Beneath the Silence: A Novel

by Charlene Carr

Genres: General Fiction; Coming of Age; Women's Fiction; African American Women's Fiction; Authors of color

Synopsis

Secrets have consequences. If given the power, they will lead you into a life you never dreamed of or wanted.

Brooke Lake is a girl caught in a town and a life she yearns to escape. Full of fear and questions without answers, she tries to escape, only to lose herself in a world that's too much for her.

Molly Shirley is a woman without a past and no foreseeable future. Her body is her best commodity, so she does whatever she has to do to survive.

Broken by lies, Brooke and Molly must explore the parts of themselves they would rather keep secret. Only by confronting the past can they develop the strength to create a life of their own making—a life where love and forgiveness never come too late.

- An intriguing drama that both repels and magnetizes the reader to the page, Beneath the Silence follows the story of a woman's struggle to make sense of a dark world. Explore the hold of the past in this gripping novel and witness the strength it takes to break free from pain and create a life worth living.

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>> Beneath the Silence is not for everyone. It deals with themes of physical, sexual, and emotional abuse that could be upsetting for some readers.

Now with a new cover!

Release date: July 5, 2015

Publisher: Coastal Lines

Print pages: 385

Content advisory: Themes of physical, sexual, and emotional abuse. Pregnancy loss.

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

 

***

Rhett’s Bend, Nova Scotia

2012

 

Brooke stepped out of the cab in her high-laced black boots and tossed the driver two crumpled twenties.

“This is where you want off?”

She gave a curt nod and kicked at the dirt road. A flurry of dust sprang to the air in protest.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere.” The driver stared at her, his brow furrowed. He was old. Kind-looking. If she asked, he’d likely drive her right back to the bus station.

“This is it.” She gave the driver a half wave, a partial smile. She’d come too far to turn back now.

A cloud of dust erupted as the cab drove off. At last the dirt settled, leaving a long and empty road. Brooke hefted her massive backpack up on her shoulder. She turned her head to the one sound that broke the silence left in the cab’s wake. The Eastern Meadowlarks’ song was just as she remembered. Pure, wistful, persistent. The soundtrack of her childhood.

Seven years. Not a lifetime since she’d heard that sound, but it felt like one. She turned and saw the proud ‘Rails to Trails’ sign. This crushed gravel was not what she’d expected. It seemed fitting that the road home, the tracks she’d balanced on time and time again as a girl, would be covered over and pressed down with rocks. She inhaled, let the breath out slowly, then stepped onto the trail. No matter. It was still the way home.

 

 

***

Rhett’s Bend

2002

 

Brooke woke up smiling. Twelve. She was twelve! Her father was gone—thousands of kilometres away. And Riv had a surprise for her. A good surprise. An excellent surprise. He’d been hinting for days. She stretched in the sheets, that wonderful mix of warm bed and cool air flowing over her. She yanked the cord of her blind and sunlight flooded across the room, making the dust dance. Brooke whipped her head to the sound of her door creaking open. Riv’s head popped into view, a grin she hadn’t seen in ages plastered on his face.

“What? You planning to sleep the day away?”

“I’m up. I’m up.” Brooke rolled out of bed. “Will you tell me now?”

Riv’s grin turned to a smirk. “Nope. Just get dressed.”

Minutes later, Brooke stepped out of the shower to the scent of bacon wafting up the stairs. Riv’s Omelette Supreme.

She raced down the stairs, across the hall, and into the kitchen where a plate full of Omelette Supreme sat, a glass of orange juice by its side. “Can you please make these every day?” Savoury juices dribbled down her chin.

Riv leaned back with his feet up on the table and gave his lop-sided smile. “Geez. Eat much, Brookey Baby?”

Brooke finished chewing her bite and swallowed. “They’re just so good!” Riv leaned forward and took a big bite himself. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d sat across from each other like this—just the two of them. In the past few years he’d changed. Torn denim and chains was his signature look. He listened to punk music, hung out with punk kids, wearing their uniform of sleeveless shirts and piercings. He lifted weights for hours.

Not that she cared. It was fine. Or it would be fine, if during the few hours a day he was home he didn’t treat his headphones like they were as necessary as oxygen. Even when he ‘pumped iron’ the headphones were on. If she tried to talk to him he’d pull one side of the headphones away, sigh a ‘Huh?’ then half listen. Sometimes she longed for the days before his Discman. Sometimes she plotted ways to get rid of it. But he’d just get a new one.

Today though, his ears were free. That was gift enough.

Riv straightened his curls two to three times a week, wearing his hair long and slick, almost covering one eye. It was a wasted attempt to blend in, though Brooke would never point this out. Riv was pissy and defensive enough without her making it worse. Besides, she got it—the desire to fit in. Brooke was darker than anyone else in town, besides their mother, of course, and Riv was darker still.

When he was younger the kids called him Blackie, or Brillo head. If they’d lived a few towns over, in Gibson Woods or Aldershot, where every shade of honey and caramel, mocha and dark chocolate walked the streets, it wouldn’t have mattered. But they didn’t. They lived here.

Finishing his last bite, Riv flexed his arms, making little bulges appear under his tight skull and bones Sum 41 t-shirt.

“Will you tell me now?”

“No.” Riv stood. “Finish eating and we’ll go.”

Brooke practically attacked the remaining bites, chewing fast and swallowing hard. She scraped the remaining dregs of cheese, rushed her plate to the sink, gave it a rinse, then followed Riv to the back door. He threw a backpack over his shoulder and handed one to Brooke. “Put on good shoes, hiking shoes.”

“All right.” Brooke followed her brother out the door, up the drive, through the field, and onto the train tracks. As soon as they left the tracks to head up Main Street, Riv’s walk slowed to a saunter. He wore the tough, uninterested expression that always made Brooke feel as if she were looking at a mask of her brother, not the real him.

Only once they reached the woods on the other side of town did Riv hurry his pace and smile back at her, the mask having vanished. “Hustle a bit, would you?”

“I’m hustling!” She laughed, pushing to keep up with his long strides as he turned onto a barely there path Brooke had never noticed before. “Tell me where we’re going.”

“Patience, Brookey Baby. Patience.”

Brooke slowed and let out a dramatic sigh then sped up her pace to match Riv’s. Though three years younger, she was almost as tall as him so it wasn’t that hard. The trail was spindly. Only wide enough for one. It twisted and turned as they rushed over large tree roots and small boulders.

Brooke tried to think of the last day she’d spent with Riv. She couldn’t. When they were young, they’d spent hours together—building forts in the woods, searching for blueberries, travelling into fantasy worlds, Gabe usually along for the adventure. At night, her mother would snuggle her and Riv up under the comforter and read stories: Little House on the Prairie, The Secret Garden, a big book of Fairy Stories—Brooke loved the ones with princesses rescued by a handsome knight or brave prince. Some nights—when Brooke was really young, before grade primary—her dad would sit in Mom’s rocker and listen too. After, he’d carry Riv and Brooke back to their own rooms, one of them slung under each arm, ‘like a sack of potatoes’, he’d say with a wink. Other times he’d start snoring and Riv, Brooke, and her mother would laugh, enjoying the joke.

Story time was a thing of the past. Sometimes her mother stood at the door and said good night—she hovered there, as if afraid to step in, pull the covers up under Brooke’s chin, smooth and kiss her forehead—but not often. Riv usually wasn’t even home when Brooke went to bed. She didn’t worry about his absence when their father was home. She knew Riv stayed away from Jack the way a cat avoids water, but the other nights…what kept him away? The possibilities made her chest tight and her stomach twisty.

As she walked, Brooke tried to hold onto the memory of that happy family, curled up together under warm blankets. It seemed like a scene from someone else’s life.

When they reached a clearing, Riv stopped. A boy Brooke recognized from the high school leaned against a tree. He was tall and thin, the sleeves of his white t-shirt rolled up despite the chill. His jaw was firm and his eyes piercing. He sucked on a joint, long and smooth, held his breath, staring at them, then let the smoke drift out lazily. “About time,” he drawled.

“Yeah, sorry, Tommy.” Riv gave the guy a quick handshake. “Girls, you know.” He tossed his head toward Brooke. “Hard to get them moving.”

“Of course.” Tommy eyed Brooke, an expression on his face she’d become familiar with in recent months, since small mounds appeared on her chest as if out of nowhere and her hips expanded, making none of her jeans fit the way they used to. The boys in her class seemed almost scared of her. The older boys, boys like Tommy, with tight jeans and slicked back hair, looked at her like they were seeing her for the first time, and like they liked what they saw. “She’s your sister, right?”

“Yeah, she’s my sister.” Riv’s voice tightened.

Tommy looked just like Ponyboy. Cuter, maybe. Brooke swallowed and turned from the intensity of his gaze and his faint smirk. A rowboat and fishing poles leaned against a tree just up the trail. Brooke grinned, Tommy’s gaze forgotten. She almost grabbed Riv’s arm. Almost jumped with delight, but she knew better than to talk around Riv’s friends.

Riv stepped toward the boat and yanked it to the shore while Tommy kept his sly smile on Brooke. “Hey,” he called to Riv, “aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Yeah.” Riv gritted his teeth and sauntered back over. “Brooke, this is Tommy. Tommy, Brooke. She’s turning twelve today.”

“Twelve!” Tommy laughed, his head shaking. “Wow. You better keep an eye on this one!”

“Oh, I will.” Riv pushed on a smile. “Thanks again, man.”

“Not a worry.” Tommy pushed away from the tree. “Just put it back like you found it.”

 “Fishing,” Brooke squeaked once Tommy had walked out of earshot. “That was the big secret?”

Riv grinned. “That was the big secret. You like?”

“Yes! It’s been years. At least two.” Brooke scanned the rich mix of evergreens, maple and birch around them, all reflecting off the placid water. “And where are we, I didn’t even know this lake existed.” She stepped into the boat, laughing as it wobbled.

Riv reached forward to steady her. “Good. I thought you’d probably never been here. It’s nice. Peaceful. I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t see anyone else all day.”

No one else all day. All day with Riv. Excitement bubbled through her.

“And see that island? We’ll tie the boat up at an old stump by the opposite shore, explore, have lunch.”

“Our own deserted island?”

“Exactly.”

Brooke leaned back in the boat, enjoying the way it rocked gently. “This is awesome.”

“You’re welcome.” Riv baited his hook, put his feet up, and leaned back as well. Brooke stared at him. He was only a few inches shorter than their father now. They shared the same chin and nose, but the similarity stopped there. Where Jack was broad and sturdy, Riv was scrawny. He seemed all arms and legs, sprawled out in the boat like that. Brooke smiled. He looked like the brother she remembered, not the strange person he’d become.

Her last birthday had been on a Thursday and she loved Thursday. The way Jack’s schedule worked, nine times out of ten he would be gone or leave on a Thursday. Lying in bed, as the sun started its slow rise, Brooke had heard the grumble and roar of her father’s rig coming to life, followed by the slow rumble as it made its way out their long drive. She didn’t have any real birthday plans—a morning of reading and watching TV, an afternoon in the woods with Gabe, an evening with her mother and Riv. No cake. But a special lasagna dinner. The birthday before that, her tenth, her father had been gone too, as had Riv. When Brooke got home from Gabe’s she had checked the old fort where Riv sometimes hid out, but he wasn’t there. She tiptoed through the house, not wanting to see her mother’s face. Virginia would be in one of two places: in the rocker in her room, staring out the window or writing in the journal she took out from time to time; or at the kitchen table, a cup of cold coffee in her hand.

‘Brooke?’ Her mother had called, her voice hardly more than a whisper travelling softly on the air.

‘Yes?’ Brooke shuffled toward the kitchen, her head down. She focused on breathing. Her mother sat slumped at the table, her chin resting in one hand and a cup of coffee—almost certainly cold—in the other. Brooke tried not to look at the bruises. When she was younger, she used to pretend if she didn’t see the bruises they weren’t really there. Most times she couldn’t see them. Brooke knew from her mother’s movements that they covered her back or stomach or side. When long sleeves appeared in the hottest days of summer, it would be her arms that bore the evidence. He rarely hit Virginia’s face. But when he did …

It was hard not to look. Especially that day, when they were basically her fault. Brooke had stayed out all day, coming home after dinner had already cooled. She hadn’t called. She hadn’t stopped in to say where she was or what she was doing. The bruises, she knew, would have come along with the words, Why don’t you know where your children are? What kind of mother are you?

‘Come here, Honey.’ Maybe Virginia finally remembered it was Brooke’s birthday—had called her in to apologize for not mentioning it that morning. Maybe she had a present for her, or a card at least. ‘You off to bed?’

Brooke nodded.

Virginia nodded back, expressionless. ‘Is your brother home?’

‘No.’ Brooke stood several steps away from her mother.

‘What does he do out this late?’ Brooke cringed at the pleading in her mother’s eyes. ‘He shouldn’t be out this late.’ Virginia shook her head and offered a smile. ‘Does he tell you where he goes? Do you know, Baby?’

‘No.’ The older Brooke got, the easier the lies came. She never liked lying, but it was easier than the truth sometimes. She didn’t know where Riv had been, but she was pretty sure she knew who he was with. He’d taken up with the older boys. The ones who drank and smoked and did other things they shouldn’t be doing. She wasn’t sure what exactly, but from the way people talked, those other things were worse than the first two.

Virginia took a sip of her drink then scrunched her nose. ‘You said you’re going to bed?’

Brooke nodded.

‘Come give me a hug then.’ Brooke closed the distance between them. Virginia wrapped her arms around Brooke, her hand stroking Brooke’s hair felt like love. The scent of ground coffee beans filled Brooke’s nostrils. ‘Look at you, all blades of grass and curly wisps.’ Virginia smiled. ‘You were in the woods, weren’t you?’ She smoothed Brooke’s hair again. ‘When I was your age, I used to do that too, playing with the fairies.’

I’m a little old for fairies, Brooke wanted to say, but she didn’t. Instead, she pulled back, trailing her fingers across the discolouration along her mother’s jaw. ‘Mom?’

‘Go to bed now.’ Virginia had straightened up, her smile jiggling like jello.

 

“Hello, earth to Brooke, earth to—”

“What?” Brooke snapped to attention. Riv stared at her from the other side of the boat like she was crazy. “Sorry.” Brooke smiled. “I was just thinking.”

“Good thoughts?”

Brooke shrugged. “It’s a beautiful day, huh? Blue sky, hardly a breeze.”

“Practically perfect. I ordered it up special.” Riv grinned. Now that Brooke was back to the present, they chatted as they floated, Riv telling Brooke about the bands he listened to—not the ones she’d suspected, based on his friends and the music they blared—and how he was going to make it big one day, if he could just afford this guitar he’d been looking at. He cast his line once more. “Jimi Hendrix big.”

“Jimi Hendrix?”

“Yeah, you know Jimi Hendrix, right?”

Brooke shook her head and listened, enraptured, as Riv enlightened her through song, miming out guitar riffs.

“But you don’t even play guitar.”

“I play.” Riv stuck his chin out. “A ton. At a buddy’s place. I’m good too.” He paused. “I’d be better. I could be better. He won’t let me take it home and I can’t really practice when the other fellas are around. But when I get my own…” His voice drifted. “What about you? You writing much?”

Brooke told him about a new story she’d been thinking up.

“Write it down.”

“Nah.”

“Brooke, you’re always talking about stories you think up. Talk’s nothing. Stories do no good if they’re just in your head. Write ‘em down.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Give me one good reason why not.”

“I just don’t want to, Riv.”

“What’s the point then? If you’re not sharing them?”

“Well ...” Brooke leaned back, her gaze on the ripples in the lake, captivated by the bugs that danced across the surface. She felt Riv’s eyes on her and looked up. “I share them with you, don’t I?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Riv laughed. “I guess.”

“Besides, I like them. I like thinking of them. Any time I try to put them on paper, it’s like all the magic fizzles away.”

“I get that.” Riv sighed. “Never mind me. You do what you want. Whatever you want.”

 

Brooke caught two fish and Riv one, but they made it a catch and release day. “No sense puttin’ any more hurt in the world,” said Riv. But it still hurt, Brooke thought as she unhooked the slimy, wriggling creatures. It didn’t kill, but it hurt.

After a lunch of baloney and cheese sandwiches Riv must have packed before Brooke was even awake, they explored the island then paddled back to shore. Riv bought them burgers in town, the two of them perched side by side on a fence as grease and ketchup dribbled down their fingers. Then, tired and satisfied, they walked home beneath a sienna sky. Brooke’s feet slowed and her spine stiffened as they turned down the bend in their lane and saw Jack’s rig parked in front of the house. Brooke glanced at Riv, whose saunter returned, though with a clenched fist. He hadn’t seen their father in months. Every time Jack was supposed to be home, Riv spent the night at a friend’s place. Tonight, Jack wasn’t supposed to be home.

 

 

 

***

Montreal

 

Molly took a deep breath and stepped past the gilded curtain. A surprising rush of excitement flooded her. Light splashed across her face and shimmered on her sequined skirt and bra. She turned on her stiletto heels and kicked her leg to the sky. The crowd’s energy pulsated through the room. That excitement, all of that excitement, directed at her. Looping her glittering ankle around the pole, Molly flung her head back, casting her most enticing smile into the darkness behind the lights that blinded her.

She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was out there, eyes glued to her every motion. He had to be there. She could feel him. She moved for him. In one swift motion she coiled her leg around the pole and pulled her body upward. Her muscles tightened and her skin glistened as her body expertly carried out the moves she’d been mastering for months. Behind her, seven women made their way through the curtain and into formation. Molly unwound her body from the pole, gaze always on the invisible crowd, and joined in the dance.

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

***

Rhett’s Bend

2002

 

Brooke looked toward the house. Beyond their father’s rig, light shone from the downstairs windows. Riv pulled her into a quick hug. “All right, hope you had a good birthday. I’m off.”

“Riv.”

“You’re here. You’re safe. I’m out.”

“Safe?”

“Yeah.” He put his hand on Brooke’s shoulder. “Keep your head low, your mouth shut, he’s not going to hurt you.”

“Just like he’d never hurt you?”

“Yeah, but you’re smart. Don’t be like me. Keep your mouth shut.” Riv turned his gaze to the house, then back at the darkness behind them.

“Please, Riv. I’m not scared. That’s not why, just … it’s been so long since all of us—”

“It’s been so long for a reason.”

“Please, Riv. Come inside.” They stood just outside the porch lamp’s beam of light. From inside they’d be invisible unless someone had their face right to the glass, but the windows were empty.

“Maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe he’ll be in a good—”

“All right, all right. Since it’s your birthday.” He stepped into the light, adopting the same stance and mask he’d worn in town.

 

Jack sat at the kitchen table, a half dozen empty beer bottles in front of him and a bottle of homemade wine in his hand. Virginia sat in the corner cradling her arm, her face toward the wall. “Where you been?” Jack’s voice came out slow, hard, and steady. He never slurred.

“What’s it to you?” Riv turned toward the stairs.

“I say I was done talking to you?” Jack stood. He placed the bottle on the table with a bang.

Riv stopped, then turned back to Jack.

“Riv took me fishing, Daddy. It was real nice. For my birthday.”

Jack swerved to face Brooke. “For your birthday? You have to add, ‘For your birthday’. You think I don’t know today’s your birthday?”

“That’s not what I meant ...”

“Why do you think I’m here? Why do you think I let some other guy take the last leg of my route? Gave up a day and a half’s worth of pay to come back here and spend some time with my family, celebrating my daughter’s birthday.”

“We didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t know. It was a surprise. But what happens? I get home, your mother says she has no idea where you are. No idea.”

“We weren’t far.”

 “And so I wait here all day, thinking anything could have happened, and you come waltzing in, dark as shit outside, with some story about fishing. You don’t even have rods.”

“We do. We did.”

“Those broke-up one’s are sitting right there in the shed.” Jack growled. “I didn’t know what happened.” His voice cracked. “Anything could have happened.” His face fell. His arms hung by his side.

Brooke stepped toward him. “We didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You children, you just don’t have any respect.” Jack rubbed a hand through his hair. “Your mother can’t even handle you anymore.” He staggered forward and leaned against the wall for support, the sadness in his eyes fading to a disturbing blankness.

“It’s really nice you came, Daddy.” Brooke looked from her father to her mother, who looked away. “Really nice. It’s still early. Not even seven-thirty. We can all do something together. Maybe play cards or watch a move?” She looked to her brother. “We can do something. Right, Riv? You’ll stay?”

“Nah, not me. I’ve got places to go, people to see.” Riv stepped toward the door.

“The hell you do.” Jack yelled. “You’ll stay right here ‘til I tell you to leave.” Jack stumbled into the hall. He never slurred, but he stumbled. And staggered. Brooke never wanted to see him stagger.

“Fuck you.”

“What did you just say?”

Riv stood straight, his chin jutted forward, his dark eyes focused. “I said, fuck you.”

“Be careful, boy.”

“Careful?” Riv chuckled. “What, you gonna take a swing at me again? Or is your arm too tired from wailing on your wife?”

“I said watch it.”

“You watch it. Bastard.”

Jack grabbed the vase from the side table and hurled it at Riv’s head. Riv ducked and ran out the door as the vase smashed against the wall. The flowers Brooke had picked a few days earlier mingled with the broken glass and water, pooling in the warped hardwood. Brooke looked between her mother, who now leaned against the door frame to the kitchen, and her father, standing awkwardly in the hall.

“Who’s up for Crazy Eights?” Jack turned to her with a pleading laugh. “Gotta have some fun on your birthday.” He pushed himself upright, one hand against the wall for balance. “Right, Brookey Baby?”

Brooke cringed; a look of disgust flew across her face before she could stop it. It’d been years since Jack used that name; it was Riv’s name for her now.

Jack sank to the floor, bumping the wall as he landed. “I thought we could have some fun.” His eyes crinkled as he looked up at her. “I wanted to do something nice. Surprise my baby girl.”

On the floor like that, he seemed so small. Looked so pathetic. Brooke backed away, her arms at her side. Virginia, still cradling her arm, crouched down beside him. “They didn’t know, Jack. But it was nice of you to come home. Sweet. I’m glad you did.”

Brooke’s stomach heaved. This was worse. Worse than the screaming and shouts, worse than the hits. Seeing them like that, her bruised mother, her broken father, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Brooke fled from the house and into the night. Riv was long gone, so there was only one other person she could run to.

 

 

***

Rhett’s Bend

2012

 

Brooke came to a clearing and plopped her pack down beside her, breathing in ... out ... in, concentrating on the breaths, trying to find her calm, her centre. She settled to the ground. A whole lifetime seemed to flood over her, and like all floods, it carried dirt and garbage into places they should never be.

In the early days of May, the stream by the house she grew up in would flood, a yearly reminder of the horribleness of humans. People threw their junk in, letting the water take it away for someone else to deal with. Even her brother did it. One year she couldn’t take it anymore. ‘Don’t,’ she yelled, pushing him as hard as she could so he’d fallen and banged his arm against a large oak. The water was beautiful, sparkling and new. How could he not see that?

Her father had found them. She expected laughter or yelling. Instead he chastised her brother, told him to smarten up. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked so strong and handsome. It was in the early days, when she was seven or eight. After the anger, but before he transitioned from walls and doors while expressing it, to their mother’s flesh.

The three of them spent two hours picking up all the garbage they could find. They had a whole bag full, and the creek bed looked beautiful again, like it should. She hugged her father, tight. ‘We didn’t do much.’ He smiled down at her. ‘I’m proud of you though, for wanting to keep the world nice.’

She hadn’t thought of it in years. And here she was at that same creek. She breathed in ... out ... in, alone under the oak.

 

***

Rhett’s Bend

2002

 

Breathless, Brooke ran up the steps to the Patterson’s door. “Is Gabe here?” she blurted as Gabe’s Gram opened the door.

“Child, is everything all right? You scared the living daylights out of me. Come in. Come in.”

“I’m fine.” Brooke took a deep breath. “Is Gabe home?” She stepped into the foyer, the warm scent of fresh-baked cookies surrounding her. Gram Patterson’s house always smelled of fresh baked something.

“Sit a minute, child. Catch your breath.” Gram led Brooke to the couch.

“I’ve caught it.” Brooke gasped and plopped down in the old arm chair “Is Gabe here?”

“No, Honey. I’m afraid he’s not.”

 “Where is he?”

“He went to his cousin’s for a sleepover. The ones over in Middle Musquodoboit. He’ll be back early tomorrow though. Don’t you worry. We still have our secret plans for your birthday! Which, oh my,” Gram laughed, “that means it’s actually your birthday today, isn’t it, Darling?”

“Yes.” Brooke stared at the large flowers on the carpet. Why did Gabe have to go to a sleepover tonight?

“Well.” Gram stepped so she was standing in front of Brooke. Her voice sounded even more cheerful than usual. “I don’t have any cake. But why don’t you stay a minute? I just made cookies. Sit here. I’ll get you a nice glass of milk to go with them.”

Brooke sat rigid. Gram’s cookies were great, but they weren’t what she wanted right now. She wanted Gabe. She needed Gabe.

Gram returned and put the cookies and milk in front of Brooke. Her hands shook. “I saw your father’s rig drive by today. Did he come home for your birthday?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, isn’t that just nice of him. What did you all do together?”

“We didn’t do anything. Not with him. Riv took me fishing. We were gone all day.” Brooke paused, seeing her father slumped against the floor like that, her mother comforting him. We didn’t know he was coming.”

“Oh.” Gram sat down beside Brooke. “Did you have fun fishing?”

“It was great.” Brooke stared at the cookies, then looked away. Was her mother being pounded at this moment, Jack’s embarrassment at his show of weakness transformed again into rage? Had he passed out, leaving Virginia in uncertain peace until he inevitably woke and the cycle started all over again?

“That’s good then. A good way to spend your birthday. Did your father have to leave? Is that why you came to see Gabe?”

“No.” Brooke bit her lip. “He’s still home.”

“Okay, then.” Gram put her arm around Brooke. “You don’t want any cookies, Honey?”

“I just wish.” Brooke looked up at Gram, then pulled her gaze back to the flower design in the carpet. Her fists clenched. “He’s always so angry. I don’t understand why he’s so angry.”

“Oh, Brooke,” Gram pulled Brooke tighter to her side, “your family’s had some hard blows. I know your daddy doesn’t always know how to show it, but he’s a good man deep down. He loves you all.”

“He doesn’t.”

“He does, Brooke. There’s just some things too hard for you to understand.” Gram sighed.

Brooke looked up again, hating the way Gram was defending him. Just like her mother. “Then explain it.”

“He’s your family, Brooke. Sometimes families are hard to deal with, but you’ve got to be there for each other. Love each other. You never know when something might happen to tear you apart.”

“I wish something would tear us apart. I wish my dad just left and never came back.”

“You don’t mean that, Dear.”

Brooke stuck a cookie in her mouth. She couldn’t be expected to reply with a full mouth.

“Do your parents know you’re here?”

Brooke shook her head, distracted by the way the warm dough and sweet chocolate melted in her mouth.

“We’d better call them and let them know. I’m sure they’re wanting you back home.”

“Can I stay here? Just for tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Gram stood. “We’ll see what Virginia says.”

Brooke took a big gulp of milk and grabbed another cookie while Gram left the room. A few minutes later, she returned. “Well, Darling, your mother would like me to take you back.”

Brooke sighed.

“It’ll be okay, Honey.” Gram smiled and patted Brooke’s head. “She was worried about you.”

“My mother never worries about me.”

Gram wore a look on her face that made Brooke feel like some poor animal—caught in a trap or missing a limb. On the drive home Brooke wished she could stay in Gram’s house, not just for the night, but forever. She’d miss Riv, but he was hardly home anyway. Gram was nice. She never yelled, well, that once, but it was a different kind of yelling. A yelling that made you feel cared for, not as if you were struggling in the middle of a lake, about to go under.

And Gabe was there. Gabe and Gram had reason to be sad, reason to be angry, but they weren’t. They were happy. Gabe said it was because of the peace of God, that his grandma prayed all the time and that God was good and answered people’s prayers. Brooke didn’t know about that. A few years ago she tried praying every night for a whole month that God would make her family like the ones she used to read about in books from the library. The ones with colourful pages and funny stories, a mom, a dad, brother and sister, just like her family, except happy.

It didn’t work.

Gram stopped at the edge of Brooke’s long driveway and shut off the car. Virginia waved from the porch. Brooke stepped out of the car, her steps slowing as she approached the house. It looked so tired. When she was a child—six, maybe seven years old—she and Gabe used to spend their days in the woods pretending to be fairy people or making up stories of princesses and knights. Their favourite story was Lancelot and Guinevere. She was the lovely lady and he was her valiant knight. It’d been years since they’d played those games, and years since the dryad and princess within her had withered up. Brooke wasn’t either of those things. She was just a little girl in a little town, with a little life.

Staring at the front steps in desperate need of repair, the old fridge that had sat on the lawn for months, Brooke wished again that Gabe was her family. Gram Patterson was strict, but she loved him. She never hurt him. She’d love Brooke too.

Or if not that, she wished the fairy worlds and knights and princesses could be more than fairy tales, could be real—Brooke looked into her mother’s eyes, full of shame, regret—and this would be the dream.

Virginia pulled Brooke into her arms when she reached the top step. She smiled a smile that attempted to cover the night’s pain. “Your father’s asleep and I have a cupcake for you.”

“That’s okay. I’m not hungry.” Brooke slipped out of her mother’s embrace, but Virginia held Brooke’s arm and drew her back. She hugged her tight, almost a minute passing before she let Brooke squirm away.

“He just wanted to make today special,” said Virginia. “He really did.”

Brooke turned from her mother and headed upstairs. She crawled into bed. Grabbing a scribbler, she took Riv’s advice. She wrote until she couldn’t hold the pen anymore: other worlds and other lives. It should have made her happy; instead, she wished she could write an other life for herself. That wasn’t going to happen. Even if God was good like Gabe said, it sure didn’t seem like He could do a thing … or like He wanted to.

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

***

Rhett’s Bend

2002

 

The next morning Brooke woke slowly, consciousness creeping upon her daintily, the way she’d crept to her door the night before, pushed it fully closed, and laid a blanket along the gap, a futile attempt to block out the sounds.

She could hear their absence even now, wringing in her ears. The yells had woken her sometime in the night. She didn’t know when. She didn’t look at the clock. She never looked at the clock. What was the point? Knowing how long the torture lasted? It only made it last longer.

And so she lay there, never knowing how long, as her father’s shouts, her mother’s whimpers, the sound of flesh on wood, flesh on flesh, and occasionally, rarely, her mother’s shouts, the sounds of her fighting back, filtered down the hall.

At last, when silence fell, she lay listening, the absence almost worse—was it the silence of exhaustion, defeat, reconciliation … or the silence of a fear she couldn’t speak.

At some point she would have fallen into sleep and so the waking was always full of that fear, of the keen effort of listening. The hope of movement. Life.

After several minutes of no sound but the Eastern Meadowlarks outside her window, Brooke took a deep breath and flung the sheets off of her. She rubbed her eyes and stretched, weariness cloaking her like a second skin.

The road trip!

The realization shed that second skin, and she popped out of bed. On the way to the washroom, she glanced past Riv’s door to his empty bed. He wouldn’t be up this early, which meant he hadn’t come home—most likely the reason for last night’s second round of fighting.

Hearing noises in the kitchen, Brooke hesitated. Today was supposed to be a good day. The sight of her father, whether he was conciliatory and smiling or on edge and looking for another fight, would dampen the whole thing.

Virginia turned when Brooke entered the kitchen, a soft smile on her bruised face.

“Is Dad in bed?” Brooke eased into a seat at the table.

“Yes.” Virginia’s housecoat engulfed her. When had she gotten so skinny? She’d never been fat, but now she looked like a light touch or strong wind could topple her over. “You know he doesn’t mean—”

“I’m going to the city with Gabe and Mrs. Patterson.” Brooke grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter. “You remembered, right?”

“Yes, of course.” Virginia stepped toward Brooke and leaned against the counter, pulling a dishrag through her already dry hands. “Do you think maybe you could reschedule it? Your father came home for you and yesterday … He was so disappointed when you weren’t here, and I didn’t know where you were.” She took another step. “That’s my fault, I know. I should have known. But I was thinking, maybe when your father gets up we could—”

“Mom.” Brooke let out a puff of air. “They planned this for me. I have to go.” Brooke opened the fridge, looking for she didn’t know what.

“Well, all right then. That’s fine, just fine.” Virginia stood behind Brooke. “Can I make you something? Oatmeal?”

“No.” Brooke grabbed the orange juice then walked to the counter and put half a bagel in the toaster. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, this annoyance at her mother’s presence. She used to love it whenever her mother paid her attention, like she was now. Most of the time she seemed too tired to notice Brooke was alive.

“Your father’s probably going to sleep off the morning anyway, I suppose.” Virginia let out a little laugh. “He had a few too many last night.”

Brooke’s jaw clenched.  A few too many. Right. Like it was some accident. A slip-up.

Virginia sat down across from Brooke, coffee cup in hand. “You won’t be home too late? I’ll make us a nice dinner. How about meatballs? Still your favourite?”

Brooke looked away from her mother, feeling torn between pity and revulsion. “No, not too late. Meatballs are fine and, uh … thanks.”

Minutes later, Brooke stuffed in her last bite of bagel and went on the porch to wait for Gabe. With her father’s truck in the driveway, he definitely wouldn’t come to the door. Jack couldn’t stand Gabe; just the sight of him or even his name could turn a mild mood into a tornado of rage. It was stupid. Gabe had never done anything to Jack. Brooke kicked the useless porch swing, which had been sitting there broken for two years. Her father would probably never fix it. Brooke used to curl up with a blanket, swaying gently as she read until the sun set on summer evenings. Not anymore.

Brooke plopped down on the porch’s top step, her head in her hands, and waited for Gabe and Gram Patterson to arrive.

Brooke lifted her head but stayed on the step as Gram’s car pulled into the drive. Gabe hopped out, a smile on his face, and everything in the world got just a little bit better. Brooke smiled back.

“Happy Birthday!” He jogged to her, his green eyes sparkling. “Gram said you came by last night. Sorry I missed you.”

Brooke shrugged and shook her head. “No big deal.”

“Your Dad’s back, huh?” Gabe gestured toward the truck. “Early?”

“Yeah, he, uh…” Brooke glanced to her parents’ window and kept her voice low. “He came for my birthday. A surprise.”

“Oh yeah? Well,” Gabe turned and leapt down all five steps, landing on the yard with a thump, “that’s cool of him.”

“I guess. Yeah.”

He turned to look at her. “You all right? Was it—”

“It was good.” Brooke put on a smile. “Great.”

“Okay, well good.” Gabe gave her a quick shoulder squeeze. “Let’s go.”

 

As they drove home later that night, quiet from exertion and the satisfaction of a day well spent, Brooke glanced at Gabe. No one made her happy like Gabe. Not even Riv. And nowhere did she feel as safe as when Gabe was by her side. Though lately other feelings had entered that space held for Gabe. Nervousness. Uncertainty. A fluttering in her stomach. Brooke turned from studying Gabe’s profile and focused on the light poles zooming by, one after another, a consistent blur among the changing landscape.

In the morning, Gram had taken them to the Discovery Centre. After, they ate lunch on a bench by the water then walked along the harbour before visiting the Citadel, an old fortress on a hill in the middle of the city. They’d toured the underground passageways and rolled down the grassy hill. Well, Brooke and Gabe had. Gram politely declined.

Her hands firmly on the wheel, Gram glanced back at Brooke and Gabe. “What was your favourite part of the day?”

“Mine was definitely seeing all the buildings,” said Gabe, “and the architecture. Rhett’s Bend is so blah. One day I’m going to design buildings even cooler than the one’s in Halifax.”

“I liked the Citadel,” said Brooke. “It’s so mysterious. The ghost stories and all the people who used to live there, the way it changed so many times over the years. That was definitely my favourite part.”

“What about you, Gram? What was your favourite part?” asked Gabe.

Gram was silent for a moment, as if thinking carefully about her response. She spoke softly, her voice like velvet. “The harbour.”

“The harbour?” asked Gabe. “Why? The ocean’s just minutes from our house.”

“Well,” Brooke could hear the smile in Gram’s voice, “because of your mother. She went to school in Halifax, as you know. That’s where she met your father.” Gram paused. “They only lived a few towns apart their whole lives, and yet.” She winked back at Brooke. “I used to visit Evelyn from time to time and we’d always go to the harbour. We’d sit on a bench, the same bench every time, even in winter. And Evelyn would tell me all about her adventures.”

Gram patted the wheel a few times before continuing. “I missed her so much after she moved to the city. It felt like a part of me was torn right out of my chest; worse than I imagine Adam must have felt getting the rib ripped from his side.” She laughed. “But on those trips I’d feel whole again. Evelyn was my everything.”

Brooke returned her gaze from the back of Gram’s head out to the passing landscape. She was used to Gram’s pauses, and usually she’d catch Gabe’s gaze and grin. Now, though, she made sure she didn’t look at him. He didn’t like talking about his parents. Gram continued, “Your father took her to the harbour on their first date. He bought her an ice cream cone.” Gram’s voice caught. “She was so excited as she told me about it. She practically glowed.”

“What flavour?” asked Brooke.

“Oh, I … I don’t remember. Or, well, did she even tell me?” Gram sighed, all of a sudden seeming old. “I don’t know, Brooke. I just … you forget some things, over time.”

Brooke kept her gaze out the window. She shouldn’t have interrupted with a question. Gram would probably stop now. It wasn’t that she never mentioned Gabe’s parents, just almost never, and Brooke knew Gabe wanted to know more about them. He didn’t like talking about them, or at least didn’t like Brooke asking questions. He never mentioned them. But Brooke could tell—he wanted to know. Brooke stole a quick glance at Gabe, who was turned toward his window. She could imagine the look on his face—something like yearning, mixed with anger, mixed with a determination not to care.

With no one speaking, the sound of the rushing wheels became deafening. Brooke knew both Gram and Gabe were lost in thoughts she wasn’t welcome to. She almost asked Gram to turn on the radio but instead let the silence pass.

“You know,” said Gram, startling Brooke, “there were times today I almost thought I could see your mother, Gabe, almost hear her laughter.” Brooke sat up straight as Gabe slouched. “It’s a strange thing, losing a child. A strange thing.” Gram turned back, an almost frightening smile on her face. “But what am I rambling on about? Did you kids have fun today? Was it a good day?”

“Yes!” said Brooke, surprised at how loud the word came out.

Gabe sank deeper into his seat. “Yeah, it was great. Wonderful. Thanks, Gram.”

Gram tutted then glanced in the rear-view mirror. “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. We must be thankful for the blessings we have.”

“I know, Gram,” Gabe mumbled.

“Perk up then, my sweet. Your mother’s still—”

“Can we put the radio on?” Gabe crossed his arms, his head still turned toward the window.

“Of course, my sweet. Of course.”

The car filled with songs Brooke didn’t know—church songs she guessed by the lyrics. Sometimes she forgot Gabe’s life wasn’t as perfect as it seemed. She didn’t remember his parents, but Gabe must, he was a year older than her. Old enough to remember. And, of course, he saw them every day.

To Brooke, Evelyn and Carter weren’t even real people, just smiling faces hanging or propped up around the Patterson’s house—a framed wedding picture, one more of a mom, dad, and baby boy at the beach, and, on Gabe’s dresser, his mother’s senior high school picture. Little snippets of lives that, to Brooke, only existed to provide the world with Gabe.

He talked about the funeral once. He remembered being scared and angry. Their house was full of strangers and his mom lay in a box, almost looking asleep. The other box, the one he was told held his father, was kept closed. He stood between the boxes, not understanding why his father’s box was closed and his mother’s was open. Maybe, he thought, his father wasn’t really in the box. He tried to open it but strange men and women he was told to call Great Aunt this and Cousin that stopped him. When these people drifted into clusters, talking and eating, not even seeming sad, Gabe tried to wake his mother. He whispered her name over and over. He wanted to yell but knew all those adults would stop him, like they’d stopped him before. When his mother didn’t open her eyes, he grabbed her hand. It felt cold, like moist rubber. He yelled at the shock of it and anger coursed through him. Why did she let that happen? Why had she changed so much—barely looking like herself? Why was she lying there? Why wouldn’t she wake up? He slapped her cold rubbery face and still nothing. The strangers carried him away.

Brooke slid her leg against the seat, nudging it into Gabe’s thigh. He gripped her ankle, not rough, but enough to show he was acknowledging her. He kept his face turned from her. Was he crying? Brooke thought back to one of her favourite memories with Gabe. It was her earliest clear memory, not flashes or snippets of recollection like the ones that had come before, but a full scene. She was seven, maybe eight. Brooke had jumped off an old stump, her braided pigtails swinging in the air. ‘You can’t catch me!’ She raced through the trees, glancing back at Gabe racing behind her, then pushed forward around the bend.

They had laughed and ran through the woods, switching who chased who. The raspberries were ripe, and they ate until their stomachs ached and fingers were dyed red. As the sun began to set, they sat against the base of a huge willow, the one they often swung off of, braiding bracelets with dandelion stems. Brooke’s limbs felt tired and heavy from use—a good feeling. Grass stains and mud smudges covered her shirt, jeans, and bare arms. Twigs and bits of dirt were held hostage by the curls that had escaped their braided bondage. She didn’t care. She’d won their somersaulting competition. And she was happy.

Tufts of dandelion seed floated in the sun’s hazy glow. Brooke’s lips turned upward in an easy smile. A squirrel skittered up the trunk between them. It leapt from branch to branch. So free. They laughed. ‘My father came home today,’ said Brooke, her laughter cut short by the words. The yelling and holes in the wall had turned into something more just the week before, her mother’s beautiful face mottled and swollen.

Gabe had squeezed her hand. ‘You wanna come over to my place?’

‘Nah.’ That would just make her father angrier. Brooke pulled Gabe’s hand to rest on her lap and tied her finished bracelet around his wrist. ‘Keep this forever and ever until you’re old and grey.’

He had smiled, sending waves of warmth from Brooke’s head right down to her toes. His stomach growled and they laughed again. Brooke leaned over, her lips barely brushing Gabe’s soft cheek. They stood and ran through long grass, twirling and making the dandelion seeds dance around them like a snowstorm. Brooke spun and spun, then landed in a heap among the grasses. Gabe stood watching her, but he wasn’t smiling. She rose to her knees, hating that he pitied her. ‘What is it?’

‘My mom used to twirl like that.’ He stared at her a moment longer, then grinned. ‘You’re almost as pretty as her.’ They continued running, through the field, down the train tracks, skipping from rail to rail, over the creek and up to the T in the road that meant it was time to part ways. ‘Lovely Lady Guinevere,’ Gabe yelled, a hand held up in parting.

‘Farewell, good knight!’

 

In the backseat of Gram Patterson’s car, Brooke kept her gaze on Gabe. She’d always thought his sadness on that long ago day was for her, for the anger and fear that awaited her at home. But maybe she’d been wrong, and the reminder of his mother put that look in his eyes. She nudged his leg again. He turned. Red eyes met hers, barely moist. Had he been crying? Fighting it off? He smiled and mouthed, ‘You have a good birthday?’ Brooke nodded.

Tension mounted as they approached the Lake’s driveway. The rig was still there, the house lights all on. Gram parked not even half way up the drive. After saying her thanks, Brooke stepped out. She stood watching as Gram’s car backed up, turned onto the road, and shrank out of sight.

It was silly, this fear, this resistance. Her father wasn’t a beast every night. Most likely he’d be sitting in front of the tv, either laughing or asleep. Most likely no fresh bruises would have blossomed on her mother’s flesh. She placed one foot in front of the other. The perfect end to this perfect birthday day would have been the absence of the truck, the knowledge that it’d be days before they saw it again.

Brooke walked past the kitchen—no one. It the living room. Wheel of Fortune flickered across the screen. Her mother and father sat on the couch, Jack’s strong arm over her mother’s frail shoulder. It looked almost natural.

“You’re back!” Jack turned with a broad smile. Brooke’s shoulders tensed. She held back a cringe. When had his teeth gotten so yellow? “Let’s have some fun.”

Brooke returned his smile uncertainly. Virginia turned, she seemed at ease, happy even. She seemed like a woman happy to be in the arms of the man she loved.

Brooke took a step toward them, her gaze on Virginia.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Good.” Brooke swallowed. “Fun. How was yours?”

“Lovely.” Virginia stood.

“We had lots of fun, didn’t we?” Jack’s hand trailed down Virginia’s arm, his gaze following her like a smitten school boy’s. “Just the two of us, like the old days before the rugrats.” He grinned. “So, what’ll it be? I’m thinking a game. Some real family time before I gotta hit the road. That’s what I came home for, after all.”

“I don’t know.” Brooke looked between her parents. Her father eager to spend time with her, the both of them looking happy, relaxed. All her senses felt on edge. It all seemed so normal, so right, which wasn’t normal at all. But it was better than the alternative. “What do you want to play?”

“How about Crazy Eights? You like that game, don’t you, Baby? What about countdown?”

Brooke looked again from Jack to her mother. “Sure.” She offered a smile. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

As the minutes piled on, Brooke’s shoulders settled. Her breath came easier. By the time she and Jack were on number five of the countdown, Jack had Brooke laughing so hard her cheeks hurt. A steady collection of beers built up beside Jack, his laughter getting louder with each one. Brooke’s ease lessened as Jack’s words came a little more slowly. After swigging the last of his sixth bottle, he threw down his cards and turned to Brooke. “You’re cheating! You’ve got to be cheating.”

“No, Dad.” Brooke forced a laugh. “I’m not. Really. Just lucky, I guess.”

“Do you think she’s cheating?” Jack tossed his arm over Virginia’s shoulder. “Hey, Baby, do you think our baby’s cheating? What do you say?” Jack laughed again, but not like before. “I think she’s cheating.”

“No, Honey. I don’t think she’s cheating.” Virginia’s smile wavered.

Brooke played her turn, laying down a three rather than the jack that would cause her father to miss a turn.

“Looks like the tables are turning.” Jack sat up straight. “Four! Switch direction. Now we’ll see what happens to little Brookey Baby.” Brooke winced and played her card.

“Pick up two!” Jack laughed as he threw his card down.

“Pick up four,” said Brooke. She placed her card without looking at her mother.

“Miss a turn.”

Brooke used her jack. “Miss a turn.”

“Helping the old man out!” Jack grinned and hope fluttered through Brooke like a lost bird. He looked at the bottle in his hand, tipped it upside down and watched as the last few drops dripped from the rim, splashing on the old hardwood. “Well,” Jack smiled at Brooke, “how ‘bout we take a break. Be a good girl and grab me another six-pack from the cellar, would you, Sweetie?”

Brooke looked to Virginia who gave a slight nod. “Sure, Dad.” Brooke eased herself up, stomped away the pins and needles from her crossed legs, and took the steps down to the cellar. Back upstairs, sounds of struggle and her mother’s weak voice asking Jack to stop travelled down the hall as Brooke waited just out of view.

“Not now. Later, okay? Later. Just finish the game, Darling.”

“And what if I don’t want to wait?”

Brooke stepped into the room as Jack forced his mouth upon Virginia’s. She set the six-pack down with a thump.

“Thank you, Baby!” Jack stood, pulling Virginia with him. “I think we’ve had enough Crazy Eights for tonight.” He gave an exaggerated yawn. “Your mother and I are going to go take a nap. Isn’t that right?”

“It’s eight o’clock,” said Brooke.

Jack squeezed Virginia’s shoulder and left the room, his hand firmly on his wife’s arm. Virginia looked back, an apology on her face.

Brooke gathered the cards, stuffed them back in their case, and grabbed her journal. As she wrote, she tried to push out the sounds above her: her father’s grunts, the headboard thudding against the wall. She lifted her pen and stared at the ceiling. It could be worse. At least her mother wouldn’t wear fresh bruises tomorrow. Most likely. This was a better end than the last family game night: Riv yelling, her mother’s blood staining the carpet, Brooke crouched in the corner, her hands over her ears. She put pen back to paper, pausing before she continued to write. All in all, it had been a great day.