Free In the First Early Days of My Death by Catherine Hunter Page B

against the pane and leaned forward, gazing across the lawn, as if he were looking for me, waiting for me to return.
    I pressed myself against his chest, the way I’d pressed against the window glass, but I could not enter him. I had never been able to enter him fully.

    The pile of clothing next to Noni’s sewing machine remained untouched. She couldn’t face it yet. Like Alika, she was finding it hard to focus on the details of her regular routine. Gino had granted Alika a leave of absence from the studio, but Noni had no one to give her time off. Her work just sat there — bundles of torn dress shirts, jeans that wanted hemming, skirts that needed letting in or letting out. This morning, Noni barely glanced at them. She’d spent the night at Alika’s house and this morning she’d come home only to shower and change while her mother shopped for groceries. Then they were going back to Alika’s for brunch. Rosa was determined to keep on cooking. As if cooking would help. That’s what people did during disasters.
    Alika seemed relieved to see them. Noni couldn’t tell what he’d been doing before they arrived, but he certainly hadn’t made any preparations for brunch. Rosa set to work cracking and beating the eggs, while Noni washed dishes and set the table. The kitchen was small and they bumped into each other as they worked. Still, the room seemed empty without Wendy. The whole scene felt artificial. Rosa chatted with forced cheer, suggesting that Alika pick some flowers from the garden. They would take a bouquet to Wendy this morning, she said. It had been a week, now. Surely Wendy would wake up today. Alika looked out at the garden. He made no move to go outside.
    Rosa whipped up a mushroom omelette and served it with toast and jam. Nobody ate much, not even Rosa, though she made a pretense, pushing the food about on her plate. After an interminable silence, she rose and began to gather the plates. She briskly washed and rinsed them, scoured the pan, wiped the counter. Noni remained at the table, beside Alika. She tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t turn away from the window. She reached out and pressed his hand. He responded with a slight, distracted pressure.
    â€œYou need to take out the garbage,” Rosa told her son.
    He didn’t move.
    â€œAlika,” warned Rosa. “I’m talking to you.”
    â€œIt can wait, Mum,” said Noni gently. “The trucks don’t come until tomorrow.”
    Rosa lifted the bag from the trash pail, twisted it shut, and held it toward her son. “They might come early,” she said.
    Noni sighed. She took the bag and carried it through the garden. She dumped it in the can and placed the lid on firmly, to keep the dogs away during the night.
    The storm clouds that had gathered the night before had blown over before it rained, and the garden was dry. Noni stopped to run her hand through the long stems of the poppies. They were long past blooming now, and their seed pods rattled in the morning breeze. She ripped one from its stem and held it in her hand. She could feel how frail it was, and it made her angry. She crushed it to powder.
    The wind was gathering strength. It moaned through the neighbour’s elm trees, causing the leaves to murmur with the cadence of a human voice. Noni shuddered.
    As she hurried back toward the house, she heard the grinding gears of a city garbage truck as it turned into the lane.

    I could see Noni out in the back lane. She was bending over the tall stalks of the poppies, examining their round seed husks. She plucked one and crumbled it between her fingers, letting the half-formed seeds fall to the ground.
    â€œNoni,” I said, and she looked up.
    â€œThey’re not ready yet,” I told her. “Wait for the fall.”
    She turned away from me then and started toward the house, the wind whipping her short, dark hair across her face.
    â€œWait!”