouth, and my aunt’s voice climbed an octave. “This is for you, Button,” she said. “From me and Uncle Harv.”

  It was a small stuffed pig with poseable limbs and bendy ears. Button squealed, snatched the pig, and pressed it to her throat. I could see a split in the seam, discoloured stuffing poking out. “Dah-ku, Lahvee.”

  Larvie. Singular: Larva. How appropriate.

  “Dah-ku, dah-ku, dah-ku.”

  Button would not shut up. I sighed inwardly. We would have to discuss this issue. Such a shameless display of gratitude for dollar-store garbage.

  “And for you.” I winced, certain there were elements of her voice that only a canine could hear.

  My gift was a stag beetle. Trapped in its glass case. Gently curved pincers lifted in a fearsome stance.

  “Ugly little bastard, huh?” Larva bumped me with his hairy elbow. I glared at the spot where his skin had touched me, then glared at him.

  “Uncle Harvey chose it all by himself. What do you say, Kiddle?”

  I understood the request, the social requirement. The need to demonstrate appreciation. “An impressive sample,” I replied after examining the insect.

  Larva snorted then. “That one’s a real piece of work,” he said to my aunt. “You weren’t kidding.”

  My aunt shrugged, threw up her hands, as though to demonstrate her exasperation. Then she over-smiled, announced, “Okay, kids, let’s blow this popsicle stand!”

  What. A. Pair. Of. Fucking. Losers.

  My mother never questioned us leaving. Her heavy breaths, nonchalant, “See you . . . see you later,” suggested only relief to have us gone. Once I asked her why she pawned us off so frequently, or why my asshole aunt was willing to take us; she said, “I help your aunt and your aunt helps me.” That meant a monetary exchange. Why was I not shocked?