Read Online February by Lisa Moore - Free Book Online Page A

Cheerios jump and skitter.
    Don’t cry in front of the children. Cry all the time. Eat meat loaf. Beg for forgiveness. Beg to go back to the wedding night or the birth of the children or an ordinary moment cooking in the kitchen or when there’s a bill to figure out, a snowfall, skating on the pond. She thinks of an afternoon when they all went skating on Hogan’s Pond. The wind blew the children and they sailed forward with their arms out.
    John could skate. Johnny was in hockey. Cathy’s eyes are exactly like Cal’s, a medium blue with flecks of a pale blue and the iris rimmed in black, and the white of her eye is very white and she has his freckles—black Irish, Cal’s mother said, the O’Maras from Heart’s Content—and the trees were full of ice and the sun ran itself all over, sparking, flaring, and the wind crashed the treetops, knocking the ice off, and it shattered and rained down on the snow.
    She and Cal liked the heat on bust. Sometimes they put in a fire. It was always stifling when Cal was home. He fell asleep on the couch. Shift work messed up his sleep and Helen would hear him in the early hours plugging in the kettle. He read in bed and she’d have to go to sleep with the light on. He slurped his tea and this infuriated her. Could you stop making that noise?
    The youngsters want a tree: What are you thinking? Haul your sorry ass out of bed. Are you thinking you won’t have a Christmas tree?
    The phone company believes you exist; they cut off the phone. How dead a phone can sound when it is dead. It’s time to shape up. It’s time to smarten up. Get up, for the loving honour of God.
    There is nothing on the other end. No sound at all. No buzzing. Just silence. Has there been lightning or something? Has the wind knocked down a pole out there? They cut off the phone and Helen was there with four kids; it was a safety hazard. And she couldn’t even phone to find out what had happened; she had to go to Atlantic Place and use a quarter, only to hear them say, Oh yes, that phone’s been cut off.
    Fall apart. Take note: You are falling apart. Fat cow. You are now, my God, look at you, fat as a cow. You’re listening but there’s nobody there. Are you hearing me? I’m screaming at the top of my lungs here. How long do you imagine that money will last? Try harder.
    Someone said, Get a grip.
    Someone said, You have children.
    Pretend it all matters. See this sneaker? It matters. See this violin? See this sale on prime rib? The earnest karate instructor. The earnest art teacher. Supermarket coupons. And this is how you make a mask from papier mâché. Look at my painting, Mommy. The whisk matters. Where is the whisk?
    Do you smell something? You left the pot on the stove. You turned on the pot and you walked away. One of the children has an earache. There is fever; there is heat.
    Let me tell you something: There are things you don’t get over. But what matters is a tree. What matters is that you have to laugh if there is a joke. Look like you’re having fun. And you can go to your room, young lady. You can’t talk to your mother that way. I am your mother. You want a goddamn tree, I’ll get you a goddamn tree.
    There’s a seventy-five-dollar reconnection fee. You received three notices.
    Did I?
    Absolutely; we never send out our field staff until three notices are delivered.
    What did the notices say?
    They said, Disconnect.
    Where is her husband? Listen intently, even in your sleep, in case, just in case, he sends a message from the grave. This is what Helen expects and longs for. It’s her due.
    She sleeps and sometimes she dreams him, and it is wrenching to wake up. There is no talk in these dreams, no actual words in these dreams, but she knows what he wants; he wants her to follow him.
    How awful. Death has made him selfish.
    Forget the children. This is what he means. Forget yourself. Come with me. Don’t you want to know what happened?
    And she does want to know what happened. She wants