Lying on his stomach after school, he is listening to old Bob Dylan records, propped up on his elbows. The carpet is musty with forgotten laundry, cookie crumbs, dust, modelling clay. Downstairs, the gentle clink of dishes and fizz of butter in a pan, the preparation of dinner.
Abernethie hated the lanterns. They weren’t Christmassy at all. Lola had picked them out in a market on Pender Street, and their mother Janet had bought them, just like that. It didn’t matter when Abernethie explained that they didn’t match … Continued
When the young woman from Vancouver breezed in through the front door to inquire about wedding receptions, the pair had felt like they were about to win the lottery—if they didn’t mess it up. They tried not to convey an air of desperation while they gave her the standard information about rates, availability, capacity and the like.
In the first few days afterwards, they woke and slept with no real regularity. The horror of it all lent a sense of unreality to the dust, the ashes, the collapsed and crumbling walls. The moon still rose and fell, and sometimes stars glittered faintly through the haze. Sleep was a refuge. But the dreams became intolerable.