Marianne’s Daughters. Loft on Eighth Press, limited-run chapbook. Marianne sits on her back porch, coffee mug and cigarette in hand, French press, half-full, on the table beside her. She only smokes on mornings like this. When she wakes just before sunrise, not because an alarm clock told her to wake and shower and go to work, but because she is rested, because her body wants to rise. (Marianne wraps herself in a dressing gown, either the plush red one or the forest green silk, both ankle-length, her choice depends on the season, the day. Today, a frosted Sunday in January, she chooses the red, wanting a little extra warmth over her nightdress. The cloudless sky promises a temperate afternoon. Marianne flicks the switch on her kettle to boil. She grinds the coffee beans, the whirring crunch the first real sound in the morning. French press and mug in hand, she exits the kitchen to the porch. The wooden deck and grass both weep as they thaw. Marianne sets down her coffee and retreats inside to find slippers, knitted for her last Christmas by Cadance, who used one of Marianne’s old patterns stored in a box in the basement. She didn’t know Cadance had found it until she unwrapped the slippers from their silver paper, gold bow on top. Slippers on, Marianne retrieves a cigarette from the freezer, lighter already in her dressing gown pocket.) Mornings like this, when she can watch the sunrise over her neighbours’ houses and take time to finish a full pot of coffee, rather than just one cup from her individual-coffee-pod-machine, when she is alone in the house without urgency, without the pressure to do anything—shower, brush her teeth, write grocery lists—on mornings like this, Marianne allows herself the luxury of one cigarette. She told her life insurance advisor that she’s never smoked, argued with herself that this was barely a lie because it’s been so long since she smoked regularly and she doesn’t consider this smoking. She told her doctor she quit when she got pregnant with the twins, which was true, until she caught Tess with a pack of menthols at thirteen and instilled the fear of god in her daughter before confiscating the pack. Marianne savoured every puff of those sweet sticks, but alone, as she really doesn’t smoke. Effie’s at a friend’s right now, shouldn’t be home until late afternoon. Mandy’s, or Erica’s, or Taryn’s—the girls who alternate between inseparable and dead to each other. Alliances shift weekly based on who likes which boy and what someone said about someone to somebody else. Girls that age are a special type of evil. There’s no use offering guidance, they’re just going to do whatever they please, and so long as Effie finishes high school without getting knocked up it’ll be a success as far as mothering goes. Three daughters graduated and ready to start their lives. But there’s still half a year to go. On mornings like this, the sun a wavering haze of orange, coffee mug between her hands, Marianne allows herself to imagine a life without children. Not that she never had them, just that they’re full grown, gone. She’d sell this house, the three floors and dozen or so rooms too much for just her. She’d leave this city, move west, to Vancouver Island. Find a ranch house where she could live close to the ocean, comfortably alone. Where her daughters could visit, bring their husbands and children. Drink coffee and Baileys with Cadance and Eli in a sprawling backyard, a little granddaughter playing hide-and-seek with Effie. Tess, belly bloated, sipping on tea and unable to talk about anything other than the new crib she’s picked out. Not that Marianne wants this right now. Together five years now, Eli should propose. Then she and Cadance could go dress shopping, decide on flower arrangements. But Cadance keeps saying she won’t marry until he’s done school and they get their lives and careers straightened out. Life seems so easy to them. Graduate from university, find a good job, one that can support a family in Calgary, afford a house with a yard. They don’t realise the economy won’t help this; they’ll be waiting forever before they marry, have children, start their lives. But at least Cadance has plans. Tess, Marianne can’t figure out. A new boyfriend every thirty seconds, or so it seems, as Marianne made it clear that she won’t meet any guy Tess happens to sleep with unless Tess intends to keep him around for a good length of time. She’s in Saskatchewan—has been for the past few years—so meeting her flings is moot. Once Tess calms down, gains focus, she’ll find a good man. Or perhaps he’ll find her, tether her to one place. The sun quivers a few centimetres over the horizon. One of Marianne’s neighbours has a light on upstairs. When she moves she’ll find a place without windows into her neighbour’s bedrooms. Nothing moves except the sleeves of Marianne’s dressing gown when she lifts her mug to her lips. She lowers the mug to the table with a slight clink, rises, steps inside for just a moment, and returns to light another cigarette. Yes, mornings like this.   Leaving sounds so easy. Decide you want something different, change what you can. Where you live, who you love. Somewhere between the new tablecloths in the linen closet and the vacuum stored under the kitchen table because there’s no other place in this tiny apartment where it can fit, you realise you can’t live a picket-fence dream. Not even the romantic starving-student version where love justifies—enables—a home built without money. You need to leave before he anchors you with a ring, sparkling, just what your Mother wants for you. Stability. What does it matter that he makes you eat bananas when you can only afford one fruit a week and you’ve hated bananas since your grandmother forced you to eat a bruised one when you were seven? What does it matter that he’ll climb inside you while you sleep, thrust and pump and you pretend to dream so he can finish, can plaster himself over your stomach? These are the sacrifices you make when you love someone. Staring at the bananas in a bowl, you write a letter to explain, console. You know you can’t eat another and try to tell him you’ve lost yourself. Reassure him you still love him, and to stake your claim for the coffee table. But the lines—lies—falter, are unconvincing in their beseeching, begging, for forgiveness. You must deliver them aloud, stumble over words, hug yourself close. Give him a good performance. But anxiety gnaws at your ankles, climbs higher, because you’ve never seen him angry, not according to him, not the type of angry that hospitalized him, medicated him. Anxiety blooms, stabs through your navel to reach up and throttle your trachea, the gasping pressure at the base of your skull. So furious that the wine you drank—the wine you promised yourself you wouldn’t touch—licks up your esophagus. Pinot Noir. Appropriate. But you hold everything in, except tears. Spiderwebbed in your eyelashes, your contact lenses threaten to dislodge and you thank god—someone, yourself—that you didn’t wear mascara. Not today. You imagine him leaving, his absence in your apartment. You’re left with a desk, coffee grinder, four blankets, twenty scarves, and those infernal curtains. Ceiling to floor lilac panels he refused to hang because the blinds did the job just fine. But that wasn’t the point. The curtains you hung, standing on one of the plastic chairs that belong to the kitchen table, extra screws between your lips. The ones he said would come crashing down because you didn’t find the studs, didn’t know you needed to knock on the walls before drilling into them. Those curtains are more steadfast than you.   Of my childhood I most clearly remember every other weekend at Dad’s. He has another daughter, but she was never there when we were. She spent every other weekend at her grandparent’s. Addison, Addy. We slept in her room, but it was like she didn’t exist. The princess bed with gauzy canopy dotted with rhinestones and butterfly pendants was mine. The dresser and its large mirror, shelf of music boxes, chest for barbies, all mine. And Cadance’s. Addy might have been our imaginary friend. I don’t remember my—our—father except in stills, portraits with features. But Mom says I look like him. His nose, freckles. I stare in blank windows to catch glimpses of him. He would keep us up late, watching movies Mom said were inappropriate and eating candy, chocolate, ice cream. He kept bowls of jelly beans and macaroons on the living room table. He slept in every morning, so Cadance and I learned to cook. The kitchen chairs were heavy, too heavy to drag, even with both of us trying. Effie could barely walk, usually didn’t even come with us. I would plant my hands and knees on the floor so Cadance could use my back as a stool. She made scrambled eggs every time. We took turns cracking eggs into a bowl. Two each. Added milk, and I stirred while she pulled out a pan from the drawer under the oven. Cadance, still in her nightgown, barely bigger than me, climbed on my back. Turned the burner on, poured the eggs in. She undercooked them. Afraid of standing on me too long.   I lean against the wall of a boutique. Plastic flowers in a wicker basket in the window beside me. Mannequins flaunt crocheted sweaters. I wait for him, Mr. Bloor. Clouds wisp behind the streetlamps, a shade lighter than the navy sky. What will he see? The bricks, rough, on Effie’s hip? That she stays, silhouetted in the window’s light? Water from the melting ice patches seeps over the pavement, into Effie, exposed in pastel heels.   Mr. Bloor parks his car, neatly, beside the curb. Effie arches through the window, her lace halter pinches her breasts. A pink nipple peeks around the faux rose buds. Effie smiles.   Effie fingers the seam where Mr. Bloor’s shirt and pants meet. He shifts his thigh, Effie withdraws, hands knotted in her lap. Buildings sputter past, glinting through Effie’s eyes. Mr. Bloor touches, briefly touches the tender place behind Effie’s earring.   | Mom, Eli and I— | Cadance holds the backspace key, the letters disappear. | Mom, I didn’t realise— | Backspace. Cadance types, retypes, retries, rewords her message. Words fail her, and she cannot explain. Not precisely heartbreak. The thrill of new, of leaving without knowing where to arrive, disembark. A flexing—tightening—in her calves because her credit card’s maxed and the milk’s expired. | Mom, I’m coming home. | | Hope you don’t mind. | Send.   Tess, in my bed, under my tie-dyed comforter. Cheek on the matching pillowcase. Still. The type of still when you’ve cried all you can and sleep won’t take you yet. Still. The baby makes her sad. Not even big enough to notice, but right there, all the time. I can’t tell her I know. I understand. Her cat, Gordie, guarding her. Right at the end of the bed. I step forward, hesitate. Five more steps and I slip under the covers with her. Gordie jumps off the bed. Tess doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge me, except for a slight stiffening. The sheets taut over her shoulders. “It’s just me.” On my side. I reach my arm to touch her back. I loop my fingers in swirls over her PJ shirt, the way she used to do for me when I got scared or sad. Tess. Still.   Cadance eats cheerios with orange pop because she can’t choke them down dry. It’s not so bad if you swallow without chewing, tasting. Don’t let the mixture touch your tongue. Cadance sits on a box of books, toes hooked on the edge of another. Waits for a reply that doesn’t come. It should be fine—Tess just moved back home. Mom’ll be happy, the family back under one roof. Maternal instinct and all. Cadance dips her spoon back into her dinner, the cheerios bloated, bobbing on the surface.   Mr. Bloor and Effie in a department store lined with racks of jackets: trench, blazer, belted, double-breasted. Effie chooses leather, zippered off-centre. Mr. Bloor gives Effie a wool overcoat she buttons to her throat.   Stiff, in the coat, in the car Effie watches Mr. Bloor, his baby face, flabby around the lower jaw. Mr. Bloor holds Effie’s hand, their drive measured by the swish of slush under tires.   They arrive at Mr. Bloor’s apartment. His other apartment. Arms linked, Effie walks without stumbling, rests her head on his shoulder.   Cadance serves me scrambled eggs. She didn’t ask how I like eggs. Poached. A single egg dropped in swirling water, a dash of vinegar. The eggs ooze on my plate, still runny. I sip my coffee. “Thanks. Just like old times.” “What?” She asks, but she pulls at her hair, hides her fork in her mouth. “You know, I could make breakfast sometime. I did spend two years of my life learning how.” “So are the next two to teach you lunch?” I reach under the table to pet Gordie. “Tomorrow I’ll make soufflé. Eggs light as mousse with Parmesan Reggiano. And hash browns baked with fresh dill accompanied by hollandaise with a fresh fruit salad on the side. I don’t know if I’ll share with you.” “Where are you going to find the money for those ingredients? I doubt Mom has Reggiano lying around.” “Asiago’ll do in a pinch. It’s not really Parmesan, but it tastes better than Padano, slightly fruitier, and melts smoothly. Most restaurants pass Asiago off as parm to cut costs.” “And I care because?” “You’re going to want some of my soufflé, so you should be a little nicer.” “I just made you breakfast—you should be a little nicer.” The egg runoff encompasses my plate, the eggs themselves already cold. “And it’s delicious.” “Thanks.” Cadance smiles, tongue pressing against her teeth, showing through the slight gap beside her incisor. Ready to retort, but temporarily stymied as she’s already quipped about my useless degree. I mush my eggs around but Cadance isn’t fooled. She taught me that trick back when we were kids. Pretended to eat dinner at our Aunt’s place when she cooked. Aunt Chris’s meals inevitably tasted like over-cooked oatmeal. Even when it was supposed to be chicken fingers and carrots. But she always bought desert pre-made, and as long as we mashed our dinners into bits across our plates she was convinced we’d eaten enough. Then she’d hype us on sugar before sending us back home. “If you hate it just throw it out!” Cadance bursts. Startled, Gordie darts from the kitchen. Cadance slams her plate into the kitchen sink just in case I missed the exclamation point. Sometimes I get her and Mom confused. That stance with both hands on the counter as if her anger’s thrown her off balance. Slight, desperate twinge to her final syllable. Asking, entreating, me to finish, please finish, my eggs. Let her know she did something right, let her take care of me. Because she tries so hard, because she didn’t mean to show me her quaver, I heap my fork with the eggs and plunge the mound into my mouth. Smile around the limp slime. “Too hot to eat earlier.”  Effie, naked, except for the overcoat and heels, wants to trace a rose curve with her toes in the carpet. Instead, she graphs herself into the window, stilettoes coordinates plotted in the shag.   Fresh daisies hang from the curtain rod, bound with a hair elastic and embroidery thread. Effie plucks a petal, peels it into strips lets the fragments drift to the carpet.   Mr. Bloor holds Effie’s waist, a vase, turns her to face him. Mr. Bloor unbuttons Effie’s coat, The wool slips from Effie’s shoulders, collapses, covers her daisy fragments.   Mr. Bloor touches, gently touches Effie silhouetted in orange from the streetlamp framed by the window, a still. Shivering.   Effie pushes Mr. Bloor’s chest, gently pushes. She reaches to remove her chandelier earrings, folds them into her coat.   Mr. Bloor outlines Effie, his fingers trip over her back. He hesitates. Effie steps closer, erect nipples pressed petals in his chest hair.   Mr. Bloor leads Effie to the bed takes her hand. Effie’s finger recoils from the warmth of his wedding band.   Mom went to bed after dinner. The plastic box of baby clothes, the knitted blanket, sits beside me on the front porch. Lid sealed tight. I can’t leave it alone in a room. I light a cigarette, one of Mom’s. I found the pack in the freezer. Haven’t had one in years. Not since I moved to Saskatoon. Snow drifts over me. Should’ve put on a sweater. The door opens and light spreads around me. Effie steps out, uses the toe of her slippers to clear the flakes next to me. Sits down, burritoed in the couch blanket, as she would say. “That’s not good for the baby.” Not judgemental, just sad. “It doesn’t matter.” Effie hugs me, the blanket cool at first, but then warm. She leans her head against my shoulder. Breathes deep and I think she’s asleep. I nudge the box with my calf. Still there. Draw smoke in from the cigarette, too fast, and deep. I hold my cough in, don’t want to wake Effie. My chest burns and eyes prickle. “You could keep it. If you want.” That little voice. The same I heard earlier, but younger. Still earnest. “There is no baby, Effie.” I toss the butt away from me, take a deep breath. “There never was a baby.” Effie’s arms redouble around me, afraid I will vanish just as suddenly. But the baby was just a work of fiction, and I’m out here. The snow falls thicker and my box of baby clothes innocent at my ankles. Did I imagine the baby? She could be real. Except no, not really. I shiver and Effie pulls away. “Why did you lie to Mom?” Because I had to come home and I didn’t know how to ask. Because even when I’m not in the same province as Cadance I still can’t get a date. Because the only man who’s ever touched me grabbed me at a party and forced himself in. Because I missed you. Why did I lie to Mom? I answer, but it rings hollow. Effie retreats, hugs herself, “I really am. Seeing a married man. I don’t know how to give him what he wants.” I should reach around her, offer comfort. “Don’t ask me.” Effie looks at me, eyes wide, I avoid them and duck my head to light another cigarette. An engine hums, tires slick through the snow on the driveway. Cadance. She sees us and joins, doesn’t bother to clear the snow off the step. I edge my box away from her knees. She gestures for my cigarette. Mom’s cigarette. “You don’t smoke.” She speaks to the burning tip, “I also don’t have a job.” A cackle escapes me, and once it’s out I can’t stop. Panting and sputtering. I laugh until my sides hurt and I need to catch my breath. I clap my hands over my face to smother the sound. Shake myself silent. “Saskatchewan is flat, Effie’s a mistress, and our golden girl is a fraud.” I wipe the moisture from my nose. “Thanks Mom! You sure did a good job!”   Effie straddles Mr. Bloor, the sheets, the comforter the apartment building. Effie tip-toes her nails through his pubic hair, under his scrotum. Repeats.   Mr. Bloor swats her hand his cock rigid, [] Mr. Bloor brings Effie, mouth down, [].   My eyes open. I see Effie’s bookshelf. Composite fake wood painted pink, blue, green, orange, but not yellow, every colour highlighter neon. Cadance and I painted it with sponges, as a birthday gift. Gordie shifts at my feet. The comforter rustles behind me. A twitch of the fabric that races over the hairs on my arm. My jaw freezes, tongue between my teeth. Don’t scream. Don’t. Bookshelf, Effie’s, pictures of Effie and her friends on the corkboard above it. I can’t move. The cat leaves. Fingers touch my back, almost my neck. Close around my throat and facing me, now, he dares me to move, those nostrils flared. No. A little hand on my back. Effie’s voice. I exhale, close my eyes. Her touch spells out images, shapes, forgotten before forming. Summer at our grandma’s. I shared the fold-out couch with Effie. At night she tried not to cry. I told her to look at the moon. It’s the same moon Mom’s looking at, right now. She’s not really that far away. And I drew pictures on her back, flowers and fireworks, and sometimes she’d try to guess which but mostly she’d just fall asleep. By the end of the summer it was more habit, ritual, than comfort, and yet, always, comfort.   Effie can’t [ ] through the windows shut [] reflecting.   Effie []. Mr. Bloor curls around her.   The front door opens and closes. Mom’s upstairs, sleeping. Seven thirty, but it’s already dark outside. I put on Mom’s slippers, wrap myself in the couch blanket. Snow freckles the front porch and I sit next to Tess. She doesn’t move, except to draw her cigarette to her lips. “That’s not good for the baby.” “It doesn’t matter.” I hug her, the blanket follows my arms and covers Tess. We sit in silence, my head on her shoulder. Watch the snowflakes drift in front of the streetlamps. “You could keep it. If you want.” “There is no baby, Effie.” Tess flicks her cigarette butt into the garden. The orange tip fizzles out in the damp earth. “There never was a baby.” I hold her tighter, and she lets me. For a moment. But she shrugs me off. “Why did you lie to Mom?” “She doesn’t understand how flat Saskatchewan is. That the straight lines always recede. That the sky and prairie are so goddamned huge.” Her confession doesn’t immediately sink in. It feels as surreal as Mr. Bloor. “I really am,” I bring my blanket closer, “seeing a married man. I don’t know how to give him what he wants.” “Don’t ask me.” Tess lights another cigarette. The pack is Mom’s, well, the same as the one Mom keeps in the freezer. Headlights cut into the snow. Cadance’s car pulls into the driveway, but she doesn’t open the garage door. She walks towards us, slumps on the step below us. Jacket opened even though it’s windy. She extends two fingers to Tess, who passes the cigarette to her. “You don’t smoke.” “I also don’t have a job.” Tess bursts into laughter, hands holding her sides. Gasping, grotesque laughter. Just for a few seconds. She covers her face with her hands, shoulders still convulsing. I look to Cadance, but she’s staring at the lit cigarette. Hasn’t brought it to her lips yet. “Saskatchewan is flat, Effie’s a mistress, and our golden girl is a fraud.” Tess dabs her eyes with her sleeves. “Thanks Mom! You sure did a good job!”   The house is quiet. Tess plays solitaire at the coffee table and only the snap of cards cuts the air. Effie’s at a friend’s and Cadance is out with Dylan. The slanting sun seeps through the clouds and window, creates an orange haze in the kitchen. “I guess it’s just us for dinner.” Marianne opens the pantry. “How do you feel about macaroni and tomatoes?” “Sounds good to me. Need a hand?” Tess gathers her cards back into the deck. Gordie pads to his food dish at the foot of the counter. “No. Just feed your cat.” Marianne pours herself a glass of homemade wine. Fills a cup with water for Tess. “I’ve been thinking.” She puts a pot on to boil, empties a can of tomatoes in a second pot. “And?” Cat kibble tinkles in the metal dish. Tess gives half her water to Gordie. “You can keep it.” Pause. “I mean, if you want to. We can make it work.” Tess lowers herself next to Gordie. Fingers his tail. Marianne puts the noodles in the pot, turns down the dial on the stove. She walks upstairs and takes the cardboard box from her closet, upsets the row of heels in front of it. She’d put together this box the day after Tess told her. Marianne brings the box to the kitchen and places it beside Tess. “Here.” “What’s this?” “Open it.” Tess does. On top is her old knitted baby blanket, the satin ribbon border rubbed threadbare in places. “You used to pinch the edges. Fall asleep running your hand over the trim. I can replace it, but I don’t know if I can get the same colour ribbon.” Tess gathers the blanket on her lap. Touches the baby booties and onesies still in the box. She looks at Marianne, eyes shining. Marianne turns off the stove and kneels beside her. Tess collapses into her arms, body convulsing with silent tears. “It’s okay—it’ll all be okay.” Gordie nuzzles Tess’s hip, kneads at the blanket. She keeps shuddering.