Between the Cracks She Fell

by Lisa de Nikolits

  Shayne’s response to my fury was to smoke more dope, watch more bad TV and sleep his days away on the sofa.

  He stopped cooking, and lived instead on beer, potato chips and greasy pizza that he got delivered to the house, and he grew soft and doughy.

  You can cook, I said. Get a job as a cook. At McDonald’s, or whatever.

  I can’t, he said, mournful and red-eyed. I can’t even taste anything anymore.

  I tried to make what I thought were helpful suggestions but it all just started to make him feel anxious and then he had trouble breathing. Eventually I made him go to a doctor and she said that Shayne was suffering from panic attacks. Except that there didn’t seem to be any periods in between the attacks, it was more like one long attack.

  Thus diagnosed, Shayne began to weep.

  In a move I would live to regret, I had called his sister who lived in an affluent area with her husband, a tax lawyer. Apparently, the recession had not seemed to affect their highfalutin lifestyle at all.

  When Shayne and I had first moved in together, Caroline had come by to investigate. She had ignored me and breezed through our house, casually dropping scornful comments about my Ikea décor and chainstore furnishings and by the time she had left, I had a headache from clenching my jaw.

  All Caroline had seen was the other life her brother could and should have had, and me and my house and my idea of interior design did not gel with that picture in her mind.

  You can come and stay with us anytime, she had said to him, pointedly. She was planning to have a baby, and she said she needed someone to paint the room.

  Are you going to do it? I asked him. I did not like him being around his family because I was secretly worried they would wrest him away from me, the ties of blood being the most binding and all that. I knew I was invisible to his family — someone like me had never been part of their plans, plans which were not about to change now.

  May as well, Shayne answered. I paint, and they need a painter.

  I was worried. But he painted the room, Caroline had the baby, the seasons passed, and it seemed that my fears had been unfounded. Until the recession hit and Shayne’s phone fell silent.

  When I called Caroline, I had hoped she would tell him to get a grip, behave like a man and step up to his responsibilities, but she seized the moment of his vulnerability to take him away, with nary a glance at me or any consideration for the things he had promised me. She had come right away. Stormed through the front door and headed straight toward Shayne who was slumped on the couch in the living room. Next thing I knew, she had Shayne’s head in her lap and was stroking his balding patch. I wanted to tell her that he hated that area being touched, but oddly enough Shayne had not seemed to mind or even notice.

  Come and live with us, she said.You can help babysit, Caroline had continued. The basement is refitted, with new carpets and a new washroom. You’re a great cook, Shayne, and you can make us nice things to eat, and you can rest. You’re so tired. You’ve had a rough go of it, and it’s not your fault the entire world’s in a financial meltdown. Thank God there’s still a need for people like George.

  George was the tax lawyer husband.

  What about me? I had wanted to shout. You said we were in this together. You’re not allowed to leave and be all good and cosy in your nice cocoon of a womb basement. You’re with me. We’re partners. We’re a team.

  As if he had heard me, Shayne raised his head. Joss, he said, already apologetic, I know I said I was your guy, but how was I to know? For God’s sake Joss, it’s not my fault. You heard Caroline.

  Caroline nodded sagely.

  I can’t cope, Joss, Shayne had added. You heard the doc, you heard my sister. I’m sorry JJ, I really am.

  I had been incoherent with disbelief. And how exactly am I supposed to manage? I asked. Tell me that much before you wend off to greener pastures and running waters and manna from heaven?

  Rent out your basement, Caroline said, barely casting a sideways glance my way.

  The basement isn’t finished, I had replied, and my jaw hurt to say the words. Shayne was supposed to fix it. It doesn’t have a ceiling or a bathroom, or anything.

  Shayne, I said, not for the first time, stay here and fix the basement. We’ll rent it out and we’ll be fine, you and me, luv.

  Shayne had looked like he was actually considering it, for about a nanosecond. Then he slumped back down into Caroline’s s lap.

  How can you expect him to do anything in this state? His sister had retorted with scorn. Don’t be ridiculous. Shayne, honey, no one expects you to do anything like that, she added and resumed stroking his head.

  Shayne had looked cheered.

  You owe me, Shayne. I had felt vicious with fear. You can’t leave me, you can’t. I’ll lose everything I put into this house, everything. You promised me. You can’t leave.

  It’s not my fault, Joss, Shayne had said, and he would not look at me. You heard them all, it’s not my fault.

  That’s settled then, Caroline had said. Shayne, pack your things tonight, honey. I’ll come and get you tomorrow at noon, okay?

  She eased his head out from the depths of her lap. Josie, she said, good to see you again, good luck with everything. If I hear of anyone looking for a basement apartment, I’ll send them your way.

  It’s Joscelyn, and not even a feral cat could live in our basement.

  Caroline ignored me, patted Shayne and left.

  After Caroline had left, I stared at Shayne in disbelief. He had pushed himself into an upright position.

  Shayne, I spoke carefully, wondering how best to bring him back from the edge, but it became clear it was of no use.

  Don’t bother, Joss, don’t even try. Shayne had turned to looked at me, his slightly bulging frog eyes cobalt blue rimmed with red. I know I’m letting you down. You don’t need to tell me, it’s no use.

  I had glared at him. I knew he had already moved on and was anticipating the sanctuary of his sister’s basement, a cellar that hitherto would have been as appealing as a dark cave or sinkhole.

  She’ll send you back to finish med school, I said in a rush. She’ll take away your freedom. She’ll shackle you to all that stuff you were so proud of escaping.

  And I’ve done really well, wouldn’t you say, with all the choices I’ve made? Shayne echoed my bitterness as he waved a hand around the room. Can’t even support my own girlfriend. If Caroline has any suggestions, I’ll listen this time.

  Right, Shayne. Good for you. Roll over like a good little doggie.

  It’s not that, Joss. Shayne had sounded exhausted, beaten. I just don’t know what to do is all. I left med school thinking that life would take care of me if I did all the things I wanted to, that I’d be fine, no matter what. But look at me. His eyes had filled with tears then.

  I went over to him and put my arms around him but he shook me off.

  The last thing I deserve is your pity or kindness. Be angry and shout at me, tell me I’m a loser, that you’re better off without me. But don’t be nice.

  I just want you to stay, I had said. We can get through anything as long as we’re together. You always said that before, what’s different now?

  I’m different Joss, he replied. I’ve got nothing left.

  But we’re family, you and me, you always said that. You always said family is who you choose, not the bloody strangers you’re born into. You said that. And all your sister wants to do is control you, and your father as well, wanting his Surgeon and Doctor Son dream. It was never your dream.

  Shayne had looked at me, expressionless. I’m not going to stand here and argue with you, Joss, I’ve got to pack. And I am sorry, more sorry than you’ll ever know.

  I’ll take that to bed with me at night when you’re gone.

  Shayne had just stood there, gangly, boyish and balding, his baby face earnest,
apologetic, pleading.

  But my heart had not been ready to admit defeat. So, there I was, all feisty, with my hands balled at my sides, my long black hair lank and tired and my armpits sweaty.

  But Shayne had ducked past me and gone upstairs. I followed and sat on the bed, watching him. At one point, when he was folding socks and underwear, he had started to hum tunelessly and I wanted to smash his head in with the bedside lamp we had bought together in a small, local antique shop.

  Shut the fuck up, I had said evenly. You’re not allowed to be alright with this, you know.

  Shayne had stopped. I am not alright with any of this, he had shouted at the wall. I just don’t know what else to do.

  3. THE SURE REALITY

  HE WAS LEAVING AND THERE WAS NOTHING I could do to stop him. I watched him for a bit in the kitchen, sorting through and packing pots and pans, then I went back to the washroom, thinking I would sleep in the bathtub just to get away from him, but it proved too uncomfortable and when I heard Shayne still packing downstairs, I left the bathroom and climbed into bed, praying that this semblance of normalcy would put a halt to Shayne’s flight from sanity.

  Later he joined me in our big bed and he had the gall to put his arms around me. I shrugged him off and turned my back to him and lay as still as a rock and cried silently until dawn.

  I refused to get out of bed the next morning.

  Come on JJ, Shayne said. I still have to finish packing some stuff. Come down to the kitchen and I’ll make you pancakes.

  You don’t have time, I said in a muffled voice.

  I’ll always have time to make you pancakes.

  Fuck you and your food.

  Shayne sighed and left the room.

  Later, when he came to say goodbye, I was still in bed.

  I am sorry Joss, he said. I really am.

  Two years and nine months and you’re sorry? Shut up and stop saying that.

  He kissed my forehead which was hot and wet with tears and sweat, with strands of hair plastered sideways. He tried to brush them off but I knocked his hand away.

  Be gone already if you’re going, I said, praying he would change his mind, but he didn’t and he left, with the stairs creaking as familiarly as if he was going to make us a cup of tea.

  I heard the sound of the hardwood floors groaning as if their old backs were breaking and the squeak of the front door opening. I pictured Shayne carrying his boxes outside, and I heard a car door open and Caroline’s brisk triumphant voice greeting Shayne. I hated their chatter as they loaded up her enormous BMW.

  I’ll just move the baby’s car seat. I left Jack with the nanny, so you’ll have room.

  I wanted to look out of the window but I did not want to give Caroline the satisfaction. I noticed that Caroline did not even mention me.

  That’s all your boxes then? I heard the sound of Caroline dusting off her hands. Looks like it might rain later.

  I could imagine her shading her eyes and scanning the sky.

  Daddy will be coming over later. He’s so happy you decided to come home for a while.

  Great, Shayne said, sounding resigned.

  I heard the trunk slam shut and car doors open and close and my heart pounded hard, bouncing like a rubber ball against the dark cave of my chest. I heard the car pull away and my whole body screamed No, no, no, till there was silence. Then came the call of a mourning dove, the bark of a bored dog, and a truck beeping as it backed up.

  The day moved through its phases of light, and I waited for Shayne to come home. But he did not come home and the blue sky dimmed into evening and then fell into the darkness of night.

  4. THE MUTUAL LOSS AND GAIN

  I MADE IT INTO WORK THE NEXT DAY, hardly able to focus, hardly able to see, my face so swollen it looked bruised.

  My boss noticed, how could he not, but he didn’t have time to care. He avoided eye contact and talked shop.

  So many demands, meanwhile sales are way down, he sighed. Hard to keep up with everything the advertisers want, and I know they aren’t happy. They’re all looking around, and there’s talk of cancellations, but I’m hopeful we’re good for at least another year.

  I nodded, thinking who cared about another year. The air was heavy with the immensity of my loneliness, my loss. I had never been one for a big social scene. I just needed my guy, my one guy and now he was gone.

  I waited all day to hear from Shayne. I watched the phone, willing it to ring. But he was gone as if he had never existed.

  I couldn’t understand how men did that — how one minute they were there, and then they just left. Like in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy: “Sayonara, baby, so long, and thanks for all the fish.” My dad had done the same thing as Shayne, only he had left in the middle of the night when I was seven. Vanished. Mum said he had moved to Canada, but who knew what the truth was? I never heard from him again either.

  I escaped to the washroom and stood washing my hands for a long time under the hot water, looking at my sore and tired face. A colleague came clacking in on her high heels, swishing her big mom hips.

  You okay, Jossie? You don’t look your usual cheery self? You were sick yesterday, you feel better?

  Food poisoning, I lied. I still feel awful.

  I sensed sympathy was in the offing, but I could not face it, so I rushed out.

  The eternally everlastingly long day finally ended.

  That night I was too wrung out to eat, and I fell into bed and slept for a few hours, waking to find myself in a house that made inexplicable noises, noises it had not made when Shayne was there.

  I turned on the light and looked for a friend, a book I loved, one that never let me down. It was a close call between The Ground Beneath Her Feet and The Satanic Verses, but the Verses won. I carried it back to bed and read the old familiar words, soothed as always by the unfailing lilting melody of the prose and the companionship of the characters.

  When I finally turned off the light, I thought that sleep would bring me respite, but I was wrong. Nightmares of bankruptcy and eviction filled my mind, and when I thought that I might have to sell the house, my head throbbed. I lay there, taking inventory of the sorry and disintegrating state of my little residential nation.

  Mum’s new husband — well hardly new, since they had gotten married when I was eight — dealt in real estate, and he and Mum had come over to help me invest the nest egg Gran had left me.

  Mr. Alright (rightfully known as Simon Albright), had said the house was a good deal but he was British and didn’t know how to factor in Canadianisms like how the snow hid the many sins that lay beneath. And also, because of the snow, we hadn’t been able to get the roof inspected. Then there had been the issue of the wiring; Mr. Alright had forgotten to check if it was the wretched knob-and-tube (and it was).

  Mr. Alright was generous when I bought the house; he got me a red leatherette sofa, a funky rug with black-and-white circles in a tight weave, and a beautiful French-style chandelier with pear-shaped lights that hung down like big rain drops on a willow tree.

  He treated me to a navy blue, aqua, and lime duvet cover with pillows to match. And he got me a set of dinner plates that featured blue hot air balloons flying off at different angles.

  I want to leave knowing you’ve got some colour to see you through, girlie, he said. I couldn’t stomach the long winters here.

  I thought back to the everlasting grey skies of England and its piercing dampness, and I shuddered.

  I’m good here, Mr. A., I said. I had never been able to bring myself to call him “Dad,” despite a truckload of urging from him and Mum. Eventually he stopped asking, but to his credit, he always treated me like a daughter.

  And towels, he said. I want you to have the best towels. Terry towels, nice and thick. And a television, girlie, with cable. Can’t have you being lonely.

  After h
e left, I was glad for all his gifts and I wondered if I had thanked him properly. Probably not, as I had always had a hard time thanking him for anything.

  When that first summer arrived after I moved in, the house and its surrounds emerged in all their muddy glory. The backyard revealed itself to be a sunken mess of rotting railway ties and ferocious ivy, while swarms of flying ants had held a hostile takeover of the front porch. Inside the house, the basement had been as cold and damp as a wet rag in a butcher shop, while the top floor had felt hot as Hades and equally airless.

  But for all its flaws, and there were many, I loved the house. It was my gift from Gran. My legacy. My home.

  It was shortly after that, that I had met Shayne. Then I had figured we would fix the house up together, but Shayne was a painter and a none-too-inclined handyman. He painted the interior, I grant him that, from top to toe, in delicate robin’s egg blue, pale sunshine yellow, and creamy white, and he did a beautiful job of it. He had painted carefully and precisely, and the walls had seemed fresh and sparkly as newly laundered linen.

  When he moved in, he added an antique coffee table to the decor. It was scored by dope burns, watermarks, and random scratches. He brought a plethora of musical instruments he had started to learn but never stuck with, and I thought they added a nice decorative touch.

  He brought a sound system, and we lay on the rug and listened to music from the 1970s, ’80s, and ’90s. He introduced me to countless Canadian bands, some of whom I already knew, I just had not known they were Canadian.

  And he brought cooking utensils, some of which I had never seen before: slow cookers, woks, things in which to bake, broil, fry, grill, toast and poach. He brought spices and mixing bowls and measuring spoons, and he even brought a blender.

  He filled up the kitchen with his stuff, and I was amazed by this unforeseen aspect of his personality. Despite his observations to the contrary, he was a tidy cook too, cleaning up as he went along, whistling and happy, while I sat and read in the living room and waited for whatever exotic dish he was serving up that night.