by Lori Weber
I take Jim’s hand.
“But the best thing is, my mom didn’t put any pressure on me, or try to make me feel bad if I decided to go. She let me decide for myself. You really should do the same.”
”The thing is, I usually don’t have to decide. This is a first.”
“Well, deciding is a good thing, right?”
“Yeah, it’s great. If I stay, my mom has to go home alone. If I go, I leave you. You actually had me looking forward to Holy Heart. You know, the whole walking through the hallways thing, hanging out in that charming courtyard. I’ve never done stuff like that.”
“Don’t forget kissing goodbye at the classroom door, you up on your tippy toes.”
“Okay, now you’re making fun of me. Next thing you know, we’ll be trying out for some sucky high school musical.”
“I’d make a great leading man, don’t you think?” Jim turns his body and leans toward me, and I snuggle closer. I can’t get over how well we fit together. “If only these damn ribs would hurry up and knit.”
“It’s too bad Nanny doesn’t know some weird cure for broken bones, like carrying a turnip or something.” Jim laughs. Then his face turns really serious, and he leans even closer to me.
“The thing is, Cheryl, I just wanted you to know that I want you to stay. I’m not trying to put pressure on you, but I wanted you to know.” Jim traces my face with his finger softly, and once again I feel him trying to read me, the way he would a fossil.
“And you wanted me to know now, at midnight.”
“No time like the present, as they say.”
His hand combs my short hair behind my ears. We’re both quiet, like we can’t think what to say. Or like we don’t need to say anything. Somewhere far off, a foghorn blows, warning boats that there are rocks ahead. For some reason, I think about my mom. Her lap got burned pretty bad tonight, even through her jeans.
“My mom’s gonna be lost without my dad,” I say.
“And without you?”
“Not so much.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why?”
“I just … I remember the day she came to get me, to go to Middle Cove. She talked about you a lot. She gave me the impression she really cares. I mean, she really wanted you to have a good time. And then when she brought you a piece of the ocean in her hand. That was so cool.”
“It was?”
“Sure. Not a lot of people would do something like that.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way before. I just thought she was being pushy, shoving the ocean in my face, trying to force me into the moment, any way she could. The way Jim describes it, it was sort of like an act of love.
•
I STAY ON THE sofa after Jim has left, not wanting to move. The foghorn blasts again, and this time it reminds me of the wolves on Needle Mountain. My parents used to take me to watch the hockey games at the local arena. All the kids in my Grade Seven class were there. In fact, the whole town was there, so the stands were packed. My parents cheered whenever the home team scored, so loudly it embarrassed me. I wanted to crawl under the cold aluminum bench every time they did it. At intermission, some kids took me out back. They had firecrackers which they stood up in the snow and lit. I stood against the arena wall and watched them explode in a burst of blue and orange against the back drop of Needle Mountain. They told me the wolves hated it when they did this. It made them howl, their long wails filling the empty space between the arena and the hills, ricocheting off the tin walls and tree trunks. Then they told me the wolves would come out of their dens at night and creep into town to take revenge. They were laughing, so I laughed too, to show I wasn’t afraid. But that night I wanted to sleep in my parents’ bed. When I told my mom it was because of the wolves, she didn’t laugh. She put her arms around me and pulled me close to her. She let me fall asleep like that, my head against her chest.
When I finally climb the stairs, my mom is on the landing.
“Everything okay, honey?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just getting some water.”
“That’s good,” she says. “Look, I’m sorry for blurting that out in front of Jim, about going home. It was insensitive. I didn’t realize, I guess.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” And it seems odd that it really is. “I want to ask you something. Do you remember the wolves?”
“What wolves?”
“In Murdochville?”
“There were no wolves in Murdochville.”
“But you let me sleep in your bed when I thought the wolves were coming to get me.”
“Oh, yeah, now I remember. Those kids were just teasing you. You took them to heart.”
“But you let me sleep with you just the same.”
“Of course, honey. You were scared.”
I’m scared now, I want to tell her.
“Well, thanks, Mom.”
“Thanks for what?”
“You know, for doing that. I was really stupid.”
“Fear is never stupid, Cheryl. Never.”
We can’t see each other too well because the landing is dark, lit only by the moon, full as a fat potato in the small window.
“Well, goodnight, Mom.”
“Goodnight, sweetie.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Moment of Change
IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO READ the street signs, the rain is lashing the car windows so hard. My father has the windshield wipers on high, but the water fills in the second it’s been pushed aside. The howling wind is whipping the rain in all directions. At times it’s horizontal, hitting the car from the sides. Other times, it seems to be shooting up from below. It’s like we’re under siege.
The plane can’t possibly take off in this weather. The flight here was shaky enough, but today it’ll be like flying through an earthquake.
In the front seat, my mother is clutching her handbag in her swollen hands. This is exactly the climate she needs to get away from. If my father didn’t have both hands plastered to the steering wheel, he’d be holding her left hand in his right, sharing his heat.
“We’re almost there,” my dad calls, yelling to be heard over the wind. Every now and then we hear a big crash, like the city’s falling down around us. “Probably branches,” he shouts. He’s pulled himself right up close to the windshield, so he can see better, like an old man. “Let’s try the radio.”
My mother fiddles with the knobs and buttons, trying to get a station, but it’s all static.
“We should have called the airport first,” she says.
That would have been smart, I think, except it wasn’t raining this badly an hour ago. It really just picked up as we were leaving. It seemed to come out of nowhere. Like Jim said, if you don’t like the weather around here, wait ten minutes.
He said it again this morning, when he came over to say goodbye. It’s like we were all trying to make small talk, to fill the time before we had to leave. Nanny dropped by, too, hanging onto Jim’s arm. Even with his injured ribs, he still walks better than she does. Her shaking has gotten worse. When Jim goes to see Dr. Patel this week, to check on his ribs, he’s going to ask him whether he can have a look at Nanny.
We’re now part of a slow-moving line of cars crawling up Portugal Cove Road. All we can see of the other cars are the tail lights. When one slows down, we all do, like we’re a train. It amazes me that I remember all the street names: Portugal Cove, Elizabeth, Empire, Bonaventure. I guess they’re imprinted on my brain, I worked so hard at memorizing them. Their initials spelled BEEP backwards. I thought that would be me, beeping everyone out of the way as I zoomed off excitedly to catch my plane home.
My father lets us out at the main door and goes off to park. He’ll be soaked when he finds us, because no umbrella could survive this wind. I help my mother in with the luggage and we line up at the Air Canada counter. It’s really busy. Lots of tourists are leaving and Newfoundlanders are going back to wherever they’re now living. It seems that everywhere I look, parent
s are hugging grown children goodbye. Little grandchildren run around them, playing tag in between the adults’ legs.
My father joins us a few minutes later, his hair and jacket soggy. We’re all really quiet as we snake our way to the checkin. My parents never expected to be back here so soon. It’s a good thing my father is already wet, because he looks like he’s going to start bawling any minute. I see them back at Middle Cove, holding hands and running into the water to wet their feet. Knowing them, they probably squished right through the capelin. Jim said it made great fertilizer. If my mother lived here, I could see her bringing buckets of capelin home for a flower garden.
“Call the minute you get in, okay?” my father says for the third time, as we head toward the departure gate.
“Don’t worry,” my mother says.
“And do what I said. Don’t be a hero. Think of your hands.” My father wants my mom to hire some house cleaners to scrub the place down. He’s afraid she’ll try to do it all herself and hurt her hands even more.
“I will. Like I said.”
“And no heavy lifting. You shouldn’t need to. I’ll help move whatever needs moving when I come at Thanksgiving. Promise?”
My mother raises herself on her tippy toes and plants a long kiss on my father’s lips. He folds his arms around her, and within seconds they are clinging to each other. You’d think the flight was to Siberia, not Montreal.
“You guys,” I say, tapping my mom on the shoulder. “You’re holding up the line.”
Jim wanted to come to the airport, but in the end he figured this should be a family thing. He said his goodbyes at the house. If he had come, I wonder if we’d be embracing, too, right beside my parents. How weird would that be?
It’s our turn. We’re right up at the security gate. Somewhere along the line, my parents’ two-way hug turned into a group hug, and my dad’s arms are around me and my mother. He pulls us together, and we all squeeze and say goodbye at the same time.
In the middle of the huddle, my mother’s hands reach out for mine, pressing as tightly as she can with her sore fingers as the guard calls out “next.”
•
I KNOW MY FATHER will immediately be lost when he gets home. I can see him, wandering from room to room, his footsteps echoing through the house.
My mom’s going to be the same, back in the old house. But she needed to go. The weather in Montreal isn’t perfect, and it can be way too humid, but it’s not as damp as here. She needs to focus on getting her rheumatism better. She’s already got an appointment with her old doctor. If she can get it under control, she might be able to work again. I know she’s going to carry the image of the colourful row houses back with her. I can even see a quilted Cabot Tower rising out of the rock. If she wants any details on the pathway down the hill, she’ll have to ask me, seeing as she never made the hike. It’s vivid in my memory, though. She might have the quilt done for when we’re all together again at Thanksgiving.
My parents said Jim could come for Thanksgiving, too. They said they’ll put him in the spare room, but we can sneak out so we can be together. Of course, my dad had to add that Jim could go visit the Geology departments at McGill and Concordia while he’s there, maybe even Carleton and the University of Ottawa. Jim thought that was a great idea, which made my dad happy.
My dad will be sending along the boxes with my mom’s quilting supplies by Express Post. This morning, when my parents were already in the car, I pretended I needed to go to the bathroom and went back inside. I tore open the box marked Finished Quilts and pulled out all the quilts my mom has made in the last few years. Then I quickly draped them over the backs of the sofas and chairs in the living room. I had one to spare, so I quickly ran upstairs and draped it over my parents’ bed.
I stood in the living room doorway before leaving and took it all in. The quilt of Murdochville is a winter scene, with the desolate main street and its wooden houses leading up to Needle Mountain. The whole picture looks haunted, as though the mythical wolves are coming down from the hills to inhabit the empty buildings. Next to it are the fields around our farmhouse in Saskatchewan—the light blue flowers of the flax on one side, the sunny yellow of canola on the other. Surrounding everything is the creamy beige of the wheat under vast blue skies. The Okanagan Valley quilt depicts a crystal-clear lake that reflects the hills of the lower Rockies. The canoes slicing through the water seem to be coasting on mountain tops.
It occurred to me that one of these quilts, maybe all of them, should be on the cover of my dad’s book. It’s yin and yang. The book is full of statistics and theories and technology, but behind the book was mom, taking in the beauty of the land—the flowers and hills and skies.
I guess that’s why I did it. I knew my dad would be lost when he got home and I wanted him to feel that my mom was still here. There’s no mistaking her presence in these quilts.
Anyway, I can see my dad back at the house, stroking his chin and thinking what a “puzzle” I am.
I wouldn’t be able to argue.
Jim pretty much said the same thing, when I told him what I’d decided to do last night. Until I said it, I really didn’t know what I was going to do myself. Jim was on one side, my mom on the other, both of them wanting me, but neither of them being pushy about it. Letting me decide for myself.
This is going to be a compromise, something that gives a little to everyone, but most to myself. A few weeks at home, to help my mom get settled. Then back to St. John’s to do Grade Ten at Holy Heart. It’s Jim’s last year there, and I want to be part of it. I also want to test his theory, to see if looking down that hallway will make walking it easier.
My mom understood when I told her.
As the plane lifts into the wet and windy sky, I strain to see through the grey. I want a clear and bright view of Newfoundland, but I’m not going to get it. It’s all just grey. Even if it changes ten minutes from now, St. John’s will be too far away to see.
I’ll have to make do with what’s in my head. I close my eyes and see the bits and pieces: Nunnery Hill, Cabot Tower, the Battery, the bunker at Cape Spear, Nanny, and Joannie.
Oh, yeah, and the whales.
Beside me, my mom is crying. She’s trying to hide it, but the little tears escape the corner of her eyes faster than she can dab them with her tissue. The joints of her fingers look like bulbs of garlic. I know what my dad would do if he were here.
I reach over and hold my mom’s hand. She seems surprised, but she doesn’t resist. My father’s explanation for his book comes back to me. The moment of change he called it. That’s what he tries to record. The point where the culture shifts, like the earth is sighing and rearranging its weight.
This could be that moment, for me.
Author Q& A
Q: Of all the locations across Canada where Cheryl and her family have lived, why did you choose to set this novel in St. John’s, Newfoundland? What is it about this location that made it a compelling environment for this story?
A: I lived in St. John’s for two years, from 1991 to 1993. In fact, I was there when the cod moratorium was first announced, living not too far from the hotel where John Crosby, then Fisheries Minister, made the announcement; we later swore that we could hear the angry protests from home. The book was prompted by a return trip to St. John’s years later. I was hiking around Signal Hill with a friend, and when we stopped to look down at the incredible vista, I was overcome with emotion at the beauty and at the memory of that beauty. It is something one never forgets. It was that deep feeling of attachment that brought me to Cheryl, or her to me. I thought, who could not be enchanted by Newfoundland? Would it be possible to be brought here against one’s will and never fall in love with it? Cheryl’s voice invaded my head that day, and I couldn’t get rid of it. She had to come to life. And so did my fondness for that area. No other setting would have done.
Q: Cheryl’s character could be described (and in fact is described by Jim) as privileged because she doesn’t app
reciate all that she has and all the places she has been. Was it difficult to tap into this aspect of her character while still making her likable?
A: Yes, in fact. I did worry at many points that Cheryl would just come across as a whiny, spoiled you-know-what. However, I tried to offset that by showing what had made her so unhappy. It is not easy to move so often at that age. Perhaps some kids, with certain characteristics, would embrace the challenge. But Cheryl is not one of them. She is shy, introspective. Plus, the nature of her father’s work, which she sees as basically spying on people and studying their misery, is so embarrassing to her, and that just adds to the difficulty. Then, there is a softening of Cheryl, an opening up, that takes place in the story that should endear her to the reader. And if not, that’s OK too; we don’t have to like everyone. The contrast between Cheryl’s life and Jim’s life is what I was going for.
Q: Cheryl seems to use her goth style to stand out because she knows she can’t fit in. When you were a teenager, did you ever use fashion to make a similar statement, or did you dress to fit in with your peers?
A: Moving around as Cheryl did would have been extremely painful for me. I remember being quite self-conscious at her age. I was different, a bit old-fashioned and eccentric. I didn’t care about fashion—it seems fashion was not as important when I was a teen in the 1970s. Part of me liked being different, but a much bigger part was eager to hide, to camouflage myself so I wouldn’t stand out. So, no! I would never have deliberately dressed weirdly just to make a statement. I was not a particularly confident teen—that was something I had to (still have to) work on. I remember wishing I had the nerve to dress more outlandishly than I did. I did favour boy’s clothes: construction boots and army jackets. When we moved to a new house when I was thirteen, the boy across the street later told me he thought I was a boy at first. I think that was all part of not being completely comfortable with being thirteen. Adolesence is a difficult time. The movies portray teens as so savvy and confident and sure of themselves, but it’s not like that for most in real life. At least it wasn’t for me. I don’t think Cheryl is all that comfortable dressed in black either; she pretends to be, but I always felt she was somewhat relieved when she begins to dress out of it.