Goggles, goggles…where are my swim goggles? She knelt down and dug through the rubble at the back of her closet, feeling for the rubbery strap. Her hand came in contact with something unfamiliar, square, cardboard. She slid it out. Oh, right. The Box.
It was all get-well cards that had come first, then all the sympathy cards had followed. Lucy had saved every one and kept them in a shoebox. She’d even saved all the cards from the Cancer Society that said, “A donation has been made in Laura’s name from….” There were a million of those.
Her eyes fell on some torn papers sticking out at one end of the box—handwritten notes. She had saved those, too. The ones her mom had written to her or her dad when it had become too hard to talk with the oxygen mask on. Lucy pulled out a couple. The one on top was to her, reminding her to pick the tomatoes before they rotted on the vine. The writing was shaky and uneven, like it’d been done by a child. The next one was written on the back of a torn yellow envelope. Promise me you’ll talk to Scotty. Figure out what to do together. Not the way I planned it. Sorry. Forgive me. Lucy reread the words, more slowly this time. There was that name, Scotty, again. Who was this guy? What did they have to do? She rubbed the paper between her fingers and thought hard. He must be a lawyer or something. Maybe having to do with her mom’s will. Her eyes were drawn back to the last line. What was she sorry about? Lucy hoped it wasn’t about getting sick; it wasn’t her mom’s fault. She bit down on her shaking bottom lip, then returned the papers to the box and pushed it to the back of her closet.
Jumping to her feet, Lucy stepped away from the closet as if trying to separate herself from the brush with memories. She hauled her suitcase out from under her bed, filled it with the heap of clothes on her floor, and threw in a few more odds and ends. After surveying her room for anything she might have forgotten, she slowly zipped up her suitcase, leaving only a small opening at the top to jam in her toothbrush the next morning.
Lucy went to bed that night already feeling homesick. Despite all her wishing, tomorrow was coming. She curled up on her side and stared at the pale blue numbers on her clock radio. She still couldn’t believe that her dad was actually going through with it, that he was sending her away knowing how miserable it was making her.
I’m never going to forgive him.
“Beautiful day for a drive!” Lucy’s dad declared enthusiastically as he held open the car door.
God. Lucy scowled at his back as he walked around to the driver’s side. Sitting in the car, she kept her hand on the door handle, as if she were contemplating making a last-minute break for it. The engine turned over. The car started to back out of the driveway. She moved her hand to her lap. Too late.
She rolled down the window and said a mental goodbye to the street, to the neighbourhood, and then, as they crossed the MacKay Bridge, to Halifax. Her dad was right: the day was beautiful, warm, sunny, and bright—the exact opposite of how she felt.
The drive to Cape John would take about two hours. She wasn’t sure how she was going to survive it without pummelling the dashboard or bursting into tears.
Numerous times her dad made a stab at conversation. He finally gave up and turned on the radio.
About an hour in, Lucy saw a sign ahead on the left. A giant wooden cut-out of an ice cream cone. She remembered this place. The Fundy Dairy Bar. Her mom had taken her when she was little, way back when they used to occasionally visit her grandmother.
“Wanna stop?” her dad asked.
“Yeah!” Then she slapped her hand over her mouth. She’d forgotten and answered without thinking.
The blinker ticked and her dad pulled into the dirt parking lot.
It took Lucy forever to decide. They had over two-dozen flavours. In the end, she picked chocolate chip. She always picked chocolate chip.
Her dad picked orange pineapple. He always picked orange pineapple.
The elbow rest dug into her back as Lucy leaned against the door and looked at him between licks of ice cream. Even though she was never going to speak to him again, she was still going to miss him. Ever since Mom died, it had just been him and her. What was it going to be like not seeing him every day? It didn’t mean she forgave him or anything, but the next time he spoke to her, maybe she would answer. It was a lot of work keeping up the silent treatment.
As if sensing her change in attitude, her dad said, “Hey. Look at all those cows lined up along the fence. Bet it’s going to rain.”
“Great.” Without her meaning it to, it came out sarcastic.
Her dad ignored her tone, pointing out numerous passing attractions. The massive cornfields, the sheep farm, the Sausage House—the sign said “Homemade Sausages.” Gross.
“Now, this place up here.” He gestured with his head to a farm on her side. “I think they keep a llama there. Do you want to check it out?”
She made a face and shook her head. “No.” Isn’t that like a camel-sheep or something? “No thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “Could be really neat, though. Are you sure?”
She rolled her eyes and nodded, “Yup.” Okay, that’s enough. I’ve spoken five words. That’s all you’re getting for now.
“Now, look at that!” he said. “Those rolls of hay are taller than you.”
God, Dad. Why do you think I’d be interested in some rolls of hay? They were kind of cool, though. Enormous. Like Shredded Wheat for giants.
After what felt like forever, they drove through the village of River John. A church, a fire hall, the Co-op, a post office, a river, a bridge, another church, another church, a drugstore—blink once and you’d miss it all. No great loss, really.
At the Shell station, they turned onto a bumpy road that ran along the ocean. “This is the Cape John Road,” her dad said. “If you looked at the Cape from above, it would look long and pointy, kind of like a witch’s hat, with this road running through it.”
“Great,” she said. It didn’t sound so sarcastic this time.
“If I remember correctly,” her dad continued, “there’s a fishing wharf at the very end.” He leaned forward and peered through the windshield. “Josie’s is about halfway down this road.”
Lucy could tell they must be getting closer; things were starting to look kind of familiar. She felt the ice cream inch its way back up her throat.
“I have one last thing to talk to you about.” His tone was serious. She looked at him sideways. “It’s a well-known fact that Josie, uh, can’t cook to save her life. Your mother mentioned that often. I mean, often.”
“O…kay.”
“I’m just saying, there’s always peanut butter and jam. Or cereal.”
Serves you right if I die of malnutrition. “Great,” Lucy said. Definitely back to sarcastic.
He pulled onto a kind of grassy driveway. Lucy recognized the two-storey farmhouse with the huge front porch. Though it was Josie’s now, it used to be Gran Irene’s—this was where her mom grew up. This was also where they had stayed whenever they’d come to visit Gran Irene. It hadn’t changed much since the last time she’d been here, almost nine years ago. A missing shutter, a bit of peeling paint.
Josie came rushing out of the house, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She wrapped her fleshy arms around Lucy before Lucy had even gotten her whole self out of the car. “I’ve been going out of my mind waiting for you!” Josie said. “Did you have a good drive?”
Lucy couldn’t answer because her face was mashed against Josie’s chest, breathing in that weird mentholly smell again.
She wiggled free as Josie turned to her dad. “Mike, you’ll stay to eat? You need some food before you drive back.”
His eyes widened slightly and he coughed. “No—no, Josie, really, I’m fine. We stopped for ice cream.”
Lucy saw that Josie looked confused. Dad! She’s deaf. You have to look right at her and speak clearly.
But then he realized his mistake. “Ice cream,” he repeated, mimicking holding a cone and licking.
Josie’s face cleared and she nodded.
“I had a large.” He patted his stomach. “Full.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. Coward.
“Plus,” he said, looking at Lucy, “The longer I stay, the harder it’ll be to say goodbye.”
He took Lucy in his arms and held her tight. “I know you’re still mad at me,” he whispered into her hair, “but always remember I love you.” He stepped back and looked at her, studied her, as if he knew that this was the last time he would see her like she was at this very moment. Like the next time he saw her, she would be somehow different.
Not trusting herself to speak, Lucy could only stare back at him.
“I have to go out of town for a few days for work,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll call and check in when I get back.”
He handed Josie a piece of paper with what looked like phone numbers scribbled on it. Shouldn’t I be in charge of those? Lucy thought. There was definitely a phone here—her mom used to call Gran Irene on Sunday nights—but she couldn’t guess how Josie would use it. He gave Josie a hug, and then just like that, he left.
Lucy stood in the driveway watching the back of her dad’s station wagon get smaller and smaller. Standing on her tiptoes, she shaded her eyes with her hand, hoping to see the brake lights go on, when he realized what a terrible mistake he’d made.
No lights came on. The car kept driving away. She stayed there long after it disappeared.
Chapter 5
Lucy felt Josie’s arm encircle her shoulders as she sniffed back some tears. She was thankful Josie didn’t try to talk to her. She didn’t think she could manage any words right now. After a moment, Josie gave her a squeeze and said, “When you’re ready, top of the stairs, the blue room.”
Lucy nodded. She waited for Josie to go inside first, then she picked up her suitcase and dragged it up onto the porch, bouncing it off each step as she went.
Just like the outside, nothing had changed much on the inside. She was surprised at how well she remembered it. The worn wood floors, the faded floral wallpaper, the equally faded, floral, lumpy sofa. Everything looked so old. It had looked old even back then—the last time she had visited. Maybe things get to a certain point when they just hit a wall and can’t look any older. Then her eyes landed on something that didn’t look so old. On the mantle was what appeared to be a shiny copper vase. But it had a lid. Gran Irene? Lucy had no intention of checking to see if she was right. She continued through the house, bouncing and bumping her suitcase up the stairs covered in frayed carpet.
At the top, she paused to catch her breath. One, two, three, four, five. Five doors. Two on one side of the dark hallway, three on the other. She remembered the blue room was the second on the right, across from the bathroom. Her hand lingered on the clear, cut-glass doorknob. She remembered how when she was five, she’d thought they all looked like giant jewels, and she’d devoted an entire afternoon to twisting and turning one, trying to get it off so she could take it home. That was until her grandmother found her and whacked her on the butt with the back of a hairbrush. Not very hard, but hard enough that she still remembered.
Lucy took only one step inside the room, letting the stillness settle over her. It felt like no one had been in here for a long time. The late-afternoon sun poured in through the windows, making a pattern of slanted rectangles on the carpet. She walked to the bed and sat down on the edge. Her movements stirred up the dust, and she watched the particles catch in the light as they floated back down onto the furniture and floor. It was hypnotizing.
She let her body flop back on the bed. As she lay there, she studied the sprawling cracks on the ceiling. Some were short. Some were long. Most met up at a point in the middle. They reminded her of the road map of Nova Scotia her dad kept in the glovebox.
Her nose started to tingle. Determined not to cry, she rolled over onto her side and looked around the room that was to be hers for the next two months. It was her mom’s old room. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever even been in here before, except maybe to take a quick peek. The bed was only a twin, so when they had visited together, they had stayed in the green room—Ellen’s old room—that had a double. The walls in here were pale blue. A grey rug with a swirly pattern of pink roses covered the floor. There was a tall chest of drawers and a matching mirrored dresser cluttered with her mom’s old stuff—a bunch of mostly empty perfume bottles, a jar of marbles, and a collection of porcelain bunnies. Lucy remembered those from when she was little. She had asked her mom if she could play with them, but her mom had said no. There was also a giant...Humpty Dumpty? Lucy lifted her head slightly. She could see a slot. Must be a piggy bank. Under the window there was a faded blue upholstered armchair with a spring poking through.
Though there was still daylight, Lucy reached out and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. It had a blue plastic shade, pleated all around like an accordion and gathered in the middle with a white lace ribbon. She ran her fingers along the pointy edges of the pleats. It would make a good tutu for a doll.
Her arm dropped. She was so tired. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a decent night’s sleep. Staring at the lamp, her eyelids began to feel heavy, and she finally fell asleep.
Lucy was flat on her stomach when she opened one eye. The flimsy cotton curtains were fighting a losing battle against the brightness of morning. It took her a moment to register where she was, and that she had slept all through the evening and right on through the night.
There was a quilt draped over her. She didn’t remember covering herself up. Josie must have done it. Scratching the back of her head and yawning, she stumbled to the dresser and leaned forward to look in the mirror. One long sleep wasn’t enough to erase the dark circles under her eyes and she was suffering a bad case of pillow face. The overall effect was…ouch. A light tap on the door dragged her gaze from the mirror.
“Come in,” she called. No response. Right. Deaf. Lucy hurried over to open the door.
“Good morning, dear,” Josie said cheerfully but then frowned. “Oh my. Who does your hair? The northwest wind?” She patted her chest and laughed loudly at her own joke.
It was Lucy’s turn to frown. You’re one to talk. Lucy was pretty sure she’d coloured her hair since yesterday, because there was no way she wouldn’t have noticed that blinding cherry red. Fresh dye stains were visible on the skin along Josie’s hairline, confirming Lucy’s suspicions. Josie could be the poster girl for dye jobs gone bad. Not to mention the cigarette jammed in the corner of her mouth. It’s eight o’clock in the morning!
“I’m just foolin’ with ya, honey,” Josie said.
Not really knowing what to say, Lucy just stood there scraping her lower lip with her thumbnail.
“You can come down for breakfast anytime, but I hope you don’t have big expectations. Not many people know this,” Josie said, lowering her voice to a whisper, “but I’m not that great a cook.”
Ya don’t say…. “Don’t worry, I can look after myself,” Lucy mumbled.
“Say that again?”
Right. “I can look after myself,” Lucy repeated, looking up.
“I’m sure you can. Coffee’s on, though. Get it while it’s hot.”
Who offers a fourteen-year-old coffee? “I don’t really like coffee, so, uh, don’t keep any for me.”
“Suit yourself, but you may change your mind. It’s one of the few things I make that doesn’t have…after-effects.” She laughed to herself again, shaking her head as she walked down the hall.
Leaning against the closed door, Lucy let her head drop forward. Good God, what’s going to happen to me? Mentally she flashed ahead to the end of the summer, grey and sickly from breathing in cigarette smoke for two months, nothing but skin and bones from near starvatio
n, hands shaking from too much caffeine. She crawled back into bed and pulled the quilt over her head. The pillow made a crunchy sound—feathers. Why hadn’t she brought her own? And the pillowcase was stiff and scratchy against her skin. Everything smelled of mothballs. She must have been too tired last night to notice. I want to go home.
As she lay buried under the quilt, determined to stay there for the next sixty days, she thought about Josie. Her mom always said she was the greatest thing since sliced bread. She seems like a complete kook to me!
Her stomach grumbled. She hadn’t eaten since her ice cream cone. She sat up and looked at her suitcase lying on the floor. Unpack or breakfast? Her stomach growled again—angrier this time. She padded down the stairs to the kitchen.
Josie had her back turned, doing something at the kitchen counter. Lucy went and stood beside her. But then Josie made a strange squeak and jumped. Which made Lucy make the same strange squeak and jump too.
“You scared the bejesus out of me!” Josie raised her hand to her throat. “Next time just flick the lights or stomp your foot.”
Nodding, Lucy sat down on the closest chair and waited for her heartbeat to return to normal. The kitchen smelled like coffee, and it smelled good.
Josie went to the freezer. “Here. I think you kids like this kind of garbage.” She pulled out a box of Eggos and tossed them onto the table in front of Lucy.
Lucy sat up straight. We do, we do like this kind of garbage. She opened the box and slid two in the toaster while Josie dug out the butter and syrup. The waffles seemed to take ages to toast. Probably because the toaster was ancient. Or maybe it was because she was way hungrier than she thought. Finally, they popped.
She screwed up her face as she picked up the syrup. The bottle said “Pure.” At home it said “Maple Flavoured.” This might mess up the results.
Her goal was to carefully fill each square of the waffle with syrup, one by one, before moving on to the next. It took patience and a steady hand. If you poured too fast or too much, it would overflow, and there wasn’t allowed to be any runoff over the edge. There were many factors that affected the outcome—the thickness of the syrup, whether the syrup had been refrigerated or kept at room temperature, atmospheric conditions, humidity, stuff like that. And now, Lucy suspected, “Pure” was going to be added to the list.
The Big Dig Page 4
