Mud Girl by Alison Acheson

on. By the time the afternoon has hit the doldrums – no wind, no bugs, no birds – she’s back to about thirty centimeters.
    When she goes to sleep there is half of a Christmas-red scarf next to her bed. Her fingers feel as if they’ve been wrapped around a baseball bat and stuck in the freezer for a month.
    The phone hasn’t rung all day, except for the one call for Mr. Whatever-his-name-was.

My Beautiful Sunday
    T he sun comes up on Abi’s side of the house, and it wakes her the next morning, and it brings a memory: when she was really little, and Dad singing, “This is my, my, my beautiful Sunday, when you say, say, say, say that you love me…” It seems as if he began every Sunday with those words. And Mum would laugh, wouldn’t she? Or would she? Abi wants to remember it with her laughing; she likes it better that way. If she lies really still – doesn’t make a move to get up – she can almost hear the sound of that laughter. No, it’s the river, carrying mud from one place to the next.
    The sight of her scarf takes Abi by surprise. It seems like a dream, the day before.
    Then she remembers the waiting; the phone not ringing.
    What’s a promise, anyway?
    Abi takes up where she left off with the needle and yarn, and leaves bed only when a hunger headache threatens.
    It’s hard not to think of Colm and Fiona every time she opens the cupboard now. She can hear Colm, all “chipper” as Horace would say, and she can see Fiona’s miserable scowl.
    Cereal, and back to the scarf. She can feel the sun warming the east side of the house, rising over the roof. Dad gets up, dumps cereal in a bowl, looks vaguely for the milk.
    â€œFridge,” Abi reminds him. Click, click, click, go the needles. She likes the sound. She suddenly realizes the tv’s off. “Hey, what’s with…” she starts to say, but then shuts up. Why remind him?
    He sits at the table. Still seems to be looking for something or somebody.
    â€œDad.” Abi speaks as if he’s a songbird just landed on the windowsill. “Dad, eat.”
    He does, tentatively.
    They sit, almost like any other daughter and father, eating breakfast. “Did you sleep well?” she asks.
    It’s supposed to be the question the parent asks the teenager, and it’s supposed to annoy the teenager.
    â€œHuh?” he asks. “Oh. Yeah.”
    Does he remember what I just said?
    â€œI could make you a cup of coffee,” she says, her mind scrambling to think of where some might be. “We could sit out back.” Dangle our legs over the edge, listen to the water on the move.
    He stares at her blankly. She wishes he’d wear his glasses. She imagines what she looks like to him. Something like the way his one and only honeymoon photo looks to her: fuzzy.
    The ring of the phone is so loud they both jump. Is this the call that was supposed to come yesterday? Is he going to say something about forgetting? What is she going to say? Should she just let it go? She doesn’t get it until the third ring, and she’s still not sure.
    â€œAbi?”
    â€œJude.”
    â€œAre we still on for today?” he asks.
    That was yesterday.
    â€œWe can drive in to Vancouver, walk in the sun, have an ice cream.”
    That must mean Dyl will be with them. Probably means ice cream will end up on her shirt.
    â€œSure,” is all she says. Dad’s not even going to notice she’s gone.
    There’s a summer skirt somewhere in Mum’s drawer, and a T -shirt, comfortably stretched and white. She knots it in front. Pulls on sandals. Pretends her hands aren’t shaking.
He’s just a boy.
Pushes the knitting under her pillow, though she has no intention, ever, to let Jude see this hole of a room.
    Dad’s still sitting at the table when she comes out. Not waiting for that coffee she mentioned, is he? He’s looking toward the door, his