Watch How We Walk (25 page)

39

HIS APARTMENT WAS A MESS,
the air was too warm, and it smelled of stale smoke. I tripped over a guitar case and gouged my shin on an amplifier when we came in. He took me by the hand and led me to the edge of his unmade bed, where we kissed some more. Theo's lips were soft and insistent, and it felt good, but I was distracted by thoughts of whether or not I was doing everything properly, and if I should be doing it at all. That, and the place was filthy. I tried to ignore the dirty dishes that littered the small table, stove, and counter.

— Do you want some water?

I nodded and he filled a glass for me. After checking that nothing was visibly floating in it, I gulped it until it was empty.

Don't think about the germs, don't think about the germs
.

I was careful not to say it aloud.

We rolled around on his bed and I let him undo the rest of the buttons on my shirt. My kilt soon followed and joined the shirt on the floor. I wasn't sure what to do next.

What should I do?

Undo his pants.

I did as she instructed and he moaned. He undid my bra and licked my nipples. I sighed and arched my back. No wonder Lenora liked this.

A tiny twinge of guilt singed me but I ignored it.
Neither fornicators, nor adulterers, shall enter into the Kingdom of God.

I closed my eyes and concentrated on Theo's tongue teasing my stomach instead. He swirled and nibbled and I moaned out loud. Then he stopped and stood up.

— I'm going to put on some music. Any requests?

Joy Division. ‘Atmosphere.' He'll know why.

—
Joy Division. ‘Atmosphere.'

— Sure. Good pick.

He put on the CD, lit a couple of candles, and returned to the bed. We made out for a while longer, then he stopped and sat up.

— I'm going to get a condom, okay?

This was it. The moment I'd both anticipated and feared. I hoped I would do everything right, I hoped I wouldn't panic, I hoped it wouldn't hurt.

Tell him no.

What?

No condom.

But I might get pregnant!

You want to be me, don't you?

I didn't know what to do. That wasn't fair. My heart was pounding and the beer sloshed in my stomach and the room spun and tilted and I almost threw up. I grabbed the sheets in my fist and focused on a faraway light across the city until the room stopped moving.

It wasn't fair. While Theo rummaged through a nearby dresser drawer, my eyes welled. She had no right to ask me to do that. Was this her vengeful way of getting back at me? To make me have the baby she didn't? I had no idea what good that would do.

No. I don't want to.

Then you're a fraud.

I don't care. I don't even think it's really him.

Don't be stupid. Of course it is. You're just too scared.

She was right; I was scared. I was scared it was going to hurt a lot, I was scared that he would think I was a loser, and I was scared — still — of Lenora being mad at me.

And I was scared of getting pregnant.

Theo finished rolling the condom on and I didn't stop him. The candle nearest the bed flickered and went out. I closed my eyes.

It did hurt, but not that badly; it was more like a strange pinch. He moaned and I clenched my teeth.

— You're not Theo, are you?

— Huh? Droplets of his sweat fell from his shaven head onto my chest and face.

— Theo. My sister said you were him.

— You can call me whatever you want. He kind of laughed.

I counted ten more thrusts, then he made a gurgling, growl-like sound. He tossed the condom into a nearby garbage bag, and fell asleep with his arm across my chest. I lay like that, afraid to move, for a long time.

It was too dark to check his wallet, but I didn't need to. She had tricked me. It wasn't him. She just wanted me to end up like her. I was so naïve and gullible. I thought I was doing her a favour, I thought that I could make up for everything, and most of all, I thought that she would forgive me, even miss me. I was wrong. It was my first time being drunk, but it seemed to offer a strange clarity. I knew I wanted to stay there and figure out, if I wasn't going to be Lenora, who I really was.

I DIDN'T KNOW WHERE
I
WAS
when I woke up. I felt sick. The room smelled different from mine, damp and musty, like a laundry hamper. The streetcars' clang sounded nearer than usual, and I could hear music above me — a horribly repetitive thumping that hurt my already throbbing head. I squinted through the sunlight and saw an old poster of The Cure, one corner curled in, obscuring “Boys” in the title, leaving just “Don't Cry.”

Lenora had had the same one hung on the back of her bedroom door.

I was sore. But I knew that would go away, and that the next time would be better. If there was a next time.

Fragments of the night before began to seep back, bits in a kaleidoscope falling into a pattern. Whether or not it was the right configuration mattered less to me than creating some sort — any sort — of cohesion to the evening.

I was in Theo's apartment. Zack's. Zack wasn't Theo. At least, I didn't believe he was. But I was sure that I wasn't a virgin anymore.

He was already awake, sitting on the end of the futon with his back to me. I ducked my head under the covers and quickly scanned the sheets: no blood. I didn't want him to know he'd been the first.

I wanted a shower, I wanted to leave, I wanted my own clothes. I wanted him to kiss me. But I wanted, more than anything else at that moment, to not throw up. His grey t-shirt was still lying next to the bed and I pulled it on. A nearby clock radio said it was nine in the morning. I vaguely remembered that he'd said something about having to work sometime later that day, but I didn't know when. Or where. I really needed to use the bathroom.

— Good morning. My first words as a non-virgin, and they were so anti-climactic. What did people usually say?

He didn't respond. Nor did he turn around. He ran is hand over his shaven head and ignored me.

I found my underwear in the folds of the sheets, pulled them on, and scrambled out of his bed. My head seemed to spin one way and my eyes another. On my way to the bathroom, I tripped over my own purse. The contents spilled, but I didn't stop, I'd clean it up when I came out. I stumbled into the bathroom and closed the door. I didn't dare sit down on the toilet seat. There were nine dark curly hairs on the edge of the bathtub, and seven more in the sink. My stomach heaved again. I started to sweat and my heart sped up, as though it were bouncing down a steep hill. Flashes of bright white and red surged behind my eyelids.

— Oh no, please no, please God no, no no no . . . It was so easy to slip back into that old prayer habit.

Breathe,
I could hear Janice coaching me,
just breathe.
I inhaled and exhaled slowly twelve times. My pulse slowed, my stomach calmed. I was safe. I had to be. After so many years, I wasn't going to let myself throw up again. Ever. I splashed my face with cold water and dried it off with what appeared to be the cleanest towel.

When I came out, my purse was on the bed, and the wallet and lipstick and keys were no longer on the floor. He sat on the edge of the mattress, still naked, this time facing me. He had his head down, and he fiddled with something in his hand. I stood there in front of him, stupidly, not knowing what to say. Maybe he wasn't a morning person. Maybe he wanted me to leave. Maybe he even had a girlfriend. Maybe he was onto me. I took one more deep breath and decided to get out and go home as quickly as possible.

He lifted his head up. His huge brown eyes stared at me, unsmiling. I rubbed my temples and tried to grin. How did people behave after they had sex for the first time? I had no idea, no basis for comparison. I stood there and waved a goofy little wave.

He didn't wave back. He stared at me. A dare, a challenge. I wavered, I looked away, I swayed. Someone slammed a door in the hallway. I jolted.

He had my driver's license in his hand. He stared hard at me. I couldn't tell if the look on his face was of fear or disgust. Or both.

— You told me your name was Lenora.

My stomach muscles constricted. An acrid, sweet odour that only I could smell, then a sour nausea.

— You told me your name was Zack.

— It is. He tossed his own license at me. It landed next to my feet, facing up at me. Nowhere did it say Theo Hansen.

— Give me that! I lunged at him. He held my identification above my head. I stumbled and scraped my knee on the corner of his futon frame.

— Lenora's not even your middle name.

I clawed his chest and pulled at his arm but he held it out of reach.

— That's mine! I intended to sound commanding, but it came out cloying and desperate. Then he abruptly threw my license onto the floor next to his.

— Who are you?

— No one. Nothing. None of your business.

— I don't get it. What kind of game are you playing? I know we moved pretty fast, but I like you. I mean, well, I'd like to get to know you better. But you lied about who are and then had sex with me. That's kind of weird.

He looked at me, waiting.

— Are you hiding from someone? Do you have a boyfriend? Jesus Christ, you're not married, are you?

— No. Of course not.

I scrambled into my clothes and grabbed my coat.

He pulled on his plaid boxer shorts and leaned against the window ledge, smoking a Camel Light. I opened his door to leave.

— I'm sorry. It's hard to explain.

— I'm a pretty good listener.

He took a step toward me, then stopped.

— It's impossible to explain.

— Well, if you change your mind and want to hang out and talk, call me. I left my number in your purse. But no bullshit.

I walked out, pulling the door closed behind me, and ran down the three flights of stairs to the icy street. Instinctively, I reached for the bracelet around my left wrist, then stopped and grabbed the handrail, trying to catch my breath. Light as it was, made of braided hair, I had worn it every day for a decade, and I had never lost it. I checked my purse — not there. My stomach lurched. I pushed open the door to the street, desperate for air. And I recognized nothing in the neighbourhood.

My head still throbbed with pain and the light was too bright. It had started to snow again, whirling and surging around me. I scoured my pockets and found nothing. I was disoriented, as though my frantic race down the staircase had catapulted me back in time. I looked down, trying to steady myself. White glares smeared with red. I closed my eyes but it was too late.

My mouth filled immediately with bile. I had no time to stop it. Cramps wracked my entire body, and I contorted rigidly, my arms clenched at my sides. I fell to my knees and vomited three times on the sidewalk.

Tears streamed down my face. The snow was just like it was back home, and it stung my face like a thousand tiny daggers.

A full decade, to the day, since I had last thrown up. I had no idea what would happen next.

40

THOUGH ALWAYS A STRAIGHT-A
STUDENT,
Emily can hardly concentrate anymore. Her appetite has vanished and lunches go straight into the garbage can. Whenever she sees a police car on the street, she shakes uncontrollably and has to close her eyes as though blinded by red and blue swirling lights. The sound of sirens, the scent of vanilla — these are the details that immobilize her. Nightmares and panic attacks shred what little sleep she gets, and she often wakes up panting, sweating, and disoriented. On the edge of her bed, she forces herself to open her eyes, and reality surges back. She clenches her blankets in agony, unable to get back to sleep, and eventually, unwilling.

Most days, Emily is a zombie, drowsy and distant, as though on the other side of a pane of frosted glass. Everything had changed overnight; the world is nothing now but threat and peril, and she doesn't know how to make it otherwise.

She still goes to the meetings at the Hall with her
father, and sometimes her mom comes too, though unwillingly. Emily can concentrate no better at the Hall than she can in the classroom. Her mom shifts angrily in her chair, then blatantly sighs when she disagrees with something, such as
men are the head of the household.
Everyone can tell what she's thinking; it's uncomfortable, even embarrassing, to sit by her.

Emily is convinced that their house is full of black holes. There is no other explanation. Her mother disappears into hers and does not re-emerge from her bed for days. Her back is always the last thing Emily sees as her mother supports her thin body with her hands on either side of the door frame, her head slumped forward and dark hair askew. She heaves a sigh, then closes the door behind her. No one knocks or opens it until she stumbles out on her own.

Except for the Bible and
Watchtower
magazines, her father appears to be afraid to touch things. When he reaches toward his hat or a fork, his hands shake and he pulls away and tries again. The den, lined with bound volumes of the magazines and other Watchtower Society books, is a safer place for him, so he spends most of his time there, and at the Hall.

Certain parts of the house have become off limits. No one sits in or even puts a jacket or bag on Lenora's chair. Whether intentional or not, they walk widely around it. Dust has begun to layer it, and one morning, Emily stands over it, as close as she can without touching it, and blows it off.

Her bedroom door is kept closed. When Emily walks past it, she feels the air sucked from her lungs. She stops and stares and listens for her. Emily convinces herself that it was all a bad dream, and that Lenora is just away, and will eventually be back. If no one else is watching, Emily will stay as quiet as she can and hold her breath, then put her ear to the door. Maybe she has secretly returned and is living in her room, unbeknownst to anyone. Emily wouldn't tell on her; she could sneak in food and water and notes. She is sure that all of this is possible.

One morning, Emily faints right there in front of her door. When she comes to, her dad is kneeling beside her, crying.

— It's okay, Dad. I'm all right. I think I just blacked out, that's all.

She sits up and he crushes her in his arms, his rough cheek wet against her neck. Then he abruptly pulls her to her feet and walks away.

WHEN EMILY NEARS THE AGE
Lenora was when she was baptized, her father starts to pressure her to do the same. He says it is for her protection, to ensure her everlasting life, but Emily doesn't believe him anymore. She is determined to avoid taking such a drastic step, one that is impossible to undo.

— You wouldn't want to miss the Resurrection, would you? He doesn't have to mention Lenora.

— I don't think I'm ready yet.

— You're getting close. Let's go over some of the questions.

Her father closes the
Watchtower
issue he had open on the kitchen table and folds his hands together, perfectly centred on top of the cover.

— What is the significance of the year 1914?

Emily hesitates. She knows the answer, but she also knows that Lenora wished that she hadn't gotten baptized so young.

— Is that when Jesus Christ returned to Earth?

— Yes, but what else?

Emily bites her lips and scrunches up her face as though searching hard for the correct answer.

— What did 1914 mark the beginning of?

— I forget. Emily looks down at the table and traces the grain of the wood with a ragged thumbnail. Her father sighs loudly.

— It was the start of the Last Days. Remember? Let's try another question, an easy one.

— Okay.

— What is signified by the Wild Beast in the Book of Revelation?

— Satan the Devil?

— No, Emily. Concentrate. The Wild Beast. You know this.

A full five minutes pass and neither of them speak, until her father clears his throat and tells her the answer.

— It's the United Nations. You should have gotten that one. You need to read fewer worldly books and more of the Bible and
The Watchtower.
We'll try again in a couple weeks.

When they do, Emily misconstrues several prophecies, and bungles the chronology of several simple Old Testament stories. Her father appears to give up on the idea for a while, telling her that she is too immature and unprepared for baptism. She overhears him explaining to an elder on the phone that it is their shared trauma that has arrested her religious development.

AT THE BEGINNING OF EACH
school year, Emily's parents write a note to her teacher excusing her from any activities or assignments that focus on Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Easter, or birthdays, as well the national anthem and Lord's Prayer. All Emily has to do is hand the teacher the note. Usually, they've taught other Jehovah's Witnesses before, so they just nod, fold the note back up, and put it in a drawer.

But after eighth grade, Emily is on her own, like the other Witness teenagers. It is up to her to explain to her grade nine homeroom teacher why she cannot stand for the anthem. Emily is now old enough to Witness to teachers herself.

Jehovah's Witnesses are to be
No part of this world,
which means . . .

Other kids obsess over their first-day-of-high-school outfits, and Emily worries a little bit over what to wear too, but mostly she dreads trying to explain their religion to a new teacher. She practises what to say, and hopes she can get there early, before any other students arrive.

Well, it means . . . that we have to keep apart from politics . . . stay neutral about government . . .

Every rehearsed explanation sounds awkward and ridiculous, so she asks her mom what to say.

— Just tell them it's against your religion. She doesn't look up from the television and just waves her away. Emily wishes she could remember what her parents used to write in her notes in public school. Maybe she could just forge a note. What had Lenora said to her teachers? Her explanation was probably concise and confident; she would never have been this afraid.

Emily barely sleeps the night before her first day of high school and the insides of her cheeks are raw from biting them and grinding her teeth.

She wakes up disoriented and nauseated, but doesn't call out to her parents for comfort. They barely speak to her or to one another at this point anyway. Emily knows they still care about her, at least she thinks they do, but they are too preoccupied with their own guilt. It's as though they've crawled into the damp caverns of grief, lain down, and forgotten about Emily.

She can't shake off her unease as she waits until it's time to go to the monstrous high school. She switches on the light and picks at her gums until they bleed, then scratches her sister's initials into the margins of the
Watchtower
article lying open nearby.

The secondary school's hallways are wide and dim and loud with teenagers. The older kids lounge in clumps along the lockers and jeer at the nervous ninth graders. Emily keeps her head down and ignores taunts of “Minor niner” and “Loser.” She finds her locker and fusses with the lock but eventually gets it open, puts her jacket away, and finds her homeroom. She pauses in the doorway. The classroom is almost full and there are very few familiar faces. In the front corner of the room, there's a girl in a tight denim dress and bright pink shiny lipstick, her blond hair crimped to a nearly impossible volume. If it wasn't for her same thick, round glasses, Emily would never would have recognized Agnes the Pentecostal. She stretches up in her seat and waves. She looks like an exotic bird taking flight. Emily smiles back. A few boys from her old school sit together near the back, all elbows and pimples and rattling chairs. The room smells like a combination of sweat, wet wool, and cheap perfume.

The teacher is young, probably new, with her long dark hair clipped back, and she wears a black skirt and white blouse. She fidgets with a small gold cross around her neck, and Emily knows she won't like her rehearsed speech about abstaining from the national anthem and the Lord's Prayer. Emily stands in the doorway for a moment, unsure what to do. Then she closes her eyes briefly and remembers when Lenora pulled Tammy Bales off her in the ditch, and when she would change out of a mini skirt and into corduroy pants on the way home from school, and when she would do her hair before going to the Kingdom Hall, and tell Emily her secrets. Then she has a flash of the last time she saw her. Her stomach constricts briefly, and another student elbows her out of the doorway.

Emily knows what to do.

As the rest of the students file in and slump down into seats, she walks over to a desk near Agnes and sits down. Agnes smiles and Emily grins back. She doesn't even look at the teacher and doesn't hear the woman's name when she introduces herself. Emily grips the side of her desk, steeling herself.

When “O Canada” crackles through the public address system, her heart thuds like a huge bird against the cage of her ribs — the entire class must be able to hear it over the music. Then she stands up. She doesn't leave the room. She just stands up like everybody else. Her head feels light, she's dizzy and feels more conspicuous than if she'd been standing outside the room in the hallway like every year before. She twists around to look at what her classmates are doing, how they're standing, if they're looking up or down or straight ahead, if they're singing along. Emily doesn't even know the words to the national anthem. She stands next to her desk, shuffling from foot to foot and wills it to be over quickly.

When she sits back down with the rest of her class, she feels a rush of adrenaline. She can't stop grinning. She knows that there's no way she can get away with it; the town is just too small and sooner or later, she'll be found out. She's going to get in big trouble, not just with her parents, but with the elders too. But for once, she doesn't care. For the rest of that day, she holds her head high, sailing from class to class, sitting where she wants, talking to whomever she chooses, as she imagines Lenora had. At 3:30 the bell rings and she smiles, amused that her first act of rebellion has been one of conformity.

That night, she sleeps better than she has in a long time.