God Isn't Here Today

  © Francine Cunningham, 2022

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any method, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or, in the case of photocopying in Canada, a licence from Access Copyright.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: God isn’t here today : stories / Francine Cunningham.

  Other titles: God is not here today

  Names: Cunningham, Francine, 1984- author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220157596 | Canadiana (ebook) 2022015760X | ISBN 9781988784908 (softcover) | ISBN 9781988784946 (HTML)

  Classification: LCC PS8605.U52 G63 2022 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  Edited by Bryan Ibeas

  Interior and cover design by Megan Fildes

  Typeset in Laurentian | With thanks to type designer Rod McDonald

  Invisible Publishing | Halifax & Prince Edward County

  www.invisiblepublishing.com

  Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada.

  Dedicated to the stories that slip and slide through my life.

  Content Notes

  These content notes are available so readers can inform themselves; some readers may also consider these notes to be spoilers. This book includes references to mental illness, self-harm, overdose, sexual harassment, homophobia and homophobic violence, violence that results in death, and references to residential schools and colonial violence.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  content notes

  God Isn’t Here Today

  Asleep Till You’re Awake

  Mickey’s Bar

  In Remembrance

  Thirteen Steps

  Be My Forever, Forever

  Come and Get Your Ice Cream, Motherfuckers

  Last

  Pornorama

  Starting a Religion

  Spectre Sex

  Who is Erik?

  Complex 2675

  Love, Transparent

  Glitter Like Herpes

  The Death of Him Came to Me in My Dreams

  Acknowledgements

  God Isn’t Here Today

  The note was posted on the door. It was scratched out in ink that faded near the end. You could see the swirling lines where a heavy hand had tried to force more ink out, then gave up in an indented trail that petered off the edge of the page. The note itself was taped up in a tilted line, as if the taper had done so in a hurry and only as a last-second precaution in the unlikely event a person, like myself, bothered to show up at the door.

  I gently peeled the note off the white wood, brought the paper up to my face, and rested the tip of my nose against it to study the words of God closer.

  The letters were shaky, as if written by a trembling hand. The ERE all blended together in a mess of lines. The Y longer than all the other letters, stretching halfway down the page. I knew there was a branch of science you could take that analyzed writing, could let you know if someone was a serial killer, a mom, a firefighter. But since God is all of these things, I guess the handwriting meant nothing more than what it said: God isn’t here today.

  But the note didn’t say anything about tomorrow. That could mean God would be in. Or it could mean God wouldn’t. Or maybe God would come back someday, but not in the near future. Or God could have written the note years ago and just never bothered to come back. Or today could just really mean the today that found me standing in front of God’s door.

  The only day I’d ever bothered to go down to God’s office.

  The only day I’d ever actually needed God.

  What did God need to step out for anyway? Couldn’t God just create anything they needed? Or did God crave what we all crave—peace and quiet? Were they stressed out from a constant barrage of people with just enough time to catch the #2 bus and head all the way downtown? Maybe God was bored, maybe nobody visited anymore, so they thought they could just fuck off and no one would even notice. Maybe.

  But for the first time in my life, I longed to hear the voice of God. That was a line I’d heard once, during a radio drama. One of the characters said they longed to hear the voice of God. I guess you could say I longed for the feeling of longing. But maybe that’s just too confusing. Maybe it really just means that I needed help and no one was home.

  My best friend John was gone on summer holidays, probably spending the time meticulously writing down his dreams. He was so intense about them, but they were so gory I never bothered to really listen. And my other best friend Jude was who knows where. I thought I’d seen him from the bus window on my way downtown today, hanging out with the stoner kids who dressed all in black with silver studs and stuff, but he may have been a mirage. It was really hot out.

  The point is, I needed help.

  So I decided to try the doorknob anyway. Maybe God wasn’t all the way out. Maybe they were just sleeping on the couch under a newspaper like my mom does sometimes.

  I pushed on the door, and the hinges squeaked as it scraped against the floor. It got stuck about halfway, but I crept in through the opening. My feet caught on something soft and I tripped forward. I caught my balance before I hit the ground.

  The room was still, except for a small breeze produced by the whirring of a ceiling fan. Midday light poured in through the large windows. God had a corner office. Small, though. And dusty.

  I looked down to see what I’d tripped on and found my feet stood among a mess of letters. Stamped on the front of some were what looked like angry red marks. I picked one up. Overdue. It looked like God had forgotten to pay rent. There were tread marks on the envelopes, but it was impossible to tell if God had been stepping on them for months or if it they were from other wanderers like myself.

  I walked over to the closest window and looked out. The street below was full of small, vibrant vehicles, the sun reflecting off their metal surfaces in blinks as they moved through the spaces between green and red lights. Sweat was starting to build on my upper lip and hairline. Even with the fan, the room was hot. I gripped the hot metal of the window’s edge and pulled. The window came undone with a thwack, then proceeded to screech as I pulled it open enough for the sound of soft honking to filter in. The breeze helped with the stuffy smell of dust, books, and—I peeked into the wastebasket—an old sandwich, left to grow a thick layer of green mould.

  I was curious to see what God read, so I wandered over to the sagging bookcase. Lining the shelves were important-looking titles in languages I didn’t know. I pulled one off the shelf and opened it—and out fell an old Archie comic that must have been wedged between the pages. I put the boring book down on the shelf and picked up the well-worn comic off the floor instead. The paper was soft with hundreds of turnings.

  I looked around and saw that the only truly comfortable place to read, or wait for God, was the threadbare brown couch set against the farthest wall. Above it was a series of photographs depicting the harsh light of the desert, mountains of sand sifting themselves in the wind. Reforming. That, I guess, was a kinda good way to think about God. But I think a real painting would have been nicer. Presumably, God knew all the greatest painters. They could have asked to borrow some art.

&nbs
p; I dropped my backpack down on the ground beside the couch and sat. The seat sagged a little, but otherwise it was a really comfortable couch. Like really, really comfortable. The back shifted to conform to my shape and the material was old but breathable. I leaned in and took a sniff. A faint scent of lavender.

  I flipped through the pages and tried not to look at my watch. I knew my dad would be finishing work soon in his woodshop and would want my help around the house. He always helped. He hated when I was idle. My mom would be outside, tanning herself brown in this heat, probably all day on a good sun day like today. But me, I just needed God to show up so I could ask them a question.

  I was starting to rehearse my question when I heard a timid knock on the partially open door. I realized I’d forgotten to tape the note back up—instead I had shoved it into my front pocket. I stayed completely still. Maybe they would just go away.

  They knocked again. And again. And then the door started to move.

  I decided I had to do something. There was a big desk in the corner, big enough for me to hide under. I put down the comic and was about to flee to the desk when a face peered around the door frame.

  “Hello?” The word, hushed, with a note of reverence, came out of the mouth of a small woman. Deep wrinkles ran from the side of her mouth into her greying hairline. “God?” she whispered when she saw me.

  I could feel heat in my cheeks. “No.” I looked around the room. “I mean, I’m like you.”

  She put her weight behind a last shove at the door. It opened all the way as she pushed into the room.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispered, shuffling toward me.

  “I’m not who you’re looking for, I’m not them.”

  “I just need to ask you for one thing.”

  “I can’t help you.” I was exasperated.

  “You must.” With a groan, she dropped into the chair in front of the desk.

  I stood awkwardly between the couch and the desk. My backpack was on the floor beside the couch. I started to inch toward it.

  She began to cry. Not a wail or anything, more like a small leaking of tears. Her bony shoulders shook, not a lot, but enough that I stopped.

  I looked at the door. The hallway on the other side was dark and empty, I needed to get out of the room and away from her.

  I looked at the woman in the chair. She was so small. She reminded me of my grandma, dead two years. And then I thought if my grandma was in this room, waiting for God, and there was another person in this room too, I would want that person to wait with her. So I walked to the desk and sat behind it. I could at least stay till God showed up, or until the woman had to leave, or until someone else came.

  I didn’t quite know what to do, so I pushed forward a box of Kleenex. It looked full, at least. She took one with trembling fingers and continued to weep. I was embarrassed by how bad I was with emotions, so instead of looking at her I looked out the large window, past the smudges on the glass, into the sky. It was one of those perfect deep blue skies with white edges, a cloudless summer day that always seems to happen on days when I have to be inside. I wiped my forehead on the sleeve of my T-shirt in an awkward movement. But the lady didn’t seem to notice. She was staring down at her fingers, twisting the Kleenex between them.

  “I should have come earlier, I know,” she whispered.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” I whispered back, hoping she would stop talking so we could just wait in silence.

  “I should have come earlier, I should have said I was sorry then, instead of waiting till now, until I was an old woman, until everyone was dead and gone and left me alone.”

  My feet twitched as my eyes flicked from the doorway to my backpack. I picked up a pen and nervously started to flick the end of it. The woman looked up, and in her blurry eyes, I saw something flash. Anger. Or maybe annoyance. I put the pen down.

  “I’m sure they forgave you,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. This woman was older than me by tens of years stacked on top of each other. There was nothing I could say that she didn’t already know.

  “They never did.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw it in their eyes. Both of them. They never forgave. They never forgot.”

  “What happened?” I blurted out the words.

  She looked down at her fingers again. “I killed their baby.”

  I gasped. “You what?”

  “I don’t remember everything. Not wholly, at least. Or maybe I only remember what I want to remember. Time can be so messy when you’re looking at it in a straight line. But the result is the same.” She looked up from the desk and into my eyes, as if challenging me. “I killed my sister’s baby.”

  “How?” I whispered into the silence between us.

  A bit fat tear hung suspended off her chin. “I drowned it.”

  My skin prickled. “On purpose?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  What could I do?

  I pushed the chair back from the desk, all set to rise and leave—to grab my bag, forget about God, forget about my question, forget about the bus ride, the sun, the mouldy sandwich, and just go home.

  But she grabbed my hand, faster than I would have imagined possible for someone her age. She reached out, gripped it. Hurt it even.

  “You have to forgive me. Or burn me. Or something. You need to end it. I’m begging you.”

  And she was. I could see it in her eyes.

  But I wasn’t God.

  “I can’t do anything for you.”

  She dropped back deflated, her hand releasing mine. Her voice was weak again, soft. “Why not?”

  I stood up. The chair swivelled behind me and hit the wall.

  She stood then too, came toward me, and fell at my feet. “You have to.” She gripped my jeans. Held the fraying knees. Looked down at my red Converse sneakers. “You have to.”

  I reached down to try to loosen her fingers from around my knees. Her presence was suffocating—I could feel my lunch rising in my throat, threatening to coat us both in undigested Cheetos and bile. “No one can forgive you,” I said, “Only you can forgive you, or it won’t count.”

  That was true, I guess.

  She let go then. I couldn’t get around her body, though, so I crouched down and patted her back, even though I really didn’t want to. But it felt like something God might have done. And she was crying at my feet and she was so old and there was nothing I could do for her, so patting her back didn’t seem that bad. She felt mushy. And sweaty. But I kept patting her back. When my legs got sore, I settled into a lumpy, folded mess beside her, one of my legs splayed under the desk, the other tucked beneath me. She kept her face turned away from me. I kept my hand on her slick back, the damp black material of her shirt clinging to my hand.

  I spoke into the underside of the desk. “I need an answer too.”

  My eyes trailed lines of dusty cobwebs. I didn’t want to look at her. She didn’t move. She just kept breathing into the carpet.

  “I don’t know what to do.” I wiped my forehead on my sleeve again. The room was warmer with the two of us breathing so close. “I don’t think my parents are really my parents. I think they stole me.”

  I glanced over at her. I couldn’t tell if she’d even heard me. I untucked my leg in a gangly movement and leaned against the wall, the whole time keeping my sweaty hand on her sweaty back. I didn’t want to keep talking, but there was a comfort in being under the desk. And about this lady. About knowing that whatever I said, it would be okay, because she had killed a baby. And I still needed an answer to my question.

  God wasn’t here, but she was.

  “I think I’ve always had this feeling. Of being apart from them. Of being another. It was little moments, you know. Like them looking at each over my head. Of them falling quiet when I said somethi
ng. But last week—”

  I paused. I could feel her eyes on me, at least one of them peeking out from behind a bent arm.

  “Something happened. I was so angry that day. I could feel it inside me from the moment I woke up. It was pulsing anger, and it flared whenever someone tried to speak to me. I knew it was irrational. I knew I should just stay locked in my room, under the blankets, but my parents forced me out of the house. My dad hates it when I’m not doing anything. You gotta work hard to have a good life, you need purpose to have a good life, you need skills to have a good life, on and on, he just never lets up with this good-life bullshit. My mom, she just nods along, but I can tell she doesn’t really care, she just loves my dad. So they forced me out of the house.

  “We went to a market run by a few volunteer groups at this church by my house. We were walking around, looking at the stalls, and I was being pushed by so many people because it was so busy, and I just felt my body vibrating with rage. I was consumed with anger. I couldn’t help myself.

  “And then this woman appeared, with a high-pitched voice that pierced its way through the crowd and drilled into my brain. She was yelling at a homeless man who was just resting under a tree. He had this bike with a ton of shit strapped on it. And it was attached to a shopping cart that was piled high with junk, but it was clearly his junk. He had it tied down with bungee cords. She was yelling at him to leave, to take his junk and leave, because he was disturbing the peace.

  “I flipped. I don’t know what really happened, but I pushed my way through the crowd and I just started screaming at her. I wasn’t even fully speaking English, I don’t think, it sounded like another language. I started to grab the tent poles surrounding her booth. I was just so angry because here she was, this woman, at an event with good volunteers and church-loving people, and she was yelling at a homeless dude with everything he owned literally strapped to this cart, yelling at him to leave because he was ruining their shitty, loud, crowded event. It was so hypocritical. I started to rage through all the other booths too because fuck them. They were all fake good people.