John and Angela’s twenty-first wedding anniversary was in the middle of the week. In the slushy heart of January, on a Wednesday evening, they all went out for dinner and a show. Angela was worn out from work, her job was underpaying and overtaxing and just that morning she thought she had overheard a snide comment about her clothes, which had thrown her into a gentle spiral of depression regarding her waistline, which she was under the impression was expanding at an uncontrollable and frightening rate.
The restaurant they went to had just recently opened and John had had to call for a reservation nearly five weeks before. On the drive down Angela fought her growing hunger with fierce promises and no mercy, berating herself for every morsel eaten in the past week, even the ones when she knew she would have fainted had she not forced the small pieces of whole wheat toast with nothing on them down her throat. Her daughter Rebecca, eleven and unaware of anything, lay like a spider in the back seat, her hair clasped uncertainly on the back of her head, her clothing chosen for her by someone else, her mind rambling.
Two days ago Rebecca forgot her sweater at school and it had vanished by the next morning. Somewhere in the back of her mind, her small eleven your old mind, the harsh words Angela hurled at her, the sweater had cost thirty nine dollars, were filed away neatly to erupt at unforeseeable moments for the rest of her life like a boil that inconveniently reappears. For now she has forgotten completely, as has Angela. The sweater lies at the bottom of a trash bin, thrown out by a janitor, no one will ever wear it again. Rebecca is watching the drops on the car window, they move fat and sluggish despite the air flying past the metal box. The sun has been down for many hours. Twenty-one years ago it had been delightful and exciting to run away down to where it was warm to get married in a hotel with the sun outside the rented room, with everyone they knew ignorant of what was happening, with the babies mere daydreams and not real beings, taking up space and money and time and never giving anything in return, nothing nothing nothing. It had been lovely for the first few years to celebrate in the middle of winter, to hide away inside somewhere warm and escape everyone else’s misery and snow and running noses and remember the day of sand and sun and eating, and even by just holding hands they could bring it all back and laugh and laugh in the middle of the winter, they had only to close their eyes to feel the sun on each other’s hair again.
Then after a few years it became more and more troublesome, more and more incongruous with the weather outside, no longer a joy to remove oneself from the layers of ice, no longer exciting to remember the white sand beneath their toes, to compare the frozen concrete outside with the new sheets that smelled of sun and breeze and were changed every day to allow it to begin all over again. It became something upsetting, almost obscene, and one winter it boiled over and suddenly it seemed impossible to bring back the memories of the other world, the illicit joy of enjoying oneself with no witnesses. They tried their best, they tried honestly but somehow the sheets of local hotels that had none of the whiteness and potential of the other ones, the babies that had come had none of the promises of the ones they had imagined, they had only bills and problems and payments and even sex was something to be checked off the list and if it was bad sex they had failed and must try again until their teeth gritted and their bodies seemed to sweat blood and the following morning Angela was astonished to see that the sheets bore no memory of it, that they were soft and worn as always and if she bent her head down to smell them none of the distress of the night came back, only some nearly forgotten memories of the hotel that kicked her in the gut so that she tore them from the bed and forgot about it. As soon as the children were old enough to be brought along to the obligatory dinners a certain amount of ease was breathed into the meals and the paying of the bill and the driving to and from and it became a little bit easier to check off the list when they got home and some years Angela did not even change the sheets the ext morning. After about fifteen years they had both become accustomed to it, like Christmas dinner and Easter mass and other events that came once a year and, after all, lasted only twenty-four hours like any other day.
Morgan, the other daughter, fourteen nearly fifteen sat silently in the seat diagonally across from Angela. She was also staring out the window. Angela watched her from the corner of the rearview mirror. Her clothes lining her body thoughtlessly oh Angela hated to watch her, in the mornings, in the evenings, dropping the first thing she pulled out of the fridge into her mouth, walking away as though she had not just eaten cheese, rice, chicken, chocolate, butter, didn’t she know about the wrtetchedness that was food? She didn’t know how it would turn around in a few years and the shit it all was. Because nothing showed on her lithe body where flesh seemed to forget to grow and sprout and plague her days, she simply dropped the food in her mouth, sometimes she took second helpings at dinner, as though one wasn’t enough or what, as though begging to fill out or what, Angela felt the seatbelt bite into her hip and she knew, without even reaching down she could feel the flesh grossly exploding above the bones, hiding them in a blanket of something false, a lie, this was not her body, her body was not shaped like this, it was a cruel cruel joke. And then in front of her she had to endure this thoughtless girl eating anything she pleased, nobody understood, John had been flabbergasted the only time she had tried clumsily to explain why she had been bitchy and sullen at dinner, three entire rolls the girl put in her mouth, and where did they go? They simply disappeared, they vanished, while the small packet of French fries Angela had inhaled five days ago was still there, lining her gut, did he want to feel, to see, to prove they were still there, of course she could feel it, it was her own body wasn’t it? Who would know better, her or you John, fuck you John, you think I believe you? I know I know the girls you work with, more of those fucking vanishing food types, I know what you come home to, just get away, you asked me so I tried to tell you, but don’t bother, I know I know so just please fuck off John.
And then the dark was so oppressive that one or both of them kept the lights on nearly all night, pretending to read, often falling asleep upright in bed so as not to have to lie in silence without speaking, terrified of the seven inches that lay between them, that impassable gulf. Angela rolled her head onto the cold car window and watched the steam that built up around the shape of her head and felt the chill penetrate into her brain to dull all the thoughts.
Rebecca watched the cars passing them, and the cars that they passed, and thought about how hungry she was, how sleepy she was, how her hair ribbon itched her head. Her small fingernails were painted with orange polish that had chipped off over the past few days, there were only small jagged patches left in the middle of the nails. She picked at these spots while the car sped along next to the sidewalk, stopping abruptly every so often on the wet streets, her father cursing under his breath once or twice when he got too close to someone else’s bright red tail lights. Rebecca loved to ride in the car like this, all of them. Even being quiet like this wasn’t so bad, because of the night and the gliding car and the four of them all together in the small space. It smelled nice, sharp like gasoline, but soft like her mother’s perfume and her dad’s aftershave and warm with the air blowing through the vents, she liked to move the vents, to angle them so that the air blew strongly against her fingers, or to lean forward for it to blow her hair into her face. The windows were even a little steamed up it was so warm.
All their coats were lying in a big soft pile between her and Morgan, dad took his coat off before he drove, he said it was better and more comfortable, so they all did the same thing and she dropped herself sideways now, sinking into the pile. Her scarf was still wound around her neck, a soft pink color, she wrapped it around her face and lay like that, quietly, the silent noises of the other three in the car muffled and the world a light pink haze in front of her blurred eyes. Everything was soft and pink and quiet. It reminded her of the flowers on the kitchen counter, a deeper pink, a thick bunch of flowers from her father every single year, she used the same vase every time.
Rebecca counted them every year, there were always twelve. And every year her mother muttered, “only for dead people…only for dead people even numbers, for God’s sake,” but never said it quite out loud and Rebecca didn’t understand and after so many years didn’t care any more. The flowers smelled nice and Rebecca was in charge of snipping the stems every couple days to prolong their death, to create the illusion of freshness, and then to tip the rest of the packet of flower food into the pale blue water and she was in charge of deciding when they were really, truly dead and putting them in the wastebasket. She was always nice about it, she was embarrassed to say or have anyone see but she was always gentle with them, as though putting them to bed. Even if she usually forgot about them shortly after closing the wastebasket lid she was always a little sorry to have them dead, sorry to bury them beneath banana skins and coffee grinds and napkins in the bin and so she was always gentle and nice and if they were a particularly beautiful bunch she even made a little smile as she dropped them in the wastebasket, bye, see ya, bye. She blew out her breath a little to make the scarf puff up like a mole hill over her mouth and as the car cornered and stopped and started she lay quietly, smelling the smells in the car and puffing the scarf up and down.
Dinner was not such a bad affair; they had conversation and lobster. John asked three times for extra butter sauce and Angela pretended not to notice how dry hers was without. John leaned down to kiss her at one point and she tasted it like a promise on his lips and without thinking wiped her mouth to get it off the calories and thank god John did not notice but when she looked up Morgan had noticed, she had a funny look in her eye. Who the hell cared what Morgan noticed. Angela had seen her, before their food came, chewing the heavy bread coated with butter, not even thinking about it, two pieces she had, before she even ordered her meal, and then thoughtlessly dipping every single tiny piece of lobster in the dish of yellow sauce, like pus, and when it dripped off her fork she ducked her head to get every last drop, pure pure butter and look at her like a twig.
Angela cracked the lobster’s body energetically and watched the deep rose colour against the gold rim of the plate poor sucker someone had once told her lobsters mated for life, poor guy. She had tried to make them at home once, from the market early in the morning she had taken three live ones from a fishmonger who passionately plucked them out of the shallow tank and the way they had screamed when she dropped them in the pot, it had made her stomach roll the sound that came out of the silent and dumb-looking bluish-green animals, a scream like Morgan or Rebecca’s, shrill and accusing and filled with pain and she had run out of the kitchen, startled, not realizing who had made the noise and John had laughed, he had laughed in a sad way and finished cooking them and eventually eaten all three, the girls were too young to want to try it and Angela could not even look at them, their new colour like a violent blush over the dull bluish-green, like the wet slimy lips of a frozen body, the scream still resonated in her ears and John was sweet about it, but he had laughed and she never ever made them again.
The white wine was cool in her mouth, sure it was bad but what the hell what the hell and the same what the hell with the cake, her mind dissected it into layers of sugars and fats and what the hell she ate it all and half of John’s and who gave a shit perhaps too much wine without enough food but what the hell what the hell and why were those girls so silent and John still in his work clothes because he had not had time to change because he was always in a rush but what the hell so was she, so was she, she looked down at the way her skirt was tight over her thighs. What had he said? What exactly had his words been? Of course he had been talking about her, about her body. Who cared? Who gave a shit? Not her, not her Christ that dessert was good. Suddenly she was exhausted, take me back John, take me back into time and let’s forget the house we think we love I want those white sheets again naked and with promises and the sun coming through in the middle of January and I don’t want the snow and I hate this fucking wind take me back because it was so much easier to love when there wasn’t any work involved. Take me back to the beach because I hate the checklist and I don’t want it and the thought of stripping the beds when they got home before they even had the chance to fuck it up flitted through her mind like a mosquito and suddenly it seemed so funny, she saw him standing there in his boxers while she clawed at the sheets that were not white enough and never could be. In the first years that it had not come easily she had doused them in bleach to make them shine and glow like in the hotel and it never never worked John let’s go the fuck back.
John paid the bill, adding the tip carefully, glancing up at her to make sure it was enough, and then looped his arm around her waist as they filed out in between the tables of murmuring people, supporting her as she walked, not unsteadily, but just a little uncertainly. She thought about how the flesh that was not her own must feel to his arm, and the thought made her sick. As they walked he kissed her, right in front of her ear, the place she liked and oh I know, she thought, I know what you think, she saw the lines of her cheek and jaw, sagging the way she knew they did but he could be forgiven for trying, he was doing it to be nice and she pretended that she didn’t know he did it only out of duty and when he kissed her a second time in the same place she did not even get upset at him.
Morgan settled herself into the car. The seats were cold from sitting in the lot for two hours, the meal was heavy in her stomach and the glass of wine she had been allowed lulled her gently into sleep so that the cold did not seem so immediate, seemed more like the cold on the outside of the window when she awoke on winter mornings when the light outside was still growing and only a very light blue and the cold was pushing against the glass, she could feel it, she was aware of it, but hazily underneath the blankets. The sharp unfamiliar taste of the wine hid in the crevices between her teeth and on the roof of her mouth, cool and chilled and a different cold altogether from the stale air in the car. Rebecca next to her was almost asleep already and the show was beginning in twenty minutes. Her father helped her mother into the front seat, depositing her gently like the egg carton balanced on top of the stack of groceries. Angela sat down heavily and then leaned over to unlock John’s door for him and the car coughed and whined and the air came blowing through the plastic air vents, cold because the engine had to warm up.
The gray walls of the underground parking lot flew by as they cornered and cornered again and her father paid the attendant goodnaturedly and the long bar raised up and allowed them through like a huge magic wand, permitted them through to the rest of their night, waved them off. The streets were wet and shining. It had rained again while they had eaten the lobsters and cheesecake and the drops glistened on the streetlights and made the orange light glow moistly and sparkled when they hung off the side mirrors of cars and on the plastic umbrellas of people walking by. Her mother pulled the tickets out of her father’s jacket pocket and inspected them as the car drove on and on and on and the orange glow spread around them and the night was wet and everything was smooth and peaceful and Rebecca dozed and the car was silent. Her mother leaned her head back onto the headrest and closed her eyes slowly. Her golden hair, her light brown hair like honey, Morgan knew it well, falling down when she bent over the pillow to say good-night, sweeping down all at once from behind her shoulder. The smell of perfume mingled with the remains of the dinner smells on all of their mouths, coming out with their breath. Rebecca’s breath, lightly asleep, was like cotton candy, nearly invisible but sickly sweet. The car was tightly moving them through the streets, her mother opened her eyes again to stare at the drops coming off the car, flying away in the wind, tracing long wet lines on the glass.
They all shifted slightly in their seats as John eased the car in front of a red light. Angela pulled down the sun guard and looked into the tiny mirror. She reapplied her lipstick and wiped it off carefully where it had gone past the line of her lip, deep red, oh this was grown-up, Morgan thought, this was grown-up to put on dark red lipstick and not to look ridiculous the way Morgan did when she tried it on behind the locked bathroom door, but good and beautiful like her mother was. Morgan couldn’t wait for the arrival of grown-up. The light changed to a bright green, misty through the slight fog of wet air, and they moved forward. The car slid a little bit, could not straighten itself, slid more rapidly, and the car in the lane next to them swiped them delicately, they spun so gracefully in slow motion and the car coming from the opposite direction struck them so solidly that the windshield collapsed upon itself and, a few minutes later, the ambulance workers that were searching for any hearts still beating found only the car seats, the fake leather and plastic seats melted together and sprinkled with glittering pieces of glass, like fairy dust, and the whole pile of it lightly smoking, like the steam rising from a cup of coffee.
Second Place ~ Hart House Poetry Contest