Our Homesick Songs Page 9

  Martha stumbled up and over to the hatch, down to wake Aidan. It was warm down there, close. She pulled him up and out to where the cold air opened his eyes wide and, even though he tasted of sleep, and she did too, she pulled him close and kissed him.

  And all around was cold and wet and they were warm, were warm and dry.

  We made it, she said. Aidan, we made it.

  And the lights of St. John’s pulled them in, easy now, like nothing.

  Meredith was still wearing the pink toque, even though she was inside now, in her own little room. My God, she said. You didn’t have to come. So far! You look terrible.

  You look better, said Molly.

  Mostly better, said Meredith.

  The bruising was gone, all gone except for a small patch, the size of a closed hand, on the inside of one arm, just above the elbow. That bit will always be like that, said Meredith. Because that’s where it started. There’s nothing they can do about that.

  Like a scar, said Martha.

  Like a tattoo, said Aidan.

  Meredith turned, started, noticing the new boy for the first time. Who in hell is that? she said.

  I’m Aidan, said Aidan.

  Aidan Connor, said Molly.

  Aidan . . . Connor? said Meredith.

  Meredith, no, said Martha.

  Hm, said Meredith.

  Really, though, you are glad to see us, right? said Molly.

  Meredith smiled. Really, though, I am. I am, Molly. Especially as I don’t think I’m ever coming back.

  •  •  •

  Meredith had been asleep, had been away from the world for weeks at the hospital. She hadn’t noticed when they stuck her with round and clumsy sensors, and then needles as thin and plenty as hair, some just now and then, some always in her, reaching out like a marionette’s strings. She hadn’t noticed when they put her under lead blankets and into a slow, dark tunnel, or when they opened her up and took some bits out. She hadn’t noticed when they took off her toque and washed it, rinsing away specks of blood, of sweat, tangles of lost hair, or when they’d put it back on again, clean and slightly less pink than before. Meredith slept and slept and then, finally, she woke up. And then what she noticed was the food.

  At first all she could eat was popsicles. Frozen sugar and fruit juice that she could just leave on the warmth of her tongue and let drip down her dry throat. But these weren’t just simple rectangular or oblong popsicles like the ones she’d made with her sisters when they were young, out in the back snow over winter, these were little ice statues. These were carved. The first one was a fox leaping up, snout at the top, stick coming back through its tail. Orange. The second was a palm tree, leaves pushing out from the top with carefully crafted fruit where they met. Coconut. The third was a seahorse. Apple.

  Then solid food. Salads with tomatoes and cucumbers carved like roses and tulips and lilies. A lasagna with each layer a different color, a rainbow when she cut into it. A Jello castle with grapes and melon suspended inside, king and queen, courtiers and servants. Breathtaking, all of it.

  Is this you? she had asked, quiet, her voice barely back yet. Is it you who makes these?

  No, ma’am, the nurse, tall and dark and not from there, said. I just carry it. He put the castle down on Meredith’s bed tray; the servants and courtiers jiggled.

  Do you know who does, who does make it?

  I could find out. I could try.

  Yes please. Please do.

  Ma’am?

  Yes?

  Is the food all right? I mean, if there is a problem maybe you could tell me first.

  There is no problem. It’s good. It’s really good. That’s what I want to tell them, the cook.

  You’re sure?

  Yes.

  Because it’s just that she’s a bit shy and if you were upset, well, I think it would upset her very much, so it’d be better to tell me first, and I could tell her, I could pass it along myself.

  No, I’m not, I just— Wait . . . so you do know who it is?

  Maybe I do. I mean, yes I do, I think. I mean, I will try to find out for sure that it’s her, so long as there is no yelling.

  There will be no yelling, I promise.

  You promise?

  Yes.

  •  •  •

  Half an hour later a woman, also tall and dark, knocked on Meredith’s open door. She held a single tiger lily.

  Come in, said Meredith.

  My brother, the nurse, said the woman, he said you wanted to see me? She walked to the bed and handed Meredith the flower. It’s sugar, she said. You can eat it.

  Wow, said Meredith. And then, You’re incredible. I just wanted to tell you that you’re incredible, that’s all. Your food is, I mean. It’s not like any food I’ve seen before, ever. She took the flower.

  It’s nothing, said the woman. Just cooking.

  You do this for everyone, said Meredith, for all the patients?

  No, said the cook.

  No?

  No, said the cook. Not everyone. Her face reddened.

  Oh . . . said Meredith. Why? Why for me?

  I saw you when you came in, said the cook. I saw you coming in on the boat. To the emergency sea-dock. I was checking my mussel ropes. You were laid out in your sleeping bag. You were like the Lady of Shalott. It was beautiful. You were beautiful. And I was so sure you’d die, like her, like the Lady. Lots of people die here, all the time. I make a manicotti and it gets sent back because the patient has died. I specially froth milk or whip cream and still they die. I try really, really hard, and they still do. They die. So, for you, I decided to try as very very hard as I could. Stay on nights, make perfect the smallest details, every single detail. The very very best I could. I can’t save everyone. But I needed to save someone. So I chose you. Just because I had to choose someone, and because you looked like the Lady of Shalott. I didn’t want you to die.

  But you want other people to?

  No, no, of course not. I don’t want anyone to.

  But especially me, said Meredith, and smiled. The sugar flower stem was dissolving in her hand, sticky-crumbly. But you know it doesn’t work like that, she said. You know it can’t.

  I know I can try.

  And if you fail?

  I can try.

  The flower stem had dissolved away completely now, the whole thing coming apart in two pieces. Meredith put it down on her bedside table, wiped her hand on the bed’s outer sheet and said, OK. Then I’ll try too. And then, I’m Meredith. Meredith Murphy.

  I know, said the cook. I’m Rose-Marie Dajuste.

  Rose-Marie, said Meredith. I think it’s working, you know.

  Yes, said Rose-Marie. I think so too. This time, I really think so.

  Do you know what else, Rose-Marie? said Meredith. When it works and I get out of here, I’d like to cook you up a fine piece of fish. A real damn good bit of codfish. What do you think about that?

  I think yes, said Rose-Marie.

  OK, said Meredith. Perfect. Then she fell asleep.

  •  •  •

  Rose-Marie came by every day after that; she told her brother to watch the pots and brought Meredith her food herself. She’d sit with her while she ate, and after that until she had to, really had to, get back to the kitchen. If Meredith fell asleep while Rose-Marie was there, she fell asleep holding her hand.

  So, said Meredith, when I’m discharged next week, I’m going to go back to hers. I’ll rest up there. I’ll grow strong, and then, in six months or a year or so, we’ll start a restaurant together, Rose-Marie and I.

  You will? said Martha.

  We will. We’ve planned it. She’ll give notice and I’ve got savings from back home, from my fish. We’ll open it here, in St. John’s.

  And you’ll live together? asked Molly.

  Yes, said Meredith.

  So you won’t be lonely.

  No, I don’t think I will be. I think I’ll be OK. I think I’ll be happy.

  But
we’ll miss you, said Molly.

  I’ll miss you too, of course, said Meredith. Being happy doesn’t mean I won’t miss you. It just means having to choose between two good things.

  And you choose here.

  I choose here.

  •  •  •

  Before they left back again, Martha gave Meredith her splitting knife. Maybe you won’t need it anymore, she said. But you should still have it.

  Of course I’ll need it, said Meredith. I will always need it. I will always have this bruise and I will always need this knife.

  •  •  •

  Meredith and Rose-Marie prepared them baskets and baskets of food to take on their journey home. Pickled beetroot and carrots all carved into little flowers, dark and heavy breads with M-R-M hand-formed along their tops, long strips of dried fish and pork and beef, twisted and braided like ribbon, apples and pears in whiskey and brandy, and a box of perfect chocolate seahorses, dark and milk and white, in a sea-froth of spun sugar.

  And water, said Meredith. Bring jars and jars of it. More, this time.

  We’ll run out of space, of weight, said Martha.

  You won’t, said Meredith. You were saving a spot for me. Fill it with water.

  Martha and Molly and Aidan didn’t get lost on the way back to the Runnings, and there was no real storming, but the passage was still long, against the wind much of the time, and Molly became ill with sea-fever from looking at nothing but water for so long and had to take three days off rowing and only look at her books or hands or the floor or close her eyes until she recovered. They sang to pass the time and made wishes on passing birds and imagined drawing lines between the stars to spell out their names and the names of others they knew and missed and rowed on and on and on, toward home.

  It was dusk and Aidan was sleeping and Martha was rowing when Molly saw the icebergs.

  But it’s the wrong season for bergs, said Martha.

  I know, said Molly, but they’re there. Look, see?

  Martha squinted, stopped rowing for a beat. They’re ships, she said, not bergs, ships.

  Molly squinted too. Big as bergs, she said. Monster-big.

  Yes, said Martha. Yes they are. She picked up the oars, started rowing again. But they’re far off.

  Molly stayed where she was, stayed squinting. Just think how many fish you could fit on one of those, she said. A whole town’s worth. A whole sea.

  (1992)

  It was almost Christmas. Northern Alberta was covered in snow, thick and heavy over lights, under tire treads. Martha wore all her layers to work, bright yellow over yellow over yellow. Had the tiny space heater turned up full. A fire hazard, said a welder, handing in a visor cracked with cold, picking up a new one.

  I know, said Martha. Of course I know that.

  All the December employees at Bison Trail work camp got the 23rd, 24th and 25th off as well as a fifty-dollar Christmas bonus, so Martha and Aidan decided she should come home early that month, for the holiday. It was a surprise, for Finn and for Cora. It was going to be a surprise.

  Flying’s expensive, Aidan. Are we sure?

  I’m sure. You’ve got that bonus.

  Fifty dollars is enough for a dinner, not a flight.

  Still, it’s worth it.

  And you haven’t told them? asked Martha.

  No. A total surprise, said Aidan.

  OK.

  It will be good. It will be absolutely worth it, Martha. It will be.

  OK. You’re right, I know.

  . . .

  Is there snow there?

  A bit. Mostly sleet. And fog.

  There’s so much snow here now. It piles on top of the trees like it’s fake. Like someone’s painted it there. It piles on top of the machinery and makes things look almost nice.

  Almost?

  Not quite, but almost . . . Aidan?

  Yes?

  I am excited, I just worry.

  I know. It’s good. To balance me.

  To balance each other.

  Yes.

  Yes.

  •  •  •

  She bought a ticket for the overnight flight on the 23rd so she could get the early-morning ferry on the 24th, the last one before they shut down for the holidays. John with the fair hair squeezed her and three others into his truck for the ride to the airport. It had been snowing all day, the flakes thick and heavy, soaking their hair and eyelashes as they worked, becoming finer and denser as evening fell and it got cold. The wind blew it in swirling ghosts around the truck. They could feel John fighting against it with the wheel, though he didn’t say anything. Everyone watched out the windows. In front of and behind them were other trucks full of other workers, all going to the airport.

  You can just drop us off, said Martha, no need to park.

  I might as well, said John. That way I can help you with bags. And just in case—

  You really don’t have to, said Martha. She was up in the front of the truck with him.

  I might as well, said John.

  The airport had a giant tree in the entrance lobby, covered with plastic lights made to look like candles. There was red and silver tinsel all over the barriers that outlined the lineup for check-in and a tinny children’s choir rendition of “Do You Hear What I Hear?” played over the PA. The mounted information screen was tinseled too, and sprayed with artificial snow around the edges, the blue-white of it matched the blue DELAYED lettering, while the red tinsel matched the CANCELED lettering in red.

  Flight 314 FortMc–Gander DELAYED Please Wait

  They stood around it like a fire, waiting for the blue to go red or green, joking and talking at first, then growing quiet and restless, taking off backpacks and putting down bags, backs and necks stiff from looking up at the screen as, one by one, flights turned from DELAYED to CANCELED, from blue to red. John took Martha’s left hand, tensed into a fist, uncoiled the fingers for her and held it. They didn’t look at each other, just up, at the screen.

  They stayed there, waiting, watching, while the absent choir sang through “Silent Night” and “In the Bleak Midwinter” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “Once in Royal David’s City” before starting its loop over again, “Do You Hear What I Hear?” “Silent Night,” “In the Bleak Midwinter,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” “Once in Royal David’s City.” And again. And again. And then, during,

  Snow had fallen snow on snow

  Snow on snow on snow,

  their flight, the last flight, turned from blue to red. Just like that. Outside the snow whirled and rushed and piled. Snow on snow on snow.

  •  •  •

  I’m sorry, said the woman at the service desk. It’s just not safe. I’m sorry.

  And the camp welder with a new baby in Musgrave Harbor said, It’s not your fault. We know.

  And she said, But I am. I am so sorry.

  And the PA sang,

  How still we see thee lie.

  And one by one, people gave up waiting for answers or vouchers, and got taxis or rides with each other back to their camps, until it was just the two of them left there, under the screen that was now all black except for PLEASE WAIT in small white letters along the bottom, and John said, I know it’s no consolation, but you could come have Christmas with us. With my mother and sister and me. You’d be very welcome.

  Thank you, said Martha. She didn’t let go of his hand until they reached the truck, until he had to get in to drive.

  •  •  •

  An Act of God, said Martha, from what used to be John’s childhood bedroom, in his mother’s trailer. They don’t give refunds for those.

  It’s OK, said Aidan. We’ll ignore the Advent calendars and radio station countdowns and wait. Save Christmas until you’re back.

  But then you’ll have to go—

  Not for two hours, we’ll have two hours.

  •  •  •

  They celebrated at the cafeteria-style restaurant at the ferry dock.
It was new. The only new thing on the whole island. They only had the turnaround time while the ferry was cleaned and reset, so Martha met them on her way off and Aidan brought his bag with him so he could go as soon as they were done. Each of them, Martha, Aidan, Cora and Finn, got to choose whichever main course they wanted out of the beautiful steaming silver bins, and either a fountain drink or any of the desserts from the illuminated cooler display.

  Though the do-it-yourself drink dispensers were tempting, in the end Finn chose a three-color Jello bowl with a perfect tuft of cream on top instead. The whole family chose the dessert option, since there was a jug-and-glasses system where you could get water for free.

  It was Finn’s first time there and it was wonderful. Their individual red plastic trays, the smooth metal track they ran along, the little towers that held and organized the jam and peanut-butter packets in case you chose all-day breakfast like Cora did, the red-and-white-striped candies you got absolutely free at the end, all wonderful.

  I bet this was closed on real Christmas anyway, he said.

  Under the table he could see his dad’s hand on his mom’s knee. We should do this again, he said. We should do this every year. Although they had taken down their tree, the restaurant still had some of their other decorations up.

  It’s actually OK, said Cora. She cut into her egg yolk and it spread all over her toast. It’s actually not too bad.

  (1974)

  Time on land is different from time on-water, and once Aidan got home, after he had left Martha and Molly on their side of the bay and had rowed back over to his side and had gone in and kissed his mother, whom he expected to be sleeping that late at night, but who wasn’t sleeping, who was up, was sorting mint leaves for drying by the fire, throwing the bad ones in, watching them sizzle and resist at first and then catch and pop like dynamite, sudden and violent and gone, once he had kissed her cheek and she had said, You made it back,

  and he said, Yes, of course,

  and she said, Well, one never can be sure,

  and they had turned the flue down for the night and gone to bed, once he was there and should have been sleeping, could hear his mother sleeping across the hall, her breathing deep and long, almost as soon as he heard her lie down, like a body starving for it, like she hadn’t slept for days and days, then, in his bed, in his old bed, Aidan felt time pull out and away from him. He felt too big. There had been people in outer space now, he’d heard, and while they were there, in space, time moved differently from on earth, so that when they came home they were the wrong age. That was him now. He felt so old now, so much older, too old for the smallness of this childhood bed, for the nearness of this familiar ceiling, for the closeness of his mother’s grateful breath.