THE NEXT MORNING my alarm clock wakes me for the first time since I arrived. Normally I’m awake long before and have no need for an alarm, to the point where I’ve stopped setting it. Last night though, I suspected I might need it, with the magnum charge of tea, and I yawn, feeling rested and ready for the day. It’s a marvellous sensation. I stuff a fresh change of clothes into my pack, have a bite of breakfast, feed the dog and meet the pilot of the HAC helicopter at his machine. A few minutes later the rippling grey expanse of Lake Athabasca is below us as we head south. Soon we are over the Peace-Athabasca river delta — a marshy expanse formed by the confluence of these rivers at the south end of the lake. The delta, I’ve learned from locals in the past two weeks, is an integral part of the Native lifestyle, used for trapping muskrats, fishing for walleye, hunting migratory birds and buffalo. Much of it falls within Wood Buffalo National Park. It also contains the Chipewyan land claim area, which is great for trapping and fishing but useless for building — an issue of perpetual jealousy with the Cree Band, who have a land claim area underlain by rock. The Cree Band land claim is also where the bottle fires have been occurring. I ponder possible motivations as we pass over the delta. The pilot distracts me by pointing out a herd of bison.
“Amazing,” I say, peering down through the Plexiglas bubble.
“As soon as they step out of the Park, the Natives shoot them.”
We make small talk as we follow the Athabasca River south. An hour later the smoke stacks and excavations of the oil sands come into view. Looking down is like passing over another planet. Vast stretches of forest have been peeled away to reveal a black ominous landscape, pocked with pits and huge glistening wastewater ponds, some of them alarmingly close to the river. Massive refineries squat in the centre of each wasteland. Trucks as large as apartment buildings and cranes as high as skyscrapers — they all look like toys from this height.
“I’ve flown over it a hundred times,” says the pilot. “Still impresses me.”
It’s hard not to be impressed with the sheer scale of the operation. Then there’s the money — a hundred billion dollars of investment. Energy royalties that fund projects all across the country. Not that there haven’t been issues. Open any newspaper lately and there’ll be articles on carbon release and global warming, habitat destruction, river contamination, dead ducks, and the heavy energy cost to separate the oil. My concern today is on a smaller scale and as we touch down at the base in Fort MacKay I look forward to finding Bernice Mercredi.
FORT MACKAY IS a tiny settlement at the end of the road, about a fortyfive-minute drive north of the city of Fort McMurray. I check in with the base commander, pick up keys to a borrowed truck and head south again. Soon I’m in the bustle of a genuine boom town. Fort McMurray has grown from a logging town of fifteen thousand to a petroleum city of nearly one hundred thousand in a decade. Everything is being built at once and there isn’t enough of anything. Traffic clogs streets not designed to handle high volumes and it takes an hour to cross halfway through the city. I check the address given to me by Helen Mercredi against a map I found in the borrowed truck. The map is a few years old and the neighbourhood I’m looking for isn’t shown. I take a few wrong turns, which burns up another hour, before finding the correct house in a cul-de-sac at the edge of a raw clearing.
The house, like the neighbourhood, can’t be more than a year old. Spindly birch trees are anchored by ropes and stakes in a front lawn that still shows the checkerboard of new sod. As I reach for the door handle in my truck, I notice my hands are shaking again, take a moment to compose myself. I had a big cup of tea this morning, but neglected to take any with me, and I could really use some right now. The air smells of turned soil and diesel fumes as I walk up the newly minted sidewalk. The door is answered by a tall Native woman.
“Hello, I’m Porter Cassel, with the Forest Service.”
“Carol,” she says. “What does the Forestry want with me?”
“Do you know Helen and Bernice Mercredi?”
She frowns. “What’s this about?”
“I’m looking for Bernice. I was told she’s staying here.”
“Her mother said she would be coming down for a few days but she never got here. I thought maybe Helen changed her mind. Is there something the matter?”
“I just need to talk to her. Routine fire stuff.”
Carol digests this. “Well, she’s not here.”
“Have you spoken recently with Helen Mercredi?”
Carol frowns. “I called her. Bernie was supposed to take a cab here, then I was going to take her to the doctor, depending how her stomach was. Sometimes it gets better by itself. Anyway, when I called her, one of the kids answered. I told him to tell his mom to call me back. When she didn’t, I just figured Bernie was feeling better, and they changed their minds.”
I think of the kids playing video games at the Mercredi house, picture them answering the phone, rushing back to their game, forgetting to pass on the message. A sliver of apprehension works its way into my chest. No one knew that Bernice Mercredi was missing.
“I’ve been out a lot and haven’t given it much thought,” says Carol.
“So you haven’t heard anything from Bernice Mercredi?”
“Is something the matter? Did something happen with Bernie?”
“We’re just trying to locate her.”
Carol’s expression clouds.
“Could I speak with your daughter?”
“Why?” she asks suspiciously.
“I understand Bernice and your daughter are friends.”
She turns and hollers in Cree into the house. A younger voice answers. I can’t understand the language, but the tone is surprised. A moment later a younger version of Carol appears, long black hair hiding one eye. The girl looks to be about sixteen or seventeen. She stares at my boots. I introduce myself again, which elicits the slightest of nods.
“I was wondering if you’d heard from Bernice lately.”
Her gaze flickers across my face and she shakes her head. This is awkward, her mother looming beside her, scrutinizing the conversation. I want to ask personal questions she may not want to answer in front of her mother.
“Is there somewhere else Bernice might have gone?”
She shrugs, staring at my boots again. The mother says something sharply in Cree.
“Maybe to the mall,” says the daughter.
“Which one?”
“Peter Pond.”
It seems an odd response, given that Bernice was supposed to have arrived yesterday.
“Is there anyone else she might be staying with?”
The girl looks at me, searching my face, and I wonder if there’s something going on here of which none of the parents is aware — something a friend wouldn’t reveal to a parent, much less a stranger. A party. A secret boyfriend. Perhaps she was running away. Whatever it might be, she won’t tell me, answering instead with a typical teenage shrug.
“Where does she like to go to party?”
The mother prods her daughter — as interested in the response as I am.
“Answer the man.”
She shrugs again. It occurs to me she’s probably underage.
“Listen,” I say, dropping my voice, “this is really important. We need to find Bernice and make sure she’s okay. I need to know if there’s someplace you’ve gone with her to party; someplace she might get into trouble. Someone’s house, maybe. Or a bar. I’m not here to cause you any trouble — I just need to know about Bernice.”
She looks at me again, evaluating. “We go to the Oil Can sometimes.”
A subtle intake of breath from her mother.
“How often do you go there?” I say.
“Sometimes on Fridays.”
“I thought you were going to study group,” the mother says.
“We didn’t go every Friday. Just sometimes.”
“Oh — that makes it better, does it?” says the mother, crossing her arms.
I raise my hands. “Let’s just focus for a moment, please.”
They both glare at me.
“When you were at the bar, was there ever anyone that caused you concern?”
She shrugs somewhat flippantly. “Not really. We can take care of ourselves.”
The mother snorts. I don’t want to wade into a mother-daughter argument, so I thank them for their time, leave my contact information and head to my truck where I use my cell phone, which until I arrived in Fort McMurray had been useless, to call Helen Mercredi and see if Bernice has called or come home. She hasn’t. Her mother’s voice is strained.
“Where is my daughter? Where could Bernie have gone?”
“She could have snuck off to see someone. Do you know if she had a boyfriend out of town? Or if she had any reason to take off?”
The line is silent for a moment, then a small voice: “No.”
“I’m here now, Mrs. Mercredi, and I’ll keep looking. It might be a good idea to call the RCMP, file a missing persons report. They have more resources than I do.”
The line is silent again.
“Are you there, Mrs. Mercredi?”
“Yes,” she says distantly. “Thank you for helping.”
I assure her that I’ll let her know as soon as I find anything.
I SIT IN my truck, watch the house where Bernice Mercredi was supposed to be, ponder my next move. Leaving the fire to see a doctor may have been a ruse to spend time with a boyfriend. Or maybe she learned something at the fire and felt the knowledge put her at risk, so she bolted. Either way, it’ll be difficult to find her if she doesn’t want to be found. I’ll need to work this like any missing persons case — on a timeline. A day-and-a-half ago, her mother dropped her at the airport for the regular afternoon flight to Fort McMurray. She would have arrived about five o’clock that afternoon. She was supposed to take a cab to her friend’s house but didn’t arrive. The airport is some distance outside the city, so she would have needed to take a cab from there to wherever she was going. I could canvas the cab drivers, but that’ll take quite a while in a city of one hundred thousand. The other possibility is that someone was waiting for her at the airport. Either way, she may no longer be in Fort McMurray. She could be anywhere by now, either by road or on another flight. Or, just maybe, she went from the airport directly to the hospital.
THE NORTHERN LIGHTS Regional Health Centre is a large building in the old downtown core of Fort McMurray, located not surprisingly on Hospital Street. I park in the public area and contemplate how best to approach my inquiry. The medical profession are, rightfully, quite conservative about releasing information. Today that will not be working in my favour, as I need to know if Bernice Mercredi has been treated here. I decide the emergency department, where she would have gone, makes the most sense.
Emergency rooms are all pretty much the same. This one is no exception. A room full of weary patrons droop in rows of hard plastic chairs. Another line of patrons wait at a counter. I join the line, wait for my turn to speak with the admitting nurse. When my turn comes, she evaluates me through a Plexiglas safety partition, asks what she can do for me today.
“I was wondering if you could tell me if Bernice Mercredi was seen here.”
The nurse frowns. “I can’t help you with that. Medical records are confidential.”
“Is there any way to determine if she was here?”
She eyes the line behind me. “She might have been admitted. You can call the switchboard. They’ll check for you. There’s a phone by the entrance. Anything else, sir?”
I’m about to thank her and head to the phone when it occurs to me that I feel really awful, itchy, twitchy, achy, and as though my muscles are filled with sand, and I’m in a hospital anyway, so I ask to see a doctor, show her my shaking hands. She raises an eyebrow, scribbles something on a clipboard and sends me to another counter where my personal details are taken. I’m told to take a seat — my name will be called. While I’m waiting, I use the public phone to call the switchboard. A polite feminine voice answers.
“Northern Lights Regional Health Centre.”
“I was wondering if you could tell me if Bernice Mercredi has been admitted.”
“One moment, sir.”
A minute goes by, during which I hear humming.
“There’s no one listed by that name, sir.”
I thank her, the sliver of apprehension in my chest burrowing deeper. If Bernice Mercredi didn’t come here at all, she either never made it this far or never intended to come. Both scenarios suggest something
amiss. I take seat on an uncomfortable plastic chair and wait. And wait. The experience is a bit monastic and I could use the time to connect with my inner self except I’m not really sure I want to meet the guy right now. I’d have some tough questions. So I read outdated copies of Reader’s Digest. Finally, my turn comes and I’m ushered behind a cloth partition, where I wait again, sitting on a paper-covered exam bench.
The doctor arrives. He’s old, white-haired, looks exhausted.
“What can I help you with today?” he says.
“I don’t feel well. I’m nauseous and my hands are shaking.”
He looks at my hands. “How long has this been going on?”
“I haven’t been feeling well for months now. Difficulty sleeping. No energy. The shaking started more recently. And I’m itchy.”
“Itchy?” he says giving me a critical look. I nod, scratching my ribs.
“Any recent changes? Drug or alcohol problems? Family medical history?”
“Nothing new. All in the past. Aunt that has Parkinson’s.”
I’m impressed by the brevity of our conversation. I don’t think anything will impress the doctor, though. He prescribes a thorough checkup. His stethoscope is predictably icy on my chest and back. Reflexes are tested, urine sampled. And a blood test, which I manage to pass without fainting. Barely. Dizzy, I struggle to retain my dignity, stumble out of the hospital, sit in my truck, breathing deeply. I might be a macho firefighter, but needles undo me. I’m just starting to feel better when my cellphone rings and I scramble to free it from the holster on my belt, hoping it’s Bernice Mercredi or news of her.
It’s Christina Telson. My fiancée.
“Howdy, Porter. How’s my cute little fireman?”
My recuperation is short lived; I don’t feel so good again.
“I’m fine,” I mumble. “How about you?”
Telson proceeds to tell me about her latest freelance job. She’s a journalist, a champion of the truth. I only half listen as she talks. My own truthfulness remains in question. I know I have to tell her, but not like this, not over the phone. I need to face her, be with her, let her know with all of me how much the episode with Collette was a mistake. So I stall, contribute minimally to the conversation, my heart hammering, my palms sweaty, until she notices.
“You okay, Porter?”
“Yeah, fine. I’m just really busy right now. Can’t talk long.”
“You don’t seem to be able to talk at all. What’s up?”
There’s an awkward silence. I don’t want to lie to her.
“Look,” I say, “I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding distinctly put-off. Then she’s gone and I feel alone and dirty. I’ve never cheated on anyone. Now I literally have a hard time looking at myself in the mirror. I swallow a lump in my throat, brace my arms against the steering wheel and tense my whole body for as long as I can hold it. When I let go I’m faint and limp but the blunt pain in my chest is a bit better.
I need to drive.
I wheel the truck into traffic, fight my way up the hill leading out of town, passing recklessly until I’m on the highway where I open the windows and crank up the tunes. Wind whips hair into my eyes as they blur with tears. I thought I could hold it together until I had a chance to face Telson but her voice, disembodied, pieced my chest like a knife, leaving an invisible wound. I’m not sure how long I drive before I
notice it’s getting dark. I want to keep going but I’d only be running from myself so I turn back.
It’s full dark by the time I see the lights of Fort McMurray. I’m calmer now, the adrenaline and emotion spent. I turn off the radio, absorb the sounds of night traffic as I roll downtown, searching for Bernice Mercredi. It’s a long shot. In the dim artificial light of the streets everyone looks the same. I pass the Oil Can several times as I loop back on Franklin Avenue. I’m not crazy about spending the evening in another bar, but the Oil Can is the closest thing I have to a lead, so I park in the only available spot near a dumpster. I’m shoved aside at the door by a large Native who curses as he makes his way past me.
“Watch it, asshole,” he throws over his shoulder.
For a few seconds I’m tempted to go after him, but then I shake my head, amazed, as the anger subsides. Not like me. Too much stress lately. I take a deep breathe, move to the bar, order a beer, look around. It’s a typical older drinking establishment. Dim light. Low ceiling. Small crowded tables. The clientele are mostly Natives and mine workers. Several middle-age women in high heels and tight cocktail dresses lounge along the bar, watching. Cougars, stalking younger men. Or hookers — sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. I make a circuit, glancing at faces, trying not to look conspicuous as I search for Bernice Mercredi. No luck, but it’s early. Around the corner from the bar I see a crowd leaning in, edge my way closer.
A long Plexiglas structure sits on a low table. They’re racing hamsters. For five bucks you can pick your thoroughbred. I buy a ticket for number three in the next race. Halfway through the race my hamster stops to lick itself, then turns around. A fool and his money are quickly parted. I make another circuit through the room, looking for Bernice Mercredi. No luck but I recognize several faces from Fort Chipewyan. There’s an older Native that works for Wood Buffalo National Park, and the weatherman from the airport. A beaded buckskin jacket is familiar and I nod at Simon Cardinal, the Native Justice Liaison from the Cree Band. He returns my nod, wanders over to where I’m standing along the bar.
Whiskey Creek Page 14
