On the Gardiner, the traffic was moving smoothly. I made the Don Valley Parkway in a few minutes, and merged onto the 401 without thinking. I hadn’t turned on the radio. I was just listening to the roar of the engine, the noise of the highway, the silence in my head. I paid attention to all my blind spots, signalling clearly, keeping my hands in perfect position on the wheel, my back straight. This was enough for me. I didn’t feel capable of more. I drove, refusing to think about the state in which I’d woken up that morning. I drove, forbidding myself to think about the boys standing in the doorway. I drove, avoiding the question of why I was running away. I was the road, the fleeting buildings, the disappearing trees. I was motion. I didn’t look back.
The 401 went on forever. I sped past cities and towns without crossing them, without ever touching down. Ontario could have been Italy, Japan, or Texas—everything seemed so smooth now.
I don’t know when I exited the 401 for highway 49, but I have to believe I did, since I found myself on Main Street in Picton, where, after countless hours of uninterrupted driving, I had to stop. There was a little fork in the road, and I went right, parked, and got out at a bookstore-café.
In my cocktail dress, I had a chai latte in Picton. I spent a long time looking at the cinnamon floating atop the milk foam, my fingers trembling gently against the flowered cup. Outside, it was grey and a few raindrops splattered against the front window. I sighed and took a long drink of the sweet tea. I hadn’t eaten anything all day and I thought I could feel the liquid travelling through me like a mood. I woke up enough to check the time. It was a quarter to five in the afternoon. I had reached no conclusions.
I got up without finishing my tea and walked into the bookstore. I knew Picton. I’d been here at least twice with Gregory. When we moved to Toronto, everyone was talking about Prince Edward County, for its vineyards, its cheesemakers, its beaches. We followed the recommendations and rented a pretty little cottage close to everything. We sampled the local wines, went swimming at Sandbanks, looked for a good deal at the antique shops in the area. Those were beautiful moments, it seemed to me, but thinking about it now, nothing stood out. I didn’t remember anything in particular about those vacations, other than the feeling of a time upon which we had turned the page.
I wandered around the bookstore, not looking at anything; there was nothing I wanted to buy. My glance fell on the Alice Munro books display next to the cash. I was already heading for the exit when I noticed a pile of newspapers.
There was a picture of the twins on the front page.
The investigation into Faye’s murder had suddenly progressed and they were actively looking for two individuals. New interviews had revealed the presence of two suspicious men on the site of the discovery. Witnesses described them as two tall blond men. It was an artist’s rendering on the cover, but they were so real, I almost thought it was a photo. There was no doubt whatsoever: the composite artist had drawn my sons.
My knees suddenly started to shake. I understood. Faye. Fe. Their tattoos—they were for her.
Something rose up in me, a cry, a howl, a long, anguished wail, suppressed for fifteen years. I grabbed my phone with a sure hand and dialed the number of the hotline. In a series of incoherent sobs, I recited my life story—the stillborn baby, the twins’ adoption, their withdrawal, their silence, their isolation, their tattoos, the rape. Everything.
Two police officers push us forcefully toward the vehicle parked across the entrance. We don’t resist, we let them. The neighbours are excited by the flashing lights. With their arms crossed or hands over their mouths, increasing in numbers outside the Grace Street house. When we pass in front of them, they shout insults at us, their words overlapping, indistinct.
In the doorway, Gregory stands rigidly in his suit. He’d come home last night. His suitcase is still in the front hall. A police officer is watching the front steps, stopping the media from climbing up to ambush Gregory. A TV camera sweeps over the crowd, with a reporter interviewing the people standing in a line on the lawn belonging to a neighbour, who watches through the curtains.
We are not handcuffed, but the officers hold us firmly by the arm to direct us: their hold makes us lower our shoulders. They throw us down on the seat. The force of their gestures takes us way back, to something buried deep in us. Our bodies remember. The hands that assault us bring a memory trembling to the surface. Touch that hurts; we remember it well.
Everyone is pointing at us.
That’s when we see Mathilde, her hood covering her head and a heavy bag on her back, among the crowd watching our arrest. With a shrug, she hikes up the strap of her bag and walks away, her pretty face turned toward the ground.
The police car starts suddenly, fending off the mob that refuses to disperse. No one explains to us what is happening. Whatever happens, we will tell them nothing.
I took my time to come home, shower, and change my clothes. The house was empty. Gregory had left that morning to be with the twins. They were being held at 14 Division. I took off all my makeup, tied
