Helpless (17 page)

T
HANKS TO GRAVOL,
Nancy falls into long, dreamless stupors. At ten o’clock she closes her eyes and the next thing she knows it’s morning and the guy who lives above Vince’s garage is revving his motorcycle. While Ron goes on sleeping, she gets out of bed and hurries down to the basement.

She has discovered that by pulling the handle toward her she can turn the lock silently. The only sound is the whisper the door makes brushing over the carpet. This morning, Thursday morning, Tasha is in the room. She dashes past Nancy and up the stairs. Nancy goes over to the bed and parts the curtains.

Her newest terror is that to punish everybody—herself and Ron and the mother—to get back at them for their sins, Rachel won’t make it through the night. But here she is, only asleep, fists tucked up by her throat. Nancy lets out her breath. Every morning she is stunned all over again that this beautiful girl wound up in Ron’s basement. It’s like having a fairy in the basement, or a movie star.

She closes the curtains. Before she reaches the door, a small, strangled sound has her rushing back. “Rachel?” she
says. Rachel’s eyelids are fluttering. What Nancy wouldn’t give for the right to hold her.

“Rachel?”

Rachel sighs and rolls onto her other side, facing the wall.

Back upstairs, Nancy lets Tasha into the yard and puts on the coffee, then sits at the kitchen table and takes a look at the chart Ron wrote out last night for the sake of having a clearer picture of how Rachel is passing her time. “It isn’t cut-and-dry,” Nancy told him, but as they went through Rachel’s day together she realized that it
was
pretty cut-and-dry, that, since Monday, things had more or less settled into a routine.

8:00-8:30—breakfast
^*

8:30—10:00
—
watching cartoons
^*

10:00-11:00—drawing
^*

11 :00—12:00
—
flaying keyboard

12:00-12:30—lunch
^*

1:00—2:00
—
watching Antiques Roadshow
^*

2:00—3:00
—
playing keyboard

3:00
—
snack
^*

3:15—4:30
—
playing cards or board games
^*

4:30—5:30
—
watching
Cheers,
playing keyboard

5:30-6:00—supper
^**

6:15—8:15
—
watching DVD movie
^**

8:15-9:00—bath
^*

9:00-9:30—reading
^*

9:30
—
lights out.

A single star means that Nancy is usually in the room. Two stars mean that Ron is there as well. Granted, he has only watched a movie with them the one time, and that was last
night, but he’s hoping it will turn into a regular event, and Nancy can’t see why it won’t. Rachel was fine. Afterwards, when Nancy asked her if she’d minded that he’d stayed on, she said, “He didn’t talk. People talking all through movies is the only thing I mind.”

“So you’re not so scared of him anymore,” Nancy ventured.

“Not if
you’re
there.” She picked up the
Beauty and the Beast
DVD—it was the one they’d just watched—and said, “He’s like the Beast.”

Nancy had to laugh. “He
is,
isn’t he? Big. And shy. Even the hair!”

“I mean he’s weird.”

“Oh, okay.”

“But don’t tell him.”

“Hey, he’d never get mad at
you.”

“It might hurt his feelings, though.”

“It might,” Nancy said slowly. “That’s true.” On Monday, to win Rachel over to the idea of letting him join them for supper, she’d talked about his mother’s dying when he was little and how not being allowed downstairs was hurting his feelings, but she hadn’t expected it to be taken so deeply to heart.

She pins the chart to the bulletin board. The coffee is ready, and she pours herself a cup, then steps outside with her cigarettes. In the corner by the fence Tasha is digging a hole, her stubby tail going like a motor. “Tasha, come!” Nancy calls. The dog keeps digging.

“Tasha!”

The dog trots over. There’s something in her mouth. She drops it on the stoop.

It’s a dead rat, a little grey one. Shaggy coat. Smooth, banana-coloured belly.

“Ah, jeez,” Nancy says. She picks it up by the tail and tosses it over the fence. She likes rats. She used to keep them when she was a kid. She hopes this isn’t a sign, that’s all. It
feels
like a sign: your dog bringing you a dead rat first thing in the morning. Don’t let it be a sign, she prays.

R
ON WAKES
from a dream that Rachel is sitting on his lap and kissing him on the lips. He tries to hold on to the sensation of her luscious mouth but quickly loses it to the real world: Tasha barking, the smell of coffee.

He gets out of bed and lumbers down to the bathroom. He’ll be fixated on that kiss all day now, as though it really happened. If he could just see her, he knows he’d be set straight. But Nancy doesn’t want him going down to the basement without her, not unless there’s a good reason. Maybe he could say he needs to check the vents for mould. Or maybe—his hand goes still on the hot-water tap—he could show Rachel a few of his vacuums. It seems to him that she’s just about ready for a little educational diversion.

He shaves and showers, his mind wholly occupied by this exhilarating prospect. Which machines would she get the biggest kick out of? The Westinghouse, for sure. She’ll never see another machine like the Westinghouse, he can guarantee that. And then the Hoover Model O because it’s one of only three left in the world. Maybe he’ll bring down the Hercules Dust-Killer as well, show her how they used to generate power with hand pumps back in the 1800s. It’ll be a history and science lesson rolled into one.

It’ll have to wait until later, though. Edith Turnbull, an
old friend of his mother’s, is expecting him to drop off her rewired floor lamp first thing, and then she wants him to take a look at her central vacuum canister.

But that’s all right. Thinking about his vacuum cleaners, picturing the best of them in the room again—with Rachel looking on—has given him some breathing space.

N
ANCY STUBS
out her cigarette and goes back inside to fix Ron his new crash-diet breakfast: orange juice, a soft-boiled egg, a piece of toast with margarine, black coffee. Right on schedule, at seven thirty, he comes down.

“I was thinking,” he says. He pulls out the chair and sits. “I could show her my vacuums this morning.”

“This morning?”

“Not the whole collection. Three or four.” He taps his spoon on the back of the egg. “It’ll be educational for her. Stimulating as well.”

“I suppose,” Nancy says. She can always cut it short, if Rachel gets too bored. “Don’t you have to go to Mrs. Turnbull’s?”

“I’ll be back by nine thirty. We can move her drawing time to one of the TV-watching slots.”

He eats quickly, gulping his coffee. When he’s gone, Nancy makes breakfast for herself and Rachel. It’s the same every day now: orange juice, slices of banana and apple, scrambled eggs, porridge with cream and brown sugar. She picks the tray up gingerly, testing her bad leg, then heads down to the basement.

She hears the sobbing before she reaches the bottom of the stairs. “I’m coming!” she calls. But in her agitation she drops the key, and hours seem to pass before she finds it and
gets the door open. By now her leg has begun to cramp. She staggers over to the bed and falls next to where Rachel lies curled up on her side.

“What’s the matter?”

“The slave drivers…they…”

“No, no, no.” Sensing there won’t be any resistance, she draws the hiccuping child into her arms. “You had a bad dream, sweetie, that’s all.”

“The man, he put me in a cage…”

“Shhh. There’s no man. He’s all gone.”

She frees up one hand to punch her cramped leg. With the other, she presses Rachel closer. The sobs seem to be pouring out of Rachel’s chest into her own. They seem to be rattling down her body to her aching thigh, where they start to have a soothing effect. When they stop, in that same instant, so do the cramps.

For a few minutes they both lie still. Out in the yard, Tasha barks.

“See?” Nancy says. “You’re here with Tasha and me and Ron, safe and sound. It was only a dream.”

Rachel wriggles out of the embrace. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she says crossly.

She picks at her breakfast and refuses to talk. Finally she throws her fork on the floor and cries, “I
know
it was only a dream! Quit saying that!” Her eyes fill. They look blind, they’re so light blue. “I want my mom,” she whimpers.

“I know,” Nancy says miserably.

“Couldn’t I just talk to her on the phone for a minute?”

“Sweetie…”

“Couldn’t I write her a letter then?”

Nancy tries to imagine what the risks might be. Fingerprints, but those can be wiped off.

“When I was at science camp,” Rachel presses, “I wrote her every day.”

“Well…”

“Please.”

“Maybe a short one.”

Rachel jumps to her feet.

“But you can’t write about me or Ron. Or even Tasha. You can’t write about the shop.”

“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!”

“We’d better do it now, before Ron gets back. Let’s talk about it first, though. What do you want to say?”

“I want to say…” And she launches right in: “‘Dear Mom. I love you very, very much. I miss you
so
much. I miss Felix. Don’t forget his vaccination shot. I miss Mika. I hope he’s all better. I hope Osmo and Happy aren’t moping about me like they did last summer.’” Her face darkens. To Nancy she says, “They hardly
ate.”

“That’s something for dogs,” Nancy agrees.

“‘I’m fine,’“ Rachel goes on more slowly. “‘So don’t worry. I have a beautiful room with a big-screen TV and a soft, white carpet and a brand-new electric piano, and—’”

“Hold on,” Nancy interrupts.

Rachel spins around.

“Don’t say
brand-new.
That means it was just bought, and the police might be able to trace the store.”

“‘And an electric piano, and I’m practising a lot. When the coast is clear…’” She turns on her heel again. “Can I say about the slave drivers?”

“No, better not.”

“Why?”

“Well…” Nancy fusses with collecting the dishes. “You don’t want to scare her, right?”

“Right.”

“So I’d leave them out of it, if I were you.”

“Okay, I’ll say, “When the coast is clear in two and a half weeks, I’ll be coming home, and then—’”

Nancy sighs.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Now isn’t the time to dash her hopes about going home. “Go on.”

“‘And then I’ll tell you all about my adventures. Love, Rachel. Ex oh ex oh ex oh.’ And I want to draw a picture.”

Fifteen minutes later Rachel is watching cartoons, and Nancy is in the shop trying to find a stamp, her ears pricked for the sound of Ron’s van, although it’s still early. A book of stamps turns up in a coffee mug. She rips off two for good measure. Before sealing the envelope (on which Rachel has already written the address) she takes out the letter and reads it again to make sure nothing is given away about the house. The picture is on the other side. At the top it says
I MISS YOU
and then there’s a girl, Rachel playing a keyboard. She has purple hair and orange skin. Black tears fall from her eyes. The TV and both windows are shown but, like the girl, they’re done in all the wrong colours. Nancy sticks the letter in the envelope and goes to the kitchen to hide it in a side pocket of her purse.

She’s coming back down the hall when somebody pounds on the front door.

“Hello!” a woman shouts.

It’s Angie.

Nancy limps into the shop. After a few fumbling attempts she gets the door opened.

“Where is he?” Angie says, entering on a gust of perfume. She glances around. “Is he here?”

“He’s out,” Nancy whispers. The room seems to be tilting. She feels sick to her stomach.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Sorry.”

“Look at you. Your worried, scrunched-up face.” She presses Nancy’s cheeks between her hands. “Why haven’t you been returning my calls? Eh?
Eh?”
She gives Nancy little slaps. Her bracelets rattle.

Nancy is puzzled. What calls? Did Angie call
here?
“Oh, right,” she says, as the fact of her abandoned apartment drifts back to her. “I haven’t been checking my messages.”

“So,” Angie says, dropping her hands, “I phone Frank and he says you’re working for Ron now and living with him, too. Doctor’s orders. Obviously your doctor
hasn’t met
Ron.”

“Yeah, I’m doing the bookkeeping,” Nancy says. “Stuff like that.”

“Well, it isn’t helping. Your limp is worse than ever.” She takes her cigarettes out of her purse, then goes still. “What’s that? A piano?”

Nancy doesn’t answer. She has already heard the keyboard and is hobbling over to turn up the radio.

“Where’s that coming from?”

“Next door.”

“You can hear it from next door?”

The radio is on the top shelf. Nancy is barely able reach it. She twists the volume knob.

“
CALLING FOR RAINI”
a man blares.

“Whoa!” Angie cries.

Nancy twists the knob the other way. “It drives me crazy, hearing scales…” She finds the right volume. “…all day.” She rests her weight on the lowest shelf.

“You’re losing it,” Angie says. “You know that?” She sticks a cigarette in her mouth. Her red hair, with the light coming in from behind, smoulders at the edges. Nancy pictures her bursting into flames. She pictures the police pulling up and shooting her in the head.

“Oh, my God!” Angie says.

“What?” Nancy says, petrified.

“I almost forgot. You know that girl who was abducted?”

Nancy’s stomach turns over.

“Well, don’t you recognize her?”

“No.”

“She’s the girl from the salon that day! Remember? When you brought the chocolates, and her mother caught you?”