by Natalie Hyde
But when Fiona came down from her apartment over the bar, she was carrying two helmets and wearing a black leather jacket with patches on the sleeves. I wanted to pinch myself — were we really going on a motorcycle? How cool was that? With her tough attitude and tattoos, I should have guessed that she was a biker. Stupid I never thought of it. The only downside was that the weather lately was damp and cloudy, and “cool” was going to have two meanings. Wind on the highways was strong and with only a hoodie, I was in for a cold trip.
“Where’s your coat?” she asked me when I slung my backpack over my shoulders.
“Still in the apartment. It had a big rip in it and I didn’t think I’d need it anymore this year.”
Fiona gave this enormous sigh and went back upstairs. She came out with another leather jacket and handed it to me. It was pretty beat up, with darker areas where patches must have been removed. A few holes were worn through at the elbows.
“Looks like it’s been run over by a truck,” I said.
“Pretty much.”
I tried it on. It was too big, but if I folded up the cuffs, it didn’t look too ridiculous.
“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. Big or not, it would cut the wind and keep me from freezing.
Fiona just grunted and I followed her out the back door into the lane.
“Hold these.” She handed me the helmets and pulled keys attached to a long chain out of her jeans pocket. She went to the small wooden building behind the bar that looked like a garbage shed ready to fall down. A closer look, though, showed me the walls were reinforced with metal bars. Why would anyone do that to this crummy shed? I got my answer when Fiona opened it up.
Inside was a beaut of a bike. It was red and black, and on the side it had the word Ducati.
“I thought you’d have a Harley,” I said. Isn’t that what bikers rode?
“Do I look like an outlaw biker?” she asked. “This here is the sweetest ride your butt will ever have the honour of sitting on.” She ran her hand over it like she was caressing it. “The Ducati Multistrada 1200 S. A Testastretta DVT engine with 160 brake horsepower and Skyhook suspension to make it seem like you’re riding on a cloud. A fast cloud.”
She backed it out of the shed and took her helmet from me. “Don’t put so much as a scratch on it. Don’t even breathe hard on it.”
I snapped my helmet strap and carefully put a leg over, settling into the leather seat exactly the way she had told me to. There seemed to be no end to the list of instructions she had for me to be her passenger. Things like: not to bang her with my helmet, to lean with her around the turns, to dismount on the left only after she told me to and, most importantly, not to wiggle around because it would throw her off balance on the bike. The “not wiggling” would be the hardest.
We purred down the back lane and turned onto Salisbury Street. I realized then how handy the helmet would be. With it and the jacket, no one, not even Mrs. Family Services, would recognize me.
We wove our way through town until we came to a ramp and Fiona turned her head to tell me to hang on. My body tingled at the incredible surge of power as she accelerated and we sped along the highway that cut through town. It was the freest I could ever remember feeling, like nothing sad or miserable could catch up to me. The wind tore at my jacket and I was grateful I had it on.
After a while, the shopping malls and warehouses started to give way to open fields and forests. The endless waves of green flying by my visor looked strange and eerie. Even if the greys and blacks of the city reminded me of my dull and depressing life, I still missed the familiar surroundings. And every minute took me farther and farther away from my dad. Would he be all right without my help?
Although it didn’t seem like we had gone that far since we left the Bull, I was already struggling to hold on to Fiona. I had barely slept in days, I hadn’t eaten and despite the cool leather jacket, I was cold.
At one point Fiona glanced back at me and gave me a thumbs-up sign. I was afraid to let go to return the sign and was relieved when I heard the engine rev down and watched Fiona signal to turn off the highway. We pulled into a large gravel area packed with cars, bikes and semis, with a low building surrounded by empty fields.
I had been gripping the bike so hard that my knees buckled a little when I got off, and I couldn’t wait to unsnap the helmet. It felt like it weighed a ton. I took a quick look to make sure there were no marks on the bike when Fiona wasn’t looking. So far, so good.
Fiona had parked right in front of the low windows, and inside I could see tables jammed with people, heads down and digging into their food. I followed Fiona in the front door past a little room that looked like a miniature convenience store. The walls were crammed with stuff, from cold tablets and lighters to toothbrushes and big bottles of Pepto-Bismol.
The blast of heat inside the building revived me a bit. Fiona got us a table while I went to the washroom; that cold wind does things to your kidneys. I kept my hands under the hot water for a long time too, to get blood flowing again.
When I got to our booth, I had barely sat down with Fiona when a waitress plunked two platters down in front of us. Fiona must have ordered for me … and twenty other people, because there was no way I could eat all the food on that plate: three eggs, a pile of bacon, two sausages, a mound of fried potatoes and two orange slices. Then a waitress set a smaller plate with a mountain of toast down in the middle of the table.
“Thanks, Rose,” Fiona said.
Our waitress smiled at her. “Any time, sweetie,” she said, turning quickly and heading off, her rubber soles squeaking a bit on the floor.
“You come here a lot?” I asked, wondering how she knew Rose’s name.
“A bit.”
I should have known — I’d never get a straight answer from Fiona on anything. She kept pretty much to herself.
I dug into my breakfast. I wasn’t used to eating that much food at one time, but you know what? It was hot, greasy and delicious. I only left a few potatoes. I hoped the Ducati could handle a few more pounds on board. The real problem was I didn’t have the money to spare to pay for it. If I had gone on my own, I probably would have survived on a bag of chips. I didn’t want to spend any of my tip money because I had no idea how much I’d need once I got up north for forms and licences and things.
“Forget it,” Fiona said when I began counting out dimes and quarters.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. Who knows how much I was going to owe her by the time we got to the Yukon. I guess I’d have to skip lunch. And dinner.
“So how long will it take to get there?” I asked.
“Couple of days.”
I couldn’t go without eating for that long. And what about a place to sleep? We weren’t even in a car where we could fold down the seats in a parking lot somewhere. I was starting to panic. Why was Fiona doing this? She was just a nice lady who wanted to help, right? I could trust her, couldn’t I?
“Let’s hit the road,” she said, putting her jacket back on.
We wove our way through the tables. Suddenly a bald guy with tree-trunk arms grabbed her by the elbow. “That yours?” he asked, jerking his head to where the Ducati sat outside the window.
“Could be,” Fiona said.
The guy didn’t say anything, but looked out the window again. With the chrome gleaming in the sun, the Ducati practically screamed I’m expensive, like a beacon for thieves. I braced for trouble, wondering if I could get out the doors before a chair was thrown at my head.
“Sweet ride,” the guy said, showing a smile with a couple of teeth missing.
Fiona gave a little nod and continued walking. I jogged to keep up.
Outside, I did up my jacket, snapped on my helmet and climbed on. I could see several heads in the restaurant looking out the window. As we pulled out, there were even a couple of thumbs-up pointed in our direction. I was grinning as we got back up to speed. Living in a dumpy apartment and wearing clothes from those charity stores usually doesn’
t get you admiring looks. I felt on top of the world.
CHAPTER 13
PICK A NAME
Back on the highway, I concentrated on not falling off or freezing to death. I thought about my granddad, Wally Dearing, and everything that had happened to him. I got angry just thinking about how he was swindled. I could only imagine how he must have felt.
I started to notice that drivers were giving us the once-over as we passed them. This was a bike that got attention. All of a sudden, I realized that might not be such a great thing when you’re trying to keep a low profile.
Then my worst nightmare came true. A cop car was coming up on our left.
For a second, it looked like he was going to speed on by, but then he slowed so he was level with us. I turned my head the other way, pretending to be fascinated by the cornfields. When I dared to peek over again, the cop car had dropped back slightly.
Oh man. My gut had a really bad feeling about this.
That’s when I saw flashing lights reflected in my helmet visor.
Perfect.
Fiona signalled right and slowed down before we hit the gravel shoulder. All I could think was, could I outrun the police? Could I hide out in the cornfield, maybe?
I could hear the crunch of the gravel as the cop walked over to us.
“Licence and registration,” he said.
Fiona reached into one of the side bags and pulled out a little black folder. The cop walked back to his cruiser, no doubt to run the licence number. I never thought to ask Fiona if she had any outstanding warrants. Was the trip over before we had barely begun?
More crunching gravel.
“Did you know your back right signal light is out?” the cop asked.
“No, officer, I didn’t. I’ll get that fixed as soon as I can.”
The cop grunted and wrote something in his notepad. “And who’s this?” the cop asked, indicating me.
Every muscle in my body froze.
“My nephew,” Fiona answered smoothly.
I thought that I was a good liar, but Fiona was a pro. Even I believed her.
“What’s your name, son?” The cop was looking at me now.
I flipped my visor up, then blurted out the first name that popped into my head. “Wally,” I said. I guess my granddad’s name came to me because I was just thinking about him. All I knew was, I couldn’t use my own name. Family Services would haul me away before my feet hit the ground.
“Wally, what?”
“Marion,” I said, without thinking.
“Spell it.”
I swallowed hard. “M-a-r-r-i-e-n” I said, deliberately spelling it wrong so it sounded more like a last name.
The cop sauntered back to his car again. I started to sweat. Was he suspicious? Would it come back as a fake name? Or worse, was there a real Wally Marrien with a criminal record?
I tried to stop my hands from shaking. Being on the run was a scary business.
The cop came back and said nothing to Fiona for a minute. It was like he was trying to find a reason to hold her. Finally, he handed her licence back to her.
“Get that fixed within twenty-four hours,” was all he said before he went back to his car.
“Will do,” Fiona said, snapping her helmet strap again.
I pulled my visor down and tried to get my breath under control. That was too close for comfort. The cruiser pulled out and sped off.
Fiona turned around. “A fake name? Now you’re lying to the police? What did you do that for?”
There was nothing for it; I had to tell her about Family Services. Fiona swore. Then she swore some more. She knew more swear words than my dad.
“And where did you come up with Marrien?” she said, practically yelling at me now. “That’s the worst fake last name I’ve ever heard.”
I shrugged. Fiona started the engine and pulled back into traffic, still swearing.
Marion was my mother’s name.
CHAPTER 14
DOG WHISPERER
We had only been on the road a couple of hours and already we’d gotten too much interest from other bikers, the cops had stopped us and my fingers were starting to cramp where I was hanging on to Fiona’s jacket. I didn’t think I could feel my toes anymore. What a relief it was to feel the bike lean to the right and turn off onto a ramp.
It was weird, though. This ramp didn’t have signs to a town, or even a truck stop. It was a road to nowhere but trees and swamps. Where was Fiona going?
We drove for a while down the road. Then, in a spot where the forest was creeping close to the pavement, she pulled off. A current of fear raced through me. She wasn’t going to dump me here and take off, was she? When the bike came to a stop, I stayed on.
“Get off.”
“Why?”
“Just get off. There’s something wrong.”
Was that some kind of a line? Didn’t really matter, I guess. If Fiona wanted me off her bike, all she would have to do is grab me and lift me off. Reluctantly, I swung my leg over and stood on the gravel shoulder of the road.
“I knew that bulb shouldn’t have been out. It was practically new.” She pulled off the engine cover and started fiddling with the wires inside.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. It wouldn’t be good to be stranded out here in the middle of nowhere.
Fiona stood up and swore. I thought my dad was a big curser but Fiona had an extensive swear vocabulary. A word for every occasion, it seemed.
“My speedometer was acting up on the highway. I knew then that it had to be something electrical. Nothing I can fix.” She looked up and down the lonely stretch of road. There wasn’t a car or truck or bike to be seen. In fact, not even a building.
“I thought for sure this would take me to a town,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, come on. There’s got to be someone somewhere down this road.”
We climbed back on. I actually couldn’t wait to get moving again. Here among the trees, with the sun high in the sky, it was getting a lot warmer. The breeze from moving would feel good. Fiona turned the key. The engine clicked. She tried again. Click, click, click. Nothing.
We got off again and Fiona pulled out her phone. “No reception. Of course not. Why would anything go right today?”
I didn’t want to tell her that this was what my whole life was like. We stood for a while, listening for the sounds of an approaching vehicle, but there was only the buzz of some insect that sounded like a dentist’s drill.
“Come on. There’s got to be a house or farm or something down the road,” Fiona said, releasing the kickstand and pushing the bike back onto the road.
“Are you really going to push that all the way?” I asked. It wasn’t that heavy, but it looked uncomfortable the way she had to lean over to reach both handlebars.
“Well, there’s no way I’m leaving a Ducati on the side of the road,” she said.
I walked beside her. The swampy forest on either side of the road showed no sign of opening up into a field or pasture. There wasn’t a hint that anyone lived down here.
“Want me to take a turn?” I asked, figuring she must be getting tired.
“No.” She said it so quickly I knew not to bother asking again. Probably didn’t want anyone touching her precious bike. So I stayed quiet. Another ten minutes of forest. Still no sign of life.
“Where’s your mother?” Fiona asked.
The question seemed to come out of nowhere and it surprised me so much that I answered her. Normally I change the subject or go silent when someone asks me about my mom.
“She left to go help her sister. Out west, where she grew up.”
Fiona said nothing. She just kept pushing the Ducati. The wheels made a crunchy noise as they rolled. “And?”
I sighed. I could have just ignored her, but there was something about being way out here with no noise, no traffic and no people that made me feel like, if I said anything here, it would stay private and locked away in the forest. It wouldn’t, of course, because Fiona would
know, but who would she tell?
“My aunt Irene had cancer,” I said finally. “She never got married or anything. She lived with my grandparents until they died and then she lived alone in the farmhouse. So when she got sick, my mom said she needed to go out to take care of her sister.”
“So how is she doing? Your aunt Irene, I mean.”
“She died.”
Fiona stopped pushing.
“Sorry to hear that. When?”
“A year and a half ago.”
“Soooo … where’s your mother now?”
The dentist drill insect noises were louder now. I took a deep breath. “She never came back.”
I was glad Fiona didn’t say anything. Nothing she said would have made things better anyway. I hated when people would make that tsking sound and pat you on the shoulder and tell you everything would work out. They were wrong.
I used to ask Dad when Mom was coming home, until one night when he yelled at me to stop asking, that she was never coming back because he was a “lousy drunk.” I don’t know if that’s the real reason, or whether he was just saying that because he had been drinking that night, but that was the last time I mentioned her name — until today, when I told the policeman that “Marion” was my last name. I can’t tell you why her name came to me just then.
We finally saw a farmhouse. It didn’t look all that inviting. In fact, there was a Beware of Guard Dog sign on a post at the road. Sure enough, as we turned up the lane, two dogs came barrelling toward us, ears flat and teeth glinting in the sun. We stopped dead in our tracks. No one came out of the rundown house or the weathered barn to stop them.
They skidded to a stop a dog bite away from us.
“Nice puppies,” Fiona said with a quiver in her voice.
The dogs answered by barking even louder and angrier. Still no one appeared from the house. Fiona was rooted to the spot.
“Hey, boys,” I said in a soothing voice. “You fellows are doing a good job.” I slowly squatted lower to appear less threatening. “Good boys. It’s okay. We’re friendly.”
