We Rip the World Apart

Evelyn Toronto

Evelyn

Toronto

2011

Evelyn sat at the kitchen table, papers spread in front of her, a laptop to the side. Violet was here again, which meant life was easier—homemade meals instead of frozen or takeout, perfectly clean countertops, a tender, patient, undistracted ear for Kareela. She’d been coming and going for years. Since Chevelle’s death, she’d stay for months at a time, then go back to the island before tourist season to help her now full-time manager handle the shop. Her presence assuaged the guilt that picked at Evelyn constantly when Violet wasn’t here. When Evelyn, despite her best efforts, knew she was failing her daughter.

But this problem, Violet couldn’t help with.

Evelyn put a hand to her head, feeling as if another one was on her chest, pressing in. The last of Kingsley’s severance had run out two months ago and her own salary wasn’t enough—not for the mortgage, food, electric.

“We know you’ve been through a lot,” the dean had said in reference to the pile of increasingly negative student assessments Kingsley had received over the years. “We hoped in time, you’d get back the joy you once had, the talent.”

The severance had lasted a year. And in all that time, Evelyn had heard nothing of a job search, receiving only mumbled utterances of some book Kingsley was working on whenever she dared to ask.

She clicked open the file with their investments. She could withdraw them, but they’d run out soon, and the bills would keep coming. She turned to the letter that had arrived last month. When she was rifling through flyers and bills and had seen the return address, her hands shook, a cold sickness spreading through her.

It had been difficult to find her, her uncle wrote. But he remembered the wedding announcement clipping Evelyn had sent to his daughter years ago, and through that, he had her new last name. But it hadn’t been enough. He’d had to hire an investigator. In the search, he’d also learned of her “son’s demise” and expressed his condolences.

Her father was dead. Without a will, the house was hers. Her uncle, who now lived in Alberta, would keep it until he heard from her. He didn’t want to sell it without her permission, but, living so far away, wasn’t able to manage the upkeep. Six months, he wrote. And if I don’t hear from you, I’ll sell and put the money in savings, in case you need it one day.

They needed it now. But how much would it be, the cash for a house in rural Nova Scotia? An old house, possibly falling apart. What they needed, instead, was the money their current house would get, and a place to live where, if necessary, her income would be enough.

Evelyn placed both hands on the edge of the table and stood. She held the letter in her hand, though she wouldn’t read from it. A prop. Something tangible, to remind her, and her family, that this offer was real.

She entered the living room. “We need to talk.”

All three heads turned. Evelyn reached for the remote, lowered the volume, then, thinking better of it, pressed the power button. She clutched the letter. “We can’t afford this house anymore. This city.”

The eyes stared.

“We’re getting behind on our bills.”

“We have investments,” said Kingsley, his voice drawn, the way it so often was now. “I’m working on something. I’m—”

“Investments meant for Kareela’s education. For our retirement.” Evelyn stuttered, her stomach tightening. “We…we need to sell the house.”

Kareela’s mouth dropped as Kingsley looked at the bottle in his hand. Two more sat on the table.

“This neighborhood has boomed. We’ll get a good amount for it. Maybe over half a million.” She held up the letter. “My father died.”

“Oh, Evie.” Violet leaned forward.

“Your father?” Kareela raised her brow, her expression perplexed.

“He left me the family house. It’s large. Old, but with the money from selling this one, I’m sure we could take care of any fixes. The cost of living will be much less. We could get by on one income.” She hesitated, seeing the shame in Kingsley’s expression. “If needed. And without the full pension we expected from the university, we’ll need the extra money for our retirement and”—she shifted her gaze to Kareela—“your schooling.”

“I thought your parents died years ago,” said Kareela.

“My mother did. When I was around your age. My father wasn’t someone I wanted in our lives.”

Kareela crossed her arms. “What if I want—”

“That’s not what this is about,” Evelyn snapped. She softened her tone. “You wouldn’t have wanted to know him.”

“Where?” Kareela’s voice shook with fear, but also anger. “Where is this house?”

“In an area called the Valley. In Nova Scotia. It’s beautiful country. Ocean views less than a ten-minute drive from the house. And in the surrounding area—farmland, apple orchards, vineyards.”

“If it’s so beautiful, why have I never heard of it?”

Evelyn’s throat tightened. This was hard enough: the thought of going back there, to a place she’d been so desperate to escape. She didn’t need—

“Why have we never been there?”

Evelyn sighed. “I told you—”

“This is my home.” Kareela stood, her voice sharp and loud. “Where my friends are. My school.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“I’ll get a job. I’ll help.” Kareela turned to Kingsley, desperate. “And you’ll find a job soon, won’t you? Dad?”

Kingsley took a sip of his beer, eyes averted. Guilt pierced through Evelyn, for exposing his failure to provide in this way, but the conversation couldn’t have been held in private. Kingsley would have turned to her with his sad eyes, his assertions that things would get better, that he’d find work soon, that this book he was working on would pay off. And she wouldn’t have been able to say no. Just as she hadn’t said no to the ever-increasing number of bottles hauled out each recycling day. To the way, most nights, his head lolled above his desk in the study, or fell against the couch, a half-finished drink staining the coffee table.

They would have stayed, burning through their finances, their future, and ended up old and riddled with debt. Destitute.

The move was for Kareela, too. As she got older, craved more independence, it was hard enough to let her out alone in this city of threat. But then there’d been another shooting just last month, which brought up Antony’s name, and her classmates began to probe and pry. She’d cried for hours. And it would keep happening, again and again…

“We need to leave,” said Evelyn. “We can no longer afford this house. We can’t afford anywhere decent in this city. So it’d be an apartment, likely too small for the four of us, in a neighborhood we’ll be scared to walk in at night.” Evelyn swallowed. “I don’t want that for us. I won’t have it.”

“So the decision’s been made? Just like that?” Kareela’s chin jutted. Evelyn clutched the letter harder, willing her resolve not to crumble. As Kareela’s shoulders squared, Evelyn caught a glimpse of Antony. Kareela had stopped asking for details about his death years ago. Stopped bringing him up at all—knowing how much it hurt Kingsley and Evelyn. She had protected them. Now it was time for Evelyn to protect her.

“It’s the best thing to—”

“I’m not moving!” Kareela ran toward the front door, the slam as it closed shaking Evelyn to her core. Kingsley put his head in his hands.

“It’s the only way,” Evelyn whispered, that familiar crush of failure rushing over her, mixing with the absence that, despite how she tried, she just couldn’t overcome. “To keep this family together. Safe and together.”

Kingsley raised his head long enough to meet her eyes, then lowered it again. He nodded. “My book probably won’t sell, anyway. I’ve had four rejections.”

Evelyn wanted to reach out, wrap her arms around him. “Maybe in Nova Scotia, you can teach again. Someone with your qualifications, you’ll find a job in no time.”

Kingsley stood. Evelyn flinched in shock as his hand landed on her shoulder. He squeezed it, then let his fingers fall.

The “Sold” sign sat in the yard less than a month later. Evelyn had given her notice, and boxes sat throughout the house—some to ship, some to give away. Violet had left to pack up her own home, sell the store. To meet them in Nova Scotia. To stay. Evelyn pulled an item out of a bin, the fabric soft and pale, the faint scent of baby powder floating in the air. She turned to Kareela. “You came home from the hospital in this.”

She smiled, remembering the sweet new baby in her arms, whom she hadn’t wanted initially, but loved just as much as her first.

Antony had held Kareela that day, a shy look on his face, his arms tense, as if he feared he might drop her, his eyes full of more wonder than she’d ever seen.

In the past weeks, Kareela’s rage had dissipated into a quiet bitterness. She stepped forward and took the item from Evelyn’s hand, examining it.

“Anto—”

Kareela’s head snapped up, her eyes shocked and expectant. Sometimes, Evelyn could think of him now, without pain being the only emotion. Sometimes, there was joy in the memory. But to speak his name aloud…“Nothing.”

“I hate packing.” Kareela dropped the sleeper. “I don’t want to move.”

Evelyn nodded, her gaze on the other items in the bin. Dresses and onesies. Tiny shoes and tiny socks. A lovey. “We should take this whole bin. You may want it one day, for your own child.”

“Do you hear me?” Kareela shoved a box of old toys to the floor, the thump causing Evelyn’s shoulders to tense. “I don’t want to move.”

Evelyn raised her gaze. “I know. But the house is sold.”

“And you made a ton, right? So let’s find another place in the city.”

“We made a lot. But not enough.”

“This neighborhood’s becoming swank, like you said. I’m sure we can find somewhere else…without it being the ghetto.”

Evelyn shook her head. She wanted to take her daughter in her arms. But she knew the motion would be awkward, unsettling for them both. It’d been so long.

The more Kareela grew, the more she looked like Antony, moved like Antony. Making touch painful. Making the fear grow—the fear that one day, Kareela would be taken away as well. A car accident. A disease. Another hate-filled attack. And so Evelyn kept her love distant, at arm’s length. You’ll be safe there , she wanted to say, in a place where Evelyn never remembered seeing a Black person in her whole eighteen years of life. Or safer, at least, with no police beatings, gang shootings, multicar highway pileups. I’ll be able to hold you, she thought. Love without so much fear.

“Think of no smog,” said Evelyn, instead. “The ability to see the horizon for miles.”

Kareela flopped onto the couch.

“It’s gorgeous,” said Evelyn, aching to rub her hand along Kareela’s head. “Cool summer breezes that don’t carry toxins into your lungs. No acid rain.”

A sharp laugh.

“People are kind,” Evelyn continued, knowing it wasn’t exactly true, but telling herself it could be. “Welcoming.”

“People are people.”

“Well…” Evelyn closed the bin. “I think you’ll love it there. I think—”

“Why didn’t you let me make up my own mind about my grandfather?” Kareela leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “Do I have other relatives? Cousins?”

“Second cousins.” Evelyn reached for another bin. “They’re older though. Older than—” She pushed the word out, trying it. “Antony would have been.”

Kareela’s eyes widened.

Evelyn focused on her breathing. “One cousin was nice; the others…were all right.”

“Did”—Kareela hesitated—“Antony meet them?”

Evelyn’s pulse raced, her throat dry. “No. So”—she kept her gaze away from Kareela—“we’ll keep all these baby clothes.”

Kareela sighed. Her hand reached out, pulling the box on the floor closer. “We keeping my baby toys, too?”

Evelyn looked in. Not just Kareela’s, but Antony’s. “If you want.” She hesitated, a burning creeping its way through her lungs, up her throat. “Or pick some, donate the rest.”

Kareela grabbed a ball, threw it in the air, then caught it. “Was this mine or his? It looks old.”

Evelyn swallowed the fire-filled sting. “His. First.”

Kareela threw the ball one more time, then held it between both hands. “This is where he lived. This house. This city. He’s barely…anything to me now.” She stopped. “I mean, I can’t really see him. Hear him. There are just these flashes, you know? Moments. That I feel.” Her gaze fell. She squeezed the ball. “I know I’m not supposed to talk about him.”

No! Evelyn should say. You can. It’s okay.

Kareela didn’t look up. “And I get that. And so knowing he was here makes it easier. Not even just this house. But the street, the buses, the subway. I go to the Eaton Center and think—Antony was here. Sit in the food court and know it’s possible he sat in the same chair. I visit his grave and talk to him.”

The burning flared, the pain a roar. Kareela visited his grave?

“I feel like by making us move, you’re trying to make us forget. Maybe make Dad forget? And I get that, why you’d want to. Dad is…” She squeezed the ball again. “But I don’t want to forget. I want to remember.”

“That’s not—” Evelyn shook her head. She reached out, her hand hesitating then falling upon her daughter’s knee, her voice unsteady. “That’s not what I’m trying to do. I could never forget. I think about your brother every day. Every moment.”

Evelyn kept her hand on Kareela’s knee, despite the way her body shook. “I imagine him, too. On the streets, the bus, the subway, when I visit some place I’d been with him or know he’d been. I see him. Sometimes so clearly I have to do a double take.” Evelyn fought the urge to pull away, stop talking—the pain so raw—to never speak of Antony again. “I visit his grave, too. But leaving this place, it won’t be leaving him. He’s here.” Evelyn gestured between them, her voice shaking. “He’s in us. In you. Your smile. Your eyes. Just look in the mirror.”

Kareela turned her face away.

Evelyn pulled back. “I’m not saying…you’re your own person, obviously. I’m just saying he won’t disappear. And I’m not trying to make him. But a new place, a new start, would be good for all of us. Maybe your father most of all. And outside of that, we simply can’t afford to live here. Not on my salary alone.”

Evelyn stared at her daughter, this person she hardly knew. Whom she’d hardly tried to know, so scared of living this pain over again. So scared that the closer she got to Kareela, the more she’d screw her up—her own grief, guilt, shame, wiping out any chance of her daughter finding joy. She’d provided for her needs—physically, financially—but failed in every other way. She didn’t want to keep failing.

Evelyn shifted closer. She put an arm around Kareela’s shoulder, despite the way her daughter stiffened, and pulled her close. “Moves are always hard. I know you don’t want to go, and I hate that. I hate it for you. But I hope, in time, you’ll see this as a positive thing. A new start.” Evelyn squeezed tighter, her heart squeezing, too, to have her arms around her girl.

A new start. Starting now. With so many fears removed, she’d stop being absent in her daughter’s life. She’d spend time with her, get to know her. Be a mother to her, the kind of mother she was sure her own mother had wanted to be.

Evelyn held Kareela tighter at the thought of her father—the ghosts of memory she’d pushed aside when deciding to move back to his house flooding in. But, as she’d just told Kareela, memories weren’t attached to a place…or at least they didn’t have to be. They would paint and redecorate. They would make their own memories. They’d, maybe, do more than survive.