A Thousand Shades of Blue

by Robin Stevenson

  I haven’t thought about this in years, but I can suddenly remember it: the couch turned into a hospital bed, Emma lying on it, me saying, “Lie stil , Emma, don’t talk, you’re supposed to be unconscious.”

  “I can’t believe you remember that,” I say.

  “I used to like it when you played with me,” Tim says.

  “I remember it.” He looks at me for a long second; then he says, “Do you remember that time Mom caught us?”

  I shake my head.

  “She was so mad,” Tim said. “I didn’t even know what I’d done wrong.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just a little kid.”

  His eyes catch mine. “I thought you didn’t remember.”

  “Go back to bed,” I say. I flip back the other way and pul the pil ow over my head. I try to think about Col and recap-ture that feeling I had a few minutes ago. But it’s gone.

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  Z

  I do remember the time Mom caught us playing that game. I must have been about eight; Tim was maybe four.

  I even remember I was wearing a green dress that I wore practically every day. I loved that dress. God, I haven’t thought about this for years, but I remember it like it happened yesterday.

  Tim was sitting on the couch with Emma, and I had a skipping rope doubled over and hanging around my neck: my stethoscope. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones,” I told Tim. He was a skinny little kid even then, all ribs and knees and elbows.

  “I’m afraid your little girl is very badly hurt. She probably won’t recover.”

  And then Mom was running into the room, white-faced, screaming, “What the hell is wrong with you? How could you do this? How could you?” and grabbing Emma off the couch. Emma was giggling; then she burst into tears, and Mom rushed out of the room, carrying her like a baby and making this awful wailing noise.

  Tim and I just sat there and stared at each other. Just remembering it, I can feel the hot sick feeling. The guilt.

  And I remember wondering if she would tell Dad and hoping that she wouldn’t.

  I roll over on the narrow berth and concentrate on remembering the feeling of my hand in Col’s.

  82

  Twelve

  It feels lik e about an hour later that Dad is kicking me out of bed.

  “Come on, Pookie. Rise and shine.”

  He hasn’t called me that in years. All this sunshine must be cooking his brain. I groan and sit up. “What’s the rush?”

  Dad flips the folding table down from the wall and starts turning my bedroom back into the living room-kitchen-dining room. “I thought we could all take a little day trip together. We’re stuck here anyway, and we’ll want to be off the boat while they’re working on the rudder.”

  “Are they starting today then?”

  He tousles my hair and grins at me. “Let’s hope so.”

  I don’t know what to hope for. I slip out of bed and squeeze past him into the head. In the little green mirror, my eyes are circled with dark smudges. So much for waterproof mascara. I step on the foot pump and splash cold water—the only kind that comes out of our taps—

  on my face. I feel like I’ve had about two hours sleep.

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  My stomach feels like its contents have curdled, and my head is pounding. I rub at the mascara with a wet cloth.

  Sometimes it’s just as well that Dad isn’t exactly tuned in.

  Z

  Back in the cabin, the happy family is gathering around the table for another delicious breakfast of bread, peanut butter and jam. I am so not hungry.

  At 8:00 am sharp, Dad turns on the radio. “Good Morning, Georgetown,” Will is saying cheerful y.

  I watch Mom’s face for any sign of emotion: nervous-ness, interest, guilt. Nothing.

  “Maybe I’ll stay on the boat today,” I say. “I think I might be coming down with something.” If they all go into town, I can cal Col on the radio. Maybe he could come and get me.

  “It’d be nice to spend the day together,” Mom says.

  “We spend every day together,” I argue. “We’ve been doing nothing but spending days together.”

  Mom laughs; then she sighs. “But it’s been so busy.

  Your schoolwork, and all the problems with the boat…”

  It’s true. It’s been one problem after another ever since we left the States. Actual y, before that too, but problems were easier to fix back there. We could go to a marina and get a mechanic or whatever. Here in the Bahamas every little stripped screw or lost hose clamp or frayed belt is a huge deal. When we were packing for the trip, I thought we had enough spare parts to practical y build a 84

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  second boat, but somehow we never quite have the parts we need.

  “I know,” I say. “It’s just that I really don’t feel that good.”

  She frowns and puts her hand on my forehead. “You’re not hot.”

  I pul away. “I didn’t say I was hot; I said I didn’t feel good. Okay? And I don’t feel like…like…” I realize that she hasn’t actually told me what they were planning for my day.

  On the radio, Will is summarizing the weather reports from various sources.

  “We thought we could rent bikes and cycle over to Rolletown,” Dad says. “Come on, Rachel. It’ll be fun.”

  I shrug. “I went when we were here last time. There’s nothing there.” It’s true, on the surface, but what I don’t say is that the view from Rolletown is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I don’t say that I walked all the way there the day after we saw Mom kissing Wil , or that I tried unsuccessful y to call Jen collect from a phone booth, or that I stood at the top of the Rolletown hill and looked out over the endless water in its thousand shades of blue and cried until I couldn’t cry anymore.

  Mom and Dad exchange glances.

  “I’d real y like you to come,” Mom says softly.

  And I’d real y like for you not to fuck around with the neighbors, I think.

  Mom sighs. Dad steeples his hands together on the table and for once, says nothing. Tim picks at his 85

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  fingernails. Actual y, his cuticles. He barely has nails left to pick at and the tips of his fingers are all red and swollen and gross-looking. He looks up and catches me staring; then he scowls and tucks his hands under the table.

  “I need some time to myself,” I say. “I want to write to Jen.”

  “You could do that later,” Mom says.

  God. Is a few hours alone real y too much to ask? “I’m not going,” I say flatly.

  Dad shrugs. “Wel , it’s your choice, I suppose.” He fil s a water bottle from the tap. “An opportunity missed is an opportunity lost.”

  Z

  I watch them walk across the parking lot. Tim’s shoulders are hunched miserably, and I can’t help feeling a pang of guilt. I bet he’s thinking about Mom and Will all the time and I know I should talk about it with him, but I just can’t. If we talk about it, then it real y happened. And even though I know it did, I don’t want to say it out loud.

  As soon as they are out of sight, I turn the radio to channel 16. I push the button to speak. Then I take my thumb off it again. What if he didn’t really mean it, about wanting to see me again? What if he was just being polite? I hesitate for a long moment. If I don’t call now, god knows when I’ll get another chance. I clear my throat and push the button again. “Flyer, Flyer. This is Shared Dreams.”

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  Two thoughts occur to me at once: that Col might not even know our boat’s name, and that everyone in the anchorage who has their radio turned on just heard me calling him. Shit. What if someone tel s my parents? And someone will, guaranteed. You know what people say about small towns and how everyone knows everyone else’s business? Well, small towns have nothing on the cruising community.
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  There’s no answer, and I stand there for a moment, undecided. Should I call again? Wait an hour? Maybe he’s sleeping in and hasn’t turned on his radio yet. Or maybe he’s already gone into town, or snorkelling, or something.

  In the end, I decide to go into town. Maybe I’ll run into him. That might be better anyway, in case he really was just being polite.

  Z

  I pull on a tight black T-shirt and a pair of dark green surf shorts, run wet hands through my hair, give it a shake and stare at myself in the mirror. I wonder if Col really believed me when I said I was eighteen. Mostly people say I look younger than my age.

  I’m climbing down the ladder when a voice startles me.

  “Hey there. I didn’t realize anyone was still aboard.”

  A tall black guy who looks a few years older than me is standing beside the boat, his hand resting on the rudder.

  He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and grinning widely.

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  I nod. “Sorry.” I’m not sure why I’m apologizing; I always do that. “I’m just going into town so…uh, there’s no one aboard now.” Duh. I sound like a total idiot.

  “I’ll get this sanded down this morning. Try and get the first coat of fibreglass on today.”

  I’m surprised he’s being so friendly, given what a jerk Dad has been. “That’s great,” I say. “I mean, wonderful.

  Thanks so much.” I’m gushing, being all awkward, being overly friendly. As if I can make up for Dad’s behavior. I don’t want him to think I’m like that too.

  He nods abruptly, suddenly less friendly.

  No doubt he thinks I’m a big phony. “Well,” I say.

  “Umm.”

  “We should have it done in a couple of days,” he says.

  My heart skips a beat. Before I met Col, there was nothing that would have made me happier than to get out of here. Now I don’t want to leave. I don’t even care, right now, what Mom does with Wil .

  I just want to see Col again.

  88

  Thirteen

  I wander down to the Computer Café to check my e-mail. The computers were all down the last time we were in Georgetown, so I haven’t heard from Jen in ages.

  Luckily they’re working again, though painful y slowly.

  I run my fingers over the keys, waiting for my inbox to appear, and think about what I’ll tell Jen.

  I’ve got mail. Two messages from Jen. I open the most recent one first, sent three days ago. Just a short terse line asking where I am and why I haven’t written back. She sounds annoyed, but I’ve tried to explain before that it isn’t always easy. The whole way down the coast, we were anchored miles up these winding rivers in the middle of nowhere. I mean, really nowhere. Tall grassy reeds and crab traps and pelicans. No towns. No Internet cafés.

  Even when the icw went through a city, we didn’t have a car to get anywhere. And in the Bahamas, the Internet cafés have been pretty few and far between. Most of the islands we’ve been to don’t even have anyone living on them.

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  Anyway, I don’t think she understands. I open her earlier e-mail, from two weeks ago, and read it. Hey, Rach, So are you still in GT? What’s up? I’m seeing this guy I met at a party last weekend. His name’s Matt and he’s soooo hot.

  Seriously. School sucks though. We had to do speeches last week. Barf. Mr. Thevin (seven with a lisp) is a pig. Miss u miss u miss u—BFF—Jen.

  It doesn’t say much, but it stil makes me homesick. I’ve never been as lonely as I’ve been these last few months. Hi Jen, I type. I miss you too. I’ve…I can’t think what to say.

  I’ve been bored out of my mind? Mom’s screwing around with a guy on another boat? I met this guy but he’s like ten years older than me and I don’t know if he’s interested? In the end, I just write some unimportant stuff. It’s beautiful here, but there’s not much to do. Miss hanging out with you. That’s cool about you and Matt. Sorry I couldn’t reply sooner, but all the computers were down for ages. Done lots of snorkeling and I’m getting a great tan (well, okay—lots of freckles anyway). Etcetera, etcetera.

  After I sign off, I feel kind of depressed. It’s always like that. I miss the connection I had with Jen, but whenever I get her e-mails, I feel less connected instead of more. Al her stories about going to parties and hanging out at the mall are so hard to relate to from here. It all seems a bit boring, but at the same time I wish I was back there doing that stuff with her.

  I sit there for a few minutes, feeling sorry for myself; then I make myself get up and walk over to Exuma Markets. It’s a grocery store, but it’s also where all the 90

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  cruisers get their mail. They have a big box with alphabet-ical files. I check it, but there’s nothing for us, so I just buy a postcard and stamps and sit down on a curb outside the store. The sun warms my skin and makes me restless. It feels like someone touching me, and it makes me think of Col. I try to concentrate.

  The postcard is for Emma. Hopeful y one of the staff will read it to her. Dear Emma, I write. I hope you are having fun and doing lots of great artwork. I miss you a lot. This postcard is a picture of a parrotfish—isn’t it beautiful? Maybe you could do a painting of a parrotfish for me to hang on my wal when I get home. The Bahamas are very hot and sunny, and the water is very blue. We are taking lots of pictures to show you when we get home. Lots and lots of love—Rachel I’m dropping it in the mailbox when I see Becca walking down the other side of the street, wearing a red bikini top, shorts and sport sandals.

  She waves and crosses over the road. “Hey.” She looks at me, eyebrows raised. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So, what happened last night?”

  I shrug. “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. With Col.”

  “Nothing.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Real y? Because I felt kind of bad about leaving you there. I mean, I know what he’s like.

  And you’re just a kid.”

  I can’t decide whether to argue with her about me being a kid, or ask what she means about Col. In the end, 91

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  my need to talk about him wins out. “What do you mean, what he’s like?”

  She shrugs. “He’s all right. Just, you know, what I said last night. He’s a player. Lots of girls. Lots.”

  “I like him.”

  She looks at me more closely. “Something did happen, didn’t it?”

  “No, I told you, nothing happened. Honest. He showed me that star, you know, Andromeda. Then he took me home.” I suddenly feel kind of flat, because, after al , this is the truth. Nothing did happen. He took me home, and probably he only held my hand because I was drunk and klutzy and he was making sure I got home safely.

  Becca relaxes. “Okay. Good. I’ve been a bit worried all morning, to tell you the truth. He has a bit of a reputation.

  And you’re what—fifteen?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Yeah.”

  I have a sudden thought. “Have you and Col…you know…?”

  She shakes her head dismissively. “Not a chance.

  I mean, yeah, he’s good looking. But he’s a bit too smooth, you know? I’m not into guys like that.”

  “I thought he seemed nice.”

  “Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re falling for him.”

  “I’m not,” I lie. “But he seemed like an okay guy. Maybe whatever you’ve heard is bul shit, you know?”

  “Maybe. But mostly people here seem to know everything about everyone.” She shrugs. “People don’t have 92

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  enough to talk about. The gossip’s worse than it was in high school.”

  I wonder if anyone knows about Mom and Wil .

  “So what are you doing now?” she asks.

  “Writing to my friend Jen,” I say. “I miss her. I miss my whole life back there. I ev
en miss school.” I make a face. “I never thought I’d say that.”

  “I was supposed to start college last fal ,” Becca says.

  “But I grew up around boats, and I learned to sail when I was a kid.” She shrugs, as if it’s all too complicated and she doesn’t want to get into it. “I don’t know. Things changed.

  College didn’t seem so appealing. I’ve been planning this trip since I was your age.”

  “Wow.” I stare at her for a moment. I don’t think I’ve ever real y thought very far ahead. I feel like I should have some plans or goals to tell her about, but I real y don’t. Jen and I never planned much beyond what we’d do the next weekend. I guess university isn’t that far off, but beyond trying to get decent grades, I can’t say I’ve given it a lot of thought.

  We’re still standing there chatting when I see Mom, Dad and Tim cycling slowly down the road. My heart sinks. I thought they’d be gone longer. How am I going to call Col now?

  Mom and Tim pull to a stop beside us, and Mom smiles at me. “You should have come, Rachel. The view from Rolletown was amazing.”

  Dad catches up, out of breath. He’s not in such good shape. In fact, since we’ve been in the Bahamas, he’s started 93

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  to get a beer gut. He nods at me and gives Becca a friendly grin. You’d never guess he suspects her of being a bad influence.

  “Hi, Mitch,” Becca says. “Are you all coming to the reception at the Peace and Plenty tonight?”

  Dad smiles at her, but he looks distracted. “What reception?”

  “Tina and Carl’s wedding, remember?”

  “I’d forgotten.” He rubs his hands over his face, which is all sweaty and slightly pink from sunburn and exertion.

  “Yeah, we’ll be there.” He turns to Tim and me. “Let’s al go back to the boat and get some lunch. And then you two probably better do some schoolwork.”

  So much for having a day to myself.

  Z

  The boat feels even smaller and more crowded than usual.

  Plus, we have to eat lunch to a soundtrack of power sanders and dril s. It makes talking difficult, which is fine by me.