“I needed to talk to someone who knew him, someone who”—she choked, but carried on—“who loved him as much as me.”
I wanted to reach through the phone line and grab her and never let go. Even though Mom and I had never been close, even though Dad had been the glue between us, I understood her grief.
“Tell me a Dad story, Rachel,” she said, cutting into my thoughts. “Please.”
It was as though by asking, she had pushed all my memories away. I couldn’t think of a single one. But then my gaze fell on a framed photo on the mantelpiece—the three of us at the cottage, Dad wearing binoculars around his neck.
And I remembered. Mom was lying on the dock, sunning. I was sitting in the shade reading. Dad was watching birds, then he came nearer to Mom, closer and closer, raising his binoculars to his eyes. Dad was a keen birder, and his favourite joke was to pretend that Mom was a rare bird. This time, he’d outdone himself, talking in a stagey, heightened whisper, like some nature show host.
“I’m very close now,” he’d said softly. “We have to be quiet; we don’t want to startle her.”
By this point, the binoculars were practically touching Mom’s nose. “Yes, folks, it’s the lesser spotted cuckoo bird.” And Mom looked up, shading her eyes and laughing, saying how old his joke was, almost as old as him. And Dad leaned over to kiss her.
“Remember the lesser spotted cuckoo bird?” I said.
Mom half laughed, half cried down the line. “Yes!” And as I sat there, back to the wall, hugging my knees, she told me the story that had just played out in my brain, much better than I ever would have. Gradually, warmth crept into her voice, and by the end, she even gave a little laugh.
“That’s exactly what I needed, Rachel. That’s a perfect Dad story. I went for a long run today and I listened to Vivaldi. That’s how I marked the day.”
“That’s good, Mom,” I said. “Can we talk again tomorrow?”
“Of course. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
“And Rachel,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
I hung up the phone. “Sorry, Doug,” I said. “That was my mom and—”
But he was passed out, glass of red wine still in his hand, tilting dangerously towards the floor. I gently removed it and tried to wake him, but he was out cold. Even when I clattered dishes in the kitchen, he didn’t stir. Eventually, I went upstairs to bed.
The next morning, when I went downstairs, Doug was where I’d left him. He was awake, although not very, holding one shoe. He scratched his head and looked around blankly.
“Me and red wine,” he said. “Deadly.”
“I know someone else like that,” I said. “My mother.”
I picked up his other shoe and handed it to him.
“I needs coffee,” he said.
“You don’t drink coffee.”
“Well, I needs something.”
“It’s Good Friday,” I said. “I doubt Wilf’s is open.”
Doug groaned. “Oh, Christ, the Stations of the Cross.”
“What?”
“Just be glad you lives in Clayville away from Father Frank,” he said. “I needs to get home right quick.”
I offered to drive him, but he said he was bound to get a ride if he hitchhiked. After an awkward hug at my front door, he was off.
29
I didn’t tell Doug that it was the anniversary of Dad’s death. I’d been marking anniversaries privately all year—his birthday, Mom’s birthday, their anniversary, the date he was diagnosed—on and on and on. Today was the big one. I couldn’t decide if it was important or meaningless. Maybe all that mattered was that Dad was gone, not the date that he left.
I wandered around my house, restless and out of sorts. I took a package of red licorice out of my kitchen cupboard, threw on a coat and went to the cemetery, where I sat shivering on a bench and eating. Licorice was Dad’s favourite candy. I’d snuck a few into his suit pocket in the coffin before the funeral. When the licorice was all gone, I went home, took out the fiddle Phonse had gifted me and played Vivaldi while the tears streamed down my cheeks.
Lucille phoned on Saturday evening to invite me for Easter dinner the next day. I’d spent Friday and Saturday on my own, so I gladly accepted. She said her knee was bothering her and would I mind coming early to drive her to Mass. I hadn’t been to church since I moved to Clayville, but for Lucille, I would make the effort.
On Easter Sunday morning, I straightened my hair for the first time in ages and wore a dress under my trench coat. I drew the line at a bonnet.
Lucille was waiting for me at her gate when I drove up. She limped over to my car.
“Arthritis,” she said when I asked what was wrong. “What’s after happening to your hair?”
My hand rose to pat it. “I straightened it. Why? Does it look bad?”
“Different.”
“Different good or different bad?”
“Different is all.” She’d clearly forgotten that I used to straighten it every day when I lived with her.
We were early, but the lot was full so we had to park across the road.
“All these part-timers,” Lucille said, shaking her head. “Christmas and Easter and the odd wedding or funeral. It’s not right.” If they were part-timers, that made me a temp at best.
Then Lucille said, “Lord Blessed God. I never thought I’d see the day.” I followed her gaze and saw Doug manoeuvring his mother’s wheelchair up the stairs of the church.
Mass seemed to go on forever. During the homily, I peeked back to look for Doug, but Lucille elbowed me back in line.
As we walked out afterwards, many parents and some students wished me happy Easter. Lucille squatted by the wheelchair, talking to Grace, while Doug and I waited beside them. I worried about Lucille’s knees.
“I loves your hair, Rachel,” Doug’s mother said. “What are you after doing to it?”
“I straightened it.”
“I likes the curls better,” Doug said.
His mother snorted. “Sure what do you know about hair?”
Judy and Bill walked down the church steps and came over to join us. “Wonderful grand to see your mother out and about,” Bill said to Doug.
Judy tugged at my sleeve. “Can I have a quick word?”
She led me away from the others and said, “Probably not the best place to raise this.” For a minute I panicked that somehow she’d found out what I’d said to Cynthia.
“I’m away at a conference for the next few days,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you about your teaching contract.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Lord, no, the very opposite. I spoke to Pat on Thursday and frankly neither of us can imagine this place without you. Do you know there’s two grade nine boys considering French next year after that RCMP talk you arranged?”
“Wow, that’s fantastic.”
“I knows you don’t have to say anything yet,” Judy said. “But unusually, you’re on a one-year contract. Any idea what your plans are for next year? We’d love you to stay.”
I looked down the road towards the school, unsure how to respond. “I didn’t really think things through when I took this job,” I said. “It was kind of impulsive.”
Judy cocked her head, looking at me. “You always kept your reasons quiet.”
“I needed to get away. The plan was to get a year’s experience, hopefully get some good references . . .”
She held up her hand. “That won’t be a problem. The word glowing springs to mind.”
I felt my cheeks grow warm. “Thanks. The logical thing would be to go back home at the end of the year.”
“Logic is overrated. Try listening to your heart.”
I glanced over to where the others stood chatting and caught Doug looking. We held the gaze for what seemed a long time, until Lucille bawled over to me, “We leaving today, missus, or wha?” and the spell was broken.
“Can I think about it?” I asked Judy.
“Of course,” she said.
I walked over to join Lucille, already weighing my options.
As soon as we entered Lucille’s house, I smelled Jiggs Dinner. I helped her set the table, and when we sat down to eat, I piled my plate high with boiled potatoes, turnips and carrots and salt beef.
“I see you missed out the cabbage as usual,” said Lucille.
In an effort to distract her from my dietary transgression, I remarked on Grace’s attendance at church. “Doug told me about the storm that killed his dad and your John,” I said. “It sounded terrible.”
She shook salt furiously on her meal. “It was hard old times for lots of people. It gets easier, but I’ll never stop missing my John. I still talks to him all the time.” She patted her mouth with a napkin, then added, “It’s some good to share memories with people who knew him well.”
It reminded me of what Mom had said. She needed to talk to someone who had loved Dad, too.
“And now,” said Lucille, bringing me back, “I can talk to Grace about him, thanks to you.”
“Why thanks to me?” I asked, then put another forkful of food in my mouth.
“Sure you’re the one got her out of the house.”
I was mid-chew and gestured my lack of comprehension.
“The first time she left her house in years was the night she come here for the party after you nearly drowned yourself trying to save that frigging dog.”
I ignored her use of the word trying and said, “But why did she care about Ruthie?”
“It wasn’t the dog, girl. It was the rescue. That day will stay in people’s memory, Rachel. In your own way, you took on the sea, and you won. And those days are to be celebrated around here. Once Grace left her house that evening, I think she realized what she’d been missing hiding away at home all those years. I guess Mass was the last barrier she had to break through. Now she’s done it, and that’s down to you.”
After dinner, Lucille washed the dishes while I dried. The radio was on low, emitting a steady flow of jigs and reels.
“What’s happening with your contract?” Lucille asked, handing me a soapy pan.
“What do you mean?”
“I wondered if you might stay on next year.”
“That’s what Judy was asking me after Mass today.”
“Course she was. They’re lucky to have you. What did you say?”
“That I’d think about it.”
“Hmph,” said Lucille, whatever that meant.
When the kitchen was tidy, Lucille made tea and we sat back down at the table. She brought me up to date on the hookers and Linda’s wedding plans, while I half listened. It was all very familiar, sitting there while Lucille talked the ear off me, but after a while, I realized that something was off. Then it dawned on me. There was no ashtray on the table, and the spot over the stove where Lucille kept her cigarettes was bare. She hadn’t smoked the entire time I’d been there.
“Did you quit smoking?” I asked.
“Yes, girl,” she said. “Thought you’d never twig to it. I asked Linda about a birthday present, and she said the only thing she wanted was for me to give up the smokes.”
I jumped up from her chair and hugged her tight.
“Jaysus, girl,” she said. “You nearly spilt me tea.”
I glanced around the once familiar kitchen to see if there were any other changes. There was another tear in the linoleum and a new rug was tossed on the daybed. It consisted of wide stripes of blue and green, with a big splodge of yellow in one corner at the top. When I admired it, Lucille was dismissive.
“Pah,” she said. “I ran out of blue and green rags, so I had to add that yellow bit. The sight of it’s got me drove off me head.”
“Well, I love it. It’s like an abstract painting—all sea and forest and sun.”
“You’re cracked, my dear. Cracked.” She laughed. “Abstract painting, I never heard the like. Wait ’til I tell the girls.”
But when it was time for me to leave, Lucille thrust the rug into my hands. “Take it,” she said. “You got me thinking.” She gestured at the yellow splodge. “Maybe that’s hope.”
30
By chance, I had discovered that the Clayville district high school had a swimming pool that members of the public could use outside of school hours. I’d been swimming my whole life. As a toddler, my photo was in the local newspaper, accompanying a fluff piece about children’s swimming lessons. At university, I worked as a lifeguard. I was even asked to swim competitively, but for me, swimming had always been about release and solitude. I might have started out angry or sad, but as I worked my way up and down the pool, my mind would clear and I would begin to relax.
To gain access to the swimming pool, I had to write my name and address in a dog-eared red book and pay the attendant five dollars for ten weeks of swimming. It seemed a pretty fair deal.
I changed quickly and pulled on my goggles, slipping into the pool. A used adhesive bandage floated past; I scooped it up and put it on the side. In the lane next to me, a woman in a bright orange swimsuit was doing lengths, and before I knew it, we were matching each other stroke for stroke. When I came out of the shower later, she was in the change room, and we chatted briefly as we dried off and dressed. She introduced herself as Maggie Vincent and it turned out that she was a history teacher at the high school. We agreed to meet at the pool the following Friday.
By the time I got back to my place, I was starving. I made a cup of tea and grabbed a cookie while I contemplated dinner. Then the phone rang.
“Rachel?” The voice was tremulous and I didn’t recognize it.
“Yes.”
“It’s Biddy.” I could almost hear the pain in her voice.
“Has something happened?” I asked, putting down my mug and tensing. “Is it Lucille?”
“No,” said Biddy. “It’s me.” These last two words were almost whispered.
“What is it?” I asked.
“We hit a moose.”
“You hid a moose? I don’t understand.”
“Eddie Churchill was driving me into Clayville this morning and there was a moose in the road and, well, we hit it.”
“Oh my God, are you all right?”
“A bit banged up,” she said, adding that her head had been knocked against the car window. “And I’m right worried about Eddie. He’s gone off to St. John’s in an ambulance and they won’t tell me nothing because I’m not his next of kin.”
I thought about kind Eddie Churchill, how he’d put on my winter tires and told me I was part of the community, and how he’d helped get me off the ice after I rescued Ruthie.
“Rachel,” said Biddy, then hesitated. “I hates to ask, but they says I can go home if someone comes to collect me and I wondered if . . .”
“I’ll be right over, Biddy. Where are you?”
“Emergency. I don’t think I fits that description, but that’s where I’m to. I wants a proper cup of tea and I wants to go home.”
I grabbed my coat and purse and ran out to my car. Within minutes I had found the Clayville hospital and followed the signs to the emergency entrance. It was a small hospital, and I was later to learn that the emergency department was really only for minor injuries. Anyone seriously injured was taken directly to St. John’s.
Biddy was sitting up very straight on a chair in the waiting room. Her face was grey, so that her birthmark looked less livid. There was a huge goose egg on her forehead. Her right arm was in a sling and she looked absolutely exhausted.
A middle-aged nurse was sitting beside Biddy, and as I approached, she stood up and said, “Are you the next of kin for Mrs. Cormack?”
Before I could say anything, Biddy answered.
“Yes,” she said. “This is my niece Geraldine I was telling you about.” She gave me a look.
“Oh,” the nurse said, suddenly more interested. “Mrs. Cormack . . .”
“Miss Cormack,” Biddy corrected.
“Miss Corm
ack is after telling me that you works at the hospital in St. John’s. Do you know Patsy Fowler?”
For a minute I was flummoxed. How much lying was required, and what sort of medical knowledge was I meant to have?
Then Biddy whimpered, “I wants to get home.”
I wasn’t sure if it was a clever distraction or a genuine need, but either way, the question was forgotten. The nurse said that Biddy had a suspected concussion and needed to be watched for the next twenty-four hours. “Of course, you’ll know that,” she said. “And she got a bit bashed around so she’s got these”—she thrust a bottle of pills at me—“painkillers.”
I glanced at the label—one every six hours—then asked, “What about her arm?”
“Doctor thinks it’s just a bad sprain, but we wants her back here on Wednesday for a check. But she’s not to use it in the meantime.”
“Not like I could if I wanted to,” said Biddy. “I’m trussed up like a turkey, sure.”
She stood then, making it clear it was time to go. I walked alongside her, staying close but not wanting to touch her, afraid of hurting her. When we reached my car, I helped her into it, then pulled the seat belt gingerly around her arm and buckled her in.
“So it looks like you need someone to stay with you tonight,” I said.
Biddy frowned. “My sister’s gone to St. John’s with Lucille for a wedding. They won’t be back ’til Sunday afternoon.”
“What about Flossie and Annie?” I said.
“They’re gone to the wedding too.”
“Never mind,” I said. “I’m coming to stay with you. It’ll do me good to have a weekend in Little Cove,” I lied. “It’s been too long.”
“You’re not,” said Biddy. “A young one like you don’t want to be fussing over me in your free time.”
“I am,” I said. “And that’s final. We’ll stop at my place so I can get some clothes and things and then we’ll head out to Little Cove.”
Biddy was quiet as we drove through the empty streets of Clayville. My little house was ablaze with light, and despite the circumstances, I took a minute to admire it. I helped Biddy out of the car, and she winced when I accidentally brushed her arm. Once we were inside, I settled her on one of the loveseats and told her to relax while I put the kettle on. Then I ran upstairs to throw some clothes and toiletries in a bag.
New Girl in Little Cove Page 18