Rising Abruptly (6 page)

Rachel examines herself in the mirror. Even though her swollen eye worries her, the overall effect of the white bandage pleases her. She also has mixed feelings about this place. So ordinary when the server prepares the hot dog and hot chocolate that Rachel's mother orders her after she's come in from skating, and yet, so mysterious tonight, as to…

Gongs and chimes suddenly sounding in the silence make her jump. She turns around. Jeanne with her flair for the dramatic. Banging on gigantic stainless steel mixing bowls. Causing the oversized spatulas hanging over the grill to collide into one another. Next, she wouldn't be surprised to see her daffy cousin juggle with the chef's knives, shiny blades flashing in the candlelight. Or wear as a fencing mask one of the empty metal frying sieves hooked over their basins of congealed grease.

Jeanne hoots: Wait till we tell this story at school! Our big winter night in this place. The Christmas pageant will be a flop compared to our adventure. Everybody'll be so jealous. You can bet on it. I'm hungry.

Without missing a beat, she goes in search of food, her partner in adventure following closely.

They open the heavy wooden door of the fridge. The kind you walk in! Select milk—no, no, not milk, not on a night like this!—hamburger buns, minced beef already formed in patties. Rummage through shelves for pastries that taste of grease and artificial vanilla, so yummy. Get two Cokes out of the cooler.

Take notes, Rach, because we'll propose this night as the official school pageant. As soon as we get home, we'll begin writing the play.

As Rachel bites into her ketchup-loaded hamburger, her stomach tightens. But nothing in the world will keep her from eating this meal to the last morsel. Prepared on a restaurant gas stove. (And they're only eleven and they didn't burn themselves.) In a deserted public lodge. Where they had to break a window. (Oh, her poor toboggan!) So the cousins could find shelter. While a snowstorm. While a
huge
snowstorm was raging. The whole night. Alone together. Cut off from all adults. And left to their own re-source-ful-ness. She bites into her hamburger and must admit, Jeanne is queen of the game. Swallows. Takes another bite. If Jeanne hadn't been with her, Rachel would still be wandering. Lost and freezing in the storm. Swallows. Yes, but. If it hadn't been for Jeanne, Rachel would be having supper with her mom right now and none of this…

Rach, isn't this night the most marvellous night of our entire lives! Beating Christmas by a long shot.

Rachel isn't so sure. She bites into a May West. Before the night ends, her mom will die of worry. Licking the yellow cream from between the two layers of the little cake, she sees it all. Pearl making urgent calls. Getting no help. Weeping. Lamenting her daughter buried under snow as her husband was. The thought of her father ruins Rachel's dissecting even more than the thought of her mother's panic.

It's true, eh, Jeanne? Mothers are the queens of worry.

I wouldn't know that, now, would I?

Oops, sorry. Even if grown-ups don't think so, we can take care of ourselves.

You bet, we can.

As Jeanne tears the cellophane wrapper off a Twinkie, the ringing of a phone shatters the silence. Fills the space with roaring outrage. Caught in the act of stealing, breaking and entering, vandalism, the cousins jump off their chairs in a panic, screeching like back-alley tomcats in the night.

Jeanne shouts above the insistent tumult: Where's the damn phone?

Don't answer. It can't be for us. If we answer, they'll know we broke in. We didn't steal anything. But. We'll still go to jail.

Jeanne is as helpless to deal with the situation as Rachel, until she has a brilliant idea: What if it's your mom? She knows we came to Mount Royal to slide.

She does? I don't remember telling her.

Since we're not home yet and it's late and it's snowing like in the days of New France, she would phone the lodge, right?

Don't answer, Jeanne! It can't be Mom. Don't answer!

The phone goes on ringing, urgent, menacing, accusing. Jail! Jail! Jail!

We
must
answer.

No!

If we don't, it would be like refusing help while drowning.

We are not drowning.

I found it.

Jeanne, no!

Hello? At first, her voice, so unsure, produces no more than a high-pitch mew, until it brightens into relief: Auntie Pearl! I knew it was you. It's your mom, Rach. See? I was right. Yes, yes, Auntie. This is Jeanne speaking.

Rachel moves closer to the phone, putting her hand over the mouthpiece: Tell Mom everything's fine. Don't say anything about. And she touches her bandaged head.

Jeanne nods, indicates to Rachel to keep quiet for a moment, then speaks into the mouthpiece: We're both okay, Auntie Pearl. But we had to break a window to get in. It was a matter of life or death… You're sure they'll understand?… There's no electricity, but we found candles and we made hamburgers on the gas stove… Of course, we were careful. You taught us well… No, it's still warm in here. When will you be able to come and get us?… Oh, yes? All night?… She's here. Your mom wants to talk to you.

Hi, Mom! Rachel is somewhat disappointed to detect no hysteria in her mom's voice, only a minor worry put to rest: Yes, Mom, we'll be careful. Do you think they'll make us pay for the hamburgers?… We also ate some cakes. Little ones… What about the broken glass? It's a big window… And my toboggan. I'll tell you later… No, nothing… Don't worry, Mommy. We'll keep warm. See you tomorrow. Bye.

Rachel joins Jeanne at their table piled with ketchup-smeared paper napkins and cellophane wrappers.

Mom says a lot of the streets are closed because of the snow. There are power failures all over Montréal. Even on the south shore. They won't be able to fetch us until tomorrow.

The accomplices burst out laughing. Then they allow silence to measure for them the full scope of the event.

After a while, Jeanne speaks, her voice husky: We're lucky to have the lodge. Your dad and my mom didn't have such luck.

Rachel's voice is quiet: When we were lost in the snow and I was getting really cold, I was thinking about them. I was playing the game. We were searching for them and we rescued them.

I was playing the game too. I wonder if it's easier to freeze to death. Or to drown. Or to die in a boiling jungle.

Albert and Colette could have died a thousand different ways, like in stories.

This is not a story, Rachel.

No.

Jeanne creases the cellophane. She rolls it into a tight ball and, as soon as she lets go of it, it puffs up. She pursues, her voice hoarse: When my mom came back from her endless expeditions and we spent a few weeks together, she was always telling me stories about the jungle.

In the jungle, Jeanne, there are tigers. Colette and Albert could have been attacked and devoured by a big tiger. It must be scary being eaten by a tiger.

It would hurt like crazy. My mom and your dad also spent months in all sorts of deserts, remember. In Africa. In Australia. In Asia.

I know that.

In their deserts, they could have died of thirst, like in adventure movies. They say when you're that thirsty, your tongue swells up like a balloon.

It's worse dying of thirst if you're in the middle of the ocean. Like when your ship sinks and you're stuck in a lifeboat or hanging on to a piece of wreckage, like in war movies. That much water around you, and not being able to drink. What torture!

I'm thirsty just thinking about it. Jeanne gets two bottles of Coke from the cooler.

And what about sharks, Jeanne? There are always sharks.

Rachel drinks and the fizz makes her burp. The girls launch into a burping contest. They burp and laugh until the game loses its appeal.

Jeanne pushes the tip of her tongue into the neck of the bottle: My mom told me. It happened once.

Sharks? They were attacked by sharks?

Jeanne pulls her tongue out of the bottle: Not sharks. Their boat capsized in a storm. They were lucky. Everybody managed to swim to a small coral reef.

Coral! It must be sharp. Did they cut their feet?

Rachel?

Yes?

Would you. Would you prefer to know for sure your dad is dead or would you prefer not to know? I mean for real?

I don't know, Jeanne. When Mom explained he was
declared
dead, I cried, but I wasn't really sad. I cried because I had to, otherwise Mom would have thought I didn't love him. I cried, and the more I cried, the more I wanted to cry. I liked the tears. But I'm telling you, Jeanne. If Mom had died, I would have cried my eyes out for really really real. A really huge real sadness.

Why so sad for Auntie Pearl and not for Uncle Albert?

Because. Because I didn't really know my father. He was away so much with Auntie Colette. Your mom.
The brother and the sister of the big expeditions
. Granny used to say that. So, when he came home, I felt bizarre around him.

Bizarre?

I don't know. Like those salesmen who ring our doorbell. Imagine one of them moving in with us. And Mom was all excited, paying more attention to him than to me. It's not that I was jealous, it's just. She was different when he was around. I couldn't wait for him to leave, even if it made Mom sad. And a little sharp with me for a while.

So, you're glad he's dead?

Rachel doesn't answer. Some things are best left to live in silence. But now, she is dying to ask
that
taboo question, even though her mom made her promise never to talk about
it
. So, she takes a deep breath: Your father, Jeanne. You never knew him, right?

You know I'm a bastard. And my mom never spoke about him. Maybe
she
didn't know him.

But. To have babies, the woman must know the man, right?

Maybe it's not necessary to know each other to make babies. Like when we buy penny candies at the corner store. We don't really know Mrs. What's-her-name. That doesn't stop her from selling us licorice and jawbreakers.

The cousins ponder this tricky question. After a while, Rachel breaks the silence: Colette was also
declared
dead. Why don't you believe it?

Jeanne stares at the large windows. Listens to the wind. Sees her mom's fleeting face against the white night, a face that is becoming increasingly blurry since the last visit. So long ago. She answers her cousin, her voice barely above a murmur: It's like Christmas, Rach. I'm looking forward to it for two months and, as the day gets closer, I become more and more excited. The most exciting moment is Christmas Eve at seven in the evening when we're going to bed. It's hard to fall asleep, but eventually, I do. Then at midnight, Auntie Pearl comes to wake us up. And the house is full of lights. And the Christmas tree and the presents. But an hour later, it's over. After we've opened our presents, it's not the same anymore. Even with the music and the candies and the special food, I'm sad.

Sad. Why sad?

Because it's over. But of course it's not. Sure, we must wait one whole long year for the excitement to begin all over again. But it will. When I'll know for sure Mom is truly dead, it will be truly over. It'll be over for real.
Declared
dead is not dead for sure. Your mom explained, it's dead on paper only. One day, I swear I'll know for sure. One day.

I understand. But Rachel keeps her real thoughts quiet. Truly, she does not understand Jeanne's desire. Rachel is certain that Colette is as dead as her own father. Over there in those terrible Himalayas that keep their bodies in the frozen hell. She shivers.

You're cold?

A little.

Me too. It's not so warm anymore. Let's get our coats. They must be dry by now.

The candles have burned themselves out, leaving on the counter pools of hardened wax. Lying down on the floor and facing the big windows to forget the darkness behind them, Jeanne and Rachel are wrapped into their coats. Not sleeping, not talking.

The wound on Rachel's forehead is throbbing. She wishes she could sleep and wake up with the morning. Against the thick sheet of snow, she sees shapes moving, running, hiding. A man in a black coat. A wolf. A vulture flying into the glass, clinging to it, vanishing. Fear pushes her against the floor. Keeps her from swallowing. The fear of nothing and everything. Don't be a crybaby, Jeanne told her many hours ago. Get tough, to prepare for the day when Jeanne will make you go into those terrible mountains. Prepare yourself, because when Jeanne wants something…

Suddenly, Rachel hears a tiny noise behind her. She concentrates on the sound amplifying itself. A rustling of cellophane. Muffled steps. A creak and a crack. A pop. Silence. She listens and hears the sounds again. Rustling. Muffled. Creak crack pop. And again and again. Her heart beats so fast she could throw up ketchup and greasy cake. She wants to cough but holds on until her eyes are swimming with tears.

Through clenched teeth, Jeanne whispers: You hear that?

Yeah.

Do you think he came in through the broken window?

Probably. And Rachel recalls the strange shadows in the snow. A man in a black coat. But also, a wolf and a vulture. She knows there are no wolves and no vultures on Mount Royal. But the man in a black coat? She whispers: Jeanne? You think it's the security man? Earlier, I saw…

Don't make a sound. Maybe he just wants to make himself a cup of coffee. To stay awake.

He'll see us. We should have cleaned up our mess. Now, he will have proof. We'll be arrested.

There's no electricity, Rach. He'll see nothing.

Security men have flashlights.

Not this one.

Then, it's not the security man. Jeanne? What if? It's a thief? Or worse. And Rachel remembers the big knives hanging above the stove. Holding her breath, she calls out: What are you doing?

Crawling away from those windows.

Don't leave me.