Safe Harbour

by Christina Kilbourne

  “I was wondering, did we go to Centre Island when I was little? When we visited you?”

  Aunt Jackie beams. “Yes! Do you remember?”

  “No, but I saw a picture of me by the Ferris wheel. It was on a poster in the subway tunnel.”

  “I gave that picture to the police. Your mother’s in the original, but they cropped her out.”

  Aunt Jackie is holding both leashes and leans down to untangle Tuff from Bean. It’s obvious neither of them is used to walking with a companion. While we’re stopped, Bean licks Tuff’s face and when Tuff looks back at me, I swear he’s smiling.

  “How did you find Tuff?” I think I asked already but I can’t remember the answer. It’s like my brain is overloaded and running on half power at the same time.

  “He found me, actually. When I woke up this morning he was waiting by the gate. Bean wouldn’t stop barking when she saw him. So I let Tuff into the yard and they started to play. I think he remembers us. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking. But he sure was happy to see me and when he came into the yard he went right to the back door where I used to feed him and Bean.”

  “Tuff had breakfast?”

  “A bowl of kibble mixed with half a can of meaty beef.”

  “I bet he liked that.”

  Aunt Jackie puts her arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re here. With me. Finally.”

  Aunt Jackie’s house is compact by some people’s standards but spacious by mine. The entrance is inviting, like the very building is beckoning me to step inside. I stop in the front hall to examine a series of black-framed photos on the wall.

  “That’s me?” I ask pointing to a picture of a small girl looking lost in a field of tall grass.

  “It is. We used to take the dogs down to the ravine every morning for a walk. You picked a fistful of wildflowers for your mom just after that photo was taken.”

  I stop in front of the next photo. It’s a picture of my mother long before I was born. She’s sitting on a bench with a younger version of Aunt Jackie.

  “How old is she here?”

  “She’s eighteen and I’m twenty. We took a road trip that summer out to Vancouver. Just the two of us. Our father let us take his car, which was a miracle in itself. We were gone all summer, and so broke we ended up camping in truck stops and parking lots for two weeks.”

  “Dad met her in Vancouver.”

  “That’s right. They met on the ferry to Vancouver Island.”

  “He was playing his guitar and singing on the deck. He played ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’”

  I know these bits of my parents’ history from my father retelling them over and over, but it suddenly dawns on me that Aunt Jackie had been with them, that she knows my father, too, that my parents didn’t meet and live in a vacuum before I was born.

  Aunt Jackie chuckles quietly. “He had a crowd around him listening and singing along. But when he sang that song he never took his eyes off your mother.”

  “He’s dead. I think.”

  “I know, sweetheart. And I’m sorry.”

  CHAPTER 16

  I STAND IN the shower and watch the dirt stream off my body then disappear down the drain. The water is as hot as I can stand and the heat soaks deep into my bones until it melts the ice lodged there. I lather the soap until my hands are gloved with bubbles, then wash my face and neck and arms over and over until the water runs clear. I would stay in the steamy heaven all day if it were possible, but it isn’t. When the water starts to lose its heat, I take a last deep breath of steam. Then I shut off the taps, wrap myself in a large, soft bathrobe, and pad to the bedroom across the hall.

  The room is white and clean with soft blue and lime-green accents. The bed is more luxurious than anything I could imagine, with a thick feather duvet and a bank of colourful pillows. Everything smells like laundry detergent and fresh flowers and when I climb between the sheets, I sink into the softness of my very own cloud.

  “Lucky for you I made a pot of chicken soup last night.”

  Aunt Jackie walks into the room carrying a tray and sets it down on the bed stand. She hands me a steaming, oversized mug of soup that smells so delicious I can barely wait for it to cool down. I blow on it briefly, then start tipping it down my throat as fast as I can.

  “So good,” I mutter between mouthfuls. “Like my mom’s.”

  “It was our grandmother’s recipe.”

  When I finish the first mug, she hands me a plate of buttered toast and heads back to the kitchen for seconds.

  “I still don’t understand how you found me,” I say, when the urgency to fill my stomach has settled.

  “Oh, it’s not rocket science. I noticed Tuff smelled smoky when he showed up and I remembered the police told me they were trying to locate a girl camped down in the ravine, in case it was you. I put two and two together and went looking. Tuff did the rest.”

  When I finish the second mug of soup I lean back into the pillows and close my eyes. Already I feel the cold memory of the ravine shrinking away.

  “You knew I was in Toronto?”

  Aunt Jackie takes the empty mug and sets it on the tray, then perches on the edge of the bed. I shift over to make more room.

  “I did after the police came looking for you. Or looking for information about you, maybe that’s more accurate.”

  “I don’t understand. How did they know to come here?”

  She reaches over and wipes a strand of hair out of my face, a strand that escaped Lise’s scissors.

  “I filed a missing person’s report for you, years ago, when I stopped hearing from your dad and the private detectives I hired couldn’t turn up anything about either of you. The police updated me a couple of times since then, just saying they had this piece of information or that. But nothing was ever conclusive. So when they suspected you were in Toronto, they came to me. I gave them the picture and they made the posters.”

  There are twenty questions jostling for first place in my mind and it’s difficult to know which to ask first. “But why did they think to look in Toronto?”

  “They said there was only one number in the call history on your dad’s phone when they found him and it was yours. When they called it, someone answered and said you were in Toronto.”

  “Lise! The day she picked up the phone in the library. She must have told them I was in Toronto. But I still don’t know how that led them to look in the ravine.”

  “That’s the strange part. Apparently a librarian saw the poster and told them to look for somewhere nearby where a girl could camp. I guess they thought of the ravine.”

  Erica’s face flashes in my mind. How do I explain everything to Aunt Jackie in a way that makes sense — Dad’s reading list and needing a library card, conjuring her address, washing in the fifth-floor sink, taking the sleeping bags into the library, and making up a story about camping in Algonquin Park? I try some sentences in my head but none of them seem right and the urgency to talk drifts away like clouds blowing out to sea. I get lost in the thoughts and chase them around inside my head for a few moments too long. In the stillness, sleep catches up and overrides my brain.

  The bedroom is dark when I wake up, but enough light seeps in from around the edges of the door that I can make out the shapes of furniture: the pine armoire on the far wall, a dresser to my left, an old steamer trunk under the window. At first I’m confused about where I am and whose voices are coming from down the hall. But then I recognize the light music of Aunt Jackie’s laughter, like wind chimes on a summer’s day, and the low murmur of a girl with a protective veneer.

  I climb out of the big, soft bed and reluctantly leave the warmth behind me. The old plank flooring feels cool against my bare feet as I walk toward the light and laughter. Lise and Aunt Jackie are sitting at the kitchen table, a black photo album open between them. Tuff and Bean are sharing a dog bed in the corner. Tuff thumps his tail when he sees me, but doesn’t raise his head. Lise has showered and changed into clothes she must h
ave borrowed from Aunt Jackie because they’re loose and long on her petite frame. She’s taken the rings out of her eyebrows and I see her for the first time without eyeliner and mascara. She looks younger, sweeter, more vulnerable, and nothing like a kid who’s spent two years living on the street and in shelters. I pull the robe around myself and cover a cough with my elbow. They turn in unison to greet me.

  “Harbour! Hello. You’re awake.” Aunt Jackie rises and pulls out a chair. I scurry forward and sit with my right ankle tucked under my left leg.

  “Have I been sleeping long?”

  “A couple of hours. How’re you feeling?”

  “Better, I think.” I swallow and wince. “My throat hurts.”

  Aunt Jackie gets up and bustles around the kitchen. She fills the kettle, cuts lemon, scoops honey, and peels fresh ginger. Her movements are precise and efficient. Lise and I look at each other across the table. It feels awkward to have something between us and to be sitting in a warm, clean kitchen with a stranger who is my aunt.

  “You got my note?”

  She nods.

  “I’ve offered Lise a bed for the night. I assume you don’t mind?” Aunt Jackie says over her shoulder.

  Lise pulls a face and I cough. “No. I don’t mind. Of course not. Thanks.”

  Aunt Jackie brings me a steaming mug wrapped in a napkin.

  “This will make it feel better, I promise. But it’s very hot so be careful. Lise, would you like a refill?”

  “I’m too stuffed,” Lise says and rubs her tummy. “Even for another cup of tea. It was delicious, though.” She looks more comfortable than I’ve seen her in a long time.

  I sip the sweet gingery tea and the heat burns down my throat.

  “Check this out.” Lise pushes the photo book toward me. She points at a picture and I have to look close to recognize myself sitting with Tuff on the front steps of a stone house. My legs are short and pudgy and my cheeks round and fat, but my hair is the same wild mane as my mother’s and aunt’s. Tuff, the puppy, is half sitting on my lap, licking my chin, and I’m laughing. In my outstretched hand is a soggy ice cream cone.

  “That’s here?”

  Aunt Jackie nods.

  “Look how cute Tuff is,” I say.

  “Look how cute you are,” Aunt Jackie counters.

  There are other photos of me and Mom and Dad: eating candy floss at the amusement park with the log flume ride in the background; building a sand castle on a beach; walking through a park with Tuff, who is holding a stick in his mouth. In one photo Dad is carrying me on his shoulders, in another Mom is sitting in his lap and the two of them are beaming at the camera. There’s a picture of Dad playing his ukulele on one end of a couch and Mom watching him from the other end, a dreamy look on her face. All of the photos are secured by their corners with little black triangles and underneath there are captions written in silver ink.

  “How old was I?”

  “Four.”

  “Did we visit a lot?”

  “Not after that time. But you were up one time before. You and your mother came when you were a baby, about ten months old.”

  I flip through the photo album and examine every detail of every picture. Eventually Lise yawns.

  “I think I need to show Lise to her room.”

  I look up at Lise and she smiles. It’s a short, tentative smile, but it suits her.

  “You don’t mind spending the night?” I ask.

  “Are you kidding? Did you see the bed? There’re more pillows on one bed in this house than in the entire shelter.”

  Lise follows Aunt Jackie down the hall and as she leaves the kitchen she turns back and waves good night. I raise my hand briefly before she disappears. When I’m alone I look around. The kitchen is clean and orderly with stainless-steel counters and bright yellow accents. From where I’m sitting I can see a mud room, the back door, and rows of coat hooks attached to the wall. There are various jackets hung up, including the long black coat Aunt Jackie wore down to the ravine, as well as a variety of hats and scarves.

  When Aunt Jackie returns she makes me a fresh cup of ginger tea and we sit at the table to talk.

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” I say in a low voice.

  “What’s that?”

  “You said Dad only had one number on his phone?”

  “That’s what the police said. The call history showed he only ever called the one number.”

  “But I used to hear him talking on it all the time, after I went to bed. Sometimes he’d talk for hours.”

  Aunt Jackie shrugs. “I don’t know what to say. They told me yours was the only number ever called on his phone. Maybe it was a different phone. Maybe he got a new one after you left?”

  I shake my head. “Maybe. But I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Dad didn’t go on land. Not for the last few years, at least. He didn’t trust people much. I ran all the errands. So once I left, he had no way to get a new phone. That probably sounds strange to you.”

  “Not really, not knowing your dad the way I do.”

  I look down at the photo album and flip pages back and forth. I’m not really looking at the photos, but I’m afraid to look up because I can feel Aunt Jackie studying me. I can feel that she has something more to say and I’m reluctant to hear what it is.

  “Did you know he was sick?” She stops herself and searches for words on the ceiling.

  “Sick? From what?” I ask, although I am not entirely surprised to hear a confession surfacing.

  “A mental illness. Schizophrenia.”

  Of all the things I expected to hear, this wasn’t it. And yet I’m not shocked or outraged by her statement.

  “Dad? Are you sure?”

  “He was diagnosed a couple of years after he met your mom, before you were born. She always made sure he took his meds. I think she kept him grounded. After she died, though, he came unhinged a bit. It was so terrible, so traumatic what happened that night. I think something snapped. He’d call up and ramble about all kinds of things. I could barely follow his train of thought sometimes. Other times he would say the most startlingly beautiful things about life, about being a father, about how much he loved your mother.”

  A thought that has been trying to scratch to the surface of my mind breaks through suddenly and I can’t avoid it no matter how much I want to will it out of existence.

  “Lately I’ve been wondering something. There’s so much I don’t know and don’t understand. Do you think it’s possible that he killed her? Like by accident, maybe?”

  “No. Absolutely not. He was never even a suspect. The police found evidence linking the bullets found in your house to other home invasions in the area. And there were fingerprints and DNA. There was definitely an intruder.”

  “They never caught him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Dad took me that night. I heard the shots, and then Dad took me away on the boat, so I didn’t know. I mean, lately I’ve started to wonder what really happened.”

  “You were so young. It’s possible you’ve mixed up two nights. Memory is strange that way. He did take you aboard to live shortly after. He took you down to Mexico and all around the Caribbean. It was something he and your mom had been planning for the family. I think your mother would be happy to know he did that with you. And being on the boat seemed to help. He seemed more settled when you lived aboard.”

  “Was there a funeral?”

  “There was. I came down and stayed a couple of weeks afterwards. I tried to help him get sorted. He didn’t want to go to anyone in his family. He didn’t trust them, even then, except for one stepbrother. He was so distraught, but it was understandable, right?”

  I try to remember Aunt Jackie in our house on Pelican Way. But my mind lines up the few predictable memories I have of living in that house and stops. I can’t seem to squeeze any new memories from my brain.

  “Your father said he was afraid of being in th
e house after that, and I think staying in one place made him nervous. He always talked like someone was after him, but the police were convinced it was a random event, that it was a robbery gone wrong.”

  I take the last sip of the gingery tea. It’s still sweet, but the heat has disappeared. I cough and feel a heavy exhaustion weighing me down. Aunt Jackie crosses the kitchen and comes back with a brown bottle and a tablespoon.

  “I’ve made you a doctor’s appointment for the morning, but in the meantime I’m going to give you some cough syrup and send you to bed.”

  “I hate cough syrup.”

  She pours bright red liquid onto the spoon and stands in front of me. “Everybody does. Open up.”

  The syrup is sweet and bitter at the same time and catches in the back of my throat. I gag and sputter.

  “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

  She returns the bottle to the cupboard and puts the spoon in the sink with a clink. Then she ushers me from the kitchen.

  I rub the bristly hairs on the back of my head as we walk.

  “I was thinking, when I’m feeling better, I need to get a haircut. Lise didn’t do a very good job on this one.”

  CHAPTER 17

  I WATCH ERICA from across the lobby of the library. She’s behind the information desk, standing in front of a computer terminal and talking to a middle-aged man in an expensive-looking winter jacket. She smiles at him, checks the computer once more, then pulls at the bottom of her cardigan before delivering some final news. I’m too far away to hear what they’re talking about, but this is how I imagine their exchange:

  “I’m sorry. That book is checked out. It’s been out since summer, actually.”

  “Out since summer! Some people have no manners. Do they think this is their private collection?”

  “I’m so sorry. I’d call with a reminder that it’s overdue but there’s no number on file for this patron.”

  “No number on file! That’s ridiculous. That shouldn’t be allowed. You should revisit your lending policies and only lend books to responsible adults.”