The Age Read online

The doctors send them home. The boy helps the girl down the steep wooden stairs, Dr. Woo, with his shy grin, follows them with the baby. Dr. Joan and Dr. Patak bring up the rear. On the beach, the crowd cheers their slow procession.

  The baby’s arrival draws even the sick from their beds. At the bottom of the stairs, a diseased, malnourished receiving line of women manic with happiness. Their smiles betray weeping gums, absent teeth. They press rough, cankered lips against the baby’s pink, powdery skin, reach out sore-covered hands to stroke its cheek. They rub the baby’s blanket between their fingers, make wishes, pronouncements, leave behind their grimy prints.

  The men gather at the fire, swagger backlit by dusk. Guilty smiles, anxious hands, pockets full of secrets. They clap their dirty palms together, growl and hoot their approval like patrons at a strip bar.

  She’s gonna be a looker! one of them shouts.

  I saw her first! another replies.

  They all laugh.

  The boy’s rage simmers in his face. He nods it away as embarrassment.

  Settled in the cabin, the boy waits. He watches the baby feed, tiny fingers that curl at the girl’s flat breast, his child’s eager snuffle as it works for its dinner. The girl changes the handmade diaper, then rocks back and forth, sings the child to sleep, a familiar love song about vampires and the hooded claw. Outside, the beach is deserted.

  Returned to the comfort of her bed, the girl sleeps heavy, the cabin thick with her grateful snore. The boy stays awake, holds the baby when she cries, drifts like a ghost, swaddle brimming over his arms. When the baby’s lips suck at the air, he offers his pinkie. Her small legs flex, her back arches, hungry, always hungry. He kisses her forehead and whispers her name. He wakes the girl to feed her.

  Nights later, he lies stiff on the cot until the girl’s breath lapses into heavy, guttural waves. He counts to two hundred just to be sure, then rises carefully. He is surprised to find the baby awake in her padded drawer, eyes open, mouth pursed, small limbs waving. As he lifts her, she makes no sound but kicks to launch herself into his hands. He cradles her against his body, head warm in the crook of his arm.

  As the boy crosses the beach, sand pulls at his steps. The boy’s eyes struggle to adjust to the sooty night. The baby smacks her lips. He bounces her to keep her quiet. In the woods, he staggers over deadfall and vines, darkness thick and mystifying. Afraid to draw attention from the camp, he uses the small flashlight sparingly, presses it on and off, memorizes the instant picture. Once or twice, jarred by his stumbling, the baby cries out. The boy lifts his shirt, tucks the baby inside. The baby tries to suckle his rib.

  The boy comes to a place that seems far enough away, the lap of tide receding in the distance, the flicker of campfire no longer visible. He sits down on the damp forest floor, rests the baby in the cross of his legs, its shape reduced to lines in the blackness. The baby kicks it feet against the boy’s empty stomach. He takes this as a sign that the baby understands. One day there will be no mother’s milk. One day there will be no one to protect her.

  The boy’s hand searches the ground, gathers up loose twigs, tree sheddings, a rock, a branch. He feels the baby with his hands, its tiny toes, pinching fingers, small, jittery arms and legs, the wonder of its torso full of calibrated organs, the curves of its face, a clever, overlaid hologram of himself and the girl, a perfect double-print of their families. He rubs his left hand along the downy border of the baby’s hairline, then with his right hand raises the rock.

  The baby does not cry. The only sound is the boy’s own whimper as he waits for the right moment, for certainty.

  He sits until dawn, rock gripped in his aching hand, his arm slipping inch by inch, until it drags on the forest floor. The baby sleeps, eyelids twitching against the dim grey light. Nearby, branches rustle with the brush of returning men, urgent footfalls, hungry breath. From the beach, new wood crackles on the fire, women’s voices murmur, the camp rises.

  IN THE HOSPITAL, CROUCHED AT Gerry’s bedside, her mom recites the story over and over, like a prayer: she hears about the explosion on TV, breaking news without images, calls Randy to drive her downtown, to help her search. Gridlocked traffic forces them back home. As they climb out of the truck, she hears the splash, sprints for the yard. “I knew it was you. It didn’t make any sense, but I just knew,” she whispers, as if keeping a secret from the doctors and nurses who glide in and out.

  One of the nurses tells Gerry she’s the only girl in history to be born to the same woman twice, her own mother pumping her chest, breathing her back from the other side.

  It is her mom, though, who seems reborn, her anxiousness replaced with bottomless strength. Her hands in constant motion to change bandages, adjust pillows, bend plastic straws to Gerry’s mouth, massage her feet through the blankets. Gerry waits it out in silence, braces for the morning her mom wakes as her old self, begins to demand answers.

  The elderly woman in the next bed draws back her curtain so that Gerry can sit in a visitor’s chair and watch the news on the woman’s TV. Grainy video captured by a hotel security camera shows Ian walking backward, a flash of light before the screen turns to snow. Witnesses come forward and describe the anonymous figure as sinister, erratic, deranged. Gerry is stunned by how quickly and falsely the story forms: homemade bomb, disturbed young man.

  By the time she is discharged, tucked into the bed her mom has made of the living-room sofa, police have confirmed his name. The television flashes old school photos: Ian with thick glasses, feathered hair, posed with a soccer team he never played for. Watching them, she feels as if a child has died, a gouging horror that leaves her silent. At night, she fills her sleepless hours listening for his car in the street. She finds everything he’s ever given her, old 45s and cassettes, a peeled Rubik’s cube, a tattered Heinlein novel, his broken Coleco Quarterback, gathers all of it under the covers to feel it against her skin. In the dark, she tries to remember his voice, the things he said, cries as she mouths her own cruel words.

  Gerry sleeps her days away. Her mom, on leave from the lab, sits beside her on the couch, hypnotized by the news each time she watches it, face still in disbelief. She pats the blankets, brushes the backs of her fingers across Gerry’s forehead. “He didn’t tell you anything?”

  Speaking has become difficult, the threat of careless words. Monosyllables crawl over a rickety barricade. “No.”

  “Maybe something you didn’t realize at the time? Something that could help the police now?”

  She shakes her head, sinks low into the couch.

  “His poor parents. The house is all padlocked. I went to see them, but the neighbour said the day before the police came, Alice and Marty put everything into a moving truck and drove away. He said Marty was in a daze and Alice’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. They must have recognized him in that security video. Can you imagine? What a horrible way to find out.” Her mom leans down, presses her face to Gerry’s, nuzzles back and forth, whispers, “I don’t know what I’d do.”

  Her body begins to heal. Stitches in her scalp harden, scabs crust her arms and legs. Her mom helps with the stairs when she needs the bathroom or goes up to bed. Each day passes in a blur of Password Plus and Donahue, reruns of Hart to Hart. Her hand shapes to the fat rectangle of the remote. Speech is useless. What can she describe, anyway, except a catalogue of Ian, his words spliced in an endless tape that winds her back to that night at the beach, his body close. He would have stayed home. He only went to the march because of her. The possibility cinches inside her like metal wire; the slightest tug and she feels herself cut.

  Gerry ignores her mom’s questions, becomes skilled at formless sounds, infantlike murmurs. Her mom tries with sporadic success to coax words out of her. “I won’t make it until you say it.”

  “Macaroni,” she says, finally, her jaw sore with the effort.

  Randy comes over, her mom’s idea of reinforcement. He spends an afternoon beside her on the sofa. “Are you in pain?”

  “No.
”

  “Is it because of Ian?”

  “No.”

  “Are you angry at us for pulling you out?”

  “No.”

  “Are you still thinking about hurting yourself?”

  “No.”

  She wastes days of words on him. He leaves, stops to murmur to her mom in the foyer, fatigue and frustration etched in his face. Exhausted by the effort, she sleeps through suppertime to the next morning.

  Her mom’s hushed voice filters through with a sting of daylight. Beneath Gerry’s shoulder, her mattress dips, threatens to roll her away. Her mom’s hand strokes her hip through the blanket. “I invited her in, but she wanted to wait outside by the pool.”

  Half-sleep slips away, leaves her mind scoured. Her first clear thought is police, but her mom is too calm for that. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Come down and see.”

  Without opening her eyes, Gerry can picture her mom’s face, restraint drawn tight over expectation.

  “Do you need help?”

  “No.” She waits for her mom’s retreat, then pushes back the covers, begins the slow ceremony of getting dressed. She prepares for it not to be Megan. A return would be too risky. Maybe Michelle. Or a stranger carrying a cryptic message of condolence, apology. She decides to play it stubborn and cold, withhold her forgiveness. Unless it is Megan.

  She takes the stairs one at a time, shuffles past her mom, who stands in the kitchen, knife tip picking at a cellophaned package of meat as she pretends not to watch Gerry.

  Beside the pool, a woman’s back, curved as she stoops, reaches toward the water, her head low. The door sticks and squeaks as Gerry works it open. The figure stands and turns.

  Gerry hides in the shadow of the roof’s overhang. She barely recognizes Lark, legs saggy with sweatpants, an oversized bomber wrapped tight across her chest. Hair in a ragged ponytail, skin splotchy without makeup, her eyes are pin dots. She drags her deck shoe in an arc across the cement, a move that betrays her grace. “I heard you were hurt.” Her proximity to the pool’s mirrored light makes Gerry nervous.

  “Not really.”

  Arms closed around her body, Lark tightropes along the pool’s edge, swings her foot over the water. “Can you believe what they’re saying about him? Have you seen it on the news?”

  Gerry nods. The motion of her head sends a dizziness through her. She crouches to sit, holds the concrete step, roughness solid under hands.

  “You know he didn’t do it, right?” The sky’s glare breaks around Lark.

  Gerry blinks but can’t see her face, can’t work out how much she knows.

  “He wasn’t that kind of person.”

  “What kind of person?”

  “I don’t know.” Lark shrugs. “Insane?” She shifts her weight, hip cocked to the side. “He wouldn’t know anything about that kind of stuff. I mean, bombs?” Lark’s urgency makes Gerry tired. “Don’t you even care what they’re saying?”

  Gerry wonders how long Lark will stay.

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like having a boyfriend who’s always thinking about someone else?”

  “The girl I told you about, she wasn’t really–”

  “Jesus. You’re not exactly sharp, you know?” Lark shakes her head.

  Gerry lets the insult pass, relieved that Lark hasn’t come to pry about Megan.

  “He was worried about you, like all the time. It wasn’t even normal.”

  The air fills with the mechanical beat of a passing chopper. Gerry pushes at the stairs to stand, leans against the chalky brick of the house, scans the sky until she finds the glint of white, tracks it moving south.

  “My dad recognized him right away, isn’t that weird? He went through my stuff, found a letter from Ian. He gave it to the police.”

  Gerry shields her eyes, squints to see Lark more clearly. “Why? What did it say?”

  “Nothing. It was a dumb breakup letter. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, he felt so confused, he was so sorry, blah, blah, blah. The police told my dad it might be a suicide note, that it could show something premeditated.” Her face is stiff with accusation. “But you know that’s not true, right?” She steps closer.

  Gerry feels for the back door, the curve of the handle and latch, wishes for the dark of her bedroom.

  “It might not even be him on the video.” Lark’s jacket falls open to reveal a loose tanktop, lines of ribs visible above the small swells of her breasts.

  “I guess.”

  “Well, you have to stand up for him. You have to go to the police and tell them it’s just a breakup letter. You knew him better than anyone. You can’t let them make him out to be this person. If you know something–” Her hands paw at Gerry’s wrist.

  “I don’t.” Gerry tries to step back. Lark begins to cry. She slides her arms around Gerry neck, rests against her. Gerry pats Lark’s back, listens to her touch echo through Lark’s jacket, smells her unwashed hair.

  Lark pulls away, tips her head to the sky and sniffs, wipes at her eyes with stiff middle fingers. She nods at the pool. “It’s nice,” she says as she crosses back to its edge and swirls her hand in the water. “Ian and I used to sit on his garage roof and look at your mud pit.”

  Gerry tries not to listen to the watery sounds.

  “I know he was confused about a lot of stuff.” Lark stands, her feet slipping like a child’s in her loose shoes.

  “He didn’t want to break up with you.”

  Lark stops. The corners of her mouth twitch. She stares at the ground, then up at Gerry. “You never really say the right thing, you know that?” She pulls her jacket tight around her, glides away. As she reaches the gate, she turns. “The police didn’t ask about you. But I could still tell them.”

  Her mom plays at superhero, bottomless energy, steady reassurances, smiles that show just a hint of teeth. But Gerry can read her face, the slackness that comes with exhaustion, thin lines cutting down through her cheeks, fine red veins in the whites of her eyes. At night she hears her mom coughing in her bedroom.

  She wakes at night to mewling, a frightened cat at the window. Drunk with sleep and sedatives, she eases herself out of bed, feels her way to the window and opens it, but finds nothing, just the black sheet of night. The cool air sharpens her but muffles the sound. She closes the window. The mewling rises from the floor, accompanied by an urgent musical rhythm. She limps to her bedroom door and opens it. Downstairs the television blares chase music, gunfire. Tire squeals carry up to the landing. Her mom’s voice, ragged, unhinged by emotion, hides beneath the noise. “I’ve never asked you for anything. For anything. If she could just see you–” Her voice dissolves into sobs. “Well, when then? What does that even mean? Later, when? No, wait. Please. Just listen. I need your help. I’m begging you. I am begging–” The words stretch and catch, shredded and wet. Her mom slams down the receiver; a startled bell echoes from the phone. The channel changes, volume rises, the frail pitch of her crying lost in jeering laughter and applause. Gerry closes her bedroom door, climbs into the muddled covers of her bed, squeezes a pillow over her face.

  THE NURSE AT THE CARE HOME is young and tan, blond hair in cornrows, white beads rattling at her neck. She stands to keep Gerry from passing. “You’re here to see someone.” A friendly declaration accompanied by a wave that guides her back to the desk. “Resident?”

  Gerry says his name, the syllable a soft trap in her mouth.

  The nurse scans a list, makes a mark with her pencil. “He’s just in his room. I’ll have someone bring him down.” Her smile is gummy and sincere.

  Gerry waits in the hall, beside a stack of coverless magazines. The floor is clean but streaked with dark scuffmarks that make Gerry think of a person being dragged against their will.

  A different nurse wheels Clem over. He wears stripped pyjamas and a hunter green robe. He sits stiff in his seat, larger, rounder at the edges. His tremor has worsened. His lips work as if he is trying to loosen something from his teeth.


  Gerry follows them into the lounge. Except for a few residents up front, the room is empty. She asks about other visitors. The nurse shrugs. “I’m not here every day. Besides, honestly? He wouldn’t remember.” Gerry nods, feels herself blush, embarrassed that what she is really asking about is Megan. The nurse parks the wheelchair, kicks at the brake with her white clog. “There you go.”

  Gerry kneels beside the chair. The nurse has left Clem turned away from the TVs, and he cranes awkwardly over his shoulder, strains to see the screens. His face is fleshier, softened to curves.

  “Clem.” She watches his eyes for a glint of recognition, his name, her voice. He rocks against the resisting chair. She strokes his hand, the skin cool and dry. He grabs at her fingers, clutches them hard, quivering with the effort. The pain skips her flesh and goes straight to the bone, his fingers like wooden clamps. Tired of contorting, his body sinks. As his head turns, he glimpses her, flinches. She worries her bruises will upset him and thinks about turning away.

  His hand rises, hovers in front of her. His fingers graze the stitches in her forehead. “Did I do that?”

  “No.” She settles his hand in his lap. His thigh’s loose muscle shakes beneath the thin fabric of his pyjamas. The nurses have brushed his hair forward, and she tries to fix it with her fingers, back, the way he likes it.

  He grips her arm tight, his eyes rimmed in red. His cheeks and lips shiver, like a child about to cry. “Forgive me,” he says, his voice a desperate order.

  She searches his face for a flicker of awareness. His eyes water, vacant and worried, his offence either long forgotten or falsely imagined. She could torture him, goad with a few words to make him cower or cry, punish him for the wrongs of every father. Her own wounds driving her to hurt. The reflex fills her with shame. “I forgive you.”

  He stares at her for a while, until a phone ringing on one of the TVs spurs him to swivel in his seat. She stands and pops the wheel break with her sneaker. Turns him so he can watch the screens as she combs his hair.