by Lori Weber
Without thinking, I slam the kettle on the stove. Nanny’s whole body jumps.
“Cheryl!” snaps my father. “Easy, honey.” He nods towards Nanny, who is holding a balled-up tissue in one fist. She’s obviously been crying. My heart clenches.
“What is it?” I ask.
“The doctors said Jim will have to stay at the hospital for a few days, at least until Sunday. He does have a concussion after all.”
“Sorry, Nanny,” I say.
“But he’s a real local hero today, isn’t he, Nanny?” My mother jumps in, as though it’s her job to cheer Nanny up. She flips over the newspaper lying in the middle of the table. A picture of Jim being hauled over the lip of the rock by a rescuer covers the entire front page. Under it, the caption reads, “Local boy rescues young girl.” There’s a picture of the girl, too, smiling in her hospital bed.
“So, I guess you know the whole story?” I ask.
“Well, the reporter’s version anyway,” says my father.
“Oh, Cheryl. You must have been terrified,” my mother adds. She moves toward me, her arms open.
I’m in the corner of the kitchen, nowhere to run.
So it happens—she hugs me.
The last time I let my mother hug me was three years ago, in Murdochville, the day I found the mice. It was early spring, and I was helping my mother rake the yard. We were removing all the debris that emerges once the snow has melted, the rotten leaves and soggy litter. In the corner of the yard, where the ground was soft, my rake sunk in too far. When I pulled it back, a big chunk of earth came with it. I flipped it over to find a nest of baby mice, each one no more than an inch long. There were eight mice, all curled into each other in perfect symmetry, like a pink jigsaw puzzle. I didn’t know what to do—fit the chunk of earth back into the hole and hope the mice survived, or take them out and give them shelter elsewhere.
“What should I do with them, Mom?” I asked.
“Put the earth back where you found it, and let nature do her thing. Nature’s the big healer,” she said. My mother often told me that nature could take care of just about anything, if we let it. It was the strongest force on earth. I believed her then, when I was younger, but I don’t anymore. Now I know that nature can’t heal everything. What about my mother’s rheumatism that’s inflaming her joints and locking her fingers into warped positions? Or Nanny’s shaking, caused by heartbreak?
Two weeks later, I dug up the earth in the same spot. My curiosity was killing me. I had to see what had happened to the mice. They were still there, in the same place, but they were all dead, hard and grey, more like stones than mice.
It was that day that my mother hugged me, telling me it wasn’t my fault.
The whistle on the kettle blows, and my mother lets go of me.
I’m glad I have the tea to turn around and focus on. That way, she won’t be able to see me cry.
•
AN HOUR LATER, I’m back from settling Nanny at home. I left her with the television on and another cup of tea in her hand. My mother is going to bring her some dinner later on.
My mother puts down her book as I walk into the kitchen. I automatically look down at her hands. They look bad, as though someone had inflated them, like balloons. I’d forgotten that that was the real reason for their trip to the hospital.
“So, what happened with your hands?” I ask. My mother looks at my father, and they lock eyes, as though they’re communicating by telepathy.
“Cheryl, there’s something we’re going to have to talk about,” my father says. He’s using his serious we-have-to-have-a-discussion voice. I wonder what I’ve done wrong this time.
My mother picks up the kettle, but she can barely grasp the handle. I take it from her and fill it.
“Thanks, honey,” she says. My parents sit down at the kitchen table, and my father points to the empty chair, indicating that I should take it.
“Well, it seems we have some decisions to make,” my father says to me. “We saw a doctor at the hospital this morning. Even though he wasn’t a specialist, he could see that your mother’s hands are looking pretty bad.” My father lifts my mother’s right hand into his, cradling it as he speaks. He strokes it gently, as though it’s a delicate and injured bird.
“He gave me a referral to a specialist, Cherie, but he warned me that I could wait up to a year just to meet with her,” says my mother.
“Up to a year? But we’re only supposed to be here one year.”
“The thing is, Cheryl,” my father jumps in, “we were wondering if perhaps your mother should leave sooner. This damp climate is not doing her any good. I’ve never seen her hands this bad. And she’s feeling it in other parts, too. Isn’t that right?” He looks at her and she nods.
“Leave sooner?” I say.
“Well, we were thinking she could go back to Montreal. We’ve always had the option of getting the house back. And it’s been no secret that you didn’t want to come here in the first place. So, if you want to, you can go back with her. I have to stay. I know it will be really hard to be separated, even if it’s only for a little while. It’s not what I want, but I’ve signed a contract for a year and I can’t get out of it. Besides, I really want to do this research. There’s a little fishing village one of my colleagues was telling me about, right here, beside St. John’s. I could start on it, then travel around on weekends.”
“Do you mean Quidi Vidi?” I ask.
“How did you know?” my father asks, his eyes going wide.
“Jim took me there,” I say. Jim! How am I going to tell him I’m leaving when he’s in such bad shape? I pull the newspaper toward me and stare at his picture, remembering how I felt when I saw him drenched on the rock so far below.
“What do you think, Cheryl?” my mother asks.
“About what?”
“Going home, sweetie.”
I don’t know what to say. I should be thrilled. That’s what they’re expecting. I can actually go home and I don’t even have to find a job first. My mother will take me, for free, no scheming or begging. I can get back to my old life and my friends. I guess that means I’ll have to get to know Stephan and Janna’s other friends. And I can go to bars downtown with them, learn how to do the whole fake ID scene for the next two years, until I turn eighteen.
And I can finally sleep in my own bed, not a bed that’s been moulded by someone else’s body. Unless the girl who’s been sleeping in my bed for three years has screwed it up.
“It’s great … I guess.”
“We’ll talk more about it later,” my father says. “Mom and I are going to lie down for a while. We were up really early. Okay?”
All I can do is nod. And even that’s not easy.
•
I HAVE TO SEE Jim. That’s the only way I’m going to be able to sort out my feelings. I’ll know right away when I look at him, whether I’m happy about going home or not. I’ll have to walk to the hospital, even though I don’t know the way. I’ll just start out in the general direction and ask for help along the way.
It’s a misty day again. The houses look faded, as if their fronts have been spray-painted a faint coat of grey, their bright colours barely peeking through. When I can glimpse the water, it’s the same colour as the sky. One kind of rolls and tumbles into the other.
As I walk, I think about yesterday and how, maybe, everything happened for a reason. Sure, Jim and I kissed, but just for a few seconds. It was more like the start of a kiss, the first spark. But since we didn’t finish the kiss, I guess you could say that, technically, we’re still just friends. That’ll make it easier if I do decide to leave.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
Three people point me toward the hospital, and I find it no problem. My clothes are damp and clammy by the time I get there, like they were after hugging Boss yesterday. I stop outside Jim’s room and take a deep breath. It’s going to be hard seeing him this way, on my own, but I’ll have to try to be perky and upbeat
, for his sake.
I can hear talking, but I assume Jim’s roommates must have visitors. That’s why I’m caught off guard when I turn the corner and discover three people standing around Jim, an older woman and two young girls. I automatically pull back where they can’t see me.
“You always were impulsive,” the woman is saying as she strokes Jim’s forehead. “But you had sense. I’d have expected your brothers to do something like this, but not you.”
Jim’s response is too faint for me to hear.
“Jimmy’s gonna get a medal or something, from the Queen,” one of the girls says. “For saving someone’s life.”
“Not the Queen, stupid. The Lieutenant-Governor,” the other one corrects her. “And it’s not for sure either. It’s just what the nurse said.”
“So? It could happen.”
This must be Joannie, Jim’s youngest sister, who’s the same age as the girl in the water.
“I knows, Jim. I’m not saying you shouldn’t of helped out, but my God, son, look at you.”
Jim’s mother is blocking my view of him, but when she steps aside to pull up his cover, I glimpse his face. The bruise is even blacker than yesterday. It’s like the blood hadn’t finished leaking into his skin yet. Yesterday it was a rotten cantaloupe, today it’s an eggplant.
I catch Jim saying, “Not as bad as it looks.”
“You two go get your mother some tea from the caf, will you? I wants to see Jim on my own for a while. I’ve not laid eyes on you for months, only to see you like this.”
She fishes around in her purse for change. I turn and head further down the hallway, to make it seem like I’m here for someone else. I have no idea if Nanny told her sister-in-law about me. I suppose I could just walk in and introduce myself. “Hi. I’m Cheryl. I was with Jim when it happened.” His mom might say, “Oh, you’re the girl we heard all about.”
On the other hand, she might look at me like I just stepped off Mars, or like I was intruding into this perfect family space.
When the girls have gone, Jim’s mother moves to the other side of the bed, giving me a clear view of her face. She looks about the same age as my mother, but more worn out. There are lines around her eyes, and her hairline is thin. I can see that perfectly because she keeps brushing her bangs back, as though they’re preventing her from seeing Jim. Her fingers are constantly moving, either playing with her own hair or Jim’s. She pulls the blanket up to Jim’s chin, then pokes up the corners of his pillow, again and again, like she can’t keep still. Maybe it’s because of the knitting. Jim said she’s always got a pair of needles in her hand, stitching away.
Nanny must have called her last night to tell her what happened. Of course, she would, that makes sense; it’s just that I had forgotten that Jim had a real mother somewhere. Jim told me that, from his hometown, you need to take a ferry to a bigger town, then get the road that leads up to the Trans-Canada. From there, it’s a ten-hour drive to St. John’s. That would mean his family left home at midnight to get here for two, which would be impossible, unless the ferries run all night.
The girls come back, carrying their mother’s tea. The older girl looks sullen, like she’d rather be anywhere else. But Joannie looks excited, as if coming to the city to see her hero brother may be the biggest thing that’s ever happened to her. There are three copies of this morning’s paper lying on the bed. Joannie will probably show them off to her friends back home, then frame the picture of Jim and hang it over her bed.
“Looks like the old hag sat on you and crushed you, son,” Jim’s mother is saying.
“For God’s sake, Mom. Don’t start with that crap,” says the older girl. Even though I can’t see her face, I know she’s rolling her eyes. I can feel the roll in her voice. Joannie is laughing. Jim’s actually chuckling, too, but holding his chest at the same time.
“Don’t make me laugh, Ma. It hurts,” he says slowly, as if he’s drugged. “I’m all tight in the chest.”
His mother takes his hand, the hand I might have taken if I’d caught him alone. His sisters stand on the other side of the bed. They’re like a human shield. No need for curtains to give this family privacy. They’ve got it covered.
There’s nothing for me to do but leave.
•
“NANNY SAID JIM’S family is down,” my mother says at dinner. She took a plate of her chicken stew over to Nanny a few minutes ago. “Isn’t that nice?”
“Guess so,” I say, without looking up. My parents were still asleep when I came home, so I never told them that I went to the hospital and actually saw Jim’s mother and sisters. There wasn’t much point. Plus, they’d want to know why I didn’t talk to them, and that’s not something I feel like explaining, even if I could.
“I wonder if his father will come home, too,” my dad says. “What do you think, Cheryl?”
I shrug. “Don’t think he’ll bother.”
“What makes you say that, honey?” asks my mother.
“Because he hasn’t been home in years, and he seems pretty happy to be away from this place. Jim said he never bothers coming home anymore, so why would he bother now?”
“Just because he had to leave to make money doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about his son, Cheryl,” my father says. “People leave this province all the time to earn a living and …”
I tune him out, but it occurs to me that it’s perfect for my father that Jim’s dad is in Alberta while his son is in the hospital. It’ll highlight the plight of the former fishermen in Newfoundland even more. I can see the subheading in this chapter: “Jim’s story: A homespun tragedy,” or, “Jim: Caught in the web of economic loss.”
My dad is still going on, quoting some statistics now about the number of people who’ve left the province. I can’t take it anymore.
“You don’t know anything about Jim or his family,” I cut in sharply. “And they’re not just research material for your book.”
My father finally shuts up.
“And for your information, Jim is real person. He has dreams of being a geologist one day and finding rare fossils, piecing together ancient history. He isn’t just someone who’s lying down and dying off, like you think. Even getting slammed around in the ocean didn’t kill him, in case you hadn’t noticed. So you can quit hoping.”
“Cheryl! You make it sound like your father enjoys hardship.” My mother’s hands are still puffed up, clutching her knife and fork. I know stress adds to her condition. I should be nice. I should be sweet. But I can’t.
“Well, doesn’t he? Otherwise he’d have no material.”
My parents give each other their what-are-we-going-to-do look.
“Well?” I ask again. I know they can’t deny what I just said, and they don’t even bother trying.
“I’m going upstairs,” I say, finishing my stew. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” If I stick around, I’ll only say more things that I feel bad about later.
•
MARILYN MANSON BLOCKS out the thoughts in my head, singing about guilt and how it’s something we try to beat, but can’t. It grows inside us, squirming in our bellies, twisting in our guts and making our spines turn to jelly.
Touché once again, Marilyn.
Boss is barking. Jim’s sisters are being pulled down the street by her, toward Nunnery Hill, their four hands clinging to the leash.
Is it my imagination, or did Boss look up toward my window, as if she wanted me to come along?
Chapter Eight
Some Rock-Solid Place
JIM’S FAMILY SETS OFF for the hospital early the next day, piling into Nanny’s car. Nanny gets to ride up front, helped into her seat by Jim’s mother and sisters. She’s so tiny, they practically lift her in.
“I’m sure they’d take you with them if you asked, Cherie,” my mom says when she catches me watching from the living room window. She woke me up at the crack of dawn to try to talk me into going on the bird and whale tour at Witless Bay with them. When I said no, she urged me to at leas
t come down and have breakfast with them, to see them off.
I couldn’t find a way out of it.
“No, they wouldn’t. They don’t even know me,” I respond, still sleepy, little pieces of my dream still heavy in my head, like bits of bone that need spitting out.
“No, but Nanny does. And the others must know about you by now.”
I guess she’s right, but I can’t be sure. And I can’t help thinking that if Nanny wanted me to come, she’d have found a way to ask me. I remember the way Jim’s family surrounded his bed yesterday, his mother fussing over him—peck, peck, peck, like a mother hen.
I don’t see how I’d fit into the picture. I’d probably just hang out in the background, plastered back against the wall, and that’s not where I want to be. I want to stand inches away from Jim and look directly into his brown eyes. I think back to that split second of our kiss, when I felt every cell in my body rush toward him. Neither of us are likely to forget the sound of that mother’s scream, but I hope Jim has some memory of what happened before it.
“It’s okay, Mom. Drop it,” I say.
My mother hasn’t said anything more about leaving Newfoundland, but I can tell she’s thinking about it by the way she keeps looking down at her hands and sighing. Even this boat tour is a sign. She says she wants to do it now because summer is almost over, but that doesn’t make sense. My mom usually acts like she has all the time in the world.
“You can almost feel fall in the air and see it in the light,” she says, sipping her coffee at the front window. “I’d really like to see the seabirds at Cape St. Mary’s, too, and drive around Trinity Bay.”
“Don’t worry, Ellen. We’ll get you there,” my dad replies, stressing the “we,” as if he and I have made plans to whisk my mother around the province. “Are you sure you won’t come see the whales with us, Cheryl?” My father is loading his knapsack with binoculars, camera, sun hats, rain capes, a map, and other boat tour essentials. “I’ve heard they’re spectacular.”