Her whole body is suddenly cold. Tingling. Either her heart has stopped or else it's beating so fast that it only appears to be. She longs for breath but can't draw any, wants to move but doesn't think she can. Friday? He really didn't say that, did he? Friday? As in the one coming? Not the one after? Or the one after that?
This Friday
! She's only imagined that he's said the word, she thinks. Of all the days and the weeks and the months how can he choose
this
Friday?
This goddamn
Friday
!
“What's wrong?” he says.
She's still not able to speak.
“What?”
She shakes her head. It's all she's able to do.
“You don't want to go?”
She's thinking of the right words now, the right phrases that will convince him to stay â to pick another weekend.
“Say something â ”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, I don't want to go.”
Silence.
“I try to plan something nice and you go and ruin it.” He says it softly, his face so close that the heat from his breath warms her nose. “Selfish bitch.”
Tell him you're sorry. Quick. Quick
! “I'm â ”
“You're going,” he says, the hand that was placed lovingly on her belly earlier now clamped around her upper arm, “supposing I have to drag you.”
Drag me
. Wouldn't be the first time, she thinks.
Dragged
across the floor,
dragged
out of the car,
dragged
down the basement steps.
Dragged
,
dragged
,
dragged
. Sometimes she wonders what need she has for legs.
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay, what?”
“I'll go.”
His grip loosens, but he doesn't let go. “Terry can manage without you, I suspect. Not rocket science is it, checking in groceries?”
She has no control over anything, she realizes. What point then in this mind, in this body, when she's shackled to him? Led around like some pet. Move too far off course and that familiar yanking at the neck. No breath.
Let's go somewhere
. Three little words. Friday's plan ruined.
He lets go of her arm. Lies again on his back. “It'll be fun.”
“Yes,” she says.
“We'll see some live music.”
“Okay.”
“Eat seafood.”
“Yum.”
* * *
HE'S ASLEEP IN MINUTES. She listens, then slides out of bed. Slips on her robe and leaves the room. For the first time in ages she doesn't stop at Jeremy or Lynette's door.
She sits down at the kitchen table. Nothing but blackness around her. No boiled milk tonight. She doesn't care about sleep now. If she ever does again. It feels like somebody reaching inside her suddenly and hauling something out. She's not expecting the sound she makes and tries her best to stifle it by burying her face into the sleeve of her robe, biting down hard on the thick cotton. She gets up and moves to the porch, pushing open the door and walking out onto the deck.
Still warm, the air. Spring. Time for new, but she feels so old. An ancient woman inside a withered body.
She sits in one of the deck chairs. Wipes her eyes and nose with her sleeve. Spits out over the railing. A dog barks. A man's voice tells it to shut up. The dog barks again.
Change the reservations, she thinks. Call the airline and pay the difference. Hardly enough money downstairs to do that, but what choice does she have?
Next Wednesday. They'll go next Wednesday. What's one more week?
She leans back over the railing again, feeling as if she might be sick. Coughs but nothing comes up.
She sits back.
The light in the kitchen goes on. Then the porch door opens and Kent is there with Lynette in his arms. Lynette wipes sleep from her eyes. Hair everywhere. Her stuffed giraffe in her other hand.
“I heard you coughing?” Kent says.
“A tickle in my throat.”
“It's late, come back to bed.”
She gets up, walks toward them. Kisses Lynette's flushed cheek. “Sorry to wake you, my darling,” she says.
She follows Kent through the kitchen and down the hall to Lynette's room. Waits at the doorway for him to tuck her in. Kent rejoins her, taking hold of her hand. They walk in silence to their bedroom.
THE WINDOW. GO TO IT, SHE THINKS. She rises, slides her feet into her slippers and goes over. Once there she suddenly becomes afraid. Of what, she wonders? Her hand is shaking as she inserts it into a slat of the blinds. A deep breath then before she peeks through. There's a car blocking their driveway, the engine running, exhaust coming from its muffler, but no headlights. Someone's behind the steering wheel, just sitting there in the dark. Who?
“Kent,” she says, “come look.”
He doesn't say anything.
“Come and look Kent,” she says again.
When he still doesn't answer, she turns to him.
He's not there.
Dry mouth and a thick tongue now. Fast heart. “Kent?” She looks from left to right. “Kent?” Moves to the bed just to be sure. Pats down the comforter even though she knows he's no longer underneath.
A slamming door makes her jump back. A palm over her heart. The other over her mouth. “Kent?”
She goes back to the window. Sees him. He's running across the lawn in bare feet and boxer shorts. No shirt. There's something in his hand. The driver's side door pops open. It's the recently polished shoes she notices first, then the slacks, then the body: stubby torso, short arms, and thick neck.
Jesus
. Terry. It's Terry. She screams in a pitch that she's never screamed in before, but there's no sound, just the feeling of her jaw nearly unhinging, the muscles in her cheeks cramping. She tries to let go of the blinds but can't; tries to turn around but her body is frozen. Terry's out of the car now, standing beside the open door. The interior lights are on. She sees the two furry dice jangling from the rear-view mirror. Kent's not stopping; he's running faster if anything. Oh my God! It's a knife. He's running with a knife. Her sharpest one too. The one she uses to debone fish, to slice through cabbage and turnip. Kent's so close now. The knife raised above his head like a hunter. Why is Terry just standing there?
Raise
your hands!
she'd shout if she could
. Defend yourself!
She presses both palms against the glass as the knife goes deep into Terry's chest. Him not making a sound, the force of the stab sending him backwards against the car, knocking the door shut. He falls. Kent bends over him and pulls out the knife, its blade darkened with blood, and then draws it back, thrusting it in again and again â into Terry's chest, face, legs. Terry as calm as anything the whole time. The children. They're there now, feet away, staring at their father. Finally her voice is back. She screams.
Kent's holding her by the upper arms, his face inches away from her own. He's shaking her. “Wake up. Wake up.”
She's trembling.
“You're having a bad dream.”
“Terry,” she says, half in the waking world and half out.
Kent is still shaking her. “Who?”
“Leave him alone,” she mutters.
“What? Leave who alone?”
She's drenched. Finally she's able to open her eyes. Looks right at him.
“You were whimpering,” he says, letting go of her arms and sitting back.
“Was I?”
“And clawing at the sheets.”
She breathes in and out. In and out. Is there any way to slow her heart? Completely awake now. A dream â no, a nightmare. The worst she's had in a long time. What else might she have said out loud that she's unaware of?
“What was it about?”
She sits up. Wipes the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “What?”
“The dream.”
“It's gone.”
“As quick as that?”
“You know I rarely remember.”
He's staring right at her â through her, almost.
Last night comes back to her then. Ruined. Everything ruined. St. John's this Friday instead of Vancouver. Just him and her. She imagines all of the acting she'll have to do to convince him that she's having the time of her life: holding hands while they walk the waterfront, touching wineglasses before each sip, wrinkled sheets and pillows askew because of all the fucking he'll feel entitled to.
“Terry from the grocery store?” he says finally.
“What?”
“Your dream. Was it about him?”
“I don't remember.”
“You said his name.”
“Did I?”
His eyes likely to burn holes through her skin.
“If I did, I don't remember.”
He sits there looking at her for a long time. Then he says, “Well, it didn't sound like much fun.”
All she can think about is that knife going in and out. Terry's blood all over the blade.
Kent's already dressed. Navy button-up shirt and matching dress pants. Hair gelled back, and the wound above his eye nearly already healed. After a moment, he reaches out and places his palm on her forehead. “Your fever from yesterday's broken.”
It's true: she feels less hot, and the swollen throat is not so swollen anymore. Just a dull throbbing at her temples instead of those imaginary thumbs pressing into each. The fatigue's still hanging on though, enough to make her want to lie back down, pull the sheets over her head, and go back to sleep. Sometimes sleep is the only thing she looks forward to.
He moves closer and kisses her forehead. His lips, like the rest of him, are boiling. It's one reason she has to move to the edge of the bed each night. He's like a furnace.
He gets to his feet. “Can you make us hotel reservations today? I'll leave my Visa on the kitchen table.”
Hotel reservations, she thinks, and the rest of the town out of work.
He moves to the door. Turns back once there. “And don't be stingy, okay. Nothing but the best for my Emily.” He smiles. “You're not going to want to come back.”
She listens to his walk down the hall, him opening and closing the front door, the truck's engine revving, crunching gravel, and those horn blasts. Always those horn blasts. Waking everyone on the street, no doubt.
She manages to get up. One hundred and ten pounds if she's lucky, but feeling more like two hundred. The pads of her feet are tender. Her right knee cracks with every step. She doesn't bother with her robe or slippers, just walks out in her nightgown to the kitchen.
She sees it lying there, his Visa with the mystery limit. Five thousand? Ten? Twenty-five? How would she know?
Take it
, she thinks.
Book
new flights and leave this afternoon
.
Save the money in the sock for Vancouver.
She'll need that and more besides, she knows.
She picks the Visa up, runs her forefinger along the card number like a blind person reading Braille. Goes over to the phone. Picks it up. But he'll track the purchase and find her
,
she realizes
.
Easy as that. He isn't supposed to find her.
She flings the card across the kitchen. Slams the phone back onto its cradle. Steadies her faltering balance by placing her palms flat down on the countertop.
She's losing. Deflating almost. What little there is left inside her is being suctioned out like blood into the body of a needle. How much more can she take?
“Just one more week,” she whispers to herself. She lets her head fall against her chest, then breathes out slowly.
One more.
But she can't wait another week, day, hour, minute, or goddamn second. The waiting is over. There's just
leaving
on her mind now. Body turned towards the west and her mind already forgetting.
She walks across the kitchen and picks the card up off the floor.
Make new reservations and he'll find me.
Probably be on Jackie's doorstep before the end of the week. No getting away then. Ever.
But Vancouver's a big place though. Isn't it? People must be able to disappear if they want to. Maybe she can too. Cut her hair and change her name. Become someone else. She hasn't been herself in a long time anyway.
She goes back over to the phone. Puts the receiver to her ear and punches in some numbers.
Make the reservation
,
then get lost. Anyone can
in Vancouver
.
Just one ring before the call is picked up.
“Bell directory assistance,” the female voice on the other end says. “For English, say English â”
“English,” Emily says.
“For what city?”
She hesitates a moment, then says, “St. John's.”
“Do you want a residential number?”
“No.”
“For what name?”
“The Battery Hotel.”
“One moment please.”
Emily waits and then takes down the number.
SHE WIPES THE STEAM FROM THE MIRROR, then stands there looking at herself. The near-scalding water she'd used in the shower has turned her flesh pink, giving her face a healthy glow. She runs a comb through her hair and then afterwards runs a few fingers along her pronounced cheekbones. She imagines detailed ribs too, beneath the towel she's wrapped around herself. Amazing what stress can do, she thinks.
Her towel slips off, but she doesn't reach out to grab it, letting it fall to the floor. Not that long ago, she knows, her fuller breasts would have kept it in place.
The hotel room she's booked is facing the Narrows of St. John's harbour. Almost five hundred dollars for four nights. That's almost as much money as she makes in two weeks at the grocery store. Valedictorian of her high school graduation class to work for ten dollars an hour. She knows what they think â those still left, those who come back from time to time to visit aging parents. She sees it when she hands them their receipts, the way their eyes stay on her longer than necessary, as if searching for the right words to let her know that there's no shame in doing what she does. She can hear it in their voices. In Jackie's voice even. Her old teachers are the worst: downcast eyes and awkward small talk as they trip over her unfulfilled potential.