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

The next morning Kate called early and I was still in bed watching the snowflakes twirl madly down onto my skylight. I could hear my dad outside, the scrape of the shovel as he cleared the driveway. Kate came over and we put on winter clothes, even ski pants that we tucked into our boots. I loved the feeling of being untouchable, wrapped in wool and nylon; nothing could get to me, not the snow or the cold. I rolled around on the sidewalk, crawled through the street, lay on my back with my mouth wide open, eating the flakes like a two-year-old. “It’s a perfect day,” Kate said. She let herself fall in the snow, arms above her head, but for some reason she didn’t look happy. The buses still weren’t running and there were almost no cars on the road. Occasionally we heard an engine revving far off, but all the sounds were muffled, everything travelling long distances, as though sounds were coming right across Burrard Inlet.

We walked the whole way to Mosquito Creek. It took us almost an hour. Kate wanted to have a winter picnic. She had everything we needed in her backpack: a thermos of hot chocolate, ham sandwiches, and peanut butter cookies. The only people we saw on the way there were a group of kids near Grand Boulevard sliding down a hill on garbage bags, and an old person crossing 13th Street holding a broken umbrella with a perfect mound of snow collected on top. I kept suggesting other places we could stop for our picnic — we passed six or seven parks along the way — but Kate was determined. As we trudged up Lonsdale through the snow, she clenched her teeth, her jaw drawn in a tight line.

Once we got to Mosquito Creek, I took her mitted hand. The longer we walked, the more her enthusiasm for the day drained from her. By the time we reached the creek, she looked like she was ready to drop into a snow bank. She tried to pull her hand away a few times, but I hung on to her and we walked carefully over the boulders and rocks until we found a flat spot under the cover of some heavy evergreen branches. There was a fine dusting of snow on the ground under the tree, like someone had sprinkled icing sugar all over the pine needles. We spread out the blanket Kate had brought and unwrapped our sandwiches. The branches created a small cave of shelter and we chewed quietly, watching the snow pile up around us. “It’s like a church,” Kate said, pouring the hot chocolate. “I guess,” I said, but I’d never been inside a church. When I looked at churches from the street, passing in a car or walking by, this was close to what I thought was inside — a quiet white perfection, something so simple and obvious. I imagined if we stayed there all day, the snow would seal up our cave and we would have our own confession booth. Kate smiled when I told her this, then she looked away, up into the tree. “My dad left this morning,” she said.

For the past couple of nights, Kate told me, her mom had been sleeping in her bed. Every night, her dad came home after they’d fallen asleep, like he’d been waiting, watching from his car for the lights to go off. It didn’t matter because Kate woke up every time the front door opened. Last night Kate’s mom woke up too and she and Kate stared at each other for a second before her mother closed her eyes and Kate understood she should do the same. Kate pretended to sleep, but listened to her father open her bedroom door and stand there, staring at the two of them. She could hear his breathing and smell booze. Eventually he closed the door, so quietly and slowly Kate thought it might take him all night. Almost as soon as the door was closed, he opened it again and walked right into the room. Her father picked her up out of bed like she was a young child and shook her. He didn’t say anything. He kept shaking her, Kate staring at him silently, and as he carried her out of the room, she saw her mother’s eyelids flutter. In the living room her dad set her on a chair while he made up the couch for her to sleep on. “He was just drunk,” Kate said. “But this morning he was gone and there was all this snow.” It was the first time I realized Kate’s life wasn’t perfect.

“WHAT ARE YOU SUPPOSED to be?” Carlie’s out the window smoking a cigarette. All I can see is her bum, but I can tell from her tone she thinks my costume is stupid.

“A corpse bride,” I say, threading a needle to stitch feathers to the hem of one of Mom’s white nightgowns.

“Aren’t you a little old to dress up for Halloween?” Carlie says to the oak trees out the window.

“Aren’t you a little old to still be living at home?”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Carlie leans back into the room and gives me an uncertain once-over. “Hm.”

“What?”

“You need a veil. I think I was ten the last time I wore a costume.”

“Do I look like I care?” I say under my breath, concentrating on getting my stitches evenly spaced.

“Shit,” Carlie says as Dad clomps up the stairs. She butts out her cigarette and grabs perfume, spritzing it around the room. I wave my arms in front of my face, saying, “Quit it.” The door swings open.

“Dad,” Carlie shouts. “Remember knocking?” He wrinkles his nose at the perfume, stepping back into the hallway and closing the door behind him before knocking. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Carlie says, zipping up her boots and grabbing her purse.

“Do you ghouls still need a ride?” Dad yells through the door.

“Let’s go,” Carlie says, flinging open the door and checking herself in the mirror one last time. She pops a piece of gum into her mouth and I hold open my hand for some, but she walks right by me. “What are you supposed to be?” Dad asks me, peering around the doorframe as Carlie stomps past him down the stairs.

“A corpse bride,” I say, annoyed. I put the last feather on the slip and throw on my hoodie.

“Dad, let’s go,” Carlie shouts from downstairs.

The doorbell rings and I hear a bunch of little kids pushing each other around on the porch. “Trick or treat.”

“Mom, where’s the candy?” Carlie screams.

Dad asks me if I’m coming, but I tell him I’d rather walk and I follow him down the stairs as Carlie opens the door and Mom brings a big bowl of treats from the kitchen. I squeeze past all the kids with their hands out. “You hoo, Frankenstein’s Bride,” Mom says, holding out a candy bar for me. I ignore her and make my way across the street. I can hear her behind me, saying, “Just one, now. Everyone gets one.”

THE STREETS ARE SMOKY; bottle rocket squeals shriek across the night sky and the cul-de-sacs feel like war zones. I hurry along the sidewalks and cut through the park to stay off the roads, which burst with hot firecracker colours. Kids from another school are hanging out on the jungle gym. A girl with long blond hair smokes while she hangs upside down on the monkey bars, the tips of her hair brushing the dead leaves on the ground. There’s a group sitting in a concrete tube in the middle of the sandbox, smoking weed. I can’t see them, but I can smell the smoke and hear their voices echo out of the hollow cylinder and into the park. Someone’s boots hang out one end and some guy’s saying, “Can you see me? Can you see me?” Everyone’s laughing like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard, but it doesn’t sound like the guy is joking. Someone jumps out one end of the tube and stalks off through the park. “Fuck it. You guys are fucking fucks.” From inside the tube a girl says, “Relax.” The guy walks off to a car and sits in the front seat for a minute blaring metal and then comes back carrying something behind his back. A lighter flicks and he throws the thing gently into the tube. There’s machinegun pandemonium as everyone shoots out the opposite end, whooping and screaming, holy shit . Loud pops and hot green light go firing through the tunnel and I leave the park and cross to the far side of the street. The guy who lit off the brick of firecrackers jumps onto the concrete tube and yells, “I’m the army, yeah! Fuck, yeah.” One of the other guys pulls him down and they start fighting. Across from the park, little kids in fuzzy bear costumes and pirates dragging their swords knock on the neighbourhood doors, their voices sweeter than candy.