Through Different Eyes

by Karen Charleson

  Later at home — once the kids had calmed down a little from the thrill of their performances and all the community’s enthusiastic cheers and applause, plus the candy in their Christmas bags — Monica followed Brenda into her bedroom. Twice earlier in the evening, Brenda had started to ask her something, but had then changed her mind. In the privacy of her own room, Monica waited to see if she would make a third attempt.

  “He wasn’t there,” Brenda started.

  “Michael?”

  “Yeah…I was going to talk to him tonight. Tell him that my parents know now.” Brenda tried to sound like she was talking about something of little importance. This attempt at self-assuredness was rather premature.

  “It would have been too busy there anyways,” Monica consoled.

  “Yeah, I guess. Still, I was thinking that he needs to know. Maybe he’s already heard. I can’t see how though. But he is the father and he should know.”

  Monica nodded. Her niece was right, although she had already had months to tell the guy.

  “I was thinking…maybe you could tell him? I’ve been putting it off, you know, and I think it’s because I just can’t do it.”

  She looked pleadingly at Monica. The older woman watched her niece mimic the little girl pout — her lips pursed, the corners of her mouth down — that had once made her giggle. However, that time had passed. Monica could not make herself laugh now. If she had to admit the truth, she was a little annoyed. Brenda was not acting like an adult at all, not even like a responsible teenager. The manufactured pout made her look like a spoiled brat.

  “I can’t ask Mom or Dad. You don’t have to go to his place or anything. He works at construction, on the new houses. It wouldn’t be very hard to find him there when you’re out walking around.”

  Monica was tempted to just say no. In fact, a loud voice inside her head told her to do precisely that. This was something that her niece needed to take care of herself. Brenda continued to stare at her with those moist, round, pleading eyes. Monica remembered her mantra of the previous day. Support Brenda, support Brenda. In the end, what really convinced her to agree was the thought of Brenda dissolving back into tears.

  “Well, I’ll see if I can manage to run into him.”

  Monica did not even know the guy. What was she supposed to do, have the construction crew point him out to her? She did know that he was the late Cindy Clydesdale’s son, and the late Earl and Sally Clydesdale’s grandson. Growing up in Kitsum, it was normal to have some idea of how your relatives, your neighbours, and your fellow community members were connected. Monica knew that Michael’s uncles were Fred and Murray. She knew that Cindy, Michael’s mother, had been around Ruby’s age. She remembered Ruby talking about how they were once good friends. Michael would have been one of the younger kids when Monica went to Kitsum Elementary. The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that he had not attended. The Clydesdale kids, she was pretty sure, had all kept going to the residential school.

  A few days before Christmas, Monica had finally had enough. Brenda kept imploring her with her eyes. Her silent begging all but bored holes into Monica from across the kitchen table. After she had helped Ruby clear up the lunch dishes and saw that the kids were engrossed in a television show, she grabbed the jacket she had borrowed from her sister — the ones she had brought from town were definitely too thin — and headed out the door. She would go down to Village Beach first. Yes, a walk on the winter beach would give her time to think.

  Monica waved at Nona, sitting by her kitchen window as usual. Brenda liked to make frequent jokes about her nosiness. The old lady did not even try to hide her constant vigilance, her daily watching of the comings and goings at their house. Monica had always liked her though. Nona was lonely, that was all; she did not have much to do with her days except to see what her neighbours were doing. She resolved to visit her soon and find out the latest about Charlie: whether he was still in Hartley Bay, how many kids he and Molly had now, when Nona had talked to him last, all that family news Nona would be more than willing to tell her.

  The beach was empty except for a few roaming dogs. The sky was grey; a southeasterly wind had picked up and was pushing masses of dark clouds quickly across the sky. It would rain soon. The residents of Kitsum were likely safely inside their houses or out last-minute Christmas shopping in Port Hope or Campbell River. She walked. She paid little attention to the living room windows lined up to face the ocean. Monica watched the swirling flocks of seagulls landing beside the fresh piles of torn kelp and seagrass that the latest tide had swept into the upper beach logs. She watched a pair of ravens who easily forced the gulls to move away from anything too interesting. She examined the clam and crab shells that had washed up with pieces of driftwood and coloured plastic. When she reached the north end of the beach, she made her way around the storm-tossed debris to the path that followed along the mouth of the Kitsum River.

  She should have asked Ruby’s advice. That would have been the sensible thing for her to do. She suspected that her sister would have been annoyed, feeling that Monica was meddling or interfering. She had already said yes to Brenda; that was the thing. There was no way to go back and change that now. She would go as far as Jimmy’s Store and get a few things for the house before walking back along the new loop road. Yes, she would take a look at the new houses that were going up. That was all. If she happened to see this Michael on her walk, then she would talk to him. If she did not, then there was little she could do about it. She would tell Brenda that she had searched for him, but could not find him, and it would be better for Brenda to find another way to communicate with the man.

  “Road” was a pretty generous term for what she walked upon; that was her first impression of the new loop. Not that the other roads in Kitsum were in such good shape either. It was more that the new one was especially narrow and rough, being made entirely of sharp blast rock. The first section where Monica walked above the Old Top Road was incredibly steep. She would hate to ever see a kid riding a bike down that. Still, beyond the visible harshness caused by blasting out the new road and building lots, Monica was pleasantly surprised. The promised eight two-storey family homes looked fairly close to completion. That alone was a big event for Kitsum. What impressed her even more was the view. The road was high enough up the mountain that even in the winter greyness you could still see for a long ways. It was quite spectacular, really, standing on the hillside looking out at the expanse of Kitsum territory. Every new house and lot seemed to have some view of the village and harbour below. She would come up again soon, on a sunny day, and bring a camera.

  Monica was passing the last new house. The loop road was already beginning to slope back down towards the village at the place where she saw him coming towards her. He had his head down and he was wearing a dark green raincoat. She should not have been able to tell who he was, but something told her that this was Michael Clydesdale. There was a slight sway and lightness to his step, as though his feet barely touched the ground. That was how Cindy had once walked. She remembered. When he saw her, he looked up and nodded noncommittally. He neither slowed nor quickened his pace. He had already passed her before Monica turned and managed a tentative “Michael?” His feet stopped and he turned back towards her.

  “Yes.”

  “Michael Clydesdale?”

  “Yes.”

  Summoning up her courage, Monica extended her hand in greeting. “I’m Monica Smith…Brenda’s aunt.”

  Michael shook her offered hand and appeared unsurprised. Just as she had figured out who he was, Michael would have been able to guess her identity as well. He said nothing though; he merely waited for Monica to continue. She had expected embarrassment or anxiousness from him, but what he presented to her was calm patience.

  She cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean to stop you on the road like this,” she began. It was a lie, and she regretted it as soon as t
he words had left her mouth. From the unchanged look on Michael’s face, she guessed that he knew it too. “Brenda asked me to speak to you. I didn’t know if I’d get the chance. Look…she’s pregnant. She wanted you to know…as the father. Brenda did not know if you had heard.”

  Michael nodded. That was all. There was neither shock nor protest. He displayed not a trace of emotion. He just nodded as though Monica had told him that it was going to rain. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve heard.”

  Monica waited for him to say more. Instead, he moved as though to resume walking.

  “What do you intend to do?” Even though her voice had risen only slightly, Monica felt like she was yelling.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” he said plainly.

  Monica stared at him, stunned by the answer he had just given. Michael stared back. In the end, it was Monica who looked away first. The prominent cheekbones, the jet-black eyes, the tightened lips; he looked so much like Cindy. Instead of the lecture she had half-prepared on behalf of her niece, she mumbled something about just wanting to make sure that he knew and needing to get going.

  All the way home, Monica reviewed the encounter in disbelief. She had become agitated and even somewhat angry. This Michael had turned out to be absolutely nothing like she had expected. He had completely refused to be drawn into her anticipated discussion. She had known that he was older than Brenda, but Monica had still imagined him as a kid. A kid, this guy was not.

  Monica repeated the short conversation for Brenda. It certainly was not difficult to recall; he had said so little. Her niece clawed and grasped at every word, trying to garner from them even the smallest hint of additional meaning.

  “Like I said, he didn’t talk much. He nodded when I told him. He said yes, he had heard. Then he didn’t say anything so I asked him what he intended to do. He looked sad, I think. Maybe not. He looks a lot like his late mom, Cindy. I guess that’s what made me think he looked sad. When Cindy had that expression, she was definitely sad. But Bren, I can’t say for sure that it’s the same with him. Maybe he’s just quiet. Maybe I surprised him. His answer to me was ‘there’s nothing I can do.’ I’m sure that’s exactly what he said: ‘there’s nothing I can do.’”

  Monica knew that she was denying Brenda the solace that she desperately craved, but she could not make up something that had not been said. She knew enough to be cautious of creating false hopes. Monica sat down beside her niece and squeezed her shoulder.

  “I know this is hard, Bren, but you need to just forget this guy. You hear me? That’s all you can do. Try to put him out of your mind and look out for yourself. Take care of yourself and your baby.”

  Brenda sniffled and then defiantly tilted her head. Suddenly it looked like she wanted to argue. She pushed Monica’s arm away.

  “Yeah,” she muttered. “I can take care of myself. I’m okay.”

  After a few minutes of silence, Monica did the only thing she could think to do. She left the room. She supposed that her words must have sounded pompous and superior, but what else was there to say? She could not shake the feeling that she had likely made things worse rather than better.

  Monica confided in her sister early the next morning when the two women were alone in the kitchen. Martin had already left for the Queen, and there was time to sit at the kitchen table and enjoy another cup of coffee. Monica repeated to Ruby the same snippets of conversation that she had shared with Brenda. Monica even admitted how foolish she had felt when Michael had refused to say more.

  Ruby shook her head sadly. She understood. That was what Monica missed most when she was away from her older sister, that security in knowing that someone else understood her so completely.

  “Martin already talked to him.”

  “You’re kidding?” Monica could only sputter. There had been no sign. No one had breathed a word. Brenda certainly did not know that her father had talked to Michael at all. No wonder this guy had been able to remain so calm in front of her. She was just giving him old news.

  “Do not tell Brenda.” Ruby interrupted her thoughts with the firm order.

  “No…no, I won’t, Ruby. But what did Martin say to him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Monica felt the old impatience bubble within her. How could Ruby not have asked Martin exactly what happened? She stared at her older sister, silently begging for something more.

  “Martin said he told that guy to leave Brenda alone,” Ruby said.

  She looked out her window. Monica knew that the conversation was over.

  EIGHT

  Brenda was livid. How could Monica have screwed up a straightforward message? And how could Michael have given her the answer that he did? She had convinced herself that Michael was different — more responsible and respectful than so many of the other Kitsum guys — but he was just the same. She had not led a completely sheltered life; she had heard her share of coarse male laughter, derogatory comments and snickers, and the old “use them and lose them” lines. More than anything, she felt humiliated. Not only was she humiliated in private, as though that would not have been bad enough; now she was humiliated openly and in front of everyone. She could feel the disgrace dripping from her pores; it was out in the open for anyone to witness.

  Auntie Monica tried to act extra cheerful and to be overly helpful. Brenda did not want to be cheered up and she did not know what possible help her aunt could now provide. At least her mother knew to stay out of her way. It was a rare sunny day, unusually warm for that time of year, and she could not make herself go outside. She did not even want to leave her room. When Monica invited her to go along for a drive into Port Hope for groceries and last-minute gifts, Brenda quite rudely refused. Maybe that response was what finally got her aunt to lay off for a while. From her bedroom window, Brenda watched Millie and Becky happily climbing into Monica’s car in her place. Later on, when her mother came to her room and asked her along to visit her grandparents, she said that she was too tired. “I’ll go next time,” she mumbled in a half-hearted attempt to ease her mother’s disappointment.

  Over the Christmas holidays, Brenda tried to convince herself that things would change. Michael would have to see her. At the very least, he would phone. The holiday would provide the perfect setting for him to act. It would all work out, Brenda kept telling herself. She tried very hard to make herself believe it.

  By the time it was actually Christmas Day, everyone in the house knew that Brenda was pregnant. When her grandparents and Auntie Kate came over on Christmas Eve, it was obvious that they knew as well. None of them would look straight at her anymore. They saw her from the corners of their eyes or with only the quickest of glances.

  Brenda had feared some comment or even harsh words from her grandmother. It was not that her grandmother was cruel or judgmental. If anything, she would have described the older woman as caring and supportive. Still, Brenda was afraid of facing her grandmother’s expectations. Ruined expectations, she thought bitterly. Without saying much at all directly, her grandmother had always managed to convey impeccably high standards. There seemed no question in the elder’s mind that her grandchildren would behave properly and do the right things. Brenda and her siblings were expected to be as respectful and diligent as their father and his sister, their Auntie Kate. It felt like an enormous weight to have to expose herself, not only to her mother and father’s disappointment, but also to her grandmother’s.

  Only once that evening did Kate follow her into the kitchen, hoping for a talk between the two of them. Brenda nixed that possibility by rerouting to the washroom instead. It turned out that it was Becky and Millie who had the knack for taking her and everyone else by surprise by asking all the questions. When was she going to have the baby? What was she going to name it? Did she want a boy or a girl? Their queries seemed to embarrass the whole family. Reality had not completely sunk in. She had barely accepted being pregnant; she was
not ready to consider an actual baby. Hanging in the air were all the gossip sessions of the not-so-very-distant past, all the cluckings and groanings over young unmarried girls getting “knocked up.” Here she was — Brenda Joe — just another one of them. Already, without a doubt, people in Kitsum were talking, and this time about her.

  NINE

  It was the morning after New Year’s Day and Monica’s last chance to go to Campbell River before the start of school. She had made up her mind to accept Gary’s job offer. Ruby had been openly happy at the possibility of her staying in Kitsum. Martin, as quiet as he had been lately, had broken into a large grin and congratulated her. Brenda had actually, for a little while anyway, seemed like her youthful enthusiastic self again.

  Before she had time to change her mind, Monica slid her cover letter and her resume into Gary’s mailbox. The only big thing left for her to do was to tell Saul. For that, she needed an overnight trip to Campbell River. She would get a hotel room and telephone him from there. He deserved that at least — a proper conversation instead of a rushed call from the wall phone in Ruby’s kitchen or the phone booth in Port Hope.

  Martin insisted that she take the truck. The weather forecast for the next few days was clear and cold; snow covered the mountains behind Port Hope. The truck was equipped with good winter tires and chains if she needed them. Stowed behind the front seat was an extra blanket, a long-lasting flashlight, and a bag of Ruby’s emergency snacks. Martin casually placed a snow shovel at the back of the pickup. Monica almost commented that she half-expected him to throw in the chainsaw that he usually packed in case of trees down along the way, but she held her tongue. She did not want him to interpret a joke as a lack of thankfulness on her part. She set off that morning with more preparations than she had ever made for a trip to Vancouver.