Swimmers in Winter Page 8

  Eva did not smile. “That’s probably true.”

  “It’s just,” Jackie tried, “I mean, we’re in this together.”

  “In what together?”

  I’m in this with you. What this is, what we have, it’s becoming everything to me.

  But of course she couldn’t say that. It might ruin everything. Jackie searched for something else between them she could call upon—anything—so that she would not have to say exactly what she felt. “I’ve got to get that money back I loaned you, soon,” she said, almost like a pronouncement—one that made her cringe, one that hurt to admit. This was not the language of love. But maybe it would be enough to get Eva to stay.

  “Oh.” Eva sat there for a minute, thinking and still. She seemed almost bewildered, too caught up in her own headlong flight to see this coming. And now she was tangled up in it, pulled tight to a breaking point.

  Jackie couldn’t recall ever seeing Eva in that state. She didn’t dare to move until her friend did first.

  Eva shook her head. “I don’t have it yet. I know I said I would give it back a long time ago. I’m so sorry. I’ll have to send it to you.”

  There was something pleading in Eva’s voice. It made Jackie even more uneasy, so she tried again. Another deflection, a wider range of maneuvers. Block before strike. Defense before offense. She was starting to get fed up with herself, and this conversation. All the shadow boxing. This was not what she wanted. “You should talk to Claudia about this. I mean, she’s going with you, right?”

  Eva paused then, and looked right at her. For a moment, Jackie found it almost impossible to breathe.

  An almost impossibility.

  “What are you trying to find, Eva?” she finally asked, shaking. It was both an offer and a challenge.

  Let me give you what you need.

  Eva shook her head. She took her sweater from where it was hanging at the back of her chair, pulled it down over her head and chest. Jackie watched the delicate spaces tracing her collarbone, watched her shoulders pulling to tear against the blue. Her red hair clung to the fabric, tussled, alive and electric around her face. There was a darker strand across her forehead. Jackie thought of reaching over and lifting it away from her eyes, tucking it gently behind the curve of Eva’s left ear with its little stubs of silver, and letting her hand linger there on the softness of Eva’s cheek.

  “I’ll get the money back to you as soon as I’m settled,” Eva said. “I promise.”

  Then she was up.

  Jackie stood too. “Maybe you can start painting again. Remember how you loved it?” She wanted to remind Eva of a point in her life before she decided to leave, before she even thought about doing so.

  Let me give you what I scavenged for.

  “I just wanted you to know,” Eva answered.

  They put their arms around each other with the force of a heartbeat. Jackie could smell Claudia’s lotion in Eva’s hair as it brushed against her cheek.

  See you soon?

  Jackie watched her leave. And as the door of the café closed, all she could think about was how the soles of her winter boots were almost gone. How the cuffs on her coat were fraying so badly that she had to keep rolling and rolling the sleeves. How she’d already had to re-sew the seams at the shoulders where they were starting to split. How much she could’ve really used the money Eva owed her.

  How much she needed something that was slipping away.

  ◊

  At least Eva had chosen to go. Choosing to go is different from going missing.

  How much did Claudia know?

  A week after the coffee shop, Claudia showed up at Jackie’s apartment. She stood at the door, holding a couple of duffle bags, and the cat in a carrier. She’d never looked so tired.

  “Is Eva here?”

  Jackie shook her head. “No. Is she alright?”

  Claudia didn’t answer.

  They carried the bags upstairs, then let Trout out of the carrier. Right away, he hid under the couch.

  Claudia took her boots off in the hallway, throwing off the cold night air that still clung to her coat. She came back inside and took a deep breath. “We had a fight, and Eva left,” she said, focusing on the floor.

  Jackie waited.

  “Someone was after us. Me. For some money. Not a lot. But I don’t have it right now. I got afraid. So I packed up and left too. Eva knows where I would go.” Claudia paused, then added, “I left her a note to be careful, but I’m worried.”

  “In case the person shows up?”

  “Yeah. Eva knows how to look after herself. If he comes by, she’ll tell him I’m gone. But still. I don’t want her to be alone there. I don’t want to be there by myself.”

  She started to cry.

  “You can stay here, “Jackie said. “Don’t worry. Stay the night.”

  The apartment was the first one-bedroom Jackie ever rented. It was warm and familiar, with the fridge humming in the corner, and the sounds of television flickering soft, then loud, from the apartment upstairs seeping down through the floor. There was space enough for a little privacy, for two people at least.

  But it was also true that Jackie had let the place go, so gradually that she barely noticed. Her things overflowed like water from shelves and drawers, poured over a collection of second-hand furniture from Goodwill and from the street. Her bedroom, too, was afloat with small and mismatched items lying around the periphery of her bed. Boxes still unpacked after all this time, boxes for the things there were no rooms for.

  But Claudia didn’t seem to notice the state of the apartment. Not that night, or the next one, or all the nights afterwards.

  Jackie found a clean towel in the hall closet and handed it to Claudia. “You’ve got to run the left tap in the shower for a while in order for the heat to come,” she instructed. “Then the temperature gets hot real fast, so be careful.”

  Claudia nodded, as if listening to more than just Jackie’s voice—as if there was another register to be aware of, playing above or wrapped around her words. A delay in transmission between them, the present being preempted by something else.

  This is how all their conversations have gone ever since.

  The next morning, after being up most of the night with her guest, Jackie slept in too long. She got up, showered quickly, and put on her guard uniform.

  Claudia was already awake. She sat in the kitchen by the window, pulling herself together over a cup of coffee. Her eyes were swollen and bleary from crying. Out the window, the street was covered with new snow that had fallen overnight. Its pale cold glow in the morning light filled the kitchen.

  Jackie went over to Claudia and held her. She did so without deliberating.

  Those first few days, it seemed to Jackie like they each were living wild by their own different laws of survival. The question of Eva swung around them, ushering in a fog, leaving them searching blindly for a release, only to come across the sudden fact of her absence sprung open like something sharp, a live wire.

  But then Jackie began coming back to the apartment after work to find Claudia making dinner. The smell of cooking made it feel like a home, rather than just a place to stay. They would eat, and watch some TV, and Jackie would try not to talk about what she’d been thinking about all day.

  Was she going to have to lie to Claudia? To not tell her that she knew Eva had been planning to leave?

  But Jackie fell into that concealment too, the same way she’d first fallen into love.

  ◊

  It took about two weeks for Claudia to find a job in another, bigger kitchen. It was a little farther south than the diner and mostly served office workers, the nine to fivers. It was just a daytime dishwasher position, a step down from the cooking she’d ended up doing at the diner, but pretty soon, they were asking her to do the prep for breakfast and lunch.

  The day she was promoted, she came home, triumph
antly kicked off her sneakers in the hallway, and told Jackie she got the job.

  Jackie congratulated her. “I’m glad our work shifts will line up so we can still have the evenings together,” she said.

  Another week went by. A letter arrived, addressed to Jackie. Inside was a cheque, folded inside a piece of lined paper. It was the money Eva had owed her. One word was written on the paper, in pencil: Thanks.

  Jackie put the letter in her drawer. Then she convinced Claudia to check out the old apartment, to see if Eva had gone back. “If you’re worried, I can wear my security uniform,” she said.

  The locks hadn’t been changed but the hydro and heat were off. How cold it was in those empty rooms. What they’d had on the walls had been ripped off. The cupboards were open and bare. There was a chair with a broken leg lying on its side, but the rest of the furniture was gone. It was like the aftermath of a storm, with all the debris blown away. There was nothing left of Eva and Claudia there.

  It must have been the landlord. This was not something Eva could have done.

  “I don’t think I recognize that chair,” Claudia said, pointing to the only thing left.

  It was the first time Jackie heard her voice tremble. She realized, at that moment, how lucky Claudia was that she got out when she did.

  ◊

  For weeks after Claudia moved in, she had nightmares in her sleep. She’d call out in the dark, her voice rising, a worried singing.

  Jackie came to expect this. She would climb onto the couch where Claudia was sleeping and shake her shoulder gently, whispering her name. There she was, nobody’s girlfriend in particular, holding Claudia in her arms most nights.

  Maybe something was bound to happen between them.

  She would feel Claudia’s breath on her cheeks and her tears falling all over the place, on Jackie’s face and chest and neck. She thought she could hear her friend’s heart beating fast. Maybe it was her own.

  “Thanks for waking me,” Claudia would whisper, kissing the places where her tears had landed. Holding onto Jackie as if she would soon have to let go.

  ◊

  In the early morning, when her shift finishes, Jackie rides the half-empty subway home, takes off her uniform, hangs her jacket in the crowded closet, and crawls straight into bed beside Claudia.

  Woken by her feet, the cat winnows from the covers at the bottom of the bed and lands with a light thud on the carpet, like a dreaming fish splashing to the floor.

  Soon, she hears Claudia stirring.

  “Hey,” Claudia says, sleepily.

  “Hey.”

  “How was work?”

  “Fine.” Jackie yawns. “How was your night?”

  “Good.” Claudia stretches out a little, waking herself. “We were training some new cooks. They’re young. But I think they’ll do okay.”

  Jackie says nothing. She’s still shivering from standing in an air-conditioned lobby all night.

  “Everything go okay last night for you?” Claudia asks quietly.

  “It was just a long shift.”

  She feels Claudia’s right foot shaking—that small, quick vibration that takes over when she’s lying down or sitting still. Jackie had never noticed it until they became lovers. It’s a sign that Claudia needs to get up and move.

  The shaking stops, and Claudia turns to face her.

  “I’ve got some good news,” she says, her voice level in the dark. “I’m getting a promotion. Starting in a few weeks, I’ll be one of the head chefs.”

  Jackie moves closer, relieved to have something good to talk about. “That’s great news. You worked so hard for all this.”

  “I wanted to thank you especially.”

  “Me?” Jackie asks. “How come?”

  “For being here. For sharing all this with me.” She gestures around the cluttered room and its shadows.

  And then Jackie finds herself in Claudia’s embrace, the two of them moving together in a riot of memories.

  “You too,” she says, as her breathing starts to quicken.

  ◊

  It is rare that Jackie has the night off, so she decides she will surprise Claudia with dinner, to celebrate. She goes to the market and collects red potatoes, asparagus, cold chicken wrapped in cellophane, and a hard square of butter in its thin foil wrapper, fresh basil, thyme, and garlic.

  Jackie’s route cuts across the big old city park near where they live. She circles along its crumbling paths, inhaling the new scent of uncovered soil tucked along the borders of old pavement. It’s early April. Around Eva’s birthday, she thinks. The snow has finally melted. What was buried is turning up, as if toward the sun. The fertile, poisonous rubble of city earth, all that’s left behind by winter.

  As she balances the weight of her bags, she lifts her head and notices a woman sitting on a bench. The woman is small, and her short curly hair is almost red, tossed by the wind in a swift storm around her face.

  Jackie holds up her bags like sad trophies as she walks past, a solitary parade of delay and escape.

  When she glances back, the woman on the bench has stood and is turning to leave.

  ◊

  That evening, Claudia and Jackie sit on the bed together. Jackie is relieved the meal has gone well. Nothing burned or undercooked, no key ingredient missing.

  She’s trying to decide if she should tell Claudia what had happened at the park earlier. Claudia might want to know. But what is there to say? She saw a stranger and walked by, and then the stranger disappeared.

  She takes off her glasses and rubs at her eyes for a minute. Maybe she should just go to sleep.

  “You were shy when I met you,” she hears Claudia say. “Quiet like you are now. I thought it meant you didn’t need anyone. It made you seem tough, not easily moved. That’s what made me notice you. But now I know you better.” Jackie opens her eyes to see a little grin playing on Claudia’s lips. “You’re actually pretty soft.”

  “Shut up,” Jackie laughs. Claudia can still make her blush.

  And then Claudia replies, “You’re softer than Eva.”

  It rings in the air for a minute, and then melts away.

  Jackie is on edge. How could Claudia bring her up, as if doing so wouldn’t devastate the evening? She considers pretending it doesn’t matter—but letting it go is just another way of giving up a fight before it even starts. That had always been Jackie’s problem from the start. Eva tried to teach her better than that.

  She doesn’t really know what this fight is for, but she won’t let it go this time.

  “I feel like I’ve seen her around lately,” she says.

  Claudia pauses, maybe surprised, and turns away a little. “I don’t think so,” she says, exhaling when she speaks, a low muffled laugh of disbelief.

  “I do.”

  Claudia’s voice rises a little to sound angry, unusual for her. “I think you go out looking for her, and you see what you want to see.”

  “Don’t tell me what I do or don’t see.”

  “Okay, fine. Where was she then?”

  “In a restaurant.”

  Jackie was walking past an old glass storefront restaurant on Dundas Street when she thought she saw Eva standing beside a table of four, her small back to the window, her red hair longer. It was in the way she wrote nothing down as she took their orders. The swinging of her hand back and forth, just grazing her hip, dipping into her own rhythm, as she waited for them to finish detailing their appetites.

  “I saw her at a bar, working maybe, or drinking there.”

  In the thick bright sun of a mid-Sunday afternoon, Jackie watched someone like Eva standing and smoking just outside the entrance of a place in Parkdale. She noted the way the woman turned to go back into the dimly lit room, moving as if riding a strange breeze in the humidity. She wore sunglasses, and her profile seemed angular, lean, like Eva’s might be now. Silver studs peppered her
ear, and her hair was held up in a struggle of red curls. The woman threw a cigarette to the ground as she went back inside. It rolled across the sidewalk, still alight. Jackie let it burn and kept walking.

  “I saw her on a park bench today.”

  She describes what’d happened that morning, and Claudia listens, eyebrows rising, then falling, studying the bedspread, letting Jackie hear herself, the things she is actually saying.

  When Jackie is done, they sit in silence for a while.

  There’s still a force field here that Jackie senses, but now its pull is between her and Claudia. She can feel its strength, but it’s just not the same as the one she remembers so clearly from before, with Eva. This one, though sharper in its sensations, more pronounced, feels stretched thin, stretched over the past.

  It’s true that, half the time, with Claudia, she feels like she doesn’t know herself the way she thought she did with Eva.

  It’s true that she’s afraid she had let Eva down, and that’s why they lost each other.

  “You’ve got to give it up, Jackie,” Claudia says quietly. “Let it go. Just let it go. Whatever you think you’re seeing. If you want to keep moving.”

  Claudia puts her hands on Jackie’s shoulders, her own skin scattered with those tattoos of full and crescent moons, twisted stars, lines that swirl to trace up her arms.

  Jackie doesn’t try to pull away. She knows what to expect, with anticipation: that familiar ache, the pull under her ribs, to be smothered by the way Claudia holds her just tight enough. A heavenly lockdown. Before she closes her eyes, Jackie glimpses the points of a star on Claudia’s upper arm, flexed by the muscle running underneath it.

  “What would make you feel free?” Claudia whispers, pulling her down.

  Jackie says nothing, just buries her face against Claudia’s neck, that smell of a lover’s skin, the sustenance that she, back when she was still driving fists at a punching bag, never believed she’d find so familiar and true in another person.