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Siren Song

By Brooke Johnston

They  got  in  the  car,  and  that  was  fine,  except  the  damn  car  seat  wouldn’t  buckle.
“Do  it  this  way,  Daddy,”  and  he  did,  except  of  course  she  didn’t  know  what  the  problem  was  because  what  to  ddler  can  fix   a  car    seat?

So   they  had  mostly  gotten  in  to  the  car  ,but  then  everything  was  on  the  pavement  again  and  it  was  all  messedup  ,almost  ruined  ,actually  ,until  he  just  decided  to  hell  with  the  base  and  strapped the car seat in the old fashioned

“Squishy,  Daddy,  where’s  Squishy?”  she  wailed  .He  wracked  his  brains—  was  Squishy
the octopus? The  panda?  Too  many  names,  too many   toys.

“She’s  in  the  back,  love.  We  can’t  get  Squishy  right now.”Amid  the  sobs  they  drove  in  jagged  zags  down  residential  roads,  seemingly  at  random.The  bags  shifted  in  the  trunk,​  bang  bang  bang  and  why  couldn’t  things  just  go  smoothly?  Hewastrying, wasn’t he?

The  cell  buzzed  on  the  seat  beside  him  ,screen  blinking  rapidly,  vibrating  far  longer  than  any  text  would. He flipped it over, angry, ​not now, not yet, didn’t they know —

“Is that Mommy? Hi, Mommy!”

“No, no, not Mommy. Someone else. Don’t worry  about  it.”Another

shar  pturn,this  time  out  of  the latest  neighbourhood  and  on  toanon-ramp.​Bang.Bang.

“Where are we going, Daddy?”

“Tim Horton’s. Let’s get a donut, shall we?”

Cheering bought him more time, for questions, for answers, for deciding what the fuck

happens next. It had been so clear earlier, reflected in his mind all shiny and perfect and decidedly not hinged on whether the car seat had worked. They’d go back to his grandpa’s old cottage, back where things had been good, where she could learn to fish, where he could keep his promises. But then the car seat wouldn’t buckle, and the bags wouldn’t stop banging, and that phone, that goddamn phone wouldn’t leave him alone.

They pulled off the highway, hit the ONroute just shy of Port Hope, he’d promised a donut, hadn’t he? He kept his promises, no matter what Lila said. The car screeched a bit as he parked it, rusty breaks or something, didn’t matter, it was parked and he got out. The car seat’s buckle jammed.

She wailed again, trapped with no donut, no Squishy. She’d been in the car too long, he knew. Finally the buckle came loose and he swore he’d never buy another Costco car seat again. Hand in hand, they went into Tim’s.

A pimply cashier greeted them with interest, told her that she could have a second donut in exchange for her name. He glared at the cashier — she knew. No donuts, then, he was a liar after all but it was Lila’s fault, all Lila’s fault, why couldn’t he just get his little girl a donut?

They got back to the car. The bags were banging louder, the trunk moving up and down slightly, people starting to stare. He didn’t fight the car seat this time, put her in unbuckled, there were more important things at stake than safety, surely what mattered most was the bags stopped banging and the cashier stopped prying and they got back onto the highway. Yes. They would stop later and she could have all the donuts in the store and no one would ask any questions.

The car pulled out of the ONroute, back onto the highway, to safety — To sirens.

He hit the steering wheel once, twice, more cries from the backseat, more banging from the bags, no, not the bags, and he pulled over. What other choice was there?

One officer at the window, another blocking his exit. No, he didn’t have his license, must have left it at home.

Bang. Bang from the trunk and the cop had him out of the car, yelling ‘probable cause’ and ‘open it up’ and all he could hear was the woop-woop of the sirens and the waaah of his daughter and the throaty screams of what was decidedly not bags in his trunk.

There would be no donut after all.


Giving Back

By Brooke Johnston

“Of course I love you,” Beth said with a smile. “Look at all you’ve given us.”

It was true. Jack looked around at their cabin, nestled deep in the darkening woods. He built it with his own hands, log by log, with glass and paint and a bucket of screws. He built it to last. He built it for her.

“Tell me again.” He had to know. He had to be sure.

“I love you. I do. I mean it.” Her hand brushed her stomach, came to rest on her thigh.

Shook for a moment and was still. A quiet sigh, and he believed her.


Later, when she was sleeping, Jack crept out from the bed. Beth lay in perfect stillness, tangled curls drooped across the pillow. Her hair was getting long, soft strands growing out from the short and jagged mess it had been in the city. No board rooms here. Beth’s necklace rested beside her on the night table. She never wore it – he hated jewelry – but she insisted on keeping it close.

Shrugging on a thick coat, Jack moved from bedroom to living room to porch. His steps were confident, quiet, almost cat-like. Not that she would wake, anyways. He knew she would sleep deeply, dreaming of distant stars. The dog woke from its slumber and looked at him, expectant.

They walked together through pine trees and moonlight. There were so many stars this  far north, away from the smog and sirens in the city. Jack tried to count them the way he counted steps. One star, one step, and around the perimeter of his territory they went. The dog was a  silent presence, a reassurance against the shadows. He was almost a shadow himself, loping through the underbrush with uncanny discipline. Another job well done, Jack thought. He had trained the dog himself, moulding him into the perfect companion. Beth would follow suit. She had to.

Star. Step. Star. Step. Under the cover of the trees, the pair patrolled the almost 10-kilometre perimeter he had marked around the cabin. Jack fingered the sat phone in his jacket’s pocket, a reassurance that he was secure. Beth would still be asleep. No need to hurry. Better to be thorough, to protect what was his. What was theirs.


Sure enough, she slept on, arched and bulging under the covers. Perhaps her foot had moved; he couldn’t be sure. He watched her sleep, trying to decide if she had been up and about.

In the morning, he made her tell him again.

“I love you. I am happy here. I want us to be together.”

She looked like she meant it, he decided. He knew the move had been hard, that she missed her family. He needed to be sure she was his, that this was more important than any job had been.

“Can I come on your morning walk today, my love?” Beth asked it sweetly, a smile that might even have been for him. She sat up straight in her chair, the way he liked, feet flat on the floor and hands folded demurely in her lap.

“Tomorrow, maybe. You look tired today. Why don’t you go back to bed? You need your rest, Beth.”

Beth kept her gaze on the table. A drop of water landed on the pine; was she crying because she would miss him, or because she had been sent to bed? A partner or a petulant child?

“If you want, I can make you some tea?”

Beth’s eyes flashed, the tears drying. Her hands unclasped, arms wrapping around her stomach. She even managed a smile.

“No, no. I don’t need any tea, thank you. I think I could use a nap, actually. You always know best!”

Jack got her a mug, poured her tea despite her protests, and watched as she drank it. She needed to sleep. He loved her, and he would take care of her. She just had to learn.

Beth’s eyes had started drooping again. The tea abandoned on the table, she drifted back to the room. At the door, she stumbled slightly, holding the doorframe for support. Her hands grazed his coat, feeling the fabric as if for comfort. Jack watched as she smiled, reassured, and made her way back to bed.

He checked that she had drunk her tea before rinsing the mug in the sink. She needed her rest; better to sleep while he was out. He didn’t want her to get lonely.

The dog was awake this time, waiting for him. No stars to measure his steps this time. Under the brightening trees, he instead counted the dog’s steps against his own, listening intently to the sounds around the thudding paw-falls. Only the birds called out, mocking Jack’s methodical pace. They walked the entire loop without a word between them.


Back to the cabin, perimeter untouched. But — footprints in the mud. Had he misjudged?

Maybe she didn’t love him after all. Why wasn’t she asleep?

No, they were leading to the cabin, not away. A fleeting sense of relief that Beth hadn’t left was quickly replaced with a much more urgent sense of dread.

One pair of prints. Only one threat. Jack circled around the edge of the clearing, trying to get a view into one of the windows. His windows.

There she was, awake. She was supposed to be sleeping! Why wasn’t she sleeping? He had told her, hadn’t he? Made her?

Beth was sitting at the table, talking to someone out of sight. She looked anxious, like she had been crying. Someone must have found her, found them, and Beth was telling them to leave. Telling them, thank you, but she was well looked after, she did not need assistance, she appreciated the concern. She must be so scared, with a stranger intruding into their quiet life.

Jack still couldn’t see whoever she had called. Only one pair of footprints in the mud, though. Only one person to worry about. He paced to the window, the dog beside him, keeping out of sight. Better to hear what they were saying than to see who it was. Jack needed to be certain.

“It’s going to be okay, Andrea. I’ve got backup coming to pick us up. We’ll get you out of here. There’s a hospital about five clicks out to make sure everything’s okay with the baby. Do you need anything from here?”

“My necklace. He broke it that first night, but I kept it. It’s from my parents. I can’t leave it here. Not with him.”

Jack listened in disbelief. How could his Beth be saying these things? Lying so openly? She loved him; she had just said it this afternoon! Surely this was just a ruse, a way to stall until Jack could get back and save her. He lifted his head, slowly, so slowly, until he could peer into the window.

Beth was nowhere to be seen. The man had his back to the window, leaning against the door frame. He was a slight whip of a man, more sapling than spruce. Even Beth shouldn’t have been afraid of him – not when she had Jack to protect her. No need to make up such stories to satisfy the imagination of a man who barely fit the moniker.

And then he saw the sat phone. It was just sitting there on the table, out in the open. He jammed his hands into his jacket pocket, searching for something he could see wasn’t there.

He had given her everything, hadn’t he? Built her a cabin of glass and screws and wood and god knows what else. Given her a place to relax, away from the stress of her job and her family. And she couldn’t even be grateful.

Then Jack was on the porch and the door was swinging open and the world grew fuzzy. As if looking through water, he watched Beth spring from the bedroom door, belly protruding from under her shirt, a look of terror on her face. He watched the intruder turn, too slow, too late. The dog jumped, pinning the interloper to the wall.

It was over quickly, a lesson to both of them. He made Beth clean up the mess the dog left, insisting that she loved him through her tears. Jack made her promise not to touch the phone again. And, once the blood was off the walls, he took pity on her and helped her to bury the body.

He did love her, after all.


You Matter

By Brooke Johnston

Do you matter?

No, really — do you matter? Do I matter?

Just breathe.

It’s easy, they say,

even when your breaths are

nothing, are

baited silences, are choking gasps, are violent shivers.

Do you matter?

To your mother, your son, your preacher, your baker? To yourself?

Or, more importantly:

to the officer down the block? to the judge at your appeal? to the journalist at the paper?



We all matter.

Except — some of us have always mattered. Others have fought for every scrap,

have been told to be grateful for what they’re permitted to take,

have fought to breathe with

violent shivers, with choking gasps, with baited silences, with nothing.

You matter.

Keep breathing.