Suddenly Light, page 16
Her own heart fell in slow, heavy thumps against her ribs, again and again, like a failing heartbeat.
She forgot the ice cream and left the store after their chat ended. She went home, parking briskly in the narrow driveway between their small house and the multiplex next door. When she went into the house, her mother rustled in the other room but did not speak or come out, so she did not say anything either. Her mother had started smoking again; she could smell fresh smoke. She coughed through the days and nights. The walls in her home were darkly painted and she felt, as she always had, her whole life, that the house was suffocating.
She went straight upstairs and into her own small living room, finding the bottle of rye and the shot glass on her shelf, taking one quick shot and then a second. She felt better after that, more even. Kinn was dead, and she had no recourse for that. Her predicament now was the life she had left—long, missing things most people did not even notice. She went back downstairs quietly and slipped into her mother’s bedroom, into the closet, rummaging briskly for the wooden box that had been there since she was a girl, left behind from her mother’s old boyfriend—a small, black revolver. She held her breath and checked—still loaded. She was moving quickly now, less concerned with making noise and more focused on everything happening fast. She briefly thought of returning upstairs, but instead sat on her mother’s bed and held up her left hand, pressing the barrel into her palm and, after quickly glancing up at the ceiling and then back down, shot straight through the middle of her hand.
Pain tore through her mind, a jagged red crack split open behind her eyes. Her mouth opened but made no sound. Her lungs clawed for air.
Her mother let out a sharp cry from the next room.
Her hand was covered in blood. She lowered the gun, pressed it against her wrist, and shot again.
2006
She lost the hand. They told everyone it was an accident, but two accidental shots did not make sense, so she was assigned a psychiatrist and the police took away the gun. It was all right; she was finished.
She saw the psychiatrist. She already knew about the personality and learning disorders; she had seen a doctor in high school. She didn’t much feel like describing how she didn’t love anything or anyone, or the boredom, or being asexual, or a dead boy, and she didn’t see how medication would change that. The doctor wanted to talk about her mother or brothers, but they did not interest her. She tried the pills anyway for a few months to see if it would be different this time—it wasn’t. She threw the bottle out. She was able to keep her job with limited duties and could still drive. Within a year and a half, not so much had changed.
She saw the psychiatrist a couple more times after that. He was a thin man, old, with round glasses, and always wearing corduroy pants that were fading badly around the knee. She thought he was exactly as a doctor would be described in a book. But he was nice, and she didn’t mind talking about her dog with him; she seemed to have a lot of memories about the dog.
She took two things from him and kept them close. He once called her a protector—of what, she never knew—but still it rang, painful, like a bell in her chest. And he had framed quotes on his wall. One of them said, Learn to walk in the sweetness of the possession of your own soul. That one rang for a long time.
She was leaving the grocery store and there he was again, Kinn’s older brother, looking after her. But now he did not come to talk to her. She struggled with her bags, slinging them onto her left forearm, missing its hand—the cashier looked away with colour rising in her face. She knew he was watching. She started to walk out of the store, slower than she needed to, making a fuss with the bags in the crook of her elbow, as if she struggled with it. She was showing him something; she wanted him to see. And she felt suddenly light.
Acknowledgements
All my gratitude to the same people as my first book. New joiners: Kim, tasked with the copyedit, saving me from myself, patient collector of my mistakes. Bryan, my editor for this collection, careful and wise, salty and true, your favourite stories were my favourite too. A kinship. Megan, your art is a gift. And Nick, my university reward, egregiously overlooked earlier, but you forgave me, as kind as you’ve been all these years. My SP family, I miss you. As before: Akin, you found me. Norm, you chose me. I owe so much to you both. Outside of this world, you are still my favourite people. And Douglas, thank you for telling me to write.
Nina Dunic is a two-time winner of the Toronto Star Short Story Contest, has been longlisted by the CBC Short Story Prize four times, and was nominated for The Journey Prize. CBC Books named her in its 2023 Writers to Watch list. Her debut novel The Clarion won the 2024 Trillium Book Award, was longlisted for the 2023 Giller Prize, was selected as the Best Canadian Debut by Apple Books, and was a Globe and Mail Best Book of 2023. Nina lives in Scarborough, ON. Find out more at ninadunic.com.
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Nina Dunic, Suddenly Light
