by Lori Weber
“I wanted to do something to make up for Horton,” I say. “I know it’s not the same, but—”
“It was almost as good—pretty close, actually.”
“Besides, you were right.”
“About what?”
“Whales. They make everything perfect.”
•
WHEN WE PULL UP to the curb, Nanny and my mother are out on the sidewalk talking. They’ve got a watering can between them and are taking turns using it for the flower boxes on the front windows.
Nanny keeps looking down at my mother’s hands. My mother seems to be talking for quite a long time, turning her hands over and back again. Nanny shakes her head as if she’s feeling sorry about whatever my mother’s saying.
“See you later,” I say to Jim. I actually reach up and plant a kiss on his cheek, even though we’re being watched. The sky doesn’t fall.
“Yeah, I hope so.”
I say hello to my mom and Nanny quickly, pretending I really have to go to the bathroom, to avoid being part of their conversation. Jim does the same, even though Nanny is starting to fuss over him and ask him questions.
I hear him say “I’ll tell you later,” as I step inside. I expect my mom to follow, but she doesn’t. She continues picking at the flowers, snapping off the dead ones.
Inside, my father springs out of his kitchen chair when he sees me.
“You could have told us what you were doing, Cheryl. We never just vanish without telling you where we are,” my father says. I haven’t seen him this mad in a long time.
“But I left you a note,” I say, pointing to it on the table.
“But it was so vague. ‘Gone to see some whales.’ What were we supposed to think?” he continues. “We wake up and you’re gone. Then Nanny is at the door asking if we know where Jim is. And her car is gone.”
I don’t really know what to say. I could tell him about the whales at St. Vincent’s and how they cheered Jim up, but it would destroy the magic, talking about the whales in ordinary words, to my father.
“I mean, the last time you two took off Jim landed in the hospital. It’s not exactly reassuring.”
“He was saving someone’s life, Dad, not diving off the rocks for fun.”
“I know, Cheryl, but … you just don’t get it, do you?” He pulls out the chair beside me and sits down. “We brought you here, and it’s our job to make sure you’re safe. How do you think it makes us feel to wake up and find you vanished? Your mother has been going out of her mind.” I wonder if that’s why she barely spoke to me out there. She was afraid of what she would say. Easier to take it out on the flowers, I guess.
Then my father does something that floors me. He takes my hand and holds it the same tender way he holds my mother’s hand when she’s hurting. My first instinct is to pull it back, but I don’t. My father hasn’t held my hand like this since I was a kid.
“I know the past few years haven’t been easy for you. But we never did anything on purpose to hurt you. We actually thought it would be a great experience, seeing the country, living in so many places. You have to stop punishing us, Cher.”
I feel tears well up behind my eyes, and my throat’s getting that constricted feeling that comes just before a good cry. But I can’t cry in front of my father. It’s not that my eyeliner will run, because I’m not wearing any. It’s just something he hasn’t seen me do in years. I’m like the very tip of an iceberg in front of my parents. They only see the ten percent above the water. The other ninety I save for when I’m in my room, listening to my music.
“You know, when I first got the idea to write this book, your mother and I talked about it for two years before deciding to set out. We knew it would be tough for you to go to so many schools. That’s why we waited until you were finished with elementary school. But we also thought it would be fun and educational for you to see so many parts of the country. To see how people your age lived here and there. And even to make friends in different places. We thought the good would outweigh the bad.”
My father then pulls back his hand, clasps his hands together and bows his head, almost as if he’s praying. He seems so hurt.
I look up to see that my mother is now in the kitchen. She addresses my father. “Nanny told me what to do for my rheumatism. It’s a bit crazy, but she said it’s an old Newfoundland belief. Want to hear it?”
“Carry a potato in your pocket,” I answer.
My mother finally looks at me. “How did you know?” she asks.
“Well, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Newfoundlanders, right?” That’s my way of telling them that I haven’t hated everything about this move. I’ve even made a friend, more than a friend. Maybe I should describe that kiss out at St. Vincent’s. That’ll show them that I’m not being totally negative. All of a sudden it seems important that they not feel bad about bringing me here. “I mean, I have learned a lot about Newfoundland since we came here. Some stuff that might help you figure out how to do the research for your book, Dad.”
“Well, I’d be glad to hear about it anytime,” my father says, brightening. “I’m actually going to start interviewing people next week. One of my colleagues is helping me arrange it. He knows some of the fishermen who live in Petty Harbour, not too far from here.”
“That’s great,” I say.
“And we might get some ideas at Trinity tomorrow. Did you want to come, Cheryl?”
“No, I think I’ll stick around. I might do something with Jim,” I answer, trying hard not to blush or appear too excited.
My mom opens the pantry door, roots around in a bag, then stuffs a big potato into her sweatshirt pocket.
Chapter Thirteen
Crossing Over
MY PARENTS ARE LEAVING for Trinity really early this morning. I am vaguely aware of them moving around downstairs, but I stay in bed, pretending to sleep. I can’t stop replaying yesterday in my mind, all of it, right down to the picnic we ate by the side of the road at Mistaken Point on the way home. Jim didn’t want to get out of the car again, so we just opened the doors to let the breeze through. He said it made him feel good just knowing that all those fossils were out there, waiting to be discovered.
The front door clicks shut, and I hear our car take off. They have a long drive ahead of them and won’t be back until pretty late. That’ll give me a whole day to myself and, hopefully, Jim.
Shortly after, I hear a bark that sounds a lot like Boss’s down on the street. I part the curtains and peek down. Sure enough, Jim and Boss are on the sidewalk, looking up at my window. I guess Jim couldn’t sleep either. I make a “one minute” sign with my finger and run down. By the time I get there, Jim is leaning against Nanny’s car. Boss is tugging, dying to take off.
“Doesn’t it hurt when she pulls?” I ask. All Jim needs is one good yank, and his healing ribs will snap again.
“Well, yeah, but so what? I told you, nothing hurts us. We’ve been gashed by hooks, whipped by ropes and chains, lashed by giant waves. Left abandoned by merchants for entire winters with no supplies. We’re indestructible. Nothing hurts us.”
“Yeah, but still. Do you want me to take the leash?”
“God, Cheryl, I was hoping you’d ask. I can barely move.”
“Is it because of yesterday? Was it a stupid idea? I bet I just made things worse.”
“Don’t worry. I’d have gone nuts lying there another day. I’ll take it easy tomorrow. Besides …” Jim takes my hand. “It was pretty perfect, wouldn’t you say?”
“Perfect? Why? Because of the whales?”
“Those, too. But I was thinking more about …” Jim puts his hand on the back of my neck and strokes me in gentle circles. I’ve never been touched there before. It feels nice.
Boss tugs so hard the leash slides out of my hand, and she takes off to sniff in a patch of grass down the street. I turn to chase after her, but Jim pulls me toward him. “She’ll be okay,” he says.
I’m leaning right up against him now, m
y whole body touching his. I’m afraid I’m going to hurt him, but he doesn’t look sore. He bends down to kiss me. It’s not salty this time, but it’s still nice.
“Hey, do you realize we can kiss like this before school, between classes, and after school?” Jim says. Holy Heart. I haven’t thought about it in a while. There’s a fat envelope with the school’s name in the corner sitting on our kitchen counter, but it’s addressed to my mom. Even if it were addressed to me, I don’t know if I would have opened it.
“I’m kind of scared, though,” I say.
“Of what? Getting kissed?”
“No, stupid! Of going to another new school. I just hate walking into a place where I don’t know anyone, where I’m the new kid in class.”
“But you won’t not know anyone,” Jim says. “You’ll know me. I’ll walk you straight to your classroom door and meet you for lunch. It’ll all be different. It’ll be different for me, too.”
Jim makes it sound kind of fun.
“What about those goons we met at the Village Mall? Won’t they give us a hard time?” I never told Jim about meeting the nicer one that night with Joannie. It might not be so bad, running into her.
“God! I couldn’t care less about them. I know what I want and I stick to it, no matter what anyone else says or thinks. Nothing’s going to stop me.”
Jim looks down at his chest. “Well, except Mother Nature, I suppose. Only it wasn’t Mother Nature made that family go so far out on the rocks. That was sheer human stupidity—same reason we lost the cod.”
I wonder if my father’s figured out how many conversations around here wind their way back to fish.
“Besides, you know, in my parents’ day, back home, one walk around the bay with a girl and you were as good as engaged. A peck on the cheek sealed the whole deal.”
“Engaged! Are you out of your mind?”
“Relax, would you? I’m not saying anything about being engaged. I’m talking about making a commitment to someone, or to something, to being where you are instead of where you aren’t. I’ve had to learn to do that too. It’s not such a bad thing. You might want to try it some time.”
Jim stares at the sky, where the sun is starting to poke through clouds. I know it’s my turn to speak, but I don’t know what to say. I suddenly feel as though I’m hanging on to that chain again, the one bolted into the rock on Signal Hill, hanging over the precipice. There are two ways to go. I can close my eyes and keep holding on, pulling myself to the other side, nice and safe. Or I can let go and fall into the wild ocean.
In a weird way, the second option would be like saying yes to Jim. Staying and going out with Jim would be taking a chance and jumping into something new, something that might toss and turn me and shake me up into a new person, with a new way of looking at the world.
“I’ve got an idea,” Jim says. “Why don’t you pop inside and grab Nanny’s car keys off the hook? I want to take you somewhere.”
“Are you sure? You remember what happened last time you took me on a road trip?”
“We won’t be anywhere near water. Besides, we were okay yesterday.”
“I know, but that one was my idea. Remember?”
•
“I’M SURPRISED YOU never thought of doing this in your other places, Cheryl, with your other schools. The more familiar the building becomes, the less daunting it will be. It’s what I’d call common sense,” Jim says, smiling.
“Well, in my other places, I wanted to pretend those schools didn’t exist, right up to the last minute. It’s what I’d call denial.”
Jim pulls into the parking lot at Holy Heart. Facing us is a long whitish-grey building of four floors, almost completely covered in windows. It’s certainly the biggest school I’ve seen since leaving Montreal. Jim points out the student entrance on one side and the theatre door at the other.
“Down there’s the smoking pit,” he says, pointing to a stairway that leads to a wooded area. We go down it then follow a lane all the way to the back of the building. Jim points out the windows for the gym and library. He even knows the history behind some of the cracked or boarded-up windows. Judging by the amount of beer-bottle glass in the courtyard, I’m surprised more of the windows aren’t smashed.
The walls are covered in graffiti, nothing huge like on the concrete overpasses of highways, but small tags, mostly people’s names in puffy, cartoony letters. There are also the typical lines, like “school sucks” and “just another brick in the wall,” the same stuff I remember seeing on the high school near my old house. Jim walks right up to the wall and picks up a stone.
“What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy scratching “J.P. & C.B.” into the chipped paint. If he surrounds it with a heart, I’ll kill him.
“We’ve gotta leave our mark, you know,” he says. Then he turns the corner and calls me over. I find him looking into a barred window.
I have to go up on my toes to see, which is not easy to do in these boots.
“D’you see it?” Jim asks.
“What exactly am I supposed to see?”
“It’s the hallway, where we’ll walk in together. That staircase at the end is the one we’ll take up to our classes.”
The hall is completely still and quiet, lined with lockers. It looks so calm and harmless, like nothing bad could ever happen here. There’s no trace of the activity that will take place once it’s filled with people.
I never thought I’d say it, but my dad’s kind of right. It’s not a place itself or even what’s in it that makes it what it is. It’s the people and what they do with it. He says discovering that is at the heart of anthropology.
It occurs to me that my parents have made the most of wherever we lived. They tried so hard to fit in and become one with the place. My father even chewed on stalks of wheat when we lived in Saskatchewan, to try to look like a farmer. They wanted to be completely inside what was happening, as fast as possible.
I take Jim’s hand and squeeze, hard.
•
JIM AND I ARE watching a movie in the living room when my parents come back from Trinity Bay that night. Jim is lying on the sofa, resting his ribs. I’m on the armchair beside him. When my parents walk in, we disentangle our hands. I catch the amused smile that passes between them the minute they see us.
They had a great time in Trinity, in spite of my mom’s pain. She said the trip was worth the quarter bottle of extra-strength painkillers that it took to get her through the day.
“We even saw whales, Cheryl,” she says, “playing around inside a little cove that we decided to explore. And seals, too. Unbelievable.”
I never told my parents about the whales we saw at St. Vincent’s yesterday. In a weird way, I don’t want them going there. I want it to be a place that only I saw, with Jim.
“That’s great,” I say. Jim and I look at each other. He doesn’t mention our whales either.
“How are your ribs, Jim?” asks my dad. He has a sunburn across the ridge of his nose. I guess he didn’t think to bring sunscreen.
“Better, thanks.”
“Good, good. Well, you guys carry on. We’ll just sort ourselves out.”
My parents disappear, and we listen to them unloading bags and making tea in the kitchen. A while later, my father returns. He sits across from us and puts his feet, which are covered by thick wool socks, on the coffee table.
“It was bracing out there, very bracing,” he says, sipping from his mug. I roll my eyes, feeling like Candy. Why can’t he just use a normal word, like cold?
“Did you find any dying people?” Jim asks.
I think I’ll die, but my father takes it well, smiling.
“Not one. It’s quite something. People, on the whole, strike me as quite positive around here, Jim. Besides, if I may explain, my book is not a book about how people’s way of life has ended and destroyed them. It’s more about human resilience. About our ability to adapt to change. Even about the way scienc
e and technology shape and affect culture.”
“Like the foreign trawlers scraping away our livelihood,” said Jim.
“Well, yes, exactly. And it might be science that saves the culture, too, by offering new options. We saw it on the prairies, so many farms for sale. But others adapting, planting new crops. The Native people I studied out in BC now have one of the most successful wine industries in the area up and running. And even in Quebec, where the iron ore and copper mines have shut down, they’re now developing wind turbine technology. You know, archaeologists have uncovered remains of fishing vessels buried deep in the sands of deserts, where there’s no water in sight. But people are still living there, centuries later.”
“You think that might happen here?”
“No one knows the future, Jim. Only the present and the past. I think you know a thing or two about that, right?”
I told my parents about Jim’s trip to Horton, and about what fossils mean to him. I had to, to explain why I planned the trip to see the whales. My dad was impressed. He said not many young men knew so precisely what they wanted to do with their lives at Jim’s age. “Or any age,” he added.
“Yeah, a thing or two,” Jim replies.
“What I’m doing is similar to what you do. You read fossils to learn about the past. I read signs in the present to record that moment of change. It’s that moment that interests me—when a culture crosses over.”
“So, I’m like a fossil under the microscope. You’re reading my lines, looking for that moment,” Jim says.
“If you want to look at it that way,” my dad replies, laughing.
“I’m going upstairs. Goodnight, everyone,” my mom calls from the doorway. She’s been really quiet since she came home, sitting alone in the kitchen. That’s not like her.
“Wait for me, Ellen. I’m coming. See you soon, Jim,” says my dad. “Night, Cherry.” I wish he’d stop calling me that, but I don’t say anything in front of Jim.
My parents link fingers, loosely, before heading off to bed.
•
I’M SAYING GOODBYE to Jim outside his door. The sky above us is painted wispy streaks of red.