Safe Harbour

by Christina Kilbourne

  “Excuse me? Miss?” A librarian is standing beside me, holding Paramahansa Yogananda’s autobiography in her hand.

  I swallow hard and my heart gives two heavy thumps to make sure I feel suitably guilty about taking a knife to her book. I sit up straight and try to look, I dunno, studious. I don’t want her to ban me from the library. Dad gets annoyed when I don’t take my reading list seriously.

  “I think you were the last one to read this book?” she says softly and gazes at me directly, but not with an accusation in her eyes.

  I nod and glance down at the book in my lap.

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  Her question is so unexpected I look back at her face. She’s leaning against the pod, which disarms me further. I lean toward her and speak in a low voice.

  “I did. Very much. I found myself believing that Yogananda could actually move physical objects and influence events with his thoughts.” I pause, then add dreamily, “or maybe I just wanted to believe in a world like that.”

  She considers my comment a moment then examines the book as if she’s never seen it before. “We don’t get a lot of people interested in this book.”

  “That’s too bad. I think more people should read it. Maybe you should read it?”

  The librarian glances down to where my next reading list book rests on my knees.

  “Do you mind me asking what you’re reading now?”

  I blush. “His translation of The Bhagavad Gita.”

  She smiles and covers a laugh by clearing her throat.

  “Are you taking a course on religion?”

  “No, not really. My dad put it on a reading list for me. It’s pretty good. You might like it, too.”

  “Your father sounds very interesting. I’m sure there are a lot worse things you could be reading.”

  She pauses and it gives me time to wonder what she means by “worse things.” Is she implying that The Bhagavad Gita is somewhere on the continuum of bad to worse in terms of literature? But I don’t have a chance to question her about what is on the far ends of her spectrum because she starts speaking again, and averting her eyes suddenly. She looks at her hands and then off in the distance, and finally at the floor to the right of my chair.

  “Anyhow, I wanted to ask you to please stop cutting the bar codes off our books. If you want to borrow one, you could get a library card and take it home with you. I mean, it’s a public library. That’s what we do. We loan books to people. It doesn’t cost anything. But we like to keep track of who has the books.”

  I want to tell her that I know how libraries work, but I’m also aware that, despite the fact that she’s busting me for defacing public property, she’s somehow on my side. She seems like one of those big-hearted librarians who believe the world would be a better place if everyone just read more.

  “I’d love to get a library card.”

  Her expression brightens and now that she’s finished delivering the bad news, she looks at my face again.

  “On your way out, why don’t you stop at the front desk and I’ll help you with that.”

  I see my phone needs another half hour to charge fully.

  “I’m not quite ready to go, but when I do …” I pause and note that her nametag identifies her as Erica. “… Erica, I promise to come and find you.”

  Dad is a big believer in using people’s names when he talks to them, even complete strangers. He says if you use a person’s first name it helps you remember that person better, and it also helps you get what you’re asking for. I’ve seen him do it a thousand times and it always works. He oozes charm. His signature move is lowering his voice when he asks a person their name, then, if he’s close enough, placing his hand on their forearm ever so lightly while repeating back their name like it’s the most beautiful word he’s ever pronounced. By the time he asks for whatever he needs, the person is nodding and smiling, bending over backwards to help him. If you can believe it, I’ve even seen him charm a coast guard that way.

  Erica smiles and tugs her sweater down over her mid-section. She adjusts her glasses with one hand and nods to signal her departure.

  “Thank you so much for helping me,” I say as sweetly as I can.

  She turns to leave but pauses. “One more thing, if you don’t mind. Is that your dog tied up down the street under the tree? The border collie?”

  I try to keep my cool, but suddenly I’m worried about Tuff. If something happened to him, well, I don’t know what I’d do. I must look panicked because she puts her hand on my shoulder to calm me.

  “He’s fine. I just wondered if it would be okay if I took him a bowl of water? It’s so hot today and I just thought if he had water other people would know he’s being looked after.”

  Shame courses through my veins until I feel dizzy. I’m thankful to be sitting, otherwise I’m sure I’d have to find something to lean against for support.

  “He’s hasn’t even been out there two hours. I would never abandon him.”

  “I know you wouldn’t. It’s just that I love dogs. So if you don’t mind, I’ll slip out on my break and give him a bowl of water, maybe introduce myself. Is he friendly?”

  “Very. His name’s Tuff. He likes girls, so watch out he doesn’t fall in love with you.”

  Erica smiles shyly and slips away. I pick up my phone and start counting down the minutes until it’s fully charged. The Bhagavad Gita is going to have to wait.

  Erica is at the information desk by the front door when I’m ready to leave. When she sees me, she pulls a stool up to the computer and starts to type.

  “Are you ready to get your library card?”

  “I sure am,” I say with what I hope is an abundance of enthusiasm.

  She taps at the keyboard and nods at the sleeping bag under my arm.

  “Are you going camping?”

  “Yes. With my father.”

  “Where?”

  The question takes me by surprise, but I’ve always been good at improvising. I try to picture the maps of Ontario we looked at when we planned this trip.

  “Some park. Up north.”

  “Algonquin Park?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. Have you been?”

  “I’m not much of a camper. I like beds and showers too much. Now, the first thing I need is your name.”

  I tell her my name and spell it for her too, slowly. I like that Canadians know how to spell Harbour, even though almost everyone stumbles over Mandrayke. In Florida I had to explain every time that there was a U in Harbour because my mom was Canadian. Erica, though, doesn’t flinch at either name.

  “And your address?”

  I scramble around in my head to come up with an address as quickly as possible. I’m acutely aware of the fact that a long delay will reveal me as a fraud.

  “Nine Amelia Street.”

  I think about the house on Amelia Street that I’ve passed several times on my way to and from my camp in the ravine. It’s just a cottage, really, but whenever we pass by Tuff insists on sniffing every inch of white picket fence, then peeing on the gatepost. It means I’ve had time to study this house: the stone walls, the yellow door, the high-peaked roof. I’m not really a house person, but this one makes me feel happy for some reason. It makes me wish, briefly, that we didn’t live on a boat.

  “Postal code?”

  Now I pause for real. There isn’t a chance I can come up with the postal code and I know it.

  “Oh. Ummm. Darn. We just moved here and I haven’t memorized it yet.”

  “Do you have any identification with your address on it?”

  I shake my head and try to look disappointed.

  Erica glances left, and then right. Finally she leans across the counter.

  “I’m not supposed to do this, but I’ll make an exception because I don’t want you to get behind on your father’s reading list. Next time you come in, bring something with your name and address on it. Just to prove you live there. Then I can finish off your card.”

>   “So I can’t sign out this book?” I make my face register more disappointment than I feel.

  “I’ll give you a temporary card today. Just don’t forget to bring something like a piece of mail next time you come in.”

  Tuff and I are back at camp, lying together like spoons in a patch of filtered sun. I’m reading and he’s dozing. I can feel his chest rise and fall with each breath and the fur on the top of his head tickles the soft underside of my chin. With each breath I inhale the familiar scent of his dogginess, a smell it seems I have known my whole life. We are lying on a layer of sun-warmed leaves and the feel of the earth beneath us is oddly comforting for a girl who’s spent more time living aboard a boat than living on land. It’s no coincidence, I think suddenly, that we call it the “ground” because lying on it makes me feel exactly that — grounded. Even though I’m still a stranger to the city, the ravine feels like home and at this very moment I feel uncharacteristically connected.

  I’m reading a guilty-pleasure sort of book that sucks me into the story without intellectual protest. I sigh with the contentment of a perfect moment and lay the book on my chest. I still have Yogananda’s The Bhagavad Gita to read, but for the moment I’m lost in this novel I borrowed from a book nook in Cabbagetown. You have to love a city that provides free books in tiny cupboards on random streets. I close my eyes and stare at the shades of orange and red inside my eyelids. It’s been a busy day, but I feel satisfied that I accomplished so much. I purchased the sleeping bags like Dad wanted, I charged my phone, I signed out a library book — with my very own almost official library card — and I picked up some groceries. I won’t have to leave camp for a couple of days.

  My thoughts start to swirl. Images surface and then dissolve in my mind. I see the stone house on Amelia Street and wonder how I remembered that address when I was pressed by the librarian. I see Lise sitting on her square of cardboard, and the temporary library card Erica handed to me with a smile. I’ve never had a library card before, at least not since I was really young and we lived in that house on Pelican Way. I see my mother in the kitchen making me a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. I can smell the dill pickles she cuts up for the side of my plate. I see my father steering the sailboat along the Intracoastal with the sun behind his back and smell the salty sea on the breeze. I’m riding the waves of a dozen overlapping images and scents and falling into a peaceful sleep when I feel Tuff stiffen and raise his head. A low growl rumbles in his throat.

  I’m alert immediately, but don’t move. I listen closely. The sound of distant traffic on the highway is always audible and normally I tune it out. But now I hear the car engines, like an endless single note, droning in the distance, punctuated with the impatient percussion of horns. I hear a lawnmower somewhere above and an airplane overhead in the distance. There are voices of children playing soccer at a park down the ravine and the wail of a siren beyond that. Then there are the sounds of snapping branches and crunching leaves. My heart starts to pound an ancient, panicky beat.

  I scramble to my feet quietly, but crouch low and look in every direction. I know I’m vulnerable camped out in the ravine with just Tuff to protect me. I will my heart to slow down and peer under the thick undergrowth that hides my camp from the view above, but I can’t see anything unusual. I rise slowly and scan the foliage, but I can’t see the flash of colour that might give away a person approaching. Tuff leans forward and his ears signal concern. I gauge the distance to my tent, but am too afraid to move for fear of making a noise. Instead, I grab my phone and press in the digits 9, then 1, and leave my finger hovering over the 1. Tuff growls louder and is about to bark when a voice rings out.

  “Hey! You guys wanna doughnut?”

  CHAPTER 3

  LISE PUSHES HER way through the thick foliage and steps into the clearing where Tuff and I have made our home the past few weeks. She’s wearing the same dark layers of clothing as usual and carrying a small flat box.

  “Nice hideaway. Took me forever to find you.”

  She lifts the lid of the box and presents it to me.

  “Do you like doughnuts? My friend works at a coffee shop and gives me the day-olds for free. They’re still good.”

  She steps closer and I look down at two rows of variously decorated spheres of fried dough.

  “That’s a Boston Cream, my personal favourite. I highly recommend it.”

  She points to a chocolate-covered doughnut, but I don’t move or speak. I’m still recovering from the intrusion. There hasn’t been another human in my personal space for weeks. Tuff adjusts faster than I do. Once he realizes there’s no danger, he wags his tail and edges close to Lise. He’s such a traitor when girls and food are involved. I swear he used to be a player in a past life. And, like a teenage girl meeting a rock star, Lise responds to his advances. She balances the box in one hand and reaches down to rub his ears with the other.

  “If you don’t like Boston Cream, there’re some jelly-filled, a cruller, a double-chocolate — so good — and an apple fritter. Go on, take one.”

  I glance at the selection, then back at Lise. As far as I can tell, she poses no threat and just the sight of the doughnuts makes my stomach rumble. I pick out a jelly-filled.

  “Not sure what kind of filling you’ll get but, if you ask me, there’s no such thing as a bad jelly-filled.”

  I bite into the doughnut and icing sugar floats down over my shirt. I wipe my chin then quickly take a second bite. Lise waits to see my reaction.

  “It’s really good!” I say, through a mouthful of sweet, powdery dough.

  “What flavour?”

  “Lemon, I think.”

  Lise picks out the cruller and hands it to Tuff. Always a gentleman, Tuff takes it and lays it on the ground. He sniffs it and licks it, then flips it over with his nose for further inspection. He’s not a picky eater, just cautious.

  “Hilarious! I’ve never met a dog who didn’t wolf down a doughnut in, like, two bites.”

  Lise picks out the Boston Cream, then closes the lid. She sits down cross-legged on the ground beside Tuff and, not sure what else to do, I sit down, too. I sneak glances at her, but otherwise we eat in silence. When she’s finished, Lise wipes her face with her sleeve and looks around.

  “Cool set-up. How long you been here?”

  “Four weeks.”

  “You ever get scared down here by yourself?”

  I balk at the truth. “I’m not by myself. Tuff’s here.”

  “True, but still, you ever get scared?”

  “I didn’t until you came crashing onto the scene.”

  Lise nods at the obvious irony, hesitant to smile.

  “If you ever do get scared, there’s a shelter not too far away. It’s pretty good. They don’t ask many questions and as long as you’re in by eight you’re guaranteed a bed and a hot meal.”

  Lise offers me the box again and I take the double chocolate.

  “Good choice,” she says and takes the apple fritter for herself. Tuff looks hopeful, but she doesn’t give in, even when he uses his saddest eyes.

  “What kind of shelter?”

  “A shelter for homeless youth.”

  It takes me a second to understand what Lise is saying, and more importantly, what she’s implying.

  “But I’m not homeless.”

  Lise glances over at the tent and presses the corners of her mouth into a scowl.

  “I can see you’re well equipped. But if you ever want a hot shower, maybe even a hot meal, there’s a place you can go. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I’m okay. Really. This’s just temporary. My home’s on its way.”

  Lise stops chewing and narrows her eyes like she’s trying to solve a riddle. She tucks a bite of doughnut in her cheek.

  “Tell me how that works, exactly?”

  “I live aboard with my father. He should be arriving in the next couple of weeks.”

  “You live aboard what?”

  “A boat.”

 
“What kind of boat?”

  “A sailboat. A thirty-eight-foot Catalina.”

  “Where’s he coming from?”

  “Miami.”

  “Let me recap in case I’m missing something. You and your dad live on a big-ass sailboat and he’s bringing it up from Miami by water and then you two are going to live up here?”

  I nod and smile, a slight, embarrassed sort of smile. I’m used to this reaction. I haven’t met a lot of kids who grew up living on a boat. There were lots, like down in the Keys, who spent family holidays on their boat. And I met a few who were aboard for a year or two, sailing around the Caribbean so their parents could take a break from the rat race. But by the time kids get to my age, most sailing parents settle on land so they can send their kids to a proper secondary school. For reasons Dad and I can never quite figure out, a lot of people are inexplicably obsessed with getting what might be considered a formal education.

  “Either you’re, like, totally delusional or you think I’m naive, to swallow such a ridiculous story.” Lise shakes her head and licks her fingers clean.

  “What’s so crazy about living on a boat?”

  “I didn’t know people lived on boats. Not, like, full-time.”

  “Dad and I’ve been living aboard nine years.”

  “So why didn’t you just sail up with him?”

  I try to ignore the doubt flooding my veins and stand up.

  “That’s a long story. For another day,” I say with more optimism than I feel.

  When I wipe bits of leaves and grass from my clothes, Tuff jumps up and begins to dance. It’s like he can smell a walk on the breeze. Lise looks at me from her spot on the ground, but she doesn’t move.