by Terry Farish
Copyright © 2015 by Terry Farish
Carolrhoda Lab™ is a trademark of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.
Carolrhoda Lab™
An imprint of Carolrhoda Books
A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
241 First Avenue North
Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA
For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.
The images in this book are used with the permission of: © Jonas Elmqvist/Nordic Photos/Getty Images (window frame); © Diana Berlizeva/EyeEm/Getty Images (frosted glass).
Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 10/14.
Typeface provided by Linotype AG.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Farish, Terry.
Either the beginning or the end of the world / by Terry Farish.
pages cm
Summary: Sofie, sixteen, lives alone with her father, a Scottish fisherman, on New Hampshire’s coast and is not prepared for the return of her pregnant mother, a Cambodian immigrant, or for the forbidden relationship she has begun with a young Army medic back from Afghanistan.
ISBN 978-1-4677-7483-3 (lb : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-4677-8813-7 (EB pdf)
[1. Single-parent families—Fiction. 2. Fishing—Fiction. 3. Cambodian Americans—Fiction. 4. Racially mixed people—Fiction. 5. Veterans—Fiction. 6. Secrets—Fiction. 7. New Hampshire—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.F22713Eit 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2015001606
Manufactured in the United States of America
1—BP—7/15/15
eISBN: 978-1-46778-813-7 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-46778-974-5 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-46778-973-8 (mobi)
FOR TY
LULLABY
Ma sings to me, her long hair flowing.
I love her more than the dark loves dawn.
She was sixteen. She sang to me.
We climb above the water while she sings her baby song.
When the moon draws the water, Ma draws me too.
And she draws her small brother.
My family rides in the curve of the moon.
—Sofie Grear
FEBRUARY 28
Luke and I have plans like deer in winter have plans. The trees are bare. The moon is full. We could shelter in place. We could run.
The cabin looks out to the rocky Atlantic coast, and tonight you’d think the wind and the waves could wash the very boulders back into the sea.
I know Luke has barely seen his family since he came back from Afghanistan, where he served with the New Hampshire Army National Guard. I have seen his mother’s texts. I saw a photo she sent of Luke’s little sister in a white angel gown in front of a Christmas tree. The child has a gleeful gap-toothed grin, her little white-sleeved arms crossed over the gown’s pink inlay, and curls spiraling from beneath her tiara. She holds a sign in crayon letters. I made you pancakes do you remember me? mandy Sometimes I can hear his mother crying out from her texts—lucas, call us day or night—and I feel sad for her.
“What if we go away from here?” I say. “From the ocean.” It’s nearly midnight, but the wind gusting makes us vigilant. I look up from the edge of the bed, where I sit. Luke paces as if to ensure that he doesn’t close his eyes.
He says, “That’s most of the country.” I grin, but I begin to shake in the night chill of this bare winter rental. He stops. Kicks up the fire in the woodstove. Comes to me. Buttons my sweater against the cold. To take in each other’s eyes would break us down. His hand pauses at my hip. I touch his dark hair. We are framed by the window covered in crystals of ice.
If I go, I would leave my father. I see him outlined as simply as a boat on the horizon beside a red ball of sun. My father always says he loves to go fishing to see the red ball of sun rise out of the water.
I get out my phone, and Luke and I check Google Maps for some of the places we’ve pretended we’d go. We sit cross-legged on his squealing bed. Our foreheads touch. We make up stories about us living here, together. We have a cupboard with cereal bowls and a drawer with spoons tucked in each other.
Wherever we are, I know he’ll have the gun.
My shaking is so bad, my teeth tap against each other. I wrap the thin bedspread around us. My dog, Pilot, sleeps by the stove in a knot she’s made of my coat, which she dragged there.
“What do you have against the ocean?” Luke says. His voice is tight but unrushed. I think we are both acutely aware of everything. A flicker of light from a buoy in the distance, when Pilot circles, drops down again. Is it like the talk before soldiers go on patrol? This is a part of him I try to imagine. “You’re a fishing family,” he says. “I don’t understand.”
We’re just telling stories. Now I look at him.
I can’t see the green of his eyes. His face is an outline. I need his voice to hold on to who he really is. But I feel his calm. He always says he’s most steady in chaos. “My mother says I came out stillborn because of a curse from the Pol Pot time. But I took this big gasping breath, and all the Cambodian side of my family was there and they all breathed with me.”
My breath is shallow as I tell this. It aches to breathe.
“I don’t trust the ocean,” I say. “It knows. It’s beautiful and it calls me. It suspects I’m really a stillborn.”
Luke nods. I can make him out now. I cock my head to study his unflinching eyes. I thought this would make sense to him, since he talks to dead people he knew from the army. I touch his ribs beneath the thick yarn of his sweater. “Superstitious fisherman’s kid.” I shrug, pushing my hair off my face. Then I sit still except for my tapping teeth and let the sound of the waves fill my body. He’s lean like a wild dog. We should eat.
If I go, I’ll leave my mother. Since I met Luke, I’ve remembered a song she sang to me when I was little. She sang about a rabbit in the moon, and I became the rabbit in my child imagination, and she became the moon. Later, when I didn’t see her, I remembered her long hair, how I used to twist it in my hands as I made little words and pretended I could sing them in Khmer.
I love you more than the dark loves dawn.
You were sixteen. You sang to me.
We climb above the water while you sing your baby song.
“Couple a loonies,” Luke says over the banging in the wind of the loose cabin window.
“But you’re used to me,” I say.
“Christ help me,” he says.
I say, “Me too.”
We are dangerous. We have warned each other about this. Part of him is stillborn too. “Some things you shouldn’t know.” He often wishes this for me about what happened in his war. We’ve tried to protect each other since we met. But here we are together by the open sea.
PIRATES
When the January catch is slim in the Gulf of Maine and my father can’t pay for even the fuel for the Karma, rumble begins about taking the boat down to Chincoteague. Maybe in the spring, he and some other fishermen begin to say. When shrimping’s done, maybe it’s time to go to Chincoteague. Virginia’s a distance from New Hampshire, but there he can fish—groundfishing, for monkfish that have teeth like a shark.
It’s just my father and me in our family. My mother has never lived with us, though I h
ave a memory of living with her and my grandmother in a room with long windows in Lowell, Massachusetts.
This spring, if my father goes to Chincoteague, I know he will not take a sixteen-year-old, me, his only daughter. But we’re a team. I hold bear-tight to winter.
As the cold encases our small house, among all the row houses by the river, I’m aware of the glitter on snow lit by the moon. I let my eyes follow up and search for the rabbit in the moon’s lines and bumps. My father says no other fishermen do this, just us. Rabbit running. Rabbit stirring a pot with a long spoon. Rabbit with one ear up, one ear down. I’m usually aware of the moon like I’m usually aware of how much the birch trees bend, a way that I can judge the velocity of the wind. That’s how I know if my father will go fishing, if the boat can handle in the sea. That’s how I can predict his return.
No moon shines this January night. It starts to snow at dinnertime.
My father is on the phone while I chop a white onion and drop the bits to spit in hot oil.
Pilot thumps her tail on the wood floor like a drum, ever hopeful for scraps when I cook. My father holds the phone to his ear over the bandana he ties around his forehead and his shaggy hair. Whoever he called must not have answered.
“Sleep in,” he says into the phone. “We’ll wait out the storm.”
I stir milk into the sizzling onion and chunks of fish and simmer our chowder. I’m suddenly aware that my finger is bare, no ring spins around. My tiger’s eye. Somewhere, it slipped off. Your only good taste in fashion, my friend Rosa teases me about my ring, and it’s from my dad.
We’re not too big on fashion here. Dad says if I come at him sideways he’d miss me anyway. Boots, jeans tucked in. Year round. Keeps you ready. The ones at the Goodwill have creases and life. The rest of me is still unplanned. Rosa says I’m trending, though, a kind of fisherman–co-op–rat look. Snarled sweaters. Stocking caps over thick, wound-around hair.
Noticing my hand, though, I miss my ring something awful. I don’t like me bare.
- - -
Snow falls faster. Hard snow. The outdoor spotlight shines on my father’s tower of lobster traps. In twenty minutes the traps disappear under snow. Snow flies into the window glass, fast, heavy, and silent.
My father still wears his rubber knee-high boots, his plaid shirt—the cuffs rolled, showing the veins and muscles in his arms. I pull two bowls off the shelf and dig the ladle from among the spoons, beaters, scrapers in the drawer.
“Was that the new deckhand?”
My father had mentioned somebody who’d been crewing with him.
“Yeah,” he says. “Good crew.”
I scoop steaming chowder into our bowls. My father lowers his body into the chair. Curls of pale hair hang down from beneath his bandana and graze his long neck. I adore his face, pocked with scars from snapped lines and hard work on the sea.
My mother has black hair that her mother tied in a scarf when they lived in Cambodia. My eyes are my mother’s. We have identical dark eyes, almost black. If people should see us, no one would miss that we’re mother and child.
My father and I settle into the chowder. We eat with big spoons and break off hunks of biscuit to dunk in. He says, “I leave you on your own too much, Sofie.”
I scowl. “’Cause of the gin! Dad, I should have made you ground me, right then.”
Rosa and I got into his gin. She’s into classic country, and she was playing a song Emmylou Harris sings, and I twirled while she played. Rosa said we looked so silly-drunk, no story would save us. But when my father walked in the door, he said, “Where’s the supper?” That’s all he said.
“What about the gin?” he asks while we’re trying to eat chowder. “Jesus.” He does not want to think about gin or teenaged girls. He is in over his head with fatherhood. Forgetting to set curfews. Not a clue. I should have said, Dad, I’m grounded until I tell you when.
My father turns the problem of boys into our standing joke. He often tells me, “You can always come home. No matter what.” This is delivered in the open doorway, his long arms stretched wide, hands above the doorframe, to me as I head out the door to the grocery store, to school, to Rosa’s. I glance back, deadpan, at his laughing eyes. Shake my head. He is my world. We know. We don’t talk about these things. Boys. Girls with boys.
But usually we’re golden. We deal with school—the rolling routines, deadlines we can predict. My teachers ask about him. The last of the fishermen, my teacher Mr. Murray calls him. I wonder what they see when they see a slow-talking, slow-walking man with the sureness of the sea who is raising a daughter alone.
Again, I imagine my mother. Her black hair is knotted together like my grandmother’s as they lean in to eat their supper, which includes basmati rice and some kind of fish sauce. I remember the sweet rice and sharp smells of coriander, garlic, and lime. My mother is gauzy to me. She floats like a ghost. My father tells stories in which she’s the heartbreak, dark-haired and lovely. To me she is as unreliable as the wind. I grew up and became a tall Scottish girl—my father’s side—who chanced to have Cambodian eyes. Does my father see my mother when he looks at me?
I cock my head at my father and tie a kitchen towel around my forehead like his bandana. Two pirates. I tease and smirk and let my long hair sway. I go back to the language my father and I talk.
“I’m not alone,” I say. “Pilot and I have our own beach. I know the river as well as the seals, where the good sunning rocks are at low tide.” I start off trying to tease about the river, his and mine. We love it the same. “How the river narrows—how it gets a funnel like a snake in the middle—and rips back out to the ocean.” But his lips are taut. His face won’t soften. I end, unsure, “Who’s alone?”
My father works his forehead with his wide, calloused hand. “I want to do right by you, Sofie.” He turns his blue eyes on me.
“You always do right.” I hear my own voice, too urgent.
“I try to act on my instincts, not knowing how things are going to come out. Sometimes it’s against any common sense. Sometimes it doesn’t seem right.”
I can see it in the curve of his lips when the wolf comes knocking. Sometimes he sings me lines from his favorite Springsteen songs for the worry. But now he’s not singing, and the worry’s too heavy to fix. I gather the spoons and bowls.
“Got homework,” I sing.
“Sit down,” my father says.
“What?” I say.
“After shrimping, I’m going down to Chincoteague . . .”
Not maybe.
“When I go,” he finishes, “your mother’s going to stay here a while.”
My head whips around toward him as if something had slammed against my cheekbone, and my father gets his look of tragic amusement. This look, like a shield, always comes when he mentions my mother and me. He takes the bowls to the sink. Then he fishes his glasses from his shirt pocket and sits on the couch with the newspaper. But he keeps saying words.
“I can’t leave you alone here.”
“Coming here! My mother?”
“You might see something of your grandmother, too.”
A flash of my grandmother’s angry bird eyes and bent, yellow fingers that scared me. The smell of turmeric. My father folds the newspaper back against itself. Pilot sits on her haunches, tense with the drama.
I am frozen.
I pull off the pirate towel.
“Sofie . . .” he begins. “What I’m saying is, she could use a place, and I have to go south where I can catch some fish. Fishermen got the wolf at the door.”
I knew it was about the wolf.
I swing open the back door. I stand by my father’s orange oils that hang on the doorframe. The pants drip and make a puddle on the linoleum. I step through the piles of yellow traps, the rusted iron pots on the back steps, the transmission parts, past the blue skiff propped against the brick chimney.
Tears stream down my face, and I taste salt and onion. Pilot licks my salted fingers. When the ache fro
m the cold is too much I come back inside to the woodstove. My father glances over his tan-framed Walmart glasses. “It’s something we got to think about. A girl needs to know her mother.”
I shout, “Stop!” I just need him to stop talking. It is completely offensive, my shouting, since my father is steady like a boat in calm waters. And he loves me. My mother gave me away. I am accustomed to aching for her and hating her. I never ever want to see her again after what she did to my father and me.
WHILE WE MEND NETS
Later that night, when I can’t stop my mind from spinning, I come down the dark stairs with Pilot so close behind I can feel her head against my thighs. I want my father to say, Got it covered. All’s well. But when I get to the living room, he’s standing at the window in the dark, talking to someone on his cell. He is silent. The occasional low yup, all right. Someone else is talking. He never talks on the phone, except to check in with crew. He never listens in the dark.
I stay in the shadows on the stairs. I feel Pilot’s heartbeat as she leans into me.
The beating wind fades, then comes around. It has a steady rhythm, like my father and me when we work on the nets. We weave twine through the shrimp nets, pulling the shuttles through as we weave the torn parts tight. Row after row after row. Sometimes nets cover our living room, drape over furniture, as we work and wait for shrimp season to open.
Fishing is a family business. When he’s groundfishing, my father steams five, six hours off shore to Platts Bank, Jeffrey’s Ledge, Fippennies. I enter tiny numbers in our log to keep track of what he puts into the Karma and what she brings back from the sea. I’m also in charge of grocery coupons. This morning I’d found a soap coupon, Buy one, get one free. That’s why at this moment in the dark we both smell like the same floral soap I found on sale.
- - -
Months ago, at Thanksgiving time, while we worked on the nets, the wolf came up, like it does. I’d said, “I’m old enough for the business.” He’d said, “Somebody around here got to have a head for it. You’re the boss.”
