by Mere Joyce
I watch Forrester swimming in the bay, and I recognize the languid way his body twists as he turns to the right. His father’s dead, and there’s a lot of pain and anger and desperation we don’t see, a lot of shit we’ll never understand if our lives are luckier than his. But in the water, he’s let it go. He’s not swimming with madness, not holding his breath in the hope he’ll rise out of the water to see his dad waving from the shore. He’s grieving, sure, but he’s still living, too. He smiles at his dog, he almost laughs at our jokes. Little things I’ve so far failed to give any notice to. Moments I’ll pay more attention to now.
This weekend is not about cleaning the cottage — it’s about saying goodbye far too long before Forrester could possibly be ready. But he’s trying. He’s making his best effort at keeping himself afloat, and he’s doing a damn good job of it.
I don’t envy the life he’s being forced to live. But I do envy my cousin’s determination not to sink. Drowning would be easy. But he’s not letting easy take hold.
Kayla
THE BAY MUST BE too cold to swim in for long. After ten minutes of lazy paddling back and forth across the width of the cottage, Allison grabs hold of the underwater ladder and climbs out to join me on the dock. Runner scrabbles at the wooden planks, and Nolan pushes him up as best he can until the dog catches his footing and trots back toward the house. Star joins him, barking when he shakes his coat. I watch her bounce backwards to evade the spray, laughing at her agile avoidance.
“I can’t believe we’re a month into school when summer is still outside our door,” I sigh as Allison sits next to me.
I wonder what Hudson’s doing right now. The question is a torment, but I don’t try to tamp it down. I can picture him back in Aurora, playing video games with his sisters or perhaps running a last-minute errand for whatever crucial item is missing for tomorrow’s family dinner. My thoughts turn to Hailey in the kitchen, working to prepare our own feast. While I’m more than a little convinced our food will end up inedible, knowing we’ll be having a family dinner of our own does — surprisingly — make the ache to be at home a little duller.
Allison pulls her towel tight around her lithe frame and crosses her ankles as she stretches her legs.
“It won’t last,” she says, glancing up at the sky. The sun is bright, but there are clouds scattered throughout the blue. “A storm is coming tonight. It’ll change the season for us.”
“You think?” I ask, my doubt obvious.
Allison’s expression is that of an expert trying to converse with a novice — or an idiot.
“I know,” she assures me.
“Know what?”
We both look behind us as Hailey steps onto the docks. Star keeps to her side, sitting when her owner stops walking. “Turkey’s in the oven. Dinner is underway.”
I smile, pushing aside my fears of burned poultry and soggy stuffing.
“Allison says the weather’s going to cool off soon,” I tell her. “I was saying it’s tragic we’re in school when it still feels like summer out here.”
“Last semester I would have agreed, but I like school these days,” Hailey says, sitting between us. Her hand moves to stroke Star’s fur.
“You’re a senior now, too, right?” I ask, and Hailey nods. “What made you change your mind about school?”
“Altered focus.” She shrugs. “I thought I had a plan, and then I thought that plan had gone to shit. But then a new plan emerged, and it’s motivated me to kick ass this year so I can get into the program I want after I graduate in the spring.”
“What do you plan on studying?” Allison asks, her serious tone lightened with curiosity.
“Indigenous Studies,” Hailey says.
I couldn’t have guessed what she’d be interested in majoring in, but my cousin’s response still manages to surprise me. Out of all the subjects Hailey or anyone else could choose to take, Indigenous Studies carries as equal a weight as everything else. But it’s at odds with the Hailey I used to know. Once, when we were little, Hailey came to my house and we played with a couple of kids on my street. One of them said she didn’t look like my cousin because she wasn’t even white. Hailey punched him in the stomach and said she was. I’d never even thought about it before, and after that incident, I didn’t intend to think of it again.
But of course, she’s grown up now. Her life is different. It’s been a long time.
Still, I or Allison or both of us must look intrigued, because Hailey stops petting Star and begins stroking her own long braid instead.
“Back in January, I’d had it with school,” she admits. “I used to want to be a nurse, but I lost steam. I didn’t finish my assignments and failed most of my tests. Which sort of put a damper on the whole career choice. I decided I wouldn’t apply for anything after graduation — if I even graduated — but my mother refused to accept that. We got into a massive fight over it. She wanted me to go to university so I could have a better life than she did. She — you guys know she was born on a reservation, right?”
Allison and I both nod. I’m not sure why I know the fact, but it’s been tucked in my mind all these years.
“Yeah, well, things weren’t easy for her,” Hailey says, as Nolan pulls himself onto the docks and is brought into the conversation as well. “I don’t know the details, but I can make a few guesses. She left when she was fourteen and lived on the streets for a while in Toronto.”
“She what?”
I had no idea my aunt was ever homeless. The thought sends a taut shiver down my back.
Hailey nods like she understands my reaction. “She ran away, changed her name, and did what she could to get by until an opportunity arose for her to make something of herself. She hates her past. All of it. She won’t talk about her life before getting her first job and meeting my dad. I don’t even know what her real name is — how fucked up is that?”
“She must have good reason to keep it buried,” Nolan says.
Hailey shrugs him off.
“Yeah, I guess,” she mutters. “Anyway, she kept bugging me to do some extracurricular things to make up for my lousy grades. She gave me brochures and website printouts for a whole host of weekly classes and summer camps. I was pissed off at her, so when I saw a summer camp that ran in conjunction with an Indigenous Studies program, I applied out of pure spite. She was livid. I only did it to annoy her, at first. But then I started reading about the camp, and, well, I kind of started reading about my heritage. The Cree part of my heritage, anyway. I never realized how fantastic and how awful it all is.
“I attended the camp this summer and loved it. I mean, it’s overwhelming, and my mother still turns to ice whenever I mention it. But I know I want to enroll in Indigenous Studies, and I plan to be a sure candidate when I submit my application.”
So that explains Hailey’s changed appearance. I wasn’t wrong to think it was unusual for her. Or, maybe unusual isn’t the right word. Different? New?
I love the idea of Hailey claiming her heritage. But I hope it doesn’t destroy her relationship with her mother.
Also, I can’t believe I don’t even know my aunt’s real name. I wonder what kind of person she used to be — what her own family was like.
“Are you thinking about school, Kayla?” Allison asks, directing the subject to me. I blink out of my thoughts and stare at my cousin. “After high school, that is,” she continues. “Do you know what you want to do once you’ve graduated?”
“Oh, um.” I fumble with my words, feeling inadequate to discuss my studies after hearing Hailey’s story. “I want to study history,” I reply at last, flipping through a mental catalogue of all the schools I’ll apply to in the next few months, and the only one I’m interested in attending. “I want to get my education degree so I can teach. You?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Allison shrugs. She scratches at one of the swollen
blemishes on her chin. “I’ll go to school, but I don’t know where yet. Maybe somewhere abroad.”
“Really? Which country would you want to study in?”
I’d like to travel sometime, but the thought of going to school outside of Canada — outside of Ontario — has never occurred to me. Even if it weren’t for Hudson, my heart would still belong closer to home.
“No idea.” Allison’s smile is dreamy as she closes her eyes and tilts her face into the sun. “I’m going to South America in March, if I can save up the money. I suppose I’ll see if I like it. I’ll apply to a few places in Europe. Australia, too, and who knows where else. I’ve been thinking I might explore Brazil.”
“That’s awesome. What about Eli, is he going to travel, too?”
Allison rolls her eyes at the question.
“He’ll stay in Toronto,” she answers in a clipped voice. “He plans to study engineering.”
Hailey raises one eyebrow at her tone of disgust. “And that’s bad because …”
“He’s just doing it for the salary,” Allison seethes. I get the impression this is an argument the twins have had before. “He has no actual interest in it.”
I hadn’t expected the question to cause such a heated reaction. I wouldn’t have asked had I known.
“What would you rather he do?” Nolan questions.
“He’s got a major talent for drawing, and a knack for design. He should be a designer or an architect or something. Not an engineer. He doesn’t have a passion for engineering. He just thinks it will be an easy way to get a good career.”
“Not everyone does what they love for a living,” I say.
“Some people love stability and good pay,” Nolan adds. “Not everyone wants to travel the world and live like a nomad.”
Allison clenches her fists, her blue eyes dark. I wonder if Nolan meant to aggravate her. I can’t quite tell if half of his utterances are said in earnest or if they are designed to annoy.
“I don’t want to live like a nomad,” Allison says, her words tight. “I want to study and make a career for myself. The difference is I want to do it studying what I love.”
“School’s overrated,” Thomas says.
He bobs in the water, his arms folded on the dock. I don’t know when he got back from his long swim out into the bay, but he’s heard enough to understand the topic.
“You only think that because you barely finished,” Nolan replies.
“Ouch, nice brother,” Hailey says.
Nolan gives her an odd little smirk, somewhere between sardonic and proud.
“He’s telling the truth,” Thomas says with a laugh, as Forrester, back from his own swim, glides toward us and mimics Thomas’s floating stance, “and I’m not ashamed of it.”
With his arms exposed I can see his tattoos, two miniature landscapes of trees running the length of his inner wrists. They aren’t identical, but they look like they’re from the same original inspiration. They make me think of the painting in our kitchen at home, the one based on this very bay.
“I got through high school, which was torture enough,” Thomas continues. “I couldn’t pay someone for further misery on top of that.”
“Yeah, but what are you going to do now?” Allison asks.
Thomas stares at the wooden planks in front of him, his black piercings and water-darkened hair a stark contrast to his light skin.
“I’m going to take a road trip,” he says with a wistful smile. “I’ve gotten all I can out of this place, so I’m going to travel through Canada, the States — maybe even make it down to Mexico. See if I can discover something worthwhile.”
“Dad and I were going to do that,” Forrester says then, his voice quiet. Even in the sunshine, I can see what little color there is drain from his cheeks as he talks. “We were planning a trip for next year. He said it was time to move on and let go. So, we were just going to pick up and leave. I think he needed to get away for a while. Things weren’t going so well here.”
“What do you mean?” Allison asks.
Forrester shrugs, pushing himself back from the docks amidst a rush of water.
“Business wasn’t booming, no girl in his life …” He pauses with a grimace. “His health hadn’t been the best, either. He needed a break, is all. Guess he got one.”
“Forrester,” Hailey scolds.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns and swims away, leaving us to watch his retreat.
“What is he going to do?” I breathe.
Transfixed by the sight of his shrinking figure, I stare almost unblinking until Forrester’s little more than a speck in the bay. Then I look around at the others. My cousins return my questioning gaze — all except for Thomas. He remains in the water, his body facing the distance, his eyes trained on Forrester.
“He’ll be okay,” he says after a moment, his voice firm. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”
I don’t know what’s going through Thomas’s head, but his manner is so decided, all I can do is believe him.
Thomas
FLOATING UNDER THE DOCK, whining boards and sloshing water add to the symphony of muted conversation.
“A trip.”
“A trip? It’s not possible.”
“Of course it is. She’d like that, you know.”
“Yes. She would. But I don’t think it’s possible, Simon.”
Forrester calling to his dad, asking where the water toys ended up. Simon shouting a reply, believing me to be with him, stuck in the shed on the hunt for neon-colored plastic.
Me, below, wondering what trip and when, wishing I could go even if I didn’t know where to or with whom. Wondering who she was and why a trip with her would be impossible.
Why any trip would be impossible. Why people couldn’t always get up and leave whenever they felt it was time.
Hailey
FORRESTER COMES BACK TO the cottage two hours after the rest of us have gone inside. I have no idea where he went. Swam to the other side of the bay, maybe. Or found a neighbor’s canoe to take over to Huckleberry Island. Whatever the case, by the time he returns, we’ve packed up the boxes of stuff from upstairs to be driven back into town, and we’ve cleaned all of the upper rooms.
“Should we keep the boots or toss them?”
I lift an old pair of muddied boots, the black leather cracked and covered with a hard layer of brown muck. Kayla and I are now tackling the mudroom at the front of the cottage. I’ve already basted the turkey and prepped the side dishes for later. Thomas better come through with his promise of baking. I’m not going to have my dinner go unappreciated because everyone’s too busy bemoaning the lack of dessert.
“Which ones are Forrester’s?” Kayla asks, looking at the boots in my hand and the matching pair still on the floor. “We should get rid of Simon’s. But Forrester might still want his.”
I study the boots with a cringe.
“I can’t even fucking tell,” I say. Both pairs are old and disgusting. They look about the same shoe size, too. They must have been bought around the same time, probably after heavy tread wore holes in the bottoms of the previous pairs.
“Then again, he might not have much use for them if he doesn’t have this place,” Kayla muses.
She tilts her head to one side, the movement swirling imitation coconut and some kind of flowery perfume into the air. The scents are familiar. I used to buy the same sorts of products, before I decided spending money on manufactured smells wasn’t the best use of my measly earnings.
My cousin and I used to wear similar perfume, and we used to be alike in other ways as well. Kayla’s brown hair has been touched with highlights, and looking at it shine in the light through the mudroom windows makes me think of how I used to lighten my own hair — hating the thick black and wishing I could be a blond instead. She wears trendy jeans and a brand-name
tank top, and I know how expensive the clothes are because I used to pine after the same labels. Makeup covers every pore of her face, and I remember the drawer of cosmetics I only convinced myself to throw away a couple of months ago.
Kayla hasn’t changed. As a kid, she was never as girly as Allison. But as much as she liked digging for worms with the boys or walking through the woods with her parents and her brother, Kayla always had a soft spot for pretty dresses and bright shades of lipstick. For her seventh birthday, I bought her a beginner’s makeup kit, and we painted and re-painted our faces for hours. I’m glad her personality has not flipped upside down, like Allison’s. But although I love still being able to glimpse the girl Kayla used to be, it sort of makes me sick to see how readily she buys into the idea we need to spend money on false appearances to make us happy.
Of course, it’s none of my damned business how Kayla lives her life — and who gives a fuck if she wants to wear three layers of makeup on a hot, sunny day. Kayla’s not a bad person. She has a soft demeanor and a general complacency I envy. Wanting to look good doesn’t mean she’s selfish or cruel. Allison probably hasn’t held a mascara wand her entire life, and her attitude is miserable.
Shit. I only gave up my nicest clothes a season ago, and already I’m so self-righteous I think horrid thoughts about someone else’s appearance — while ignoring the fact I’m a total hypocrite, preaching simple living and then loading up a grocery cart with the kind of processed garbage I should be ashamed to eat.
Changing an entire outlook on life is hard. I didn’t give up nice things for the sake of being an example of perfection. A purpose lies behind the uncluttered persona I still sometimes struggle to accept. Every time I think of buying new lipstick or an expensive bottle of lotion, I put the money I would have spent in a separate bank account. I’m not sure what I’ll do once the funds add up to a worthwhile sum, but it will be something more important than splurging on a trip to the spa.
