So Much Love Page 6

  She always showers after work before getting into bed even though Grey says he doesn’t care. Would she be so precious if she was only sleeping in two-hour shifts between breastfeedings? It’s impossible to imagine. She texts, “Sleeping at moms” to Grey. She hopes he won’t be annoyed—he was probably waiting up. “I love you,” she adds and shuts off her phone before he can reply.

  Lying on her mother’s ancient red-corduroy-upholstered sofa, she’s reminded of how much she loves her bed, hers and Grey’s, a queen with a stormy blue duvet and a clutch of pillows at the head. It makes her homesick to think of the dark wood headboard, the low nightstands—nothing in the room is expensive but it’s all theirs, picked out, purchased, and placed exactly as they decided. But a baby, a baby would challenge that precision: shrieks and wails, fingerprints and stair gates. Crayon on the walls, spit-up on the carpet. A baby would be permanent. Grey is ready for that, has been ready for a while, probably—he loves their domesticity, calls her his family. Usually their ten-year age difference doesn’t matter, but here it might. When he talked about that possible child he seemed so confident, so grown-up, and she can’t imagine feeling that way herself.

  It’s after midnight when she dips into her bag and pulls out the poetry book by the writer whose boyfriend was cruel, who died young and left behind no babies, only poems. She flicks the book open at random to find a poem about a bus, then one about a cat: Archie, fur fanned over the edge of a cushion, eyes drooped low. Would writing a poem be like having a baby? Would having a cat be like having a baby? Her imagination won’t take her that far. She’s too tired to read, so she flips on the TV, but the news has yet another story about poor Donny—an interview with his mother this time, with her rumpled blouse and heartfelt pleas. Maybe a poem is not like a baby because once you write one, it can never really be taken away. Eventually Catherine falls asleep clutching the book to her chest, thinking of that boy still missing, of the parents who dream of him.

  There is something wrong with the car and now Catherine is going to be late for her dinner shift. Grey has been “working from home” today, which is usually just code for making caramel corn and playing video games. He does this a few times a year—no one seems to mind. Except today he hasn’t been doing those things. Instead, he has been trailing her around the house all day, pausing in the doorway while she showers, sitting in the living room without a book while she reads. She keeps wandering over to give him a kiss or touch his hair as she walks in or out of a room, but he just cocks his head as if listening to her, though she hasn’t spoken. Then he offered to drive her to work, even though the weekday buses aren’t bad.

  Catherine is still putting on her boots when Grey comes back in and announces that the car won’t start.

  “Oh.” It’s too late for her to take the bus—they’ve cut it too close. “Well, I guess I’ll call a cab.”

  They wind up standing on the front lawn in chilled silence until an angular purple car slows down in front of the neighbour’s house, briefly stops, then pulls up toward them.

  Grey says, “Cabs never look like I think they’re going to.”

  “You watch too many movies set in New York.” She leans into his parka and kisses his cheek, then walks toward the taxi. When she opens the door, her elbow brushes his arm. “What?”

  “I thought I’d come. For the ride.”

  She glances at him, then gets in, bumping her bum across to the far side. She gives the address to the bored driver as Grey bustles in, his parka rasping against the seat.

  The cab backs too fast down the drive, wobbling in the rutted snow.

  “You’re being weird.”

  “What?”

  “You’re gonna have to get a bus back, then call CAA and deal with the car. It’ll take all night, if you want to drive to work in the morning.” She is staring at the taxi driver’s identification on the back of the headrest. His name is John Lloyd, which surprises her, but then again, this is Iria. She has watched too many movies set in New York too.

  “It’ll be done before you get home anyway. Not your problem.”

  “True. But… ”

  “Look, if you’re freaking out about the baby, I just wanted to tell you to forget it. Or put it on hold. Whatever. I’m not pressuring you.”

  When she faces him, his gaze locks onto hers instantly. The cab swings around a curve and she leans into the fluff of his parka. The baby. With the definite article, as if it already exists somewhere, only waiting for her permission to come out of hiding.

  “I’m a lot younger than you.”

  “I know, Cat. I haven’t noticed it makes a difference.” He taps her knee, just a brief press of fingertips.

  “But marriage is more, more than what I had before. I added you to my life, but I kept on going to school and working and seeing people. You became a part of all that, and didn’t take anything away. But a baby—”

  “You’d still have me, you’d still have your life. I wouldn’t expect you to quit school or anything. The baby wouldn’t be only your thing.”

  “Of course, but would I be able to work and study even if I had time? I don’t know if I could focus on anything else if there was a baby. It might take too much of my brain or—I don’t know.”

  She’s thinking of all the times she babysat the Saunders’ kid in high school. She could never believe a baby—only a few months old when she started sitting for him, not even twenty pounds of formless flesh—could keep breathing, maintain a heartbeat, even just exist with any reliability. So while he slept she’d creep into his bedroom and put her hand on his sleepered back and wait for the upbreath, the tiny expand. She did that every time she babysat him, a couple times a month for years, until he was a running, laughing child. She believed it kept him safe. The nights she’d try to stay downstairs with her homework and the cast of Friends, all she could see was tragedy—Mrs. Saunders sprinting down the stairs tear-streaked, shouting, “How could you let him just lie there?” The 911 call, the ambulance, the slow dark silence once everyone had gone away. How could a parent ever trust that disaster wasn’t coming in the next beat?

  How could Donny Zimmerman’s parents have known—or Julianna’s? That they would have these lovely children, perfect human beings—and then they’d be gone. But also, how could they not? Having a child was too much risk, too much wagered on a single, frail vulnerable body. How could they survive the loss?

  Grey has turned away to tug on his hood, but he’s talking, little dribbles of thought escaping from his mouth. “Wouldn’t it be interesting, though, an amalgam of you and me? I wonder what it would look like. But it doesn’t have to happen, there’s lots of ways to live a good life. We could travel, see a place other than Iria. Would you like to see Europe?”

  “We’re here.” She leans into his face, not a kiss, just a press of cheek on jaw. “I love you.” She cuddles into the grit of his stubble; she wants to stay in the cab.

  He tries to pull back, murmuring, “I love you too. You’re the whole point.”

  She keeps her arms locked until the cab driver shifts and says, “That will be $12.85.” He has no accent and his name is John Lloyd, but somehow Catherine still feels he is from a faraway place.

  Two nights later, and two days before the worst thing to ever happen to Catherine happens, she and Grey go to a dinner party at her mother’s place. Sue has also invited her next-door neighbour Dayvid, her friend Seva from work, and Catherine’s cousin Polly.

  Since she has Grey with her and they have brought a cake, Catherine comes into her mother’s building through the door. Once in the apartment, she takes her boots off by stepping on the heels and marches directly to the kitchen to set down her cake. It is frosted and elegant, and as she walked across the lumpy, unshovelled sidewalk from the bus stop, she was worried about ruining all her efforts. They took the bus so they can get drunk. “Well, not too drunk,” Grey had told her, digging in the change box for bus fare. “It is your mother’s house.” Catherine nodded. �
��Maybe just pleasantly buzzed.”

  Catherine lifts the edge of the box and peers inside. The scrolls of chocolate frosting don’t seem to be blurred. She lets the lid fall shut. “Hey, Mom, I made you this cake,” she calls over her shoulder. Now it’s no longer her responsibility.

  “I’m right here, don’t yell.”

  Catherine hugs her mom.

  “You’re still in your coat?”

  She shrugs and starts unzipping. “I was worried about the cake.”

  “You worry too much. It’s just a cake.”

  “I know.” Catherine lets her arms go slack so that her coat slides off, then catches it and drapes it over a kitchen chair. “But it’s a really nice cake. Took me forever to do all the roses.”

  Sue nods, watching Grey approach from the hall. “Hello, son-in-law.”

  They embrace, then Grey glances behind her at the cake box. “Was it okay?”

  Something bubbles menacingly on the stove and Sue steps toward it, shaking her head. “You two.”

  The evening is long and comfortable. There’s something about having the two people who love her best in the same room that makes Catherine feel invincible. Indeed, there aren’t any jokes she makes that night that the group doesn’t laugh uproariously at.

  “This is the best cake I have ever eaten,” says Seva with her fork in her mouth and a smear of chocolate on the back of her right hand.

  “It is very good,” Sue says, even though her own piece is less than a third eaten. “Worth all that trouble after all.”

  Dayvid grins. He is an older single guy, stooped and beaming. “A toast to the baker!” He raises his coffee cup.

  “But she’s not just a baker, she’s a scholar too,” says Sue, gesturing with her wineglass. “She is writing an essay on a famous poet and how she was murdered.”

  “Well, it’s not really about the murder, just the poetry, mainly… ”

  Dayvid is gazing at her with his cup still in the air.

  “Thanks, you guys.” Catherine air toasts, drinks, feels Grey’s hand squeeze her thigh.

  Swallowing zestfully, Dayvid sets his cup down and regards the table at large. “What’s this about a murder? In Iria?”

  Seva nods jerkily. “Oh, you must remember—that young poet. She wrote a poem that got in the newspaper, years ago. It was about Iria in summertime, something about when the sailboats flutter onto the lake.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot about that one.” Sue reaches carefully for the teapot, glancing into everyone’s cups to see who needs more. “They put it on some monument, didn’t they? At the harbour?”

  “And she was murdered?” Dayvid seems oddly delighted by the story.

  Catherine shrugs. “That was later, and it happened out west, after she moved away. But I’m just writing about her poems, how she chose what to write about, how she elevated these humdrum subjects with such beautiful language.”

  Dayvid leans toward her. “And so do you write poetry too, or just write about it?”

  “Oh, no, just about.”

  “Well, you used to write poems. In high school.” Her mother is finally finishing up her piece of cake. Everyone else is on seconds.

  “You did?” Grey dips his head into the space below Catherine’s face. “How could I not know this? I thought I knew everything about you. A poet, really?”

  Catherine can feel warmth creeping up her neck and into her face. She’s trying to recall the actual poems. Some of them were about silent lovers and 9/11 and other things she knew nothing about. But there was one about a hug a friend gave her before moving to New Brunswick, a sestina about the way the lake changed colour through the course of a day. She really doesn’t remember much—for the past ten years, what she wanted to do was read, not write.

  “Everybody’s something in high school. You’re not a diplomat because you were in model UN one semester, are you?”

  Grey jerks back from her and grins with too many teeth. “Of course, I know what you mean.” He reaches across the table for the nearly demolished cake.

  Conversation shifts to books and what everyone means to read soon and good movies and the pleasures of bad movies, the still-troubling story of that still-missing boy. Polly is scooching awkwardly around the tiny dining room to get back to her seat after going to the bathroom, but she catches Catherine’s mention of Donny Zimmerman.

  “Oh, that poor young man.” She finally drops into her chair. “His parents go to my church. We pray for them constantly, but I don’t know what to think. I fear they are losing hope.”

  Dayvid shakes his head slowly. “How awful. Do you know them well?”

  “No, not well, but we’re a close church community so it impacts us all. We raised close to $90 at the bake sale to help them with the posters, and our sister church put some up in Toronto, even though he wasn’t the sort of boy to run away.”

  Sue pats Polly’s hand gently and gestures at the teapot until she nods. Standing to pour, Sue says, “I can’t imagine. Let me know when the next sale is, Pol—I’ll help, or at least come buy a few things.”

  Dayvid looks toward Catherine again. “You should donate one of your marvellous cakes. You’re a great baker.”

  Catherine shrugs. “Not really. Anyone could have made a great cake with that much chocolate and butter and sugar.”

  It’s a fun party, by any standard, but Grey and Catherine don’t stay too late or get too drunk. Even though it’s freezing, the walk to the bus feels so easy because Catherine no longer has to carry the cake. She puts her hand into Grey’s instead.

  When they are almost at the bus stop she slips on a slick of ice hidden under snow. Her heart clenches—she’s tipsy enough to slip but not tipsy enough not to mind falling—and she lets out something close to a shriek. She only falls to a forty-five-degree angle before Grey catches her. She lies limp in his arms a moment, then scrambles up, and curls into his chest until her breath calms.

  “I’m sorry I screamed. Do you think anyone heard?”

  Grey laughs. “You mean your mom? Probably not, we’re half a block away. I’m probably the only one that heard you.”

  “Well, you were the target audience.” She pulls back and they walk on, holding hands again.

  “You could write a poem. If you wanted to.”

  “I could write a poem. I could have a baby. I could do a lot of things.” She shrugs, pulling up their linked hands.

  “Do you believe that?” He is trying to look into her face again.

  She keeps her eyes fixed on the street ahead, watching for the bus. “No. But I could probably do that too. Self-confidence is a learned strength.” She can see a purple light through the trees at the edge of the parking lot. The bus is coming.

  “Sure. You got time. We do. There’s lots of time for everything.”

  “We should have a baby.” It’s terrifying to say it aloud. “I’m scared, though.”

  Grey grins, stares off at the purple light, then gazes back to her. “I don’t think they let people who aren’t scared have babies—too cocky. All sane people are scared of something that big.”

  The night is bright and clear; they are young and alive. Young enough. The bus is almost at the stop. She tugs his hand. “Let’s run.”

  Castle

  Obviously the lawn has to be mowed. That’s the sort of thing that would be an important, neighbourhood-building, property-values deal in town, especially in the south end down toward the lake. But even out here, with the big gaps between the houses and the road ending in an electrical field, you can’t be too careful. Certain things you can get away with at the outer edge of the suburbs: clotheslines full of flapping Jockey shorts, a rusty dented gate hanging askew, maybe even parking on the lawn, but you should still be thinking it all through, every decision you make. You have to watch yourself; everyone else sure is watching you.

  It’s hot and there’s not much shade, and you only have a push mower over all those acres. At least it’s gas-powered; an electrical cord would
n’t reach a third of the yard and imagine trying to do all this without even a little momentum. It’s still a good bit of work. There’s kids on the road with flyers they stick in the mailbox, asking if you want your lawn done. They’d do it too—nothing is too hard to stand between a kid and $20. But nothing says they’d do a good job—you can imagine the jagged lines, a smoke break in the back, maybe a little rummage in the shed. A man’s house is his castle, and you don’t want anyone to start feeling they can wander around the property with impunity.

  —

  The surprising thing is that people out here think of themselves as living in a town. Of course, everyone lives somewhere, according to the post office, but when the real estate lady first drove you out late last fall, those long loops of telephone wires over the empty green fields seemed to say Alone. Even the mailman wouldn’t be coming to your house—all you’ve got is a pick-up mailbox on the gravel shoulder of a road with half a dozen houses sprawled out among the fields and stands of trees.

  But a place like this, even if you can’t see your neighbours, they can see you. A couple weeks after moving in, just before the holidays, before you’d come close to feeling safe and comfortable, some hayseed came up to you in the IGA and said over the “Frosty the Snowman” Muzak: “I see you bought the old Svenson place.” Before you could ask how the hell he knew that, he added, “Seen you shovelling the drive. Don’t envy that work, no, but it’s a nice spot you got. Svensons kept it up good.”

  You just have to shrug, and maybe even say something funny about Frosty, but you sure do take note. A man’s home is his castle and if it’s under surveillance, that is certainly an act of enemy aggression. You have to get your angry face under control because when he sticks out his hand and says, “Steve Ossington, but people call me Steve-O,” you’re going to clasp his palm and say, “Dex.” Even that’s a gift, even that will cost you something, but it’s like an investment. It’s strange, how you’ve got to build relationships just to be left alone.