“Just because you failed your life doesn’t mean I’m going to fail mine,” I said. I was aiming to hurt her in return, as much as possible, and I don’t know if I hit the mark, but her face twisted even more. Then, just as suddenly, it smoothed out. She appeared perfectly calm. Only the slight twitch of her eyelid gave away her agitation, something that was frequent when she was this drunk.
“So that’s it, then.” Her voice, too, sounded strangely steady. “You’re going to turn your back on me. Just when I need you the most.”
“Stop with the bullshit,” I snapped. She was getting to me, whether or not I wanted to admit it. “Since when did you ever need me?”
That was when she dropped the bombshell. I don’t remember exactly what words she used or what tone, even though it seems like something I definitely should have remembered. Maybe the intensity of my own reaction clouded it over in my mind. All I gathered from that instant was I have cancer, Stephanie.
I think I didn’t believe her at first. I yelled something about her bullshitting me, about her being desperate.
“I was at the goddamn hospital all day Monday,” I remember her growling. “Bowel cancer. I need surgery and probably chemo and God knows what else. And you’re just going to walk away?”
To my credit, I actually thought before speaking. I weighed things in my mind, as much as was possible under the circumstances and as much as my rattled state of mind allowed. This whole thing could still turn out to be bullshit—I wouldn’t put it past Laura. I might give up my spot in the program only to find out a week later that it had all been some mistake, if not altogether made up. And even if it wasn’t, even if it was all true, with the surgery and the chemo and all that—even if Laura was sick, even if Laura was dying, what then? Had she ever done anything but hinder me in my seventeen years of existence? After all the crap I already put up with, did she expect me to give up on my future to nurse her back to health? There was no question in my mind: If I didn’t go to Montreal now, if I did give up my spot, this would be it. I wouldn’t get in a second time. Luc would go without me. It would be too late. I’d be stuck here for a year or two years, and, before long, I’d find myself at fifty, still here, still in Marly, in this mobile home that smelled like cheap tobacco.
I wouldn’t let it happen.
“Oh, and guess what, you vain little skank,” Laura snarled under her breath. The booze really removed her filter at the best of times. “This kind of cancer is genetic!”
I wanted to snap back at her that it had less to do with her genes and more to do with her lifelong friends Philip Morris and Molson. But I held myself back.
“And yet,” I said, “I’m still going.”
And a few days later, I would. The next time I’d see Laura would be in 2015, when I came back to Marly to write about Michelle Fortier.
TWELVE
1979
“Where the hell have you been?”
Laura freezes, fridge door open. The floor creaks as her mother walks in.
“I just wanted some milk,” Laura says.
“Where were you all day?”
“Out.” Judging by how there’s now a new carton of milk in place of the empty one, as well as two packs of hot dogs and, of course, a stack of three six-packs with three cans already missing from the top one, Laura figures her mother had gone to the store while Laura was out. Which means Diane could have filled her in.
Laura carefully closes the fridge door—her mother always yells at her for slamming doors—and turns around. Her mother gives her a wary once-over.
“I don’t want you out traipsing around at odd hours,” she grumbles. “No one knows what might happen.”
It takes a moment for Laura to figure out what her mother’s on about. “You heard,” she says. “About the dog.”
Her mother nods.
“Everyone thinks I did it,” Laura mutters. “But I didn’t.”
She half-expects her mother to start chewing her out. But instead, the woman only shrugs matter-of-factly. “I know. Of course you didn’t do it.”
Laura hides her surprise. “I think one of the teenagers did it,” Laura says. “I think it might have been Tony—”
Her mother bursts out laughing, interrupting her. “Tony,” she chuckles. “It wasn’t Tony. What nonsense. This stuff’s been happening since Tony was a foot tall. That’s how I know it wasn’t you. I remember it going way back. They say she went away, but that’s horseshit. She didn’t go away. She didn’t go anywhere.”
Laura’s breath catches. “Who?”
But her mother doesn’t seem to hear the question. “If you ask me, she’s in the woods somewhere. Or maybe holing up in one of the abandoned cabins—why do you think no one goes there for the summer anymore? Because she’s there, lurking. It’s her killing the animals. Everyone knows that.”
“Mom,” Laura bursts out. “Who are you talking about?”
Her mother blinks sleepily in surprise. “You haven’t heard?”
“No.”
“La Grosse Sophie. She was a witch. Still is, if you want my opinion.”
THIRTEEN
2017
After the series of anonymous, overpriced apartments I’d called home over my years in the city, I really shouldn’t have found the mobile home as ridiculously small and claustrophobic as I did. I thought I’d gotten used to the idea of never having a bathtub big enough to take a proper bath in. Yet the shower stall at Laura’s felt like standing up in a narrow plastic coffin stained with limestone. And my room was akin to sleeping in a closet, a poorly isolated closet at that. I stayed awake for a long time, listening to the noises that should have felt familiar but felt instead more alien than ever. Never again would I find the clacking of the loose vinyl siding against the wall comforting, a cozy background noise to fall asleep to. The bed was too hard and creaked at the slightest move I made, voluntary or not. The moment I’d start to drift off, against all odds, the bed would emit a crackling noise, and I’d wake up all over again.
I’d forgotten there was a streetlight outside that never went out, and the blinds didn’t keep the light at bay. So I lay in the semidarkness, able to make out the outline of everything around me. My desk, my old chair, my clothes draped over the back, the closet door, and the old dresser. Once again my universe had shrunk to the size of this room. It wasn’t reassuring.
In the morning, I jolt awake, realizing I must have dozed off at some point. Too little, too late. I feel groggy, and there’s a weariness and a weight in my bones that could be fatigue as much as dread of the day to come.
I decide to get out of bed and face the day anyway.
In full sunlight, the house looks like a hangover feels. I’m stricken once again at the amount of dust and the sad, scuffed state of everything. The fridge is empty. When I check the cupboards, I’m briefly reassured to see a box of cereal that’s half-full, but upon closer inspection, the box says the expiration date was in 2016. When I stick my nose inside, it smells like dust. My search for coffee turns up a jar of instant with a few granules rattling around at the bottom.
