I! I can’t make babies either, you fucking idiot!” James yelled. Ana went for the door, opening it. Again, James slammed it shut, blocking it with his body.
“Don’t go – I’m sorry – don’t go—”
“Let me go.”
“Don’t go—” Ana opened the door, and James slammed it again, louder. Ana breathed heavily.
“Ana, look at me.” She wouldn’t, her eyes fixed on floating space. “Don’t leave. You’re always leaving—”
The sound of fist on wood was a dull whack that left no mark, but James pulled his hand away and swore. Shreds of skin flapped from his knuckles, white as sheets. Blood seeped onto his wrist. They both looked down at the useless hand.
“What are you doing? What are you doing?” Tears were streaming down Ana’s face. “I can’t help you.”
She opened the door at last and he followed her, the blood from his hand seeping down his arm now. “Ana!”
The taxi idled outside.
Ana managed to carry the suitcase, and the driver met her halfway up the walk, grabbing one of them, glancing at James with suspicion.
At the same time, Ana and James heard it: Finn crying, distantly, through the open door.
“Ana—” said James, straightening, clutching his ragged fist.
“Go get him,” she said, and she meant it.
But James stood on the walk as the driver loaded her bags, and Ana climbed in. He stayed there as she shut her door, and the car pulled away. Only when he couldn’t see it anymore did he turn and stagger back to the house, and the boy waiting for him.
DECEMBER
Ana hadn’t had much to unpack. The movers had brought a few more suitcases and boxes. She had taken a junior suite, not because it was cheaper, but because she imagined something spare, monastic (as opposed to the Grand Suite option). Instead, the rooms were opulent in ambition, but cheap in materials, with yellow throw cushions in the tones of a fast food restaurant occupying all the extra space on the couch and the wing chair. A miniature Christmas tree sat in a bucket next to the kitchen table.
On a Saturday afternoon a month after her arrival, Ana sat on the edge of the couch, looking at the tree, decorated in gold balls. She felt tired and light, but not sad.
She had done it in such a way as to never have to see them. She had left the car. Everything else could be dealt with later, in six months, when she would decide whether or not to return. She didn’t miss any of her things. She felt that she was readying for something, and wondered if this was how James had felt all those years, waiting for their baby; the great, exhilarated anticipation.
She put on her scarf and jacket, took her bag. The door was hollow and caught on the rug behind her.
“Good night, Madame,” said the doorman, as she passed through the lobby.
“Bon soir,” she replied.
Ana went to the gym, and ran farther than usual on the treadmill. Her body was getting stronger. She had put on a little weight, and with it came a sensation of being rooted, heavier in her feet. She liked the new curve in her hips.
After her workout, Ana sat in the steam room, something she had only started to do in Montreal. There was one woman in the room with her, concealed by puffs of steam. At one point, she shifted to reveal a long, vertical scar along her chest plate, and then vanished in the heat again.
After showering, Ana applied her makeup carefully. Half the guests would be francophone, and though her French was rusty, it was passable, and she had found herself enjoying speaking it, even when she struggled for the right word. She felt as though she were leaving everything, even her tongue.
The party turned out to be dull. By dessert, Ana had stopped listening to the conversations around her, gazing instead out the large paned windows at the frosted streetlamps, wondering why there was no music playing.
A man in an elegant suit switched seats with a colleague in order to sit next to her. He spoke English, and asked her the same questions she was always asked: What did she think of the city? Was she cold? Was she following the government corruption scandal? His name was Richard, and he had a practiced intensity, locking her gaze. As he filled her glass, Ana assessed the grey hair, the weathered but moisturized face and tidy nails. He was a type. At the end of the evening,