Catching the Light

by Susan Sinnott

  “Maybe we need something like this.” Raylene thumbed through a stylebook and held it up. “It would suit your face, don’t you think?” It looked a bit too…different for her mom to approve of, but by now she wasn’t taking any notice. And Cathy actually enjoyed watching the cutting, seeing a shape come out of the mess like a sculpture. She’d never thought of hair as a medium before. And Raylene’s makeup: that faint dab of colour bringing out the cheekbones—no, not a dab, a trace—and the pencil lines making her eyebrows thicker. You could do that kind of thing on portraits. Must look at her cousin Annie’s fashion magazines.

  Less than an hour later they were walking back to the truck, Cathy stroking her hair, feeling the smoothness, and her mom saying she wasn’t sure about this.

  “Let’s wait and see what it looks like a week from now,” she said.

  And when the week was up Mom said it was still messy but not as bad as usual and maybe she’d make another appointment in February.

  Bottom Gear

  Three in the morning and his thoughts were still doing laps. Hutch lay on his back watching moon shadows slide across the ceiling.

  What he hadn’t said to Jack, didn’t think he ever could, was how bad he felt about Jenny. She’d been bossy and always so frigging sure she was right, but she was fun and she was the first to ask what was wrong if someone looked a bit down. She’d have made a great nurse. Only they hadn’t got along those last few weeks because she said Hutch only ever thought about Hutch. And now he could never….

  God. He lined up today’s worries. Paul and Jack had been helping each other and Hutch had done nothing. Nothing. They didn’t understand about his leg but he hadn’t given much thought to them either. And Paul. How come Paul never told him about his and Jenny’s plans? Because Hutch would have scoffed. Maybe he would have scoffed. Definitely. He was always shooting his mouth off about not getting tied down to one girl.

  But Paul wasn’t a crowd person. He never did like too many people, too much noise, too much of anything. And yes, one girl, the right girl…. Hutch sighed and his worries circled back round to himself again. He just couldn’t help it.

  ***

  Before the crash, Hutch’s worst punishment was being grounded and not allowed out in his boat. He’d never minded having to do chores in payment for pranks, but he hated being grounded. And right now his whole life felt grounded. Don’t go there.

  The lumps digging into his back were digging harder. He rolled out of bed and straightened the bottom sheet, hooking the corner back round the mattress where it had pulled off. He shook out the covers and punched his pillow a few times, tried to find a comfortable position on his side.

  How long did it take? Gramps never got over Grandma Rose. Forty years and he still talked about her as if she sat across the table. And here Hutch was worried about what some girl might think that he hadn’t even met yet.

  Those scars were ugly, all the same. Well, the surgical ones weren’t so bad—neat and tidy like pink zippers, with one in a crease so it hardly showed. It was the ragged tears from that piece of metal and from where the bones had poked through that he hated, lumpy and red.

  At least his equipment was in working order. Dad had asked him about that his first week home. They’d been alone in the house, standing in the kitchen, Hutch cooking hot dogs for the two of them and the kitchen full of that boiled-wiener smell. Dad was back on, looking out the window, and afterwards Hutch realized there had been something about his stillness that had a feel of the woods just before the snow starts.

  “Haven’t lost your nature, have you?”

  “No! God no.”

  And Dad said it wouldn’t matter if he had, he was still a man and not to worry. But he had been worried, you could tell.

  ***

  Just after the New Year Hutch wrote to Paul:

  Hope a change of scene and being out of the province make things easier. Saw Jack at Christmas and he’s hanging in there. Feels better being away. Found Christmas hard, like you would. I’ve filled out my application for MUN again and I might look at computer science but I don’t know. The Marine Institute is out but I haven’t given up on geology yet. I’ll see how things go.

  Let me know how you’re doing when you have time.

  Hutch

  So there it was in black and white: he was not going to the Marine Institute. But he still might go out on the boats one day. And later that week Paul called, gave Hutch his Nova Scotia number, and told him about the house his folks had bought.

  “Old and creaky and the plumbing clanks,” he said, “but it’s great.” Paul had the top floor to himself and the apartments downstairs were rented to students. “There’s one room on my floor that we didn’t rent because it’s so tiny. Can touch both walls at the same time. You could have it for next to nothing if you came to Halifax. Why don’t you apply to Dal?”

  ***

  Then he was back in school. Hutch had always enjoyed school because all his friends were there—now they weren’t. Not that he didn’t know this crowd—he knew the whole school—but he had no best buddies. He couldn’t join in a lot of the talk because he hadn’t been at this hockey practice or that volleyball game or the last hike with cadets. So he just listened. You need an audience as much as a performer, but it wasn’t half the fun.

  Endings

  Exams filled Cathy’s head in those last months of grade twelve. And she worked—oh, how she worked—going over the set books with Sarah, going through old exam papers Mrs. Elliot gave her and having Sarah check them afterwards. They all said she was doing everything at grade twelve level now, just had to take her time. Don’t worry about it. But when you can’t write fast it makes timed tests some hard. Hated it when she didn’t finish.

  There was no time to paint although she would do a few quick sketches last thing at night to make her brain switch off. Mom kept chasing her out for a walk, said she was taking the polish off the floor with all that pacing. Then she graduated.

  She, Cathy Russell, was a High School Graduate.

  ***

  It felt a bit like an end of everything when Sarah left, although Cathy was not as sad as she would have been before all the trouble. Sarah left before Cathy had heard back from either art school and Cathy’s stomach was in a knot for weeks. Dad was back in Labrador, and she wasn’t able to apply for a student loan until she had proof of acceptance. And she was trying to keep out of Mom’s way because Mom was still upset about her going away. Upset wasn’t the right word. Maybe there wasn’t a right word. Mom was just worried about her and part of Cathy knew she just wanted the best for her but the other part wished she would leave her alone and let her get on with life.

  “I was asking Nancy Stuckless up at the church about that bachelor of fine arts…” her mother would start. She was always asking somebody who knew somebody whose daughter/son/nephew had done a BFA and they all said you needed something else as well. “Useless degree, Donna Elliot said.”

  One daughter had done education afterwards and was a teacher now but she was teaching every subject on the curriculum except art. A son was trying to be a photographer on weekends but had to work in construction to pay the rent. The ones in town all had a “day job” in a restaurant or a store or something that didn’t need a degree at all, and the ones round the bay moved back in with their parents because they couldn’t afford anything else.

  “I want to learn everything I can about painting, about art. That’s all I want to do,” Cathy kept saying. “I’ll worry about a job when I’m finished.”

  But Mom was worrying already. Cathy heard her on the phone to Dad in Goose Bay as she came out of her room one night, stopped when she heard her own name—how Cathy wasn’t cut out to be a teacher and she wouldn’t take kindly to rude customers in restaurants and would spill soup on them on purpose and be fired on her first day, and she’d break dishes and march out in a huff an
d nobody would hire her anywhere.

  Cathy didn’t know what Dad said but there was a lot of “yes but—” at this end and “well, I know that,” and then, “of course I’ll support her. I’m her mother aren’t I?” There was some listening and agreeing and, at the end, “I’m just saying.”

  ***

  But the Sarah thing was much worse and it all blew up out of nowhere.

  Cathy had gone to Sarah’s house with a painting—an end-of-grade-twelve-and-thank-you-for-everything gift. It was of Sarah in the garden in her old floppy gardening hat, on her knees with a trowel, Dog flat out in the background. Sarah had been so happy with it, rushing about showing it to anyone and everyone. And everything was perfect.

  Then Sarah told her that she had been offered a one-year position at Memorial, and she and Dr. Brooks would be moving soon. Dr. Brooks had his pick of family practices in St. John’s because so many doctors were retiring. And her job offer at the university was probably all due to Cathy and the case study and wasn’t that wonderful?

  “What case study?”

  Oh, just how Cathy demonstrated this type of supplementary teaching—reading difficulties interfering with learning. They wanted someone with those interests. Academic paper…no names, of course. Absolutely no names.

  So Cathy asked if she could read it. Read it through twice and said she didn’t want other people reading that. Did Not. Yes, she could see how it made Cathy out to be smart now. But it said she couldn’t use a dictionary at the start. Fourteen and couldn’t even use a dictionary. It said she’d struggled with grade three readers, couldn’t write a sentence. It showed she’d been Functionally Illiterate.

  No, she knew Sarah never used those exact words but everybody would know she had been. Sure, everybody in Mariners Cove already knew she’d failed, that she’d been dumb back then. But they knew different now. What if someone at art school read Sarah’s paper? And no, it didn’t mention her name, but it said “small rural town” and that she planned to do a BFA. People would guess it was her.

  Well, if Sarah thought someone wouldn’t read it, she didn’t know Newfoundland. Give it a few months and everyone would know. Everyone would be calling her Lighthouse and Crazy Cathy again. Cathy wanted to start off fresh, be just like everyone else. So Sarah could not send it to a publisher. She was very sorry, but no.

  But it had already been sent.

  ***

  It threw a shadow over everything: graduation, her chances of going to art school. It even hung over her when she was painting. If she started art school, especially at Grenfell, she’d be forever waiting for someone to say, “Oh, you’re that girl who was functionally illiterate.” Sarah had gone behind Cathy’s back. Sarah said it was her work she was writing about, not Cathy specifically. But it was Cathy.

  Cathy had tried to explain how she felt used, like she was a free sample or something, only she got in a muddle saying stuff. It wasn’t fair. Said stupid things too, like that bit about the dandelion. It was because Sarah had talked about “her field” and Cathy said that made her feel like a dandelion, a dumb dandelion: a specimen in an experiment. She’d been pleased with that word, specimen—Sarah wasn’t the only one with good words—but then she’d been so sidetracked thinking about the word that she forgot what she was saying. And Sarah said Cathy wasn’t listening and Cathy said Sarah wasn’t either and they both spoke at the same time then neither of them.

  ***

  Cathy avoided Sarah after that but a letter came from her a few days later. Guess Sarah was avoiding Cathy too. She didn’t tell her mother. Cathy always picked up the mail when Dad was gone. She almost tore it up, would have done a few days before, but she was more sad than angry by then. Just wished it hadn’t happened.

  Dear Cathy,

  I’m so sorry you were upset…I wouldn’t want to upset you for the world. And I really don’t think anyone will recognize you from that article, although I know you disagree.

  I was trying to explain what worked for you so it might help other people wondering about the same thing. It’s only lately teachers (and people like me who just want to help) are discovering reading and writing problems early enough to do something about them. The earlier people with reading difficulties start, the easier it is to catch up.

  Cathy could picture her saying that, her voice all tight, leaning on the counter with her fingers turning white from the pressure. And Cathy—standing with her arms folded, glaring at her feet—squeezing everything in so she wouldn’t fly apart.

  And to prove things were working, I had to show some of the changes you’ve made—and you’ve gone ahead in leaps and bounds, Cathy. You’ve made such amazing changes.

  Well, fine. But Sarah wasn’t the one stuck out there wearing the Dummy label.

  Small journal…few readers.

  Teachers mostly.

  Extremely unlikely.

  Sorry. So sorry.

  Sarah was only sorry Cathy was upset, not sorry she’d sent that paper. She had to have known how Cathy would feel, and she’d sent it anyway. Didn’t tell her until after she’d sent it because she knew. Told her just before she left so she didn’t have to see Cathy much. Sarah just wanted a job. Didn’t care about Cathy.

  Cathy took Sarah’s letter up to the lighthouse. When she hung round the house Mom kept asking what was wrong. Cathy looked down at the water hurling itself at the cliffs below, backing off and trying again. Not for the first time, she tried to picture herself jumping and couldn’t. She tried to remember that desperate feeling of not knowing which way to turn. But it was like trying to remember being freezing cold when you were warm as toast in bed. You could try to think shiver and pain and numb but you couldn’t feel it. And now she couldn’t imagine ever wanting to stop living.

  Sarah didn’t save her. If Cathy had really wanted to jump that day she’d have done it straight away, wouldn’t have hung around thinking about it. She’d have changed her mind about jumping if she’d thought about it—might have hit that beige-looking shelf that ran all round the cliffs just under the water. Looked like it was undulating—Sarah’s word—the way a snail’s rubber foot did, because of the way the waves moved. Not for the first time, Cathy felt dizzy and stepped back.

  She stood in the spot where she’d first seen Sarah. She could still see her, collar turned up and wool hat pulled right down with that hair puffing out round the edges. Sarah had looked all worried—not about academic papers, about Cathy. And Cathy had asked her to help and she had.

  Getting Through

  February, on the anniversary, they held a memorial service at St. David’s. Hutch would rather have remembered Eugene and Jenny alone with Jack, outdoors, but maybe everyone remembering together was good—made you tougher because you had to act strong to get through it.

  He was up there with the choir because everyone had been nagging at him to sing the solo. He’d never been in the choir although the teacher had been after him for years. So here he was in full view while the minister talked about all those things Hutch tried not to think about. The back of his throat ached and his tonsils felt like they were being squeezed up into his nose.

  He thought about meeting the crowd at The Café yesterday—how everyone had been cracking jokes, laughing. Hutch had sipped his hot chocolate and got foam on his top lip, leaned over to Cathy Tizzard and said, “Want to share my drink?” He gave her a kiss so she got foam on her lip too, kind of sideways, and the girls giggled and the guys said woo hoo and he felt like one of the crowd again, just for a moment.

  Half the coast had come to the service, and the townies, except Paul, and the hockey crowd, including Gus Sheppard, who had flown all the way from New York.

  It was so slow getting out. People shuffled down the aisles then log-jammed, nobody moving, digging for things to say when everything had already been said. Hutch felt better at the tea the women had put on across the way—just an
other bystander wrapped round a plate and a Coke. He gripped Jack’s arm as he passed and they nodded to each other without speaking. What else could you do?

  Hutch really missed the gigs at Jack’s. He used to go up there after supper sometimes. The guys all sang but it was Eugene who kept them together with his accompaniments. He’d be crouched over the guitar on that kitchen chair in the corner, foot on an old Sears catalogue, freckly hands sliding up and down the strings. He’d be listening and tightening knobs, ear almost touching the sound box. He could make that thing dance. Hutch wondered what had happened to it. He didn’t think anyone would touch it now. Same with the old Silverado, up on blocks behind the mill.

  Pete had left his old guitar behind when he went off to St. John’s so they all had a go on that one. Sometimes they’d played at weddings out around, Eugene with his own guitar and one of the brothers on the other one. Usually there would be a DJ and they just played when he took his break but now and then they played for a whole wedding. Parents and grandparents were always requesting old stuff like “Wild Rover” and “Old Time Rock and Roll” and “He’ll Have to Go” But they usually managed to play “Wonderwall” for the younger crowd, and maybe a couple of Green Day’s hits like “When I Come Around.”

  Jenny had a fantastic soprano so people kept requesting “I’ll Always Love You,” which went on and on. You could get tired of that song. Jack never sang at the weddings. They called him Jack the Vac because his voice wandered around at the bottom like a vacuum cleaner—which didn’t stop him singing back home when he was in the mood. Proper thing. Never in the mood now.

  ***

  So. There was school and there was family and there was the computer, and more and more Hutch turned to his computer. Even with that he had to mess with chairs to find something that didn’t kill his back and he changed positions a lot. But by the time school ended he was almost enthusiastic about computer science. He had provisional acceptance at both Memorial and Dalhousie.