force, and I’d siphoned off even more. If I was going to do this, now was the time. When it was stronger, I wouldn’t be able to take it off.
Well, I wasn’t ready to die. Not really. But . . . Jesus Christ, living with this thing was not going to make me a happy cupcake.
And . . . Moira.
The wind scoured my face, drying the tears. I held my arm out, stiffly, drew back, and managed a pretty decent throw. It snapped as it left my hand, the chain biting, and beads of blood welled up on my wrist. Sharp darts of light glinted from it as it somersaulted, grabbing at the wind, the chain suddenly tentacles. But I’ve got a good aim, and it hit the choppy water and vanished with a twinkle.
A cloud settled over the sun, the colour and richness of the world stolen away again. I made it home without getting run over, took a bath without drowning, and went to bed because I was too fucking tired to care.
Tuesday morning showed up way too early, the alarm shrieking at me. I smashed the sleep button, rolled over, and spent another ten minutes in dreamland. There was something hard under my cheek.
The alarm shrieked again. I groaned, cursed, and punched it off. Turned my lamp on, every muscle protesting. I was sore all over from being stabbed, suffering seizures, and—
A silver gleam. The lion-dragon snarled slightly, and as soon as I touched the warm metal with a trembling finger it shifted, supple curves gleaming. I let out a small sound like I’d been punched and picked it up by the chain, gingerly, holding it away from me.
The Seal swung in tight circles, muttering at me.
Haunting her steps. Now this thing was haunting mine.
It settled against my breastbone like it had never been away, the chain sliding under my hair and the lion- dragon twisting and turning as it rubbed catlike against me. I sat in my bed, listening to the rumble of traffic outside, and hugged my knees. My curtains glowed; I could see every thread in the fabric. Every edge was rich and solid again, not washed-out and dull.
“Moira,” I whispered. “Tell me what to do now.”
And just like that, the answer occurred. Well, why not? I could almost hear her laughing. It was what Moira would have done. At least,
I had enough saved up, and if the Seal could make Hannigan rich it could do the same for me. But I’d do something different. I’d
I always wanted to be a superhero.
Forget Us Not
Nancy Kilpatrick
You hear only the crunch as your boots crush snow along this narrow street. A plume of carbon dioxide escapes your nostrils, vaporizing, like a ghost vanishing. Where the smaller ploughs have scraped the sidewalks, crystalline banks form glittering, otherworldly mountains and you scale one to cross the street.
It has been nearly a year since Brian died. A powerful wave of grief crashed over you, and then, within an hour of his demise, leaving grief in its wake, numbness flooded you. You are anaesthetized. A voluntary amnesiac. Now, you merely exist, rather than live, opening your eyes each morning with only a mild curiosity as to whether or not this day will be different. But the days are all the same and much of the time you realize that your waking thought is naive; hope died with your husband. You are as cold as the dead.
Your brain hurts and you yank the parka’s hood down to protect your forehead and daydream about prairie winters. They had been as bad, worse really, longer, that’s for sure, but that cold was “dry”; you are just beginning to grasp what “dry” means. Here, it is damp and the thermostat often reads warmer than it actually is. Still, you owe this city. You needed a big change – change or crawl into a grave yourself. “Change is better than a rest,” Brian always joked; you wonder if you’ll ever truly rest again.
This is the kind of night you remember vividly from childhood. Not the urban landscape, of course. But, from time to time, the present of this place dovetails with recollections of the past. You recognize the silence. That combined with the pristine white leaves you calm on some level. Despite the chill, a small, grim smile turns up the corners of your lips. You intentionally blow a stream of visual air into the night, just to watch it vanish, and think again: how like a spirit departing when the body can no longer contain it!
You reach the mouth of an alleyway close to the corner and a sudden sound cuts the silence, causing you to stop. You pull the furry hood back to listen. Must have been a cat, you think, or it sounded like one. An unhappy cat. Maybe a cat in pain. An image of Ruddie comes to mind and you squeeze closed your eyes for a second and shake your head, not wanting to think about that.
You glance down the alley but the dim lighting reveals nothing. It’s far too cold just to stand here so you hurry along and turn left at the corner, heading towards boulevard St Laurent.
Within a block, activity blossoms amidst the swirling white. It is normal for people here to wander around in storms and you have gotten used to going out to meet the necessities of life in all kinds of weather and finding shops, bars, restaurants, every place packed. This, you know, is
Traffic moves at a snail’s pace but the slim Montrealers manage a good clip despite icy sidewalks. You imitate their pace, grateful that you learned to ice skate at the age of five and walking the black-ice streets of Saskatoon felt natural. Montreal is so much further south. When your clients complain about the weather, you often tell them, “This is nothing. You should see life when everything is obliterated!”
The bar you favour is in the Plateau area. It is Saturday night, but early, and you will have enough time to drink yourself comatose before the crowds arrive. Drinking has become your hobby, a comfortable pastime, and Saturday is the only night you can indulge because the office is closed on Sunday. Brian used to say, “Never drink alone, Gena. It can’t lead anywhere good.” And you don’t. You drink with a crowd of strangers who, after all this time, are no closer to being friends.
Anton & James is a large resto-bar, cosy at this hour, and you have come here every weekend without fail for nine months. The bartender places your double Scotch, neat, on the oak bar without your asking, smiles and says, “How it’s going?”
“Fine,” you say, as you do every Saturday night, the ritualistic words exchanged as if they are a talisman that will ward off bad luck.
You know the bartender’s name is Rod – it says so on the pin attached to his shirt. He knows your name is Gena – your credit card gives away this vital statistic. That is enough familiarity, although you sometimes wonder what his life outside this bar is like. Is he married? Does he have a girlfriend? Children? Is this his only job? You also wonder if he wonders about you.
The hours pass, the bar begins to fill, the music is cranked for the night, and you have tossed back the remains of your fifth drink. On cue, Rod rings up your tab and discreetly places the bill before you. Your credit card comes out of your coat pocket; within minutes you have punched in your code and left a generous tip on the hand- held credit card machine. You look in your glass but it is empty, stand on rubbery legs, slip into your coat and Rod says, “See you.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
And then you are out the door, trudging back up the street which is now as crowded as midday with laughing, energetic bar and club goers. Briefly you think of stopping for something to eat, but the thought of consuming anything solid evokes a touch of nausea and anyway you have soon turned the corner, shutting out the noise and traffic and clubs and restaurants, and eventually you are on your street.
Even before you reach the mouth of the alley, you hear a single, pitiful yowl. From the corner of your eye a dark form darts across your path. Startled, you jump back, skidding on a patch of ice, arms flailing to regain balance. “OK, OK,” you gasp, “it’s just a cat. Relax.”
