Downstairs, Jasmine was beginning to cry. Within seconds, Brenda was crying too. She loved that little girl beyond reason, beyond anything that had happened or had been said. She wiped her face and went to find her. Jasmine was already contentedly feeding in Ruby’s lap, but Brenda signalled that she would take her. Without a word, her mother passed Jasmine and her bottle to Brenda.
The first time that Jazz was gone from the house, Brenda could not stop pacing. The second time, she was still quite nervous. The third time, she found herself starting to relax. After each outing, Monica brought Jasmine back at exactly the time she had promised. The baby was changed and content. Michael stayed in the background. “There is nothing to worry about,” her mother assured her.
On the fourth and fifth visit, Jasmine was with Monica from mid-morning until nearly suppertime. One hour had become two; two hours had become an entire half-day. The progression was fast. Brenda was surprised that Monica had the patience. She remembered when Millie and Becky had been babies. Sure, Auntie Monica had held and admired them, but Brenda could not recall her spending all that much time with them. Her taking to Jasmine was different. Unlike Ruby, Brenda remained slightly suspicious.
TWENTY-FIVE
If Monica was amazed at how quickly her attachment to Jasmine grew, she was even more astonished by the connection that was blossoming between Michael and his daughter. Jasmine effortlessly brought out a side of Michael that Monica had never seen before. He seemed to have infinite time to walk and cuddle the little girl when she was fussy; he could have happily spent all day singing silly songs and telling her small stories and rhymes. Monica’s feelings for both Michael and Jasmine expanded into a whole new dimension.
One day toward the end of August, Monica picked Jasmine up in the afternoon and promised Ruby that she would have the little girl back home before dark. Michael had been wanting to bring Jasmine over to his Uncle Fred’s to introduce her and show her off to his family, but it had been hard to find the right time. Summer was party season in Kitsum and his uncles were often “at it again,” as Michael put it. However, Ethel had invited them to come over for supper. Monica was pretty sure that the Clydesdales would not be partying if they had asked them over. Michael was not quite as confident.
“She better not have forgotten,” Michael had mumbled while tying his work boots that morning. “I’ll check by their place on my way home, and see if it’s still a go.”
Monica waited with Jasmine. She really had no wish to go to Fred and Ethel’s house. When she thought about their last visit she could not help but think of it as slightly depressing. The Clydesdales had so little, and their house all but screamed poverty. Ethel cleaned and tidied the place, but there was really nothing for her to work with. Monica had recognized their kitchen table as one of the old ones from the hall. Similarly, the chairs they had used were the same chairs that people sat on in the community centre. Another pair of seats were merely blocks of wood. As for the couch, it had to be the ugliest, most uncomfortable contraption that Monica had ever sat upon. Why on earth had Fred given Michael the small couch? It was not in great shape, not by a long shot, but it was certainly in better condition than the one he had kept for his own house.
When they had been in Port Hope, Monica had suggested to Michael that they buy a gift for his aunt and uncles — maybe something for their house like a set of coffee mugs or a new sofa cover. Michael had immediately nixed the idea. “They’ll only sell it, or trade it for a bottle when they get desperate.” Monica had a hard time believing him, especially about Ethel, who had behaved so properly during their last visit.
After fretting all day that the dinner visit would not materialize, Monica was relieved to see Michael smiling in the open doorway. She could see that, even though he was still a little anxious, he was also excited. This was important to him. “We can leave as soon as I wash up and change,” he said.
The Clydesdale house was spotless. Ethel had clearly gone to a lot of trouble. Freshly baked bread cooled on the counter. Even with the windows open and the slight breeze, the smell of just-fried fish remained in the air. Murray and Fred looked as though they had just stepped out of the shower. Monica could not help thinking that they looked a bit like fidgety schoolchildren. They were shy and nervous, although they also appeared proud and happy to greet them, and most of all Jasmine. Fred and Murray each held the baby briefly, like men unaccustomed to holding infants, but Ethel relished holding the little girl. She refused to let go of her while they all sat down to eat. Monica swore that Jasmine seemed to know all of them, to recognize the Clydesdales as her relatives.
After the meal, Fred began to speak to Michael. He did so with some difficulty. There were a few rough attempts at starting, but Michael kept his eyes down, sat still, and waited. Monica was almost afraid to breathe.
“Kate came to see us the other day.”
Ethel nodded as though to verify what her husband had imparted. There was a long pause. Listening to how the Clydesdales talked, Monica could not believe that she had ever considered conversations with Martin and Ruby slow. Michael shot a quick glance in her direction. She recognized that he was hoping she would not interrupt. She decided to focus on Jasmine, who was snuggling contentedly in Ethel’s arms.
“She came to tell us they took Cathy’s kids.”
Monica knew from Michael that Fred and Ethel’s eldest daughter lived in Vancouver with her three children, and that her “husband” had left her a number of years ago. She mostly remembered Cathy from the residential school. She had been a grade behind Monica. When Monica had started staying in Kitsum for school, Cathy had been one of the kids who kept going to Christie. She had lost track of her over the years.
“Kate says that we could take the kids…” There was another long pause. She felt kind of sorry for Fred; she wanted somehow to lighten the weight he was obviously under while trying to relay this information to Michael. “If we quit drinking.”
Monica heard Murray snort.
“No one’s talking about you, Murray,” Fred snapped.
“So anyways, Mike…” Fred stole brief glances at his nephew. His eyes mostly studied his dinner plate or the wall behind Ethel. “We’re thinking about it. For the kids, you know.” Monica saw Ethel nod while looking down at Jasmine. “You come back tomorrow,” Fred said, addressing Michael alone. “I want to talk to you.”
Michael and Monica said very little to one another as they walked through Kitsum later that evening to bring Jasmine back to her mother. It was nearly eight o’clock and the sun was just barely above the mountains. Every house door seemed to be open, awaiting some hint of evening coolness before the onslaught of mosquitoes forced them closed again. They walked quickly at first, but their pace slowed gradually as they approached the Joe house. Neither of them wanted to part with the little girl.
Michael was late getting home the next day. She reminded herself not to ask questions when he got back. Michael’s family business was exactly that — his own business. Maybe she was just a nosy person. Forever having to wait for an appropriate time to find things out was one of the things that had driven her crazy at Ruby and Martin’s. Now here she was with Michael, where the same unwritten, unspoken rules applied. Michael believed — presumably like everyone else in Kitsum — that there was a proper time and place for every conversation. How that specific propriety could be determined still remained a mystery to Monica.
Later that evening, Michael told her that Fred and Ethel were indeed serious about quitting drinking. Kate was getting them into a program at a treatment centre. “Six weeks,” he told Monica. “They’ll be gone for six weeks. Fred’s pretty nervous about it. He’s never done anything like that before. He says he’s been a drunk his whole life.
“But you know what, Monica — I think they just might pull it off. Ten years ago, they wouldn’t have even considered a treatment centre, even if there was one around. Kate figures they
need to be sober for at least six months for a chance of the court letting them have the kids. But the thing is, Fred and Ethel really want those kids. They can’t do anything for Cathy. It’s too late for that. But this is like another chance for them to do something right. I don’t know,” Michael added pensively. “I guess we’ll see.”
“I hope so,” she whispered.
“They’re not so bad, my uncle and auntie. They just haven’t had many breaks. Uncle Murray, too. You know, I used to stay with him in the summer. He had a place by the river, sort of across from Jimmy’s. I don’t know if you remember that. It was just me and Murray. I liked it there. Lots of freedom. Murray, he drank a lot, all right, but he still took me fishing in that small boat of his. He called her Miss Cindy. He caught a lot of fish too, enough to make sure that we had grub in the house, and so he could give me money to run over to Jimmy’s.
“Then one summer, I got off the freight boat. I was just finished Grade 6, and I got off the boat at the end of June. Nobody was there to meet me, so I walked up to Murray’s. Except there was no house there, just the black remains of the foundation. Shit, it had burned down and no one had even told me. My cousin Cathy, she came to get me after a while. She’d come back home early that year but I’m not real sure why. Anyway, I was just standing there stunned, I guess. Cath brought me to their place. Murray was there…and him and Fred were loaded.
“Two days later, Cathy told me what happened. Not my uncles and not my aunt who was drunk and crying all the time. Cathy was the one who told me that Chris had died in the fire. He was Fred and Ethel’s youngest son, only four years old. Cathy didn’t know the truth at first, but she found out from her mother. Apparently, Chris had gone to spend the night with Uncle Murray and that was when the house had caught fire. Murray had one of those old drum stoves. Lots of people used them back then. I don’t know if the stove is what did it. Cath didn’t know either. She felt so bad about Chris that she could not ever talk about it much.”
Monica saw that it was more than Michael had intended to tell her. He looked at her now with a kind of hostility, an emotion that she found difficult to bear. “I hope they make it. It would be good for them to have the kids,” she said.
“Yeah,” Michael concluded. “Jasmine can grow up knowing her family.”
They sat almost motionless, leaning into one another, staring blankly at the television set. It seemed like hours later when Michael spoke again. He presented the information in a low whisper, almost as an afterthought. “Tonight I asked my uncle who my father was.” Louder, with false bravado, he added “You know I always figured I’d ask Uncle Fred when he was half-cut, and I’d coax him into telling me. Then here I go and finally ask him when he’s decided to sober up.”
“What did he say?”
“He swears he doesn’t know. That was the answer I was afraid of getting. My mom refused to tell anyone. She sure never told me. But Fred, he sees now that I want to know for Jasmine. Someday she is going to need to know. He said that he’d ask Murray, but he’s pretty sure that Murray doesn’t know either. Well, guess who my Uncle Fred figures might know? Of all people?”
“Who?”
“Martin.”
“Martin!”
“Yeah. At first, I kind of freaked out. Thinking he meant that Martin…you know. But Fred said no way, just that Martin and Mom were friends when they were young. Friends like brother and sister friends. I guess Martin always kind of looked out for Mom. My uncle said there was a guy around but not from here…from Port Alberni, he thinks. The thing is, that guy disappeared after Martin beat him up.”
“Martin beat him up?” This was turning into a strange story.
“I know. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea of Martin beating anybody up either. Though according to Uncle Fred, Martin beat this guy up bad, and no one knew what for. But Fred figures that maybe he’d been the one messing around with Cindy. She was just a kid then, really. Fourteen, maybe fifteen at most. Anyway, my uncle thinks I should ask Martin. When the time is right.”
TWENTY-SIX
There were days when fog banks rolled along the mountains and shoreline on the opposite side of the harbour while Kitsum remained in clear August sunshine. That was not the case on this day. Everything was surrounded by wet greyness. The heavy fog and the fact that her mother was still sleeping made Brenda think that it must be very early in the morning. Brenda had gone downstairs already; Jasmine had seemed extra perky after finishing her morning bottle. She had barely put the infant into her crib when there was a soft knock at the door. She had been shocked to see that it was already past eight o’clock, which was nearly lunchtime in the Joe household. Swinging the door open, Brenda found herself face to face with Monica.
After Monica and Michael’s visit, Brenda had largely avoided her aunt. That was not hard to do. Mostly, she just made sure that she was in her room when Monica came by to pick up or drop off Jazz. “I’m too early,” Monica laughed with her eyes settling on Jasmine, who was kicking away happily in her crib.
Where was her mother? Brenda worried for only an instant. She and Jasmine had both had a decent night’s sleep, and she was feeling pretty good. Why let Monica spoil that now? “I’ll put on coffee,” she said.
Maybe it was the fog that had clouded her brain. For a brief spell that morning, she forgot her animosity towards her aunt. Watching Monica play with Jasmine, her resentment returned, but just as quickly, it also seemed to recede. Her mother was still nowhere in sight. She had no choice but to wait for the coffee pot. She stared out at the thick grey wall. She could not even make out Nona’s house across the street.
Once the coffee was poured, Monica began to talk. She talked to Brenda as though there was not a problem in the world, as though things between them had never changed. Brenda found herself being carried along by the conversation and relaxing into a long-familiar setting. Listening to Monica was like slipping on a pair of old comfortable shoes that fit every contour of her feet. For the moment, retaining her anger towards her aunt felt like just too much bother.
Monica talked about finding another place to live. Without saying his name, without even using the word “we,” Brenda knew that she meant a place for her and Michael. The two rooms Monica stayed in were nowhere near big or bright enough. The McKays were moving into one of the new houses, Monica explained. She and Michael could have the McKay place for almost nothing if they were willing to fix it up.
“But it’s a dump.”
Monica chuckled. That was exactly the sort of remark that Brenda might have made a year ago. Monica felt a spark of their old relationship, even if it was just for this rare moment.
“Yeah, well…we’re going to fix it up.”
Brenda did not think that her aunt even knew how to use a hammer. “But…” she started and stopped herself.
“What about you, Bren? How are you doing?”
Brenda shrugged. She was about to say something about taking care of Jazz, but then she blurted out precisely what she had been avoiding mentioning again to her mother. “I’m thinking of going back to school. In September. That’s pretty soon though. I don’t know if I’m going to make it.”
“Really!” Monica seemed interested. Genuinely enthused, even. “That’s good, Brenda. Really good. Yes, you should.”
Easy for her to say, Brenda thought.
“I can babysit,” Monica continued. “When you’re in school. Some days at least. Your mom can probably babysit on other days.”
Whether she had heard or not, Brenda’s mother made no sign as she entered the kitchen. All that was noticeable was the look of complete embarrassment on her face. “I really slept in,” she apologized. “I must have fallen back to sleep after Martin and the boys left this morning.”
Her father had undoubtedly left the house, with a sleepy Junior and Thomas in tow, by his usual 4:30 that morning. The night before, he had brought
home a tote full of fish that was now waiting for Ruby on the back porch.
“You deserve to sleep in sometimes, Mom,” Brenda declared. Monica nodded in agreement.
“Nope. I’ve got to get that fish done.”
“The fish won’t swim away, Mom. Plus it’s foggy and cool. There’s no hurry.”
“The girls aren’t up yet?”
“It’s not even 8:30, Ruby. Have coffee first.” Monica set down a steaming cup in front of her.
“They’re allowed to be late for summer camp, you know,” Brenda piped in. “Most of the other kids don’t even get there until after 10:00.”
Ruby could not help herself. She smiled broadly at her daughter and her sister and sat in front of the coffee Monica had already poured for her. The three women looked from one to another. It was like old times.
“So Brenda’s telling me she wants to go back to school next month,” Monica started. That was the old Monica, Brenda thought with a surprising surge of pride, tackling subjects head on and asking the questions that everyone else only hinted at in the vaguest way possible. That was the Monica who Brenda had once so fervently hoped to emulate. “I was just telling Bren that I could help babysit Jasmine here.”
“But you work.”
“I’ll quit,” Monica stated simply. “Or I’ll work part-time. That’ll be better. Gary’s been tearing his hair out trying to find room in the school budget to pay me. He’d love for me to only work half-days or half the week.”
“Then I could watch Jasmine those times when you’re working.”
“And her father…” Monica flicked a nervous glance toward Brenda. “He’s not going to be working every day in the winter.”
“You better ask him first,” Brenda cautioned. Maybe he was already getting tired of the father routine. Unlike her, he had the option.
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