Real Life Read Online Free Page B

policeman.”
    “God,” Christine said.
    “Indeed.” This was tart. “I’m thinking it’s time you—”
    “Mother”—a warning. Her mother turned, walked toward the kitchen. “I need a drink, Mom.”
    “Go check Meagan, and I’ll mix you one.”
    The key to Aaron’s room was, as always, hanging on the doorknob. She turned it softly in the lock and pushed open the door. He lay on his stomach, his face turned toward her, the wedge of light from the hall showing her his long dark eyelashes, his sweetly curved mouth, the mass of curly dark hair. He’d pushed aside his quilt and his pyjamas were twisted on his defenceless little calves.
    She came forward, deciding against trying to straighten his pyjamas for fear of waking him, pulled the quilt gently up over him, and touched his curls softly, the familiar anguish welling up in her chest. She pushed it down, blinking, then went softly out, turning the key in the lock, letting it drop to hang on its cord from the handle. She never did this without a mix of satisfaction, that he was safe and would remain so until morning, and of guilt, that she, a mother, was her child’s jailer.
    Meagan lay primly in her bed, her five-year-old body hardly disturbing her blankets, one smooth, plump hand with its chipped green nail polish on three fingers resting neatly on the quilt, her barrette still holding back her straight fine brown hairthat was exactly like Christine’s. Christine bent and kissed her cheek, then carefully unclipped the barrette and slipped it out.
    The street lamp beside the house cast a bar of light across the foot of Meagan’s bed, turning the pink-flowered quilt a ghastly blue-mauve. Staring down at it, Christine was reminded of the long drive back through the moonless night, the purr of the motor, and then the pulsing of the monks’ voices came back to her: the richness of the sound, and its rhythms, as if the monks were calling to lure some unseen, unknown, but precious thing.
    In the living room her mother had already set out two of Christine’s wedding-present, cut-glass tumblers on the coffee table and was pouring a little Scotch into each one. Christine fell into the armchair across from the sofa. Her mother began, “He’s already in daycare, what difference …” Christine moved angrily, crossing her legs and then uncrossing them.
    “We need to talk,” her mother said after a moment, adding ice, not looking at Christine.
    “Does it have to be now?” She reached to take the drink.
    “Yes, now,” her mother said, sitting down on the sofa.
    “I’m not ready for the institutional route yet,” Christine said stubbornly. “You know I’m not. Besides, there’s still that clinic in Montreal—”
    “Nobody’s going to pay for that and you know it,” her mother said. “I just want to tell you to call that special service for a sitter next Wednesday. I have a doctor’s appointment.” Christine nodded, leaned back, and closed her eyes briefly. “You can forget Graeme. If he wanted to help, he’d never have left in the first place. He’d send the money on time, he’d—” Christine raised both hands to her face, forgetting she was holding a glass, spilling her drink. “I’m sorry,” her mother said. Christine put her hands down, blinking, setting her drink on the table besideher chair, brushing with the other hand at the beads of liquid quivering on the smooth navy fabric of her skirt.
    “I can’t let you go on this way, Chris. It’s too hard to watch you struggling to keep up with everything. Aaron taking every drop of energy you have. Meagan not getting the attention she needs—”
    “Mom …” Christine began.
    “As if it’s your fault the way Aaron is,” her mother said. “You always were hard on yourself.” Tenderness had crept into her voice. She sighed, and when she spoke again, her voice was wry, Christine could hear her struggling against her anger. “One day soon you’re going to have to give it up.”
    She