by Sheree Fitch
“Don’t have one.” I wasn’t about to tell her about Skye. “You’re starting to sound like a shrink and a preacher. Are we even close to where we’re going?”
“I am. But you—you’ve got a ways yet.” That was just plain sarcastic. “Whatever,” I said, being sarcastic right back. Shut her up. We both stared straight ahead.
I started thinking of my mother dead, and Skye pregnant, and what a baby—ours—would look like. But I didn’t want a baby. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Skye obviously didn’t want mine. But what if it was her mother’s idea? Maybe that was it and why Skye wasn’t answering my text messages. All of a sudden, Rita, still staring straight ahead, lurched forward and opened her mouth. She had a wild look in her eyes and began to speak in a language I didn’t understand at first. Then she spoke in English, as if I wasn’t there.
j
Death is sad for loved ones but the dead find ways to speak they speak through time they sneak up through stories leap up from pages of books dance in spaces between words in lines of poetry or the notes of a song whisper in the rustling leaves of trees and the rush of waves humming through land lines you hear them mingling in lingering radio waves in full-blast static you can hear them roaring in wind the deceased deliver messages essential to the living they beam luminescent to the most quiet receptive souls in codes dreams visions small talk in the dark you can find their spirits anywhere—libraries schools churches temples a lonely country road the tundra in caverns and caves the prairies your own house sometimes they reach right into your living room where you sit all cozied up on the sofa and so there you are in your flannel pajamas—nibbling on popcorn watching your show and a dead one reaches right out of that television monitor grabs you by the ankles and yanks you down into that darkness and hell-hole or so it seems these days dead ones speak through the breaking news most often heartbreaking news you’ve got a range of tragedies to pick from at any given moment there’s no end to calamity horror random acts of evil intentional crimes of men women and even children freak events of nature and perhaps though some would argue this punishment from angered or aggrieved gods think of it there are terrorist attacks school shootings car chases bomb blasts hostage takings assassinations plane crashes boats sinking epidemics pandemics exotically named airborne monster viruses flesh-eating and other diseases salmonella poisoning somewhere a famine and yes yet another war then think of those bridges collapsing and sinkholes appearing the highway collisions the lost and the missing human stampedes hurricanes avalanches earthquakes mudslides brush fires tsunamis floods genocides homicides suicides death by lightning not to mention cougar attacks heart attacks maulings by bears bites of venomous snakes all coiled and curled—yes cold death awaits.
She drew a deep breath.
“Jezzuz,” I said. She said nothing. “You smoking drugs in that pipe?” I asked. It was a joke. She didn’t laugh. The sooner she was out of my car the better off I’d be. Still she didn’t answer.
“Depressing shit,” I said when she started humming again. “And you know what? I’m depressed enough. Get out.” I stopped the car. She didn’t budge. Ignored me totally.
“Tough for you young folks today, death in your face so much, but then it’s depressing only if you think it’s the end—and besides, I’m also a midwife, so I get to usher in new life, too. It balances out the sadness of people’s passing.”
“You deliver babies?” That caught me off guard.
“Uh-huh. They call me Granny Rita, too.”
All of a sudden I wanted her to tell me—everything. Everything about what that was like—about babies and labour and how all that worked. And what it was like to hold a newborn just seconds after it was born. I wanted to tell her I was scared and on my way to Halifax to find my pregnant girlfriend. I wanted to ask her if abortion was wrong and who got to decide and if it was killing a person. I wanted to know if she helped those souls pass through to somewhere else. If there was a heaven for all those unborn babies. Seemed like she’d know. I was too damn embarrassed to ask. Besides, I felt my chest squeeze in like an accordion against my ribs. I was afraid if I started to talk, I’d start to cry, and if I started to cry, I’d maybe never stop.
k
“There,” she said. “Over there. Through that gate. We’re almost there.”
There was a circle of eight small houses; lights glowed in the dark just beyond an archway made of twigs. I eased in, wondering if I’d ever come out again and if I was kissing goodbye every chance of getting to Skye before midnight.
“Park there,” Rita said, looking around. I obeyed, but made sure my door was locked.
“So see ya,” I said, like I was in control.
“You get back to the main road in five minutes if you take the other exit, heading east, to leave. Won’t be too far before you come to a truck stop. You need gas.”
Old Eagle Eyes didn’t miss much, I thought, glancing at my gas gauge. Then WHOMP! A thump at my window. I jumped nearly out of my seat. A mittened hand started rubbing away the frost. Then a frickin’ alien-looking face pressed against the window, yeah, a Roswell-looking ET-headed thing, but as it scraped though the ice, the creature morphed into a woman in a parka. She jumped back when she got a load of me, then ran to the other side, opened the door and hugged Rita.
“You’re here!” she said. They switched into their language. The younger woman stared at me as Rita spoke.
“Thank you for bringing Rita here safely,” she said finally, wiping her eyes. “My son really needs her. So do we. His time is near.”
“How old’s your son?” I blurted out.
“Nine,” she said.
“I’m very sorry,” I said.
And I was. I really was and you maybe think that’s a bit weird because I never knew them at all but when you know what it’s like to lose someone you loved that much, needed that much, you can almost feel the hole in another’s heart and it’s sad because it is and because you know that pit will get deeper, because that time heals saying is bullshit; time just gives you more time to know you’ll miss them forever. I heard soft drum-beating from inside the house and I felt like I do when I’m alone in my room with a song on the radio that makes my throat feel like someone pressed on my Adam’s apple with their thumb.
“He will soon be free,” she replied.
Rita said something to her and it sounded beautiful. Like a kind of lullaby. I had a flash: babies rocking in the boughs of trees. Down’ll come baby cradle and all. My mother’s voice?
“This is for you,” said Rita. “For my driver.”
She reached in her basket, held out her palm. Three rocks glinted up at me. One was an egg-shaped rock. On it was carved an eight-pointed star.
“This one’s for direction,” she said, “and other things—things you will discover as you unravel the mystery you are. And know your gifts. I think they are many. Remember, the only soul you can save is your own soul. And this one is for protection. It’s fluorite. Hold it.” It was warm in my palm. “And this one, selenite, is to give to the girl you love.”
This sent shivers up my spine and I wondered if she’d read my mind, too. “I’m just a receiver with a big antenna,” she said, as if in reply.
I took the rocks. “Thanks,” I said.
“Travel wisely,” she said.
“And, Jake,” she said, just before she closed the door, “keep on singing.”
“How did you kno—?”
She only smiled.
“Wait!” I said. “Just a second. I have a question…you said you can smell when death’s close by? What does it smell like?”
“A mix between sea sage and sweetgrass. Burnt hair when other spirits are around, too. You have to train your senses.”
The two women huddled against the storm and leaned against each other for support as they walked up the steps into the small house. I tucked the rocks inside my pant-leg pocket and set out for the main road. The snow had stopped. For the first time that day I felt I was making
progress.
Who was she? A figment of my imagination? Then what about the rocks? They were real. A ghost? A spirit? An angel? A shaman? You never know. You just never know.
When I rounded a corner the full moon was shining.
l
There’s a real honest to God piece of the moon in a stained-glass window in the Washington National Cathedral. Now unless you knew what it was, you’d probably just think it was part of another inspiring praise-be-to-Jesus design. Ever wonder if Jesus got to know how much of a fuss was made over him after he was crucified? All the art and the music and prayers and songs and arguments, too? All the fighting in his name? I used to ask my mother after she died, when she visited, if she ever met the guy. She never answered me, just looked at me, eyes sad as rain, like she missed me as much as I missed her. Anyhow, the moon in the window at the cathedral doesn’t even look like a rock, more like a small disc of clear white glass, set in a ruby red orb. New word: Orb. Translate: A kind of circle. I would have passed right by without ever knowing how close I was to the moon myself except for on the first day on our first scheduled stop on that Washington tour the guide pointed to the space window and explained about the moon rock. I was pretty damn impressed. I stared up at the window, squinting as the sunlight streamed through the glass. There was this splash of colour, like when you look into a kaleidoscope, light bouncing off the floor, hundreds of dancing rainbows. Frickin’ beeuteeful. I looked back up at the window. For a half a second I pictured a one-eyed God winking down on us dazzled by the gag-me ugly lime green T-shirts Shep made us wear. Poplar Hills High in black letters on the front. The word “Hills” stretched out perfectly over every girl’s chest. (Have to love that. Irony, right? O those hills were a-live.) Teddy said it best: “All those pretty titties. Sooo lime-green luscious.” In any case, there was no chance of Shep losing one of her sheep, and that was exactly what I felt like at times.
“All we need is a rope to tie us together and we’ll be mistaken for a bunch of kindergartners,” I’d griped to Teddy.
“Wudya stop with your bitching? The gargoyles are next,” Teddy replied, his eyes glazed with excitement. “Did you know they got a Darth Vader gargoyle somewhere round here? No shit!” His voice echoed and he got a few startled looks from passersby.
“Teddy,” said Shep, “if you don’t mind, we are in a church. Don’t curb your enthusiasm. Just watch your language. This way, next.”
The thing of it is, I got really obsessed about that moon rock. I started wondering about the astronaut who brought it back, about the guy who designed the window. Did he get to touch it? What about the worker who put the window in? Did he go home that day and say to his kid, “Guess what Daddy did today. I got to touch the moon”? I’ve tried and tried and tried to write a song about that moon rock but never finished.
half baked ideas half jake me.
nuthin’s ever over
i’m stuck at abc
123
but’d i’d be skye high happy
if you loved me.
m
Wednesday near midnight. Neon lights lit up the road ahead. There was a bloody pink tinge to the snow in the gas and truck stop parking lot. The smell of eggs and bacon grease mingled with coffee grinds and toast greeted me when I went in to pay. There was a lull in the clang and clatter of forks and knives. The few customers there looked up at me, too bored to smile maybe, and returned to their food and conversation.
I perched on a swivel stool at the counter, a chrome model with torn red vinyl seats. The whole place looked like it was frozen in a time warp somewhere long before my father had been born. Some kind of long, slow country tune was playing, the guitar whining like a long-lost lover, and I couldn’t help it, but the music made me think of Skye.
“What can I do you for?” buddy behind the counter said, slamming his hand down on the counter in front of me. A hand the size of T-bone steak. He was built like a cast-iron pot-bellied stove; his biceps looked like one-humped camels rested between his elbow and shoulder.
“Storm’s calmed down some, eh, what? Just a little piss o’ snow in the end. Those weather guys get everyone all excited with their predictions of storms. Coffee?” he asked, but didn’t wait for my answer as he was already pouring. He slipped a paper placemat over to me and plunked down a fork and knife and spoon.
“I just want to pay for my gas and get a few directions,” I said, checking my cell. I spread out a map. If you think words and numbers snaking along a page are hard to decipher and make my eyeballs ache and my stomach flippy, then imagine what a map does to me. All I see are veins and arteries, a psycho-scribble. Clusters of earthworms in bait jars.
“Where ya goin’?” buddy asked, leaning over my shoulder, nodding.
“Halifax,” I said. “If the weather holds.”
“Where’d ya come from?” he said.
“Poplar Hills,” I said.
He placed a steaming cup of coffee down. “Drink,” he said. “There’s refills, too, if you want.”
“Thanks. So can you tell me how to get to Hali? Fastest way possible?”
“Forget the map—I’ll draw you one. Simple.” He reached for a napkin and started to draw.
I tipped him pretty good. Not good enough. Later he’d tip off the police. He’d tell them I was jittery, in a hurry. He’d tell them, and so would the others in there, that he saw me sitting for a spell in the car after I left the place. And he’d say he saw me reading a bunch of pages with a magnifying glass. True enough. But he’d say for certain I was muttering to myself like a crazy man. A killer in the making. New word: Circumstantial. Translate: The way things appear to be. Unless you know. New word: Incriminating. Translate: Damned to hell.
Well, I did read in that parking lot and it was enough to make any guy mad.
Today Jake told me whole days of his life were lost, not that he was in a cave, but that he was the cave. Like the caverns, he said, filled with jagged shards, a big hole. He said dark swallowed him and he didn’t really know why but it was like he was drinking the dark, drop by drop, and that was what it was like when he was drinking. I didn’t tell him about that time because he probably wouldn’t want to remember. It was so awful and sad and I almost wrote him off as a lost cause. It was on Main Street and it was raining—the sky was a smoky purple colour. There he was with Teddy, staggering towards me. He waved, “Sccchye,” he called out to me. “Schhyyeee.” It was more like a whine. I got close enough to see the dribble on his chin, his lost eyes, his mud-stained knees. He was such a mess. But I could see something else too—his pain. I saw a cave for sure, I did, but it was one overflowing with hidden treasure. So I didn’t tell him today that it’s taken a while for me to erase the image of him that night. Didn’t dare tell him that as I walked away he said—“Come back, Scchye. I love you. I loved you forever.” He’s never told me that—not even since we’ve been together. Why is it so hard for guys? Does he love me? I wish he’d say the words one of these days. Then—well, then I could say them right back. Whisper in his ear. “Jake, I love you. I love you, Jake. I’ve always loved you too.” But I’m too afraid. Scare him off. They say guys only want sex anyhow. I can’t help it—I don’t think it’s just about the sex with us. Am I like one of those girls who think they can change a guy? Doesn’t love heal? Am I kidding myself?
I slapped the binder shut, revved up the engine and blew out of that place.
n
It happened so fast. Black ice, the yellow eyes of some animal. I slammed on the brakes and the car’s back end fishtailed and I was spinning, spinning—in a perfect three hundred and sixty degree turn. It’s the kind of thing I would have loved to watch in a movie maybe but it is not so much damn fun when you’re the one in the car. It was like falling inside a giant whirlpool. Around, around. I veered onto the shoulder, swerved and heard a sickening thud. The car nose-dived into a ditch, over an embankment and kept sliding, sliding, sliding.
o
“Can’t we let folks
know we’re going out?” I said. “No. N-O. See it as a clandestine affair,” Skye said. “Undercover, like Romeo and Juliet.” I wasn’t amused. “Fancy word. That word clandestine sounds like some sort of sexually transmitted disease. And Romeo and Juliet? Hello! He wore leotards and some poofy thing round his neck. I am so not Romeo. Besides, look how those two ended up. You’re ashamed to be seen with me is all. Admit it.”
“That’s not it, not at all.” We were at her house, her folks were out of town. She put a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.
“Sweet Skye, how could’st thou lips, thou lips so sweet, speak such false words commit such deceit?” See, Miss Skye Derucci? Your boy-toy, Jake Upshore, when he puts his mind to it, is a clever rhyming tease of a boyfriend. “Not bad,” she said. Encouraged, I rolled on. “I’m just your loose Father Goose Dr. Seuss rapper toe-tapper Romeo boy-toy. I’m just your underground clanDEStine but I wannabe your out in the open Valentine, oo-ah, oo-ah.” I shrugged in time with the words and snapped my fingers. Then I stopped. “I’m serious, you know.”
“I know. And you know it’s my father, I admit that, Jake—he says you’re a troublemaker, a born troublemaker, somewhat of a…” She got this guilty look.
“A what? A what? Go on, say it.”
“A juvenile delinquent.” She swallowed the words.
“Me? A jooveenile delinkquant?” I crossed my eyes but I wasn’t laughing anymore. I went on one of my raging tangents. “A born troublemaker, eh? Well, now how could a little baby be trouble from the get-go? I’m an odd duck all right, a smartass, a misfit, a mutant, a mutt. A guy who knows nothing about nothing and something about nothing and everything about being a nothing but I’m bright if not a genius just no freakin’ good at sitting still, therefore lousy in school. I am a ‘visual learner,’ they say, yeah, well, make that an audio-visual learner and certain words and facts stick to me like those magnetic filings suck onto a magnet—ask me about planets, ask me about the War of 1812, ask me about the making of beer, ask me about famous fires, ask me about Africville. I’m good with my hands, quick on my feet and know how to talk my way out of any ordinary Houdini underwater tank. Not that I’m braggin’, much. That’s my quick version of my psychological psycho profile. Volatile, one shrink called me. Split personality, said Pritchard, the principal, as if he’d know, the tight-arse he is, well, he is, walking around like a two-by-four’s rammed up his—sorry—like he’s the headmaster in some British boarding school and where the hell did that accent ever come from is what I want to know. Where did he come from? Undercover narc is what he is. Unpredictable, say the other teachers about me. That Jake’s a snake. A loose cannon. Ask me about cannons. The fact is people like your father only get one piece of the puzzle a person is and then fill in the rest to suit themselves.” My voice had risen. “Jake. Don’t get riled up. Please. Come here. Kiss me,” Skye said. But I’d worked myself into a fervour, until, well, yes, her kiss soothed me. Funny how that works, she can work me up or calm me down. I inhaled, making a sound like sucking air through a straw, and let out a long, ragged sigh. “Why don’t you tell your old man it’s more like I’m a zigzag kind of person? Two steps forward twenty back. Never really advancing—travelling sideways.” I moved side to side as I said this, my weight was on my elbows. Skye was beneath me. We forgot all about anyone other than ourselves. Make love not war.