“I scratched off part of it with my nail,” I said. “There was more before.”
Gregory examined them, raised his eyebrows, and slammed them onto the table.
“I hope you haven’t started again.” His voice was hard.
“No,” I said meekly. “I wanted to cut the mint stems.”
There was no sense in explaining it.
“You’re still taking your Cipralex?”
I confirmed in a tiny voice. Just after Faye’s disappearance, Gregory discovered I was cutting myself again, and considered it an affront. I’d had serious episodes as a teenager, from which I still had scars on my arms. Gregory believed it was thanks to him that I’d stopped. He was partly right.
Stressing that I had everything I needed to be happy, that the children depended on me now and I couldn’t let myself go down that road again, he’d stepped in and had our family doctor prescribe me antidepressants. I had to start taking care of myself. Our family’s well-being depended on my mental health, he’d declared.
The drugs worked. I felt more at peace, but I had gained weight. I now tried to hide my ample form under loose clothes, preferably made of natural linen.
I was hurt by Gregory’s accusation. How could he doubt me? I abandoned the pruning shears and tried to change the subject.
“The twins have taken up diving again.”
Gregory instantly forgot the shears.
“There it is.” We lay down our bikes in the grass and cross the vacant lot to the silo.
Twenty feet high and about fifteen feet wide, the tower must have been used to store grain, since the lot was agricultural land. The silo is made of cement and topped with a round metal dome, painted white. A ladder stretches up one side, providing access to a door in the roof. A metal tube descends from the same point. We don’t know what it could be for. The structure is neglected; the cement is crumbling and the metal has rusted through. The ladder was cut off three metres from the ground, making it impossible to climb. We know because we’ve tried unsuccessfully to reach it.
We pull a dirty sports bag out from the high grass growing around the foot of the silo. We found it yesterday. We look around to make sure we’re still alone. The bag contains a shredded rope, a rock-climbing hammer that’s missing part of its handle, some old sneakers, and a wad of bills. We set it all out on the grass.
“How much is there?”
“A hundred and thirty dollars.”
We’ll decide later what to do with the money. First, we want to try the climbing tool. We didn’t have time yesterday on our way back from the pool, because it was starting to get dark. Maybe we’ll finally be able to reach the door.
The object, a sort of hybrid between a hammer and a saw, should help with the climb. But it’s in bad shape with an uncertain grip. We try to drive it into the silo. The impact chips the concrete surface, but doesn’t stick.
“We’ll have to find cracks, rather than trying to cut holes.”
We walk around the silo, examining the surface below the ladder. By planting the hammer in the concrete divots, we get enough hold to ensure a slow climb. The tool is heavier than we’d thought and is oddly shaped, which makes it hard to use. When we finally get purchase with it in the concrete, we have to pull hard to dislodge it and plant it higher. We nearly lose our balance every time. After several tries, we manage to climb a couple of metres up the smooth wall. We stretch our arms as wide as we can and look for a spot to brace our feet. The ladder is less than a metre above us. If we can bring our shoulders to the height of our hands, we will only have to reach an arm out to catch the first rung. But suddenly, the hammer slips under our weight and we fall back into the grass, getting the hammer right in the face. We worriedly examine the cut now opening up our chin. The wound is wide and open, but doesn’t bleed much.
“You’re going to need stitches.”
We jump up. Standing behind us is what seems like a very thin boy with a hard look. His black-brown hair is shaved on one side and falls in long bangs on the other. He’s wearing a plaid shirt, cut-off jean shorts, and black Converse sneakers.
“Are you sure?” We try to hide the panic in our voice.
“Yes. I got the same thing falling on skates,” responds the teenager, lifting his head to reveal a long white scar on his hairless chin.
“I guess we’d better go home.”
We get up unsteadily. We obviously can’t pedal.
“I can take the other bike,” the boy assures us.
“What happened?"
Vanya staggered, holding his brother’s arm, his chin bloodied.
“He fell,” explained Daniil.
“Why are you weaving like that?” asked Gregory, moving closer.
“My back hurts,” Vanya rasped.
Gregory gently lifted his T-shirt. Nearly his whole mid-section was swollen in an enormous bruise.
“We’ve got to get him to the hospital right away,” declared Gregory, already turning on his heels for the car keys.
I didn’t say another word, and quickly stepped outside. At the foot of the porch steps stood a teenager holding Vanya’s bike.
“Mathilde?” I hadn’t seen Oliver’s daughter in years, but I recognized her immediately. “What are you doing there?” I was asking questions with answers that didn’t matter. I wanted to grab the bike and get in the car at the same time.
“I brought the bike back,” Mathilde said simply. “I’ll put it here.” She took a few steps down the side alley and rested the bicycle against the wall of the house.
At SickKids, it didn’t take long before we were seen. In less than an hour, they sewed up the cut on Vanya’s chin and X-rayed his back. He had serious internal bleeding, so they decided to keep
