My Temporary Life (20 page)

“
It’s bigger than the motorhome.” I try to make it seem more appealing than it really is.

She laughs and pulls the scarf from her face. “I love our motorhome. I miss it.”

The next morning, I wake up staring up at the shiny sparkles embedded in the ceiling of the motel room, remembering a motel room from a long time ago, that I shared with my mother.

Leaving Heather asleep in the room with the sparkles, I drive into town and find a coffee shop. I pick up a couple of breakfast sandwiches, a tea for Heather and a coffee for myself. There are a couple of workmen picking up their own breakfasts, but nobody seems to notice me; nobody seems to care. Things do seem to have a different pace from the city though. Nobody is in a hurry. Nobody seems too anxious about anything. It seems like just an ordinary little town.

Heather is awake and dressed, and ready to go, so we quickly eat in our room, then leave to go to the elementary school, before it’s even seven thirty. As we drive, I watch her and almost want to smile. If she wasn’t slunked down in the seat, semi disguised with her woollen hat on, it would almost have feel like just another adventure. But this is different than finding the lake at the end of the world. This is about finding a little girl.

Her idea is for us to park on the street, by the rows of houses, across from the school, and watch for a girl who might resemble her. She tells me that she’ll know her; she’s sure that she’ll know her own child. It isn’t a great plan, but it’s what she wants. When I suggested driving past Michael’s house she shut me down again, telling me that she doesn’t want to see him yet. For now, she just wants to see Emily.

It’s October, and although it’s cold for us, we hope that the local kids won’t be in their winter outfits yet, and we’ll be able to see their faces. We have two old childhood pictures of Heather, on the dash of the car. They’re the only pictures she has, and I’ve tried to burn their image into my head. In both of the pictures, she’s alone, sitting on someone’s living room couch somewhere, with a tentative look on her face. It’s odd to see such a serious expression on a little girl’s face, so different from the smiling girl that I first met. She thinks she must have been eight or nine when the pictures were taken, just a little younger than Emily would be now. So, if Emily looks like her mother, like Heather, then we’ll have an idea of what she looks like. I touch the old photographs with my fingers, hoping that the same face will come walking down the street.

“
I have something for you.” She hands me a small plastic ball from the pocket of her jacket.

I hold the ball in my hand. “I’m sorry, what is this for?

“
We might not be able to tell if it’s her from the car. This way you can go and kick the ball around the park, or play with it somehow. You can get a better look that way. I brought it with me.” As she says it, I can almost see the reality of the statement hitting her. I can see her becoming deflated, as she realizes that it really doesn’t make any sense for me to be playing, alone in a park, with a little ball. I try not to smile as she forces it into my hand. “I don’t know, Malcolm. I just thought it might help.”

As we lay in the room, the night before, we talked about sitting outside an elementary school in a rental car, watching young children when you’re thousands of miles from home. We decided if a concerned neighbour, or a teacher, or even a policeman, knocked on our window with questions, we’d tell them we’d stopped for a few minutes to reminisce about Heather’s old school. We were on our way to points north, taking a trip down memory lane. It sounded plausible to me, but to be actually in the school yard, where the children are, and with a small ball, this added a whole new dimension to it.

I hold the ball in my hand, thinking about how difficult this is going to be, not wanting to see her disappointed.

“
Hey, they’re starting to come. Look up the road.” I see a few children, some walking together, a couple by themselves, farther down the street coming towards us, and we’re right. These are hearty, small-town kids and the cold weather isn’t bothering them at all. They’re wearing jackets, and some of them have woollen hats on, but none of them seem to be wearing scarves, or anything that might cover their faces. They all walk, none of them are driven. Some are even coming out of the houses that we’re parked alongside. She was right. This is a small town, with small town sensibilities. Children find their own way to school in Woodbine.

She peers intently, crouching uncomfortably, even farther down in the vehicle, her eyes just barely above the dashboard. I look at the old photographs of her, and wait as dozens of little legs sluggishly make their way towards the school. They come at us from both ends of the road, almost simultaneously. There are little boys, and bigger boys, walking together, and then little girls, in twos or threes, never alone. We’re parked across from a park that joins the schoolyard. It takes a great deal of concentration to look in one direction, and then back in the other, all the while trying not to look suspicious.

The children walk along the road or on the sidewalks, not even glancing our way. Some of them cut across the park, making it impossible to see their faces. At first there’s only a few, but then they come in bunches. They’re talking in loud, excited voices, some pushing at others, doing anything I suppose, to not think about spending the next few hours in a classroom. I spend my time straining my eyes, trying to compare their faces with the photos, while looking up and down the road just in case another vehicle comes along, or a parent wanders by wondering what we’re doing there.

“
This is difficult. I can’t see the ones in the park.” There’s frustration in her voice.

“
Look, those are all girls, see what they do. They all walk along the side, off the road. The boys don’t care. They’re in the road, showing off for the girls. Shit, we try to impress you guys even at that age.” It’s interesting to me to see the patterns, to see how the young children show off for each other.

The girls stick to the sidewalk, or if they’re really daring, they walk on the outside curb. But the boys bounce between sidewalk and road, not caring about the odd car that comes along. We search their little faces, trying to find some kind of a resemblance, something that will make us look twice. I want them to turn their heads, to give me more than just a glance. I want them to give me something that looks familiar.

Heather holds her own photograph in her hand. “This is too hard. I’ll know her. I know I will. I just can’t see them all, not from here.”

She says it again, that a mother knows her child. She’s convinced that she’ll recognize Emily. I let my silence tell her that I agree, but secretly I think that we might need to find another way. And then, just as fast as it started, it ends, and they’re all in their classrooms, away from us. It seems like it has only been minutes from the time they came walking down the road to the time they’re all behind the school doors. There had been perhaps a hundred children, all different sizes, but most of them could have passed for a ten year old, and we saw the faces of maybe thirty. At least half had crossed through the park. We need a way to be in that park, and we both know it.

“
I guess I could be in the park at lunch time.” I reluctantly hold the little ball, tight in my hand.

“
It’s the only way. I’d do it, but I might be recognized. I can’t be, not yet.” She touches my face as she says it.

“
There might be another way. What would her last name be?”

“
Postman, I mean, no, no. It would be Michaels’ surname, Adrian, maybe. I don’t know for sure. I don’t even know her first name. Why, what does it matter?” She’s exasperated now. “It’s not as if we can call the school, and ask for her. She’s ten years old. That just doesn’t happen, Malcolm.”

I silently start the engine and pull the car out onto the quiet road, heading back to the motel, trying to think of an excuse to be in a schoolyard during lunchtime. “I have an idea. Are there maps in the glove compartment?”

A couple of roadmaps fall out, as she opens the compartment. “I’m going to sit on that bench over there, and read these maps at lunch time. I’ll be just an ordinary traveller, trying to find my way.”

She pulls herself up, leans over, and kisses my cheek. Her lips are cold, even in the warmth of the car, but it feels good to have the closeness after staring out of the car window at little faces for so long. “That’s it. Now you’re thinking like a detective. Thank you.” She goes back to her down low position, pointing me forward. “No don’t turn. Keep driving. I’ll show you something.”

She quietly gives me ‘lefts’ and ‘rights’, guiding me along streets lined with old houses, until she whispers for me to pull over.

“
It’s the one with the porch, the big green porch,” She’s still whispering, pointing towards the house that she grew up in.

“
I didn’t want to ask. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see your Dad or the house.” I stare at it, trying to imagine a little girl there. “It’s nice. It looks like it would be a nice place to grow up.”

She lets out a small almost anguished sound and keeps whispering. “It was Malcolm, but only for a little while. Then it was bad, really, really bad. Can we drive on please?”

There are times that you ask questions and times that you don’t. So, I don’t ask. I think of a girl, fifteen, almost sixteen, losing her mother, and living with a father who doesn’t care. I steer the car down the street, past the house, and notice a large black sport utility vehicle, parked in the driveway. Its windows are tinted, and it’s decked out for winter. I look over to see if I can see the expression on her face, but she’s turned away, and her door is locked. At some point between leaving the school and driving to her old house, she locked her door.

CHAPTER 21

I hold open the door and wait as Heather hurries from the car to the room, with her hat pulled down low, over her face. The tension of the morning seems to leave us for a moment as I watch her pull off her jacket, toss her hat on the floor, and step forward, staring hard into my eyes, and pushing her body into mine.

“
Are you sure? Now, is now the best time for this?” I ask as I slip my hands under her sweater, and cup them around her breasts.

“
I want you, Malcolm. I want you to fuck me.” She drags the words out, long and emphatically, sounding like someone that I don’t know, kissing me hard, and biting into my lower lip.

I push her onto the bed, pulling off my jacket and sweater. I have an overwhelming urge to feel my skin on hers. She writhes up the bed towards the headboard, staring at me with a devilish look in her eyes, almost daring me to come and get her. I pull her shoes off roughly and, leaning forward, rest my body on hers, as she seems to almost struggle underneath me. She kisses me hard, over and over again. She holds my head, pulling it towards her, almost begging me to be harder with her, rougher with her. I reach down and loosen her jeans, slipping them down her legs, and slide my hand gently between them. I try to whisper in her ear, whisper Scottish in her ear, the way she likes, but she pushes my head away from her face.

“
No, no, not this time, Malcolm. Fuck me like you mean it. Please, just fuck me.” She spits the words out, firmly pushing her body up into mine.

I stand up and pull off the rest of my clothes, as she removes hers. I kneel over her, watching her eyes, not recognizing the hard look of desire that she’s giving me. As I place my mouth on her breasts, she pulls my head hard, down on top of them, again begging me to be rougher with her. I quietly oblige, squeezing and touching, and tasting, and then, when I can’t stand it any longer, I raise her legs, and place myself between them. She grabs my hand and places it on top of her wrists, over her head, forcing me to hold her down even more firmly. I hold my body there for a moment, waiting, staring at her, not recognizing her. It’s only a moment before she pushes herself up into me again, her body asking for more.

I keep kissing her roughly, watching her eyes, as they dare me to drive myself deeper into her. Her lower body keeps pushing back, almost wildly, into me, as though she’s trying to buck me off. I push back, staring at the wild look in her eyes, overpowering her strength with mine. She groans and writhes, biting into my shoulder, as though she’s silently trying not to scream. I look away. There’s an old battered headboard on the bed, and diamonds on the ceiling above us, diamonds that are just sparkles in the paint. I close my eyes, still pushing myself into her, wondering what’s really happening. When I open them, there’s a small, noise from her, and there’s sweat on her face mixed with tears.

I pull myself off, as she starts to sob. “What are we doing? What was that? I thought you wanted me to. I’m sorry.” I blurt out excuses and questions, as she covers her face with her hands.