Swimmers in Winter Page 5

It helped that Eva was there. That I could come through the haze of every single early morning and find her, the sharp scent of smoke and stolen cologne on her skin—that was what kept me buoyant, working and waiting.

  We started sharing apartments, moving all over the east end with our cat, Trout. I called him that for my love of contradictions. We lived on streets named after trees that I would go look up at the public library. “To match a name to a face,” I explained to Eva, stoned, when she asked me why. “It’s like in our apartment, we’re living in the trees’ organs. Along their veins. The curvature of their particular branches, the shapes of their specific leaves.”

  “Are you studying to be a biologist now, a treeologist? A fucking poet?” she replied, laughing. Then she paused. “We should cover this ceiling with a mural of trees. I’ve always wanted to do that in a room. We’ll steal some paint from somewhere, and brushes. I had good ones back in high school.” She grinned. “I didn’t know how rich I was back then.”

  We would walk around at night, going nowhere in particular, dreaming to somewhere, turning the streets away. Passing through neighbourhoods slammed with action, accidents, heavy voices, whistles in the dead of night, bone-dry pavement, blood on the sidewalk. Hotel facades, burned-out institutions, social services with their seams showing, spilling out, broken storefronts descending, apartments towering overhead, uncertain shelters fought for and stolen.

  We kept moving as if we could choose the chase.

  “This is not enough for us,” Eva told me once, pointing everywhere. “It’s time to make a change.”

  Neither of us believed in fate. What happens is not for any reason other than the things you do and the choices you make. You can’t rely on what should or could be.

  ◊

  In our second year together, we were living in a third-floor attic apartment. The radiators there didn’t churn out enough heat in the winter. Then the cheque for my share of the rent bounced, and I knew we couldn’t call the landlord to ask again about fixing the radiators. It got cold enough that we could almost see the plumes of our breath. We were both shivering.

  The bounced cheque startled me because I’d just borrowed some money from an acquaintance, a guy named Darren, to help pay for my share of the phone bill. I’d thought it’d be enough to also cover a college application to George Brown —which was going to be a surprise—and to buy wine and weed to help us through the cold.

  It wasn’t. I’d been so focused on the future that I lost track of the exact costs in the present.

  I didn’t know how to tell Eva about the missed rent. Nor did I know what to say about Darren. How he suddenly wanted me to pay back all of what I owed him, sooner than we’d agreed. How the abruptness of his demand made me uneasy. How he knew where we lived, because he’d looked up our address in the phone book. How he might be coming for me any time now, maybe even that night.

  So when she mentioned the cold, I said to her: “At least there’s no one living above us. And we can almost see the lake from our window in the kitchen.”

  “You can’t see anything over that brick wall next door.” She rubbed her hands together to warm them and pulled at her collar.

  “Do you want my scarf?”

  “No. You wear it.” She turned away. “We should’ve known there was a catch to getting this place so cheap.”

  I shrugged, let the old wool hang loose around my neck, and stuck my hands into the front pockets of my coat. The cold was seeping into the joints of my knees and wrists and around my feet, like shoes that fit too tight.

  “I’ll try calling about the heat again tomorrow,” I said, wishing it could be true.

  “Our phone isn’t working either,” she answered, shaking her head, looking angrier than before.

  That was when I realized Eva hadn’t paid our phone bill yet, even though I’d already given her my share of it.

  I decided that I wasn’t going to tell her about the cheque after all.

  Nervous, I rested my hands on the edge of the table’s firm, flat surface for balance. My library books were stacked there neatly in a pile because I didn’t have the shelves for them yet—the ones I was planning to build. I looked down at the books. Science fiction and fantasy, chef biographies. I counted ten of them.

  “Any idea what’s wrong with the phone?” I asked.

  “Why do you read all this crap if you can’t actually say what you’re thinking?” Her voice jarred my silent counting, shook up the sediment of dread I felt and dragged me through it. She picked up two of the books, one in each hand, and threw them hard across the room. They opened like accordions in flight and hit the wall behind me.

  Stunned, I flinched but refused to move. I felt a familiar sense of being boxed in, being caught up in something beyond my control. I counted the seconds of silence.

  One. Two. Three.

  I saw her reach for more of the books, and I knew I had to leave the room.

  EVA

  All I wanted was a little peace. Everything was going wrong at once.

  When Claudia left, I sat down on the floor and cried. Then I called to her. But she didn’t reply, didn’t come to me.

  If it hadn’t been so cold, I would’ve even offered to help build shelves for all the books she thought she wanted. Eventually, I picked up the ones I’d thrown, smoothing the pages.

  At work the next day, we moved in wide circles around each other. I left early without letting her or anyone else know. I didn’t care. I was almost done with that place anyway. The city was smothering me, smashing me up so I couldn’t think straight. I knew it was time to go.

  But what about Claudia? Should I try to take her along? Would she even join me?

  She was starting to seem like a mystery again, like she had in the beginning. As if she was turning away from me.

  Bundled in my hat and scarf, I walked and walked, watching the snow blanket the pavement around me, getting blinded by it. So cold, though I was moving fast, because my feet were soaked from the holes in my boots.

  When I got home that evening, Claudia was the one acting like she had done something wrong. Her books were gone.

  Why was she pretending like she’d forgotten what I’d done? It scared me.

  She said hello and smiled, the same sudden smile I’d caught in the mirror the first time she walked into the diner. Self-assured and hungry. But also calm—that gorgeous calm of hers, though now I knew about the ripples underneath. Her calm always rattled me, kept me from knowing which way to move. This time it stopped me from apologizing right away, like I’d planned.

  We propped open the door to the outer hallway to let the heat from downstairs seep in. I kept an eye on the entrance, listening for footsteps, and I noticed that Claudia did too. We were not new to the present danger of strangers—strangers, and acquaintances, there was always a question of who could turn against you. But for now, there was only the binding force of the deep cold.

  We opened a bottle of wine. Red, sweet, and cheap, the second of two she’d brought home a few days ago. I felt it thick at the back of my throat, a floating red carpet lifting me off my feet. This was some sad goodbye party.

  The layers I’d put on for warmth felt ribbed and ruffled. I didn’t like the stifled, swollen feeling, and I kept trying to smooth down my hair and my clothes. I was worried she was going to ask again about the phone, still useless on the table in the corner.

  We shivered in silence. Claudia seemed lost in her own thoughts. She looked at the floor.

  “Why can’t you just be direct for once?” I demanded, trying to catch her eyes. I could hear the burn in my own voice, the way it hurt, the way it gave me some force.

  Claudia seemed more resigned than surprised when she finally looked at me.

  I was breathing fast. My chest hurt. Everything was moving fast, making me panic.

  She still wasn’t saying anything, so I decided to make a show of looking
for the money for the phone bill. That was the issue here, wasn’t it? She was mad about the phone, but she wouldn’t say it to my face.

  The truth was, I’d kept the money she’d given me to pay the bill. With it, plus my next paycheck, I was hoping to pay back a debt I owed to my friend Jackie. I’d borrowed from her a while ago to get things I thought I needed at the time, but I could hardly remember what they were. It would have been a huge relief, not owing anyone anything. Then I could focus on the phone bill, focus on the future. Mine and Claudia’s.

  But what did it even matter now? Why should I tell Claudia anything?

  It was always me doing the telling, not the other way around.

  Claudia hadn’t moved at all. I could feel her eyes stuck on me. All I wished for in that moment was a reaction from her, a way out or a way to reach her. And it made me frantic.

  I picked my purse up from where it lay on the table and turned to her. As I did, the purse fell open and my things spilled onto the floor and rolled underfoot. The only money in there was some loose change. Exactly three dollars and twenty-two cents in quarters and dimes and pennies. I’d counted it earlier.

  As we watched the coins come to a stop, I got angry again, as if the heat of my anger would fuel me through the long cold night.

  But still, Claudia said nothing.

  “I’ll tell you what I think then, if you’re just going to sit there,” I said. I took a breath. “I think you don’t say what you mean, and you don’t mean what you say. You always leave me guessing. I think you’re a liar.”

  We glared at each other.

  “Sometimes, I wish you’d just shut your fucking mouth,” Claudia said quietly, every word a hard smack.

  The space around us felt closed and tight. I couldn’t focus long enough to figure out how to make it right, to rearrange the order of events.

  We had swung our wrecking balls. I was afraid.

  Claudia got down on the floor and began picking up the scattered contents of my purse. The idea of my possessions in her hands was strangely soothing. But she gave them all back to me quickly, like it hurt to hold them.

  I decided now was the time to go, before she had a chance to ask me to leave. I would not be thrown away. “I’ll see you,” I said, then moved so fast I didn’t even hear her close the door.

  CLAUDIA

  When Eva was gone, I got back down on the floor.

  Trout was hiding under the couch, sitting in the shadows with his eyes like glass reflectors, each catching the light, his nose raised alert, as if he could sense the danger I felt in the air.

  I thought about whether Eva still wanted me. Not much, not anymore.

  If Darren showed up, I could only promise him that his money was coming in a couple of days. That’s all I could tell him. But I hated to lie. That wasn’t me.

  It was so cold with the door closed and locked again. I turned on the stove and boiled water in the kettle. I thought I’d need instant coffee to stay awake, but in the end, it was thinking of her that kept me up.

  “C’mon, Eva,” I repeated to myself, like a harsh kind of prayer, punctuated with the sound of my fist on the table. What would I say to her if she was here? But words could be explosions, so I swallowed them all, shoved them to the back of my skull, the aching there. Anger. It won’t stay there for long. Like oil, it splatters everywhere if you’re not careful. It’s a shapeshifter. I used to mistake it for love. Whatever went flying, whatever broke, whatever got raised and brought down hard like a curse, I used to confuse it all with love. I thought I’d learned to understand the difference, but maybe not. Could Eva? I wasn’t sure she knew how either.

  Where would she go in the middle of a winter night? What was she doing to me?

  I looked at the phone that wasn’t working. I went into the kitchen, checked the weak latch on the window, closed the curtain. Someone could still easily get in that way by climbing up the fire escape. My heart was racing. I knew I couldn’t last the rest of the night in the apartment without Eva. It was dangerous here without her.

  I packed a suitcase, then dragged Trout out from under the couch, his claws scratching in protest, and scooped him into his carrying case. Before I left, I wrote Eva a note in red marker and put it on the kitchen table. Someone’s looking for me. Be careful. I’ve got to go. I have Trout. Finally, with the last twenty bucks I had in my pocket, I took a cab to our friend Jackie’s in Parkdale.

  Part of me hoped that was where Eva had gone. That she was already there.

  ◊

  When I showed up for work the next day, Eva wasn’t in the kitchen.

  I asked the manager if he’d heard from her.

  He shook his head, refusing to look at my tired eyes with his. “No more,” he said, walking away.

  “Sorry?”

  “I don’t pay her to get sick,” he hollered from across the room. “She’s done here. That’s it.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be back tomorrow. Our phone isn’t working so she couldn’t let you know she needed to take today off. I think she’s really not feeling well.”

  “No, no, she’s done here. And you are too if I catch any more messing around.”

  After all the time we’d spent there. All the work.

  I’d put the time in, did things right, and it was still ruined.

  What Eva and I had together, in that kitchen. Just more wreckage to remember.

  At first, my curses came out hoarse, and got swallowed up by the clamour of the kitchen. I picked up my bag and moved toward the back door, and I shouted at him. I wanted him to hear. All my anger, everything. I turned on him.

  He walked around the counter and looked at me in

  disbelief, shaking his head.

  “Who do you think you’re talking to? Are you out of your mind? Stupid kid. Get out of here before I call the cops.”

  When I saw the fists he was making with his hands, I thought of fighting him. Anger wrapped its arms around me, oil and fire. But I shook it off, and left before he could approach me.

  ◊

  I wondered about going by the apartment to see if Eva was home, but the thought made me feel hollow. I was still worried about running into Darren. So I stayed at Jackie’s and waited. But a whole week went by, and there was no sign of Eva. No message, no call. When I finally got the nerve to dial our number, the phone line was still disconnected.

  That was when I knew she was gone.

  “It kills me,” Eva used to tease, “how you move so slow and quiet.”

  I told myself that I wasn’t going to get dragged down by her longer. That I wasn’t going to lose myself. I needed to leave it all alone. I needed to contain the weight of it.

  ◊

  I still walk the old neighbourhood on my way to my new job. I’m in a bigger kitchen now. It moves faster, with more of a system, and there are more rules I can’t afford to break. But I can find my way around another place without much difficulty. They’ll see how I can cook.

  Winter is finally over. Later, in the spring, I’m going to start taking courses at George Brown. They decided to let me in after all. The loan I’ll get for tuition stretches out around me like a strange new city.

  Everywhere, there’s something of me spent, something owed.

  Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll see her again. In the back seat of a cab, the window rolled down for the feeling of flight, or on a bicycle at night, strains of light rushing past as if to race the shadows sliding faster below. One of us always on a corner, the other one flying by.

  If I do see her, I’ll stay silent as ever, until she’s gone, down the sheer halls of the empty streets.

  We both do what we can to be safe.

  Captive Spaces

  Her shift begins in the middle of the afternoon rush hour. Stepping from the gaping mouth of the subway station, Jackie blinks in the sun. The sidewalks are full of office workers who stream from buildings onto the str
eet, drifting and charging past her toward the tunnels and trains, or pooling above ground at streetcar and bus stops.

  She checks her watch to see she’s running out of time, then plunges into the steady current of people. She wants to move as if she belongs in these tall city corridors, between the massive office towers of steel and glass, despite the sense they could swallow her whole.

  Jackie looks up, watching the bright reflection of the setting sun shattering the looming walls of glass into shards of light. Shielding her eyes, she glances further to the sky for relief. It’s a closed window, growing smaller, eclipsed by the strain and grace of the buildings’ height.

  She tries to focus on what is in front of her, the street to cross, but it keeps changing, rewritten again and again by traffic. Claudia, she thinks. Picture her.

  Claudia’s here, downtown, somewhere, settling into her work for the evening. Her white sleeves rolled halfway up around the edges of her tattoos, stars, moons, the line no one’s above us, just the sky on the inside of her right forearm. Wielding a glinting knife in a bright kitchen beside the cavernous dining room at the base of one of these office buildings, she begins to create elaborate meals.

  ◊

  Claudia told Jackie that she has more freedom now than ever before to make what she wants, as long as it fits within the restaurant’s concept. But instead of explaining what that concept was, she began to walk out of the room.

  That’s how it goes with Claudia: she’ll start to say something that seems important and leave the rest for you to figure out yourself. Jackie thinks Claudia is more interested in the process of coming up with an idea than the result. She wonders if it’s because Claudia takes answers for granted, as if they don’t need to be spoken, nailed down, to be understood.

  Before Claudia could leave, Jackie asked her what she meant by the restaurant’s concept. Claudia stopped in the doorway, filling it with her height, and said: “Meals without history.”