Mud Girl (22 page)

“Lots of boats!”

So this is what some people do on a Saturday morning: fold dozens and dozens of newspaper boats. So many that the pile of papers actually does shrink. They fill the bathtub, and float the boats, but after a while the bath looks like a busy port. Grey streaks of newsprint wash up the sides of the tub. Dyl doesn't seem to notice her scooping up the saturated, sunken boats, and slopping them into the bucket by the tub. Because there are more and more. All those classified sections, with their red circles around job after job, and Abi doesn't need them anymore. Fold, fold, fold, and in they go. Join the troops.

Dyl doesn't say much, but he laughs, and Abi is happy to hear that sound. When she wraps her arm around his narrow shoulders and pulls him close, he doesn't back away or clench his bones. The morning passes.

For lunch, Dyl nods when she suggests scrambled eggs, toast, apples cut up, and they eat on the wharf out back, but after a while it's too hot.

Abi tries to remember where there might be a few books for little kids. Mum used to have a box somewhere. There's a stack of a few boxes in the corner of the living room. It's the one on the bottom, the heavy one, and there are a few books from when she was little, and a lot of old books that probably belonged to Uncle Bernard. They take the kids' books into
her room, and sit on the bed. The first one Abi pulls out is about a bunny whose family is trying to decide what he is going to be when he grows up. The bunny is a baby and can't say what he's going to be, but he knows all the time that he wants to be a daddy rabbit. The last few pages are about the kind of daddy he's going to be, and when Abi finishes the read, she looks at Dyl and he looks at her, and she thinks,
If I have to lie, I'd sooner lie to an adult than a kid
. She has no idea what he's thinking, but guesses it's something he can't even put words to because he doesn't know them yet. Not like that.

“Let's get out of here,” she says. “We'll go for a walk. Go on an explore.”

She finds a cap for him to keep the sun out of his eyes. It's too big, but she finds a pin and adjusts it, and puts one of her own shirts on him to protect him from the sun. It hangs down to his knees, and under the sleeves hangs like wings, so he flaps around a bit with a silly, shy grin. Abi puts on her own floppy hat, and she fills a bag with a blanket, a couple of water bottles, some crackers and a jar of buttons that she's had on her windowsill for as long as she can remember.

She holds his hand tightly and they cross the street. There's an undeveloped area behind some of the industrial buildings farther down. Maybe they can cut through a parking lot and get away from the river and the road. She's
never been there before. Judging by the cracked areas of dried mud, it's not a place to go in the other seasons of the year. Now, in August, after weeks of sunshine, it's all right. It's safe. There are patches of grass, and the strong smell of warm chamomile. She puts down the blanket, and they look for the round yellow flowers of the plant, crush them in their fingers. “Smell,” she says to Dyl. “We'll collect some and make tea when we get home.” His eyes go round. “Tea?” She nods, and he looks.

They lie down on the blanket and pour out the buttons, make patterns of them, play games. Dyl falls asleep, and Abi lies beside him, feeling the sun, a warm friend. This feels good: a day off after five hard ones; listening to the at-peace sleeping-breaths of a little person; summer.

When they do return home, it is almost four-thirty, and Abi makes Dyl something to eat.

T
hen it's after five, and no Jude. Dyl is trying not to cry. Abi tries hard not to let Dyl see that she is upset. She re-packs her bag for the fireworks, makes a sandwich to eat later when she'll be hungry. Reads another book to Dyl, after skimming through it silently herself. Five-thirty. Quarter to. Horace is a bus driver: he'll be here on time. Abi looks up the number for Hood's Paints.

“Jude left at four-thirty,” is the gruff answer.

She doesn't look up his mother's phone number. What if she wakes her?

Promptly at six, Horace is at the door. “Who's this?” he says. He kneels and puts out his hand for Dyl, who shyly takes it.

Abi explains. Horace seems to know what she's talking about, and she wonders what Ernestine might have said to him. Horace suggests they sit and have a cup of tea while they wait, and Abi tells him they don't have tea. He shakes his head. “That's a bad thing,” he says. Then, “We should try to take young Dyl home. Do you know where he lives?”

“I've only been there once, but I think I can remember.” She doesn't know the house number, but it's the only yellow and orange house on the block – unmistakable. Once there, she peers into the living room window. There's Dyl's grandmother, under a light quilt on the couch. She's awake, reading. Abi taps softly on the window, and Lily looks up to see her and waves, motions to the door.

Abi goes to the door and opens it. “Hello, Lily,” she says. “Don't get up.”

“Hello, dear,” says the woman.

“I've brought Dyl home. Is Jude here?”

Abi feels badly when she sees the pained look that passes over Lily's face.

“I haven't heard from him,” says his mother. “I don't know when he'll be here.” Just with that much speech, and a brief attempt to rise from the couch, her face is pale and her breathing is hard. Abi fights down a feeling of panic. She turns around to realize that Horace is right behind her.

He whispers too, even more softly than she. “She's the grandmother?”

“Yes.”

“We can't leave the child with her alone.”

Abi shakes her head. Lily shouldn't have been left alone either, but she doesn't say this aloud. She says, “You need to find Ern…Mary, I mean. You go.”

At first he starts to say no, then he reaches in his pocket for a cellphone. “I'll give you my number, and you call me. I can pick you up and take you home after Jude gets back, or I can drive back in a hurry if you need me.” He writes out the number.

Abi asks Lily for her number, and tells her she's going to stay with her and Dyl until Jude comes home, and Lily just nods, a once-up-and-down motion.

Abi says goodbye to Horace. “Good luck,” she says. When the door closes after him, Dyl goes over to his grandmother, and very carefully snuggles near her knees. “Grandma's all sore,” he explains to Abi. Lily strokes his head.

“How's your day been, my Dyl?”

“We made boats. And buttons. And tea!” he suddenly remembers. He pulls enough out of his pockets to make a pot full.

“We
could
have had tea!” Abi laughs. But she's glad they didn't wait for Jude at her house: this is where they should be.

She fills the kettle with water, and asks Lily, “What have you had to eat today?”

“I'm not particularly hungry, Abi.”

Abi looks through a few cupboards. “How about some soup?”

Lily says no thank you, but Abi makes it anyway, thins it with water, serves it on a tray that can go across the woman's lap. She gives a bowl to Dyl. Then comes back with mugs of tea. The mug is too heavy for Lily, and Abi finds a child-size tea cup in a high cupboard.

She pulls a hassock closer to the couch, and sits. Is it her imagination, or does Dyl seem to calm when she's nearby now?

“My grandson likes you,” says Lily softly. Each word is work. “You're all he talks about lately.”

“I like Dyl.”

Now Dyl has remembered that in his other pocket are some of his favourite buttons, and he takes them out, arranges them on the hills and valleys of his grandmother.

“How old are you, Abi?” asks Lily.

Abi has to concentrate on her words to hear them. “Almost seventeen.”

Lily has closed her book. Now she puts her head back and closes her eyes, and Abi thinks she is drifting off to sleep.

“Your last year of high school?” comes her faint voice.

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“I'm not sure,” says Abi. “I just started to clean houses with my friend Amanda. She's saving money to go to university. Maybe I can go with her.” She hadn't put that thought into words before, hadn't even realized it was resting in the back of her mind.

Lily gives that faint nod again. “Yes,” she says. “Education is good.”

They are quiet for long minutes. There's just the click-click of Dyl with his buttons.

“And your family?”

The question usually throws Abi. “I live with my father. My mother left us.”

Lily's eyes open slowly. “She did.”

“Yes.”

Lily continues to look at her.

“Almost a year ago. We don't know where she went. I woke up the morning that school started, and my dad was sitting at the table, and when I came in the room, he said,
‘She's gone,' just like that. She left sometime in the night. Could've fallen in the river for all we know. Except she took the car.”

“Did you report her missing?”

Abi has to think for a minute. “No – I don't think Dad ever did.” She stops, wondering now why he didn't. Wondering why she hasn't questioned it before. “It's almost as if Dad expected this to happen someday. He didn't seem surprised.”
And why hadn't he?

Lily stares at her still, and Abi wonders why she's telling her all this – this woman she really doesn't know.

“You know Dyl's mother left.” It's a statement, not a question, the way Lily says it.

Abi nods. “Jude told me.”

“Yes,” says Lily. “He likes to tell that story to anyone who will listen. I sometimes wonder when I'll see him on some talk show.”

So…Lily knows all about her son's oily tongue. It occurs to Abi to wonder what Dyl's mother's story is after all. It could be anything, really.

Abi speaks, with hesitation. “I used to think that being a mother was a sort of promise.”

“What sort?”

Abi ponders her words. “A promise to
be
. To be there, stay there. In person. And in heart. I thought there had to be some
connection.” She's not sure if she's explained it well, this idea she used to have.

“Do you miss her?”

The question catches Abi. “I thought I did. Now, I just want to leave too.”

“Where will you go?”

“I don't know right now.”

“Well, Abi,” says Lily, and she sips her tea, “you hold on to your thoughts about a promise. Sometimes you have thoughts that others aren't thinking. Sometimes it's those thoughts that you need to keep for yourself.”

Lily again sips her tea, but then sets it down as if it's too much for her. “Do you love my son?”

Abi feels as if she's been hit from the other side now, and she struggles for an answer. “I wanted to,” she manages to say finally.

“I wanted to, too,” says the woman, and suddenly there's nothing separating them, and that's when Abi knows –
knows
 – that Lily is dying. They wouldn't be sharing these thoughts otherwise.

“I really wanted to,” says Lily, eyes closing again, and she might be speaking the words for Abi, too.

Can a mother really want to love her child, and not be able to?

“You sleep,” whispers Abi. “I'll take care of Dyl.”

“Thank you.”

Her eyes close with a heaviness, and within minutes her breathing signals sleep. Dyl plays with his buttons, all his attention on the colours and the stacking and the patterns. Abi looks around the room more closely than she was able to the previous time. If Jude paints – abstracts or whatever – there's no evidence of the work here. Mostly, there are black-and-white photos.

When Dyl yawns too many times, Abi asks him where his jammies are. He can't find his toothbrush, but he does bring out an old Archie comic book that seems to be a favourite. Abi feels silly reading it to a two-year-old. She stays with him, remembering strings of words from sea-songs Dad sang to her when she was little. She rubs his back as he falls asleep, until his breathing is even. The house is quiet. She pulls her hand away from his back, and can still feel his warmth with her. She sits on the front step, with the door open behind her. The sun sets and another hour passes before Jude pulls up.

He doesn't see her until he climbs out of the truck and comes round the front. Then he stops short and swears. “What're you doin' here?” He turns back to the truck and gives it a solid wallop with his hand. “Oh, Abi, I'm sorry. I forgot about you!”

“And Dyl,” she reminds him.

He stands there shaking his head. Puts his hands in his pockets. Pulls them out again. There's a small shower of sand
from somewhere – his pockets, the cuffs of his pants perhaps. So he's been at the beach. She does catch a faint drift of woodsmoke. But he only stands there, no word of explanation, just shaking his head.

Abi motions to the house. “He's asleep now. So's your mum.”

He heads to the house. She wants to tell him to stop shaking his head – just don't bother. What? Is he
surprised
he forgot them? He shouldn't be.

He looks into the living room at his mother, curled up on the couch, and he closes the door as he steps back outside. A jingle of his keys, and he says, “Come on, I'll drive you home.”

“You can't drive me home,” says Abi.

“Look, I know you're mad at me, but I can still drive you home. I'm not a bad guy, you know. I won't hurt you.” His voice is filled with impatience.

“You can't leave your mum and your son alone in the house.”

“It's not for long.”

“I'll take a bus. Or I can call Horace – he'll pick me up.” He stops. “That's right,” says Jude, “you were going out tonight. With this guy? Horace?”

She says nothing.

He sits down on the steps and puts his head in his hands, rakes through his hair, his fingers catching in the thick, brown, uneven waves. “I'm not, you know.”