are right now?”
“You do,” Abby countered. She was Tom’s daughter all right.
“Yes. Fair enough. I’ll rephrase … you are telling me you snuck out of school to come here, even though you think your mother will disapprove?”
“For sure she will.
“Don’t you think that’s a little dangerous? That you might get into some trouble doing things like that?”
“I know that people need to suffer for their art.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“Writing made Dorothy Parker suicidal.”
“Oh.”
“I love Dorothy Parker.”
“Huh. And you’re …” Cynthia quickly did the actual math and was reminded of the longevity of certain kinds of aching, “… ten years old?”
“Yes, but I’m a very advanced reader. The best reader in my class.”
“I would imagine.”
“I’m the best storyteller too. My teacher said.” As proof, Abigail pulled two hard-covered black notebooks out of the backpack at her feet. “Would you like to see some of my work?” Holding out the books, she said offhandedly, “These notebooks are the same ones that Hemingway used.… Well, not these exact ones, I bought these new. But he liked this style.”
“You’re a Hemingway fan as well?” Cynthia said, taking the books and trying not to sound like an asshole grown-up.
“Yeah, he’s okay, I guess. Not so funny.”
“I can see that.” Then, tucking the books under her arm, “Okay, so I think it would probably be an excellent idea if we let your parents know that you are here.”
Abigail’s pale, lightly freckled face went a shade whiter as she started to visualize the potential consequences of being found out of school, on her own, and in the company of this particular person.
“Yeah, I guess. It’d probably be better if you called my dad.”
Better for who? thought Cynthia, although she had to admit if you were going to have to pick the lesser of two evils here, you’d have to pick Tom.
“Good idea.”
Afraid that she may never again have this kind of opportunity, Abigail asked, “Can I come inside while you call? Maybe you can read some of my stuff while we wait?”
This had not been part of Abigail’s initial plan, but now that she was here, she found herself desperate to see inside the house where her siblings lived, having already taken in all that she could see around Cynthia through the open door.
Ignoring a sudden longing for the simple drama of the picket line, and even for the donuts, Cynthia stepped from the doorway back into the house. “Come on in then.”
Abigail didn’t wait to be asked twice, hopping into the foyer, dropping her bag at the same time. She scanned the living room, taking in all the exotic accoutrement of her siblings’ primary dwelling.
“That’s Julia’s,” she said, pointing at a raggedy pink sweatshirt tossed over a wing chair by the fireplace, a favourite reading spot when she was willing to share common space with the other members of the household. “I have one too. Matthew got me one when he went away to school. Mine doesn’t fit any more, though.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” But the wistfulness in the statement seemed to have already passed as Abigail headed towards the piano at the back of the room, giving the ivories an exuberant pounding, all the while craning her neck see what else was to be seen in the dining room. “Cool piano!”
“That it is … though maybe it’s a bit early to be quite so … musical.” Cynthia was mesmerized by how at home this little stranger seemed in her house. Not so much because of the liberties she was taking, well that too, though it was the divine right of ten-year-olds to think the world really was designed just for them. It was the way she blended into the room, so much like Julia and like Matthew, eyes on everything her hands hadn’t gotten a hold of yet, the constant commentary and unnerving energy. Ben was the only child who favoured Cynthia both in looks and temperament. Abigail acted just like one of the kids — but she wasn’t, at least not in this house. Sobered, Cynthia put on what the real kids called her serious voice.
“Okay then, why don’t we get you a drink or something while I call your dad.”
Abigail turned two saucer eyes towards Cynthia and put to shame the display of sorrow felt over an outgrown sweatshirt. “I guess.”
“Maybe I can wrangle up a Pop Tart to sweeten the deal?”
“Really? I’ve never tried one before. My mom won’t let me have them. She says they are evil. Oh … sorry.”
“Well … I’m not your mom,” Cynthia replied sweetly as she reached for the box, and taking some satisfaction in it.
Once Abigail was set up at the kitchen table, well-occupied by her snooping, Cynthia took extra care in her preparation of this mid-morning snack as she gathered her thoughts about the impending call.
It wasn’t like they didn’t talk. She and Tom spoke often enough, but no more than was necessary to ensure the basic survival of their shared dependents. They never chatted. They didn’t share or empathize or entertain. While theirs had been recognized by their acquaintances as a remarkably civil divorce considering the circumstances, it had never been a comfortable one. From the beginning Tom had been too ashamed and overwhelmed to offer any explanation or apology, and Cynthia far too humiliated to ever let him try. So, with the exception of one no-holds-barred throwdown fight that neither of them had ever mentioned again, they had opted for a crude but effective emotional amputation that had allowed them to move swiftly from intimate life partners to functional associates in the care and preservation of their children.
Even before she dialed the number, Cynthia could picture him when he picked up the phone. She could still imagine him at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up, one hand reaching aimlessly for the freshest cup of coffee, the other being subjected to an oral assault as he systematically bit each nail down to the quick. It had been more than a decade since she’d seen him like that, but she was sure the scene hadn’t changed. She knew that people can become strangers to you overnight, but the little things that make up a person, those habits and peccadilloes, they don’t change.
The toaster popped, filling the air with scent of fruit and plastic, synonymous with her children’s particular breakfast poison, and Cynthia was yet again jolted back to the situation at hand. She served up a plate of piping hot treats, having stuck one in every slot of her six-slice toaster, and was pleased to see the look of expectation on Abigail’s face.
“Don’t just go diving in there,” she cautioned, seeing Abigail reaching out. “Count to a hundred or you’ll burn yourself.” It was one thing to offer forbidden treats to your ex-husband’s child, another entirely to maim her. Abigail’s eyes had finally found a fixed focal point as she rapidly mouthed her countdown, and Cynthia picked up the phone, punching in a number she rarely used but still knew off by heart.
“Thomas Wilkes’s office,”
