by Carrie Mac
—
I didn’t drive the van down to the highway illegally. I didn’t walk down either. I stayed in the water until my fingers were prunes, diving under again and again. It felt perfect under there, and it was how I held off from panicking about texting Salix back. When we left, I didn’t get a good signal until Squamish.
“Told you so,” Claire said as I started to type.
“You said we shouldn’t say that,” Corbin said.
I was at Alice Lake with no service. Sorry!
Bad trumpet music! Mochas! Yes, please!
A moment later, she texted me back.
Teaching tonight. Is tomorrow morning good?
Very good.
Very good.
“All good?” Claire said. “Your cheeks are red.”
“All good,” I said. “Very good.”
I’d see her in the morning. I’d see her that soon. It wasn’t soon enough. Or was it too soon? It had to be just right, because that was how it was, unless something happened between now and then. I needed my dad to keep a holding pattern: come home, don’t come home, it didn’t really matter; I just needed him to not rock the boat for once. I needed all the interested parties to keep the status quo. I didn’t want anything to mess this up. My heart raced and my fingers tingled and I could feel my cheeks blazing. I was nervous already, but for all the good reasons.
A very small section of Maeve Glover’s neuroses drowned in Alice Lake today. Though it is survived by the bulk of her anxiety, which is kept alive by an infinite list of things to worry about, we are delighted to bury this one tiny piece. There is great hope that this death is permanent.
The dying goose wasn’t at the park, but Salix was, playing in front of the cenotaph with her violin case open, a few dollar coins tossed in.
“Not bad for so early in the day.”
“Those are my fakes.” Salix stopped playing. She took a step toward me, as if she was going to hug me, or maybe kiss me on the cheek, but she didn’t. I took a step forward, wondering if I should do either of those things. But I didn’t. Instead we ended up standing very close to each other but not touching. “I put them in there so people will think that other people have already given me money. No one wants to be the first. Linden taught me that.” She put her violin away and pocketed the coins. “Come on.”
—
We stood near the back of the crowded bus and held on to the bar over our heads. While I hoped that my armpits didn’t stink, Salix bumped into me playfully.
“How much time have you got today?”
“All day.”
“Excellent. Let’s go a little further.” We got off that bus and onto another, where we got two seats on the long bench in the middle. “I would drive us there, but my mom has the car today.”
“You drive?” I said. “Here? In the city?”
“Sure. You don’t?”
“I have my learner’s permit. I can drive with someone who has five years’ experience.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen and three-quarters, and not in a rush to drive by myself,” I said. “Or at all. Especially not in the city. How old are you?”
“Seventeen and getting rid of my N as soon as possible.”
“Your N?”
“You get your L here first, and then after a year you get your N—which stands for ‘novice’—and after two years with your N, you get your real license.”
“I don’t want any license, to be honest. Then maybe everyone would stop pestering me about driving.”
“But don’t you live in the country? Doesn’t every kid who lives in the country want their driver’s license right away?”
“All the more deer to hit,” I said. “All the more drunk drivers to avoid. All the more ditches and ravines and rock cliffs to crash into.”
“But just think, as soon as you have your license, you can go places by yourself. You don’t have to ask for rides. That’s worth it, isn’t it? To go where you want to go? To be free?”
“Not if it means that I have to be responsible for the safe and correct handling of a one-ton death machine.”
“You won’t kill someone.”
“I might,” I said. “I almost killed a deer.”
“But you missed it?”
“Barely.”
“So you didn’t kill it. Imagine being able to get up and go whenever you want. That is definitely worth the risk. The risk is small.”
But it wasn’t small. So many car crashes. So many mechanical failures. So many slippery roads and blizzards and moments where one wrong move could kill. I would not start reciting facts again. I would not. Focus on the girl, Maeve. You are on a date with a very cute girl, and she is taking you somewhere, so don’t do the fact thing. Just don’t do it. Think about something else. Anything.
In about a year, Salix could be in New York. Or Thailand. In five months and twenty-one days, I was going home. So why were we even pretending that this could be a thing? Or maybe it was just me. Maybe this was no big deal to her.
Not what I had in mind when I told myself to think of something else.
This thing that hadn’t started? It was going to end, no matter what happened between now and the end of the five months. Goodbyes. Last moments. Hopeless.
The bus shuddered to a stop, and I bumped against Salix.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Honestly.”
A large woman with a rolling cart full of groceries squished into the seat on the other side of me, so I ended up pinned against Salix, our bodies pressed together from shoulder to knee. The two of us sat very still. I liked being that close, and maybe she did too, because when the woman got off, we didn’t move apart. We stayed pressed together on purpose, slowly relaxing into it until it felt completely natural, as if we’d sat like that a million times before.
“This is our stop,” Salix said. I could hear the reluctance in her voice. I wanted to stay sitting against each other like that too. But we both got up, our sides warm from where we’d touched. When we stepped off the bus, I realized that we’d traveled clear across the city. I’d never gone that far alone on the bus.
“Ta-da!” Salix pointed to the beach across the street. “Welcome to my office. I make good money on this beach. And I promise you there won’t be anyone trying to slip a brick of cocaine into your backpack.”
“What?”
“The girl on the beach in Thailand? My life, wasting away in a foreign jail? Tourist sex?”
I cringed. “You had to remind me?”
“Come on.” Salix took my hand. “I’ll play for a bit and then I’ll buy you an ice cream cone.”
“I have to tell you that I have pretty sophisticated taste in ice cream. I only like the ones that come in boxes. The expensive ones.”
“No problem, princess.” Salix did a little bow. “Your wish is my command.”
—
The beach was full of Beautiful People, like the girls on the beach at Alice Lake, except this beach was packed with them and their boyfriends. Sinewy teenagers who played beach volleyball like they were in a commercial, leaping high without breaking a sweat or dislodging their expensive sunglasses or perfect ponytails. And adults who still had their adolescent bodies, chiseled and tight and smooth. I could hardly see the sand for all the lithe sunbathers posed just so on their blankets and towels, sunglasses on every single one of them.
“We’re definitely not in East Van,” I said.
I felt frumpy in my tank top and capris. My flip-flops were two years old and had been purchased at a gas station after I lost my sandals at the beach. The capris were a hand-me-down from Ruthie’s cousin and had a paper clip instead of a proper zipper pull.
“Definitely not in East Van.” Salix swept an arm in front of her. “Behold, the land of the lotus-eaters.”
“Lotus-eaters?”
“It’s from that poem by Tennyson. About a ship that ends up at an island where all they eat are enchanted lotuses, which make
them dreamy and happy and they forget all their troubles. So much so that the captain has to drag his men back to the boat against their will because they want to stay there forever. People call Vancouver the land of the lotus-eaters. But I think they mean people like this, more specifically.”
I blinked. “I love that you know that.”
“Thanks.” Salix lifted her sunglasses and grinned at me. “I love that you don’t think that knowing that is completely dorky.”
A trio of glisteningly tanned girls with rolled-up yoga mats under their arms hurried past, followed by a few women jogging, again with the perfect ponytails bouncing along in unison. A wide circle of guys tossed a Frisbee on a section of sand roped off for sports.
“I feel like I should be running or jumping or rolling. Or doing yoga.”
“Let’s find some shade instead.”
We wandered along the path while cyclists and in-line skaters sliced by on the side designated for wheels, and joggers nudged past them, clearly impatient, on the pedestrian side.
“Doesn’t anyone just walk?”
“They do.” Salix pointed to an elderly couple strolling ahead of us, a big old dog creaking along behind them.
Trees lined the path, but all the shade had been claimed by the few people who wanted it. “Up there,” she said, pointing. “Shade! I think those people are leaving.”
She ran ahead to stake our claim, and by the time I caught up, she already had her violin out.
She played something classical while I took out my sketchbook and tried to do quick drawings of the people going by. Really, though, I just wanted to draw Salix. Over and over and over again. Just Salix. I chewed on the end of my pencil while I watched her. Salix played the violin with her whole body. Small sways and bows, shuffling her feet now and then, her eyes closing briefly and then opening to find me, still watching. The curve of her jaw, her slender fingers on the strings, the ruby pendant at her throat, one foot in front of the other, her strong calves, the spot where her tanned legs disappeared into her baggy shorts.
I pretended that she was the only one on the whole beach, and that the music was just for me. I drew her, starting with the long, fluid line of her torso.
After about half an hour, she tucked her violin under her arm and sat beside me, pulling her case onto her lap and counting. “Almost thirty bucks.” She grinned. “I can easily buy you a princess ice cream.”
“I’m impressed. Totally impressed.” The wind picked up off the ocean. I pushed the hair off my face. “You’re an amazing musician. Absolutely amazing.”
“Thanks.” She set her violin in the case and shoved the money into her pack. “What were you drawing? Can I see?”
“Nope.” I closed my sketchbook. “Sorry.”
“Someday you’ll show me. I know it.” She stood and offered me a hand. “Let’s go?”
Salix helped me up, and we kept holding hands for a second, until I started to pull away. But Salix held on. “The snack stand is over this way.”
—
Salix bought a dark chocolate caramel almond ice cream bar for me and a dipped cone for herself. We sat on a log in the sand, not saying much. Salix put her hand on my thigh, her palm immediately hot and pulsing. I slid my hand under hers, and then we were holding hands as if it was no big deal at all. There were whitecaps on the water, and most of the swimmers had come in. Far off, the water was dappled with tiny sailboats and enormous barges. Usually I wanted to be somewhere other than where I was at any given time. On one of those boats, for example, alone and far away from the busyness and the noise and the constant decisions. But not today. This was exactly where I wanted to be. The wind on my face, the sweet taste of ice cream on my tongue, my toes dug into the sand, sitting hip to hip and holding hands with Salix, my crush, my heart racer. There was no place I would rather be, except maybe on one of those boats, sailing away, with Salix.
Let’s pretend that the story ends there. That the day at the beach will be the last image. What a beautiful image to keep. Let’s imagine all the good things that came next, like love, and the baby, and the boys growing like weeds. Let’s imagine my mom in Haiti, where everything was perfect and Raymond was twenty years younger and I actually liked him. Welcome to the family, Raymond.
Let’s ignore the bad things. Let’s ignore that all good things go wrong.
But most of all, let’s pretend that my dad was back to normal. Let’s pretend that he realized what an asshole he was becoming. Let’s pretend that he came home every night and was happy to see his family. Let’s pretend that we always knew where he was. Let’s pretend that we weren’t worried.
Let’s pretend.
A beach. The sun. Two girls holding hands.
The end.
The boys stopped asking Claire when Dad would come home. When he did show up, it was almost always after they were in bed. He had a shower, got himself something to eat, mumbled a few words at Claire, and slept on the couch.
But mostly he just didn’t come home, and I didn’t want to know where he was staying.
“He’s probably sleeping in the truck,” Claire said.
Neither of us said where we really thought he was.
When he was home, I avoided him. I was meeting Salix. I was working on something and needed the door closed. I was taking a nap, getting changed, didn’t feel well.
Claire wouldn’t speak to him at all. If he was still there in the morning, he and the boys would play for a bit—gnomes, battle, castles, gnomes—and then he’d make up some reason to go.
“When will you be back, Daddy?” The boys hung off him all the way to the door.
“I’m not sure. But I’ll see you soon, okay?”
Claire took to pacing. “I’m getting the baby into a good position,” she said. But I knew that she was worried. About the same things I was worried about. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he even going to work? Worried about money. Worried about having the baby alone. I wasn’t supposed to be with her. He was.
When I wasn’t with Salix, I was with Claire. I gave her foot massages and made her red raspberry tea to help “tone her cervix.” I kept reading the books. No matter how terrified I was at the thought of convincing Claire to go to the hospital if the time came and Dad was nowhere to be found, and no matter how much I wished that Dad would come home and actually be a dad and actually be a husband, I wasn’t going to get stuck in the reality without knowing a little bit about what was going on.
I hadn’t told Claire, but the deal was going to be this: If Dad didn’t show up when she went into labor, we were going straight to the hospital. Even if I had to force her into the van. I would even drive her myself, if I had to. This baby was not going to be born at home if I was the only one to help besides the midwives.
Claire Glover, beloved mother and wife, died while giving birth because she insisted on having the baby at home, which is a terrible idea, and because her husband was nowhere to be found and who knows if midwives ever get to births on time, in which case—
So I was reading about vaginas and birth canals and cervixes and perineal massage and footling breech and shoulder dystocia and how a couple having sex during labor can speed things up. Not that that would be an option for Claire if her husband was a complete and utter no-show.
—
I was reading Birthing from Within one evening when Salix texted me to meet her in the park. I would never go into the park at night, and it was going to get dark soon, but I did want to see Salix. I texted her back.
Come get me?
Her reply came immediately.
I know what you’re thinking, Maeve. Come anyway. There are no boogeymen. I checked. Also, I can see your building from here. I will be your watchman. Watchgirl. Whatever.
—
As soon as I came out of the building she shouted from the playground, from the very top of the climber, a tall pyramid of thick red rope crisscrossing down and out from a central post. It reminded me of the Eiffel Tower. She was perched
at the little lookout at the top.
“What are you doing?” I peered up at her.
“Come up.”
“It’s pretty high.”
“I saw Corbin scamper up to the top of this thing the other day, even with a broken arm. If your little brother can do it,” Salix said, “so can you.”
“But Owen has never climbed this thing. Not even up to the first rung.”
“One foot after the other, come on.” Salix bounced a little on her rope perch, sending the whole thing shivering. “I have a prize for you when you get up here.”
I wanted to go up more than I didn’t want to, so, with my heart pounding, I reached with both hands and grabbed a rope. It was hard and bristly in my grasp, but I held on. I put one foot on a lower rope and pulled myself up off the ground. I would just have to do that about ten more times and then I’d be at the top. From where I was, the ground was only a short jump away, but the top was probably fifteen feet off the ground.
“How about you come down?”
“If you’ve never seen the view of downtown from here, then you’re coming up.”
I wobbled on the ropes.
“It’s worth it.” Salix beckoned me. “I promise. Come on!”
So I kept climbing. I made the mistake of looking down at about the halfway mark. This was not a good idea. My hands burned from clutching the rope so hard, and my feet—in flip-flops—rolled back and forth across the rope.
“Kick them off,” Salix said. “It’s easier in bare feet.”
I slid my feet out. The flip-flops took forever to land softly on the ground.
“You’re doing great!”
When I got to the top, I saw that she’d set out a little picnic on the tiny platform: cheese and crackers and cherries, a beat-up thermos covered in stickers, two plastic wineglasses with pink-flamingo stems.
“Have a seat.” Salix patted the rope beside her. “It’s like sitting in a hammock chair with half the rope gone.”
“I c-c-can’t believe that I’m up here.” I arranged myself on the trembling ropes. “Corbin will be so impressed.”
