The Seary Line (34 page)

The following week, snow arrived and never let up. Gusts plucked up what had fallen, shaped it into heaps and drifts, blocking her door, coating her windows in a frozen
crystalline mess. Clearing a path from her back stoop, she tied two lengths of rope – one from the railing to the outhouse, the other from the railing to Leander's shed. While the outhouse was practical, and the rope guided her when her eyes could not, there was no actual need to be connected to the shed. But in jacket and boots, she would journey there during the storms, pick through Leander's tools and swipe her hands in sawdust that always reappeared even after she'd cleaned. She couldn't bear the idea of being separated from the shed, and she spent countless hours, in blue winter light, poking through boxes and drawers of Leander's items, sorting nails, balling twine. Searching. She was certain there was something there. Something she was meant to find. Hiding from her. More than once, in her frustration, she plucked up a hammer or planer, let it drop, just to hear the dull thud when it struck the wooden floor.

After months of hollow days, rollicking blizzards, nights as black as pitch, the sounds of life that arrived with spring made Stella anxious. Icicles dripping, mud sucking at her boots, crows scraping at scattered bits of garbage, cawing. She removed the ropes that had linked her to the outside world, and coiled them, hung them over the railing to dry. For a moment, she sat on her step, clutched the frayed ends that dangled down. Somehow the winter had kept everything together, tight and clean, and now her world was thawing, coming undone. The snow was receding over the grass, stripping the rocks of their insulation, exposing the tree roots, moistening the soil. Blanket lifted, and Stella felt as though she were naked underneath. She lifted her face towards the sky, and when the wind entangled itself, she thought she could feel the sun, teasing her with hints of distant warmth.

Stella began to clean, swiping cobwebs from corners, airing quilts on the line. With damp cloth, she dusted every surface, but the blackish dust only seemed to shift locations. In the front room, the wallpaper had begun to bubble and let loose, and cracks could be seen near the ceiling. Her land was not much better. Flowerbeds, once overflowing with orderly blooms, were now riddled with the brown stems of nettles, heads long burst, seeds already scattered. Her shrubs were overgrown and spindly, and on her house, she saw flaking paint, several soft boards. When she pressed them, water beaded near the tips of her fingers. How had this happened? As though overnight, her house had stopped singing, starting complaining about aches in joints, weakness in the bones.

Inside the shed, she cracked open two windows, but struggled with the third. The thick coats of paint had bonded, and she used a bone-handled knife to cut through the layers. Heels of her hands pressed against the frame, she grunted and shoved until the window gave way, jumped upwards several inches. Lurching forward, she smacked her hip on the counter, and was forced to kneel, eyes watering from the pulsing pain. A deep breath, and she looked up, noticed a tiny cupboard tucked into a corner underneath the counter. She reached out, ran her fingers over the dented metal knobs.

She could not count the number of times she had looked at that cupboard but never opened it. During her winter visits, she had focused on the newer section Leander had built in the shed, ignoring the corner where her father's things were kept. Stella shimmied closer to the cupboard and tugged at the drawers. Years of neglect in the dampness, and the wood had swollen. Stella had to yank with both hands, then pry her fingers into the crack, and wrench each drawer open

The first two drawers contained nothing of interest, but in the third, she found a cookbook, pages stained with berry juice and mildew. Stella moved out from underneath the counter, sat on a wooden stool, cookbook resting in her lap. Odd to find such an item in a woodworker's shed, and she realized it must have belonged to her mother so many years ago. Perhaps while her father was working, her mother would sit by the fire, maybe even upon the very stool where Stella now perched, and her mother would read through recipes, discuss dinners.

Stella shook her head. These images were difficult to reconcile. Her mother rarely cooked anything other than a hasty meal, and to the best of Stella's knowledge, never spent a moment perusing a cookbook. Delia Abbott was a woman who died with her own flesh withering on her fragile bones. There was no apparent interest in gastronomy. But then, how well did Stella really know her mother? Hardly at all. She barely remembered her. She had died when Stella was only a child. Should she be expected to remember her? Children remembered through their skin, by way of warmth and touch. Her mother had not been a woman who embraced easily, who bent her head just to smell her child's hair.

Opening the book, Stella shuffled the pages gently, and a dusting of flour sifted out onto her skirt. Her breathing slowed when she saw her own name, her maiden name, neatly printed on the inside cover. Miss Stella Abbott. Fingers shook as she turned the pages, read the miniscule notes written beside a multitude of recipes. Secrets. Hints. A record of mother's wisdom, meant to guide a young woman. “Don't handle the crust. Toughens it.” “Treat dough like you would a baby. Gently, but firmly.” “If late berries, cut sugar in half. Too sweet as is.” “Dry pan on stove – or apt
to rust.” In the margins, she noticed the occasional silly doodling, a mouse, surprised expression, missing its tail, a fat blueberry staring upwards at its stately frilly crown.

With the palms of her hands, Stella pressed the pages together, held the book to her chest. There was discomfort there, inside her heart, and Stella took several deep breaths to ease it. Who was the woman who had written those words, sketched those whimsical images? She was the opposite of what Stella had conceived, what she held as fact. In life, her mother had been more than that distant cloud, a bruise on the sky, gradually drifting away from their home. The following realization came to Stella with startling fullness. That she was not, after all, born into the hands of an unhappy woman.

She sighed, closed her eyes, and let the joy spread through her. After wandering for years in dusky shadows, this cookbook felt like a passage, and there was warm milky comfort on the other side. Waiting there. For her to accept it.

Stella stood up, strode out of the shed. She never bothered to close the door.

One afternoon in mid-June, Stella stopped beside the window at the top of the stairs, stared out at the thin strip of sea on the horizon. Though the cobalt mass was calm, she knew beneath it all, there was a continual rumbling that would never cease. Creatures jostled in the currents, skittering fish, watery landscape altered. All these things changing, but the force behind them remained the same. She took solace in this one element of constancy. No matter the walls that surrounded her, no matter the earth beneath her feet, the ocean, her ocean, would never change.

As she stared at the water, she noticed a man standing in the laneway, black hair slicked backwards, hands on his hips, purpose in the spacing of his glossy shoes. Pretty wife beside him, bulbous belly, another child clinging to her skirt. “Go on,” she said firmly and swatted the boy's backside. “Go on and look it over.” He darted towards the skeleton house, climbed the splintery wood, bounced and grabbed and hung from the joists, testing the structure as only a child could. Husband and wife held hands, picked their way through the overgrown path. “I loves the smell,” Stella heard the woman say. “Of building a home.”

Stella thought about Nettie then. Content there in her small apartment, her space filled with items she had chosen. Smelly soaps and warm water from a tap. Kitty cookie jar overflowing with gingersnaps. Grandchildren jumping, jumping against the counter, knocking the kitten over, gorging on spilled treats. Then every Tuesday, reliably, Milton Berle. A man who made her laugh.

In her closet, Stella found her carpet bag, plucked it down from the shelf, laid it on her bed. She stared at it for just a minute, then unzipped, spread the mouth wide. And with no further hesitation, tucked the cookbook inside.

“I had a bad dream, Nanny.”

“Oh, my baby.” Stella rubbed Summer's warm head, tucked the blanket up around her neck. “Tell Nan about it. Sometimes that helps.”

Summer's cheeks were flushed, and she rolled onto her side. “In my dream, it was right dark, and I got out of bed, and came to the kitchen and I looked outside. I could see the moon through the door. The door weren't there, that's why.”

“Where was the door?”

“A man stealed it. I seen him running down the road. Door on his head.”

“On his head?”

“Yes, Nan. On his head.”

“That's really something. I'd imagine that'd be real tough. Balance a big door and run.”

“Was only a dream, Nanny. It's not real.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I weren't scared. A door is just a good thing to have.”

“That it is.”

“Should I chased him?”

“What? Gone after him?”

“To get the door back.” Summer wound her fingers through Stella's, palms touching.

“I wouldn't even think of it.”

“What about the wind? Do you think it'd get in?”

“No, my maid. The wind I knows don't like the indoors.”

“You're right, Nanny.”

Elise was leaning against the doorframe to the living room, a tumbler of clear liquid and ice in hand. “Quite the philosopher, isn't she?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Fever don't seem to affect her tongue.”

“You was like that,” Stella said. “Talked your way through any kind of illness.”

“Don't go filling her head with no old garbage, now.”

“What? I wouldn't do that.” Lips crimped.

“That you wouldn't,” Elise grunted, then turned and went back to the kitchen.

After a moment, Stella whispered, “Are you feeling any better?”

“My head still hurts.”

“How does it hurt?”

“I don't know. It feels kind of like an echo.”

“Maybe another pillow will help.” Stella lifted Summer, placed an embroidered cushion underneath her head.

“Thank you, Nan.”

“God bless you, my little doll.” Kiss on the freckled bridge of her nose. “God bless you.”

Summer sucked on a length of her black hair, stared at Stella. “Nan, what's God?”

“Ummmm. Well, that's a very tough question.”

“Why?”

“Ah, because God is everything.”

“Everything?” Feverish eyes widened. “Is God a sandwich?”

“I guess so.” No old garbage now.

“I bet God is in the phone. How else would phones work?”

“You might be right.”

“He's in a rainbow for sure.”

“Yes, for sure.”

She took the wet hair from her mouth, drew lines across her chin. “Is He in me?”

“Of course. Without a doubt, my little lover.”

“Where to?” She touched her nose, poked her pinky in her bellybutton.

“Well, there is a part inside of you that's sweetness, right? Somewhere in there.” Stella placed a hand on Summer's chest. “You feel happiness. Or love. Well, that's God. That's what I reckons anyway. Other folks might think different.”

Summer pinched her upper arm, ran her fingers over her ribs. “I don't feel God. I think that's bones, Nanny. It's like rock.”

Stella laughed, touched Summer's cheek.

“I want to meet Him. Can we call Him?”

“God?” Stella frowned thoughtfully. “What would you like to ask Him?”

“I'd ask Him to change this monkey on my pajamas into a bunny rabbit.”

“I'm not sure He could do that. Or if He'd want to.”

“Why not? I don't like monkeys. I bet He'd have green skin. And I'd be scared to see him, and He'd be a bit scared too.”

“Maybe, sweetie. I'm not sure about all that. But I do know one thing.”

“What's that, Nan?”

“That He really loves you. No matter what you do in your life, He'll always love you.”

“Like you love me?”

“Yes, my baby.”

“And like you loved Pop before he died?”

“Yes, my baby.”

Summer sat up a little on her elbows, took a drink of apple juice that Stella offered, then lay back, started tying the floppy ears of her bunny into knots.

“Nanny?”

“Yes?”

“Did you ever have another boyfriend after Pop?”

Shifting in her seat, Stella glanced towards the door to the kitchen. “Not a one.”

“Never wanted to smooch someone else?”

“Never.”

“Never wanted to get married again?”

“Hardly.” A laughing word.

“Don't lie to the child.” Elise was at the door again, tumbler still full, or refilled. Stella could only guess. “Tell her the truth.”