But maybe on one of her trips through the house, she would walk right out the door. Because she had once before, when the twins were about a year old. He was sober when they got married, and he stayed sober until the boys were born, and then he slipped, and instead of getting back up, he kept falling and falling, until she packed the babies up and went to the Sunshine Coast and stayed with Grandma until he drove into the ditch and blacked out. When he came to, he had scared himself enough that he stopped.
“I’m going to bed,” I said. “You should too.”
“Great idea.” He stripped off his soiled shirt and curled up on the couch and shut his eyes. “Night-night, Maeve.”
I picked up his shirt, holding the stinking thing away from me with two fingers. I was going to wash it for him, help him hide this one little part. I watched him slip quickly into sleep, one hand resting on the floor, the other resting on his chest as his breathing slowed into snoring. He was ugly. He was an ugly drunk.
I dropped the shirt and went to bed, conjuring Salix’s kisses, those sweet, weightless moments. I wouldn’t let Dad take over. I wouldn’t worry about him. Or at least I’d try not to.
—
When I got up the next morning, Claire was sitting cross-legged at one end of the couch, knitting. Her belly sat on her lap. It looked like the baby had grown significantly overnight.
“Did you see him?” Claire set down her knitting. “I can still smell it. Even with the doors and windows open, I can smell it.” She nodded at a throw pillow tossed on the floor by the stairs. “I can even tell he used that pillow. It reeks.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Claire picked up her knitting and started again, hooking the yarn around the needle in quick, angry motions. “It’s not your fault.”
But maybe it was? Maybe when I came, the balance shifted, and everything slid off-kilter.
“This is your dad’s problem,” Claire said to her needles. “Not yours. We’ve been here before. And he was here with your mother, too. And before that it was even worse. Let’s hope he gets through and comes back new and improved before the baby arrives. That’s the best I’ve got right now. I don’t have the energy or inclination to kick him out, so we’ll just stumble along like this for a while.”
—
After the kisses last night, I’d pictured this morning. I would tell Claire everything—climbing the ropes, the picnic at the top, the flamingo glasses, the three boys, the drummers, tea and cookies and the peacocks on the teacups and Salix playing the violin, the kiss good night. And she would smile and gush and be so happy for me. I wasn’t going to tell her about the other kisses, or about Salix’s hand up my shirt. I was going to tell her everything up to that.
Instead I didn’t tell her about any of it, and I didn’t tell her about seeing Dad, either. What was the point? She was too distracted by the one to hear anything about the other. I kicked the pillow down the stairs and followed it. I stuffed it into the washing machine—there was the soiled shirt; he must’ve put it there before he left—and turned it on. I put both hands on the counter and stared at the floor. Dust, lint, a wayward gnome, a quarter, and a stub of one of the thick red pencils Dad used at work. I closed my eyes and went back to that first kiss, and then the one after that, and the one after that, and so on. I folded them into my palm like so many jasmine petals, fragrant and delicate, and I held on to them, perhaps a little too tight.
Salix arrived on her bike promptly at two o’clock that afternoon. I had completely forgotten that we’d made plans to take the boys to the spray park in Strathcona. When I answered the door, I was still in my pajamas, and I hadn’t so much as washed my face or brushed my teeth. I’d been sitting up in bed, sketching and worrying about Dad, and had finally decided to text my mom about something more meaningful than how the weather was, and yes, I was taking my vitamins. I still had my phone in my hand. Send.
Dad is drinking too much again. He’s messing everything up. Claire is so angry. I kissed Salix. Please advise.
“Salix! Hi!” I tucked myself behind the door as if I were naked and not just disheveled. “You’re here!”
“Am I early?”
“Nope.” I invited her in. “I’m not ready, that’s all. Wait here for a minute.”
I dashed upstairs and found the boys on the deck, smashing handfuls of gnomes together on a piece of green felt covered with dried red paint.
“Carnage,” Corbin said.
“That’s all blood,” Owen said.
“Okay, the war needs to pause because I’m taking you to the water park right now,” I said. “Like, get your suits while I pack a snack and we’re leaving right now. My friend is here and she’s ready to go and I totally forgot all about it because—” I stopped myself. “Whatever. Let’s go. Now!”
“Your friend?” Owen said.
“You don’t have any friends,” Corbin said.
“It’s the girl from the ferry,” I said. “The one you sold jokes to? And then the park? She brought you drinks.”
“That girl is here?” He still sat on the floor, a pile of presumably dead gnomes in his lap.
“Is she your girlfriend now?” Owen asked.
“None of your business,” I said. “Let’s go. Grab your bike helmets.”
“But I can’t ride with a broken arm!” Corbin said.
“Shit.” I thought quickly. “You’ll ride in the trailer.”
“That’s for groceries,” Corbin protested. “Or babies. I changed my mind. I can ride.”
“No you can’t.”
“I can!”
Why had I agreed to bike there? Maybe the kisses had made me a bit stupid, because I hadn’t ridden a bike since I was ten, when I fell off and broke my wrist and wisely declared never again.
Maeve Glover died suddenly today while riding a bicycle that she had no business riding. She was hit by a semi truck after she failed to stop at a stop sign because she forgot how to work the brakes. Survived by her twin brothers and the Miraculous Girlfriend, she will be remembered as stupid in the end, despite being a talented artist who—
“Maeve?” Claire called from inside. “Honey? Do you want me to offer Salix some tea or something?”
“No! We’re coming.” I grabbed the boys’ hands and pulled them inside. And then, in a whisper: “Just get ready to go. Please?”
—
Owen didn’t want to ride his bike. He said it was too far. With too many streets to cross. And too steep on the way back.
“I’ll make sure we’re all safe,” Salix said. “And I’ll help you walk your bike up on the way home, okay?”
“I guess.” Owen stuffed Hibou into his bike basket and climbed on. “If I have to.”
Corbin stood beside the bike trailer, arms crossed, his blue cast dirty and covered in marker.
“I can ride with one arm!”
“Either get in the trailer,” I said, “or stay home. Those are your two choices. I don’t care which one you go with.”
“Stupid.” Corbin flopped into the trailer. “Dumb trailer.”
“Going happily? Both of you?” I said. “Or not at all. Choose now.”
“Going!” Corbin hollered.
“Going,” Owen muttered. He did up his helmet and sighed. “Happily, I guess.”
I tried to focus on the road, the stop signs, the turns, Salix to my left and so comfortable on the bike that it was nothing for her to twist and face me, chatting, or to ride with one hand. I clutched the handlebars of Claire’s bike, testing the brakes every few seconds, lurching down the hill. Owen stuck close to me, doing the same, with Corbin piping up from the rear.