Restoring Harmony

by Joëlle Anthony

  His hold on me was softer, more gentle, and I tipped my head back to look at his face, and he did the same. And then he leaned in, pressing his mouth to mine, his lips so soft I couldn’t believe it. He’d lived such a tough-guy life, but his mouth felt like warm velvet. After not long enough, he pulled away.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  I tried to hold on, knowing that as soon as I released him, he’d leave, but he untangled himself anyway and took one of my hands in his. We walked back, fingers entwined, my feet dragging.

  “Where’s your fiddle?” he asked.

  “Oh, you know . . . ,” I said as casually as I could, “the RCMP officer who put us up last night . . . he wanted a fiddle.”

  He simply nodded, but there was a glint of fire in his eyes. “Why didn’t you give him your gold?” he asked.

  “My gold?”

  “In your boot.”

  “Oh, my God!” I said, stopping. “I forgot all about it. Let’s go and see if he’ll take it.”

  Spill held firmly to my hand to keep me from running back the way I’d just come with Michael. “It’s too late, Molly,” he said. “It’s done.”

  “But, Spill!”

  “Trust me. I know about these things.”

  I slumped against him, and he put his arm around my shoulder. “You did the right thing,” he said.

  “Yeah . . . I know.” But doing the right thing didn’t bring Jewels back to me.

  We were in view of everyone else by then, and I could feel them all staring at us.

  “Time to say good-bye,” Spill said.

  I nodded, resigned. We all took turns hugging him, and then he gave me the briefest kiss, his lips just brushing mine, before he walked back the way I had just come. When I looked at my grandparents to see if they’d noticed, I swear Grandpa’s eyes were twinkling. Grandma grinned big at me, and I knew I was blushing. Michael didn’t care, but the kiss gave Brandy something to tease me about for at least two kilometers. I didn’t really mind, though. In fact, I couldn’t help smiling every time she mentioned it.

  We’d only been on the road for half an hour, and the kids and Grandma were already dragging. “How far is it to the island?” Grandpa asked.

  “Well . . .” I did the math from kilometers to miles. “Around thirty miles, I think.”

  “Too bad we left all the camping equipment behind,” he said. “We might need it.”

  “Actually,” I said, “today’s the day the ferry crosses, and if we can catch some rides with farmers, we should make it.” I hoped that was true.

  The day wore on, cold and breezy, but we were all warm from the exertion of the walk. We’d stopped for a lunch of hard cheese and even harder bread, and as we were getting up to go, a woman with an empty wagon pulled by two horses rattled up to us.

  “Need a lift?” she asked. “I could do with the company.”

  “Yes, please!” we all said.

  Grandpa hoisted Grandma up onto the seat next to the woman, and the rest of us scrambled into the back. She wasn’t going as far north as we needed to go, but when she let us out, we were only about an hour’s walk from my island. The kids were tired, but also excited to be on the ground again, and they ran ahead, forward and back, like puppies.

  “Wagon,” Grandma said, pointing behind us.

  I turned and looked. Even from the distance we could see that it was completely full of hay. There wouldn’t be another ride for us in it. I hustled the kids to the side of the road as the horse’s clip-clops got louder.

  “Afternoon,” the farmer said as he passed.

  I was digging out a water bottle from the pack for Brandy, not paying any attention to the wagon, when I heard my name.

  “Molly! Is that you?”

  I looked up. Sitting on a hay bale in the back of the wagon was Katie’s fiancé, Nick. His red hair glinted in the weak sunshine, and his smile was wide. I shoved the backpack into Grandma’s arms and ran after the wagon.

  “Nick!”

  “You made it back!” he said.

  “Yeah. Almost! What are you doing on that wagon?”

  “Hitching a ride,” he called. He was getting further away, even though I was running as fast as I could. “I went to the city to get my wedding clothes!” He held up a brown package. “I’d walk with you, but I have to catch the ferry so I can do the milking. Boy, will your family be glad you’re finally home!”

  “Me too!” I yelled. I had to stop jogging then, but both of us kept waving until he was out of sight. It was while I was bent over double trying to catch my breath that I realized we pretty much had no chance of making the last ferry. I hoped Nick was smart enough to figure that out and would send someone in a fishing boat to get us, but it was hard to say for sure.

  As my brother James often said about Nick (not when Katie was around), he was a nice guy, but he was sometimes a sandwich short of a picnic. Which reminded me, all we had left to eat was dry bread. It was going to be a long night if he didn’t send a boat.

  46

  WE GOT TO THE EMPTY FERRY LANDING JUST before sunset. I tried not to think about how we’d missed the last one by about half an hour. The ferry only ran two days a week these days too, so I’d have to flag down a fishing boat in the morning. For now there was nothing to do but camp on the bank and hope for the best. At least Spill had given us the Hyper-Foil blankets. I was about to tell Grandpa that we’d have to build a fire when Merter Jones stalked up the path from the shore, his boots crunching on dry twigs.

  “ ’Bout time you got here,” he said.

  My heart leapt! Thank you, Nick! I’d never let James say another bad word about him. “Hi, Merter,” I said. “Were you waiting for us?”

  “Nick Spartan told me you needed passage. He wasn’t lyin’, was he?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I mean, yes, we want to go home and, no, he wasn’t lying.”

  Merter’s fishing vest was missing a button, and the rest were straining against his potbelly. “Suppose you want to cross over on credit?” he demanded.

  “My dad will pay you,” I said.

  “Well, let’s go, then.” We followed him down to the dock and climbed aboard the rickety boat. I hoped we wouldn’t drown now when we were so close to home. In the old days, the ferry made the crossing in ten minutes. His little boat ran on ethanol that Merter made from corn, but the motor was tiny and it took forever to get anywhere. Especially loaded down with all of us.

  I gripped the edge of my bench seat, and spun stories for Brandy and Michael about Mom’s pancakes, my kitchen garden, Katie’s piano playing, my brothers and their tepee by the creek, Dad’s golden fields and his fiddle.

  I told them about Black Bart herding chickens into the coop during thunderstorms, and the woodstove in winter, and kittens-anything to keep me distracted from thinking about the fact that I was about to find out how Mom was doing. I couldn’t bring myself to ask Merter, but I consoled myself with the fact he probably would’ve passed on bad news.

  Michael pushed his wavy brown tangles out of his face, and I wished I’d thought of cutting his hair for him. “Do you have worms on the farm, Molly?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. Lots and lots of worms.”

  He smiled. After what seemed like forever, the little boat bumped into the shore, and we all stumbled out onto my island. I scrambled up the rocky path that twisted through scrub and saplings, helping each person behind me. “There they are!” someone shouted as we reached the top.

  I looked up, and in the gathering twilight, there was my whole family. Dad rushed to meet us, squeezing my shoulder as he hurried past to help Grandpa with the giant suitcase. Jackie, James, Katie, and Nick swarmed us, but I sidestepped their hugs and ran to Mom, who was leaning on the back of the wagon and holding a tiny bundle in her arms.

  “Oh, Molly!” she cried. She leaned into me, hugging me with one arm and showing me the baby.

  “Mom! Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine . . . fine. Meet your sister,” s
he said. “Chelsea.”

  I lifted the blanket away from her face and saw her rosy cheeks. “She’s so tiny.”

  “Well, you would be too if you were a month early,” Mom said, smiling.

  Then Jackie flung himself around my waist and Katie grabbed me in a hug too. “Hi, Katie.” I squeezed her hard, surprised by how much I’d missed her. “Hey, Jackie.” I ruffled his dark curls.

  Just then a breeze came up off the water blowing my hair away from my face, exposing my forehead.

  “Molly! Molly!” Jackie yelled. “What happened to your face?”

  I touched the bump. “It’s just a bruise. I’m fine.”

  “My friend Rich had a black eye-”

  “Later,” Katie said, pulling him off me.

  “Who are those kids?” Jackie demanded.

  “Oh, that’s Brandy and Michael,” I told him. I met Mom’s eye. “They’re going to stay with us for a while.” She raised her eyebrows, and I mouthed the word orphans at her.

  “Let’s go say hi,” Katie said, dragging Jackie away to give me a minute with Mom.

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “We’ll tell you and Dad the whole thing later, okay?”

  “I can hardly wait,” she said, shaking her head, but smiling.

  The wind came up off the ocean, and I filled my lungs with the salty scent of home. “I’m so glad to be back,” I said.

  “Oh, Molly,” Mom said, “we’ve missed you . . . and we were so worried. When Nick came with the news . . .” She couldn’t even get the words out.

  “And you’re both okay?” I asked her.

  “Pretty much,” she said. Mom looked over my shoulder at my grandparents. “We’ll see what the doctor says.”

  She handed Chelsea to me, and I nestled her tiny body into my arms. I peeled the blanket away from her head, just to check. Sure enough, she had a shock of brown, curly hair.

  I leaned against the tailgate, watching Mom walk over to my grandparents. They stood apart for just a second, drinking each other in, and then Mom opened her arms and they stepped into her embrace. The three of them huddled together, soft voices, mixed with crying and exclamations of joy, floating on the sea breeze around us.

  Dad and Katie were trying to get Michael to talk, but he was just staring at them with big eyes, and for the first time, it struck me how well he and Brandy both fit into our family with their dark hair. Little Jackie had already dragged Brandy away from the group and was showing her something on the ground. Probably a petroglyph.

  Standing there, holding Chelsea and watching my family together, finally made the whole trip worth it. My tears dripped down leaving dark spots on the baby blanket, but for the first time in months, they were tears of happiness.

  “Let’s go to the house,” Dad said. “Everyone in the wagon.”

  When Mom was settled on a bench in the back, I handed Chelsea up to her.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said. I unzipped my backpack and pulled out the almanac. “Safe and sound.”

  He hugged me hard. “That’s my girl,” he said. “I always knew you’d bring it back.”

  Brandy sat chattering to Katie, already part of my family, but Michael crawled into my lap and hid his face in my shoulder. Dad raised his eyebrows at me, but didn’t say anything. He just took the reins in his big hand, clucked at the horse, and then led us towards home. As we bumped along, a few stars popped out above us.

  I had tried not to think too much about what everyone would say about Brandy and Michael, but soon we’d have to figure something out. I was pretty sure my parents would welcome them, but adding two more kids to the mix wasn’t going to be easy. Especially two children who were here illegally. Mom and Dad would want to make it right if they could, and that probably wouldn’t come cheap.

  “I hope your trip wasn’t too hard,” Mom said to my grandparents.

  The three of us looked at each other and cracked up laughing.

  “What?” Mom asked, smiling, but not seeing the joke.

  “We made it,” Grandpa said. “That’s all that really matters.”

  On the ride, Grandpa asked Mom a lot of questions about her health. She tried to brush him off, but he was persistent. Luckily for her, we didn’t have far to go to get to the farm. I swear my heart swelled in my chest when we turned down our lane.

  The drive curved slightly to the right, and the house was still out of view for the first stretch. Overhead the fir branches swayed, and the twisty arbutus trees bent down to greet us. As we made the turn, I breathed in the scent of home. Cedar, wood smoke, and soil. The overgrown log cabin sat sprawled out in all its glory. Black Bart raced towards us, barking wildly.

  “Look, Michael,” I said. “There’s your new house.”

  He lifted his head for a moment and then snuggled back into my shoulder. I squeezed his tiny body closer to mine. There’d be plenty of time for him to see everything. He was going to grow up here, just like I had. He would never want for food or love or attention again. He’d be clean and educated and a farmer’s son. He’d be surrounded by brothers and sisters, grandparents, animals, and hard work. Michael was home because I was home. We were all home.

  47

  December 24th-Other things may change us, but we start and end with family.

  -Anthony Brandt

  I PUT ANOTHER LOG IN THE WOODSTOVE, PICKED up Chelsea, and sat back in the rocking chair, cuddling her close and inhaling that soft, milky-baby smell. High voices drifted in from the kitchen, where Mom had put Jackie, Brandy, and Michael around the table with paper and crayons to make last-minute cards for Santa. She and Grandma had snuck upstairs to take naps.

  Chelsea gurgled in her sleep, and I looked down at her tiny face. She’d grown so much in the two months I’d been back, I could hardly believe it. Before we knew it, she’d be writing letters to Santa too. I was running the chores for Christmas Eve through my head when Brandy burst into the living room, fat tears dripping down her cheeks.

  “Molly!” she sobbed. “Jackie said-”

  “Santa doesn’t like a tattletale,” I reminded her. “Go back and finish your card and ignore Jackie.”

  She swallowed her tears. I felt kind of mean because I really wanted to set Chelsea down and take Brandy onto my lap, but we’d both be going back to school in the new year, so I was trying to wean her off leaning on me. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and, dragging her feet, went back into the kitchen.

  Chelsea was so sweet and warm that when I first heard the fiddle music, I thought I’d drifted off to sleep and was dreaming, but then I realized someone really was playing on the porch. Dad must’ve been a whole verse into the song before I recognized it as “Handsome Molly.”

  It sounded so squeaky and shrill. What was wrong with him? Maybe his hands were half frozen from the cold. I knew he loved the great outdoors, but this was ridiculous. When he hit a note as flat as a pancake, I laid Chelsea down in the bassinet and flung open the front door.

  “Are you trying to murder that fiddle?” I asked.

  The music stopped. And for a second, so did my heart!

  “I’ve only been playing a couple of months,” Spill said. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  I flung myself into his arms, a dangerous thing to do since he was holding a fiddle in one hand and a bow in the other. He looked the same, only his hair had darkened a bit now that it was winter. And the sprinkle of freckles across his nose had faded too. After I’d finished jumping up and down and trampling his handmade boots with mine, I remembered I was mad at him.

  I pushed him away. “Spill! Where have you been? I thought you said you were going to stay in touch! I’ve been worried sick!”

  “Nice to see you too, Molly,” he said, laughing. He balanced the fiddle precariously on the porch railing.

  “For all I knew, you were dead!” I snapped. I turned away from him.

  He put his arms around my waist and pulled me close, my back pressing into his chest, his breath warm on my cheek. “Did you really
think so?”

  “Well, not really.”

  He turned me around, drew me close, and kissed me. The flannel of his shirt pressed softly against my neck, and we stood there kissing for I don’t know how long. We might have gone on all day, but then my mother cleared her throat from the doorway.

  “Mom,” I said, pulling myself away from him, “this is Spill!”

  “Well, I should hope so,” she said. “Come inside, you two. You’re letting in the cold.”

  She ducked back in, half closing the door behind her, leaving us on the porch to gather up Spill’s things. I reached for his fiddle because I wanted to see if it was any good. I certainly couldn’t tell from his playing! Before I could even examine it, there was this strange moment where the neck of the instrument just nestled itself into the palm of my hand like an old friend.

  “Oh, my God! Spill? It’s Jewels! You’ve found Jewels!”

  I lifted her to my face and breathed in her musty, sweet scent. Without even stopping to tune her (and she needed it!), I launched into “Handsome Molly,” the bow flying across her strings. I danced myself the length of the long porch while the notes floated around me, then down the front steps and into the yard. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I’m sure my smile could’ve lit up the darkest corner of the world.

  “Spill? How?” I asked breathlessly, afraid to stop playing, in case Jewels vanished into thin air.

  “Oh, you know,” he said all casually, “an RCMP officer sold her to me a couple of months ago.”

  “But why didn’t you write and tell me?”

  “I wanted to see your face when you got her back,” he said, grinning. “Besides, I had to learn to play your song. I think I might need a few more lessons, though.”

  “No! You were good!” Then we both broke out laughing. “Well, you’re reasonably good. For a beginner, anyway. Dad and I’ll whip you into shape.”