No

My great-grandma was a strong woman. Some fault her, saying she was cruel to her boys and spoiled the girls, but I think it was all for the best. Some men learn only of the echoes of their own importance, and there is no collective hemline for what is considered decent. She was an occasional topic of conversation at family gatherings and my ribs dissolved at the light-hearted dismissals I overheard. A white-hot night filled my belly, rising and rising until it was a muscular twitch in my chest, electric. When I said nothing, an angry voice inside jeered, “Show up why don’t you?” It was loud and toned, a tale that had a target. I knew it would come down to me. I always knew it would come down to me.

I grew up in Ontario, a clever province of control that eats up hours like something is owed. The tepid wind and indifferent gray sky teaches techniques of skepticism. And we harden like clay because there are things to do. Coursing through my veins are words that praise and curse my strength, and overlaying this, the knowledge that silence is valued more. Bending or upright, I would need it.

My heart was guarded, shoulders round. I hunched deeply and imitated the posture of sleep to avoid telling. Each word was enveloped by a weight and a lightness. I kept my hands busy so as not to look vulnerable. In the afternoons I entertained myself mostly and waited out the long, lethargic hours ‘til bedtime.

At the age of 11, I was lithe and curious, not in love with the idea that the versions of adulthood I had seen would soon be my reality. I lived with my mother, her boyfriend David and my sister Erinn in a small house in Georgetown. The house was plastered with yellow siding and there was a darker yellow tone to the leaky glue someone had used to attach the number “36” to the front of our house. A big tree in the front yard humbly blocked out the light.

I’m sitting on the living room floor in the near-dark, next to a splotch of light that crept in between the thick branches of that old tree. Light like a pet I’m fond of – it is so rare. My mother’s old wooden rocking chair is moving back and forth like a metronome when David strides in. In the hypnotic, bowing rhythm of the chair, I can almost imagine cello music, or the lilt of a violin. This old chair, I think. David is hovering, but if I break my gaze with this roughened wood, something bad is going to happen, I know it. I absent-mindedly touch the grain of the wood as it moves in and out of my hands. I can see myself in the mirrored doors of the wall unit. It looks like I feel trapped. David frightens me because I’ve seen his face change – no one can be that charming all the time. My mother says it’s those blue eyes, they make you trust him like a lullaby.

Against my better judgment, I look upward and he’s grinning at me – that violent grin of his, so sloppy and demanding. Like no one had ever insisted that he behave. In his hand is a $10 bill. He says it’s mine if he can watch me exercise. Exorcise. I just learned that word in school. To get rid of something troublesome. He knew nothing of the list I kept under my mattress describing the surprisingly graphic ways I wanted to kill him. He knew nothing of that because I was 11 after all.

I want to go back to the rough grain of that wood with a clear conscience, but looking away feels like some kind of permission. Fear is gathering like clouds inside my chest. I’m clenched tight, muscle to bone, hoping I can get out of this. I know somehow in the fullness of my throat that this fear is justified. I try to swallow, try to think. Against my better judgment, I look down.

I giggle nervously despite myself and think about how I can make him forget what he wants without getting in over my head. I feel utterly responsible for myself. He is still smiling and waiting for me. The money is really close to my face. He’s hovering. I can smell the money and my stomach is churning. I decide to do it. I’m afraid what will happen if I don’t. I don’t want him to be mad.

Suddenly and with apparent enthusiasm, I roll onto my back and kick my legs up in the air. Elbows pressed into the floor, and hands under my lower back. The bicycle. I learned this in school, too. I’m laughing because I don’t know what else to do. He looks pleased, and I think about how I’m going to explain this to myself later. My brow is pinched, I’m sure, but he’s already moving on, money clasped in his sweaty palm like an excuse.

His shadow passes over my body like he’s touching me, he owns that much in this house. It feels as apocalyptic as the shade of fast-moving clouds. A storm is gathering, I think. He’s gone and I’m disgusted. I’m pinched tight and barely breathing. The rocker is still moving slightly, not much time has passed. Despite the way I feel, it doesn’t occur to me that he has done anything wrong. It doesn’t occur to me to blame him for the bad taste in my mouth. I never got that far.

At the age of 21, I recount the story to a friend, and she says:

“Too bad you’re vegetarian. You could have eaten him.”