His waist was slender. My arms went all the way around. I rested my cheek on his back.
“Your mom doesn’t like me.”
“You always say that.”
“That’s because it’s true.”
“You shouldn’t take things so personally.”
His voice was gentle but dismissive, and I pressed my lips together so I couldn’t reply and disagree. I’d never understood not taking things personally, especially someone not liking you. Wasn’t that personal? I reminded myself that it was Christmas.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked him.
He laughed. “Slicing lemons for drinks.”
“But we’re having eggnog.”
“Exactly.”
I smiled against his back.
He laid down the knife and the fruit and turned around. “I never wished you a Merry Christmas.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Merry Christmas, Frankie.” He kissed my forehead.
“Merry Christmas, Alex,” I said, curling into him. My palms were pressed gently against his chest.
When he pulled back he picked up my hand. “Look at that.”
“What?” This was a game we had played before.
“We should put a ring on there sometime.”
I dutifully rolled my eyes. Acting playful, though I was longing for him to propose, had been for years.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? After all this time?”
He pulled me back into him for a long kiss. It made my heart race.
Daniel came into the kitchen. “Keep it G-rated.”
We pulled apart, laughing. Daniel stood aimlessly, arms at his sides.
Alex nudged him. “You looking for something, brother?”
“Nah. I just wanted to get out of the living room.”
“Want my eggnog?” I held up the tumbler.
“No way. I hate it.”
“Me too,” I replied.
Then we were all giggling, hiding out in Mrs. Gardner’s kitchen. Soon Mrs. Gardner would come looking for us. Mr. Gardner would wake up. We’d have to eat Christmas candies and talk about the weather, Mr. Gardner’s golf, or the accounting firm they thought Alex should work for. Alex pinched my butt, and Daniel told us we made him sick, before dropping a lemon slice down the back of Alex’s shirt.
It’s the one part of that Christmas Day I remember. I’ve forgotten almost everything else, even what Alex gave me that year for a present.
* * *
I press the letter roughly into a ball and toss it across the cabin. It rolls through dust into the corner by the bed.
When I step outside, a bird breaks out into gentle chiding. Shook shook shook shook shook. It reminds me of the aunties—insistent and lyrical. It makes me wonder if I’m close to a nest.
The scent of dark, wet soil being warmed comes to me. My finger is pressed between the pages of my book. I pause.
Shook shook shook shook shook. Always in sets of five.
“Hello.” The dark-haired girl stands among salmonberry shoots that reach up towards the light. She is wearing a green dress and green-striped leggings. The forest sprite. I can’t see her father.
“Hi, Huia.”
“Can I . . .?”
“Sure.”
She steps over to me, and stares, again, at the cover of my book, as if dying to reach out and touch it.
Shook shook shook shook shook.
She turns her head towards the sound. “Steller’s jay.”
“Pardon me?”
“The bird. It’s a Steller’s jay.”
We both peer into the forest.
“There.” She points.
A few trees away, its black eye staring straight at us, is a blue and black bird. The feathers on its head stand to attention like a punk Mohawk. The style suits it. Defiant. Shook shook shook shook shook.
“He’s handsome.”
“Yeah. And he can do cool sounds. Dad calls it something . . . mimicking? Is that it?”
“Making sounds like something else?”
“Yeah, like hawks and squirrels. Dad says they can even meow like cats or bark like dogs.”
“That’s pretty neat.”
We both watch as the Steller’s jay flies from its perch, taking its song with it.
“Do you always see those birds here?” I ask.
Huia blinks at me as if to test whether I’m joking. “Yup, they’re here all the time. Not like the birds you only see in spring or summer, like hummingbirds or tanagers. I guess they don’t wanna be cold. They leave in winter.”
Hummingbirds, I know. Tanagers I have no idea about.
“I don’t know anything about this place,” I mumble, mostly to myself.
Huia glances up at me. A gust of air ruffles her hair so it stands up for a moment like the Steller’s jay’s feathers. Her feet are still shoeless, her skin dark as bark, soil under her nails.
“I know everything,” she says simply. “Well, a lot,” she revises. “I could tell you things. If you want me to.” She doesn’t look me in the eye as she makes her offer.
“Tell me things?” I repeat.
Her voice softens. “If you had questions . . . or something.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know how long I’ll be staying.”
I pause, thinking of Mrs. Gardner’s letter balled up on the cabin floor. Then I am back in our apartment, standing in our kitchen, at the beginning of the day. Standing over the sink with my espresso in hand. Another on the counter in front of me. Fronds of steam stretching up towards me. Alex reaching around me to take the cup. The blond hairs on his arm brushing against mine. Turning to face him . . .
Huia presses her toes into the soil, still not looking at me.
“Yeah, that would be great,” I say.
She gives a broad smile. She has bright, white teeth, small and straight.
“Does that mean you might be staying a while?”
“Maybe,” I say, more firmly than I expected.
“Cool.” She finally lifts her eyes to mine. “Dad said you couldn’t, but I knew you would.”
I shrug, trying to be nonchalant. “I think I can stay a bit longer.” Then, changing the subject, “How come you aren’t in school?”
“School’s finished for today.”
I blink, puzzled at how quickly time passes in this place. “Of course.”
“Do you go to school?” she asks.
“Oh, no. Not anymore.”
“Are you on vacation?” Her eyes are wide.
“Well . . .”
I am guessing that Mrs. Fratelli, my boss, will have heard from Papa by now. They went to school together, Mrs. Fratelli and Papa, before she was a Mrs. She knew my mother. Not that she ever mentions her to me. Very few people do, bar the aunties and older family members. I think Mrs. Fratelli once had a crush on my father.
“Sort of,” I say to Huia. “I’m taking a kind of break.” From life, I don’t add.
She nods, satisfied. “Dad looks after a lot of the cabins around here. People come for the summer, not even for very long, and then don’t come back for ages. Looking after the places isn’t his real job, though.”
“Yeah? What’s his—”
“Do you like foraging?”
“Pardon?”
“Foraging—getting things. You know, to eat?”
“Like gardening?”
Huia laughs. “No, no, no. Fo-rag-ing. Getting things out of the forest to eat. My friend is teaching me about it.”
I think of the warnings issued to us in school about not eating certain berries and plants, the urban myths about children mistaking poisonous berries for raspberries and dying. The forest always seemed a pretty dangerous kind of place when I was young. Even now I’m more comfortable with houses and yards, streetlights and zebra crossings.
I shake my head. “No, I’ve never done that.”
She grins. “You should try! I’ll tell Merriem. We can show you.”
“Me
rriem, she’s your . . . Oh . . . I don’t know if I’m really—”
Shook shook shook shook shook interrupts us. We both turn quickly to spot the Steller’s jay perched just branches away from us, its blue tail swiveled in our direction, showing off its rear end. Definitely a male, he’s so cocky. Huia giggles and I can’t help but join in.
“Cheeky fella,” she says to me, her smile bright.
A man’s voice calls out. “Huia?”
Huia fills her lungs before bellowing, “I’m . . . here . . . Dad!”
She’s so loud the Steller’s jay takes flight in a flash of black and blue.
Jack appears around a Douglas fir. “Need to shake the leaves off the trees?”
Huia turns to me. “Dad reckons I’m loud.”
I smile at her.
“I thought you were behind me, bub,” Jack says. He frowns and places a hand on her head. “Sorry.” This last comment is directed to me, the fourth apology from him today.
“It’s okay,” I reply.
Huia reaches for his hand and hisses, “I asked, Dad. She said it was okay.”
“Frankie,” I remind her.
“Yeah, her, Frankie,” she tells him.
“Okay. But it’s dinnertime soon so we should leave Frankie alone.” Jack gives me a cautious smile.
“She wasn’t bothering me,” I say. “She was teaching me about the birds.”
Huia nods, then lets go of her father’s hand and wanders off to examine a shrub, crouching down by its roots. We both watch her, lanky legs bent to hunker down, black hair falling across her face.
Jack clears his throat. “You read the letter?”
I nod.
“I . . . Look, I probably shouldn’t know about this, but I saw the news . . . about . . .”
Huia has a stick and is poking at something in the soil. We stare at her rather than each other.
“Alex,” I finish for him.
“Right.” He nods.
“He was my fiancé,” I murmur.
“Yes. I read that too.”
Silently I beg him not to say he’s sorry, and he doesn’t.
Huia lets out a scream. “Dad, I found poque!”
Jack frowns. “I don’t think so, bub. Poque should be closer to the sea.”
I feel a tightening in my stomach when he mentions the ocean.
“Oh.” Huia picks up her stick and moves to another shrub.
Jack glances at me. “I think you’ve got at least a few more days.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d say so.”
“I just need . . . a few days,” I reply, but it feels like a lie.
“There you go,” he says reassuringly. “If you need anything we’re just up the road. Before you get to Merriem’s. It’s the bashed-up mailbox with a sunflower on the side, you can’t really miss it.” He lowers his voice. “It’s the worst mailbox on the street. Don’t tell Huia—she painted the flower to cheer it up a bit.”
“Thank you,” I say.
We’re silent for a moment, watching Huia flitting about. I can’t imagine her inside a house; she seems to belong outdoors.
Jack speaks again. “You didn’t happen to see a coloring book inside, did you?” I turn to him. He looks worried. “My work . . . it’s . . . Childcare’s expensive and Huia loves it here with the trees and birds. Sometimes she comes with me when I do my rounds. I didn’t know you were coming.”
I nod. “I won’t tell them.”
“Thanks,” he says gratefully. “I hope that’s all right. It’s just difficult with . . . Well, the Gardners can be . . .” He regards me with sudden concern. “Sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
I think of Mrs. Gardner among her roses. Studying them with disdain, seeking only perfection. “They require firm-handed pruning,” she told me once.
“Alex wasn’t like that,” I say. “Like them.”
“Oh. I’m sure.”
“Dad?” Huia interrupts.
“Yes, bub?”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Ah . . . Beans and bacon.”
“With Merriem’s bread?”
“With Merriem’s bread.” Jack looks at me. “Merriem looks after all of us out here.”
“Her rhubarb’s very good; you were right.”
“Everything out of Merriem’s garden is good. If you don’t want to be tucked under her wing, you might have to speak up now because it’s where we all end up.”
“It doesn’t sound too bad,” I say.
Jack laughs. “No, it’s not.”
“Okay,” Huia calls out, “let’s go have dinner then. You coming, Frankie?”
Jack looks to me.
“Oh, no. Thank you,” I say. “I’m okay here.”
“You’ve got plenty of food?” he asks. Like a Caputo.
“Yes, thank you, I’ll be fine.”
“We’ll come check on you!” Huia sings.
“Yes, we’ll come check on you,” Jack says, taking his daughter’s hand. “Thanks, Frankie.”
By the earnest tone of his voice I know he is talking about bringing Huia to work with him and the coloring book left in the cabin. About keeping his secrets safe.
“That’s okay.”
They move away through the forest, back to where I know the road to be, Huia skipping and Jack lifting her by the hand over low bushes. She turns once and waves, flashes a paper-white smile, and I lift my hand in reply.
Chapter Seven
• • • •
This was the wedding menu.
Starters
Rounds of Grana Padano
Breads
Seafood platters
Prosciutto with melon
Prawn cocktails
(The prawn cocktails were at Mrs. Gardner’s insistence. She said she’d never heard of prosciutto and was dubious about meat served with fruit.)
Entrées
Chicken with white wine sauce and vegetables, or
Beefsteak with mushrooms and béarnaise sauce
(Alex’s requests. We copied them from the menu of his favorite restaurant.)
Dessert
Platters of cannoli, cassata, biancumanciari, setteveli, and almond cookies
The desserts were my wish list. Traditional and Sicilian, just the way I wanted them. Mrs. Gardner said she wasn’t “a sweet tooth” (in a way that made it sound like a kind of tribe), and Alex couldn’t care less about dessert. I thought of these desserts when I went to aerobics classes, trying to lose weight before the wedding—imagined the smooth filling of the cannoli, the cool velvet of the cassata, and the toothy crunch of the almond cookies.
I think of them again now as I warm meatballs in sauce on the camp stove. This is Aunty Connie’s recipe, using pork mince and pecorino. The simple tomato sauce is so cluttered with meatballs you could stand the spoon up in the bowl. Aunty Connie’s theory is that meat should be included in every meal to help children grow, and whenever we visited her as kids we came home with our stomachs at bursting point. She makes beautiful veal dishes, such huge piles of pasta they threaten to break the serving dishes, prosciutto sliced thin as lace so you can see through it, and polpette. Meatballs, meatballs, meatballs.
I flick off the camp stove. The pot sends up curls of steam and the scent of pork and fennel and tomatoes simmered till sweet. I breathe it in, pushing cannoli, cassata, and cookie fantasies to one side.
When the pot has cooled a little I take it to the table and lift spoonfuls to my mouth. I glance up at a scurrying on the roof. A raccoon perhaps. Maybe not that big, maybe a squirrel. Maybe a ghost.
I find myself wondering about Huia and Jack, whether they eat in front of a television or at a table. Table, I decide, with Huia barely able to stay still in her seat and Jack admonishing her for sending beans flying. Crumbs from Merriem’s bread in their laps. Talking with their mouths full.
I place my palms against my full stomach. I’m tired. In this place I feel tired as soon as the light starts to disappear, as t
hough I am becoming more and more animal, less and less human. Circadian rhythm, I remember from science class. I am synchronizing with the inhale and exhale of the forest. I am becoming a bird or a butterfly or a beetle. I feel safe here and don’t want to leave.
I hear car tires on the driveway and then an animal running on the roof. The percussion—pup pup pup pup—travels the length of the roof and then ends, the animal presumably returning to the dark of the forest.
The sound is replaced by someone peppering the door with light but rapid strikes. I know who it is before she even speaks.
“Frankie. Open up.”
“I told you to leave.”
She whispers, “I did . . . and then . . .”
I snort. “Cute. I don’t want you here.”
“Let me in.”
“Go away. I told you to go away. You don’t belong here.”
There’s a hesitation before, “Technically, neither do you.”
My chest tightens, my fingers make a fist. “Vaffanculo, Bella!”
“I just meant—” Now there is apology in her voice.
“I don’t want to hear it!”
“I just want to talk to you—”
“I don’t want to talk to you!” I’m shouting now. And hating myself for it.
I wrench open the door and Bella staggers back. Her eyes are full and round. They remind me of another time, when we were children. A summer’s day and a house full of people wearing dark clothes and speaking Italian. Women with lace-edged handkerchiefs, men with bitter-smelling cigarettes. Sliding under a bed to hide, the smell of heat and dust, pulling pins from my hair. Bella came into the room and saw me there and I raised my finger to my lips. She was only four, and tiny; she didn’t look bigger than three at most. She’d said nothing, just wriggled under the bed with me, looking out at the stripe of light and reaching for my hand across the carpet.
“Frankie . . . please . . . why are we fighting?” she says now. “It makes no sense. Come on.”
“No,” I manage in an almost normal voice. “No. I don’t want you here. I don’t want to talk. I want to be alone.”
Her eyes shine in the dim light. “Maybe I can help. We could set things right between us.”
“Maybe you can help? You have never helped. What do you want?”
Bella straightens. “Nothing. I mean . . . I want us to be sisters again. Friends maybe.”
“Because?”
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