Just Like Family

by Kate Hilton

There is a quiet huff of air as my mother decides on her next move. When she speaks, her voice is soft. “I’m going to sell the cottage.”

  “No,” I say. “Don’t do this again. Enough with the threats, Mom. You aren’t going to sell it.”

  “It’s the middle of July, Avery. You haven’t been up once this year. You came for one weekend last August, after I nagged you for the entire season. Ethan and Tara stay with her mother when they come, which is rarely. There is no reason for me to keep the property.”

  “Mom, stop it. Seriously.”

  “I mean it, Avery. This isn’t your decision. The cottage is worth a lot of money now, and the taxes are outrageous. But we can discuss it further when you arrive. Let me know when to expect you.” And she hangs up.

  I take a long breath in through my nose and exhale through my mouth to a count of five. My yoga instructor contends that this will calm me, more than a glass of pinot noir or a tablet of lorazepam, although I subscribe to the combination method. As my mother herself taught me, you shouldn’t put all of your eggs in one basket.

  I breathe in and out. I try to visualize a place of calm and quiet. A beach, an ocean, palm trees waving. But Berry Point elbows its way in instead: dock, not beach; lake, not ocean; pines, not palms. In place of calm, a crush of personalities jostles for space like subway riders at rush hour. In place of quiet, the noise of three families in three cottages on a rocky point of land, and of three girls growing up side by side, just like family.

  Later, when this day is dissected and analyzed by others for other reasons, I’ll wonder: Was it really the day that my life started to unravel, or was it merely the day I noticed the rip spreading across the centre of my life? And if it only marked the moment I opened my eyes to the destruction already long at work, when did it all begin? How far back would I have to go to find the nail that brushed up against the fabric and caught, how many choices would I have to undo, how many versions of myself would I have to recast, in order to avoid what was to come?

  {CHAPTER 2}

  July 1987

  By the time Peter arrived that summer, a shift was already underway.

  “Everyone’s so boring this year,” I said to my mother. “No one wants to help with the Olympics.” The Berry Point Olympics in July and the Berry Point Theatre Festival in August were summer to me, and I filled many grey winter hours planning Berry Point entertainments: composing teams and devising events for the Olympics, and drafting scripts and casting roles for the annual play. Tara had always been an enthusiast, if not an instigator. But this year, Tara’s appetite for sunbathing seemed insatiable. Jenny, as usual, was prepared to humour me if it suited her, but not if it didn’t.

  “Try not to force it,” said my mother. “Chances are that the other girls will get tired of lying on the dock at some point.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  My mother sighed. “You did say I’d get my own back eventually,” she said, speaking to the ceiling.

  “I’m over here,” I said.

  “I’m not talking to you,” said my mother. “I’m talking to Grandma.”

  I huffed out of the kitchen. I heard my mother laughing to herself, and I let the porch door slam, hard, behind me. I had a plastic baggie full of quartered lemons, a beach towel, and a book, and I ran down the staircase to the lake.

  Tara and Jenny were already on the dock, and had laid their towels in the best spots, the ones with full sun. I rolled out my towel, making sure my head was in the sun, and started squeezing lemon juice into my hair and finger-brushing it through.

  Tara stood up, stretched, and adjusted the yellow fabric of her bikini, considering her reflection in the boathouse window.

  “Is it working?” she asked.

  “I think so,” I said. “What do you think?”

  Tara pursed her lips. “I think you should try Sun-In.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure,” said Tara. “We can get some at the store later.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Do you want to talk about the teams for the Olympics?”

  “Let’s do it later,” said Tara. “The sun’s perfect right now.”

  I opened my book.

  “Where’s Ethan?” asked Tara.

  “He’s out with my dad running errands,” I said. It was a mystery to me why anyone would want to know where Ethan was. My older brother was a complete pain.

  “I’m going in the water,” said Jenny.

  “I’ll come,” I said. “Tara, do you want a swim?”

  “I’ll come in when I get hot,” said Tara.

  Jenny and I swam without speaking. We were allowed to swim without adults now, as long as there were two of us in the water and we stayed close to shore. We swam until we were breathing hard, and then we stopped and floated.

  “Tara’s like a bump on a log these days,” I said.

  Jenny looked straight at me, but she didn’t answer.

  “What?” I said.

  “It’s a free country,” said Jenny. “She can do what she wants.”

  “I guess.”

  “Okay,” said Jenny. “I’m just saying.”

  I ducked underwater and swam a few strokes. When I came up for air, Jenny said, “I think I see something on the bottom.”

  “Are you diving?” I asked.

  She nodded, sucked in a huge lungful of air, and dove straight down. She was down for a long time before her fingers appeared, rising up from the bubbles on the surface, pinching a white triangle. The rest of her arm emerged, then her head, blonde hair dark and glossy from the water. She threw her head back, gulped a deep breath, and said, “Find!”

  “Let me see.”

  “Don’t drop it.”

  “I never drop it, Jenny,” I said. I circled my legs in a lazy eggbeater kick and examined the shard. “It has flowers on it!”

  “Let’s swim back,” said Jenny. “I want to look at it properly.”

  I handed it to her. “Why is Tara so interested in Ethan all of a sudden?” I asked.

  “You know why,” said Jenny.

  “But it’s Ethan,” I said.

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” said Jenny.

  I started to giggle, began sinking.

  “Swim!” said Jenny.

  I did. We climbed the ladder and put Jenny’s find down on her towel so it wouldn’t fall between the boards. It was fantastic: a thick piece of platter, edged with a pattern of blue flowers.

  Tara, distracted for once from her tan, agreed. “It should go in the box,” she said. The best treasures were stored in the birchbark box that Jenny had made last summer when it rained for a week. Jenny was always making something. She had turned the spare bedroom of her cottage into a studio. It had an easel, and a shelf of paint and glue, and boxes of beads. She was working on a little table now, which she had rescued from the dump. She had refinished it and was slowly painting the entire surface with vines and flowers.

  “Girls!” It was my mother’s voice. “Can you come up, please?”

  “It’s early for lunch,” said Jenny.

  “Maybe she wants to discuss our hormones again,” I said, and all three of us laughed, united against the general idiocy of mothers.

  We wrapped ourselves in our towels and ran up the long wooden staircase to my cottage. Everyone had gathered in the parking field: Mom, Dad, and Ethan; Tara’s parents, Kerry and Bill; and Jenny’s parents, Greta and Don.

  Peter was here.

  “We’re so glad to have you here,” said Mom. “We were getting sick of each other.”

  “You’ll probably get sick of me, too,” said Peter.

  Mom looked over at the three of us and smiled. “I doubt that,” she said.

  “You never said he was so cute!” I whispered to Jenny. I couldn’t believe it. Peter, Don’s son from his first marriage, was the most handsome person I’d ever seen in real life. He could have been on the cover of Tiger Beat.

  Peter came over to us. “Which one of you is Jenny?” he asked.


  “I am,” said Jenny.

  “It’s good to meet you,” he said. “I mean, I did meet you once, in California, but you were little.”

  “Three,” said Jenny.

  “And now you’re?”

  “Twelve!” I said.

  Peter smiled at me. He had perfect teeth. “And you’re . . . ?”

  “Avery!” I said.

  “Avery,” he repeated. “Nice to meet you.” He reached out a hand and I grabbed on, but he was already turning to Tara.

  I felt cool hands on my shoulders. “Settle down, sweetheart,” said my mother. “He’s here for a month. Give him some space.”

  I pulled my shoulders forward, shook her off. I was struck by the great unfairness of life in that moment, that Tara should look so brown and pretty in her yellow bikini.

  “Let’s get you something to drink,” said my dad. “We’ll all go down to the dock.”

  “Thanks, Brian,” said Peter.

  “I’ll take your bags down to our place,” said Don. “We’ve set you up in the spare room.”

  Jenny froze. “Jenny,” said her mother, “can I speak to you privately for a moment?” Greta put her arm around Jenny’s shoulder and walked over to the edge of the field with her.

  “Is it true that he’s staying a whole month?” I asked Tara as the rest of the group headed down to the water.

  “That’s what my mom said,” said Tara. “He graduated from college, and he’s taking the summer off before he starts law school.”

  “Why wouldn’t he take the summer off in California?” I said. California was cool. Rural Ontario was not.

  “He wanted to spend time with Don,” said Tara, and shrugged. Don was by far the most boring adult on Berry Point. He didn’t even join in on Games Night, let alone the Olympics or the Theatre Festival. He liked collecting stamps, and obsessing over seasonal water levels.

  “I’ve never seen Don smile like that,” I said.

  “I hate Dad!” Jenny shouted from the edge of the field. We turned, and saw her push Greta away. “And I hate you!” She ran off into the woods.

  Greta stood and watched her go, and then walked slowly over to us. “She’s just upset,” she said. “We’ve moved her studio into the shed while Peter stays with us. She’ll be fine. Where is everyone?”

  “They’ve gone down to the dock for a drink,” said Tara.

  “I’ll join them,” said Greta. “You girls come too. Jenny needs some time to herself right now.”

  Down by the water, Peter was getting the third degree.

  “The University of Toronto,” said Dad. “Good for you. It’s the best law school in the country.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” said Peter.

  “You’re moving here?” I said. This was huge news, and I couldn’t believe I was hearing it for the first time. “I thought you were here for a vacation.”

  “I get my apartment on September first,” said Peter.

  “Where are you going to be living?” asked my mother.

  “In the Annex,” said Peter. “On Huron, south of Dupont.”

  “Oh, you’ll love it there,” said my mother. “Brian and I had our first apartment on Brunswick. It was adorable.”

  “It didn’t have air conditioning,” said my dad. “It was a hot box. Attic apartment. We couldn’t sleep for the heat.”

  “Oh, stop it,” said my mother. “We loved it.”

  My dad smiled at her. “Yes, we did,” he said.

  “So, Brian,” said Bill, Tara’s dad, “have you decided on this year’s project?”

  My dad was famous for his projects. There was usually a big one every summer.

  “Well,” said Dad, “I was wondering about a raft. But I’d need some serious help.”

  “A raft would be amazing,” I said.

  “I like a project,” said Peter. “I’m game.”

  “All right, then,” said my dad. “A raft it is.”

  Peter, Ethan, and Dad took a trip to the hardware store for advice and supplies. They returned with a delivery truck full of lumber and fifty-gallon barrels, and a little book called Afternoon Project: Floating Raft. After dinner, Peter came over, and he and Dad made notes from the book.

  “We’ll have to do it on the dock,” said Dad. “This sucker’s going to weigh a ton.”

  “No kidding,” said Peter. “I think we should build the frame and attach the barrels on the dock first, and wait to do the decking until it’s already floating.”

  “Good plan,” said Dad. “What do you figure this’ll take, time-wise?”

  “Hmm,” said Peter, “If we’re ambitious? Maybe four hours.”

  “Are you ambitious?” asked my dad.

  “I’d have to say yes,” said Peter.

  In the morning, Dad rang the dinner bell at seven and I rolled out of bed. Ethan was already downstairs. Peter showed up with Jenny and Tara in tow a few minutes later, and Mom put an enormous pancake down in front of each of us. “You don’t want to get hungry,” she said.

  When we finished breakfast, we gathered in the field for our assignments. “You four are going to carry all the lumber down,” Peter said. “Jenny and Avery, you’re Team One. Ethan and Tara, you’re Team Two. See how quickly you can move the wood. Starting now: go.”

  We hauled lumber in pairs for an hour at least, pausing only to wipe sweat from our eyes and slap mosquitoes from our arms. Dad and Peter measured and sawed and hammered, and a frame started to take shape, almost as large as the dock itself. Dad and Peter took their shirts off. Mom brought sandwiches and drinks.

  “I’m going home for lunch,” said Jenny, who had barely spoken to anyone all morning.

  “Are you coming back after?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I don’t like being Peter’s slave as much as you do.”

  Mom examined the raft. “How’s it coming along?” she asked. There was a hint of doubt in her voice. I could understand why. The raft still looked like a random collage of window frames of varying sizes inside a gigantic box. Peter was staggering the framing to balance the weight. But I didn’t need to be persuaded. I could see exactly how amazing it would be when it was finished.

  “It’s going to be the finest raft on the lake,” said Dad.

  “Time for the barrels,” said Peter. “Teams One and Two, two barrels each. Martine, do you want to help Avery? Jenny’s disappeared.”

  “Sure,” said Mom. “I wouldn’t want to say I missed the Great Raft Project of 1987. Lead the way, Avery.”

  The barrels were light but unwieldy. We half-carried, half-rolled them to the construction zone. Mom and I won the competition. Mom said winning didn’t matter, we were all making an important contribution, but she was laughing. “I’ve still got it,” she told Dad.

  “Without question,” he said, and kissed her.

  Peter and Dad drilled holes in the frame and fed rope through the holes. They lashed the barrels to the raft at each corner with multiple loops and fearsomely complicated knots.

  “Are you sure those will hold?” asked Mom.

  “Positive,” said Dad. “Peter knows his knots. Now, let’s see if this beauty will float.”

  “Where’s Ethan?” asked Mom.

  “He went back up to the cottage,” said Tara. “He was tired.”

  “He’s going to miss the best part,” said Dad.

  We clustered around three sides of the raft. On Peter’s count, we strained and lifted and moved as one to shift the structure toward the edge of the dock. “Steady,” said Peter. “Put it down.” He stepped back, assessed. A third of the raft protruded off the dock. “I think we need to put a few strips of decking on now, Brian,” he said. “It’ll give us a platform to work from.”

  “Have you done this before?” asked my mother.

  “Not this exact thing, no,” said Peter. “I’ve always liked building things, though. I had a summer job on a construction crew in California. It was sweet money.”

  “Well,
” said my dad, “you’re certainly a welcome addition here. California’s loss is our gain.”

  Peter instructed us on how to hold the planks and Dad secured them with the nail gun that he had rented from the hardware store. When half the planks were attached, Peter tied the raft to the dock with one of the anchor lines, and on his count we all heaved. With a mighty splash, and waves that travelled right across the lake, the raft was launched. We all applauded, all of us remaining: Mom, Dad, Peter, and me.

  “Where’s Tara?” I asked.

  “She went up to check on Ethan,” said Mom.

  Peter jumped onto the raft. “Come on, Avery,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

  Mom and Dad passed the final boards to Peter, hand over hand, and I held them in place, just where he told me to, while he nailed them down. When the whole deck was finished, and the ladder was attached, Peter told me to go and get two paddles from the boathouse. “I need your expert advice on placement, Avery. Once the anchor is down, this raft is going nowhere. We have one chance to get it right.”

  I ran and got the paddles while Dad and Peter measured the anchor lines and tied a cinder block to each of them. Mom and Dad stood on the dock while Peter and I paddled out into the lake. It was a calm day, but still, the raft was heavy and I was breathing hard as I drew the paddle through the water with all my strength. “All right, Avery,” said Peter. “Let’s assess.”

  We put the paddles down and stood up. “How’s this?” Peter called to my parents on the dock. We watched them confer, and then both of them gave us the thumbs-up. We did the same.

  “First anchor,” said Peter. “Ready?” We both bent and picked up an edge. “On your count, Avery,” said Peter.

  “One,” I said, and we lifted. “Two,” I said, and we swung it back. “Three!” I said, and we released it over the side. The splash hit us both in the face, and I laughed. My parents waved. I waved back.

  We did the second anchor and the third, and then we were done. Peter lay down in the middle of the raft and I did the same. I felt the raft rocking and heard the pine trees creaking in the wind. My arms were aching. It was the most perfect day. I loved everything. I loved the raft, and the sky, and the water, and my family, and Berry Point, and Peter.