Free My October by Claire Holden Rothman Page A

them in my coat.”
    â€œI wouldn’t worry,” Hannah said, and felt herself start to worry. There probably wasn’t much cash in the wallet, but there were credit cards, bank cards, her mother’s health insurancecard. It would mean cancellation calls and replacement forms to be filled out, hours to be wasted over a lost leather pocketbook and its content of plastic.
    â€œIt’ll be fine overnight. I mean, it’s hidden,” Hannah said, for her own benefit.
    Connie shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. She looked diminished and fragile. Hannah took a step forward, but Connie stepped away. “You don’t understand. Anyone could wander in there.” She looked at Hannah imploringly.
    Hannah felt the old helplessness—wanting to give support but not quite knowing how. “Okay,” she said, surrendering. “I’ll go.”
    Connie walked into the living room and sat down in an armchair.
    â€œIs that okay?” said Hannah, following her.
    Connie’s eyes were closed. Tears glistened in the corners. She nodded.
    â€œOkay,” said Hannah. “Sounds like a plan.” She smiled cheerily at her unseeing mother and went to get her jacket.
    THAT NIGHT , after the wallet had been retrieved from under her father’s mattress, after Connie had bathed and drunk valerian tea and been tucked into her bed, Hannah lay in her parents’ guest room, watching red numbers blink on the digital clock. They were the only things visible in the darkness. Hannah had said nothing about the phone call from Montreal, about having to leave the next day. Her mother was in no state for more bad news. Hannah would announce it in the morning. Hugo hadcaught something, she would say. Something that required care; something he wouldn’t die of. Something Connie would understand but not fear. Catching the early train wouldn’t be a problem. If Connie heard her moving around in the pre-dawn silence and got up, Hannah would be ready with a plausible explanation. Her mother was more exhausted than she had ever seen her. This was how it happened, Hannah thought: illness leading to more illness. Connie was blessed with a steel constitution, but even steel had a breaking point.

6
    H annah had walked to Laporte Street from the metro station at Place-Saint-Henri. She surveyed the park, which was shimmering in sunlight across from the house. Everything was golden and soft today. The only dark spot was Jacques Cartier, pointing northward at the mountain he was about to claim from the Iroquois for his king.
    The air tasted sour. A hazy mix of industrial and traffic fumes hung low over Saint-Henri. It was still unseasonably mild; there wasn’t a whisper of wind. When the air was this bad, it took a storm to clear it.
    Hannah straightened her knapsack so the weight fell more evenly on both shoulders. It was almost noon. Luc would be pleasantly surprised, she thought. He certainly couldn’t accuse her of neglect. She’d left her parents’ place at five o’clock that morning and managed to get a seat on the first train to Montreal.
    Connie had not yet been awake when Hannah crept out into the streets of Toronto. She had left a note: “Hugo hasmononucleosis. I should be with him.” At least the second part was true. She hoped her mother wouldn’t worry, wouldn’t feel abandoned. The triplex stood in front of her, reassuring and familiar. At this hour, Luc would be at his desk. Or maybe not. Maybe this drama had turned him upside down too; drained him, at least temporarily, of his creative juices. She took a deep breath. The air tasted like yeast.
    She went to the downstairs door first. Usually, he wrote all morning, phone unplugged, door locked against intruders, although no one ever disturbed him. Sometimes he even wore earplugs—bright orange foam bullets, visible through his thick hair. She raised a hand, hesitated, and knocked.
    A form loomed up