The Sky Is Falling by Caroline Adderson Read Free Book Online Page A

him come home from university with a roll of toilet paper under each arm.
    â€œRemember that time he said, ‘Jane will tell me if she doesn’t like what I call her’?”
    I finished the toast and, licking my finger, gathered up the crumbs. “Zed. He calls me Zed.”
    â€œIf you tell him not to, he won’t.”
    â€œI don’t care.”
    â€œAsk for his shirt, he’ll give it to you. But you have to ask.”
    â€œAsk and I shall receive?”
    I meant, Does he think he’s Jesus? but Sonia brightened. “Are you a Christian?”
    â€œNo.”
    She felt for the little cross around her neck, as though to reassure herself she was. “The other thing. Pete separates out his feelings. Unlike me.” Tears appeared then and were blinked back fiercely. “We are this close to a nuclear war,” she said, pronouncing it “nucular.” There was precious little space between the finger and thumb she held out. “Ever since they shot down that airliner, I’ve been waiting. Waiting. It’s killing me. I can’t talk about it now. I’ll be a wreck. I have a project due tomorrow. As if it matters.” She let go of her knees and lurched over to hug me while my own arms hovered in the air, not knowing what to do. “Actually,” she said, letting go, “would you like to help me? Are you busy?”
    My whole body tingled, like a limb gone to sleep, or waking up.
    We went downstairs to her room. Sonia collected Japanese things. There was a teapot and two tiny handleless cups on the dresser, strings of origami cranes, a calligraphic banner. The stuffed toys looked Canadian. I went over to the dresser and peered up into my room, but all I could see was the blank of the ceiling. “Do you know Japanese?” I asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDrink—more—tea,” I pretended to read off the teapot. Then I saw my note behind one of the cups, still folded budtight.
    â€œLet’s have tea,” she said, so I passed her the pot and cups. The moment she left the room, I tossed the note into her open closet where it fell among her shoes.
    She returned shortly with the tea and sat down on the floor. I sat the same way, cross-legged, facing her while she poured with demure, faux-Japanese gestures, the little white cup balanced on the tips of her fingers as she bowed to me. I accepted it, bowing in return.
    â€œIt tastes better in these cups,” she said.
    I sipped. “It actually does.”
    We were going to make origami cranes for her practicum. Sonia spread out the coloured paper. I chose a yellow square, Sonia a pink one. She flipped aside the braided rug to start. “Okay. Like this.”
    I reoriented the square as a diamond, like she did. I repeated each step, each fold and turn, fascinated, even distracted by her deft little fingers. It was like watching the manipulations of a baby or a raccoon, except her nails were chewed down and raw-looking. I wondered if they hurt. We made a tighter diamond, transformed it into a kite, pleated and repleated what we’d done. Then, somehow, out of this intricately wrapped present of air, we coaxed two birds. “That’s good, Jane. Your very first crane.” Which was how she talked to her seven-year-olds, I presumed. “Keep it if you want,” she said.
    We paused to sip our tea then bowed again over new squares, the crowns of our heads almost touching. “A hundred and fifty thousand people died when they dropped the bomb on Hiroshima.” Sonia looked up, gauging my reaction.
    â€œReally? That’s awful.”
    And it was. Awful.
    â€œNot a day goes by that I don’t think about it,” she said.
    I helped her fold twenty-four cranes, for which she hugged me again. Afterward, I went back upstairs where I set the yellow one on the grate so she would see it roosting there if she happened to look up. Then I moved my books into their new home.