Interference Page 20

  “After we eat we’ll go out and look for him,” Tom says through a mouthful. “After I drag your mother to the bathroom by her hair.” He smiles a little but no one thinks he is funny.

  Maria has an idea in the fog of the pain killers. “Maybe he’s in the backyard. Maybe he came back and is outside waiting for us to let him in?”

  Becky stands up from the towel she was sitting on to keep clean, washes her hands in the kitchen sink and then walks to the back door, opens it and yells, “Dog” out into the evening. “Where are you, Dog? Come home, Dog.”

  Maria doesn’t tell them about Dayton. She doesn’t tell them how Dayton saw her from across the street, saw Maria, her robe open, her body hanging out there for all to see, almost falling, stiffening up and leaning forward, clutching her back, screeching in pain, she doesn’t tell them how Dayton came across the street quickly and steadied Maria before she fell. She helped Maria into the kitchen, stretched her out on the kitchen floor, straightened her robe and tied it tight around her waist. She said, “I have to get Carrie. Just a minute. I’ll be right back,” and she ran off out the front door and across the street and found her young daughter somewhere in her house and then came back. When she came back she was carrying the baby on her hip and she had her purse over one shoulder. She had Maria’s newspaper as well. The baby was fiddling with the strap of Dayton’s purse and cooing.

  “Oh dear,” Maria said, “We don’t even really know each other that well and here you see me half-naked lying on my kitchen floor.”

  “Neighbours,” Dayton laughed. “That’s what we’re for.” Carrie burbled a bit.

  The women nodded at each other. Maria nodded at Carrie. She swore the baby nodded back. Everyone was calm and quiet. Everything was silent as if there was nothing odd about this at all.

  Tom helps Maria get comfortable. He helps her to the bathroom by dragging her there. She struggles as he lifts her to standing, and after she pees he helps her back down to the floor. He slides her back to the kitchen where the floor tiles are heated. He has turned them on now and Maria feels the heat in her back. “Why didn’t you remember that earlier?” Maria says. Tom shrugs and brings her blankets and pillows.

  About time, she thinks. He’s been home from work for more than an hour. He plumps the pillow and tries to roll some blankets under her for comfort but it hurts too much and so he just lays them over her and tucks her in a bit. He gives her another Robaxacet and some water with a straw.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to carry you upstairs?”

  “I think I want to just lie here,” Maria says. “It really hurts to move. Maybe later you can help me get on the couch in the TV room. The floor feels nice on my back now with the heat on.”

  Becky is pacing beside her mother.

  “Don’t step on me,” Maria says lightly, as if it’s a joke, but she really means it. Becky is getting close, back and forth, back and forth, her tread heavy.

  “Hurry up, Dad.” She won’t look at Maria.

  “You’d think, Becky, that you actually liked Dog,” Maria says. Tom glances at her. “I mean you’re always complaining about him shedding and his dirty paws and the way he smells.”

  “I love Dog,” Becky shouts, staring straight down at her mother, her feet inches from Maria’s head. “You let him go and you didn’t do anything about it. I love him. You always do this kind of thing. You’re always hurting me.”

  “I didn’t let him go on purpose.”

  “But you could have phoned Dad. You could have phoned him at work and he could have come home and looked for Dog.”

  Tom says, “She has a point. Why didn’t you call me?”

  Maria sighs. “I’m stuck here. I don’t know.”

  “But you got to the bathroom. You said you got to the bathroom once.”

  “That was an emergency.”

  “And the dog isn’t?” Becky is crying now. “Sometimes I hate you.”

  “Teenagers,” Maria says and Tom looks at her but quickly looks away. “What? I’m the one who’s hurt here. It really hurts to move. You guys don’t know. You’ve never had back problems. Every little movement —”

  “We’ll find him, Beck. Don’t you worry.”

  Becky puts her coat on, stamps awfully close to her mother, and heads out the door behind her father. Maria can hear them calling “Dog” up and down the street. Another reason they should have named him. How will he know that he’s the dog they want?

  Maria isn’t certain why she didn’t think to call Tom. Well, she is certain, actually. She didn’t call Tom because she had forgotten that Dog got out. Dayton distracted her and, for the day, Maria actually forgot she had a dog. Because he doesn’t have a name, Maria thinks now, he doesn’t exist?

  “For god’s sake, try harder,” Maria tells herself. But it comes out, “Fer gut sake, dry hearter,” because the Robaxacet is starting to work. That’s another reason she didn’t call Tom. The Robaxacet. Lovely, melty, liquidy pill.

  Dayton moved from California last fall, which made Maria both envious and sad. Maria would like to go to California someday. In fact, she never goes anywhere. She’d like to get out of this town once in a while. It really doesn’t matter where. Dayton said there was a complicated husband, a bitter breakup — Maria isn’t sure now if she mentioned a divorce. Little Carrie has no father anymore. That’s all there was to it. Something about moving here to get away from it all. To get away from him.

  One thing Dayton did mention that stuck hard in Maria’s head, that made her see red — Dayton has been playing hockey in that league with Trish. This fact made Maria horribly envious and sad. Mostly envious. Why didn’t Trish didn’t ask her to play? They’ve known each other for years. Maria was not quite sure why she hadn’t been asked. It made no sense. According to Dayton, Trish’s daughter, Rachel, has babysat Carrie when they play hockey — this fact made Maria the most envious and sad. Becky and Rachel are the same age but Becky is much more mature. The thought of that little twerp Rachel babysitting anyone’s child made Maria uncomfortable — more uncomfortable than she already was, lying on the floor in her bathrobe.

  “But don’t you think she’s too young?” Maria asked.

  “I’m just down the street at the arena,” Dayton said. “She can always call me.”

  “Do you carry your cell phone when you play hockey? When you’re actually out on the ice? I mean, what if something happens when you’re out on the ice?”

  Dayton looked at Carrie, looked at Maria and said, “No. I guess I don’t. But Carrie is asleep when I play hockey. I didn’t really think —”

  “Well, it’s none of my business, but that Rachel girl can be a real handful.”

  “She seems lovely,” Dayton said, “but I don’t really know her like you do. And, besides, I sometimes use an older girl, Caroline.”

  “Oh, I could tell you things about Rachel. She plays with Becky and she’s quite bossy, quite controlling. She does things sometimes that make me so mad. Sometimes she steals things from our house. Our food. She comes over and eats all our food and puts the empty containers back in the fridge or in the cupboard —” Maria stopped talking and blushed. She realized that she sounded shrill. It was just that Rachel and her mother, Trish, well, it was just — Maria wasn’t asked to play hockey. That’s the crux of it. Why wasn’t she asked?

  So Maria felt left out of everything, lonely. Even with Dayton there beside her she felt lonelier than she’d ever felt in her entire life. And, lately, Maria has been feeling very lonely. Tom is distracted at work. Becky hasn’t liked her since that incident with the school and the lying kids who bullied her. That’s why she threw her back out. Stress.

  Maria has been so angry lately. Every time she thinks of anything she sees red. The world sucks. The people around her suck. Everything sucks. But then, after that red-hot anger disappears, Maria feels nothing at all. She ha
s no opinion and doesn’t care. It’s one way or the other — hate or indifference. There is no in-between. Maria finds it exhausting. She wonders often if this is peri-menopause. Maybe that’s what it is. Hormonal fluctuations.

  Dayton was sitting on the floor near Maria. She leaned her back against the wall. Carrie was sitting on her lap, looking at Maria, sucking her thumb, her baby fist pressed hard against her nose. She is a cute baby, Maria thought at the time. A sweet-looking thing.

  “How well do we really know anyone?” Maria said. “And she’s a child. I shouldn’t say mean things about a child.”

  And that’s when Dayton started to cry. It shocked Maria at first. Even though Dayton has lived across the street for months and months, they’ve never really said more than “hello” and “nice weather” and so they don’t really know each other. And here Maria was, lying on her kitchen floor in her bathrobe with someone she just met and the woman was crying. Carrie took her finger out of her mouth and screwed up her face to cry. But then, just as quickly, she plugged her finger back in and stopped.

  “I’m sorry,” Dayton sniffled. “It’s just — ”

  “Oh, I completely understand,” Maria said. But she didn’t. She had no idea why this woman was crying in her kitchen. Maria thought, I should be crying. I’m hurt. I’m lonely. I have no friends who ask me to play hockey. My kid doesn’t like me. I’m angry all the time. My husband —

  “It’s just.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. No problem at all.”

  This went on for a bit. And then Dayton wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and got Maria a Robaxacet from the bathroom cabinet. She left a little while later. She had to put Carrie down for her nap.

  Now Maria tries to roll over. The dark has completely set in. Tom and Becky have been gone for about an hour. Maria heard their voices carry down the street and disappear. She heard them come back for the car, and then drive off again. “Dog, Dog, Dog . . .”

  Fucking dog, Maria thinks. What about me?

  The kitchen tiles are filthy. Hair everywhere. Is that an olive slice from the pizza under the dishwasher? A hair clip beside the chair leg? It’s amazing what you see when you get down to the level of the mess.

  So many things to worry about. A woman alone on her kitchen floor. A dog with no name lost out in the dark. A stranger crying in your kitchen. This is when Maria realizes that she never called in to work. She missed a whole day of work and she didn’t call in and they didn’t call her. No one called. All day. Except Becky, when she was at Rachel’s after school.

  Didn’t they wonder where she was? Didn’t anyone worry about her? Or miss her? There was supposed to be a meeting today, Maria remembers. About a new insurance policy her company is considering. Better drug plan. Better dental. Maria wasn’t there and no one noticed. Maria starts to get teary just thinking of it. She would have liked to have given input. She would have liked to have said something about orthodontists and prescriptions. Especially if pain killers were covered. And maybe physiotherapy coverage. Or massage.

  On the news the other night there was a story about a woman who had died at her desk in her cubicle at work — a heart attack. She had died on Friday morning and they hadn’t discovered her until Saturday afternoon. For an entire day the woman slumped dead over her desk and no one noticed. The weekend cleaning staff discovered her. Imagine leaving for home on Friday and saying, “Have a good weekend, Betty,” to a dead woman. How many people walked past, oblivious? It makes Maria wonder why she even has a job.

  Well, money. Of course. That’s why. She sometimes enjoys what she does. But it’s definitely impossible to live off one income these days. Two incomes barely make ends meet.

  “We’re home.” Tom is standing at the back door. Becky looks defeated. “No luck.”

  “He’ll come back,” Maria says. “I’m sure of it, Beck. He has his collar on.” But she isn’t sure. In fact, she’s sure he’s gone for good. Dog. Out in the real world. On an adventure. They’ve had him for eight years but, for some reason, Maria doesn’t even feel sad that he’s gone.

  “I can’t believe you, Mom,” Becky says. She is deflated. Her eyes are puffy. “I can’t believe you lost our dog.” She kicks past Maria and heads up the stairs to her room, stomping all the way. Her door slams and then Maria and Tom hear her DustBuster start up. Becky cleaning. This is part of the reason why Maria thought Becky wouldn’t mind that the dog was gone. He is, after all, loaded with dirt and hair and dead skin. He sheds everywhere.

  “Poor Beck,” Tom says. He runs his hand through his hair. “I bet he will come back, though. Dogs do that, don’t they? Remember when Frank and Trish lost their dog on the bike trail, and when they came home after looking all day for him he was sitting on their front porch?” Then he turns on the TV and settles in to watch something. After about half an hour Tom says, “can I get you anything?” Tom turns the volume up on the TV so he can hear over the DustBuster. Maria lies there, waiting for something, for someone, for anything.

  Late at night was the worst, Dayton told Maria. When the dark settled in and Carrie was asleep. When the trees outside scraped against the windowpanes. “That’s when I’m afraid,” Dayton said, “that he’ll come for me. That he’ll come and take Carrie back.”

  Trapped there, on her kitchen floor, an imprisoned woman, Maria could only blink in response. What more could she have said to Dayton? Of course he will come. He wants his daughter back, doesn’t he?

  “You’ll figure it out,” Maria said. “I’m sure once the lawyers get involved it will all be figured out.”

  Dayton shook her head. “That’s the problem,” she said. “He isn’t communicating with my lawyer and I don’t think he even has a lawyer. He’s crazy, Maria. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Restraining order?”

  “I took his child.” Dayton began to cry again. Carrie joined her this time. And then Carrie found her thumb and became silent. Maria wished that Dayton would use her own thumb, plug her own mouth.

  “Oh dear,” Maria said.

  Dayton waved her arms in the air. “John just hurt me so much. I needed to get away. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t think the whole thing through.”

  Maria didn’t like this story. Not when it was being told to her and not after. In the late afternoon, as she lay on her kitchen floor alone, after Dayton had gone home, she felt as if someone were sitting on her chest. She felt sick and scared and angry. Men who cheat on their wives. Such unfaithful cowardice. Why not just leave? Why cheat? Women who steal their babies into the night. How did she get Carrie out of California without her father’s consent? Maybe she forged his signature? Why not just go the legal route? Why not ask for help? Surely someone would help, even if you had to pay them to help you? The Robaxacet was working and Maria felt disoriented and confused. She wondered if Trish knew about this — about the cheating ex named John. Left in California. Maybe if Trish had known about this she would have thought twice about asking Dayton to play hockey. Or, at least, Trish would never have let Rachel babysit for a woman whose ex-husband cheated on her, for a woman who stole her child away from the child’s father. After all, it takes two to tango. Right? Isn’t that always the case?

  Maria would never let Becky babysit for Dayton. Not for a second. Dayton and her history. And who knows what kind of man she’ll take into her life again. She’s attractive. She’s young. Surely the house will be swarming with boyfriends soon enough. And they’ll probably cheat on her. She’ll become more unstable, insecure, get more boyfriends — the cycle will go around and around and around. Maria could see it. Maria spent the day thinking about it. That poor girl, Rachel, sitting over there in the dark on hockey nights while Dayton skated away on a team Maria should have been invited to join. If Trish had only asked Maria to play hockey with her she would never have put Trish’s daughter in moral danger. Right? Bad influences. Maria isn’t sure, but this sounded right in h
er mind. It’s not as if she didn’t like Dayton. She was nice to come rescue her when her back went out and her baby was well behaved and quiet. Just the kind of baby Maria appreciates.

  And then Maria fell asleep.

  This has happened before, this back problem. Maria thinks she has a weak spine. The doctor says she has osteoarthritis but she doesn’t believe him. He says she has bone spurs that press on the nerves in her back. How can she have bone spurs? After all, she’s young. Healthy. Once, every couple of years, she has to lie still for four days, take muscle relaxers and stay completely still, and then, after those four days, she will get up and the pain will be gone. A miracle. Three days doesn’t work. She isn’t sure about five days, as she’s never tried it, but four days is the cure.

  Tonight Maria lies alone on the TV room floor off the kitchen. She didn’t want to move, no matter how Tom begged her and told her that he would carry her gently to the couch, that he wouldn’t jar her spine. The couch is too soft. The floor is hard and unforgiving. Just what her back needs. But tomorrow Tom will carry her up to their bedroom and she will lie there. Tonight she wants to lie on the TV room rug and not move until morning. Tom carries her into the bathroom for the second time, Maria screeching in pain, helps her in there and then makes up the TV room floor with a stiff yoga mat, a pillow, quilts and blankets. He places the phone and a flashlight beside the mat and settles Maria in for the night. He then kisses her forehead like she has watched him kiss Becky’s as he tucks her in for the night. She listens as he climbs the stairs to their room to stretch his long frame out on the empty queen-size bed and fall into oblivion. Tom works hard. She appreciates that. He may not notice things sometimes, but he is a good man. He would never cheat on her. She knows this. She is sure of it.

  Alone on the TV room floor, the house dark and creaking around her, the fridge humming, the light on the microwave blindingly green, Maria begins to worry about Dog. She hears rain hit the windows and she imagines him out there in the blackness, under a bush. She imagines him hungry and sad and confused and wet. And then she thinks of Becky upstairs. Becky who wouldn’t come down again to say goodnight but instead stamped around on the second floor, smashing her feet into the floorboards, pounding out her frustrations on top of Maria’s head as if she wanted to come through the floor and crush her mother’s skull. Sometimes Maria wishes that Becky was dead. Gone. Away. Sometimes she thinks about how great her life would be if her kid disappeared. Then she begins to cry.