“Ew,” Anna says, leaning in to her sister’s ear to make pig grunting noises. Leslie places her plate on the kitchen counter and pounces on Anna, putting her in a headlock. They end up spinning on the kitchen tiles, their arms wrapped around each others’ necks. Ted pulls Leslie off Anna and holds her back as Anna gets to her feet. Leslie gets an arm free and flings it toward Anna, catching her on the cheek, and Ted grabs Leslie’s arm and wrestles it against her chest. He turns her around and gives her a gentle shove into the living room.
“You touched my boob,” Leslie screams at him, her face contorting so he can’t tell whether she’s going to laugh or cry. “Child molester. Rape. You rapist.”
“Oh, why don’t you go call child services then,” Ted says, flinging his arms up in frustration. He can feel it all of a sudden — the flash of heat that made Heather lash out.
“Fuck you,” Leslie shouts, red-faced.
“Up to your room — now,” Ted says. He tries to grab her again and slips in his socks on the kitchen floor. He slams his open palm down on the counter. “Dammit, Leslie.”
“I don’t have a room here,” Leslie screams.
“Then pick a bed and stay there.”
Leslie goes stomping up the stairs and slams a door. A few seconds later the door opens. “Hoo, Hoo, Hoo.” The door slams shut again. Anna rubs her cheek, where a red spot is forming.
“See,” Ted says, “that’s what happens when you let your little sister get drunk.”
“Whatever,” Anna says, pushing past him and heading toward the stairs.
“I don’t think your mother would like this display of yours.” Ted stands in the middle of the living room, folding his arms across his chest.
“Well, good thing she’s not here,” she says on her way upstairs.
“Anna.” Ted follows her. “We’re talking.”
“She’s looking for your fucking attention, Dad,” Anna says, turning so they face each other. “Just like Mom. It’s pretty fucking simple, really.” She smiles unkindly before turning to run up the rest of the stairwell.
“Anna,” he says, grabbing her to get her attention. The thinness under her sweater shocks him enough that he drops her arm. “You used to be a sweet girl,” he says.
“And now what am I, Dad? What am I?” He stares at her blankly, her pale face. “You don’t even know,” she says, before leaving him on the stairs alone.
SOMETHING WAKES HIM IN the middle of the night. He was having a dream he was in the city and the city went dark. In his dream he stumbled through rooms feeling for light switches. When he wakes up, he believes for a moment that he’s still in the blackout. The stillness and darkness are complete and for a moment he has trouble breathing. Then he remembers he is in a cabin on an island in the middle of the woods. Lying still in the bed, he’s aware of his wilting erection, an erection that has no reason to be there anyway and makes him miss a Heather that no longer exists, a younger Heather before the children were grown.
He hears a door close softly — one of the girls in the kitchen, probably Leslie, going for her second helping of pie. He listens and thinks he hears footsteps outside on the gravel. There are no cars on the dirt road at this time. There’s no reason for anyone to drive out here. He can hear some rustling out front, maybe a deer searching for food along the front hedges. He gets out of bed and opens the bedroom door quietly, standing there for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. The door to the girls’ room is open. He can make out Leslie in one of the beds, her long dark hair a black halo against the white sheets, her limbs hanging off all the edges. He walks into the room and tries to make out Anna’s shape in the bed beside Leslie. He creeps closer, trying to see a leg or arm poking out from under the comforter. He isn’t convinced the bed is empty until he touches his hands to the cold sheets. Leslie tosses in her bed, mumbling, “Dad? What are you doing?”
“It’s okay. Go back to sleep.” He makes his way downstairs without turning on any lights, using his hands along the walls to guide himself.
On the front porch, he scans the bushes for deer or raccoons, but there’s nothing. He tries to remember if there are bears on Quadra and recalls a story about them swimming the short distance between here and Vancouver Island. He grabs a rake by the door and walks out, standing quietly in the middle of the front yard until he hears something — a quick breath, a cough, a sigh. He pulls open the door of the garage with a slow creak. Inside he’s surprised by a darkness that’s even darker. There’s a soft glow like embers in a tiny dollhouse fireplace and the smell of burning plastic.
“Anna?” He hears a crinkle of aluminum and coughing. In the corner of the garage, he can begin to make out the silhouette of Anna’s body. She’s sitting on a crate, her dark hair hanging around her face. “What are you doing?” Anna stands quickly and brushes off the back of her pants. “Nothing. Nothing,” she says, walking past him. She makes her way across the grass, unsteady. He can see her clearly now, his eyes adjusted, the yard almost luminous after the total darkness of the garage.
“Anna,” he says, his voice pleading in a way he doesn’t expect. She stops in her tracks, but doesn’t turn around. Her body sways gently from side to side. “What are you doing?” he says again. She turns toward him, her eyes wet and sparkling under the moon, her fingers picking at the skin of her lips, and they stare at each other. She’s having trouble focusing on him, her head bobbing up and down, looking behind him, at his feet, at the sky. He can’t find the words he needs. “What were you doing in the garage?”
“Hm.” She presses her lips together and tries to look at him. Her eyes close and she says nothing for several seconds. For a moment he thinks she’s fallen asleep, until her eyelids flutter and she squints at him with a soft smile. “Nothing.”
“Anna.” He takes a step toward her.
“Dad! Jesus!” Her eyes bulge and she bites down hard on her lower lip. “Jesus!” She turns her back to him and runs her fingers through her hair, tugging in frustration. “Why are you here?” She starts to walk toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” he says. She doesn’t answer him. “Are you going back to bed?” He follows her dark shape into the cabin and up the stairs to the bedroom, where Leslie is now sleeping. She climbs into bed and covers her head with the sheets. “Anna,” he whispers.
Leslie rolls over and groans. “Dad, you keep waking me up.”
“Go to sleep,” he says. He goes back to his room and sits on the edge of the bed, listening. For several minutes he hears nothing, and then Leslie’s soft snoring. He waits in the dark for a long time before heading down to the kitchen to collect the plates drying on the rack and put them back in their rightful places in the cupboards. From the rack he pulls a mug with the words World’s Best Grandpa and fills it to the rim with wine. He sinks into one of the oversized sofa chairs by the window and looks out at the porch, the dock, the silvery shimmer of the lake. The absolute quiet is strange, as though he’s suddenly lost his hearing. His eyes register the world in front of him and expect something — some proof of existence.
He lets the wine travel slowly over his tongue and coat his tight throat. It was easier to make the girls believe he could protect them when they were young. Back then his existence was enough to reassure them. One day when the girls were very young, they were driving toward Uptown Mall to go Christmas shopping. Heather was dozing in the front seat, a Christmas list in her lap, and Leslie and Anna were sleeping in the back, small enough to still be in car seats. It was raining hard, the highway covered with puddles, and in the distance traffic had come to a standstill. There was construction on the highway and ahead of them a sea of red tail lights glowed in the dreary afternoon. They were the last car in the long line, and as they slowed down, Ted pumped the brakes, checking the rearview mirror as any good driver would. That’s when he saw the sixteen-wheeler coming down the hill toward them. It was still several hundred feet away, but he knew it wouldn’t be able to stop — it was coming too fast. As his eyes searched the sides of the highway, trying to find a place where he could pull out of the way, the truck fishtailed, coming toward them sideways. It all happened in slow motion, in a vacuum of sound. At that moment Anna woke — she couldn’t have been older than five — her bright eyes watching him in the rearview mirror. She picked up on his fear and turned to see the truck, but she didn’t cry out. She didn’t even look scared — she looked at him. She sat up very straight and watched him. Past her head he could see the truck sliding toward them, and though he was still afraid, he felt calmer. He took his foot off the brake, ready to drive into the ditch, but before he even turned the wheel, the truck veered and careened along the shoulder of the highway, coming to rest a safe distance away from them.