Vanishing and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

spoon.
    â€œNina lives in Victoria now,” I said, even though I don’t normally like to say her name aloud. “We don’t talk much anymore.”
    â€œNo kidding.”
    The girl lifted her cup to her lips and blew at the steam. I stirred my coffee, even though it was black.
    â€œIt was supposed to be temporary, her leaving,” I said. “Nina called from Calgary and said she just needed a couple days away. But then she kept driving.” I leaned back in my chair. “Edith really misses her.”
    The girl nodded, folded her arms on the table, rested her chin. I didn’t expect her to say much, but it was nice to sit there with someone. No matter that she was half awake, sleepy-eyed.
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    LAST WEEK WE MADE CINNAMON TOAST , then tried on the clothes my mother had left behind. Neither of us could fit into the tight jeans or the small, high-wedge shoes. But Rae filled out the thin sweaters and the silky, sleeveless tops. She loved the scoop necks, and when she looked in the mirror she said, No wonder your mom left.
    She wore one of the shirts—it was pale gold, a shimmery sun-on-wheat—to the dinner table. It was nearly ten at night, but since it was summer, my father had just come in and cooked steak and sweet potatoes. He’d already folded up the cuffs of his sleeves and served himself. He was sitting; Rae was standing. And when he saw the shirt, he looked in her eyes. There was nothing she or I could say. No reason we should have been in his bedroom, rifling in his closet. And no reason we should have found my mom’s stuff. No reason he shouldn’t have gotten rid of it years ago.
    When I saw his face, I thought he might pick up his plate, his fork and knife, his beer, and quietly leave the kitchen. But he just shook his head. And Rae smiled too. It was as though they were sharing a joke. As though they were the only two in the room.
    That was it, the only hint I got. Then Rae pulled out a chair and sat down. My father nodded toward the stovetop for us to grab some food, and I got myself a pop. I opened the fridge door and it breathed cold air on my face. Then my father said, just loud enough for us to hear, It fits all right, that’s for sure.
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    I POURED MYSELF MORE COFFEE and the girl drank the sludge in her cup. The house was chilled and she curled up in the kitchen chair, held her knees.
    â€œWhen did she leave? Your wife?”
    The girl was hungover and wanted entertainment, a good story. So I took a breath and told her about the storm. How it had been nearly dinnertime and I’d wanted to head home, but the cattle were acting funny. Whining and lying down, then standing up, being strange.
    Once I started telling it, I couldn’t stop. I talked about how hot it’d been that day, and how it’d cooled so suddenly the sweat on my shirt made me shiver. Lightning shattered the grey sky every few seconds, and clouds spooled and unspooled themselves. The rain hit hard, but I didn’t move from the field. Not even when the funnel cloud dropped and skimmed my neighbour’s land. Not until it blew the hip roof off his barn.
    Then I climbed into my truck, pulled it over to a bluff of trees, sat and listened. That’s what I remember most. The colour—that grey—and the noise. Rain and hail against a metal roof. The wind shot nails and boards past me, hail cracked the front windshield and smashed the side window. Glass landed in my lap, hailstones clattered onto the floor. And then it was over.
    The quiet was as hard to take as the storm’s noise. I watched the weather spin along the prairie, leaving as fast as it had come. The only sound was water that streaked into the cab, pooling around my boots. The funnel had touched down for less than two minutes. It was nothing. It wouldn’t even make the news.
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    THE TWO OF US like to imagine my mother’s new life. Rae invents episodes that remind me of