In the Grip of It

by Sheena Kamal

  I buy another cup of coffee. After another hour or so, the market dies down. People begin to pack up. Trevor whispers something to Cheyenne. She issues him some kind of warning. He nods and walks toward the harbor, within her line of sight.

  It takes me a few minutes to reach his side. I’m careful to circle around the market so I’m not seen, but I experience a moment of hesitation anyway. Then I put it out of my mind. Cheyenne and Vikram will realize I’m here sooner or later. I’m not about to hide.

  I find Trevor watching the boats out on the water. “Did you get a chance to practice the guitar today?” I ask.

  He looks at me. “I’m not supposed to talk to you. Vik says it was bad to learn the guitar from you and you can’t be trusted.”

  “Did it upset you when he put his hand on your shoulder last night at the fire pit?” Because it sure as hell bothered me.

  And just like that, a mask slips onto his face.

  He says nothing, so I continue, in a lighter tone this time. “I don’t think your mom and dad like me very much.”

  “Vik isn’t my dad,” he informs me. “And they don’t like you because they think you’re a liar.”

  “Do you think I’m a liar?”

  He shrugs. “I heard them say they thought you might have been a cop, but then after, they said you weren’t. I could have told them that you weren’t.”

  “Oh yeah? What makes you think I’m not a cop?” I ask, amused.

  “You just don’t look like one. My real dad is a lawyer and he knows all about stuff like that.”

  “Would you live with him if you could?”

  Another shrug. It is clear neither of us are great at conversation, but at least I’m trying. “You know what I was wondering about? When I came to Spring Love, there was a building, right off the path to the fields that looked kind of like a barn? What’s it for?”

  “That’s where the farm workers stay. I’m not really allowed to go there or talk to them, though.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Vikram says their English isn’t good.”

  I pause. “Isn’t that why you should talk to them? So it can get better?”

  “I guess so, but he doesn’t even talk to them. They just work in the fields away from everybody. He gets them to load the truck and he does the selling at the market. He mostly works up where the people come to do yoga, with my mom. Hey,” he says, an idea striking him suddenly, “you gonna come back and help me learn the guitar?”

  “Are you going to come back?” says Cheyenne, from behind us. Trevor stiffens. She doesn’t sound angry, but both Trevor and I know without a doubt that she is. “Go on, say it again.”

  Trevor looks at me but doesn’t back down. My respect for him grows immensely. “Are you going to come back and help me learn the guitar?”

  “I don’t know, buddy.” There’s a small urge to pat his shoulder, but I know it wouldn’t be welcome. He’s looking from me to his mother with watchful eyes.

  “Say goodbye to Nora, sweetheart,” Cheyenne says. “I don’t think she’ll be joining us again.”

  “Bye, Nora.”

  “Bye, Trevor. If you want to get better at the guitar, make sure you practice.”

  He nods solemnly at this. If I never see him again, at least I’ve given him some of the work ethic I’ve lost along the way. “I will,” he says, then he leaves with his mother, who is busy whispering into his ear. About the importance of choosing one’s friends carefully, I imagine.

  I watch them go, feeling a clash of emotions. Poisoning aside, this is becoming more than just a job. Trevor obviously has two parents that care very much for him. Ken wants to protect him from Cheyenne, and Cheyenne wants to protect him from the riffraff of the world, like myself. As well as the decent laborers, who he is also not allowed to talk to. If she wants to keep him stuck on an island with no music to soothe his soul, that’s not the worst thing I can imagine, by a long shot. But to keep him separated from the farm’s workers tells me my suspicions are warranted.

  I don’t surround myself with children and I was never part of my own daughter’s upbringing, but I understand that this child is somehow different. Far too old for his age. You get kids like this in foster care, where I was brought up. Hell, I was one of them myself. But I’ve never seen it in someone like Trevor, whose mother has taken him from the city and thrust him into a place like this, where nature reigns. He should be a happy child, but he’s not. It’s like he’s seen things far beyond his years and they have marked him, made him retreat into himself.

  I had decided to continue with this case because someone fucked with my digestive system and it made me mad. Now I’m staying on because something about this kid reminds me of myself when I was a child, something behind his eyes telling me that he’s keeping secrets he shouldn’t even have been exposed to. I’m going to find out what they are, and I’m going to do it for him.

  Chapter 7

  There are still a few stalls up when I get to the market grounds. Lucky for me, Alive Farms does not care one bit that the market is over and they should pack up and leave. They have vegetables and baked goods to offer and no one is going to stop the tall brunette manning the stall from staying here until she dies or sells out.

  I don’t have to fake interest in the last blackberry-apple pie on display. My mouth salivates at the sight of it. “Ten dollars,” she says. “I’ll give you a special price because it’s the last one.” She looks too fine boned to be a farmhand of any kind, but when she rolls up her sleeves I see the strength of her forearms.

  “Is it as good as the pies Spring Love used to sell?”

  Her voice goes cold. “It’s better. I bake them myself.”

  “You’re their neighbor, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. We border them.” She isn’t interested in selling me a discounted pie any longer, as I’ve managed not only to insult her but also to be nosy at the same time. Well, you can’t please everybody.

  From my web research, Alive seems to be a cheerful little operation compared to Spring Love. Their property is only a third of the size, but they are consistently rated highly for the quality of their produce, which makes sense. There are no yoga retreats at Alive to distract them. Nor do they seem to care much about “harmonious living.” They are a farm, and by all online accounts, a very good one.

  “I’ll take the pie,” I say, pulling out my wallet and handing her a twenty. This defrosts her ever so slightly, but it’s enough to give me an in. As she makes change, I add, “I’m thinking about their yoga retreat. Have you done one?”

  She snorts. “Ha, like I would ever. Good luck with that. You don’t seem the type.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re not wearing designer clothes and you seem to have all your marbles, that’s what. Not sure you’ll fit in.”

  “I don’t really fit in anywhere.” Which is the truth.

  “Well, it sure as heck ain’t going to be there. Damn shame, if you ask me. Spring Love used to be a big part of this island’s community, but they barely show up to our events anymore. Everything’s about those retreats. Fancy people get on the ferry, drive out in their Mercedes that can’t take the roads and a couple days later they drive back. Nobody comes into town and buys anything.”

  “You never see the yoga students at the market?”

  “Never. Vikram and Cheyenne don’t even show up when they’ve got one of those things on. They send Wanda. She used to bake the pies, actually. It was her family that owned the property before Vikram. The Washingtons had some history here, but Wanda was an only child and,” she lowers her voice, “turns out she can’t have kids. She and Vikram were sweethearts of a kind, once. Then he left and, I hear, got into some trouble with the law. When he moved back, he bought the farm from her and it was never the same again. Took up with Cheyenne even though Wanda was still living on the grounds. Shame, but I don’t blame him. Cheyenne’s a better-looking version of Wanda.”

  I
don’t let on how mean-spirited I find this. I smile in what I hope is a conspiratorial manner. “I met him once. I don’t think we got along very well.”

  “Oh, you didn’t get along with the fake doctor who ain’t really a doctor anymore?” she asks. But this is maybe a step too far. When she realizes what she’s said, she blushes, then becomes angry. “I’d stay away from that place if I were you.”

  She turns away and begins packing up the stall. I try a few times to make eye contact, but she won’t look at me anymore.

  The thing I hate about small towns, villages, islands, and general inbred enclaves of the world is that everybody is all up in everyone else’s business. Constantly. There can be no secrets here, only things kept from outsiders until someone loosens up over something as trivial as pie. The thing I love about these places is that it only takes one disgruntled member of the community to reveal the totality of someone’s personal history.

  So Vikram got a piece of property that he might have wanted and traded up—which leaves Wanda to pick up the pieces and run the farm.

  What’s in it for her?

  And what did the Alive Farms woman mean by “fake doctor who ain’t really a doctor anymore”?

  At the island’s archives on the second floor of the public library, I go through old newspapers on island life. It seems idyllic enough, low crime rates. No place, however, is as innocent as it seems, because people love to keep secrets. Trevor, for example, and the truth about his feelings toward Vikram.

  A black-and-white picture from 1929 catches my attention. It’s of a group of schoolchildren gathered for a photo. The diversity I see staring back at me is astonishing. Black, white, and indigenous children are at school together, side by side. I’ve never seen anything like it. People keep saying there’s black history on this island, but I don’t see much of that on the faces of Salt Spring’s current residents—Cheyenne and Wanda being the exceptions. In this photo, I see evidence that there had been a black community here, and that this particular island school was integrated. The last segregated school in Canada closed in 1983, whereas the United States banned school segregation in the 1950s. The last residential school in Canada closed in 1996. The racism in Canada’s education systems is hardly ever discussed, but it has always been there.

  In this photo, however, you could imagine a better future. In 1929, these kids were learning together.

  And I understand Cheyenne better than ever.

  I’d given my birth daughter away for adoption when she was born, and put her from my mind. I could not allow myself to think of her because becoming a mother wasn’t a choice I’d made for myself. My loving her the way she deserved was out of the question. But if I had chosen motherhood, and I’d had some freedom of movement, I might have brought her here. To live out her childhood in a place where, even in the 1920s, children could stand next to each other and not feel that any of their peers were “less than.”

  I don’t know if this island was as much of a utopia as it seems in this photo—it couldn’t possibly have been that idyllic—but I might have wanted to come and see, just for her. Her cultural identity is even more confusing than my own, though that in and of itself is a hard thought to grasp. Bonnie’s father was Chinese. I am part indigenous and part something else I’ve never discovered. I would like her to live somewhere all this doesn’t matter. Where she can be accepted regardless of the color of her skin. In an ideal world, it would be different for her than it was for me. We’re not in an ideal world, but a woman can have dreams.

  For some reason, this picture hurts, just a little too much.

  It’s almost a relief to move past, and to continue through the archives. School photos and photos of children are of particular interest to me. I ate half a pie before coming to the library, but my thirst has been insatiable since this morning. Even though my throat is parched, I refuse to leave until I’ve gotten what I came for.

  It’s only when my discomfort is almost unbearable that I find it.

  The cast photo from a school play shows a Romeo onstage and a Juliet up on a makeshift balcony. The Juliet is miscast. She doesn’t seem the type to laze about on balconies, waiting for boys to come rescue her. She’s the kind of girl who will go out and get the boy and persuade him that even though he’s divorced her, he should still buy her family’s farm and let her stay on it. Even though he wants to move on, he really shouldn’t, because she’s decided to have him in her life, no matter what.

  Young Wanda gazes at Young Vikram with a look so possessive that I can feel it through the years, through the distance of a photograph. I can feel the love. And it isn’t just one-sided, either, at least not back then.

  And by Vikram, I mean Vincent, which is his real first name, according to the description beneath the photograph. Wanda Washington and Vincent Sharma were once very much in love.

  Chapter 8

  Leo comes to town looking jaunty. There is no other word for it. He gets out of his car wearing a crisp, patterned shirt, open at the neck, navy shorts, chocolate brown loafers and gold-rimmed aviator shades. He swings a distressed cocoa weekender bag from hand to hand and smiles at me like we are long lost lovers, meeting at last for an island rendezvous. I resist the urge to look behind me to check if all this effort is being made for someone with much better personal style than myself.

  Leo is trying so very hard to be happy. Seeing him now, I’m glad he’s decided to come. I meet him in my summer cargo pants and a faded gray T-shirt, looking like his homeless sidekick or possibly his drug dealer.

  I hand over what’s left of the pie and we get straight to business. After I fill him in on what I discovered in the archives, he frowns. “Vincent Sharma? That name sounds vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure why.”

  “Could it have something to do with what the woman from Alive Farms said? She told me he was a fake doctor that’s not really a doctor anymore. So maybe he’d been a doctor once.”

  “And now he’s just a fake?”

  I’m confused, too. “On the Spring Love website there’s nothing about Vincent’s—or Vikram’s—accreditation in anything other than yoga.”

  “He does look like a yogi,” says Leo, pulling up Vincent’s photo from the website. I know a little too much about him to see it with fresh eyes, but when I first looked at it my initial impression of him was of someone serene. The thin frame, long hair and East Indian features give him the appearance of an ascetic. In my imagination, I can see him on a mountaintop, sitting cross-legged with his hands on his knees and a breeze blowing through his dark locks. There are people who would pay good money for that kind of serenity. Not me, of course, but other people, ones with better incomes. Who enjoy sitting on the ground, maybe.

  Now, looking at him, I can’t ignore that there’s something staged about this picture. It’s too glossy, too perfect. It feels like branding. Yes, that’s it. I’m starting to think that Vikram-Vincent Sharma isn’t really a yoga instructor at all. Which leaves me wondering what they’re doing up at that retreat.

  “Did you pack any workout gear?” I ask Leo.

  “Are you thinking of yoga pants?”

  “Very, very tight yoga pants.”

  He grins. “We’re in luck. I brought the tightest possible yoga pants a grown man is legally allowed to wear.”

  “The innocent people at Spring Love are in for a serious treat.”

  “I sense sarcasm, Nora, and I just want you to know that it’s uncalled for. I take leg day very seriously and these stems aren’t meant to be hidden away.”

  Now that he’s mentioned it, I realize he has been working out a lot more than usual lately and his legs really do look fantastic. He looks like so many of the other fit men in and around Vancouver. Unhappy, but with great stems.

  As it turns out, the tightest possible yoga pants a grown man is legally allowed to wear aren’t all that tight. They’re made of stretchy material, though, and tapered at the bottom where they hit just below the knee. “So that you don’t
accidentally flash the goods during hot yoga,” Leo explains. “I mean, at those kinds of classes you’re almost delirious, so it’s not like it would matter too much if there was slippage, but still. Some things I like to save for the bedroom.”

  Hmm. Good to know.

  We’re in my room at the inn. They are all booked up for the night, so it looks like we’re sharing. “Any luck getting through to the retreat?” I ask, to steer the conversation away from “slippage,” which is a mental image I do not want to have.

  “No one’s answering the number they have online. I sent an email inquiring about the next session, but nothing there, either. Are you sure they said they were having something that starts tomorrow?”

  “Yes.” Cheyenne was pretty clear about that.

  “Hell, if they don’t want to take my money . . .”

  “You mean Ken Barnes’s money?”

  “Of course. On my way over here, I told him that there’s been a development in the case and we’ll have to stay on a few days extra.”

  “Did you tell him I was poisoned?”

  “No, but I did tell him you got ill from something in the food. He sounded excited that it might show the environment may not be good for children . . . Nora, what do you think is going on over there? I mean, it’s a farm that’s not really a farm. A yoga retreat that may not really be a yoga retreat. I don’t think you’re imagining things. If you say they poisoned you, they poisoned you. They tell the world they’re open and welcoming, but they don’t actually want outsiders there. What are they hiding?”