by Lori Weber
“Not the people, Jim. The way of life. That’s what I’m interested in.”
“Hey, you know, Newfoundlanders can’t be killed that easily,” Davy jumps in. “Our ancestors survived with next to nothing, making fish out in the middle of nowhere for centuries. They didn’t even get paid in cash, just supplies. And sealing. Let’s not even get going on what’s happened to sealers over the years, left to die out on the ice, crawling back to the ship on frostbitten feet. And now, having to put up with all the protests from people who’ve never even been to this island. Trust me, we’re pretty tough stock out here.”
“I know, I’m realizing that. Look at Jim here. He’s proof.” My dad laughs, as though that was funny. But no one else does.
I look across at my mom. She looks as crushed as I feel, in her way. I bet if she could wind the conversation back to knitting she would, reeling it in like a ball of yarn.
The dining room goes totally quiet. The table is so still, it’s like some kind of still-life painting. And if mammals didn’t have to breathe to stay alive, the room would be dead silent, too.
“The birds were amazing today,” my mom ventures. “We saw gannets, murres, kittiwakes, and cormorants.”
Jim’s mom smiles at her, but it’s like she’s suddenly too tired to respond. She was hoping for a surprise visit by Sam, to add to the family portrait, but all she got was my dad, reminding her that the portrait might never happen.
“I can’t sit any longer,” says Jim. “I’m too sore. I got to lie down.”
“I’ll help you up, little brother,” says Davy.
“Can I come, too, Jim? You’ll show me your rocks?”
“Not tonight, Joannie. Not tonight,” says Jim, his eyes never leaving the table. Never once looking back at me. Davy helps him up, and we listen to them thump up the stairs, slowly and painfully.
•
I AM RUNNING IN the wheat again, only this time my feet keep slipping through the stalks and sinking way down into the earth. When I look down I see why. It’s not earth, it’s ocean. The wheat is growing on the water and the waves are loosening it, making clumps of it drift. I have to jump from clump to clump and my feet are unable to take hold. My hands grab the stalks of wheat and rip, until I’m holding nothing but a handful of seeds.
Chapter Ten
Rock Museum
MY PARENTS ARE SITTING on the sofa, a map of Newfoundland spread out on their laps. Behind them, a picture of Trinity Bay fills the computer screen—a big field of tall, golden grass set against the ocean. A long line of laundry is hung above the grass, the sheets so white and the ocean so big and blue in the background, they look like sailboats, tossed away toward the horizon. I can see that image on a quilt, no problem.
They’re planning a day trip to the area sometime in the next few days, depending on the weather. My mom’s really excited because she saw a TV show set in Trinity Bay a few years ago and has wanted to go there ever since.
I don’t speak to them, and they don’t say a word to me. It’s like they know I won’t want to talk to them after what happened yesterday.
Something about the way they are hunched over the map reminds me of our first move, to Murdochville. Months before, they had showed me a detailed map of the area, a resource and topographical map in one, they called it. It practically showed every bush and stone. It also made the area look so rich in minerals, I was sure we’d be driving straight into a pile of gold. Even though it wasn’t exactly like that, the new house was still exciting. It had a great view of Needle Mountain, and at night I could hear the wolves howling from its woods. The first night, even though I was twelve, I crawled into my parents’ bed, snuggling smack between them. I could feel them smiling over my head. The adventure had begun.
My mom catches me staring at the screen. “You know you’re welcome to come, Cheryl,” she calls across the room. “Today, too. We’re going up Signal Hill.”
“Forget it,” I say. “Not after you ruined my friendship with Jim. I don’t ever want to go anywhere with you again.”
“Cher, you’re exaggerating,” she says.
“No, I’m not. You saw how he couldn’t wait to get away from us, after you accused everyone of dying. Nice job, Dad.”
“Cheryl, your mom is right. You are exaggerating. Most people have been very understanding about what I’m doing.”
“How would you like it if you found out someone was studying you to see if you were going to wither up and die?”
“That’s not what I’m doing, Cher, and you know it. We’ve had this conversation many times. You’ve known for years what the book is about. It’s not the first time you heard about it.”
“No, but it’s the first time it’s made my boyfriend hate me.”
My parents just look at each other, completely silenced.
“You’re so busy checking out how things are dying, you don’t even notice when something is growing,” I say. “Like my friendship with Jim. Or at least it was. That’s probably finished now, thanks to you.”
My mom comes over to me. “Oh, Cher. If Jim really cares about you, he won’t let your father’s book change that.”
“Well, like you said, Dad, it’s tradition. Jim has his whole family and history to be loyal to. Why should he put me ahead of any of that?”
“I don’t see why he’d have to choose, honey,” my mom says. “You’re not on opposite sides.”
“No, we weren’t on opposite sides. I was getting along great with his family, until you guys showed up and ruined everything.”
My mom shrugs and looks at her hands. I wonder how she’ll manage hanging on to that chain today. I remember the swirling water far below, spitting up foam. What if I don’t say anything and something bad happens? I know now that it really can, in the blink of an eye.
“Careful on the pathway, Mom. Some parts are hard.”
“Thanks, honey,” my mom says as she smiles.
•
“CHERYL,” NANNY SAYS, when I find her in her spot. “Jim’s still in his room. Go on up, put a smile on his face.”
“I’ll try, Nanny. Where is everyone?” The knitted whale sweater is abandoned on the sofa chair, strands of yarn from all its pieces dangling down to the floor.
“Jim’s mom has gone visiting with Joannie. Davy and Candy are out.”
I’ve never been upstairs at Nanny’s before. At the top, on a small landing, I find a tiny, cluttered bathroom. A pink frilly cover is wrapped over the toilet lid and a matching pink mat lies on the tiled floor. It’s hard to imagine Jim doing his guy-stuff in here, like leaning over the tiny sink to shave. He’d have to bend way down to see into the mirror on the medicine cabinet. I check my face in the mirror. I’m still not used to myself without black around my eyes. It doesn’t look like me. I take a deep breath and practise looking casual, lighthearted, as though nothing weird happened yesterday. Maybe Jim really was physically sore, and that’s why he left the table. Maybe it had nothing to do with my father’s book. I’ll know pretty soon, by the way he treats me.
A second open door leads to what must be Nanny’s room. It is cluttered with old-fashioned furniture, like a dresser that sits just inside the door, with a big square mirror and drawers so shallow it looks like they wouldn’t hold a sock unless it was sideways. Lots of pictures, most black and white, are stuck to the rim of the mirror. Many are so old they’re yellow. I assume some are of a younger Nanny and her husband, standing with their arms around each other, smiling against different watery backdrops. An ancient picture on hard paper shows a young man in a brownish army suit. He has a pencil-thin moustache running over his upper lip. He looks dead serious, his eyes squinting at the camera. Scrawled across the bottom of the picture are the words, “Grandfather, July 1, 1916, Beaumont Hamel.” Maybe Beaumont was Nanny’s grandfather’s name. That could mean Hamel is Jim’s last name. I can’t believe I still don’t know it. I should have paid more attention that day in the hospital, but my mind was on other things.
I knock lightly on the only door that’s closed, figuring it must be Jim’s.
“Hey, it’s me!” I call out.
“Cheryl?”
“What other girl are you expecting?” I say, as I open up. Jim’s lying on his bed, raised by a stack of pillows. There’s a tray with some toast scraps and orange juice on his desk.
“How are you feeling?”
“Sore,” Jim says, not looking at me, staring down at his hands. He doesn’t say anything else, and I just stand there, a few feet away, not knowing what to do. Yesterday, he couldn’t wait to hold my hand. Today, I’m practically invisible.
I take a quick look around the room and see basically one thing: rocks. Every square inch of space on Jim’s furniture is taken up by specimens. When I step closer to the shelf above Jim’s bed, I notice that the rocks are set up like a museum, with pieces of cardboard under each one, identifying places and dates. Table Point Ecological Reserve, July, 2001; Dorset Soapstone Quarry, March, 2003; Pistolet Bay Provincial Park, 2004; Manuels River, Trilobites, 2002. Then I recognize the two fossils from Fortune Head, 2005, that Jim brought over all those nights ago. Beside them, displayed on a sheet of white marble, is a similar fossil. Its sign says, Mistaken Point, 2006.
“Did you find all these yourself?” I ask.
“Most of’em. Not all.”
“Very impressive,” I say. “I like that one.” I point to one at random, moving closer.
“I’d be in deep crap if anyone found out about that one.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because it’s extremely rare. And you’re not allowed to take fossils out of Mistaken Point,” Jim says flatly, the usual edge to his voice when he talks about rocks missing.
“Well, they wouldn’t exactly throw you in jail for taking a rock, would they?”
“It’s not a rock, Cheryl, it’s a fossil of a multicellular organism. And yeah, maybe they would.” Jim finally looks up at me. His eyes are all dark, their yellow sparkle gone. This isn’t exactly going the way I’d hoped. I think if I’d been standing this close to his bed a few days ago, he’d have pulled me onto it by now, and we’d be doing a lot more than talking. “People come from all over the world to study there. You even have to take your shoes off out on the big rocks, so you won’t scratch the fossils.”
“Really? That’s cool.”
“Yeah, Mr. Wells said we had to be light on our feet as fairies or ghosts. I guess that would suit your father’s view, right?”
“Jim … I, I’m really sorry about that. It’s not what it sounds like. We did the same thing in every other place we lived. He just studies how big changes affect people’s lives.”
“And then he turns us into a chapter?”
“Yeah.”
“But he doesn’t know us.”
“I know, but that’s why he wants to live here, to get to know you. He interviews a lot of people and …”
“But he can’t know what it’s like just by interviewing. You got to live it,” Jim says.
“I know. I think it’s dumb, too. What can I say?”
“And you don’t even want to be here at all?”
“I didn’t, before, no.”
“So your father’s here studying us, like a bunch of lab rats, and you don’t want to get to know us’cause you think we’re a bunch of backwards …”
“That’s not true. That’s not what I think of you. Okay, maybe just a little—before I got here—I did. But not now. Honest. I think you’re pretty cool.”
“Oh, well, I am so glad, Cheryl, that we are living up to your high standards.” Jim sounds nasty, in a way I’ve never heard before. I wasn’t expecting this. Now, I don’t know what to say, so I just keep glancing around. Two whole bookcases near the door are also filled with rocks.
“It’s not just your father,” Jim says finally, in a softer voice.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not just your dad that has me feeling crooked. I got this phone call this morning …”
“From?” I wonder if it was his dad, the only family member he hasn’t spoken to since his accident. He doesn’t answer. He just keeps concentrating on his fists, which are clutching his blanket.
“Jim?”
Jim winces, as though the mere memory of the call has twigged his ribs. After a moment of silence, he says, “It was Mr. Wells, calling to say the trip to Horton was on. But of course, I’m too busted up to go.”
“You mean that rock place?”
“Yeah, ‘that rock place.’ I know it probably doesn’t sound like much to you, but it was a lot to me.”
“No, I didn’t mean …” Now I really don’t know what to say. I didn’t mean it was nothing. It just took me by surprise. It seems to me the last thing Jim needs is more rocks. Even the two bookcases beside the door are full of them, top to bottom.
“My father would say the same thing. He never did understand my interest in rocks,” Jim continues. “And he never bothered coming home either, or even calling, you might have noticed. Having too much fun up in the oil sands, I guess, with his new girlfriend.”
So that explains why no one has mentioned Jim’s father, except Nanny, just that once, turning everyone stiff and silent.
“Sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not the type of thing you make announcements about, right?”
I have absolutely no idea how to respond, so I just stand there, looking around, avoiding Jim’s eyes.
“Well, maybe you can go next year,” I say cheerfully, “if they go back.”
“It’s not all so easy for me, you know. My family doesn’t have loads of money, you can see that. This trip was a one-off. Besides, they won’t be going back next year. It might have led to something for me. Helped me get a scholarship maybe, make some contacts. Those are things I’m really going to need. Maybe you just don’t get it.” Jim closes his eyes and clenches his mouth tightly. I get the feeling that if he could roll over easily, he’d turn away from me altogether.
“Jim?”
“I’ve got nothing more to say right now.”
“I guess I should go then,” I say. “I’ll let you get some rest.” I wait for Jim to open his eyes and ask me to stay, but he doesn’t, so I turn to leave. Near the door, I notice a line of diplomas hanging on the wall. I don’t have time to read them closely, because I know Jim wants me to go, but I can see they are prizes for various science things: fairs and top marks in the class. Sprawled across the bottom of each is Jim’s full name: James Parsons. I guess I got that wrong, too—he isn’t a Hamel. I close the door softly behind me, leaving him alone in his rock museum.
Downstairs, Nanny asks, “How was he?”
“Okay, I guess, but I think he wants to be alone for a while.” I don’t say anything about the phone call from Mr. Wells, in case Jim doesn’t want anyone to know.
“And your mother?” Nanny asks next. “I seen her hands outside this morning, when I was watering the flowers. They looked some sore. There’s an old Newfoundland cure for the rheumatism,” she says. Then she pauses, as though waiting for me to show a sign of curiosity.
“What is it?”
“Carry a potato in your pocket,” she says. A potato? Could she be joking? Or really losing it? But then I see that she’s smiling, so I smile, too. Besides, maybe it’s not so crazy. Nothing else seems to help. Maybe something simple like a potato would do the trick.
“I’ll let her know,” I say.
•
A POTATO WOULD COME in handy just about now. My mom’s hands are really bad. She’s got them wrapped in hand towels that my dad put in the dryer for five minutes. Two more are in the dryer now, like he’s setting up a rotation system—my dad’s homemade remedy.
“It was so misty,” he tells me. “It was like walking through water. We should’ve brought a snorkel.”
I wait for my mom to say something about how Signal Hill was beautiful anyway. I mean, you can make mist out of grey fuzzy cotton on
a quilt, with little glimpses of ocean peeking through. But she is unusually quiet.
“I’ll make some tea,” I say. It’s either that or flee to my room, but for some reason I don’t want to be alone just now, not after Jim shut me out like that. My mom nods a thank-you, her damp reddish hair clinging to her forehead.
When the mug of hot tea is between her fingers, my mom smiles for the first time since she and my father came through the door half an hour ago.
“You were right, Cheryl. Some parts of that walk are pretty challenging, especially when it’s wet,” she says.
“Was the chain slippery?” I ask. If it was, I don’t see how she could have gripped it. I have a vivid memory of Jim goofing around, doing his scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz imitation. That would’ve seriously freaked my mom out.
“We don’t know, honey. We didn’t make it that far. It was too hard, and my hands were too sore. You need to grip every now and then, especially in the rain. I just couldn’t do it.”
That explains why my mom isn’t telling me what she saw, the colours and shapes of the boulders and clumps of seagrass. My mom never misses these things, but it’s like all her energy and focus are centred on the mug of tea, as if she’s trying to add to the warmth that is soothing her swollen fingers. It’s pretty clear that she won’t be quilting anytime soon. It strikes me that I actually miss watching her quilt. In the past, our living rooms were always covered in colourful shapes, just waiting to be stitched together.
That’s definitely not going to happen here.
“That’s too bad, Mom.”
“Don’t worry, Ellen. We’ll try it again, on a better day next time. Today was just too risky.”
My mom looks down. She usually loves risk, but I guess that has changed, too.
Chapter Eleven
To Open Water
I STAY AWAY FROM Jim’s for the next few days, simply because I wouldn’t know what to say to him. I keep seeing him turn away from me, like he wanted to shut me out. Maybe he needs some time alone, to get over feeling bad about Horton. Or to get over the way I made him feel stupid about it.