by Lori Weber
“Here, Nanny,” I say, sliding over a chair and helping her into it. I pull up another one for myself and sit beside her. “We just have to wait for the doctor to show up, to find out about Jim.”
Nanny nods and leans toward me, as though she wants to be as close to me as possible. If I reached out, I could pull her tiny head onto my shoulder. It occurs to me that this is like a scene in some hospital drama, but the odd thing is that I’m not just watching it—I’m totally part of it. I suddenly remember the funeral I attended in Osoyoos. Two teenagers from our school had been killed on the highway that runs between Osoyoos and Penticton. That stretch of road was known in the Okanagan Valley as a teenage death trap. They were coming back from an all-night bush party, where groups of kids meet on deserted logging trails, burn the bottoms of apple crates, and get completely wasted. You’d hear all about them at school on Monday mornings. One of the guy’s sisters was in my homeroom class, so we all had to go. Everyone else was bawling their eyes out, but I just stood there feeling really stupid. I just felt sad in a general way, like you do when you watch the news, and people are being blown up or crushed by landslides. But I couldn’t feel connected in any personal way. They all probably thought I was heartless.
But no one would accuse me of feeling heartless now. I reach out and pull Nanny’s head onto my shoulder. She fits just perfectly into the crook of my neck.
A few minutes later, a young doctor steps into the room. Nanny’s head springs up.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Patel. You must be Jim’s family.” Dr. Patel shakes our hands. “We want to keep Jim in, just for observation. He doesn’t have hypothermia—he wasn’t really in the water for long enough—but he did catch a good chill. We need to make sure he’s thawed out, so to speak. We also need to keep an eye on his lungs for a while, just as a precaution, because he probably took in some water. His spine looks fine, but we’ll double-check tomorrow, just to be sure.”
Dr. Patel pauses, as though he knows we need a minute to take in all the information. But then he takes a deep breath and continues. “Now, as for the rest of him … Jim will be fine … but he did suffer some rib damage. In fact, six of his ribs are broken. It’s not uncommon for what he’s been through. The force of the water throwing him back against the rocks, especially since he was hanging onto the girl, could easily break ribs. No punctured lungs, though, which is really lucky. He’s also less respondent than we’d like him to be, so there’s every possibility that he has a concussion.”
“Can he come home?” Nanny asks after a minute.
“Not today, of course, but we’ll see how things develop. It shouldn’t be more than a few days.” Dr. Patel flashes a brilliant smile, and I sense Nanny relaxing. That smile must come in very handy in his profession.
“We’ll speak again tomorrow, okay?” Dr. Patel places his large hand on Nanny’s shoulder and squeezes. I imagine her bones collapsing.
I want to ask about the girl, but if the news is bad, this wouldn’t be the best time to hear it, with Nanny beside me. There’s a good chance that girl is in much worse shape than Jim.
Dr. Patel leaves, and we continue sitting and staring at Jim’s bed. There’s nothing either of us can do, but it doesn’t seem right to just leave.
“Like a seal sausage,” Nanny says finally.
“What?”
“He has to thaw out, just like a seal sausage. When you takes them out of the freezer, they have to thaw before you can cook’em.”
Now I’m afraid Nanny may be losing it, and I won’t know what to do. Maybe I should call my mother.
“Ever had seal sausage, my love?” Nanny asks me. I shake my head.
“I’d never even heard of seal sausage … until Jim mentioned it.”
“Jim gets out, you come on over and I’ll fix you some seal sausage. You’ll never get anything like them anywhere else but Newfoundland. When Jim comes home, we’ll have some, right?” Nanny looks at me. I just nod.
Nanny walks up to Jim’s bed and leans over the railing. “Make sure the old hag doesn’t sit on you tonight, Jim,” Nanny says. “Nobody will be here to call your name backwards, to make her leave you alone.”
Then Nanny laughs, quietly. Nanny loves Jim like a son, maybe the son she might have had if her husband hadn’t died. It’s clear there’s nowhere else on the planet Nanny would rather be than right beside Jim.
And, it hits me, the same goes for me. I can’t even imagine anywhere else. All there is here.
Nanny kisses Jim on the cheek, the one that isn’t bruised. I stand behind her, watching. I can’t exactly do the same, not in front of Nanny. I look at the sheets wrapped tightly around Jim’s chest and think of his broken ribs and all that they mean—no hiking up hills, no walking dogs, no driving cars, no blowing into tin whistles. No searching for fossils.
No trying to kiss me again.
“Bye, Jim,” I say. I want him to hear my voice at least, so that if some part of him is conscious, he’ll know I was here. “See you tomorrow.” Then Nanny and I leave.
We take a taxi back to the house, each of us staring out the window in silence. The sun has gone down, and the streets are quiet. I notice right away that Nanny’s car is back in its spot, which means my parents had no trouble finding Cape Spear, like I suspected. I can’t just leave Nanny on her own, so I go in with her and settle her onto her spot on the sofa. Even if I hadn’t seen her sitting there a couple of times, I would’ve known it was her spot. There’s a deep indentation in the brown cushion, just the right size for Nanny’s bum.
“Can I make you a cup of tea, Nanny?”
“No, no, I’ll be fine, no need to fuss, Cheryl, my love. You get on home. Your parents will be worried. Don’t leave them waiting any longer.”
“Are you sure?” Just as I’m saying it, Boss jumps onto the sofa and settles her huge head in Nanny’s lap. Nanny buries her fingers in the dog’s fur, which still looks a bit damp and smells like salt water.
Nanny doesn’t seem to mind.
“Okay, well, see you later, Nanny.”
Nanny nods and waves. Somehow, I picture her staying in that exact spot until tomorrow, when she can see Jim again.
•
I FIND MY PARENTS sitting at the kitchen table, my father drinking a beer, and my mother a mug of tea. Her hands are wrapped around it, soaking in its warmth.
The minute they see me they both rise out of their chairs, like they might need to catch me. A minute later they’re all over me.
“Cheryl,” my father says, “we were so worried. The police are still out at Cape Spear. They’ve put yellow tape up all around the rocks, just like at a crime scene. It must have been horrible.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me into a chair.
“It was, Dad, but I’m dead tired. It’s been a really long day. I just want to crawl into bed.”
“But Jim? Is he all right?” my mother asks, standing over me. “Can’t you tell us that much at least? Everyone was still talking about it. They said a young girl was swept into the water by a rogue wave. I can’t believe you had to witness that.”
“She wasn’t exactly swept out. People are exaggerating the story already. But she would have been, if Jim hadn’t gone down to help her. And then they both kind of got battered around by a wave.”
“Oh, Cheryl.” She takes a step toward me.
“I’m okay, Mom, really. You don’t have to go ape.” My mom’s face pinches and she looks down at her feet. I remember Nanny’s head on my shoulder. What would my mother say if she’d seen me like that?
“What about Jim?” my dad asks.
“He has a few broken ribs and maybe a concussion. That’s all they know for now. But he definitely doesn’t have hypothermia.”
“Thank God for that,” my mother says, sitting back down. “Hypothermia can be serious.”
“Yeah, he just needs to thaw out,” I say. “Like a seal sausage.”
My parents give each other a what-the-hell-is-she-talking-about look. I
know this isn’t a funny situation, but it suddenly strikes me as amusing that my parents are the ones in the dark, for a change. It’s usually the other way around.
“It all must have been so scary for you, honey.” My mom’s hand reaches out for mine, holding it. Her fingers are so swollen, but she squeezes anyway. I remember how I felt out on the rock, so small and helpless. Even my loudest voice turned silent in that wind.
“Yeah, it was,” I say. “Completely.” I don’t pull back my hand.
Then we’re all just quiet. My parents are probably trying to picture the scene out at Cape Spear, but they can’t really. You had to hear the panic in that mother’s scream and then, later, witness her stone-cold silence. Just remembering brings the goosebumps back to my skin.
“Is the little girl okay?” my mom asks finally.
“I don’t know. I was too afraid to ask.”
“People out at Cape Spear seemed to think she would be,” says my dad.
“Let’s hope. Her poor mother,” says my mom. She has stopped holding my hand now and is concentrating on her swollen fingers, spread out before her like a fan, as if they might help her imagine the mother’s pain.
“I’m really tired, you guys. I need to go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” I can feel my mom and dad sending each other sympathy across the table. They want so desperately to be useful, to be involved, but I’ve let them in as much as I can for one night.
“Oh, yeah, I see you got Jim’s car. Thanks. He’ll appreciate it,” I say. Their faces brighten a bit. Then I disappear upstairs.
•
I PUT ON A Marilyn Manson CD, loud, with my earphones on. The music invades my brain, washing out all my thoughts and images, which is exactly what I wanted. Except suddenly Manson is singing about someone being crippled, and their spine turning into a spring—words that take me right back to Jim. Dr. Patel said Jim’s spine was probably fine, which is lucky, considering the force of the waves hitting him against that massive rock. He could have fallen into the water and died out there.
I lower myself onto the mattress, feeling for the shape that I’ve learned to mould myself into. I don’t try to fight it. It wouldn’t be right to be comfortable tonight, not with Jim in the hospital with so many broken ribs, unable to move.
I wonder if he’s dreaming about rocks and expeditions to different parts of the world. What did he call that old continent? … Pangaea—linking Newfoundland, Europe, and Africa in strange and unseeable ways.
Just like me and Jim and Nanny.
Chapter Seven
This Perfect Family Space
I DRIFT IN AND out of sleep the next morning, dreaming of fossils that turn to skin—the soft skin on the underside of my arm—suddenly laced with etchings. In a flash, the etchings turn hard and scabby. The scabs lift off in a solid piece, twisty like a snake. But there’s no blood, just a deep fault line in my arm, as if it had split open in a quake. The skin is dry and hard, like an African desert.
Finally, I tear myself awake, not wanting to sink back into the dream.
The desk lamp is still lit, shining on the map of the world. I look over at the door and remember Jim bursting in with his rocks, and then trying to impress me with the ancient scratches, using the fossils to draw me in because I’d been so miserable out at Middle Cove. I remember how I wanted to kick his rock tower and send it crashing down.
I wish Jim could walk through that door again today. I’d love to see that teasing grin on his face, as he works up his next plan for us. But then I hear Dr. Patel’s words: broken ribs, possible lung damage, concussion. Jim won’t be barging in anywhere for a while.
The house sounds really quiet. My parents are probably still sleeping. Or else they’re sitting at the table, waiting to hear more about what happened yesterday. I replay the scene out at Cape Spear in my mind. I see Jim throw the tube over the water, only it’s like he’s attached to it, sailing out over the waves. The girl in the water is a little dark smudge, bobbing up and down like driftwood. And Boss is treading water with her huge paws, keeping the girl from sinking.
Out of all the people who could have jumped in, why did it have to be Jim? Even the girl’s father didn’t play such a big role. All he did was run up to the lighthouse, and only because Jim told him to.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, I’m surprised to discover another note on the table. I didn’t think my parents would want to leave me alone today. Maybe they’ve gone back to the university to finish setting up my father’s office or to meet some new colleagues.
“Have taken Mom to the hospital to see about getting some shots for her hands—all flared up. Should be back soon. Please don’t go off anywhere until we get back. And stay away from the ocean! Love, Dad.”
My mother’s hands must be pretty sore, if my father’s taking her to the hospital. He’s done it before, but only when they get unbearable. The only year her hands didn’t bother her was when we were in Osoyoos, because it was so dry. Osoyoos is on record as having the hottest weather in Canada. The summer we left, the Okanagan area was ravaged by huge forest fires. We watched them on the news from Saskatchewan. Whole sections of forests were burning up, leaving black scars on the mountains. The images made my mother cry, but not me. She said she couldn’t understand why I didn’t feel anything. After all, some of the spots that were scorched were places where we’d gone for hikes and bike rides, along the old rail lines.
Her rheumatism wasn’t too bad in Saskatchewan either. She was able to work on a huge quilt that won a prize at a country fair in Saskatoon. People were amazed that someone from a big city could capture the land and its colours the way she had. She even included the northern lights, floating in colourful ribbons across the top. But it seems to me that her rheumatism has done nothing but flare up since we stepped off the plane in St. John’s.
When her hands get really bad, they remind me of ginger root, all gnarly and crooked. Come to think of it, they did look like that last night, clutching her mug. I suppose I could’ve asked her about them. A good daughter would have, even under the circumstances.
I carry a cup of tea into the living room and look out the front window. Nanny’s car is still there, which means she hasn’t gone to the hospital. I’m not even sure she can drive on her own. It’s kind of hard to picture, with her shaky hands and bad hearing. When I’m finished with my tea, I’ll go over and see if she wants me to take her to the hospital, although I can’t drive us there either. We’ll have to take a cab.
It takes me a minute to notice that a modem is now sitting on the bookshelf, its green lights flashing. That means we now have Internet access. It must have happened while I was out yesterday. I guess I could check my emails from Janna and catch up on what’s happening with her and Stephan. I suppose I could tell her about Jim and how he kissed me in the bunker. I could describe the whole rescue scene, the way Jim tore himself away from me and jumped into the water, his strong muscles pulling in the frightened child, me in the ambulance kneeling beside him, wondering if he’d live or die. I could make it seem like a TV script. Janna would love that.
But when I think of Jim lying in his hospital bed with his broken ribs, I know it’s not something I could use to score points with.
•
I DON’T KNOCK, because Nanny wouldn’t expect me to. She’s not in her spot on the sofa, and the house is really quiet. The only noise, I realize, is coming from the backyard. It’s Boss, barking like mad. When I open up, she jumps all over me, licking my face and practically knocking me off my feet. She’s acting like she hasn’t seen me for years.
Boss follows me around as I peek in the kitchen and dining room, looking for Nanny. I don’t go upstairs, but call up, in case she’s still sleeping. But there’s no reply and no sign of life anywhere in this house, except for Boss.
I feel really bad about leaving the dog alone, but I can’t stay. Nanny’s obviously gone off to the hospital without me. She must have put Boss out to pee and then forgotten about he
r. Nanny must still be in a state because of Jim. It’s odd that everyone I know is suddenly at the hospital—Jim and Nanny and my parents.
Back home, I decide to call the hospital, to check on Jim and see if Nanny is there. If she is, I’ll ask her if she wants me to come over. She might need help getting home, even though she got there on her own. I wonder why she didn’t wait for me. Maybe she thought it would be bothering me, asking me to come so early.
I’m about to grab the St. John’s phone book sitting on the shelf facing me, when a car pulls up outside the house.
It’s my parents—with Nanny! I can’t believe it. My parents took Nanny to the hospital. A minute later, they’re all coming through the door.
“Hi, honey,” my mother says. “We thought we’d see if Nanny needed a lift to go see Jim, since we were going to the hospital anyway.”
“Have a seat, Nanny. We’ll make some tea,” my father says, leading Nanny to the kitchen. “Cheryl, you want to put the kettle on?”
I know my first thoughts should be about Jim, but I want to scream. Seeing my parents with Nanny makes me feel the same way I did when my mother walked through the door with Jim, the day we went to Middle Cove. As if they’re taking something away from me.
I want to take Nanny home and help her to her spot on the sofa and make her a cup of tea over there, not here. Jim and Nanny were my friends, people I met on my own, not people my parents tried to force on me, like some of the kids in Saskatchewan who were sons and daughters of the farmers my father interviewed. My mother would always try to get me to go to the school dances with them. She said it would help me fit in, but I always refused. I pictured myself plastered to the gym wall watching the farmers’ kids dance up a storm.
