Page 62 of Redemption
Nothing!
So why does everything I am revolve around her?
I pull out the phone and call Salvatore.
“It’s done. I’m going north.”
Kerry
When her bright small talk wakes me I’ve slept three hours, or even less. I remember thinking about Dad, and what used to be. I don’t sleep very well those nights. It still hurts. I have a feeling he is out there somewhere, looking out for us, guarding us. I hope he is. We need it.
She waves to the birds outside the window and tries to chirp just like them. I let her down after checking she’s still got her full pajamas on and hasn’t squirmed out of any parts during her sleep, it’s chilly on the wooden floor. Then I fall into a coma in my armchair for another hour. I dream of Dad. He cries every night because he doesn’t know where we are. Guilt, and the terrible feeling of having done something irreversibly wrong, makes my insides churn. I try to reach him, to tell him I’m still his daughter, that I love him and that I’m still here even though it doesn’t seem so. My hand touches his shoulder and when he turns, he’s not my father. I scramble back so quickly that I fall, and I can’t defend myself. It hurts so much because I could always defend myself, but not with this one. Not with Chris—
She’s standing beside me, caressing my cheeks and toys with some tresses of my hair, sticking them inside my nostrils. There’s a frown on her forehead. I sneeze and give her a sleepy smile.
“Want me to get up, huh?”
“Yes, Momma,” she says loud and clear. “Baba.”
I slip my feet into my thick socks and stumble to the bathroom, carrying her on my hip. Our morning routine is bliss. I fill the bathtub with warm, but not too warm, water, and then we dive in, children’s music filling the cabin from the stereo, matched by splashing water and Cece’s laughter. She loves really simple songs. They make her beam and yodel along. I love Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Cecilia’. But when I sing along, I tend to alter the lyrics slightly. They change depending on my mood. Today I sing of breakfast.
“Making breakfast in the mo—orning, for Cecilia in o—our house. I get up to make some coffee and when I get back my Cece’s been pouring milk a—all over.”
Her head perks up when she hears her name and then she slams her hands down hard, drowning both us and the walls with a cascade of water. I roll my eyes but then I smile. I’ll have some cleaning up to do, but it doesn’t matter.
When we’re warm and flushed, our need for each other’s skin temporarily sated, and wrapped in thick bathrobes, we make breakfast. Tea, toast, warm milk, cereal. If the weather is nice, we sit on the porch, overlooking the valley, watching the birds collect sticks, and the bumblebees attempting to fly, lazy, not knowing their season is ending. All they know is collecting nectar, flying from flower to flower. Such a blessing to live in oblivion, not knowing the cruelty of the world.
I look at my daughter.Like her.
I tuck away the remains of the meal, leaving the dirty plates for later, then I brush her six little teeth carefully, making up for last night. After we’re done, we dress and prepare ourselves for a walk in the woods. Cecilia toddles around me as we slowly progress into uncharted territory. To her, that is. Every step such an adventure. We’ve been walking here every day, every month, for about a year. It seems as even she has begun to know her way now.
A little hand pulls mine. “Momma, wewentabuth!” I nod and smile. “Yes, love, we’re going into the woods.”
Eighteen
Christian
The landscape is so boring it turns my hair gray. Just flatlands as far as my eyes can see. I’m not in a hurry, my next hit isn’t supposed to be back in town until tomorrow anyway, so I decide on a little sightseeing, taking another route to Winnipeg. A less trafficked route, leaving the I-29 for 23 that turns into 371, that turns into a number of anonymous little roads but with breathtaking and ever-changing scenery. Much more enjoyable and much less likely to bring my mind into the threatening meltdown.
I’ve just passed the border to Canada. I had my IDs ready, Mr. Whateveritwas, in case there’d be a flying inspection, but it was just straight ahead. Gettingoutof the States is rarely a problem.
My phone goes off in my pocket, an angry honking sound I’ve reserved for my uncle. I put him on loudspeaker.
“What’s up.”
“Chris. Where’re you at?”His voice is dark and smooth, well-modulated, a little bit like Nathan’s.
“I’m off to Canada.”
“Right. The wife. How long until you get back? I have a traitor in my ranks, and I have to smoke him out. I want you to make an example out of him. I want your best work. I want the Devil himself.”
“Not a problem. Just point me in his direction. I should be back in a couple of weeks.”
“Are you fuckingdrivingagain?”
“It’s meditative. I like it.”
“I want you back as soon as you’ve finished up in Winnipeg. Take a flight.”