Wake (15 page)

Willie and I spend the morning at the sugar bush. This place seemed way more fun when we were little, and Willie keeps giving me that pained look that us kids used to give Dad when he made us do things we’d outgrown. We stay for pancakes and then head home. Willa makes maple chicken for dinner with the fresh syrup we bought. Takes her gloves off to handle the meat and I don’t remember the scar being that bad. It’s a miracle that girl has her thumb. I ask her how it feels and she says she still doesn’t grip well with her left hand. I suggest referring her to Jack in the PT department at the hospital, and Willie tells me not to bother.

“Just leave it alone, okay?”

March Break: Day Three

After supper I get a phone call from a boy asking for Willie. I don’t want to give her the phone but she picks up the other line before I can lie to the guy about her not being home. Willie’s had enough trouble from boys; she doesn’t need another one to crash through her life. It’s only later that I realize I should have written down his number and screened his calls.

“Who was that boy that called earlier?”

“A serial rapist.”

And she used to be the good child.

March Break: Day Four

I want to trust Willie, but she makes it hard. The boy that phoned yesterday is in my house, and he’s not just any boy—he’s Dr. Harper’s kid. Now Willie’s doing a school project with a cancer patient? He’s currently sitting in my living room drinking mint tea, and I don’t hear them talking about schoolwork, either.

After dinner I talk to Mom and Dad about it. They agree that the situation has bad news written all over it. Talking to Willie about it is an exercise in futility.

“I can’t get rid of him,” she says. “We’re doing a project together.”

“It didn’t sound like schoolwork this afternoon.”

“If I was going to murder him, I wouldn’t do it with you plainly eavesdropping in the next room, Frank.”

She doesn’t seem to grasp that it’s my job to eavesdrop. Mom and Dad tasked me with taking care of her. I
know
this kid she’s hanging out with. He ended up in the back of my ambulance last fall —twice— and I know firsthand that he has some serious issues weighing on his body. Willie doesn’t need to lose anybody else. She’s dealt with enough death.

When Willie goes to the hospital to volunteer I head over to Doug’s house. Luke is asleep on the couch when I get there but Doug dismisses his company.

“He sleeps like a log.”

Doug hands me a beer and steals a quiet kiss. Luke doesn’t stir in the other room.

“Willie’s giving me trouble.”

“Coloring on the walls?”

Doug smirks and sips his beer. He’s teasing me. My sister hasn’t been ‘Willie’ since she was five, but having her here, being protective of her in a whole new way...the old name fits, even though I don’t dare call her that to her face.

“Hanging out with a damned cancer patient, now. She’s trying to give me an ulcer, I swear.”

“So tell her not to invite him around.”

“They’re assigned to do a school project together.”

“Call the teacher?”

I shrug. Doug’s suggestion has merit.

“Frank…do you think that maybe Willa’s learned her lesson? You really think she’d hurt this kid?”

“I’m more worried about her than that other kid. She wouldn’t hurt him; I’m sure of that. But if she gets attached and something happens to him, she won’t be able to deal with it. Again.”

“She keeping clean?”

“She is. And she thinks good behavior entitles her to pull a stunt like this.”

Doug runs a hand through my hair, trying to comfort me.

“Relax, he says. You’re supposed to be on vacation.” Doug thinks I have cabin fever from sitting around babysitting teenagers all day, and that it’s only fuel ing my paranoia about the Harper kid.

“She’ll be fine,” Doug says. “Willie knows what she can handle and what she can’t.”

Jem: March 14

Friday

I love having a week off school to sleep in. I wake up at ten and head downstairs for breakfast, but when I get to the kitchen I can hear Dad on the phone. He’s talking about platelets, and so I turn around and head for the front door. Maybe Willa will take pity on me and provide breakfast.

I didn’t tell her where I was for the first three days of March Break, and she didn’t ask. Dad took me to Ottawa to see some of his specialist colleagues at CHEO. He wants a second opinion on my condition every so often, and so we spent the days in hospital rooms and the nights at my grandparents’ house in Nepean. It’s dehumanizing, waiting in cold exam rooms to be prodded and exposed. Then I showed up at Willa’s house to do homework yesterday and the first thing she said to me was, “Please tell me you saw Tosh.O this week.” Normal, and perfectly so.

I knock on the Kirks’ front door and Willa answers in her pajamas.

“You a bible salesman?” she deadpans.

“Feed me?”

Willa rolls her eyes and opens the screen door. “Now I’ll never get rid of you.”

Turns out Willa was already cooking. The blender is set up and four kinds of peeled fruit cover the cutting board. I steal a piece of kiwi to suck on while she works.

“What are you making?”

“Popsicles.”

I grin from ear to ear. “Yeah, you’re never getting rid of me.”

Would she try?

Duh.

“How’s your week so far?” Willa asks.

“Shitty.” I hope she’ll let me hang out here for a while, because I know a conversation about platelets is waiting for me at home.

“well that’s a kick in the teeth.” She doesn’t sound the least bit sympathetic. I kind of like it. I reach for another piece of fruit and she slaps my hand away.

“Bitch, I’m hungry.”

“Be patient.”

I make a point of glaring at her while she purées the fruit for popsicles. It seems to work, because she gives me some puree mixed with extra orange juice for breakfast.

“Hey,” I ask as she pours the rest into molds, “how do you keep from getting fruit juice on your gloves?”

Even though she’s in pajamas, Willa has her trademark fingerless gloves on, and they’re spotless.

“I’m not a slob.”

“Do you sleep with those things on?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

Willa snorts. “No. Ever heard the story about the girl with the green ribbon?” I haven’t, so Willa enlightens me. It’s one of those old ghost stories, about a girl who always wore a green ribbon around her neck. She grew up and married her childhood sweetheart, and whenever he asked about it she refused to remove the ribbon. Until she got sick, that is, and then she asked him to untie it. Her head fell off.

“So your gloves keep your hands from falling apart?”

“Something like that.”

“I don’t get you.”

“Your hat keeps the sky from falling.”

“It does not.”

Willa smirks at me. I don’t like it. “Whatever, Harper.”

Willa: March 17 to 23

Sunday

I’m just putting away the breakfast dishes when I hear the front door open and Luke strolls in. The benefit of being like family: he makes himself right at home.

“You look good.”

I look down at myself. He’s joking. I’m wearing clothes that I can get dirty in: torn jeans and the plaid button-down that Mom used to wear during her stint as a house painter.

“You ready to go?”

“Yes.” I lock up the house and we get into Mr. Thorpe’s truck to drive back to Port Elmsley. Luke wouldn’t let me meet him there. He insisted on surprising me and told me to wear old clothes.

“So where are we going?”

“Disneyland.”

I swat his shoulder and he laughs at me.

“Okay, fine, we’re not going to the happiest place on earth—but it’s still a pretty sweet spot.”

“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”

“Nope.” He flashes a cheesy grin at me.

Luke takes the road toward the Perth Golf Course, but then makes a right onto an unpaved road that looks more like a driveway. The spruce trees encroach on it from all sides, brushing against the doors.

“I usually come here by bike,” Luke says. When the path gets too narrow to drive we leave the truck and start walking. I can hear moving water not far off.

“No one knows about this place, okay? It’s our secret.”

“Sure.” By ‘no one’ I’m pretty sure he means all his friends already know. He’s probably found a great spot for bush parties.

Luke takes my hand and pulls me into the trees. We both have to walk bent-double to pass under the lowest branches. Little flecks of light are all that make it through the foliage, and the space we pass through is dark and damp and starting to smell like spring. Luke smells like that sometimes, under the scent of teenage boy.

“How often do you come here?”

“Whenever.” He’s dodging, but it’s not worth it to push. When we step out of the trees, we’re on a sloping ridge of rock that breaks away into a pebble beach around a slow-moving stream. “Over here.”

Luke pulls me farther along the shore, across a fallen log and over the lip of the opposite bank. It’s rockier on the other side of the river, where large chunks of granite rise out of the Canadian Shield.

“What do you think?”

We’re standing in a small cave, sheltered by smooth rocks as tall as Luke. The gap between two pieces of granite is almost ten feet wide, with a clear view of the pines above. It’s so quiet in here—no forest sounds and I can hardly hear the water passing nearby.

“It’s beautiful, Luke.” It takes a great deal of trust to share a spot like this with someone and count on it remaining private.

I notice a marking low on the rock wall. It’s marker ink, written on the rock in the form of a date. “I camped here, once,” Luke says. “Marked the event.”

There’s something quietly thrill ing about the fact that only Luke and I know about this place. We take some time to explore the surrounding rocks, caves, and crevices. Luke puts his hands on my waist and lifts me up to sit on one of the high rocks.

“You can see all the way to the stream.” He points it out over the top of our sheltered little spot. “How often do you really come here?”

Luke shrugs. I’m making him uncomfortable.

“I’d come here every day in warm weather.”

He chuckles. “You’d get eaten alive in the summer.”

Luke hops up next to me on the rock. It’s so peaceful here, and I’m happy having this time with him. But one thought keeps intruding, unbidden:
I’d like to bring Jem here.
He could use a little peace and beauty in his life—but not here. This is an unadulterated spot, just for Luke and I.

Jem wouldn’t appreciate it properly, anyway.

Monday

Madame Bizot has a new game for the class to play. It’s supposed to help us learn and remember the conjugation of French verbs. I think it will only succeed in making me hate this class even more. She produces a rubber ball, borrowed from the gym, and explains that the object is to toss the ball around until all forms of a verb have been conjugated, and then the next person gets to change the verb. She even makes us arrange our chairs into a circle.

I’m the oldest person in this class. I postponed my grade nine French credit in favor of Visual Arts, and when took it in grade eleven, at my new school, I blew off most of the classes and failed. Madame Bizot knows this and is prone to eyeing me like I’m a total screw-up.

I zone out of the game, completely bored, only to get hit in the face by the stupid ball.

“Son of a bitch.” A few people ask if I’m okay. “What the hell, man?” I ask the kid who threw it at me, even though I know it’s not his fault. I feel my nose dripping and sure enough, it’s blood. I’m actually inclined to consider the nosebleed as a worthwhile excuse to get out of class.

I go to the nurse’s office to clean up and get an icepack. She takes one look at me and asks me if I’ve hit just my nose, or my head in general.

“I took a rubber balk to the face. I’m pretty sure it’s just my nose.”

The nurse gives me a wet towel for my neck, a box of Kleenex, an icepack, and sits me down in a chair by the sink. When she leaves to note this accident in the main office’s records, the white screen that divides the cot from the rest of the room moves.

“What the hell did you do?” Jem asks dryly. I can see the top half of his head in the narrow gap between the wall and the curtain. If his lids were any heavier, they’d be made of concrete.

“Occupational hazard of learning French.” Jem looks at me like I’m a complete idiot. “Feeling sick?”

“More tired than sick,” he says. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“It’s just a nosebleed.”

“Do you need any help? She’ll be gone awhile.” He nods in the direction of the office door, where the nurse left. She and the secretary are talking, and it sounds like they’re gossiping.

“I’m okay.”

Jem still gets up and comes around to my side of the divider. He moves slowly, like a man exhausted, and he’s in socked feet. He takes the plastic chair next to mine and adjusts the cool cloth on the back of my neck.

“Did you even go to English today?”

“No. I barely made it through Soc.”

I stand over the sink and try removing the wad of tissues from under my nose. It’s still bleeding pretty badly. I replace the Kleenex and rinse the sink where I bled on it.

Jem is smirking at me. “Does your nose bleed easily?”

“No. This was a random attack by a rabid freshman.”

He chuckles tiredly at that. “I used to get nosebleeds so bad I’d have to go to the ER.”

“Before or after you got sick?”

“After, dummy.”

I put on a tone of fake hopefulness. “So if I were to punch you right now, would you bleed to death?”

“Nah, I’d survive just to spite you.” He leans his shoulder against the sink, slouching like he has a bad hangover.

“As soon as I can stand upright I’ll help you back to the cot.” I test my nose again. still bleeding. I’m stuck bent over the sink for a few more minutes.