We Rip the World Apart

Evelyn Toronto

Evelyn

Toronto

2004

The rays from the streetlights streamed through the gaps in the curtain that Kingsley, yet again, hadn’t properly closed when he’d slumped into bed just minutes before Evelyn. He’d been in his office, she in the living room, some sitcom she couldn’t even recall the name of flickering in the dim light.

Evelyn rolled over, trying to get comfortable, but was distracted by the incessant whir of cars on the not-too-distant highway. Nights like this, it seemed impossible that anyone in this city could sleep. Or fall back to sleep, rather. Most nights, Evelyn was out to the world within minutes of her head hitting the pillow, but then two, three, sometimes four hours later, she’d wake with a start, usually in a cold sweat, the vision of Antony—bullets riddled through him, blood spreading on the pavement, or what he must have looked like after on a frigid slab, before they’d hidden him beneath the locked lid of the casket—in her mind.

If it wasn’t these nightmares that woke her, it’d be Kingsley, lost in his own dreams, calling out Antony’s name, Femi’s, Ella’s. All the people he’d lost violently.

Oddly, sleep had been easier when she’d lain in Antony’s bed. But since the night the officer had arrived, months ago now, she hadn’t opened the door to his room. So, every night, she lay beside Kingsley, each of them tossing and turning, leaving and returning, failing at this, one of the simplest and most important tasks to ensure continued existence.

Evelyn tiptoed out of the room and crossed the hall to Kareela’s door. She peeked through the crack, staring until she was certain of the barely noticeable but rhythmic rise and fall of her daughter’s chest.

She’d done that with Antony, too. Even when he was a grown man, when he’d come in late, thinking everyone was asleep, and flop into bed, smelling of alcohol or marijuana, though she’d never seen him obviously drunk.

She’d ease open his door, look…because what if this time he’d gone too far? What if he’d vomit and choke on it? A few times, she’d entered his room, smelled his breath, and when she caught a whiff of alcohol on it, rolled him to his side, despite his complaints of “Ah, Mom,” “I’m fine,” or “Let me be.”

Evelyn closed Kareela’s door and put a hand to her raised, all-too-prominent collarbone. Her hunger only reared at night now. She’d have yogurt, or a piece of toast with butter, and that would settle it. She was cooking for her family again but mostly pushed the food around her plate as she questioned Kareela about her day, desperate to establish some sense of normalcy, of family. That was, at least, when they sat together. Most of the time, Kingsley sat behind the closed door of his study or, occasionally, in front of the TV. Kareela would join him, press into his side, as Evelyn sat in the kitchen alone, for a minute, two, before scraping her barely touched food into the compost.

“Mama?”

Evelyn jumped. Kareela stood between the living room and kitchen, her pajama top reaching only three-quarters of the way down her arms, the pants barely skimming her calves, the doll Violet had given her now ratty as it hung from her hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh.” Evelyn looked at the bare plate in front of her. She tried to think of what she would have said before. “I had the munchies.”

Kareela sped over, her bare feet scarcely making a sound on the tiles. “Can I munch, too?”

“Uh-huh.” Evelyn stood. “What do you want?”

Kareela plopped the doll on the table. “Cereal?”

Evelyn turned to the cupboard, brought down a bowl and a box, then opened the fridge.

“Mama.”

“Yes, sweetie.”

“We’re not putting up the tree this year, are we?”

“Tree?” Evelyn turned.

“For Christmas. It’s in three days.”

“Three days?” Evelyn turned back to the counter. She shook the cereal into the bowl, poured the milk, set the spoon in with a clink. Three days. She’d seen the decorations on her way to work, heard the music in the grocery store, but had thought they had weeks. “We’ll put it up tomorrow. When Daddy comes home from work. I’ll ask him to get off early.”

“Mama.”

“Yes?”

“There’s no school tomorrow. And Daddy’s been home all week.”

“No, he…” Had he been? She hadn’t heard him come home the past few days. Only heard him come out of his study. She turned to the calendar. One more day of work for her. Since she’d last entered Antony’s room, her days had blurred together, with no clear focus or direction. But still, how had she missed this?

She looked back to Kareela, whose eyes were so wide, so concerned and uncertain. Evelyn forced a smile and imitated a tone of excitement. “When I get home from work, then. All three of us. We’ll put on music and decorate the tree.”

“With hot chocolate?”

“Of course.”

“Mama?”

“Yes.”

“What about the stockings?”

Evelyn froze.

“Will we put out Antony’s stocking?”

Her heart beat fast and frantic. Back in their Kingston home, she’d embroidered his name on the oversized sock as he slept in a bassinet beside her. Today, she fought to keep the excited smile on her face. “I don’t know.” Her voice cracked. “We’ll have to think about it.”

Kareela tapped her spoon against the bowl, a crease in her brow. “I think we shouldn’t. It may upset Daddy. And anyway, I don’t think Santa would bring presents for a dead person, do you?”

“No.” Evelyn sat down across from Kareela, a weight crushing upon her. Presents. Three days to Christmas and no presents. A stocking that couldn’t be hung. “I don’t think he would.”