10 Things I Can See from Here

by Carrie Mac

  “It’s a hospital, Claire. Put your shoes on.”

  “Plenty of people here do not have shoes on.”

  “They’re patients.”

  “What’s the difference?” She fished in her bag. “I’ve got apples and some cheese in here, but I didn’t have time to put together anything else. Or we would’ve missed the ferry.” She aimed a pointed glance at Dad.

  “We caught the ferry with plenty enough time for you to get a chocolate bar before we boarded, right?”

  “Barely.” Another icy glance at Dad.

  What was this about? Why were they acting like this? Other parents acted like this. Other people spoke to each other like this. Not Claire and Dad.

  “You had a chocolate bar?” Owen sat up.

  “And she bought one for Corbin,” Dad said.

  “Pregnant women can have chocolate whenever they want,” Claire snapped. “So can children with broken arms.”

  “That’s not fair, Mom.”

  “No, it’s not fair. Go break an arm.” This was such an un-Claire-like thing to say that the three of us stared at her, amazed.

  “Oh, Owen.” She reached for him. “That was unkind. And I have no excuse. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

  Owen, confused and bewildered, began to cry. Claire awkwardly pulled him into her lap. “I’m sorry, baby. So sorry.”

  “Can I have a chocolate bar?” Owen asked through his tears.

  “Of course, baby. Of course.” Claire set him on his feet and looked up at my dad. “Will you please take him outside for some fresh air? Go across the street and buy him a chocolate bar.” She said it so formally, but instead of sounding polite, it sounded like Claire was really telling him to take Owen across the fucking street and get him a fucking chocolate bar, and, by the way, fuck you.

  —

  Once Dad and Owen were gone, Claire put her face in her hands. “I didn’t know where Billy was,” she said. “When you called.”

  “But you found him,” Grandma said.

  “Where was he?” I asked.

  “He said he was going to work, to get a few things done before shooting starts on set next week.” Claire shook her head. “I called his cell. Ten times. Then I called the production office, and whoever picked up that line went to look for him and couldn’t find him. Finally he called me back after I left a bunch of messages and texts. I asked him where he was. He said work.”

  “So he was at work,” I said. But I thought of the night I arrived, how he’d been so late. All the long days on set. Too long.

  “So he says,” Claire said. “He says that whoever answered the phone was just a PA who didn’t know where to look. He says it’s a big lot. But I don’t think he was there. I don’t think he was there at all.”

  “You’re overthinking it, Claire.” Grandma put a hand on Claire’s arm. “He’s been sober for five years this time. And he’s not having an affair. If that’s what you’re worried about. He is head over heels in love with you, and only you. You know that.”

  “I know it’s not drugs. I’d know. I’d know it in my gut.”

  “You would.”

  “And I know he loves me. And the kids. And the baby.” She put her hand on her belly.

  “Did you ask him outright?” Grandma said. “ ‘Are you having an affair, Billy? Are you using drugs again, Billy? Are you drinking again, Billy?’ ”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I didn’t want to be hearing any of this. When I stood up, my knees trembled.

  “He insists that it’s work,” Claire said. “He says it’s crazy busy.”

  “Then he was at work.”

  I was halfway to the bathroom, but I could still hear them.

  “I can’t help but think about when he was with Deena,” Claire said. “And what happened.”

  —

  Deena. My mom.

  Claire was talking about the affair that ended my parents’ marriage. What was her name? Shelley? Kelly? She was a single mother who worked at the café up the street from the recording studio in Seattle. She had no idea who the Railway Kings were. She didn’t know that he was nearly famous. She only listened to popular country music. He told her that he worked in a warehouse, packing paper cups into boxes. When the band went in together, he said they worked together. Paper cups. Paper plates. Plastic knives and forks and spoons. He said he liked that she didn’t know about the band.

  She also didn’t know that he was a husband, and a father to a toddler, and a drunk. She didn’t know that he put a lot of money up his nose. She didn’t know how angry my mother was. The woman in the café was the one who changed everything. She was the one who wrote her number on his coffee cup. She was the one who opened her door to him, night after night, while my mom was at home with me asleep in the bed beside her and didn’t know what to do. That woman was the one who changed everything. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t remember her name. She could’ve been anyone.

  —

  I locked myself in the bathroom and sat on the toilet. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. I sat on the toilet for a long time, staring at the red emergency button on the wall. I wanted to press it. But it was for the wrong kind of emergency. Dad was messing up. Claire was angry. The baby was coming. Corbin’s arm was broken. My mom was in Haiti. I even lost the girl from the bus station on the ferry. It all felt like an emergency.

  Claire stayed with Corbin at the hospital, even though Dad had offered. In the morning, we all went up to get them. About five minutes after we arrived, Dad said that he had to catch the next ferry.

  “I’ve got to get to work.”

  “On a Sunday?” Claire was wearing one of his old Railway Kings T-shirts, threadbare over her belly, and a pair of sweatpants. Her hair was a mess, and her eyes were ringed with red. It looked like she hadn’t slept at all. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” He kissed the boys and me. He didn’t kiss Claire at all. “To finish what I was supposed to be doing at work yesterday.”

  Once he was gone, Grandma rallied the four of us. “Let’s go have brunch,” she said after Corbin was discharged.

  “I’m not hungry,” Claire said.

  “Your baby is.” Grandma shook her car keys. “Let’s go.”

  Corbin was the first one out of the car when we pulled into the Gumboot Garden parking lot.

  “Waffles and whipped cream!” He started to run, but then he stopped with a yelp and held his casted arm closer. “Is it still supposed to hurt?” Grandma and Claire followed him inside, while I hung back with Owen. He surveyed the rock bed at the edge of the road.

  “Looking for skippers,” he muttered. “Got to be flat. Smooth. Like this.” He indicated the ideal size with his finger and thumb. I found a good one and offered it to him.

  Someone was playing the violin nearby. And they were playing one of Dad’s songs: “O’Ryan’s Train.” When I was little, Dad brought me a big black dog that he said was for me—even though I wanted a puppy. Mom said he was just dumping him with us because he was going on tour and no one else would take him. His name was Mars, but I called him O’Ryan, after that song. It was my favorite song, until years later when Dad told me that it was the last one he wrote before Hank—the drummer—overdosed on heroin and they all cracked apart. That song was a hit. It even made it onto the charts. A crossover favorite, the critics said. Their best work, just as it was all coming apart.

  I followed a hedge to the end and looked across the road to see who was butchering the song. It was supposed to be fast and twangy, but this was mellow and slow. I was ready to resent whoever it was. But it was the girl from the bus station.

  It was the girl from the ferry.

  She stood with her face turned to the sun, her violin case open in front of her, playing my dad’s song.

  Owen appeared at my side, his shirt folded up and weighed down with rocks.

  “That’s Dad’s song!” Owen said. “She’s playing Dad’s song. Let’s go listen!
”

  He took off at a run, stones falling out of his shirt as he did.

  “Check for cars!”

  He lurched to a stop and had a quick look, and then he was running across the street and hollering. “Hey, you’re playing my dad’s song!”

  She stopped. “Your dad’s song?”

  My stomach flipped. I wanted to cross the road, and I didn’t want to cross the road. I wanted to go talk to her, but I wasn’t sure that I could. But it didn’t matter, or it couldn’t matter, or I wasn’t going to let it matter for once, because I was going to do both.

  As I crossed the street, I could tell that she was trying to figure out where she’d seen Owen before, but then she saw me, and I could tell by the look on her face that it was all coming together.

  “I remember you,” she said. “The evil joy-killing half sister. Where’s the other one?”

  “The Gumboot.” I gestured behind me. “My stepmom loves their wasabi scrambled eggs.”

  “Really?”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  “Ah, okay.” She laughed. “That explains it.”

  I stood there. She stood there. Owen waited for something interesting to happen, and when it didn’t, and the moment stretched on and on, he gave up and headed back to the café with his skipping stones.

  “Traffic!” I shouted as he neared the edge of the road. I kept my eyes on him until he disappeared into the café.

  “So.” She cradled her violin. “The Railway Kings. Your dad?”

  “He played guitar, mostly,” I said. “But he wrote, too. He wrote ‘O’Ryan’s Train,’ actually.”

  “That’s very cool.”

  “If you’re into the Railway Kings. Not many people are. Were, I guess. It’s a certain type.”

  “Definitely. My parents were big fans. Are, I guess.”

  “Mine too.”

  The girl squinted.

  “That was supposed to be a joke.”

  “Ah. Right. Got it.” She picked a quarter out of her violin case and held it out.

  I took it. “What’s this for?”

  “That’s the going rate, right?” She grinned. “As set by your entrepreneurial little brother. His jokes are pretty funny.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Iguana.”

  I knew this one. “Iguana who?”

  “Iguana be your friend.”

  “Funny.” I blushed and gave the quarter back. “My jokes are free.”

  “Cool.” The girl nodded.

  “Cool.” I nodded too. I should go join the others at the Gumboot. They would’ve ordered by now. But I didn’t want to leave. Not yet. “Do you busk here a lot?”

  “Not really.” The girl looked around suddenly, as if she wasn’t exactly sure where she was. “I came up to teach a couple of classes at the fiddle camp.”

  That was the bus. Those were the kids. The girl with the ponytail. “You teach? That’s cool.” I took a deep breath. I was going to keep this conversation going as long as possible. “Have you been playing the violin for long?”

  “Since I was five.”

  “That’s a long time,” I said, wondering how old she was. As young as fifteen? As old as twenty? “My dad tried to teach me guitar, but I don’t have a musical bone in my body. I draw, though.”

  “What do you draw?”

  “Everything.” I had my sketchbook with me, but I wasn’t about to show it to her. I never showed anyone. “Objects. Little things. Teacups. Keys. Bicycles.” It sounded silly, in a list like that. “People who catch my eye.” Which I regretted saying almost immediately. I felt my cheeks get hotter.

  “Does your dad still play music?”

  “Sometimes. He’s a set painter in the movie industry now.”

  “Still cool,” she said. “In Vancouver?”

  “Yep.”

  “So you live in Vancouver too?”

  “For now.” I told her that my mom was in Haiti. But I didn’t tell her about Raymond. Or what I thought about it all. “You?”

  “East Van, born and bred.”

  “Really?” I felt a catch in my throat. “M-m-my dad lives in East Van too.”

  I took a deep breath, willing away the stutter.

  “We should get together, then.” The girl grinned. “Do you like mochas?”

  “I love them! They’re so good. I love the whipped cream.” I sounded like one of the twins. Not smooth at all. Eager, and utterly graceless.

  “Great,” the girl said with a laugh. “Then we have to go to Continental?”

  “Chocolate whipped cream, yes! Absolutely.” I said it too quickly, and I could feel another spew of excitement brewing. Calm down, Maeve. Take your time. “Breathe.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.” I was flustered; the stutter was back. She was probably already regretting suggesting coffee together. “I m-m-mean, yes. That’d be g-g-great. Coffee. Sure. I could do that.” Then I had to actually press my fingers to my lips in order to stop talking altogether.

  “We should probably know each other’s names, then.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’m Salix.” She tucked her violin under one arm and reached out a hand.

  “I’m Maeve.”

  We shook hands and both held on for one second too long, then two seconds, and then Salix let go first.

  “That’s an interesting name,” I said, recovering. “How do you spell it?”

  “S-a-l-i-x.”

  She slipped her phone out of her pocket. “What’s your number?”

  A girl was asking for my number. That had never happened before. Jessica had already had my number from being my lab partner, and Ruthie had always had it. If I was going to count Ruthie at all. Which I shouldn’t. Not really.

  I was so shocked that a girl was asking for my number that I actually couldn’t remember it. I had to take out my phone and check before reciting it, and then I tucked it back in my pocket, fully expecting to never hear from Salix again. She was being polite, that was all. She probably was a very busy person and would forget. But then my phone buzzed while she was still standing right in front of me.

  Continental. 2pm Friday?

  “Just to make sure that I got your number right,” Salix said. “While I’ve still got you here.”

  I stared at my phone. Even though I’d been participating in the entire conversation, I still couldn’t believe the words on the screen.

  “I don’t get back to the city until then,” Salix said when I still hadn’t said anything. “Is Friday okay?”

  I texted back, my fingers shaking so much that I had to correct the autocorrect several times.

  Ill beat

  I’ll be three

  I’ll be there.

  Salix’s ringtone was a piece of violin music. She glanced at her phone. “Great! I guess I’ll see you on Friday.”

  “Friday.” And then, as if the wind had shifted, doubt flooded me. I felt suddenly bloated with it, swollen. Maybe this wasn’t a date at all. Maybe Salix was just being nice. Maybe she was just shopping for a new friend. But I didn’t want a new friend. “I—I—I—” I stuttered. “I like your r-r-rainbow patch.”

  “Thanks.” And then her eyes found the ground and she said shyly, “I didn’t see a rainbow on your backpack.”

  “No. Wait, you looked? When did you look?”

  “At the terminal, when you were wrangling your brothers. No rainbow.”

  “Speaking of the ferry, I didn’t see you. Where were you?”

  Salix lifted her eyes. Bright green and sparkling. “You looked for me?”

  I nodded. The wind shifted again, and the doubt began to ease. “And I didn’t find you.”

  “I was down on the vehicle deck in the corner where walk-on passengers leave their dogs. I like to play for them. Keep them company. Know where that is?”

  “I know it.” The one place I hadn’t looked. I wished that I had. I w
ished that I could’ve found her like that, serenading the dogs. “That’s really sweet.”

  “Or really silly.”

  It was time to make an exit. Dan said it was always better to be the person who hung up first. Or, in this case, walked away first.

  “I should g-g-go,” I stammered. “They’re probably wondering what’s taking me so long.”

  “See you Friday,” Salix said. “You know the place?”

  “I do,” I said. “My dad buys his coffee beans there.”

  “Mine too.”

  “Rock on, Railroad Kings.”

  “Long live ‘O’Ryan’s Train.’ ”

  “A certain type, right?”

  “Definitely a certain type,” I said. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I backed away, so distracted that I only remembered at the last second to check for cars. A truck sped by, and a car, and then I crossed the street and ducked behind the hedge to call my dad. I wanted to thank him for being one of the Railway Kings. I’d never thought twice about it before, but now it mattered. It was currency all of a sudden, and it had bought me a date.

  I stood behind the hedge and phoned Dad. It rang and rang while Salix started playing the song again. It sounded absolutely perfect this time, even though she was still playing it her way, which didn’t sound much like the Railway Kings’ version at all. Dad’s phone went to voice mail, but I didn’t want to leave a message. I wanted to tell him all about it. Remember that girl from the bus station? Remember her? You won’t believe it, Dad. I called again. And then a third time, and it rang and rang. And then I saw her again, back at the ferry terminal, and now she’s right here. Rang and rang, and then he finally picked up.

  “Maeve!” He barked my name so loudly that I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “What the hell? Why do you keep calling? Is everything okay? Is it the baby?”

  “No, no, Dad. Everyone is fine. I’m great!”

  “Jesus,” Dad said. “Then why are you calling and calling? Why didn’t you leave a message?”

  “Do you even know how to listen to your messages?”

  “Beside the point. I’m busy here, Maeve.” His tone was short, his words staccato. “What do you need?”