by James Bow
After a while, there was a soft knock at her door.
“Go away!” she yelled.
The door opened with a click and Rosemary’s mother sidled in. She sat at the edge of her bed and brushed back her daughter’s hair until Rosemary was through crying.
“I’m sorry I shouted at Dad,” said Rosemary at last. “Is he angry?”
“No. Befuddled, but not angry. He muttered something about not understanding women. I’ll have a few words with him about that.”
“And Trish?”
“Not affected at all. She’s playing with her helicopter.”
Rosemary chuckled. “Good ol’ unflappable Trish.” Then she curled up into herself. “I’m so embarrassed! It was like I wasn’t even there. I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out that I was in love with Peter … to my father, no less!”
“Rosemary, dear, that isn’t news to us.”
Rosemary rolled over and looked at her mother. “It’s not?”
Her mother laughed. “It’s plain as day. The whole town knows. Except you two, apparently.”
Rosemary flushed. “I thought they were just teasing us!” She frowned. “Oh, dear.”
Her mother smiled. “It’s about time you saw what was in front of you. That’s why I can tell you that it’s going to be okay.”
“But Mom, I wrote him a letter that told him that I wanted us to just stay friends!”
“Then you’ll just have to tell him otherwise. I’m sure he won’t mind if you change your mind. Peter may not know it, but he loves you as much as you love him. If you’re courageous enough, you’ll get over this rough spot. I think that you two deserve each other.”
She sat up. “You wanted me to date Peter? My best friend?! Moms aren’t supposed to do that! Dad’s teasing was bad enough!”
“Well, your dad might have to change his approach,” said her mother. “Depending on what you two do, there could be a man-to-man talk with Peter in the near future.”
Rosemary winced. “Poor Peter.”
Her mother chuckled. “Your dad does love to play the clichés.” She squeezed Rosemary’s shoulder. “Consider yourself lucky I waited this long. You could have had me matchmaking.”
***
Rosemary spent the rest of the evening reading War for the Oaks by Emma Bull. Finally, at ten, she finished her chapter and cringed. “Poor Eddi.” She marked her place and set the book on her bedside table.
She undressed and slipped into a long t-shirt. She washed and brushed her teeth and, returning, hesitated a moment at her door. Across the hall from her, Theo’s room stood open. Bed made, floor clean, everything so tidy it screamed emptiness.
Maybe I can catch him on instant messenger, she thought. Ask him what to do.
She wrinkled her nose. Ask my older brother for boy advice? We’d hear his screams all the way from Toronto. But I guess it’s less weird than getting boy advice from Mom. Slightly less weird.
She shut the door and stared a moment out her window. The view to the bay was still a sea of grey.
I can figure this out on my own. I’ll talk to Peter tomorrow, she thought. If he doesn’t show up at school, I’ll talk to him at home. I’ll apologize, and then I’ll invite him over for dinner.
And if the first conversation goes well, we’ll have more to talk about. And we’ll need some place to do that alone. Back at his place? Or possibly the woods. Hmm … kissed beside a sink of dirty dishes, or under an autumn canopy? Definitely the woods.
She cast one more glance out her window.
She blinked. A waft of cloud rose from the top of the fog and moved towards her, pushed by a sudden wind, like a white schooner making sail.
She shook her mind clear. Her imagination was playing tricks again.
Rosemary drew the blinds and climbed into bed.
***
Peter jabbed the remote control to turn the television off. The house fell silent. He could hear his breathing again and he knew it was going to keep him awake. But in the end, he decided that bed was the only option. His joints ached from lack of sleep.
After washing and brushing, he slipped into sweatpants and slid under the covers. He spent the next several minutes staring at the ceiling.
“I’m such an idiot,” he said at last.
Rosemary is never going to speak to you again.
I’ve got to call her. Tell her I’m sorry.
It’s one-thirty in the morning. Call her tonight, and she’ll really never speak to you again.
Tomorrow. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. If she’ll let me. Maybe if I corner her at her parents’, she’ll let me.
Peter fluffed his pillow. But sleep still would not come.
Something shone in his eyes: a bright light through the window.
Darn moon, he thought. Must be full. I thought that wasn’t for a whole week. Why now? I’m almost asleep. Let me sleep, moon, please?
“I should have pulled the blinds,” he muttered.
The light faded. Darkness covered his eyes.
“That’s better,” he whispered as sleep took him.
Silhouetted in the moonlight, a feminine form clung to the window frame.
***
There was a sickening thump.
Peter ran for the park gates, screaming for his mom and dad. He slipped on the icy pathway.
Then Rosemary appeared from nowhere and grabbed him before he hit the ground.
The boy of nine stared in awe at the girl of fifteen. She took one look at him and drew him into a close embrace, shushing him gently. Her shoulder was soon wet with his tears.
The shattered light from the ice-covered willow shimmered over them. The frozen branches shifted with wooden clacks. A blurry shape stepped close. Blinking away the wash of tears, Peter saw Fiona standing over Rosemary’s shoulder, her hands on her hips.
Then she vanished into smoke. A dense fog rolled around them, and ice turned into water. Waves lapped against their boat.
Boat?
Yes, they were in a boat, so far out into Georgian Bay that the escarpment was a black smudge on the horizon. Cape Croker’s lighthouse shot a pinprick of light towards them at regular intervals.
Neither had lifejackets. Rosemary sat back and picked up the oar. She cursed under her breath as she tried to pull the boat to shore.
Cape Croker’s foghorn wailed. The shore was vanishing on them, and the boat was taking on water. It soaked Rosemary’s shoes, but not Peter’s. His feet held on the surface of the water. He put a hand to the lake, and the surface held his palm as if it were warm ice.
Six inches were in the boat, now. Rosemary gasped in frustration and fear.
Peter stood up. He could stand up. The boat wasn’t supporting his weight, the water was.
Rosemary squeaked as the water slipped around her waist.
Peter reached out to her.
“No!” she gasped. “Don’t rock the boat! Don’t —”
The boat sank like a stone. Rosemary floundered in the water. Her oar slipped out of reach.
Peter staggered on the undulating surface. He grabbed Rosemary’s wrist, but her head slipped under water. He tried to pull her up, using both hands, but she was a lead weight.
Bubbles seeped from her lips and frothed on the surface. Her hair fluttered like seaweed. Her hand grew cold and slipped from his fingers. She vanished into the depths.
And Peter was left standing, alone, in the middle of the ice-covered wading pool.
Off in the distance, sirens called to him.
***
Peter tangled his feet in the covers and fell hard on his bedroom floor. Cursing, he struggled free and staggered out of his room, down the stairs (missing the last two and barely saving himself on the railing) and into the kitchen where he almost pulled the phone out of the wall. His fingers fumbled over the numbers. It took two tries before he keyed in the right ones.
He twitched as he listened to the connection ringing, three times. Six. Nine. Twelve.
Final
ly, a male voice, gruff with sleep, answered.
“Watson residence.”
“Mr. Watson? Where’s Rosemary?”
There was a pause. “Peter?” said the voice at last.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Please, Mr. Watson. I have to speak to Rosemary!
Have to!”
“She’s asleep, you know. Peter, what’s gotten into you?”
Peter drew a shaky breath. “Please?”
Something in Peter’s voice must have convinced Rosemary’s father, for he said, “Okay, I’ll wake her. But if she comes to breakfast tomorrow grumpy, I’m going to have words with you.” He set down the receiver. Peter could hear him climbing the stairs. There was a tense wait, and then Rosemary’s wispy, sleep-riddled, “Hello?”
“Rosemary!” Peter exclaimed.
“Peter? What is it?”
Peter was now fully awake, and his conscious mind leapt ahead to what Rosemary would say if he told her the reason why he had called. Embarrassment overtook him. But he had to know.
“Peter?” Rosemary repeated, concerned. “Peter, what’s wrong?”
“Are you okay?” he croaked at last.
“Other than being up at ...,” there was a brief pause, “... three-thirty in the morning! Why are you calling me?”
Again, Peter couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“Peter, I’m all right! For God’s sake, what’s wrong? What happened?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just — I just had a bad dream. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Peter, wait —”
Hanging up, he leaned against the kitchen wall and slid to the floor. He held his head in his hands and began to cry.
“Peter.”
He hardly heard the voice. Then a hand touched his shoulder. “Peter, don’t cry.”
He looked up, then let out a startled yell and scrambled back along the floor.
A girl in her late teens sat against the wall, her knees drawn to her chest. She had freckled skin, green eyes, and red hair that cascaded as far down as the small of her back. Her beauty registered in Peter’s mind despite his fear.
“Who … who ...,” he stammered. “How did you ....” Then he realized there was something familiar about this woman, and he gave her a closer look. His eyes widened.
“Fiona?!”
CHAPTER FOUR
THIS MUSIC CREPT BY ME
Rosemary stood staring at the receiver long after Peter hung up, while her sleep-addled brain struggled to think of what to do next. She tried to call Peter back, but got only busy signals. Finally, she gave up, and stood in the centre of her living room.
Should I go over to his place?
No. The idea of heading over to his house at four in the morning seemed ludicrous.
She wobbled on her feet.
Bed. I can’t think out here. I have to think in bed.
Sleep overtook her as she slipped under the covers.
Tomorrow. There will be time to speak to him tomorrow.
At the edge of her consciousness, another voice agreed.
Time enough.
***
Fiona was just as Peter remembered her. She hadn’t aged a day since she’d babysat a nine-year-old boy who’d had a serious crush on her.
She was smiling at him. He remembered that smile.
“Fiona,” Peter breathed. “I haven’t seen you for ....” Not since the accident, he realized. “How did you get in here?”
“You let me in,” said Fiona. “When you called to me in your dream.”
Peter gaped at her.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’ve come to bring you home.”
He was still staring at her. He could feel himself doing it, but he couldn’t help it. She shone like the moon in fog.
She produced a steaming mug and held it out to him. “Coffee?”
It was the furthest thing from his mind. “What?”
“To help you think,” she said.
He took the coffee and gulped it. He gaped at the mug. “Hey, we’re out of coffee! How —”
She drew herself up gracefully. “Peter. Do you really want to ask about the coffee first?”
“Uh ...,” he said. “No, I ....” Then he shook his head until it rattled. “How did you get in here? Who are you? What are you talking about, ‘home’?”
“Home, Peter. To your family.”
“What family? I haven’t got a family, except for ....” He didn’t say his uncle’s name. “What are you talking about?”
“Your real family, Peter. Our family. We have lived in the water, the shoreline our playground, since before people settled here. You are one of us. You are not human.”
“Excuse me?!”
“Come on, Peter. You know you don’t belong here. I’ve watched you. You play their games; you pass their tests; you live among them — but you are not one of them. Can’t you feel it?”
Peter took a breath to contradict her, then stopped.
She’s nuts, he told himself. But … but she knew about my dream. She’s been in my dreams, and now here she is in front of me. Maybe I’m nuts. Would I even know?
“Keep talking,” he found himself saying.
“We put you with your parents,” she replied. “Your parents’ real baby was stillborn. We switched you with their child.”
“Why?”
“To spare them their loss,” she replied, “and to give you the benefits of a human upbringing.”
Peter’s eyes glazed over as he pictured it: his parents, not really his parents, smiling and cooing over his infant self. Living with them, being human, growing older.
A horn blared. A pickup truck slid forward, its wheels locked. There was a sickening thump.
Peter shuddered.
“I’ve been looking for you since we realized you were alone,” said Fiona. “I’ve looked for years.” There was something wrong about what Fiona said, but Peter couldn’t process it. As much as he tried, his mind grew foggy.
“And now,” said Fiona, “I can bring you home.”
“Home,” he said, and shook his head.
“The water is your home. You belong with us.”
He almost laughed but was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop. “What, I can’t just visit for Christmas and Easter?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look,” said Peter. “This is crazy. I’m not going anywhere with you. I can’t go live in the lake. I belong here.”
Her lips tightened. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
Her emerald eyes bored into him. His uncle’s phone message echoed in his mind, and he thought of the silence of many nights alone. Then he remembered the bitter singe of Rosemary’s letter, and his words started to sound hollow to his ears.
“I can’t go. How am I going to explain where I’m going?”
“Don’t explain. Just go.”
“But my friends will miss me,” said Peter. “Like Benson and Joe and … and … and then there’s Rosemary.”
She smiled at him sadly. “Ah, yes, Rosemary. Is she all that you want her to be?”
Peter bit his lip. After a moment, he said, “She’d miss me if I left.”
She smiled, but there was a shadow behind her eyes. “Then you had better get ready for school, and see your friends.”
“What —”
A flash made Peter turn around. He had to shield his eyes against the light streaming through the front windows. It couldn’t be morning already, could it?
He turned back, but Fiona was gone. He sat alone, a cold cup of coffee by his hand.
His clock radio turned on in his room.
The house echoed with emptiness.
***
Rosemary stood yawning at her mailbox. The sun shone, but the air was still and damp. Further down the hill, the fog shrouded Clarksbury from sight. The mailbox door squeaked as she flipped it open and closed.
Inside the plastic n
ewspaper delivery box below the mailbox was a copy of the Owen Sound Sun-Times. The headline reported that the search for the mysterious shipwreck had been called off until the fog lifted. Rosemary looked at the fog and sighed.
The yellow school bus drew up at the opposite curb. Slamming the mailbox door closed, she crossed the road. She hesitated at the open doors, took a deep breath, and climbed in.
In the midst of chattering students, Rosemary focussed on Peter in his seat. He was staring out the window, bags under his eyes.
Stepping up the aisle, she stumbled as the bus lurched forward. She was barely able to grab a handhold and swing herself into her seat, jostling Peter.
“Sorry,” she gasped. Peter said nothing.
Rosemary stared ahead, twisting her hands while the bus slipped into the fog. Despite the shouted conversations around her, silence hovered over Peter like a cloud. When she had the strength to break it, all she could say was, “So ...”
Peter said nothing.
Rosemary sighed. “Look. I’m sorry about … um ....” She curled up into herself. “I just freaked, that’s all.”
She clenched her fists and shifted in her seat. Finally, she said, “Look, I don’t even know how you got that letter. I didn’t send it. I threw it in the wastebasket. I didn’t even really mean to write it, but I was overwhelmed. That didn’t mean I didn’t like being kissed.”
She waited for a response. “Peter? Are you listening to me?”
The bus juddered to a stop. The students grabbed their bags. Peter stood up and tripped over Rosemary’s feet. He stared at her as though she had appeared out of nowhere.
“Peter?”
He glared at her, then followed the flow of students.
“Peter!” Rosemary started after him, but a hand clapped her shoulder and pulled her back.
“Hey!” She struggled to turn. The back of the bus was empty. One of her backpack’s straps had caught itself on the seat, pinning her shoulder. She pulled free, disentangled the straps, and ran out into the schoolyard, looking for Peter.