Neighbourhood Watch Rhonda Mullins (my reading book TXT) 📖

wind in his face and his daughter on the back holding tight.

Dreams as a life preserver. So long as they are more solid than him.

Roxane hands him his certificate. She had come up with some words to say into the mic, but they aren’t there anymore. She just wants to be his daughter, proud of him. She takes him in her arms. She feels so strong, and he, so little.

The family of warriors looking on applauds.

The doors open onto winter. On either side of them, there is a storm.

* * *

A few streets away, the lights come back on in the church basement: the match is over. Sallow fluorescent lights on sunken faces. Back to reality. A lineup divides the space in two. Fat mothers, babies slung around their necks; broken-down old men, beer in hand; overexcited boys and crop-topped girls: everyone waiting their turn.

One by one, they climb into the ring and pose with Big.

The little kids wrap themselves in his cape. Big grabs them by the throat like a villain. ‘Kill me! Kill me!’ Click. The master of ceremonies snaps a Polaroid, and for five bucks, the kid leaves with a picture to hang on the wall. ‘That’s the time Big tried to kill me!’

It’s Kevin’s turn. He jumps in the ring, throws his arms around Big, who scoops him up, affection written all over his face. Kevin almost falls, steadies himself, poses seriously, pulling a bit of cape around his shoulders.

The master of ceremonies takes the picture and holds it out to Kevin.

‘You’re hooked there, Kev! You already got, like, twenty!’

‘That’s okay.’

* * *

Roxane and Marc are sitting beside each other on their bench. The certificates have all been handed out. Now they drink coffee and try to convince themselves it will last. The night’s winners mingle with the newly joined, hunched, frail, perforated from the inside, struggling to stand. In a year, it’ll be their night, at least the ones who make it that far.

The guys are talking and laughing. The emotion hanging in the room gradually dissipates.

Roxane takes out a worn pack of Du Mauriers from her bag. ‘From Mom.’

Marc grabs the old pack, the same as always. Inside there are twelve machine-rolled smokes. ‘Thanks.’

Roxane rifles through her bag again. ‘I brought you a gift.’

She takes out a shapeless object, messily wrapped in yellow tissue paper.

‘What is it?’

‘Open it.’

Marc’s thick fingers touch the tissue paper. It’s nice, a wrapped gift. Prolongs the surprise. The corners taped so it holds, so the surprise lasts. Marc lets the moment linger, touched. His callused fingers gently stroke the delicate paper, like a first meeting. Roxane could watch him do that her whole life.

The white triangle of a sail unfurls in his hand.

‘A boat! It’s beautiful … ’

‘To remind you of Gaspésie.’

‘Thanks. Thanks, sweetie … I won’t forget. I won’t forget, promise.’

He wraps his strong arms around her.

You have to remember your dreams so you don’t drown from within.

* * *

It’s dark out. It’s snowing. The metro’s going to stop running soon. In the entrance to the Salvation Army, the electric buzz of fluorescent lights.

Roxane puts her snowsuit back on. Marc, in an awkward gesture, adjusts her scarf. He would have liked to have been a father. A real one.

Sometimes he manages to tell himself that maybe it’s not too late.

‘Bye, sweetie.’

‘Bye, Dad.’

‘Get home safe. Take care of yourself.’

He says dad words, because he rarely gets the chance. They land a bit fake in the echoey entrance, but it feels good to say them.

‘You too, Dad. Take care of yourself.’

‘I’m proud of you … ’

That one sounded true. Genuine dad.

‘Me too, Dad, I’m proud of you … ’

Marc hugs her again.

Roxane keeps her face buried in her father’s neck, under his hair. That’s where the warm smell of days spent without her accumulates.

* * *

Dark silence in the apartment block. It’s night. Even the pigeons are quiet. Only the wood of the stairs is expanding, echoing from wall to wall. A wisp of wind slips through the windows, seeking refuge between the floors, snaking under the doors.

A man suddenly splits the night and tears down the stairs, suitcase in hand.

A long furtive silhouette. In flight.

Mélissa is out like a shot, yelling after him. ‘Where are you going?’

The man is already outside.

Mélissa yells louder. ‘Where are you going?’

The man is already gone, and Mélissa’s voice bounces off the walls.

In her pyjamas, in the stairwell, Mélissa doesn’t cry.

Her stepfather is gone. Her mother too. She thought that if he loved Meg, he must love her a little too. Like an appendage to her mother. Too small probably. Too ugly.

Meg is gone, and her boyfriend too.

Frozen in the dark, Mélissa gets used to the emptiness. If she could leave her head there, she would.

The downstairs door opens again. The wind spots its chance. Wraps around Mélissa, who isn’t moving.

The dull thud of laden feet on the steps. Roxane, coming up the stairs in a snowsuit, stops in front of her.

The girls look at each other.‘Save me,’ they say silently to each other.

Mélissa tears herself away from Roxane’s blue eyes and goes back inside.

два

2

Early morning. In number 61 of the apartment block, Roxane opens her eyes, looks at the alarm clock. Fuck. Up like a shot. She didn’t wake her up. She’s going to miss the bus. She’s going to miss school. She’s going to miss life.

Hurry.

Grabs the clothes on the floor. Yellow sweater, black jeans, two socks. Not matching, doesn’t matter.

Hurry.

Kitchen. Opens the fridge, looks … Closes the fridge.

Her mother’s bedroom, a sliver of light under the door.

‘Mom?’

Louise, sleeping, frowns, pulls the covers over her head. Goddamn headache. Intense.

Back to sleep.

Roxane opens the curtains, lets a sunbeam into the grey room.

Louise pulls the covers over her head.

Tries to emerge. Can’t.

Some of yesterday’s smoke hangs in the air. Bits of sun get caught in it. Roxane too, for a second.

Beer bottles scattered on the floor. Counts them at a glance, fast. Eleven.

Her mother won’t