Page 87 of Playing for Keeps

I frowned, unsure what she meant.

She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “He said you talked to him about our mom. That’s the first time he’s talked to anyone but me about it. Ever. You being there for him means a lot.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed silent, listening.

“When Max learnt that my dad wasn’t his dad… In a way, I think it was a relief. At least it made sense of how he was treated. My dad,” she said, taking a deep breath. “It’s hard to say this about your own father, but he was a bad man. The way he treated Max and Mom…” Her voice broke.

Then she collected herself and steadied her coffee cup in her hands. “As his older sister, I always thought I should have done more to keep him safe. But the truth is, I was scared. I didn’t want to lose my family, broken as it was. I had some growing up to do myself. But from the moment we walked in on that fight between Mom and Dad, I knew. I would always choose Max’s side.”

Her jaw worked, like she was holding something back. “I wasn’t brave enough when we were young. But I was after that. He got his scholarship, he moved out, and he never spoke to our dad again. I didn’t either. I kept some contact with Mom, and Max knew that – he was okay with it – but he never wanted to talk to her himself. Not until now… And that’s because of you. Even if it ends badly, I think it’ll still be good for him. I think that’s why he chose to play defence. He’s been defending himself his whole life. With you, it feels like the first time he doesn’t have to.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat was tight. Not knowing what to say, I set my tea aside and leaned over, pulling her into a hug. She held on, and when she let go, her smile was a little watery. Mine was as well.

“Max is right,” she said with a small laugh. “You do give good hugs.”

I raised my eyebrows. “He told you about that as well?”

“Yes. You’re all he talks about these days.” Her expression turned earnest. “You make him happy. And I believe he makes you happy too.”

Heat crept up my neck, but I nodded. “Yes. He does.”

Her gaze searched mine. “But not enough to keep you in Toronto?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, not sure what to say. Somehow, we had come back to the one question that had been bothering me for weeks. What was I going to do when the term was over: leave as I always had, or was it time for something different?

I didn’t have an answer yet.

41

EMMA

When I walked in, the room was already half full. The high windows let in a thin, pale light on this Friday afternoon. It was the kind of light that made dust look like confetti. A few students were finishing their coffees, others were pretending to look busy while checking their phones. I put my bag on the desk, waited for everyone to settle down, and dove right in.

“Okay, last time we finished our work on Jane Eyre, including the symbolism, structure, and so on. Today we’re going to start drawing lines to Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea. It’ll be the final book we analyse together this term.”

A quiet “Nooo” went around the rows.

I smiled and said, “I’m flattered. But sadly, I’m only here for a year.” The room let out a sigh of disappointment. “So let’s make the most of our last few classes. Take risks. Think out loud. Argue politely. The usual.”

A few students straightened in their seats, ready to take notes.

“Now,” I said, “Rhys didn’t plan to write a feminist novel, but a lot of people read Wide Sargasso Sea as one. Who wants to try to guess why that might be?”

Cecilia raised her hand right away, as she always does. “Because Bertha – Antoinette – gets a voice,” she said. “In Jane Eyre, she is a symbol, a plot device. In Rhys, she’s a person. We get her thoughts and feelings.”

“How?” I asked. “What choices put us inside her instead of outside her?”

Cecilia thought about it for a while. She said, “First-person narration. The way the setting reflects her emotions. And… the way Rochester – well, the unnamed Englishman – is no longer the centre.”

“Good,” I said. “Let’s hold on to that and build.”

What followed had the feeling I love most when a room full of people becomes one brain. Someone said the book’s fragmentary style mirrored how Antoinette’s sense of self was chipped away, piece by piece. We talked about the name change, how Antoinette became ‘Bertha’ as an act of control, and what it means to change someone’s name until they forget they had another option.

I listened and gave directions; I pulled threads together and pushed them. In the middle of a student’s sentence, which was about thresholds and doors you cross and can’t uncross, I glanced up, the way a person glances at a window when they feel a change in the weather.

He was there. Last row, last seat. Max.

He’d come in without making a sound. His hair was a little messy and he was smiling. He was sitting very still, and he wasn’t looking at the class like a bored visitor would. Those brown eyes were looking at me. Fully. Like the rest of it had gone slightly out of focus.