Seen Reading (7 page)

She grew up in a shabby, narrow house on the wrong side of the track. Twice a day, once very early in the morning and again in the late afternoon, a cargo train rolled down the middle of her street, curving at the very end to cut through her backyard. The track had been built to go around her parents' house, the only people on the street who'd refused to sell. Now twice a day, a train rolled by her bedroom window, a novelty that once made her popular among her classmates. But after the novelty wore off, the children no longer visited. She stood by the window — the girl on the wrong side of the track — while the pane rattled, and she waved somberly. Some days, the conductor waved back. Most days, he pretended to ignore her. It must not be easy, she thought, driving your train through someone's backyard. Sometimes, the glass shook so violently she feared it would break. On those days, she'd press herself against the window, the vibrations tickling her deep down into her tummy, and she tried, once again, to imagine herself as the superhero who protects the world from the inevitable shards of glass, from all its injustices.

READER

Caucasian female, early 30s, wearing brown jacket, crisp blue jeans, and suede boots, black laptop bag tucked under her arm.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer:

The Long Way Home, Season 8, Issue 4

Joss Whedon, illustrated by Georges Jeanty, Andy Owens, Jo Chen

(Dark Horse, 2007)

near the beginning

The story was never told first-hand, just a family legend retold every few years when she and her mother drove out of town to pick raspberries. This stretch of road always freaks me out, is all her mother would say. The road was paved now, but some twenty years ago it was soft gravel, her grandmother a new driver like many women who only learned after their husbands left or died. It was dark, and she could expect to hit something along these roads at some point, be it deer or man. She never did stop to check.

READER

Caucasian female, mid-30s, with shoulder-length blond hair, wearing blue
t
-shirt, khaki capris, and leather sandals.

The Final Detail

Harlan Coben

(Island Books, 2000)

p 77

On several occasions he's driven Trevor home, always with the intent of making sure he arrives in time to make curfew and has had plenty of water and something to line his stomach. Trevor is fifteen and wants to be a clothing designer. The owners allow minors in the bar so long as they don't drink, but what they do in the parking lot is their own business. He recognizes his own youth in Trevor's fair-haired biceps and tucked-in
t
-shirts. He thinks of him like a little brother, these first few months out of the closet so crucial. He considers himself Trevor's life coach — save for that first fumble in the back seat before he knew how young he was.

READER

Caucasian male, 60s, with close-cropped white hair, wearing black leather jacket, and red, white, and black skull cap, smoking pipe.

Lolita

Vladimir Nabokov

(Vintage, 1991)

near end

When you least expect it, he's been told. Stop looking and when you least expect it. He stares out the window counting house numbers, a game he's played since youth. Pick a number and imagine yourself the home's owner. 458. 460. 462. The streetcar rolls past a house with a worn couch on the front porch and a stack of soaked boxes leaning in the corner. He picks another number far ahead, spends the time considering the woman who sits two seats ahead reading a new paperback, something with a mustard cover. He'll look out for it, the book with the mustard cover. 1236. When the house appears, its tidy front lawn is dotted with trees. Is that a Japanese maple? What does he know about trees? He looks again at the reader who pulls a stray hair behind her ear, her finger hovering by her lobe as if she's forgotten to lower her arm, because she has. Yes, he thinks, the trees could be her job. And the kids can rake the leaves while he stirs the milk for hot chocolate.

READER

Caucasian male, mid-30s, with short blond hair, wearing a green hooded jacket, brown leather shoes, and deeply creased black jeans.

The Blue Light Project

Timothy Taylor

(Knopf, 2011)

p 246

Champagne and orange juice, the gateway cocktail, she thought as the new office admin hurried about the kitchenette. Everyone was on their second round of mimosas, but she politely rejected his offer of a top up. How old was he, anyhow — twelve? Should he even be handling alcohol? She looked at the clock and timed how long she'd have to endure small talk with virtual strangers, until her holiday could officially begin. Three hours. Christ Almighty. Most of her co-workers who she actually liked — who liked her — had booked off early, leaving her to suffer through Secret Santa with the knowledge that of the four remaining staff, at least two seemed to genuinely loathe her, and one, well, at least they could look each other in the eye again after that faulty lock incident in the washroom.

The admin dangled a small gift bag in front of her, the tag left blank. “There was a mix-up with the names,” he whispered. “But, we didn't want you to go home empty-handed.” He smiled. His teeth are the colour of first snow, she thought, folding her lips into a flat grin.

As the others tore into their presents, she pulled a tiny gorilla key chain from the bag, a wad of tissue paper falling to the floor. She pressed a button on the gorilla's belly, a fond memory rushing forward of a stuffed monkey she'd had as a child that yodelled when you poked its chest. The gorilla's eyes flashed a blinding blue, its screech cutting through the din of conversation. Her co-workers stopped to look in her direction. If she could will herself to laugh right now, they might believe she was actually enjoying herself.

READER

Caucasian woman, mid-30s, with long blond hair, wearing black, floor-length wool coat and grey knit hat with two large wooden buttons on the side.

The Waterproof Bible

Andrew Kaufman

(Random House Canada, 2010)

p 75

He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. He lets his head fall, chin to his chest, book falling open limp on his knee. He shifts a bit and rights himself, squinting at an ad across the aisle. He reads everything. Posters. Logos. He nods, not necessarily because he agrees. It could be that he's remembering, some past conversation, maybe from this morning, more likely from late the night before. He shakes his head. His point wasn't taken. He puts his glasses back on, and cocks his head to the side, taking in the contents under the seat adjacent to him: a Fairlee bottle emptied of its 100
%
Pure/Pur orange juice from concentrate. He swivels to look overhead. Call us at
xxx-xxx-xxxx
. His lips never stop moving.

READER

Caucasian male, early 20s, with short brown hair and thin sideburns, wearing glasses with red frames, grey coat, jet-black jeans, and charcoal slip-on Vans.

Fruit

Brian Francis

(ECW Press, 2004)

p 47

When she came to, a homeless man was standing over her. She'd fallen from her bike. It had been a bad fall. The damn tracks grabbed her tire. Gonna have monsters in the bones for a good long time, the man said. But you take this, the offer of a loonie extended from his dirty fingers. He let the coin drop awkwardly onto her chest. The coffee shop will let you stay for an hour if you buy a cup.

READER

Caucasian female, mid-20s, with brown hair loosely pulled into a ponytail, wearing jade earrings, pink racerback tank top, black yoga capris, thick wool socks, hiking shoes, and nose ring.

The Gabriel Hounds

Mary Stewart

(HarperTorch, 2006)

p 68

He stands alone in his grandmother's bedroom, collecting bags of dead batteries, used Kleenex balls, and loose safety pins from her side table. Her bed still holds the indent of her form. He lies in the depression, facing the window to see what she would have seen, listening to the chatter coming from the schoolyard outside.

She'd taken his hand and rubbed it over her lower stomach. “Can you feel it? It's massive.” She'd gotten so tiny, half her size, small enough to fit into her wedding dress again. Said she'd taken it out from storage, the tiring task of putting it on consuming the morning and two pots of tea. Finally, standing in front of her mirror, she saw herself sixty years earlier; she would begin to raise their four children alone. She'd undressed, rolled the gown into a ball, and gone out into the hall in her stocking feet to thrust it down the garbage chute.

He gets out of the bed, back to the chore of removing dried masking tape from her wardrobe mirror, the years of Christmas and birthday cards packed into a fresh large envelope purchased from the drugstore on the corner.

READER

Caucasian female, mid-20s, with brown curly hair pulled back in clip, wearing vest, knitted sweater, long jean skirt, thick stockings, and hiking boots.

The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing

Melissa Bank

(Penguin, 2000)

p 220

She forgot, and now she's wearing her indoor lipstick outside. The filter of her cigarette is stained bright orange. Five more minutes on the last load of drying and she can get out of here.

She forgot, and now her lips ablaze with long-lasting metallic pearl. She's afraid she'll see someone she knows and they'll ask after her and she'll have to say, No, no she passed on. So young, they'll say, their eyes stuck on her lips. Yes, she'll say, straightening the length of her jacket. Yes, she was far too young. God bless, they'll say.

Her daughter was so pale and small, but the therapist said she was ready for visitors. She'd gone to the store not knowing what girls her age like these days. She herself had only ever worn one shade of red. Looking lost at the counter, she'd let a young woman around the same age as her daughter show her samples. I don't know what she likes, she'd said. She looks different every week. She'd bought the lot, approaching the hospital room with her shopping bag full. It was cause for celebration, a whole spoonful of oatmeal.

She'd been raised not to waste money, so she saved the lipsticks in her daughter's Hello Kitty make-up case, rising each morning to put on the kettle, the
fm
radio, and her indoor lipstick.

But today she forgot, and now she's out in the world, and it's written all over her face.

READER

Caucasian female, 50s, with curly black hair and orange lips, wearing black wool coat and patterned silk scarf.

Fables of Brunswick Avenue

Katherine Govier

(Harper Perennial, 2005)

p 155

She sat on the edge of the schoolyard. While football players ran through tires and sprinted the length of the field, she drew a thick ankh in black Sharpie across her pale ankle. She pulled her black hood forward over her face so even the tiniest sliver of sunshine couldn't graze her cheeks.

This is where they'd made out for the first time, skipping out on rehearsal for the school musical. Coming to grind against one another on the cold ground, unchaperoned.

Now, he wanted to meet, to talk, his text had said. She rolled the piercing in her tongue. This morning, she saw him laughing in the hall, opening his mouth so The Soprano could touch his matching piercing. She took a swig from her Listerine, and tossed the empty into the brush. Jesus H., she swore, and retrieved the bottle to recycle later. She jumped, refusing to look at him, when he announced his arrival by kicking the sole of her combat boot.

You will not cry. You will not cry.

READER

Caucasian female, early 20s, wearing sleek black coat, collar high.

Brick Lane

Monica Ali

(Scribner, 2004)

p 275

His great-aunt takes a sip of white wine, her eyes rounding into saucers.

He's not sure what she heard him say. He leans forward, sorts through the crystal bowl of nuts set out for visitors, picking out the cashews, dividing the neglected Brazil nuts and pecans into a fresh heap. He leans back into the floral couch with a groan, rolling the nuts in his palm like dice before dealing each one into his mouth.

Her lips tighten into a small opening, her breath a steady whistle. She shakes her head slightly, brow creased. She takes another sip of wine as she rearranges the shortbread on the chipped china plate. Looking out the kitchen window, she counts the cars of a cargo train that has started to steam by outside.

Up to one hundred, how wonderful. She turns to her handsome young groom. One hundred, darling, how wonderful. She considers the fine lines of his cheekbones. Wonderful.

READER

Caucasian female, late 60s, wearing pink tank top, and white shorts.

Missing Mom

Joyce Carol Oates

(Ecco, 2006)

p 35