A Small Part of Me

by Noelle Harrison

  He reads for a short while, but it’s hard to concentrate. He feels like he’s waiting for something or someone. He glances at his watch. The bus is due. He gets up, stretches and walks out into the sunshine just as he sees it pulling in to the parking lot. Mack is driving. He signals to him and Mack waves back.

  The door flips open and a woman with a small child careers into him.

  ‘Hey!’ he says, jumping back. But she says nothing, just ignores him and ploughs on into the hotel, her little boy turning, saying sorry with a sad face.

  He can sense the heat off her; it’s like she’s blazed a trail.

  What’s wrong with all these women? Why are they all so angry?

  Mack is laughing as he gets off the bus. ‘She musta been in urgent need!’

  ‘She looks a bit sick to me.’

  ‘Thank Christ she didn’t throw on my bus.’ Mack offers him some gum; he shakes his head. ‘So what the hell are you doing here?’ he asks. ‘Can’t stay away from the place? You’re welcome to take over!’

  ‘You must be kidding. No, I’m on my way somewhere, just thought I’d stop by.’

  ‘Well, that sure is nice,’ Mack grins. ‘Heading home, are you?’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Back to Canada? That’s where you’re from, ain’t it? Vancouver Island, if I remember right. All you people have so much family, you’re like the Italians or the Irish, with the aunties and uncles and grandmas and grandpas!’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Mack misses his sour tone and continues, ‘So are your folks still up there as well?’

  ‘They’re dead.’

  ‘Both of them?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay, it was a long time ago.’

  ‘Never been to Canada,’ Mack says, changing the subject.

  ‘That’s crazy, it’s only a few kilometres away.’

  ‘I know, it’s just you know how it is when you’re driving every day the last thing you want to do is drive on your vacation. Suits me just to be at home with Jen and the kids.’

  ‘Excuse me, but which bus is the one for La Conner?’ Mack and Luke look over. It’s the woman who knocked into him. She looks at Mack and her hair is flopping over her face. She’s very pale, like paper. The little boy stands tucked in behind her, holding a stuffed bear tightly and staring up at him.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Mack asks. ‘You seemed in pretty much of a rush back there.’

  Luke takes a step back and looks at her. Is she shivering?

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. I just felt a little sick.’

  ‘It must have been bad,’ Luke says. ‘You just about knocked me down.’

  She turns to him and suddenly lifts up her eyes to meet his, but he’s wearing shades. He has never seen anyone look so sad.

  ‘Oh, that was you? I’m sorry,’ she stammers.

  He watches as colour spreads across her cheeks, but he says nothing.

  ‘It’s that little shuttle bus over there,’ Mack pipes up. ‘That’s the one you want, leaving in a minute.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Mack turns his back on her. Luke can see her hesitate and then walk slowly over to the bus with her boy. They walk in step, connected.

  ‘Hey!’ Mack says. ‘Gone dumb, have you?’

  ‘Sorry, what’d you say?’

  ‘I asked whether you and Teri were going to Dean’s party?’

  ‘No…we broke up.’

  ‘Christ. I keep putting my damn foot in it today.’

  ‘Mack, it’s no sweat. How were you supposed to know?’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A while now.’

  ‘Any chance you’ll get back together?’

  ‘No chance.’

  Mack shuffles his feet. ‘Well…’ he begins.

  ‘What kind of accent was that?’ Luke asks him suddenly. Mack looks confused. ‘That woman – where was she from?’

  ‘Sounded Irish to me.’

  Luke watches as the shuttle bus pulls out of the car park. The woman is sitting up front. She stares out of the windscreen. Her eyes pierce his body as she looks through him. He glances then at the little boy, who is chatting away to his mother. He’s all movement and light, while his mother sits as rigid as a poker.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you,’ Mack says, moving off into the hotel.

  ‘Sure thing. Say, when’s Dean’s party? I just might come anyway.’

  ‘July fourth, of course!’ Mack slaps him on the back and heads off. Luke begins to walk back to his truck.

  Something has happened to him.

  That woman.

  No, it’s something else. He feels flooded with certainty.

  He heads back into Mt Vernon to get something to eat, stopping off at the Co-op and picking up some groceries for the journey. He’s going to be on the road for a couple of days, and he doesn’t want to have to stop too much, not after La Conner. He might even sleep in the truck. He flicks down the rear view mirror, and taking off his glasses, looks at himself. He has a week’s worth of growth on his chin and his face is darker than usual. He grins. I look different already, he thinks, I don’t look so damn tired. It’s true – the dark circles that usually rim his eyes are fading away. That’s the outside life for you, he says to himself, starting up the truck. If only Sam could have come.

  It’s late now, light leaking out of the sky, shadows travelling fast across the land. He thinks about Teri.

  What he had liked the most about her had driven him away in the end. She was assertive to the point of aggression. At the beginning that had been fine. He had never thought that anyone would want to marry him, and he had been amazed when she asked him out. It was so rare that two people like them would mix.

  Teri was fun. Maybe a little loud, but always up for a good night out. They drank then, a lot. And that’s what led to the fights. But they still got married, because didn’t everyone in love fight?

  That was the last time he had been in La Conner. On their wedding day, standing on her parents’ lawn, looking across the Puget Sound at a bald-headed eagle diving into the ocean. It had seemed perfect.

  Teri had always looked out for him. She had even fought battles for him, marching into his boss’s office six months pregnant and demanding he get a raise, finding their house and badgering the realtor to get them a good deal, even supporting him when he put the phone down on his family, helping him turn his back on them, bitching about them for him.

  She was so highly charged, she was like a missile – you just wound her up, aimed and fired. Even pregnancy didn’t slow her down. She charged around even right up to the end, drinking, smoking, partying, rowing and loving, all in one exhilarating heap. He loved her for taking command, for giving him excuses, for letting him hide.

  After Sam was born, things changed. She didn’t calm down – far from it – but it was like she’d lost her sense of humour, and all that energy became progressively vindictive. Suddenly she wasn’t on his side any more. He became her target. She wanted a bigger house, more money, a better life for her and Sam. How could he ever possibly give her that?

  Luke was lazy, dumb, pathetic, a drunk. The last insult stung so much he stopped drinking, and when he did that there was no going back. He realised that their passion hadn’t been real, not at all. This great love of his life had all been alcohol fuelled, and what was left when he took that away? Just a bitter taste in his mouth, that’s what, and really seeing things for what they were.

  She started off moaning at him, then screaming, and then sometimes, swaying in the kitchen, Sam’s bottle in one hand and a beer in the other, she’d spit at him and kick him. From the shins down his legs would be covered in deep, dark bruises.

  He had taken it for years. She had pushed him and pushed him, but because of Sam, because he couldn’t leave him, he had put up with it. But then, three months ago, something had happened. He still felt sick when he thought about it, and he knew he had to go.

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nbsp; He swings into the car park of the Red House Inn and stops the truck, resting his head on the steering wheel. ‘Sam,’ he whispers as a deep longing for his son passes through him.

  Every day he couldn’t see Sam hurt. He sits back now and pulls his picture out of his wallet. It’s an old photo, but a favourite. Sam is jumping up and down in the backyard, the hose is on the ground, curled around his feet like a long blue snake, and his son has a blue plastic spade in his hand. They had been gardening that day. Sam is happy and smiling. His eyes beam out at him, and Luke can hear his voice: ‘Look, Dad, look, I’m a jelly jumping bean!’

  Without thinking, Luke gets out of his truck and heads towards the inn. He hadn’t planned to stay here, but he can’t go on, not tonight.

  GRETA

  Greta busies herself, pushes night-time away.

  She checks their bags. Have they enough provisions for the week? Chocolate, matches, tortillas, tins of fish and beans, rice. Henry is loading up the truck. She goes outside, a rug wrapped around her shoulders. It’s still early, and there’s a soft mist rising off the ground. She watches Henry as he ties the kayaks into the back of the pick-up.

  ‘All set?’ she asks him.

  ‘Yep,’ he says happily.

  ‘Want a coffee before we go?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She goes back inside and turns on the coffeepot. The view from her kitchen is of another world. She stands here for hours sometimes, just staring out at the dark blue ocean and the islands, thick with green foliage that’s every shade of green imaginable, from emerald to jade. She watches a blue jay land in her garden and sit on a bush. Then it flies past the gladiola, right up to the window and stares in at her.

  Henry comes in rubbing his hands. ‘I think it’s going to be a fine day,’ he says.

  ‘Henry,’ Greta says carefully, ‘how would you feel if I didn’t come?’

  Henry looks aghast. ‘You can’t be serious! We’ve planned this for weeks.’

  ‘I just don’t feel right about it. I can’t explain.’

  ‘But I can’t go on my own, it wouldn’t be safe to do that.’

  ‘What about Rick? Or Jim?’

  ‘I can’t expect them to drop everything and go at the last minute. I can’t believe you’re doing this, Greta.’ He looks like a small child about to burst into tears.

  ‘I feel like I should stay at home,’ she explains.

  Henry shakes his head. ‘Sometimes I just don’t get you, Greta. You know how much I’ve looked forward to this.’ He pushes back the porch doors and goes outside with his coffee. Lofty, their golden retriever, trots up to him and he crouches down beside him, rubbing his tummy.

  It’s the dream that makes Greta want to stay.

  She has never told Henry about her dreams. She has never told him about St Finian’s. She has tried her best to forget about it, but then, that would mean forgetting about her little girl too. It’s impossible.

  She follows Henry outside. He’s sitting on the wall now, the dog at his feet, looking at the harbour. A seaplane takes off and there’s a spurt of noise before silence falls again.

  ‘I’m sorry, honey,’ she says, taking his arm. ‘You’re right. We’ll go, okay?’

  He puts his arm around her shoulders. ‘I knew you would,’ he smiles triumphantly. ‘I’ll take Lofty over to the Lewis’s, you turn on the alarm.’

  A short while later they’re down at the jetty. The kayaks are loaded up and they’re ready to push off. It’s been a while since she’s been out, a year at least. She wobbles as she slides into her boat.

  No one is there to wave them off. It’s still early. Henry pushes off and cuts a slice through the smooth water. Instantly Greta feels better. She’s glad now to be here, in her boat, with the water, just to stay with this very moment as she launches forward.

  Henry is beside her. ‘First stop Meares Island?’ he suggests.

  ‘Of course, it’s our annual pilgrimage,’ she teases him.

  LUKE

  Luke sits on the bed in the dark. The curtains are open and he watches as the moon slowly rises, casting a silver light across the fields, deepening the ridges of the distant mountain. He faces the Cascades and can see the shadow of Mt Baker. He feels like he’s saying a prayer. He closes his eyes and presses his palms into his temples. The certainty is still there, and there’s a voice inside him now, not his own. It feels like a song running through his veins, guiding him. He can’t deny the words any more.

  Luke runs his tongue along his lips. He’s thirsty. He gets up and leaves the room, walking slowly down the plush corridor and down the stairs, one by one. The reception is empty. A small lamp glows on the desk, illuminating a row of flyers on the town. He can see the glow of the bar through the double doors, the thumping sound of the jukebox. He pushes the doors aside and walks in.

  She’s there.

  They sit across from each other, but she refuses to look up.

  He stares at her.

  She’s narrow, but strong. Her face is long and pale, like a petal. He can’t see her eyes, but he remembers them – liquid ether, desperate eyes. She conceals herself in a cloud of dark brown hair that churns around her face, onto her shoulders; wild and outspoken, it courses down her back. He can see her skin. A small triangle is exposed beneath her shirt. He can see the top of her breast, and trace the outline under her clothes. She sits carelessly unaware of herself, her long legs slipping off the stool.

  Luke takes all this in. Then he picks up his glass of water, and in three big swallows feels the water course down his throat. He stands up, refreshed, pauses a moment, then leaves. He senses her eyes lift as he walks out the door.

  GRETA

  They linger on the boardwalk. How foolish we are, she thinks, to deny the trees. Here we are, immersed in the fecundity of the rainforest, and it’s obvious that the trees live and breathe. They control our lives. How vain to think that we’re in charge. She takes a deep breath, sways on the boardwalk and steadies herself by reaching out and touching one of the giant cedars that loom above like a kindly old relative looking down on a child.

  ‘We originally came from the rainforest,’ Henry pipes up.

  She smiles. He’s repeating himself now; he said this last year.

  ‘If you think about it,’ he says enthusiastically, ‘our binocular vision and our gripping hands, they evolved over thousands of years, from the necessity of living in the forest.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says hazily, looking at the intricately woven roots of an overturned cedar, still desperately clinging onto rocks, sticking to life.

  ‘This is perfection,’ Henry says importantly. ‘The ideal community. On each level of the forest, different species live and each have their own niche, none damaging the other. If only humans could learn to live in a climax community.’

  ‘And the dead and the living exist side by side,’ Greta says.

  ‘Sure,’ Henry says, moving on. ‘If an organism can no longer survive, then some other organism will cling to it, and take life from it.’

  Henry walks through the sunlight. He’s tall and wearing khaki, merging into the green. Greta follows him slowly. She watches the light filtering through the branches laden with hemlock and sagging, shaggy moss. It’s like everything has let go around her. The boardwalk keeps them on course, while on either side, chaos reigns. We’re unable to share it, she thinks, Henry wouldn’t want to. He likes to think of himself as anti-authoritarian – that’s what he calls it – but he’s just as anxious to have a niche. The environmentalist one.

  He has stopped and is taking photographs. Always taking pictures. He has one of those new digital cameras now that he attaches to the computer and gets the pictures on the screen. She doesn’t really see the point of that. She likes to hold photographs in her hands, to put them in albums. If they’re on the computer, you forget about them. Well, she does. Although she’s not interested in pictures any more. Henry takes hundreds – studies of flora and fauna – and then sends them all
on the Internet to one of his pals, Dick in Calgary. Dick seems just as enthusiastic and sends back reams of himself and obscure geological formations, standing there grinning broadly in a rocky landscape.

  The computer doesn’t suit her. Henry says she has to get with it, but she resists. Henry laughs at her when she says it, but she really thinks it doesn’t agree with her. When they first got it Henry put it in the bedroom, and from then on she couldn’t sleep. The screen would blink at her in the corner of the room and she’d stare back, terrified. That was when the flashbacks started, when the dreams came, though she couldn’t sleep. A baby’s head, soft pink cheeks, a dark matt of hair, fingers which curl and release around her heart, squeezing it tighter and tighter until she’d be gasping and Henry would be awake, shaking her.

  That was so long ago. But it will never go away. Every day, as she gets older, it gets closer. She inhales deeply. The benign presence of the cedars comfort her, their scent reminding her that she’s in a different family, in another world now. It’s a new one, yet more primal – big skies, big ocean and all the space she could possibly desire to lose herself in.

  ‘Greta. Greta,’ Henry calls her. ‘Come on, we better get back to the kayaks, we’ve still got a ways to go.’

  They walk back down to where they landed.

  ‘It’s time to go,’ Henry says. ‘The tide’s receding, don’t want to get stuck on the mudflats.’

  There’s no wind. They glide across the water, leaving Meares Island behind, and weave their way through the harbour islands. She’s behind Henry. Tofino starts looking like a tiny toy town in the distance – all the happy little houses, the bobbing boats and the buzzing seaplanes getting smaller and smaller.