Miriam Toews - Irma Voth

No, thanks, I said. I smiled. I put my clothes on.

I told you that I was dying, he said.

Is that a secret? I asked him.

Well, mostly, he said. Around here it is.

Okay, I said. Well, I used to have another sister.

The one who refereed your hockey games? he said. What happened to her?

Yes, her. She died, I said. In Canada. That’s why we moved here.

How did she die? he said.

I don’t know, I said. Nobody would tell me.

Are you sure she’s dead? he said.

Well, yeah, I said. Otherwise, where would she be?

How old was she?

Sixteen, I said.

Did she look like you? he said.

She was far prettier, I said. And braver. I had this dream about her a while ago. I dreamt that I was in a van with a bunch of people, I didn’t know who they were, and we were driving along the highway in Canada, in Manitoba, and we noticed that there was some kind of fair going on along the side of the road with different food stands and games and some rides and all that stuff so we stopped to check it out and we were walking around and a little bit beyond where everything was going on there were a few chairs so I walked over there because I felt like sitting down and then there was Katie, that’s my sister, sitting in one of those chairs and she was a fortune teller! I was so happy to see her. She was happy to see me too. I had this date square in my hand, my mom calls it a matrimonial square, which was her favourite dessert, so I gave it to her and asked her how she was doing and she said great and that if I wanted she could read my palms. So I put my hands out for her to read and she held them and then she smiled and she looked up at me and that was the end of the dream.

Wilson took my hand. That’s a good dream, he said. Jung would say it was positive, I’m pretty sure.

But that still doesn’t mean that she’s not dead, I said.

That’s true, he said. Have you heard of the song of Nezahualcoyotl?

No, I said. I was thinking about Marijke. I was thinking about how she had asked me if I knew what the four-part cure was but said not to worry if I didn’t because not worrying was part of the cure.

With flowers You write, said Wilson,

O giver of Life,

With songs You give colour,

with songs You shade

those who must live on the earth.

Later you will destroy eagles and ocelots;

we live only in Your book of paintings,

here, on the earth.

Can you say that again? I asked Wilson. I got him to say it five or six times until I had memorized it and could say it along with him in my head. We didn’t hold hands when we walked back to the house but we had exchanged secrets.

The living room was empty except for Aggie and Miguel who had fallen asleep and toppled over in tandem, arms still locked around their knees, mouths open.

Who is that? whispered Wilson, pointing at Aggie.

My sister, I said.

She’s alive! he said.

It’s a different one, I said.

I touched Aggie’s arm and told her that we had to go, we needed to do the milking, but she didn’t move and she didn’t open her eyes.

Ag, I know you’re faking, I said. C’mon. You have to go home.

Miguel woke up and cleared his throat loudly and blinked and focused and stretched out his legs and high-fived Wilson and said you’re back. Qué tal? He got up and gave both of us a hug.

Está bien, said Wilson. He smiled and rubbed Miguel’s head.

Aggie, I said. Get up. Now. You have to go.

I drugged her, like Roman Polanski, said Miguel, in slangy Spanish he thought I wouldn’t understand.

Only way you’d ever get a girl, said Wilson.

At least I’m into girls, said Miguel.

Your sister doesn’t count, said Wilson.

Aggie opened her eyes. We actually understand that, she said. Me and Irma.

Shit, sorry, said Wilson. Say sorry, asshole, he said to Miguel.

Yeah, sorry, said Miguel. We were just kidding around. Your Spanish is not very bad.

Aggie, I mean it, let’s go already, I said. Get up. I pulled her arm and she yanked it back and nestled into the couch.

Why can’t she just sleep here? said Miguel. She can use my blanket and pillow. Hang on.

No, she can’t, I said. Miguel had rushed off to get his bedding. Wilson said he was going to get a beer, did I want one?

C’mon, Aggie, I said. Stop fooling around, okay? We have to go.

I told you I’m not going back, she said.

Yes, you are, I said.

I’ll have a beer, please, she told Wilson. She asked for a pint but mistakenly rhymed it with mint .

What does she want? said Wilson.

Aggie, I said. Seriously. You have to go. I grabbed her arm this time and pulled her halfway off the couch.

Why are you so mad? said Aggie. Leave me alone. Let go of me.

I let go of her arm and she rearranged herself on the couch. I sat down next to her and stared straight ahead. I breathed deeply. I spoke to her in Low German. I made a promise.

She was quiet for a few seconds and then got up and said good night to Wilson and Miguel and foul Oveja, who had been let in for the night, and I followed her out the door and watched her walk down the road towards home, hers, and the bright yard light, and her own bed, and our parents, and I stood there for a long time because I didn’t know where else to go. I stood there long enough to feel the chill of the night. The sky was a blanket of stars. Indifferent. I repeated the ancient song of Nezahualcoytl. I stood there long enough to hear my family singing. Why were they singing at two in the morning? I heard the high, creaky voice of my mother and the off-key but persistent voices of my little brothers.

Gott ist die liebe

Lest nich erlosen

Gott ist die liebe

Er liebt auch dich.

They sang another verse and I listened. And one more verse and I listened to that too. And then, finally, I realized what was missing, which were the voices of my dad and Aggie, and I wondered why they weren’t singing and then I knew and I ran to the house. My mother was wiping tears from her face and my little brothers were pale and stricken. They were sitting at the table holding hands and singing hard with the same energy you need to clear a field of rocks.

Where is she? I said. My mom pointed to the back of the house, towards the summer kitchen, and I ran over there and broke the flimsy hook and eye and ripped the screen door off its feeble hinge and told my father to stop hitting her, he was whipping her with a belt, and Aggie to come with me right then. Right then. My father and I looked at each other. His eyes were wild with fear and despair and he began to cry and he asked me to forgive him. He begged me to forgive him.

Gott ist die liebe

Lest nich erlosen

Gott ist die liebe

Er liebt auch dich.

That’s a lie. My father hadn’t said anything. But it’s true that we looked hard at each other, briefly. I saw his eyes. I remembered Diego’s words. I want her eyes to harm me, he had said when we met for the first time. I want her to be too big for her body, a living secret, squeezed out through here, here, and especially here.

AGGIE AND I WALKED FOR A FEW HOURS, all the way to San Juan, a tiny village a few miles away. We didn’t walk right into the town, that would have caused more problems, but to the frayed edge of it. It was still very dark, the village was silent, but we wanted to see the small, twitchy boy who’d built himself a very high unicycle and had to come up with ingenious ways of getting on and off it. We didn’t see him. We hadn’t seen him in years actually but we thought that life was messed up enough that night that it could happen. And then back to my place. When we got there Aggie asked me to remind her of the cold in Canada. How parts of your body go numb and all you can do is keep moving or you will definitely die.