Critical Injuries

Critical Injuries by Joan Barfoot Read Free Book Online Page A

Book: Critical Injuries by Joan Barfoot Read Free Book Online
Authors: Joan Barfoot
would.
    Anyway, none of that happened. Instead, after supper one night his dad said, “You’re old enough,” and he and Roddy’s grandmother stared at him for a few seconds as if they were deciding if that was true.
    In the city there was a particular bridge. There were lots of bridges, over rivers and railways, but this one arced high over an expressway instead of over anything soft, like water. It was where people went when they were very sure they wanted to die.
    Roddy’s mother was very sure.
    More than a year before they told him, she had been very sure.
    â€œI’m sorry, son,” his dad said. “Oh, Roddy dear,” his grandmother said.
    â€œIt was,” his father continued, although Roddy wasn’t hearing so clearly now, had whole other words and pictures going on in his head, “nobody’s fault. They couldn’t find quite the right drugs, or she wouldn’t always keep taking them, and I guess she just got to feeling too bad to go on. It’s something in the body, to do with the chemicals in it, it seems.”
    â€œThings were just out of whack,” his grandmother added.
    Roddy was thinking again of that mysterious they , who got to decide things about other people and try things on them and then, finally, fail. If he ever met them, he hoped he’d be quicker and luckier than his mother. “How come,” he asked, “you never said?”
    His dad looked down at his hands, his fingers spread out flat on the dining room table. “It didn’t seem necessary, right at the time. We wanted you to get through public school without being upset, but now, like I say, you’re old enough. Going into high school, it’s time to know these sorts of things.”
    â€œI know it’s very sad, Roddy,” his grandmother said. “Your mother was a fine, bright woman, and she was so happy with you, oh, you have no idea. When you were born, she kept holding up your wee hands and making people admire your fingers. She thought you were perfect. And so you were. And she was a very good mother. Well, you remember how much she cared for you. This other thing, though, she just couldn’t beat it. She tried so hard for your sake and your father’s, and she hated it when she felt bad. I remember her saying that when it was coming on, it was like somebody pulling a big black cloth over her head that she couldn’t get off. What I mean is, she would have given anything to keep on being able to look after you, and she did the very best she could. Do you understand?”
    No.
    â€œYes,” he said. Then, “Did she have a funeral?”
    His dad looked uncomfortable. “Yes, there was one.”
    â€œDid you go?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDid you?” turning to his grandmother.
    â€œYes. There weren’t many people who still knew her well enough to pay their respects but yes, your dad and I went together.”
    â€œWhere was I?”
    â€œIt was a school day.”
    It had been some ordinary day, then. And behind his back, without giving away anything, his dad and grandmother had sneaked off to his mother’s funeral. That was almost more shocking than anything else, that they could do that, hide it, carry it off so he never even guessed they’d been someplace important. Roddy stood. “Okay,” he said.
    He went to his room and lay on his bed, on his back, very still. He was something other than angry that night, but he couldn’t put words to it.
    He put pictures, though. He saw her figure, small and distant and wearing a coat, walking slowly, slowly, in the darkness. He saw a high bridge, deserted at night. Way below, on the expressway, which wouldn’t be deserted at any hour, day or night, headlights followed each other one after the next. The rough sounds of speeding motors and tires rose upwards.
    He saw her lean against the ironwork of the side of the bridge, listening to the rough sounds,

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