Saltus. Tara Gereaux

we find someone else.”

      He punches the couch cushion. Another and another.

      “Stop.” She tries to pull him into her, but he pushes her away with more strength than either of them expected. They sit in stunned silence.

      The show returns to the screen. “Can we just forget about it?” Aaron un-mutes the television and picks up the mess he made on the floor.

      “How about some hot chocolate?”

      Aaron nods. Nadine carries the dirty dishes to the kitchen. When she returns, she puts the hot mugs down on the coffee table.

      “I thought this might be nice in our mugs as well.” She dangles a bottle of peppermint schnapps.

      “I’m only fourteen,” he says with a smile.

      “Fifteen in two months,” she says, not mentioning anything about the bottles of beer that have gone missing here and there. She dribbles some in his cup and pours a good amount into hers. Before she’s halfway through, she tops hers up again. More peppermint than chocolate. When the credits roll, Nadine rises to go to bed and offers a hand to Aaron, but he declines, says he’s going to stay up and watch more television. Tipsy, Nadine kisses the top of his head and moves off to her room, a hand on the wall for balance.

      Sometime in the middle of night, Nadine rolls over and opens her eyes, suddenly alert after being sound asleep. It takes her a moment to realize that something woke her. A noise from down the hall. She pulls the covers back from her face and turns her head so both ears are off the pillow, attuned. There’s nothing but silence. She can’t recall exactly what the noise was. A bang, or a thud. Maybe it was just the fridge popping again; it’s on its last legs. But her heart’s beating fast. Even her skin is alert.

      Nadine puts a sweatshirt on and stands in the doorway of her bedroom. The flashing blue light on the VCR reaches all the way into the hall, a muted strobe. A shiver runs through her. Turning, at the other end of the hall, a sliver of light from under the bathroom door. Across the hall, Aaron’s door is wide open and the room is empty.

      She knocks on the bathroom door and tries the knob at the same time. Locked, and no answer. Without calling out, and running only on instinct, she races outside to the shed, not even bothering with her high-tops. The ground is both icy and damp on her feet. There’s no light in the shed and it’s impossible to see anything. She grabs at the tools she knows are leaning against the east wall and carries them out to the lawn, throwing them down to look at them in the moonlight. Outdoor broom, two shovels, a broken rake, a spade. Many of which they’ve never used in the eight years they’ve been renting the place. Finally, the crowbar.

      Nadine wrestles it in the bathroom door jamb and pries it open. The wood around the door frame cracks and splinters. She drops the tool in the hallway and pushes into the room.

      He’s in the bathtub, lying crossways, legs dangling over the edge, his back against the far wall. His head’s bent forward onto his chest so it’s not noticeable at first, but the broken shower rod and the shower curtain that’s bunched and crumpled at the corner of the tub add up to one thing. It’s then that the trail of leather belt down the other side of his neck comes into view.

      Nadine falls onto her knees at the edge of the tub and reaches over, clawing at the buckle. “Aaron. Fuck.” She loosens it but the prong gets caught in a hole and the loop is still too tight to pull over his head. As she fights with the prong, Aaron stirs.

      “Wake up. Come on, honey, wake up!” The belt comes off and she throws it behind her where it clangs against the metal waste bin. “Sweetie, come on.” She cups her hands around his face and holds it up. She’d try to pull him out if she could. Instead, she climbs in beside him. He opens his eyes and immediately starts to cry.

      “It’s okay,” she tugs on him so they’re both lying lengthwise, his head on her chest.

      He tries to say something but starts coughing and can’t get it out, just alternates between coughing and choking. Nadine strokes his back, shushes him. She’s scrunched and uncomfortable. Soon her muscles cramp and pinch and she welcomes the pain.

      There’s a crack in the corner of the window. It’s not a small crack, either. The tiniest of gaps is visible in the pane, and Nadine runs her finger over it, feeling the sharp edge. Hospitals shouldn’t have broken windows.

      The door opens and two people in scrubs enter carrying coffees and takeout breakfast in paper bags. They sit in the opposite corner of what was once a cafeteria but is now just a room with tables and chairs. The section where the kitchen would be is shuttered and locked, the food display cases empty.

      Aaron begged her not to bring him here. She didn’t want to, either; she wanted to curl up with him in his bed while he slept, but he wouldn’t stop swallowing and holding his throat. She brought him a glass of water, but it was too painful to drink. It was then he allowed her to bundle him up in the quilt from the couch, put him in the back seat of the car and drive forty-eight kilometres to Laurette, the nearest town with twenty-four-hour emergency care.

      The doctor told her it was only some bruising and swelling and he would be fine in a couple of days. But they wanted him to stay there until the afternoon when the psychologist would arrive. Aaron is asleep, with the help of a mild sedative. When he wakes, he’ll piece everything together. He’ll know that the hospital will notify Dr. Javid in Beauville, who’s listed as his family doctor, and that Dr. Javid will notify Dr. Goertzen in Winnipeg. Aaron will not be fine at all.