Théodora Armstrong: Clear Skies, No Wind, 100% Visibility

“A police officer,” Mom says, pulling the lid out of the can.

“About the girl?”

“About the girl.”

We stand in the kitchen listening to the clock while Mom stirs soup, swaying from side to side like she’s listening to the radio. “Matt had a friend over today,” I say.

“Did he?” She stops swaying and looks up at the ceiling.

“And the girl’s dad came here.”

“Really?” She turns to give me a look that says, I know there’s more to this story . A crinkle, like a little worm, forms in the middle of her forehead.

“But I didn’t let him in.”

“Why not?” she says. She’s not looking at me, but I can tell she’s listening carefully because she tilts her head in my direction.

“You told me not to.”

“I said strangers.”

“He’s a stranger.”

“Well.” She scrapes the inside of the empty can. “Well, well.” It’s something she says when she runs out of words. She twists her hair again, this time in a knot on top of her head. “Have people been saying anything to you?”

“Who?”

She looks at me and shrugs. The hair unravels and falls around her shoulders. “Kids at school.”

“About what?”

She turns back to the stovetop and talks to the pot. “Sometimes your brother makes the wrong choices, but he’s a good person.”

“I know.”

“Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” She stirs the soup. Her hips move from side to side. Bubbles pop and send splatters over the stovetop.

“Can I sleep in your room tonight?” I say.

“If you have a bath.”

I LOCK THE BATHROOM door behind me, checking it twice before turning on the tap and letting the tub fill. I dip my toes in first then stand ankle-deep while my feet adjust to the heat. Slowly I lower myself into the water. When I was younger Mom wouldn’t let me lock the door, in case I slipped or drowned. She promised not to come in, but she always did, saying, I’m covering my eyes, I’m covering my eyes, searching like a blind lady for whatever she wanted.

When I turn off the tap I hear sports on TV. Channels switch, flicker, flip. “People talk,” Mom says, over the noise of the announcer. “People make assumptions.”

“You’re paranoid,” Matt says, laughing the way he does when he thinks someone’s stupid. Scores ring out on the TV. The tips of my fingers are white. They’re wrinkled like they could be picked apart.

“Pay attention to me,” Mom says. The TV noise goes dead.

“Give me the fucking remote.”

“Be quiet.”

“F-off.”

“Dawn will hear you.”

“Fuck Dawn.”

I disappear under the water. There could be more bubbles in here, but it’s too late once you’ve poured the bath. The dead girl floats into my head, her skin white and picked apart like the tips of my fingers. I wonder: if the girl was in the river, why didn’t it carry her away? The river never freezes. When I come back up from the water Mom is knocking lightly on the door. “You okay in there?” I keep myself as quiet as possible. I keep the water quiet around me. I hold my breath and watch the door. “Dawn?” The doorknob jiggles and Mom shouts. “Dawn, answer me!” Her body thuds against the door, trying to force it open. “What?” I call, splashing in the water.

“Why didn’t you answer me?”

“My head was underwater.”

“Don’t do that again.” Mom is so close I hear her lips brush the door, her body against the wood. Her breathing makes me feel lonely. I blow bubbles in the water until she goes back to the kitchen. My hands glide over the skin on my stomach. I don’t like that part of my body because there are no bones to protect it. The skin is pink from the heat, and soft — rabbit skin. Rabbits are too squishy and terrified. They’re always running. My nails dig into my tummy, leaving rows of white moons.

WE LEAVE EARLY AGAIN this morning. Overnight everything has turned to ice. Mom and I hold hands down the sidewalk and I take long, skating steps, but Mom squeezes my hand and tells me to stop. She’s wearing nice clothing and dressy shoes that are too slippery for snow. She says she wants to give the lady in the brown house our condolences. “They found that poor girl dead” — that’s what Mom said this morning. When I asked where, she thought for a second then said, “Down by the river . ” She wanted Matt to come with us, but he didn’t come home last night.

We used to go for walks along the river before Mom got her job in Kelowna. Once we saw a dead bird. It was black like it had been stuck in the oven for too long, but I can’t imagine a dead girl. There are always teenagers down there, wild like packs of wolves. They always seem hungry, but all they do is smoke. I never look at them when we walk by. When we had our dog, Tucker, we would take him for walks along the river, where he’d sniff out beer bottles and sometimes find clothes or a shoe. Matt would come with us, taking the leash and walking ahead. Tucker would look back to make sure Mom and I were still there, but that was a long time ago. Matt watched the groups of teenagers like he was hungry, too. One day he knew some of them and stayed down there while Mom and I took Tucker back home. That night Mom waited for him, pulling back the curtains, but she got used to it. After that we didn’t walk down there much.

I don’t tell Mom about the dream I had last night about the poor dead girl. She was running and I was chasing her. I was angry, but I kept forgetting I wasn’t supposed to be. I was trying to tell her something, throwing my arms up and yelling. She kept running and falling. She had rows of bloody moons down her stomach. She didn’t have blond hair like I thought.

We get to the brown house and there are colourful cards and flowers all over the front steps. It’s like a candy machine exploded. We have to step carefully around them. Some of them are buried in the snow, wet and soggy, the ink running so you can’t read people’s words. Mom finds a spot for our flowers in a dry corner near the door. She puts them down gently and we start back down the stairs without ringing the bell or saying hello. It seems too quiet to make any noise at all and I don’t even like the sound of my own steps crunching down the walk. When we get to the street I hear a window opening above us. A woman sticks her head out, pushing the window with her flat hand. “What are you doing?” I stare up at her, my mouth open to the sky. “What are you doing here? Where were you when she was screaming?” the woman yells at us. “Get out of here.”

Mom stiffens and takes my hand. I can’t look at her. We turn around and walk away.

IT SNOWS AGAIN. SAM stays after school so I walk home by myself. It keeps snowing again and again, like the town is trying to be new every day. Or maybe it’s trying to be the same. I can’t imagine anything quieter than snow falling off trees, and white piled on white makes no difference.

I take the shortcut through the mall parking lot even though Mom doesn’t want me going that way. There are too many cars, too many doors that could open with people waiting to snatch me away, but it’s cold and I want to get home quickly. When I get to the mall only a few cars are parked near the doors and a snowplow clears spaces, piling white hills around the lot. The automatic doors swish, opening and closing as people hurry around inside. Matt’s car is in the lot parked sideways, but it doesn’t matter because there are no lines for the spaces. I brush the snow off his bumper and sit down, waiting for a ride. Once he picked me up from school and we went to A&W. We didn’t go through the drive-thru, we sat inside to eat our burgers. When our fries were done he bought us more to share so we could stay longer.