Worry

by Jessica Westhead

  She tries to explain how that music made her feel back then and how she feels when she hears it now. But the problem is, the baby inevitably falls back to sleep and the mother-to-be loses her again.

  “Please stay,” she whispers. “Come back. It’s been seven minutes but feels like days since you took your love away.”

  All around them, the trees and flowers are in bright, astonishing bloom, and their branches are full of happy birds.

  A man is approaching. He’s not very old, maybe in his early thirties. He’s one of those men who looks like a lot of men do—short hair, jeans and a T-shirt, hair on his arms.

  She smiles at him because she smiles at everyone now. The baby inside her has made her all-powerful, and that power has made her benevolent toward all living things.

  But the man doesn’t smile back. His hands are in his pockets and he walks along like that, casually but purposefully, with jaunty elbows and an unsmiling face.

  Her steps falter as he gets closer. Because now it’s obvious. He’s a Bad Stranger, and he’s going to hurt them.

  It gets darker then. A cloud covers the sun and the mother-to-be is all alone on the street with the man. There’s no one else around and nowhere she can run to for help. As if she could even run. The trees are grey and the birds are screaming and it’s just the two of them. The three of them.

  As he draws up alongside her, his mouth twists.

  She gulps a breath and waits and wishes she could close her eyes but she won’t, she can’t, because she has to be ready for whatever he’s going to do.

  And then he spits on her.

  That’s all.

  The fat, glistening glob lands smack in the centre of her big, round belly. She is wearing a gauzy maternity top and can already feel the wetness spreading through the thin material. Some of his phlegm and saliva sprays onto her chest and chin as well, and her hands fly up to wipe it off.

  His face goes blank after that and he continues on his way, but she stops and turns around. Calls out, “Hey!” before she even has a chance to think about it.

  Then she thinks, That was stupid of me.

  She waits for him to stop and turn around too. Waits for him to come back and punch her in the belly, then push her down and kick it, make a dent or cave it all the way in like a rotten pumpkin.

  But he just keeps on walking.

  She’s still wet with his spit. The yellow glob on the curve of her middle oozes down, and she doesn’t do anything about it. All of his disgust is concentrated there, and she concentrates on how it feels.

  She stands there in the sunshine until the man is out of sight, the birds chirping a merry tune the whole time.

  The mother-to-be thinks, I have been cursed.

  And right then, the baby moves inside her, kicks her harder than she’s ever kicked before.

  And she knows that it’s true.

  Eight

  UP AHEAD, THE ORANGE GLOW FLARES BRIGHTER AS THE night descends around them.

  “Wow,” says Ruth, “that’s a big fire.”

  “What did I tell you?” says Sammy.

  Then almost immediately, like a switch has been yanked, their voices are drowned out by shouts and hoots, clapping, laughter, cheers, competing music being played, bottles clinking. And suddenly they’re in the middle of it, and there is the biggest bonfire Ruth has ever seen and the flames are raging and she thinks, Careful, careful.

  Sammy heaves the cooler bag off his shoulder and plunks it down just a few feet away from the firepit. “Looks like a good spot right here.”

  “Aren’t we too close?” says Ruth. “It’s a bit warm.”

  He drags an empty camping chair over and settles into it. “It’ll be cold later.”

  Then there is Marvin, striding toward them with a fistful of sticks and a large bag of marshmallows balanced on his head.

  He reminds Ruth of the poster Stef gave her when they were kids, showing a sad Saint Bernard puppy with an old-fashioned ice pack balanced between his floppy ears. In the background was a majestic mountain, and at the bottom was a cheery slogan spelled out in rainbow colours: “When life gets you down, your friends will lift you up to new heights!” It was supposed to be inspiring, but the dog looked so depressed and Ruth couldn’t help him, so it just made her feel hopeless.

  “Now,” says Marvin, “where are my official roasters?”

  “Me! Me!” the twins yowl.

  “Well, now. Don’t you look nice? You got all dressed up for my party.” He smiles and starts to hand a stick to Amelia, then pulls it back. “Hey, wait a minute. What are you going to give me for it?”

  The little girl giggles. “A kiss?”

  Ruth rests her hands on Fern’s shoulders.

  Marvin scrunches up his face. “Just one teeny kiss? That’s all you’re going to give me?”

  Isabelle sidles up. “How about two kisses?”

  “Ah,” says Marvin. “Now you’re talking.” He crouches down in front of them and juts out his chin, and the twins plant kisses on his stubbly cheeks.

  “Ow! Too scratchy!” they yell, and snatch their sticks from him.

  Ruth’s heart is thumping and she looks at Stef and Sammy but they’re laughing, and Stef catches her eye and mouths, “Harmless.”

  The bag of marshmallows slides off Marvin’s head but he catches it just in time, and offers it to Fern. “What about you, little one?”

  Ruth pulls her closer.

  Fern regards him sternly and leans back against her mother. “You’re a stranger.”

  “But you met me already!”

  “I met you yesterday,” she says. “That was not a very long time ago.”

  Marvin laughs. “You’re very smart.” He smiles up at Ruth. The sharks on his shorts are swimming in all directions, and he’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt. “Why don’t we ask your mommy what she thinks?”

  Ruth’s face goes hot. From the fire, she thinks. “It’s okay, Fern.” The words creak out of her. “Marvin is our friend now, so you can have the marshmallows.”

  Marvin gives the bag to Fern.

  She squeezes it a few times, then holds it up to her face and peers through the clear plastic.

  “Please don’t tell me that the child has never had marshmallows before,” says Stef.

  “Of course she has.” Ruth smiles tightly at her daughter. “Right, honey?”

  Fern furrows her brow. “I don’t remember.”

  Stef cackles, then turns to Marvin. “We need to use your bathroom.”

  “Be my guest.” He winks. “The outhouse is prepped and ready for use.”

  Stef shakes her head. “It’s too dark in there. I need light to wash the raccoon blood off my daughter. Don’t ask.”

  Marvin grimaces, then glances back at his cottage, which is dark except for a faint yellow glimmer coming from the front room and one small upstairs window.

  “I don’t want to wash my hands!” Amelia yells.

  “There’s hand sanitizer,” he says quickly. “I just filled it up.”

  “Sanitizer’s not going to cut it,” says Stef. “We need actual soap and water.”

  “Just use the sanitizer,” Sammy groans. “I want to start drinking. And why do you care so much about our children’s hygiene all of a sudden?”

  Stef glares at him.

  “The place is a mess,” Marvin says.

  “Don’t worry.” Stef grins. “We won’t judge.”

  “All right.” He sighs. “Follow me.”

  “I want to go with Amelia and Isabelle,” Fern tells Ruth. So they follow Marvin too.

  On the way, Stef leans close to Ruth and whispers, “I just want to see inside. They never invite us in.”

  “I’ll be out here if you need me,” Sammy calls after them. “But you probably won’t.”

  “JESUS,” STEF SAYS when Marvin lets them into his cottage, “you call this a mess?”

  He shrugs. “I’d like to take credit, but Lesley does all the upkeep. She did all the decoratin
g too.”

  Stef and Isabelle and Amelia and Ruth and Fern stand in the foyer, gazing around them.

  The place is beautiful and immaculate. Open concept, with shiny blonde hardwood and soaring ceilings. Pale-yellow walls and numerous vases filled with fresh flowers, which Ruth never bothers with because it’s such a pain to throw them away when they die.

  In the centre of the living room is a sprawling, turquoise couch with fluffy, matching pillows, and a luminous green coffee table—one of those repurposed vintage steamer trunks that Ruth has always coveted but has been too lazy to ever go out and find. A small potted plant has been placed on top of it, perfectly centred.

  The kitchen is clean and modern, with bright white cupboards. In the dining room, an enormous solid-oak table is surrounded by solid-oak chairs, all curved lines and smooth surfaces.

  The tall windows are framed by gauzy, white curtains that probably look lovely when they billow in the breeze, but right now the windows are all shut tight.

  Marvin sees Ruth looking at them and says, “I’d like to get some air in here, but Lesley doesn’t like to smell the smoke.”

  “Where is Lesley, anyway?” Stef asks.

  “Somewhere,” he says, and crouches next to the three kids.

  Fern is gripping Monsieur Foomay, recently extracted from the backpack, and Marvin pokes the dragon’s soft belly. “And who might this be?”

  Too close. Ruth reaches down and grasps Fern’s shoulder.

  “Monsieur Foomay,” Fern answers solemnly.

  “That’s very original,” he says. “Where did that name come from?”

  “Auntie Stef says it’s because of the smoke from his fiery breath. And he’s French.”

  Marvin barks out a laugh. “I’ve got something for you, Princess Fern.”

  “Hey, what about us?” Amelia whines.

  He frowns at her. “What did you do to the raccoon?”

  “Nothing!” she shrieks. “I was trying to help!”

  “I’m not a princess.” Fern crosses her arms. “I’m the commander.”

  “Ha!” says Marvin. “So you are.” He reaches over, his big hand moving toward her small face.

  Fern’s eyes go wide.

  Marvin raps his knuckles very gently on her forehead. Once, twice. “Knock, knock.”

  She squirms and giggles. “Who’s there?”

  “Canoe.”

  “Canoe who?”

  “Canoe come out and play with me?”

  “That’s a good one,” says Fern. “He’s funny, Mama.”

  Ruth nods, and lets her go.

  So many of the men she’s known have been jokers. Her father, James, Sammy. Even the strangers she meets are funny, most of the time.

  “This place is sweet,” says Stef. “Give us the grand tour!”

  Marvin points to a nearby door. “There’s a bathroom right there.”

  “Super. Now let’s see the rest of it.”

  He stands there, head tilted to the side.

  “What?” Then, “Handwashing! Right.” Stef grabs Amelia by the wrist and tugs her over to the bathroom, where they disappear briefly and then come back out. “All done. What’s upstairs?”

  Marvin rolls his eyes. “Follow me.”

  The twins whisper together, and Isabelle announces, “We want to play down here.”

  Stef glances at Marvin, who nods. “Fine,” she says. “But don’t break anything.”

  “Hide-and-seek!” shouts Isabelle. “Fern is it!”

  Fern immediately drops Monsieur Foomay so she can cover her eyes and start counting, but the twins don’t take off running just yet. They hover close to her, giggling.

  The adults start climbing the stairs and Ruth calls, “Mommy will be right back!”

  Fern doesn’t reply. She just keeps yelling out numbers, and Amelia orders, “Count higher!” So she does.

  When they get to the top, Marvin leads Ruth and Stef down a long hallway. He points out a simple but homey guestroom and says, “Still unused!”

  They pass a bathroom with pristine white tiles, streak-free mirrors and a gleaming-white sink and toilet.

  The floor creaks under their feet but the sound is muffled by the thick, white carpet. Their shadows press against the plain, white walls.

  They stop at another open doorway and Marvin mutters, “Master bedroom.”

  He flicks a hand to indicate the giant four-poster bed, neatly made up with a white duvet and several lace-trimmed pillows of varying sizes and colours, with a baby doll nestled in the centre of them. “That’s Lesley’s,” he says quickly. “From when she was a kid.”

  “Cute.” Stef smirks.

  You had your cat, Ruth wants to say, but stays quiet.

  At the end of the hall is one more room, but the door is closed.

  “What’s in there?” says Stef.

  “It’s private,” says Marvin. “Let’s go back downstairs.”

  She leans toward Ruth and murmurs, “Sex dungeon. Definitely.”

  Now Ruth is supposed to laugh, but she doesn’t feel like it. She’s so tired of her friend’s voice in her ear.

  Marvin stands there, blocking the way to the closed door, waiting for them to turn back. He looks smaller somehow. He’s been shrinking since he started the tour, folding in on himself.

  Stef makes a sudden, exaggerated move to dodge past him, flashing a gleefully disobedient grin.

  And then he’s a giant again, rising up and filling the space around him, his deep voice brimming with warning. “No.”

  The word echoes in the quiet cottage. There are no other sounds. No distant shouts of partiers by the bonfire, because all the windows are closed. No playful noises floating up from the living room, either.

  Stef freezes and holds up her hands. “All right, all right.”

  They turn around and walk back to the staircase and start down the steps. Stef is first, Ruth is in the middle, and Marvin is last.

  Below them, Fern is still hunting for Isabelle and Amelia. She’s trying to be silent and so are they.

  From her vantage point halfway down the stairs, Ruth can see the twins huddled behind the turquoise couch. She could point them out, but that would be cheating.

  Fern keeps on looking in all the wrong places.

  “Fern!” Stef stage-whispers. “Over there!”

  Ruth stares at her friend’s back and imagines how it would feel to push her. It would be so easy. Her arms tingle at her sides but she keeps them still.

  “Ha!” Fern jumps behind the couch, jabbing a finger triumphantly. “Got you!”

  The sisters blast her with outraged screams and then Amelia stands up with her hands on her hips and says, “Bet you can’t find your dumb dragon, though!”

  “What?” Understanding dawns on Fern, and she pales. “Mama, where’s Monsieur Foomay?”

  “I don’t know.” Ruth is at the bottom now, stepping off the last stair. “I thought he was with you.”

  Fern shakes her head fast. “I put him down so he could rest.”

  Isabelle smirks. “He wanted to play too.”

  Fern starts to cry. “Where is he?”

  “You have to look!” says Amelia.

  “Girls,” says Ruth. “Get him for her, please.”

  The twins give her identical looks of disdain.

  “You’re not the boss of us,” Isabelle says, sticky-sweetly.

  “Isabelle and Amelia,” Stef says evenly. “Give the dragon back to Fern. Now.”

  “Not yet!” Amelia shouts.

  “Whatever.” Stef raises her hands in surrender. “I tried.” She walks over to Marvin and Lesley’s kitchen and starts opening cupboards, rummaging around inside. “Where do you keep your food, Marvin? I’m starvin’.”

  He looks haggard all of a sudden, and slumps onto one of the dining-room chairs without answering her.

  Fern starts running, peeking into corners and under furniture.

  Ruth searches too.

  Stef says, “Aha!” an
d holds up a bag of potato chips.

  “Give me some of those,” Marvin mumbles.

  “Us too!” The twins scurry to their mother and start pawing at the bag.

  “They’re barbecue!” Stef tells them. “You don’t like that kind!”

  But they keep begging, so she finds a small bowl and fills it for them with a snarl.

  Amelia and Isabelle rush back to the living room without a thank-you and perch side by side on the couch with the chips between them, watching Fern with mean, orange smiles.

  “Where is he?” Fern shrieks at them. “Tell me!” Tears and snot stream down her red face.

  “Maybe you’ll never find him,” Amelia singsongs.

  “Maybe he’s gone forever!” Isabelle trills.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” says Ruth. “I’ll help you find him.”

  But Fern ignores her. Her eyes narrow and she charges at the twins. “Give him to me!”

  She leaps onto the couch and starts pummelling them, and all three girls become a howling, whirling blur of hair and skin and teeth. The chips fly everywhere, and the bowl lands on the floor with a dull thud.

  “Stop it,” says Ruth. But no one is listening to her.

  And then a child’s foot—it’s impossible to tell whose—kicks out and knocks the perfectly centred potted plant off the coffee table and onto the wood floor with a crash. Then the three girls break apart at last, gazing around in wonder for the source of the loud noise. A glowing-red scratch spans the width of Amelia’s chin, and Isabelle’s bottom lip is bleeding. Fern doesn’t have a mark on her.

  Marvin stands up and observes the cushions on the floor, the spilled chips and the broken pieces of ceramic mixed into the pile of dirt and helpless green leaves.

  When they were kids, Stef made so many messes at Ruth’s parents’ house over the years, and Ruth always had to tidy them up after Stef left. “We know it’s not fair, honey,” her mom and dad would tell her. “But it’s easier this way, okay?”

  If something was broken, though, they would take care of it. They’d sweep up the pieces of whatever Stef had smashed, and Ruth would stand at the front window while Stef’s parents’ car drove away. Sometimes her friend would be watching her from the back seat and Ruth wouldn’t even wave, and her parents would just keep sweeping because they didn’t want Ruth to get hurt.