The Monkey Bars by Rachel Laverdiere

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The Monkey Bars


Grammy Jules blows her gigantic smoke rings to make the girls giggle, and I worry that I’m giving up on Romy too soon. The screen door bangs shut behind us and swallows the rat-a-tat-a-tat of his machine guns in the living room. As a preemie, he slept between Shane and me in my twin bed at Jules’. He was so tiny and helpless. So perfect. I never imagined that, less than a dozen years later, he’d grow bigger and stronger than me. Never imagined his father’s anger would course through his veins. 

I grasp the girls’ mittened hands. Jules pulls up their hoods from behind, hugs me and whispers in my ear, “You’re making the right decision. Don’t let it get worse. We know how that turns out.” Earlier—the kids fighting over the TV, the couch, the cushions—Jules’ laughter burbled as she noted, Coming here is like watching a re-run of my life where you’re starring a younger me!  

We crunch across the tufts of dried quack grass in empty lot between the trailer and the playground.

I don’t blame Romy for being angry—we’ve all watched Shane drowning in his gin bottles—but he’s getting dangerous. Today Daisy gained a welt above her eye from a flying Barbie doll. Someday it could be a tire iron like the one that earned me 17 stitches and Shane a restraining order.

Barely teens, Shane and I met in this park now rotted with rust. For years, we sat atop the monkey bars, watching the semis across the steep ditch race along the Trans-Canada Highway. We planned a million escapes—me from my brother’s torture, Shane from his drunk dad’s fists. Not once did we imagine we’d stay and stay and stay. That I’d be just like Jules, and he’d turn out like the father he loathed.

A dust devil puffs up and surprises us. The girls squeal as several nuthatches chase one another through thorny bushes just beginning to bud. 

Jules lights a cigarette. She sighs and, in a hushed voice, says, “I’m sorry for what I said. You’re nothing like I was. You’re much stronger.” She pauses and adds, “Wish I’d protected you from your brother.” 

I rub my thumb over my inner wrist—scars left from my brother stumping out stolen cigars while Jules was at work. Later, he broke my collar bone. Later yet, he pinned me down and…I shake my head to block out the worst and say, “It’s hard to imagine this place’ll be blooming with colour soon.”

My brother has spent most of his adult years in prison. Not what I want for Romy. 

Jules nods and says, “I’ll go ahead with the girls. Do what needs doing.” She looks towards the highway, then back at me. “Or you’ll wind up with mostly regrets. Like me.” Jules and the girls cross the gravel road into the park. 

My hands tremble as I light a cigarette. 

From the monkey bars, the girls scream, “Mommy, Mommy—we can see the whole wide world from up here!” I wave up to them, and a convoy of semis honk their airhorns as they fly past.

The girls deserve an escape from this place. So does Romy. And me. Shane when he’s ready.

I stub out my cigarette and, hands still shaking, I call Child Protective Services. Moments later, a throaty voice promises to send help. Heading home to wait with Romy, I spot a crocus poking its fuzzy lavender head from a crust of dusty snow. 



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​Rachel Laverdiere writes, pots and teaches in her little house on the Canadian prairies. Her work has been selected for Wigleaf's Top 50 and nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best Microfiction. Find Rachel's recent prose in Sundog Literary, Lunch Ticket, Longridge Review and Raw Lit. For more, visit www.rachellaverdiere.com or find her on Twitter at @r_laverdiere.