Safe Harbour

by Christina Kilbourne

  “What?” she finally says when I put my hands on my hips and look impatient.

  “Let’s go down to the lake. I guarantee there’re people living on their boats down there. Lots of land people have a kind of boat blindness. They notice a bunch of boats tied to docks and they think, look at all the boats. But they don’t see the boats individually and they certainly don’t see the people living aboard. It happens to us all the time. It’s okay though, we like being invisible.”

  Lise doesn’t budge but opens the box of doughnuts one more time. She considers her choices before she takes a jelly-filled and bites into the side of it. “It’s a long walk down to the lake, you know?”

  She offers me the box, but I pat my stomach. There’s only so much dough I can swallow in one sitting, even if it’s free.

  “You’ve never been down to the lake, have you?”

  Lise finishes her doughnut in two quick bites then jumps up like she’s ready for a challenge.

  “I been down to the lake plenty of times. After two years I been just about everywhere in this city. Good and bad.”

  She starts down the side of the hill at a fast pace and heads for the footpath that winds along the bottom of the ravine like a snake. Surprised, I scramble after her, and Tuff trots along at my heels.

  The sidewalks and parks along the lakefront are crowded with people. There are people pushing strollers and longboarding, people licking ice cream cones and taking photos, and people bunched up in chaotic groups clogging the way and making it hard for others to pass. Lise and I slip through the crowds unnoticed until we’re standing at the very edge of the lake. Or rather, we’re above the lake on a cement pier and the waves are slapping the wall below our feet. Even though the air lacks the saltiness of the ocean, just seeing boats bobbing on the waves and the sunlight glinting off the water makes me feel happy.

  “Check it out. There are a lot of boats down here,” Lise says.

  It’s true, the harbour is busy with traffic: sailboats and motorboats, a couple of Sea-Doos and even a passenger ferry. I sit down on the side of the pier and let my feet dangle over the side. Lise does the same and for a few moments we watch the boats criss-crossing in front of us. She pulls the box of doughnuts from her day pack and offers it to me first. I pick out another jelly-filled. There are two left. She takes one and hands one to Tuff, who accepts it gratefully.

  “What’s your boat look like?”

  I study the boats in front of us and in the distance, then shake my head.

  “It’s not like any of these. C’mon. I bet we can find one farther along.”

  I get up and tug at Tuff’s lead. Lise lifts herself to standing and follows. We cross over a metal bridge spanning a small basin of water. I lean against the railing and point to a sailboat a couple of docks away.

  “It’s that size but a different shape. Our cockpit is larger and we have a Bimini cover.”

  Lise laughs. “I have no idea what you just said, but it sounds like a sick boat.”

  “It’s an older model, but Dad keeps it shipshape. We’ve redone the upholstery and Mom replaced two of the portholes with her stained glass.”

  A motorboat putters under the bridge and we watch it move below our feet and then out onto the lake.

  “What’s on the inside?”

  “There’re forward and aft cabins for sleeping. Mine’s the forward one. There’s a small galley as you come down the stairs. And a head off to the right.”

  “Hold up, Captain Harbour. Can you use regular-people terms?”

  “Sorry. There’s a little bedroom at the front of the boat. That’s mine. Dad has the bedroom at the back under the cockpit — the place you steer from. When you first come down the ladder from the cockpit there’s a little kitchen — the galley — and a washroom — the head — and then there’s a sitting area just past the galley, with couches and a table.”

  Lise whistles her appreciation. “Sounds fan-cee. And this boat you’re talking about, it’s on its way to Toronto, right this very minute?”

  “Yep. Right this very minute,” I say, even though for the first time something feels wrong.

  “Does your boat have a name on the back like these ones?”

  “We call it Starlight.”

  “Pretty,” Lise says. “Maybe I can have a ride when it arrives?”

  “Sure. We can go for a sail and maybe moor overnight by the island or something?”

  Lise and I walk farther along the lakefront, dodging tourists who are too busy looking around to notice us slipping between them like salmon going upstream. I’ve only known her a few hours but already it feels much longer. When we pass by a hot dog cart, Tuff raises his nose in the air and stops.

  “I’m with Tuff. I could really go for some street meat,” Lise says. “Too bad the guy I know works up at Yonge-Dundas Square.”

  We stand downwind from the hot-dog cart and my stomach votes with Lise and Tuff. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten a thick, greasy hot dog. I think about the stash of bills tucked in the secret pocket of my jeans, but I leave them hidden. Dad said it was for emergencies and I doubt a hot dog craving would count. But Lise has another plan and starts rummaging in a nearby garbage can. She pulls out a coffee cup and wipes it clean with the tail of her shirt.

  “Two hours tops and we’re feasting on street meat.”

  She sits down on the edge of the sidewalk and crosses her legs. Then she digs a few coins from her pocket and places them in the cup in front of her. When she’s settled, she pats the cement beside her. The invitation makes me feel nauseous, but I hide my shock. Or at least I think I do.

  “Don’t worry,” she says when I don’t move. “I got this. You go look around for a bit. But can you leave me Tuff?”

  “Tuff?”

  “Oh, sure. Tuff will make this go a lot faster.”

  I hand the leash to Lise and tell Tuff to stay. Then I walk away, looking back every few steps to see that Tuff is watching me but not protesting. I stand at a distance, but Lise motions for me to keep going. So I walk a little farther and sit down on a bench to watch.

  I’m no expert on panhandling, but even I can see that Lise is good at it. She smiles and thanks people when they drop coins in her cup and sits as if she’s invisible when people look away. Somehow she can become whatever people want to see.

  It isn’t long before three young children stop to meet Tuff. They approach cautiously, squeal “he’s so cute” then kneel down and shower him with attention. They speak all at once.

  “What’s his name?”

  “How old is he?”

  “Where did you get him?”

  The parents, trapped in an awkward situation, dig into their pockets. They look uneasy when they drop change into the cup and do it as quietly as possible so their children might not realize what’s really happening. No parent wants to explain that the dog is homeless, never mind the girl.

  When there’s a gap in the foot traffic, Lise peers into the cup. The rest of the time she treats it like it isn’t even there, like it’s a stranger sitting on the sidewalk. Only once do we make eye contact and then she shoots me a thumbs-up so quickly I’m not even sure it really happened.

  Two hours was an overestimation. Within an hour, Lise not only has enough cash to buy hot dogs, she has enough to buy us each a Polish sausage, and the vendor gives Tuff two free wieners that have been cooking too long to sell. Lise piles every type of condiment onto her bun: onions, olives, hot peppers, relish, mustard, ketchup, chopped tomato, and lettuce. It’s clear that she’s making as much of a meal of the condiments as the sausage. I dress mine a bit more conservatively and then we walk to a nearby park and sit under a tree to eat.

  “Oh my god! This is the best sausage I’ve ever eaten,” Lise mumbles. Mustard and relish drip down her wrist and she licks herself clean between bites.

  Lise is right. The sausage is so good I can’t force myself to slow down and talk. I eat straight through the sausage and bun and moan with pleasur
e. When I’m finished, I pull a bottle of water from my day pack and take a long drink. Then I hand it to Lise and she takes a swig, too. Finally, I pour a little into the coffee cup and offer it to Tuff. We laugh when he tilts his head sideways and laps at the water.

  “I haven’t felt this full in a long time,” I say and stretch out on the ground. “All those doughnuts and then the sausage. That felt good.”

  “What have you been eating?”

  “Soda crackers and canned tuna.”

  Lise fake gags but I know she wouldn’t pass on any food that was offered. She can’t afford to be picky and neither can I.

  That night when we get back to camp, Lise talks me into doing something I haven’t done since living in the ravine. She convinces me to build a small campfire. For the first half hour I jump at every sound in the dark underbrush, certain we’ll be found, but soon the cheery warmth makes me glad I let Lise talk me into taking the chance. The glow from the flames flickers off her face, making her look more animated than she did during the day. She sits on the ground and breaks branches into small sticks that she feeds into the fire constantly, keeping the flames at a steady level.

  “I can’t remember the last time I sat around a campfire,” I muse.

  “I know a couple of guys who camp down at the Port Lands and they have fires every day. I never get to sit around at night, though. You know, ’cause I have to get to the shelter by eight.”

  I check my phone and Lise notices. It’s already past her curfew.

  “It’s okay. I can sleep out tonight. It’s no big deal in the summer. I have places to go.”

  “You can stay with me in the tent?” I suggest suddenly.

  Lise looks surprised by my offer and, to be honest, I surprise myself, too.

  “Sure. We’ll be like a couple of Girl Guides,” Lise says. But before I can reply she adds: “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “I’m sure. I have two sleeping bags and some crackers and tuna for morning.”

  “Dude! What’s with you and fish?”

  I can’t help but laugh. I do eat a lot of crackers and canned tuna. For one thing, they last forever and travel well. Secondly, tuna and crackers keep me full longer than other convenience foods.

  “Dad and I eat a lot of fish. It’s the best source of omega-3 fatty acids. When the fishing’s good we catch it and eat it right on the boat.”

  “Let me guess, you cook it in the galley?”

  I laugh. Lise has a good memory.

  “Sometimes we barbecue it. Sometimes we even eat it raw, fresh out of the ocean.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s sushi!”

  “Canned tuna is one thing, but there’s no way I’m eating raw fish. Not even if it’s free.”

  We lapse into silence and watch the flames dance above a glowing bed of embers. Tuff is curled up at my feet, keeping them warm, and Lise lies down on her side, cupping her body around the fire. She props her head on one hand and has a faraway look in her eyes.

  “Where did you live before Toronto?” I ask.

  “Out east in New Brunswick.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “Nothing to stay for.”

  “Family?”

  “Not really. I was with my mom ’til I was about eight. Unfortunately for me, she wasn’t really the mothering type.” Lise laughs bitterly.

  “Like, what did she do?”

  “It wasn’t so much what she did as what she didn’t do. I pretty much fended for myself until a teacher caught on to me bringing Coke and potato chips for lunch every day. That’s when the proverbial shit hit the fan. I bounced through a few foster homes after that.”

  “What’s a few?”

  “Twelve.”

  I don’t know how to react to the idea of living with twelve different families so I say nothing and poke at the fire with a stick. Lise takes a deep breath and continues.

  “Yep. It’s exhausting. Moving every few months. Going to new schools. Learning new rules. Taking care of other people’s kids. Having to pretend you’re grateful. I just got so freaking tired of it all. When I turned sixteen I figured I could take better care of myself. I left my last foster home after a huge fight about how much toothpaste I was using and hitchhiked west with a guy I knew.”

  “Where’s the guy?”

  “That’s a long story. For another day,” she says, shrugging off the memory, but letting me know with a sideways grin that we are now even in the hidden pasts department.

  Despite Lise’s casual tone, the mood turns melancholy and I know better than to press for more information. The trick is to change the topic and the mood in one grand gesture.

  “So, do you like music?”

  Lise flashes a tough-girl scowl at me. “Everyone likes music.”

  I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll until I find what I’m looking for. Then I shift over and sit beside her.

  “My dad’s an insanely good musician. Watch this.”

  I press play and Dad’s face appears. He’s scrunched as small as he can make himself so he fits the screen and he’s holding a ukulele near his face, strumming and humming. I took the video on the boat one night when we were goofing around. I actually have a small collection of E.D. Mandrayke’s ukulele serenades. After a few bars of music, he breaks into a jazzy version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” He’s smiling from ear to ear and singing right at the camera so that I feel like he’s with me for real. My heart aches whenever I see his face and hear his voice, but I can’t help myself. I shift my gaze from the phone to Lise and I see her smiling in response. It would be impossible not to. Dad has that effect on people, especially when he sings. It’s his own brand of charisma. Lise hasn’t smiled like this all day. I mean, I’ve seen flashes of smile but not sustained like this. I put my phone away when the song ends.

  “That’s your dad?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Weird. I sort of thought you made him up. You know? The whole boat story and all? But that’s really him, huh?”

  “It really is.”

  “And he’s really coming up here in your sailboat.”

  “He really is.”

  “He seems great.”

  “Wait ’til you meet him in person.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE NEXT TIME I leave the ravine, it’s to run more errands. But first I fill Tuff’s water dish so I can give my face and hands a good scrub. I never really considered it when we lived on the boat, but it’s hard to keep clean when you live in a tent on the side of the ravine without so much as a mud puddle to splash in.

  I lean over the dish and scrub my face twice, hoping I’ve erased all signs of camp life.

  “Hey, Tuff,” I say when he comes to see what I’m doing with his dish. “Remind me to find a mirror.”

  When I’ve done what I can with my face, I examine my hands. I’ve bitten my fingernails so short there’s no white crescent and my cuticles are red and ragged. Dirt is caked into every crevice and crack, and it takes the rest of the drinking water to get them clean enough to go into a store.

  “Let’s go, Tuff,” I say, whistling for him when I’m finally ready.

  Although I need to replenish my water supply, the main purpose of my trip is to get more dog food. There’s only enough kibble for two or three more meals so if I don’t buy some soon, I’ll have to start feeding Tuff from my supply of crackers and tuna. And although Tuff will eat just about anything, he’s not a big fan of fish.

  I head for Food Basics, a discount grocery store I discovered my first week in Toronto. It has the lowest prices and isn’t far from the ravine. It’s also close to a gas station where I can fill up my water jug.

  As a general rule I try to avoid grocery stores because there’re too many temptations. Even when I walk the aisles knowing I can’t afford anything but dog kibble, I crave all sorts of foods I haven’t thought about in weeks: ice cream, yoghurt, cheese, grapes, fresh bread. I do my best to resist, but in the end I pick
up a jar of generic-brand peanut butter and a small bunch of bananas. The peanut butter will keep in the tent and the bananas won’t make it back down to the ravine.

  The cashier rings through the items and I hand her the credit card. I stare at the headlines on the magazines while I wait, headlines that are meant to sucker people into buying whatever crap is written inside. But who really cares which celebrity has the most cellulite and which one cheated on his wife? Like Dad, I’m convinced the IQ of the average person is plummeting.

  “I’m sorry, but your card has been declined,” the cashier says.

  My heart flash-freezes.

  I stare at the card in her hand, but I don’t take it from her. “Can you try again, please?”

  The cashier, who is not much older than me, tries again. I appreciate that she doesn’t roll her eyes or sigh impatiently, so I wait politely. It’s hard to look calm when your insides are twisting like a tornado. This time while I wait, I don’t read the magazine headlines. I focus on the credit card reader. Time has shifted suddenly and the seconds tick by at an agonizing pace.

  After what feels like an hour, she pulls the credit card back out of the machine and looks sympathetic. “I’m really sorry. It says it’s declined again.”

  I look at the three items on the conveyor belt and try to process this information. Even though I’m craving peanut butter and bananas so badly my stomach is turning inside out, I know I can live without them. If I’m careful, I have enough crackers and canned tuna to get me through a couple more weeks. But Tuff needs to eat.

  “I’ll just take the dog food,” I say and rummage in my pocket for the emergency twenty.

  The girl puts the peanut butter and bananas on the counter beside her and hands me the change: three dollars and twenty-five cents.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” she says. When she sees me steal a longing glance at the bananas, I know she really does feel bad.

  Tuff waits patiently under the tree where I tied him up until he sees me come out of the grocery store, then he starts to dance and whine. I was only out of his sight for fifteen minutes, but I feel just as relieved to see him. I lean down and bury my face in his fur. Tears burn like fire in my eyes, but I take a deep breath. Just the smell of him keeps my heart from racing even in the wildest of storms.