“Are you sure they don’t need X-rays?”
“There’s no sense in repeating the tests,” he said, as though I was being frivolous. “However,” he added, “it wouldn’t hurt to talk a little about sexual education.”
My eyes widened. I pursed my lips. The doctor handed the boys a few condoms, giving them a few instructions for use. “And remember, it’s important to wear a condom for vaginal and anal penetration, and even for oral penetration.”
I thought I would die. What kind of ideas was this idiot putting into my children’s heads? The twins put the condoms in their pockets and the doctor released them with a lab requisition.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, hissing with spite.
Several tubes of blood were taken from each of them. The nurses took no precautions, since they were dealing with such sturdy boys. Standing up from the donation chairs, the boys and the insides of their elbows were the same colour as the chairs. I’d completely forgotten to ask the doctor about Faye.
Today, we decided to go for a run near our school.
We don’t jog very often, but we wanted to start slow since our fall at the silo. Running requires different breath control than swimming or weight training. Our ankles soften on the steep terrain, but it takes considerable effort.
It’s not a forest, but rather a sparse, ill-maintained wood. Broken branches and ferns litter the ground, as well as abandoned beer bottles. At one point, we get winded and have to rest. We sit down on the ground, looking at the grey sky through the canopy of trees.
“Do you think we’re sick?”
“No, why?”
“I don’t know. All these tests they’re making us take…”
“I’m sure it’s normal. It must be like the vaccinations we got when we were little.”
We hadn’t asked Emma the reason for the tests.
“Do you think they can find our real mother with these blood tests?”
We distinctly remember the moment when Emma and Gregory told us they weren’t our real parents. Much earlier, Emma had explained reproduction to us, and how the baby grows inside the mother’s stomach. We got very scared. Touching Emma disgusts us. Her skin, her mouth, and her hair make our skin crawl, so the idea that we had developed stuck to the surfaces of her body really repulsed us. As for the fact of having exited through her slimy vagina, it seemed unimaginable. We couldn’t sleep for several nights afterwards. In order to come to terms with the idea, we started going into her room to watch her sleep. The room was always warm and smelled harsh, acrid. Emma sleeps on the left and Gregory on the right, when he’s there; when he’s not there, Emma still sleeps on her half, without touching the other side. Gregory generally sleeps with his back to Emma. She sleeps on her stomach, with her mouth open. Naked. Always. Before, she was smooth, but now her body is fat and soft, with creases like she’s melting. Her skin is covered in bumps and craters.
We made up a game: we bring our face right up to Emma’s and we breathe in the smell from her mouth, her hair. It makes us want to throw up, but we have to resist. Whoever can stay there the longest wins.
It was such a relief to learn that we hadn’t grown inside her stomach. We would rather believe we had never been inside anyone’s stomach. That was preferable.
“Come on, let’s go,” we say.
We run, paying no attention to the roads we take. At the end of a dirt lane, we find ourselves in a cul-de-sac. A building that looks like a big metal container sits at the end of the school’s west wing. This is Ariel’s office.
Through the window, we can see him working. We watch for a long time, holding our breath. Hes moving gypsum panels. His movements are precise, assured. The effort makes the muscles in his arms and neck bulge. He moves between the work benches as though accomplishing a sports routine.
We knock on the corrugated tin door.
Ariel doesn’t seem surprised. We don’t return his smile. We ask him if we can come and work in the shop at night. He agrees. He says we can come whenever we want after school, we just have to let him know in advance to make sure he’s free.
“I’d ask you not to let our agreement get around, though,” he says, “since I can’t offer it to the others.”
We shake hands and leave.
Built more than a century ago, Harbord Collegiate has a number of concrete buildings. The architecture looks like an underground parking garage, but for a few rectangular windows that let in a minimum of light. They have bars on them to prevent suicide attempts, or that’s what they tell us anyway. On the archway over the main doors the motto of the school is engraved in Latin: Gratia et sapientia proficere. We don’t know what it means.
Sitting on the low wall bordering the entrance, Mathilde watches us walk up the school steps. We look at her coldly. We don’t pay attention to her for long; we have an appointment with Ariel today.
The workshop is small, but Ariel has used the space well. In the middle of the room is a big work table with a varnished wood surface that sits atop a metal chest of drawers for storing screws, nails, nuts, electrical wires. Everything is labelled and well organized. When we arrive, Ariel is looking at something on his phone. He puts it down when we walk in.
“Ah—there you are. I was waiting for you.”
He closes the door behind us and steps into his office, just off the shop. He returns with two leather belts. We can’t believe our eyes.
“Presents!”
He has the same one around his waist, with a number of loops and pockets to hold tools.
