Circle of Stones

by Suzanne Alyssa Andrew

  She looks at her watch. The North Vancouver bus she’s on putters along in the slow lane. Jennifer looks at her watch again and then at the faces around her, each one of them anxious, wondering if they’ll make the last evening sailing to Vancouver Island from Horseshoe Bay. The bus rounds a final corner, and the ferry, still in dock, is lit up like a big white beacon. An electronic signboard flashes over the highway: the ferry is delayed. Jennifer has twenty minutes to buy her foot-passenger ticket and hobble up the long ramp onto the ferry. She’s going to make it.

  It’s a nighttime sailing to Vancouver Island in the middle of the week, long after tourist season is over, and it’s not very busy. She finds an empty row of seats by the window. She puts her bag on the seat across from her, a sweater on the seat beside her, marking out space. A private zone. She stares out at the twinkling lights of the bay and the inky blackness of the water and half listens to all of the usual “welcome aboard” safety and amenities announcements while the ferry manoeuvres out of its berth. The ferry turns around once it reaches open water so Jennifer is facing the direction of where she came from, not where she’s going. She stays where she is, looking backwards.

  Jennifer assumes Lorraine knew she was lying when she told her she was headed to Main Street. She doesn’t regret it, but she realizes she could have told the truth. Lorraine was all right. She sighs, knowing her plan is half-baked, anyway. She looks out the window again at the black velvet Pacific, realizing how much she missed it.

  It’s not hard to find someone to give her a ride up island. When she hears the “we are approaching Departure Bay” announcement she heads to the car deck and shakes hands with a middle-aged man who introduces himself as Dave. His car is silver, like his hair, and nondescript. Jennifer gets in as the ferry jostles against the dock and they both wait in silence until the cars ahead in their lane start moving. Dave sends text messages to someone — his wife, Jennifer assumes — and follows the line of red brake lights through the ferry, onto the ramp, around a corner, and up a hill. He takes the northbound exit onto the inland island highway then weaves in and out of lanes, passing aggressively. The ferry traffic thins past Nanaimo. The car speeds through the night, past the last of the traffic lights and streetlights. Dave flicks the high beams on. Jennifer looks at the tall shadows of the trees lining the highway and watches exit signs. Parksville. Qualicum Beach. At Fanny Bay Dave clears his throat.

  “How far north do you want to go again? Comox?”

  “Campbell River.”

  “Okay, then.” Dave shrugs and turns up the volume on his tinny-sounding radio, tuned to the CBC.

  Jennifer looks for kilometre signs as they flash by at the side of the road and counts down. Seventy-five then fifty-five then twenty-five. She sees a sign for Miracle Beach where Nik told her he always went for school field trips. A few minutes later there’s a sign for the local airport. Dave takes the turnoff for the south side of town.

  “I’m going to head into town and grab some coffee.” Dave glances at the dashboard clock. “What’s still open after midnight?”

  “I’m visiting, actually. I don’t really know the place,” Jennifer says.

  “Oh.” Dave hesitates at the end of the long, winding exit road. He turns left. There’s a cluster of homes, businesses, shops, and then the ocean. Jennifer sees the lighthouse Nik was always talking about. The long, dark shape with lights on it must be Quadra Island.

  “You can let me off here,” Jennifer says.

  “Here? Are you sure?” Dave looks around. There are no other cars or people. He stops by the side of the road.

  “Thanks for the ride.” She gives the door a hard slam and limps toward the ocean. She hears Dave drive away and feels something hard underfoot. In the shadowy light she sees a path winding along the shore. The sea walk Nik told her about. It’s her best guess and she knows she could be wrong. She’s never pursued anyone before, though she’s well used to steeling herself against people — men — who wanted her. The illusion of her. Nik was different, disarming. Fragile, like her, though he never tried to hide that fact. And he was a dreamer, like her, but he painted his dreams.

  She knows if she follows the sea walk she’ll find the park. But which way? She turns to her right and then to her left, guesses, turns right again. Walks for a few minutes, turns around, heads back the other way. She sees the dark shapes of wooden carvings, small totem poles. Dark piles of driftwood line the shore. She rounds one corner then another, limps past a huge hulking boulder perched on the beach like a prehistoric egg. A little farther down the path she sees a couple of old motels, a gas station, houses, and condos. There are lights up ahead. Finally there’s a sign on the path. The shape of it — something she can’t read in the dark. But there’s an open area with tall, shadowy trees. A car drives past and its headlights illuminate the parking lot. She hears the sound of the waves crashing against rock.

  She feels grass under her feet now. She can’t see — it’s like being on a darkened stage the moment before the performance begins. She remembers Nik telling her about the circles of memorial stones in the park and stays in the middle of the open area to make sure she doesn’t disturb any of the stones, any of the sleepers. She shivers as cold wind whips off the water.

  Her foot hits something. She leans down to touch it. It’s damp driftwood. Her hands guide her over an old log. She sits down, looks out at the shimmering water. Every once in a while she hears a random splash. She watches a solitary boat make its way through the strait. The radiating gleam of the lighthouse is hypnotizing. Clouds scud across the sky and uncover the moon.

  She watches another small boat go by, curious about the where and why of its night time mission, and shivers, reminded of Leo. Thugs on the water. The coast’s clandestine trade routes. Her leg throbs. She knows in a few hours it will be shooting darts of sharp pain. She’ll need antibiotics. She doesn’t want to go through that again. She had the other dancers from the company to lean on the first time. They were kind when she was injured, and patient as the infection took hold.

  In the white spotlight of the moon she can see the rocks leading down to the beach, toward the water. The ocean is like an old friend. She stands and makes her way across a wobbling shelf of beach stones, concentrating on each step until she feels the soft squelch of sand underfoot. The waves roar in her ears. She walks into the water up to her knees. It’s liquid ice. She forgets about her throbbing ankle and knee, wants to go deeper, but her feet are stuck in the sand. She lifts her hands and clutches her forehead. She holds her breath, ready to duck under. A big wave surges and splashes around her, nearly knocking her over. The moon dazzles over the ocean. A spotlight. She steps back. Then again, until she’s standing on the beach, drenched up to her shoulders. There are tracers in her eyes — dashes of light that aren’t really there. Then a ball of orange fire in the sky. And dancing.

  When the stage lights go out she follows the choreography with her arms, moving her head, shoulders, ribcage, hips. Then her legs. She is a tree in the wind, leaves and branches shaking out a rhythm. She is a skipping stone cascading across waves.

  When she opens her eyes again there’s seaweed in her hair. Her nose nudges a cold, slimy rock. She realizes she passed out — wasn’t dancing at all. There was no sea stage. She shivers and half crawls, half creeps up the rocks back to her original driftwood perch. Her wet hair drips down the back of her neck. Sea water stings her eyes. She sits on the log and pulls her legs up, hugging them to her chest with both arms. She finds her bag and rummages through, looking for a lighter. She finds a matchbook at the very bottom and lights one, thinking she might start a fire, but all the wood is too damp. So she sits there, remembering, lighting each match in the book then blowing them out like dreams.

  Sunrise is a gradual shift from black to charcoal, from charcoal to dull grey. Jennifer sits up and watches the foam of the waves burst and bubble around the rocks. The tide is in, the sandy ledge now flooded and obscured. A seagull appears, swoop
ing then landing in the waves, paddling then diving under. Resurfacing, pecking at stones, flying away. She watches for eagles, herons, seals, and whales.

  She stares out across the strait. The lighthouse looks much smaller now than it did in the darkness. She thinks about her life as a professional dancer. Endings. The pulsing sensation of her own blood. The sharpness of the pain in her leg. Seagulls squawk. The sound of the waves, the wind, then voices.

  Jennifer turns, but doesn’t see anyone. She stands, steps over the soggy log, up onto the grass, and hides behind a tree at the edge of the park. Now she can see the circles of stones. She wants to go look at them, but stays rooted in place. Two figures emerge from around the bend, following the sea walk. An elderly couple. The woman looks a little unsteady on her feet. Her hands are shaking. The man guides her by the arm. Then Nik rounds the corner. Jennifer grips the bark of the tree. Sticky sap, then splinters. She falls to her knees, too spellbound to notice the sharp burst of pain in her leg.

  Nik is wearing a new sweater. A charcoal grey-and-black one that looks hand-knit. There’s colour in his face that wasn’t there before. His hair looks tidier. Someone’s given him a haircut. Jennifer thinks he looks like himself again — but weathered. The elderly man spreads something out on the park bench and the elderly woman sits down, her back and shoulders as straight and correct as a dancer’s. There’s something dignified about the way she holds herself. Nik walks over to her and Jennifer sees that when he’s beside the woman he stands taller, too. Jennifer knows the woman is Nik’s grandmother.

  Nik’s grandmother points at something beneath a tree and Nik goes over to it, crouching down for a better look. He picks up a picture frame, dusts the sand and dirt off it, and hands it to her. The man walks over to the place under the tree and pokes at the stones with his cane, saying something Jennifer can’t quite hear. Nik looks around, then walks toward a small metal garbage can by the park’s sign. He grabs it, heads back to the tree, and starts dropping the stones into it, one by one. Jennifer watches him and from somewhere deep within feels her body begin to shake. This is Nik’s own memorial. He picks up something that looks like a plaque, and then something cylindrical, like a fancy jar. Both go in the bin. Then he picks up the can, struggling a bit under its weight. For a moment Jennifer thinks he’s headed in her direction, but he turns the opposite way, stepping down over the beach stones to a circular bay created by a large embankment of rocks she couldn’t see last night in the darkness. Nik heaves the contents of the can into the bay with a huge splash. His grandmother claps her gloved hands together and the man smiles, wipes his brow with an oversized cloth handkerchief. Jennifer shifts farther back behind the edge of the tree so Nik won’t see her as he’s walking back.

  Jennifer waits a beat before looking around the tree again. Nik is standing at the edge of the park, staring out at the ocean with such intensity that she wants to see what he’s looking at. She looks down at her piece of driftwood — her nighttime encampment. Her dance bag is still there, within Nik’s view. He nods at it, in subtle acknowledgement. Then he lifts his gaze to the lighthouse and the mountains on the horizon. He turns back toward his grandmother.

  Nik sits down on the bench beside her and the top of her head touches his shoulder. His grandmother’s friend stands behind them, both hands resting on the handle of his cane.

  Jennifer can’t break the spell, Nik’s magic. She waits behind the tree. Watching Nik with his family feels like an intrusion to her, like staring through the windows of their living room. She lets the dream of it unfold like cinema, wondering if it’s real or exhaustion. A feverish hallucination. She crouches down at the base of the tree until she no longer hears the rise and fall of their quiet voices. She looks out from behind the tree again and sees the elderly man take Nik’s grandmother’s arm gently in his as he leads her around the corner, back on the path, heading home. And then the trio is gone. Jennifer thinks about how Nik’s grandmother will make him dinner later, daydreaming about how he will relax, curled up under a warm blanket, all the tension in his face dissipating in comfort. She thinks about that — a sense of home — a place where one feels calm and cared for. She had looked for that — and found it — onstage.

  She steps out from behind the tree and looks out at the water, listening to the sound of the waves crashing violently and repeatedly onto rocks, pummelling them out, and slowly over time eroding them to stones. If she read Nik’s tarot right now, she knows she would see that his grandmother never gave up on him. The whole time he was away — disappeared, lost, given up for dead — she was knitting him that sweater.

  Jennifer hobbles toward the log to retrieve her dance bag. She knows she needs to get to a doctor and try to heal her leg. But she sits on the log and pulls both legs up again, hugging them to her chest with both arms, the injured one swollen, throbbing, and hot to the touch. Then she rests her forehead on her knees immersing herself in her own waves, the peculiar noise of her own voice rising and falling somewhere outside her body.

  She feels her hair move gently away from her face and thinks it’s the wind. When she finally lifts her head again she sees Nik sitting beside her on her piece of driftwood. She wonders, at first, if he is a ghost. One of her illusions. But when she rests her hand on the top of his thigh it feels admirably solid. It’s real. He circled back for her. And she does not want to let go.

  Acknowledgements

  I’m grateful for the reading, advice, support, encouragement, assistance, and writing space from Anar Ali, Chris Andrew, Irene Andrew, William Andrew, Artscape, Linda Bec, Ryan Bigge, Andy Brown, Susan Bustos, Andrew Daley, Ms. Guidi, The Haylows, Samantha Haywood, Sarah Henstra, Deane Hutchinson, Larissa Kostoff, Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer, Mike Lewis, Meghan Macdonald, L.T.R. McDonald, Maria Meindl, Menalon (Joseph Murray and Lodewijk Vos), Grace O’Connell, Natalie Olsen, the Ontario Arts Council, David Palibroda, Karen Palibroda, Ryan Palibroda, Ron Piovesan, Robyn Read, Heidi Reimer, Rebecca Rosenblum, Saving Gigi, Sarah Selecky, Roey Shemesh, Stephanie Sinclair, Danyl Sobolev, Ania Szado, Conan Tobias, Jessica Westhead, Shannon Whibbs, Liz Worth, Julia Zarankin, the wonderful women of the Toronto Writers’ Salon, and in memoriam, Meg Sircom, who wrote with bravery and honesty for too short a time.

  About the Author

  Suzanne Alyssa Andrew grew up in Campbell River, a coastal community on Vancouver Island. She studied at Carleton University in Ottawa, where she earned a Bachelor of Journalism and a Master of Arts degree in English. Her work has appeared in various print publications including Taddle Creek, OCAD University’s Sketch magazine, The Toronto Star, and Broken Pencil, and in digital film and TV co-productions such as the award-winning interactive documentary The Defector. She lives, writes, and plays bass in Toronto.

  Copyright © Suzanne Alyssa Andrew, 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Line excerpted from The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje. Copyright ©1992 Michael Ondaatje. Reprinted by permission of McClelland & Stewart, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company.

  Line from the poem “The Blue Guitar” from The Collected Poems (Vintage Books) copyright © 1923/1982 by Wallace Stevens and Holly Stevens and reprinted with the permission of Penguin Random House.

  Editor: Shannon Whibbs

  Design: Colleen Wormald

  Cover Design: Natalie Olsen, Kisscut Design

  Cover Image: © rehvolution.de/photocase.com

  Epub Design: Carmen Giraudy

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Andrew, Suza
nne Alyssa, author

  Circle of stones / Suzanne Alyssa Andrew.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4597-2934-6 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-4597-2935-3 (pdf).--

  ISBN 978-1-4597-2936-0 (epub)

  I. Title.

  PS8601.N4497C57 2015 C813’.6 C2014-904988-9 C2014-904989-7

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