A Thousand Shades of Blue

by Robin Stevenson

  Robin Stevenson

  me to look after Emma while she went out to meetings.

  She started running too. Rain, snow, whatever—she’d be out there practically every evening, racing like a long-legged greyhound on the sidewalks around town.

  Then Emma moved out, and everything started to change. I began grade ten and met Jen and started wanting my own life. All of a sudden, everything was a fight. My hair, my clothes, my friends, my music, my curfew. It was like Mom and Dad didn’t want me to grow up.

  Stil , even when we were fighting all the time, I never wondered who Mom real y was. I thought I knew her.

  I look at her sitting across from me in the dinghy, her sun-streaked hair blowing loose from under her baseball cap, her teeth white in her tanned face. She’s grinning widely. One hand is on the tiller of the outboard engine, and with the other hand she’s trying to catch her hair and tuck it under her hat. We’re going full speed, with the bow of our little Zodiac lifted up as we skim across the smooth water.

  Toward Georgetown.

  Mom slows the engine as we approach the dinghy dock in Kidd Cove. I lean over the side and grab the dock as the dinghy bumps to a stop. She cuts the engine. The silence between us is thick, solid, impenetrable.

  I wonder if things will ever feel normal again.

  I tie the dinghy up, and we step out of the boat.

  The wooden dock scorches the soles of my feet. “Crap,”

  I mutter.

  “What?”

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  A Thousand Shades of Blue

  I point down. “I left my shoes on the boat.”

  Mom starts to laugh. “Oh my god, I did too.”

  We look at each other; then we look at the sun-baked road stretching up and over the hil .

  I start to giggle. “We can’t walk to the grocery store without shoes.”

  “No.”

  I don’t want to go back to the boat, but the ground is too hot to stand stil . I hop back and forth, one foot to the other. “What do you want to do?”

  She nods toward the Two Turtles Inn. “I’ll buy you a drink. And then we’ll go sort out the details for getting the boat fixed.”

  “A drink? Real y? An actual, cold, drink?” I open my eyes wide, goofing a little. “With ice cubes?”

  Mom grins at me. “With ice cubes.”

  I hesitate. “Is there a catch?”

  “Yeah.” She nods. “You tell me what’s going on.”

  My heart slams against my rib cage and my mouth is instantly sand dry. “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes are narrow, green, long lashed. The same eyes Tim and Emma have. I got stuck with Dad’s: dark brown and too round. Dog eyes.

  “You know what I mean. You and Tim have been acting strange for days.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Nothing’s going on.” I look away from her, out into the harbor. Pale yellow in the shallows, shading into green, turquoise, clear blue, deep sky blue.

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  She is quiet for a moment; then she sighs and shrugs, her shoulders slumped. There are dark shadows under her eyes. “I wish you’d talk to me.”

  No she doesn’t. She real y doesn’t. My sunglasses slip on my sweaty face, and I push them on more firmly. I wish she’d stop asking me. “There’s nothing to say,” I tell her.

  “Nothing to talk about.”

  Z

  The next day, we slip back into the Georgetown routine as if we’d never left. Dad flips on the vhf and tunes into the cruisers’ net on channel 68 before Tim or I are even out of bed. I pul a pil ow over my head and groan as the sound of Wil ’s voice, slightly static but relentlessly jovial, fil s the cabin. Every morning, I realize, for as long as we are here, my day will begin with Wil ’s voice saying, “Good morning, Georgetown!”

  Will is the host of the Georgetown cruisers’ net. It’s like our own little radio show—the Georgetown morning show—and you know that every single person on the four hundred or so boats here will be listening. First, the weather, which in sailing terms means the wind: how much and from which direction. Then the local businesses get on the radio and advertise. The owner of Eddie’s Edgewater actually sings a little jingle. Next the cruisers all call in from their boats, making announce-ments: some couple has just arrived and wants to send out “a big howdy” to everyone here, a guy is flying back 42

  A Thousand Shades of Blue

  to the States and will take your mail if you drop it off at his boat today, someone needs a zinc for his propeller shaft, a volleyball game is happening this afternoon on Volleyball Beach, someone on a boat called the Message of Love is hosting a Christian Fellowship meeting tonight.

  Finally, half an hour later, the broadcast ends with a Thought for the Day. Today’s thought, Will says, is this: Our futures hinge on each of a thousand choices. Living is making choices. Where does he find this stuff?

  Right up Dad’s alley, that one. He practically scrambles across the table, trying to find a pen so he can write it down and stick it on the wal .

  Choices. Right. I feel like throwing up.

  Z

  Dad spends the day arguing with the workers at the boatyard. It seems we won’t be hauled out until tomorrow.

  So we spend the day doing the usual things: schoolwork and boat maintenance. A nine-to-five workday.

  “I don’t feel like studying,” I grumble to Tim. “Don’t you want to get off the boat?”

  He shrugs and looks up from his book. “I guess. But it’s like Dad says: If we only worked when we felt like it, we’d never get much done.”

  “Shut up.”

  We sit in silence for a while. I shake my nail polish bottle and unscrew the lid. Black to match my hair.

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  I start to paint my nails. I can tell Tim’s not actual y reading because he isn’t turning pages.

  “Mom’s acting weird,” he says at last.

  “Duh. Anyway, I told you I don’t want to talk about what happened.”

  “Yeah, but…she keeps staring at me and looking like she might cry.”

  I think about that for a minute. Mom had been acting kind of strange even before Georgetown. Ever since Emma moved out, I guess. She’d been kind of spaced out—there but not real y there. I’d figured she wasn’t as excited about the trip as Dad was and was just going along with it because that’s what she does. Tim was right though. Lately she’d been kind of…emotional, I guess. Like, last night she told me she loved me, for no reason at al . I guess that sounds nice, but we’re not the kind of family that says stuff like that a lot. Besides, I figured it was motivated by guilt, and I wasn’t in the mood to hear it.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “She’s fucked up. Obviously.”

  “Do you think they’re going to get divorced?”

  “Damn.” I grab a Kleenex and dab at my cuticle. “Look what you made me do.”

  “Do you think they are going to get divorced?” Tim repeats.

  “I heard you.” I look up from my nails and scowl at him.

  Like I need more to worry about. “How should I know?”

  Tim doesn’t say anything.

  I shrug, feeling bad again. As usual.

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  Z

  The daily routine continues. Every day at four thirty at the Red Shanks anchorage, everyone meets on the beach for drinks. The beach is a tiny patch of sand and on nights like tonight, when the tide is high, there is no beach at al . The water goes right up to the dense scrubby trees. You’d think this might pose a challenge to the happy hour hoopla, but no. Nothing comes between these people and their drinks. So everyone stands around, ankle deep in water, downing their gin and tonics or rum and Cokes like it’s total y freaking normal. They call it the Red Shanks Yacht and Tennis Club.

  I guess it’s supposed to be a joke.

  Some joke. All these middle-aged couples dressed up and standing around in the
ocean getting pissed. It’s total y depressing.

  Anyway, I’m not real y in the mood, but Mom and Dad and Tim are all going, and I don’t want to be stuck on the boat. There’s only one dinghy, so if I don’t go ashore with them, I’m not going anywhere. Besides, I don’t want to miss anything.

  I quickly brush my teeth and put on a little lip gloss.

  Makeup seems a bit pointless when you are living on a boat and have to wash your hair in salt water half the time. (Plus, the bathroom on the boat—officially known as The Head—is about two feet by two feet, has a tiny mirror that gives my face a strange green tint and is generally not a place you want to spend any more time 45

  Robin Stevenson

  than necessary.) Still, you never know when someone interesting might show up.

  Of course, I haven’t actual y seen a guy my age for over a month, and if one showed up now, I’d probably be too nervous to talk to him. I wrinkle my nose at my reflection. Freckles. Hundreds of them. Thousands. All over my entire face and most of my body too. Unfortunately, that’s what Tim and I do instead of tanning.

  Mom scavenges around in one of the lockers and finds a bag of bbq chips that we brought from the States; Dad grabs a couple of room-temperature Kaliks; and we all climb into the dinghy. One happy family going to a beach party on a non-existent beach.

  It’s only a short ride. As we get closer, I see Will and Sheila. Sheila is ful y clothed for once and showing off her tan in a sleeveless white top and a short denim skirt. A bunch of other couples, most of them in cargo shorts and T-shirts, mill around in the water, all with drinks in hand.

  The dinghy bottom scrapes the sand and we all get out, barefoot in the warm water. I grab the dinghy line and tie it to a tree branch on the shore. Then I turn around and look at my family. Mom is hanging back a little, her expression guarded. Dad is looking around for someone to talk to.

  His speeches are bad enough when he’s sober, but once he’s had a couple drinks, I avoid him. I suspect I am not the only one. Tim looks like he always does: glasses glinting in the setting sun, his baseball cap on total y straight and his shirt tucked into his shorts. He’s standing between Mom and Dad like he’s the glue holding them together.

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  Maybe he is.

  “Hey there, you crazy Canadians,” says a voice.

  I turn around. It’s Mango, his hair straggling over his shoulders, the top of his balding head sunburned and peeling. Mango lives here, I guess. He says he came here from Delaware ten years ago and never left. I don’t know what he does for money. Not that he seems to have much.

  Tim grins and relaxes. “Hey.”

  Within two minutes, Mango has mooched a beer off Dad and is deep in discussion with Tim. They seem to be talking about resistance movements and the rescue of Danish Jews during the second World War.

  Dad wanders off to find someone to bore. I stand beside Mom, feeling a bit lost. Above us on the low cliff edge sits Grace, a driftwood and coconut mannequin who, like most of the cruisers here, looks like she’s spent a little too much time in the sun. Her stick arms are bleached white and one of her coconuts has slipped down so she’s slightly lop-sided. A sign on the shore beside her reads: Red Shanks Yacht and Tennis Club Rules: Rule One—when Grace starts looking good, it’s time to leave. Which says al you need to know about this place. It’s like a summer camp for seniors.

  Will and Sheila wave and then splash over to join us.

  “What are you doing back here?” Will asks. “I thought you were heading to the Turks and Caicos.”

  Mom gives him a rueful grin. “So did we.” She laughs, like it’s no big deal that we came back. “We had a close encounter with some rocks at Long Island.”

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  Will groans. “Ohhh…Not good.”

  “You’re all okay, though?’ Sheila asks.

  Mom nods. “It wasn’t dangerous. I mean, we were practical y on shore—wel , that was the problem real y. We misjudged a turn and got in too close.”

  “We cracked the rudder,” I say, watching Mom’s face.

  “We have to haul out to get it fixed. So I guess we’ll be stuck back here for a few days at least.”

  Will and Sheila are smiling and nodding.

  “Wel , that’s nice for us,” Will says. “This place wouldn’t be half as much fun without you.”

  I can’t believe his nerve. I grit my teeth and look around for an excuse to wander off. To my relief I see someone I know: Becca, wading through the water carrying a huge bowl of popcorn.

  I wave and start splashing in her direction. “Becca!

  Hey!”

  “Hey, Rachel.” She tilts her head. “I thought you guys were leaving.”

  “Yeah, wel . We came back.” I don’t feel like explaining all over again, but I give her a condensed version of what happened. I feel a bit shy around Becca. She’s the only person here who’s even close to my age, but most of the time when I see her, I’m with my family. I don’t want her to think I’m just a kid.

  Mom keeps glancing over. My parents don’t trust Becca any more than they trusted Jen. Becca is nineteen (too old for me), has bleached blond dreadlocks and a pierced nose (evidence of delinquency), and is here by herself, on her 48

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  own twenty-six-foot Contessa (no parental supervision).

  Also she goes to the bars to see the Rake-and-Scrape bands every Monday and Thursday and is friends with the local guys. Mom and Dad won’t let me go to the Rake-and-Scrapes with her because, they say, there’ll be drinking there.

  Which is true, but that doesn’t mean I’d have to drink.

  Anyway, given that I am surrounded right now by adults getting drunk, this last argument seems somewhat hypocritical. I think that the issue is more about the local guys. Some cruisers, like Mango, get really involved in the local community. He brings supplies for the school, helps out at the food bank and hangs around with some of the residents. Others—like my parents—do not. They pretend they’re too busy with boat maintenance and cruiser events, but the truth is they’re just uncomfortable with the locals. Well, Dad is anyway. I didn’t realize it before this trip, but he’s kind of racist. I guess when he decided to take us all to the Bahamas, he’d forgotten that most of the people here are black.

  “So…you’re getting hauled out tomorrow?” Becca gestures in the direction of the boatyard. “You going to be here long?”

  I shrug. “Dunno.”

  She takes her sunglasses off and hangs them on her T-shirt, one black plastic arm slipped inside the V-neck. Her nose is small and a little flat, her face wide and tanned an even brown. She flashes me a grin. “There’s a band playing at Eddie’s tomorrow night. A Rake-and-Scrape band. You should come.”

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  “No chance. My parents won’t let me.” I make a face to show that I know how pathetic this is.

  “Wel …I’ll be there, if they change their minds.”

  It’s the first time in months that I’ve been invited to do something without my family. I look around and see Dad chatting with an older man. They are both wearing the exact same khaki cargo shorts. Mom’s still standing where I left her, talking to Will and Sheila. I’m desperate to get away from all of them, and I wonder if there’s a way I could go out without Mom and Dad knowing. “Okay,”

  I tell Becca. “I’ll come if I can.”

  Z

  We all go back to the boat for dinner, and then Mom and Dad go over to Freebird to watch a movie. Tim goes with them, still trying to be the glue, still trying to hold the family together. When he’s anxious about something, he can’t leave it alone. When I’m anxious about something, I avoid it.

  Just like Mom.

  Anyway, it’s a relief to be alone on the boat. I’m looking forward to tomorrow, when Shared Dreams gets hauled out. We’ll be living “on the hard”—on hard ground instead of w
ater. Climbing up or down a ladder between the boat and the boatyard whenever we want to go anywhere. At least for a few days I’ll be able to come and go without having to negotiate the use of the dinghy.

  That’ll be more freedom than I’ve had in months.

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  I lie down on my parents’ bed—it’s the V-berth, in the bow of the boat. My own bed gets dismantled every morning to make room for the table, and Tim’s is just a tiny berth in the aft cabin, crammed full of stuff whenever he’s not actual y using it. I close my eyes, and I guess I doze off because when I open them again, Tim and my parents are climbing down the companionway steps. It’s dark, and I can hear rain falling lightly on the deck. I poke my head up through the V-berth hatch.

  A few lights twinkle in the town, and lights are scattered here and there throughout Red Shanks. Becca’s little boat glows softly, its kerosene anchor light swinging from the boom. Over on Freebird, a deck light shines brightly.

  No doubt my parents had a fine time watching some bad action flick with Will and Sheila and playing at being happy couples.

  I think about that moment with Mom today, when she asked what was wrong. I wonder what she would have said if I’d told her the truth.

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  The next morning our boat is hauled out of the water. This presents some definite possibilities. All day I think about Becca’s invitation.

  The thing is, I don’t actually break my parents’ rules very often. Kids back home would be surprised to hear this. You dye your hair black and get a bit mouthy with teachers, and everyone assumes you just do whatever the hel you please, that you don’t let anyone tel you what to do. If you don’t go to a party, they think it’s because you have something better—more hard-core—to do.

  They don’t assume you’re at home babysitting your older sister. They don’t guess that parties packed with kids laughing and making out make you so uncomfortable you end up drinking yourself sick.

  Even Jen. I mean, she’s my best friend, but she doesn’t really know me as well as she thinks she does. We only met last year, at the start of grade ten. I was still hanging out with my old friends from elementary school, going to the mall and having sleepover parties, feeling a bit bored 52