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NB1469
Editor: Sarah Faber
Editor for the press: Whitney Moran
Design: Jenn Embree

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Throw down your shadows / Deborah Hemming.

Names: Hemming, Deborah, 1989- author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200159356
Canadiana (ebook) 20200161512 | ISBN 9781771088381 (softcover)
ISBN 9781771088640 (HTML)

Classification: LCC PS8615.E487 T57 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

Though we had never met, he waved at us like he knew us. An open palm raised above his head. Bewitching grey eyes under dark, curly hair.

What is a wave, really? It is recognition. It is I see you. But it’s not always a gesture of welcome. Sometimes a wave means caution. I see you (stay back). I see you (I’m busy). I see you (please, not now). His palm was raised, demanding our attention, letting us know we had appeared in his world. But his hand stayed frozen, inert. He didn’t move it from side to side, like you do with those you’re happy to see.

His hand was a stop sign but we mistook it for a green light.

AFTER

There is a moment when I first open my eyes. Not even a moment. It’s gone before it begins. The night before, all its destruction, the fire, a dream. Something imagined. Confusing and irrational. I blink hard, but my eyes can’t unsee. All that smoke, the heat. Don’t fool yourself, Winnie. It happened.

I contemplate never leaving my room. Staying in bed with my hands clamped between my knees, turned towards the wall forever. What does the morning after look like? Not knowing makes me squirm.

I wonder if Ruth will do the regular things. Make coffee, serve it up hot. Did she bother to put on pajamas last night? I slept in a T-shirt, no underwear. I felt the need to let my whole body breathe.

Toast. She always makes toast. But who will eat it? And what about Mac? I don’t think he came home last night. I didn’t hear him. He tends to stomp up the stairs and across the hall. I would have heard the stomping and the opening and closing of doors. I would have heard them talking. Or maybe there was nothing to say.

I slide out of bed and into sweatpants. I listen before I open the door. Nothing. My hand hovers above the doorknob and I wait for a sign of what comes next. There’s a strong chance everything will be different today, the old ways of doing and being no longer suitable. This is not a place that changes much but even those who are stuck and stubborn can’t ignore such a profound disruption.

I finally turn the knob. I tiptoe downstairs, past the closed door of Ruth’s bedroom. The house is unusually quiet. Dark corners and the echo of a clock hand. It’s the end of October and the cold haunts my bare feet. I continue past the living room, the dining room. Everything quiet and empty and cold.

I nearly jump out of my skin when I find Ruth at the kitchen table. She’s wearing pajamas.

“You scared me,” I whisper. “Your door was closed.”

She points upwards and I understand. Mac is sleeping.

She made coffee but no toast. She pours me a cup and we sink into silence. We wait.