Chasing at the Surface. Sharon Mentyka

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СКАЧАТЬ feels like he’s always going in to Mud Bay early or staying late. I wonder sometimes if we both avoid each other for the same reasons.

      I shiver and pull the covers closer around me. Sometimes living on this houseboat is like being in the water instead of just on it. The ancient heater either delivers hot, dry air or it hardly works at all. In spite of everything, living here might actually be kind of fun except it only happened after Mom left.

      “Listen,” Dad continues as he rubs my back, “I have some good news.”

      I’m instantly awake, waiting to hear that Mom’s back, sitting at our little kitchen counter, drinking a cup of tea.

      “A bunch of whales are swimming around in the inlet. Seems people have been calling and leaving messages since last night to reserve boats. That sure doesn’t happen every day, huh?”

      Even without looking, I can tell Dad is smiling. I sink back into my pillow, disappointed, and try to think of what to say.

      “Hey, I know it’s a school day, but what do you think about coming along? Remember that camp you went to up in the San Juans a couple summers ago? You came home pretty psyched.” Dad shifts on the bed and chuckles to himself. “Plastered your walls with pictures and those pod genealogies … all sorts of stuff.”

      The chilly morning and Dad’s memory stir up the familiar tug of missing what I don’t have anymore. I lie there quiet in my cold bed, and part of me wants so much to throw myself into Dad’s arms and just cry. But then Dad will want to “talk.” I haven’t been in the mood to talk for a long time.

      “I kidded you no end that you must have been a whale in a previous life—thick black hair, white skin, just like—” he stops, realizing where his talk has gotten him. “Anyway …” he coughs. “You up for it?” He starts rubbing my back again but I squirm out from underneath and roll onto my side to face the wall.

      Has he forgotten who really loved whales? Who would have been crazy with excitement if she were here?

      “Umm, I don’t think so,” I mutter into my pillow. “Today’s our science unit exam,” I lie.

      “Well … this is kind of science in action.”

      After a long minute, Dad bends down and kisses the top of my head and I feel myself relax. I know he won’t argue. Dad never argues, not even when Mom said she needed to leave. Not one fight. I still can’t believe how this all happened without any fights. Neither of us fought for Mom to stay.

      I shift in my bed, restless. For a long time, feeling angry seemed safer than feeling anything else, but now mostly what I’m really feeling is confused.

      I can still see them both standing there, holding hands, telling me everything will be okay. Trust us, they said. Mom just needs some time. For the hundredth time, I’m certain I must have missed something. Otherwise, it doesn’t make any sense. Mom says she needs time to figure stuff out. Dad says sure, fine. And that’s it? She leaves, we move to the marina, and everything in our lives changes?

      Maybe they did all their fighting when I wasn’t around. Or maybe it was something else totally, something too horrible to tell. Was Mom already married to somebody else when she met Dad? Is that why she’s keeping the truth from him too, even now? Or is she running from the law? I barely know where she grew up—somewhere in California—she was always vague about it. And I never knew my grandparents, which is too bad, because if they were still alive, I’d call them up right now and get some answers.

      But none of that feels really right. I keep coming back to the one thing that makes more sense than any of the others: Mom’s leaving had something to do with me. Why else would she tell Dad she was a terrible mother?

      “Eat something, okay?” Dad’s voice startles me back to the present. “Maybe they’ll still be here later.” He stands up. “And …” he pauses dramatically, “I’m going to trust you to ride by the PO after school, okay?”

      The question hangs in the air. And this time Dad won’t leave until he gets a nod from me. When he opens the front door to go, a gust of even colder air blows in. As he steps outside, the houseboat pitches and sways, then slowly settles back, rocking me in my bed.

      I lie there in the dark, remembering that summer two years ago. Mom was so excited when she found the whale camp—she’d checked out everything offered within a fifty-mile radius of Seattle looking for the “perfect experience.” It was where I first met Lena. We spent three weeks kayaking and studying marine biology—and becoming best buds. It all seems like centuries ago now.

      Getting up quickly, I skitter across the narrow hallway into the kitchen and prop open the door to help the struggling heater push warmer air toward my bed. Then I climb back under the covers, stretching out my legs. My toes are freezing and I miss Blackberry again. He used to sleep on my feet, kept them nice and toasty.

      But he ran away, too. Just like Mom. I try hard to push away all my gloomy thoughts, but I have as much luck as the houseboat heater.

      ––––

      Downtown Manette is really just a couple of blocks of small family-owned businesses, most of them having something to do with camping or fishing. Places with names like “Sugar Shack” and “Trail’s End.” Evanston Memorial is here too, the hospital where Mom worked. Sometimes, we’d meet after school if she could arrange her shift, and walk a couple of blocks over to the town pool to swim or use the “spa”—just a hot tub really. Besides collecting the mail, those memories are another good reason to avoid coming here now.

      Picking up our mail from the Manette PO box has been my job since I’ve been old enough to bike here alone. Charlie Taffett, the postmaster, used to keep an eye on me when I was littler. If it wasn’t busy, sometimes he’d let me help him attach labels to packages or practice my numbers by reading the weight off the scale. I loved it. Now my goal is get in and out without any collateral damage. Even worse, now the trips have the added pressure of reporting back to Dad.

      The post office is nearly empty. I sneak in as quietly as I can, trying to avoid Charlie’s notice, which isn’t that hard really, because Charlie is pretty old, and always seems to be pulling off his glasses for some reason. I dig out my key, open our box, and pull out a thick bundle. It’s the usual mix of junk mail, bills, and a few magazines, some still addressed to Mom, and I suddenly decide to let Dad deal with it all at home. Then, just as I’m shoving the whole stack into my backpack, I catch sight of it—a slim white envelope with blue felt-tip pen writing.

      I check the postmark—“PASADENA, CA.”

      So, she did go home. And the thought that my home isn’t Mom’s anymore makes my stomach queasy. I take one more second to feel the letter’s thickness, silently calculating how many sheets of paper might be inside. Then, after a quick glance around, as if I’m doing something illegal, I slip the letter into the narrow slot of the blue plastic recycling bin.

      The minute it drops down, I feel a pang of regret. But the post office feels like it’s suddenly crowded with people—I can’t very well take the lid off and fish it back out. At least that’s what I tell myself. Besides, it’s probably just more words that don’t make sense anyway. Not the real truth.

      ––––

      Mud Bay Kayak and Rowing Center sits tucked into a small bay on the southwest side of the inlet, across the bridge and a bike ride away from Olympic Junior High.

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