by Lori Weber
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” says Jim. “Good day to be out on the water tomorrow.”
“You know everything, don’t you?”
“Nah, I just know what I know. There’s lots you probably know that I don’t know,’cause of where you’ve been and what you’ve done.”
Then I realize I don’t even know what kind of whales we saw yesterday. In my mind, they were just whales, but Jim must know what kind they were.
“What kind of whales did we see at St. Vincent’s?”
“Absolutely amazing ones, wouldn’t you say?” Jim puts his arms around me, gently. I think both us of must be picturing the same thing—the whales leaping upward, making patterns in the air, snapping at the gulls then crashing down, only feet away.
Jim hasn’t shaved in days, and I like the stubble all over his chin. It suits him. “They were humpbacks,” he says.
“What a horrible name. Sounds too much like hunchbacks. They should be called silverbacks, at least. But what do I know about whales?”
“Not much, city girl, not much,” says Jim. “But if you stick around, you might learn a thing or two.”
•
MARILYN MANSON PUTS me to sleep, singing about peaceful valleys and seas and pleasure and the fact that the whole wide world is out there, just waiting for me. It’s like he’s describing the exact way I felt out at St. Vincent’s, the way I still feel when I close my eyes and bring it all back.
Chapter Fourteen
Footprints of Time
MY PARENTS HAVEN’T GONE anywhere since Trinity, and my mom has stopped talking about places she wants to see. In fact, she’s hardly said a word about anything. She’s quieter than I ever remember her. My dad’s been going to work every day, preparing for the semester that’s starting in just a week. I keep waiting for my mom to start quilting, which is what she usually does around this time, but she doesn’t.
I’ve been spending a lot of time at Jim’s. He’s getting more mobile every day, but he still can’t do everything yet. He’s been showing me his rock and fossil collection, and I can’t believe how much stuff there is to learn. Jim gets really into it when he’s talking about them, and I can just see him in ten years’ time, teaching university. My dad wants Jim to attend some of his lectures this semester at Memorial University to get a head start. He says anthropology and geology are kind of related, through archaeology, and that Jim would learn a lot. He could also contribute a lot to the class because of his experience.
This is the week the group is off at Horton, and I know Jim is thinking about it. Focusing on his rocks is helping him get through it. He’s even asked me to help him rearrange his collection, to order it by date and type of fossil, and I volunteered to make better labels to put under them. I’ve borrowed our laptop, which has a graphics program that lets me outline the labels with a string of footprints. After all, that’s what fossils are: footprints of time.
I usually pop back home a couple of times throughout the day to check on my mother. She tells me I don’t need to, but my dad wants me to—and I want to, too.
Today, I come home from Jim’s to find her sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by her boxes of quilting supplies. Some are half-opened, their contents spilling over. Cotton batten flows out of one box like a snow drift and swatches of brightly coloured fabric dot the hardwood floor. It’s as though she was getting ready to dive into a project then forgot her idea. She doesn’t move at all when I come in, like she didn’t even hear me.
“Mom?” I tap her on the shoulder, and she whips around.
“Cheryl?”
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know … I just wanted to see. I thought maybe if I looked at all this stuff, I’d discover that I could handle it. You know, the scissors, the needles, the rulers. All of it.” She wipes her face with the sleeve of her housecoat, and I see she’s been crying.
“And?”
“It’s no good. Even opening the boxes hurt me.” My mom holds up her hands, and I look at them closely. It’s like I haven’t noticed until now just how crooked they are. Her fingers aren’t even straight anymore. They curve in the middle, like a twisty road sign, and there are bubbles of skin around her joints.
“I’ll have to give it up,” she continues. “For now.” She sits on the chair and sighs heavily. Neither of us speaks for several minutes.
“I never minded before,” she says finally.
“Minded what?”
“Following your father around from place to place. Because I had this.” She points to the boxes. “It gave me a sense of purpose, you know?”
I nod as if I do, but inside I’m thinking how I never realized that the moving was something my mom needed a strategy for. She seemed completely part of the whole venture, one hundred percent inside of it. I was the one on the outside.
“I’m going to have to go home, Cheryl,” she says. “I don’t want to, but I have to. You understand, don’t you?”
I nod again, my heart racing.
“And you’ll come with me, of course. It’s what you’ve always wanted anyway, isn’t it, Cheryl?” she continues.
“I guess so.” But that was before Jim. She must know that things are different now.
“I know it’s been hard on you, all the moving. I always thought it would get easier, that you’d learn to love the places we went to, like your dad and I have. I shouldn’t have expected it to be the same for you.”
“It’s okay, Mom. It wasn’t all bad. Especially here. I mean, you know,’cause of Jim.”
“Well then, that’s good,” she says. “It always helps when you make a friend.”
I want to explode. Jim is so much more than a friend. Why can’t my mother see that? Maybe she’s been so focused on her hands and their pain she hasn’t really noticed how close Jim and I are. It’s like I have to spell everything out to my parents or they don’t get it. I’m about to tell my mother that when she starts to cry again. I haven’t seen her cry since her mother, my grandmother, died just before we left Montreal. It’s kind of scary.
“Can I do anything for you, Mom? I can help you cut material or whatever.”
“No, honey. There’s no point in starting what I can’t finish.” The way she says it tells me she has definitely decided to leave. In her mind, she’s already packed and back on the plane. With me beside her.
“I’ll be okay, Cheryl. I’ll just tidy up a little.”
“Do you want me to help you?”
“No, no. I’d rather do it myself. I’ll be okay.”
I watch her stuff the material back into a box. She doesn’t turn to look at me. She’s too absorbed in what she’s doing.
•
I DON’T GO BACK to Jim’s. I go upstairs, lie on my bed, and close my eyes, trying to imagine what my old room actually looks like. I can see bits and pieces of it, the purple bean bag chair and white iron bed, movie and dragon posters, and shelves full of old toys and the drawing stuff I used to love. But they kind of float around in my mind like separate pieces. I can’t really assemble them into a whole.
Next, I try to picture my old neighbourhood, to bring it back—the square blocks with their brick and wooden houses, old and new together, the old ones with big porches, the new ones with big garages. I see the main street down near the train tracks where my friends and I went for pizza and ice cream. But it’s all faded, like a picture that’s covered in too much attic dust.
I think about the school behind my old house and picture myself walking into it. It’s true I’d recognize some kids from elementary school, but just a handful, and I don’t really know them anymore. And Janna will be glued to Stephan. And, if I’m being honest, I don’t really know her anymore, either.
Right now, Jim is more real than anything I’ve left behind.
I picture our initials, carved in stone on the back of Holy Heart. I had actually begun to look forward to going to school for the first time in years, and now I don’t know what�
�s going to happen or what school I’ll be going to. Jim practically had our lockers picked out already. How am I ever going to tell him that I might not be going there?
•
MY DAD’S CALLING ME down to dinner, which he made. That means canned soup and cold-cut sandwiches, his specialty.
We’re all pretty quiet around the table. The only one who talks is my dad. It’s like he’s filling the silence with small talk and chatter about nothing important, like the fact that he met more of his colleagues today and saw the lecture hall where he’ll be teaching his classes. He says he’ll have to put his notes and slides on PowerPoint, that’s what’s expected now. Even my mom only grunts minimal responses. Then he starts talking about questionnaires that he’s hoping we’ll both help him with.
“Especially you, Cheryl. You can help me with questions geared to people your age. About what they’re going through and everything.”
I want to tell him that I wouldn’t know how to answer questions about myself right now, how to put into words what I’m going through, never mind how to formulate the questions. But I just shrug a half-hearted okay.
We’re just about finished when the front door opens, and Jim walks into the kitchen. It reminds me of the first time he did that, the day he took me to Signal Hill, when he nearly gave my parents a heart attack.
“Hello, Jim,” says my dad. “Have a seat. You’re just in time for dessert.” He sounds so casual, I begin to suspect that my dad may have called Jim and told him to drop by. But I might just be paranoid, because of the trip to Middle Cove.
“Thanks,” says Jim. He pulls out the chair beside mine and lowers himself into it slowly. I guess his ribs kind of squish together when he bends.
“How are the ribs?” my dad asks.
“Getting better, thanks,” says Jim.
My fathers plunks a store-bought apple pie and a tub of vanilla ice cream onto the table, then grabs a stack of plates and forks.
“Everyone dig in and help yourself,” he says. “Hope it’s good. I was baking for hours.”
“Aren’t you marvellous?” says my mom, playing along.
I cut a piece of pie for myself, then decide to give it to my mom. The next piece goes to Jim. I guess I can’t very well not give one to my dad, so I do. But everyone’s on their own for ice cream.
“I got some news today,” Jim says, scooping a ball of ice cream and flicking it on top of his pie.
All three of us turn to him. His dark eyes are all lit up, like when he talks about fossils. The news must be good.
“Just now. I got a phone call from the father of the girl I rescued. You won’t believe it.”
“What?” I say.
“They’re back home, in Oshawa, but the father wants to give me something. You know, like a reward. I said no at first,’cause it didn’t seem right. I mean, I didn’t do it for that. But then he told me he works for Air Canada. He wants to give me a free return flight to anywhere in Canada, anytime.”
“Jim, that’s fantastic! You can use it to go to Horton next summer,” I say.
“Or somewhere even better,” Jim says. “Of course, Nanny says I should use it to fly out to see my dad and brothers. But I don’t know if I want to. I’ve got to think about it, use it for something I really want. I’m not going to get another gift like this anytime soon.”
“My advice is to use it to further your career, Jim,” says my father. “There’s more than one place to find fossils in this huge country. There are research teams working all over, even way up north.”
My father would suggest something like that.
“Or you might want to use it to come visit us,” my mom says quietly. I just about choke on my pie. Jim turns toward me.
“Visit you?” he says.
“Yes. Cheryl and I are going back to Montreal. It’s my fault. I don’t want to go, but it’s my hands, you see?” She holds up her fork to show off her bloated hands, but Jim doesn’t look at them. He can’t take his eyes off my face. I feel my skin burning.
“Montreal?” Jim says. “When?”
“As soon as we can,” says my mom. “Before school starts.”
“Anyone want more ice cream?” asks my dad, but nobody answers him. Jim is still staring at me, like he’s waiting for me to explain or deny it. His bruise, which had faded to very light brown, just a shade darker than his skin, seems to be black again. Just this morning we were working on his rocks, talking about the new school year. Jim even asked if I wanted to go home with him at Christmas. He said his mom told him to tell me I’d be welcome. He said I better be prepared to see some real snow and ice. He must be so confused. Maybe as confused as I am.
This is even worse than that night at Nanny’s, when my dad accused everyone of dying. Jim was angry that I never told him the true purpose of the book, but he’ll never forgive me if he thinks I’ve been hiding this, too.
I’m trying to keep my anger in check, but I feel it rising. My mother had no right to say anything. I would have told Jim in my own way.
“Mom! You always have to ruin everything,” I say, throwing down my fork. “Why did you have to say that?”
“But, Cheryl, honey. We talked about it this afternoon.”
“No, you talked about it. You just assume I’m coming, like you always do. Did it ever occur to you to ask me what I want to do? Did it?”
“But, Cheryl, you’ve done nothing but say you want to go home ever since we got here. Ask your father. It’s true.”
I look to my dad, and he nods.
“But that was before,” I say.
“Before what?” my mom asks. And it occurs to me my mom doesn’t know that Jim and I went out to Holy Heart and that he carved our initials in the brick. Or that I looked into the window and pictured myself actually walking down the hallway, holding Jim’s hand. She doesn’t know that I’m halfway through rearranging his fossil collection and making plans to go to the South Shore for Christmas. She doesn’t even know that we saw those whales, leaping and writing their messages in the air.
She doesn’t know anything.
“Before lots of things,” I say, my eyes locked with Jim’s.
“Cheryl?” says my mom.
Jim takes my hand, holding it right there on the table between the dirty bowls and plates.
I feel all eyes on me, waiting. It’s kind of like walking into class on the first day in a strange school, wishing there was somewhere to hide. Everyone watching to see how you’ll perform.
“Before Jim,” I say.
My parents look at each other, but say nothing. Jim squeezes my fingers.
My mom picks up her cup of tea, cradling it with both hands. Then, suddenly, as though the effort is too much, she drops it. The cup shatters into pieces as it hits her plate, cracking that in half, too. My dad springs up to grab the dish cloth as the hot water rolls over the edge of the table into my mother’s lap.
•
I’M IN THE HOLE in my mattress, only it doesn’t feel like a hole anymore. It feels like the exact right space to curl up in. Now, when I go to bed, I actually find myself shifting around, settling into its edges.
My parents are in their room across the hall. They talked until half an hour ago, their voices muted through the walls. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what they were talking about.
It seems we can never just mesh smoothly in this family, all our different desires coming together, or pulling in the same direction. There’s always a jagged edge somewhere, sticking out, off pattern.
That edge is usually me. At least that’s what they were probably saying.
Jim didn’t stick around for very long, and who can blame him? He finished his apple pie and ice cream, the world’s most ordinary dessert, and headed home. He’s probably in bed right now, thinking up ways to use his free ticket to get as far away from us as possible, cursing the day that Robbie and his family left.
Suddenly, I hear something hitting my window, making a sharp ting. I spring
out of bed and look down to find Jim standing on the sidewalk below, a bunch of stones in his hand.
“Hey,” he calls up.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper through the screen.
“You gonna let me in or what?” Jim points to the door. Good thing my parents lock it, in spite of wanting to fit in, or Jim would’ve been chucking stones at my bedroom door. I motion for him to give me a minute, throw on a sweatshirt and tiptoe downstairs.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, opening up.
“I wanted to see you.”
“But my parents. I can’t wake them up. They’ve done enough for one night.”
“We’ll hang out down here. Don’t worry, they won’t hear a thing. You wouldn’t believe how quiet you learn to be with four brothers and sisters when you want to sneak out and get a little exploring done without someone on your tail.”
“Well, there’s nothing to explore here, believe me.” We sit beside each other on the sofa, Jim shifting around to settle his ribs in a good position.
“Oh, yes, there is. There’s you. Like, I never know what’s happening next with you. One minute you’re stowing away on a ship, the next you’re showing me the best whales in Newfoundland. Two minutes later, you’re on a plane to Montreal.”
“I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know for sure. And I still don’t. My parents are just used to me following them around, like some kind of dog.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s what most of us do until we’re old enough to stop.”
“You didn’t.”
“Yeah, but my dad was so mad when I told him I was coming to St. John’s. He wanted me at home, so he could stay away more easily, with my brothers. I was supposed to become the man of the house, you know?”
“And you didn’t.”
“No. My mom and dad fought about it—a lot.”
“But it must’ve been kind of hard, coming here on your own, especially without your father on your side.”
“Yeah, but I knew I’d survive. Besides, my mom supported me. She understood in a way my dad just couldn’t. Only saw things through his own eyes, you know? My mom wants me to do things, as long as it means staying in school. You should’ve seen the sweaters she donated to the big sale we had to raise funds for Horton. She didn’t just give me some plain easy ones. No way. They had some complex patterns on them, like she put extra into them, thought a lot about them. Some had rocks on them, heaped in piles, all different colours. Sold for good money, money someone else is benefiting from now.”