“I don’t think I’ll go back to work. Michelle often works seventy-hour weeks,” said Oliver, skilfully wiping the milk dribbling down the baby’s chin. “Mathilde will be starting kindergarten in September,” he continued, pointing out a little girl in sporty shorts and a baseball cap. “My days will be a little less busy then.”
The little girl joined the group of drillers. The twins unquestioningly accepted her into the group. Because of her outfit, they must have mistaken her for a boy; normally they wanted nothing to do with girls.
Oliver told me candidly about his life, and asked me questions in turn. An hour later, without even meaning to, I’d told him about the twins’ adoption, their troubled personalities, and the failure of the Dwell photoshoot. Realizing the magnitude of what I’d shared, I abruptly declared that we had to go. I packed up my bag and my muddy boys in one swift manoeuvre.
When I got home, the house was silent. The Dwell crew were gone, leaving no trace of their presence. Gregory was sitting at the table, finishing dinner. The boys had eaten late, and weren’t interested in the meal I offered to make them. So I took them straight upstairs to give them a bath, ignoring Gregory. Then I took my time reading them a story and tucking them in, before going back down to the kitchen. I was waiting to hear how Gregory would explain himself.
“They were very professional finishing up the session. The photos are going to work out. They’ll even be able to save the ones of the boys before the incident,” he said, ending lightly on the word.
He was happy. I was stunned.
“Good call leaving with the kids,” he said. “It turned out to be much easier without them around.” He kissed me on the cheek and went downstairs to watch TV.
I noisily put his abandoned dishes in the dishwasher and blew the crumbs off the table. When I was finished, I cast a last glance around me: everything was impeccable. I got out the pack of Armenian papers, carefully detached a strip, and folded it in a perfect zigzag before lighting one end with the lighter. I placed the paper in its terra cotta cup, and leaned my hip against the counter as I watched the plumes of incense dissipate into the air. The spicy fragrance tickled my nostrils. Then I went upstairs. I had no desire to join Gregory in the basement.
It was late. The boys had fallen fast asleep, spent after the day’s drama. As I did every night, I went into their room to make sure they were sleeping soundly before going to bed myself. Two Heico nightlights cast an orange glow over the room. Each of the boys was sleeping with his stuffed toy at the end of the bed: the striped cat for Daniil and the monkey for Vanya. Their identical wrought-iron beds and night tables sat symmetrically on either side of the big window, separated by a shag rug where Jules lay watchfully.
Even asleep, the boys’ features held the shadow of concern; they never seemed entirely at peace. Daniil furrowed his brow in his sleep, and jerked his shoulders. Vanya slept on his stomach, his head turned toward his brother, breathing with his mouth open. I pulled up the covers around Daniil, and knelt for a moment at Vanya’s side, tilting my head at the same angle as his. A gentle snore escaped his lips. I brought my face close to his and closed my eyes to inhale his baby’s breath. I stayed this way for a few minutes, taking advantage of the intimacy of nighttime, then tiptoed out.
In the bathroom mirror, I began the process of washing my face. I warmed cream in my palms before rubbing it on my face and neck. My skin turned shiny and supple. I started with light touches on my forehead, eyes, and chin. I continued with the pressure points for lymphatic drainage. With my eyes closed, I moved my fingers in gentle but firm circles to smooth out frown lines, crow’s feet, and smile lines. I lingered on my lips, rolling the flesh between my fingers, playing with their elasticity. I controlled the movement to maintain precision, without crossing into pain. I finished off with some light pinching on my eyebrows and jawline with the pads of my fingers. I repeated the motions several times until I felt a shiver down my spine. The oil penetrated my skin, lubricated it, and melted gently. I cleaned off the excess with a cotton pad, relaxed and purified.
In the next weeks, we often went back to Dufferin Grove. Summer was in full swing and the food stand was open. We could buy cookies and coffee, and at lunchtime they served hot dogs and mac and cheese. It wasn’t an ideal diet, but it saved me from cooking and the boys loved comfort food.
They weren’t fighting with other children anymore. I had patiently explained to them that they would never make friends if they kept throwing sand at them and knocking them down. From then on, they isolated themselves and only played with each other, but at least they had stopped harassing others.
Gregory’s parents finally decided to come visit and were arriving the next day, since it was Canada Day and Gregory was off work. They were going to spend four days in Toronto. Gregory invited them to stay at the house, but they said they would rather stay in a hotel and booked a room at a cheap Holiday Inn on Carlton Street. I had talked to them a few times on the phone and they seemed eager to meet the boys. I’d tried to introduce them on Skype, but the call ended up being very artificial. The boys didn’t recognize the faces talking to them and couldn’t respond, because they were barely speaking. The few calls I’d managed to have with my parents
