By the Shore

by Galaxy Craze

  “It could be. It’s possible. It looks like a sword was in it,” Rufus told Eden.

  “I really think it is. We just learned about it in school and I saw the picture and it looks just like this.” Eden couldn’t believe his luck; he had finally found something. It wasn’t a leprechaun, it wasn’t the haunted house; Eden had found King Arthur’s stone.

  “Wasn’t it a big stone in a lake?” I said.

  “Oh.” Eden let out a long moan and flung his hand to his head like he was swatting a mosquito. “I forgot about the lake,” he moaned.

  “Well, maybe there was a lake here and it dried up. It was a long, long time ago,” Rufus said. Eden filled up with air again; he came back to life instantly.

  “I bet it did. It did! I knew it.”

  “We’ll get a book from the library and find out,” my mother said to him as she stood up and brushed the leaves from her clothes. We all stood up except Rufus, still on his knees. My mother held out her hand to him. He took it and she pulled him up. I saw his face wince.

  “Thank you,” he said, when he was standing. “I have a bad leg.” He held on to her hand.

  “Should we turn back?” my mother asked, looking at Rufus as their hands slid apart.

  “What happened to your leg?” Eden asked, looking up at him.

  “I can’t remember exactly, but I hurt it when I was very young.”

  “Can you swim?” Eden wanted to know.

  Rufus nodded.

  “Can you run?”

  He nodded again. “But not very fast.”

  “Can you ride a bike?”

  “That’s easy. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

  The air was cooler now; our breath looked like thin smoke in front of us. A sound like a howl came from the trees. In the daytime you only hear the leaves beneath you, the singing birds, and, in winter, the creaking ice, but at night there are other sounds in the woods. I shivered, but not because I was cold. No one spoke. A low whispering sound came from deeper inside the woods and then a sharp cry.

  “I’m getting a little tired and hungry for cheese toast,” Eden said. I wanted to go home too. That’s what houses are for, people at night. We turned around and walked back quietly through the woods.

  …

  Something woke me. A sound. It sounded like a trumpet. I thought someone was playing the trumpet downstairs. My eyes stung, they were wide open. Some people can sleep through anything.

  Once I phoned my father, it was only six or seven in the evening; I was alone in the house and wanted to talk to him. A man answered the phone, but it wasn’t him, it was his friend Fred, who sells pills to people—all different colours for all different things. He keeps them hidden in the hollow body of a baby doll.

  Fred said, “Hold on a minute, will you?”

  I waited with the phone to my ear. I waited a long time; I thought maybe we had been disconnected.

  Finally someone picked up the phone. It was Fred again. “Yeah, he’s knackered,” he said, in his heavy, lazy voice. “He just took a sleeping pill. He’s having a little lie-down on the sofa.”

  “Okay,” I said, like it was nothing, and put the phone down. I looked at it for a moment. Everything was quiet around me. I imagined my father lying on the sofa with his feet up, not wanting to be bothered, looking at the phone, looking at his feet, a cigarette in his hand, a record on. “This is a good track,” he’d say to Fred when he came back in the room, after he’d hung up the phone.

  I was wide awake now, wondering if I would ever be too tired to talk to my father on the phone. Then I heard it again, the sound from downstairs. I sat up in bed. It was the middle of night and anything can happen then. Things can move around: toy animals, books, painted glass jars filled with earrings and hair clips. I’ve seen things happen. Once, I was lying on the top bunk—it was late and my light was on, just a bare bulb hanging in the middle of the room with a shoelace pull string—and I saw something fly across the room, slowly. A little black bird! A little black bird flew across my room and then disappeared. It really did. I saw it, and it wasn’t just because I was young and thought everything was alive.

  I put my feet on the floor. I was still afraid something would grab my ankle from under the bed, so I ran to the door. A grey-blue light came in through the hallway windows. As I walked down the stairs the sounds came closer; they rose up around me, like a choir. My face and chest felt warm, almost hot, as though I was sitting next to a fire.

  At the bottom of the stairs, in between the crash and howl from the waves and the wind, I could hear the sounds of a school yard, a playground, a children’s playground. The sound of running feet, a bell from an ice-cream van, the squeak of the swings. “Push me higher!” Young voices, high voices, boys’ and girls’ voices. They were coming from the yellow living room at the end of the hallway. The door was open a crack; a light was on inside. I walked towards it.

  Outside the door, the air smelled of soapy warm bathwater. I put my hand on the knob and pushed it open. The light shone in my eyes, very yellow and too bright. I stepped back and put my hand above my eyes. I saw two people sitting on the floor across from a brightly coloured board game. A boy and a girl, younger than me but older than Eden. They were wearing their school uniforms. I closed my eyes and saw red. The next time I opened them the light was calmer. My mother and Rufus sat on the floor across from each other playing a game of Scrabble.

  My mother was laughing. She was really laughing, bending over at the waist. Rufus looked at me as I stood in the doorway. “She keeps trying to add two ‘eds’ to everything,” he said. He was laughing too; his eyes were bright.

  “It’s the double past!” she said, her eyes shiny and her cheeks red. She looked like a girl.

  “Did we wake you?” my mother asked. She looked like she was about to start laughing again. I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure. I sat down on the sofa and pulled my legs to my chest. There was a folded plaid blanket on the arm of the sofa; I put it over my feet and lay down. A fire was burning low in the fireplace. There was a record playing. I closed my eyes and listened for the trumpet.

  I was almost asleep when I heard Rufus say in a low voice, “Why did you leave him?”

  “What?” my mother asked, as though she hadn’t heard.

  “Their father,” he said.

  “They have different fathers. May’s father is Simon. Eden’s father was Paul. I left Simon because I wasn’t in love with him. I don’t think he was really in love with me. We were both young; I was twenty when I had May. There was no love lost, as Annabel would say.”

  “Who’s Paul?” Rufus asked. His voice sounded stiff.

  “An old boyfriend . . . . May thought he was always drunk, but he was high.” She sounded like she was talking to an old friend, Annabel or Suzy. Her voice didn’t change when she spoke to him, the way it sometimes did with men.

  I wanted her to talk about my father, not Eden’s.

  “I got pregnant. I didn’t want to have another child.”

  When she said things like that, that she didn’t want another child, I didn’t know what to think of myself.

  “I went to stay with my friend Suzy in her mother’s house in Somerset,” she told him. “She had two big dogs, and May used to follow them into the woods by herself. We’d be so stoned we wouldn’t even notice. Then when we did I’d be in a huge panic and run around to all the neighbours and phone the police. Everyone would be looking for her. Once, I was sure I’d lost her, she was gone for three hours, but then someone found her walking down the road with one of the dogs.”

  My mother’s voice sounded slow and loose, like beads on a necklace with a string that’s too long.

  “Anyway Suzy drove me to the clinic, and May sat in the back seat”.

  I remembered sitting in the back of the car. No one would tell me where we were going. The trees were all bare bones and the sky was white, it was that kind of winter day. I was different then. I would sit on my mother’s lap and put my head on h
er chest; inside me was just me and warm blue water.

  I pulled the blanket up slowly, over my face, so Rufus and my mother couldn’t see that I was listening. When I remembered being little, in the back of that car, it made me feel like I missed someone.

  My mother was still telling him the story.

  “On the way, Suzy pointed to the side of the road and said, ‘Did you see that dead deer?’ Then May said, ‘Where’s the dead deer? Where’s the dead deer?’”

  She was imitating my voice, the way it used to sound, small and high.

  “She was looking all over for the deer. I told her that we had already passed it, but she kept turning around trying to see it. ‘Dead deer? Dead deer? Where’s the dead deer?’ she kept saying the whole drive. We tried to play I Spy and asked her if she wanted an ice lolly, but she wouldn’t stop asking about the dead deer . . . . There was something about the way she kept saying ‘dead deer’, over and over, that made me change my mind.”

  It was my fault Eden was born.

  “Does Eden ever see him?”

  “Paul? No, he didn’t want to have a child. Eden never even asks about him,” my mother said.

  I was waiting for her to tell him about my father.

  But the next time she spoke she said, “It’s your go.”

  “My letters are terrible. Where’s May’s father?”

  “In London somewhere . . . .” I was wide awake with the blanket over my face. I opened my eyes. I thought I would be able to hear better. Then the record ended and the next thing she said was, “What should we listen to?”

  I heard her stand up and lift the needle; it made a scratchy sound.

  No one spoke for a while. Then she said, “I’m getting tired.”

  “Do you want me to take her upstairs?” I heard him ask.

  “No, she’s fine.” I felt my mother pull the blanket down to cover my feet; then she slowly lifted it off my face. She didn’t want me to suffocate in the night.

  They turned the lights out and left. I heard him say good night to her in the hallway, and I heard them walk away from each other.

  I lay there in the dark, on the sofa, with the plaid blanket over me. I felt like I was sinking to sleep. Then I heard someone walk into the room, quietly. I held my breath, I could hear breathing, close to me. I opened my eyes and waited for the dark to turn a lighter grey. I saw someone, a body, lying down on the floor next to the sofa.

  “Mum?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m just thinking, don’t worry.” Her voice sounded like it was sailing off somewhere.

  I fell asleep that way, in the living room, in the middle of the night, while my mother slept below me, on the floor, in the place where Rufus had been before.

  Eight

  The next morning the phone woke me. I sat up in bed, waiting, listening for my mother or Eden to pick it up. It rang and rang, the precious phone. Anyone could be on the other end, even my father. I ran to it with a swooping hope that he wouldn’t get bored and put it down. It was Sunday! Sometimes he calls on Sunday, I thought, as I reached for it.

  I took a breath before I answered.

  “Hello,” I said. The line was empty, but I could still hear the phone ringing. It was the pay phone. I ran downstairs. I felt a splinter in the bottom of my foot, but I didn’t stop. I kept running towards it.

  “Hello?” I stood on one foot.

  “Is Rufus in?” a woman asked from the other end.

  “Hold on,” I said. I put the phone down on the table. This is how hope falls away. I walked on my toes. The floor was cold, and the splinter stung in my foot. The house suddenly seemed so big, it made me tired thinking about looking for him in it. My heart was still beating fast. I went down to the cellar and knocked on his door. There was no answer. I called his name through the hallways, but there was still no answer.

  I walked upstairs to the guest sitting room, the yellow room. The Scrabble game was still on the floor; next to it lay a piece of paper with their names, Lucy and Rufus; below were their scores. The plaid blanket lay crumpled at the end of the sofa. I remembered that I had come into this room last night and fallen asleep on the sofa. I thought, How did I get back to my own room? When I tried to remember, it all seemed so far away. I shouted my mother’s name, but no one heard me; my voice didn’t carry. I wondered what time it was. I yelled my brother’s name from the bottom of the stairs. I felt so tired and my foot hurt. I was being slow on purpose, looking out of the window, letting her wait on the other end of the phone. Making her sit and wait with the phone against her ear. I walked back slowly.

  “He’s not here,” I said. The phone felt heavy in my hand. I looked around at the dark wood, the archway over the door, and thought, I’m alone in this house.

  “What do you mean?” she asked when I told her. I had heard her voice before, it was someone I knew. “He doesn’t have a car. He can’t go anywhere. Is this May?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Patricia.”

  “Oh, hi,” I said. I was happy she remembered my name.

  “I’m calling from London. I have to ask him something. Is your mother there?” I wondered if maybe she knew my father. I wanted to ask her but she sounded like she was in a rush.

  “I think she went out.” It is what I really thought. She could have been asleep; I still didn’t know what time it was.

  “Is he with her?”

  “Who?”

  “Rufus,” she said.

  “Do you know what time it is?” I thought it might be so early that everyone was still asleep. I looked up at the sky through the windows—it was a heavy blue, the way it sometimes is in the early morning before it brightens up.

  “It’s half past eleven,” she said impatiently. “Did they go out together?”

  “I don’t know.” I was thinking about how late it was and wondering how I had slept through everyone waking up, eating breakfast, getting dressed.

  It seemed like a long time passed. Neither of us spoke.

  “May?” Her voice sounded higher, softer. “Will you do me a favour?”

  “What?” I thought she was going to ask me to write down a long message on a piece of paper.

  “Don’t tell him I phoned. Okay?”

  “Don’t tell him you phoned?” I repeated it to make sure.

  “Do not tell him.”

  “Okay.” I was nervous that I would forget and tell him anyway.

  “I’ll bring you something from London, a little surprise. When I come to visit,” she said, the phone down.

  I was excited for a moment, thinking about what she would bring me from London. I liked small things, little surprises. Once in my Christmas stocking there was what looked like a chocolate in its own clear box. But it was made of plastic, the top twisted off, and inside was a pool of raspberry-coloured lip gloss. I hoped she would bring me something like that.

  There was a note on the kitchen table. It was in my mother’s terrible handwriting that I could barely read.

  Gone shopping, but will be back soon to make you fluffy pancakes for breakfast.

  Love,

  Mummy

  A damp wind came in through the half-opened window. It felt like it was raining outside, but it wasn’t; it was just Sunday. I sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and looked at the bottom of my foot. There was a splinter in my heel, a small spot of blood; it was easy to pull out. Everything was so quiet in the house. I wondered if my mother had tried to wake me up this morning.

  I went to my bedroom. I looked in the mirror and practised ballet. I made up my own moves. Sometimes I wore a scarf around my head and pretended it was long hair. I brushed my hair with my blue hairbrush, starting at the ends so it didn’t hurt. It came just below my shoulders, a dirty-blonde colour. I turned to look at myself from the side. I lifted my shirt to see my stomach. It looked flat, but when I sat down there were rolls. I saw my French book lying on the floor and sneered at it. I was three
lessons behind, pages and pages behind. I felt cold and went to run a bath.

  After the bath I put on a T-shirt and then a sweatshirt, clean polka-dot knickers that went up to my waist, blue trousers, and clean socks. My skin was pink and I felt warm and new again. Then I went to the window to see if my mother’s car was coming down the driveway. My stomach growled; I looked down at it. My wet hair made a puddle in the middle of my back. I thought, I shouldn’t start my French lessons yet because they will be back soon and I’ll have to stop in the middle.

  I sat on my bed and waited. I thought about different kinds of foods: a pink strawberry mousse swirling in a wineglass, cheese on toast. I walked to the kitchen. I thought about eating a bowl of cereal but decided to wait. They would be home soon and then we’d have fluffy pancakes. The reason fluffy pancakes are fluffy is because you have to whip the egg whites separately until they are stiff and then carefully fold them into the batter—very carefully. Our mother always does that part. When they’re done we keep them warm in the oven; then we cover them with butter and the maple syrup that my grandmother sends us from America. Sometimes we use strawberry jam.

  I thought I heard a car coming, but it was just the wind blowing through the leaves. I read the note from my mother again. I looked at the clock; it was almost one. All I could feel was my stomach sinking and sinking. I decided to make a list of what to eat that day. The first thing was fluffy pancakes with maple syrup and butter. That’s all I wrote; it was a boring thing to do. I stood up and felt dizzy. I put my hands on my stomach. It wasn’t as flat as it felt.

  I went back to my room; I thought it would be warmer in there. When I stood up my head felt like it dropped down. A bump, a bump in my head. I picked up my French workbook: le cahier, le musée, la rose, la chienne. I couldn’t stand it, the sound of the language. I liked my own. I held out my hand in front of me. It looked white; I thought maybe there was no blood in it. I wasn’t sure if I was hungry any more; things kept disappearing around me. I found a clock and it was quarter to two. They must have had a flat tyre. I counted the hours since I last ate. Almost twenty.