Chapter Ten
AT FIRST, APRIL is furious with me. She doesn’t understand what I was reacting to, having spent her time on the island cocooned in the hospital. Once we’re outside, I explain demerits and how Tom penalized me for shooting Sid’s hand. At that, her indignation shifts.
“We can’t be citizens for a whole extra year because of a slingshot? That’s bullshit!”
I’m so relieved her allegiance is swinging back to my side. “Right?”
“Does that apply to both of us or just to you?” she asks.
“Um…” I dig our papers out of our bags to find an answer.
Until now, I hadn’t even realized that we each had a set—one for April, and one for myself.
Both have the same column marked: lengthy unknown affiliation.
A host of other reasons for possible demerits are listed, including hoarding/unlawful possession of public resources and aggressive behaviour.
That last must be what Tom is slapping me with now.
“Well, at least it will only be two years for me,” says April.
“Assuming he doesn’t stick us both with aggressive behaviour.”
“Why would he? I didn’t fire the slingshot. I didn’t yell at anyone in the hospital.”
“Because he’s a power drunk asshole.” Even as I say it, I’m not sure it’s true. Tom called April well-raised. He might be pissed with me, but would he want to ruin her life, too?
“It doesn’t matter. We’ve got the medicine, right? We’ll figure this out. Once you get a job, none of this will matter,” says April.
She carries herself with a chin-forward air.
It’s so like the April of several months ago, I could cry.
My sister is back. Sure, there are bags under her eyes and this new verve would vanish without her drugs, but it’s all I wanted.
I don’t dare ruin it. I can’t steal hope from her when she’s finally caught hold of it.
So I don’t tell her about the measly pay of any job I can hope to get. She’ll find out soon enough and then…
And then maybe she’ll ask me to give up custody, too.
“By the way, what did you say to Tom?” I ask.
“Same as you. Told him I was born in the woods. All that stuff.”
Then she kept our story straight. We settled on what we planned to tell people once we reached Salt Spring ages ago, but it’s still a relief to know we didn’t botch it. “Good.”
As we ride the bus back to Sid’s, April leans out the back so she can see the surrounding hills.
“Are those farms?” Her voice is breathy with wonder. “They are. They’re farms.”
“I guess.” There’s farmland all around Sid’s place. Some ruined suburban architecture remains, but most of it seems to have been torn down in favour of agriculture or higher density housing.
“And that’s where we’re going, right?” she says. “I hadn’t really thought about it until now but… we’re going to live on a farm. With a bunch of other people.”
“A bunch of men. You need to be on your guard.”
“Of course,” she says, but my warning seems to have the opposite effect, because she smooths down her ponytail.
I’m regretting giving April that stack of fashion magazines filled with “the summer’s hottest looks” we found in an abandoned beauty salon two years ago. I should have burned them instead.
The bus lets us off a short walk from Sid’s acreage. We walk past the hedge and April gasps with delight. The big field, the garden plots, the bike shed, the pump—everything earns a squeal and pointing fingers.
It doesn’t take long for us to attract attention. One of the younger boys is splitting wood in front of the house. Immediately, he zips up to Sid’s unit and hammers on the door so loudly, someone downstairs opens up, too.
“They’re back! They came back!”
What if Sid’s still wearing the same thin T-shirt from this morning? April shouldn’t see him in that. But when the door opens, he looks ready for the cool autumn night—same pair of jeans, paired with a plaid buttondown, rolled up at the elbows.
I’m fairly certain I’m not disappointed.
He walks towards us slowly and deliberately.
A handful of the other guys outpace him.
The boy who was splitting wood leads the pack, but he’s followed by more shouts, more doors opening, and soon, the entire household is making their way toward us.
It’s like harvesting a fish weir, everyone clamouring to jump into the net first.
Arms reach out, and April and I are drowned in a cacophony of voices. Sid might have held them back yesterday, but the dogs are off their ropes now.
“You came back! I thought for sure you were gonna wig out and—”
“Hey! You’re the sister, right? I’m Carlos and—”
“Suck it, Albert! They’re back! You owe me two bucks and—”
“I’m Wendell. Do you like potatoes?”
We both stumble backward, suffocating. April’s cheeks, ruddy with excitement a moment ago, blanch white, like she’s about to keel over.
Before it comes to that, a pair of large hands cuts through the crowd, grabbing each of us by the shoulder. “Back off, guys. They don’t need all of you at once.”
I curl toward Sid, trying to use his body to block out the commotion. April takes hold of me, her fingers digging into my arm. I latch onto the only thing from the deluge that stuck.
“What was that about potatoes?”
“Oh! Yeah, we got lots of them. Making up a chowder now,” says one of the men. He steps into my line of vision, wielding a long object. Without thinking, I slap it out of his hand—only to realize it was a wooden spoon.
“Uhhhh…” He stares at where it’s lying on the ground. “I mean, if you don’t like potatoes—”
“Potatoes sound great!” I shout. Pull it together, Kayla. They’re all going to think I’m batshit.
“Wendell, why don’t you help Carlos get things ready and we’ll eat outside? The kitchen is a little cramped,” says Sid.
“Yeah, okay.” He picks up the spoon, then leads the others away. They seem less inclined to crowd us now that they know I might attack their cutlery.
Once there’s space, I push away from Sid. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s no big deal. I’ll talk to Wendell.”
“But you guys can’t say anything! Not to the hospital or Tom or… They think I’m crazy.” Or dangerous. I don’t know. But I can’t imagine this helping my case.
Sid meets my eye, then nods. “Like I said, I’ll talk to Wendell.”
“Thanks.”
“If it makes you feel any better, no one here gives a rat’s ass about Tom. He was our case worker too and—”
“Your case worker? Like, for immigration?” I repeat. “You’re not from the island?”
Sid cocks his head to the side. “What made you think we were?”
“I…” I haven’t given it much thought. Looking back, it should have been obvious.
There’s a practiced niceness about most people here, masking their real intentions.
The doctor, Pat, even Tom—they all coat their words in a layer of politeness Sid doesn’t bother with.
“But you know how everything works here. I assumed that meant…”
He shrugs. “You don’t really have to question a place if it’s all you’ve ever known. C’mon. Soup’s on.”
Before I can ask him anything else, he strides ahead, leading us to the back of the house where a collection of bricks and flat stones have been cobbled together to make a ramshackle patio.
There are old plastic patio chairs, a carved lounger, and a collection of logs nailed together into rough benches.
A fire pit has been dug in the centre of the configuration, but it isn’t lit right now.
The smell of something herby and warm emanates from the indoor kitchen.
My stomach turns over in eager anticipation.
April and I actually did cook good meals most of the time in the woods.
We had dozens of foraging spots we rotated between throughout the year, eating everything from morels to wild salmon, and even tended plenty of self-seeding patches of domesticated vegetables, like lettuces, onions, and runner beans.
The trick was never to stay too long. Before TNS could notice us building anything, we would be off to our next hotspot, ready to gather another harvest. We’re only in such rough shape now because April got sick. The forced hike meant surviving on nothing but dried rations and that’s…
That’s why this soup smells so damn good. What must it be like, having a permanent garden to tend to all year round?
April and I take seats on one of the benches.
Across from us are the two men who helped Sid bring us to the island.
Silas acknowledges us with nothing but a nod, his dark, shoulder-length hair all but obscuring his thin face.
The other lounges in one of the plastic chairs, head leaning back so that I can see the shape of his Adam’s apple puckering against his throat.
He looks more like the cover of the cheap paperback romance novels April and I used to dig out of people’s attics than he does an actual human man.
The moment he notices me staring, he flashes a perfect grin.
“I don’t think I ever properly introduced myself. James DeLuca,” he says, without further prompting. “Glad to see you found your way to our door again.”
“Thanks.” I go back to staring at the garden beds, which do me the courtesy of not talking back.
“Of course, you’ve met our Silas. He’s not one for chitchat.
” He gestures to the lanky man. There’s something strange about the way James talks that I can’t place my finger on, like he’s skipping over the letter “r” in some of his words.
Is that an… accent? Do accents still exist? And if so, where did his come from?
“Unless you’ve got questions about plants,” James adds, holding the “a” in plants for too long. Plaaahnts. “If you like, he can give you a tour of the gardens tomorrow.” Gaaahdens.
“Shut up, James,” Silas says, still staring at the pit. “Anyone want a fire?”
“Sure. It’s cold enough.” Sid leans forward and at his word, Silas heads for a woodpile a few feet away.