Chapter Eleven
“SO, YOUR SISTER.” Sid blows on the liquid inside his clay mug, sending steam curling up into the inky night air. “She needs injections?”
I don’t bother answering that. We’re seated on a bench on the eastern side of the acreage, the other guys far enough away that their noise around the firepit is nothing but a murmur.
Once I had my emotions under control, I came outside and told Sid we could talk if he wanted, and this was the spot he chose.
I try not to feel paranoid, sitting next to this relative stranger without a single tree to give cover around us.
Despite my spiking pulse, logic tells me this probably isn’t a deadly situation. It’s just so brazenly open.
I’m not sure what the exact size of the acreage is, but it feels like a lot.
Astolia never had a farm of this size. It’s difficult to defend open space, and so we suffered through low crop yields instead.
There certainly wasn’t any land like where we sit now—at the edge of the property, across from a pond filled with sleeping mallard ducks.
“Is it… diabetes?” he asks.
I nod.
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“They had to run a bunch of tests on Wendell a few years ago. Thought he might have it. Turned out to be a lingering case of pneumonia, but it was scary as shit. I’m sorry.”
“It’s better to have an answer. She’s going to be okay.” But my voice wobbles. After so many years of living just with April, I’m not great at sharing my emotions with people. I’m also realizing I’m not great at hiding them, either. I’ve had no practice.
“Totally. It’s treatable, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So it might take some time to get used to. But you’re both gonna be okay.”
“For sure.”
Sid is letting the pauses between us linger long enough that if I wanted to, I could say far more.
He’s my sanctuary host. It’s his job to be friendly and listen to me.
But maybe the label is why I don’t go on.
No matter how nice he tries to be, he still represents the Salt Spring government on some level.
He could report anything I say to Tom Sullivan.
Though Tom was his immigration officer, too. That does pique my curiosity.
“How long ago did you come to the island?” I ask.
“Me?”
“You. And the other guys. Did you all come over together or—”
“Um, yeah. All of us.”
“Where did you guys come from?”
He takes a long drink from his mug, staring out at the ducks rather than me. “A shitty situation. Like you.”
“Okay. Fair enough.” I know a request to kindly fuck off when I hear it. But if I’m not going to talk about my shit and he’s not going to talk about his, I can’t see the point in this discussion. Plus, I’m exhausted, which is weird since I hardly hiked anywhere today.
But as I stand to leave, Sid rallies. “Hold on. I wanted to talk to you about next steps. You know, so you aren’t blindsided by anything.”
“Oh. Right.” I sit back down. “Like what?”
“You need to get April registered for school. She’ll need to take a placement test. Carlos can help her get there every day.”
“Every day?” It makes me sick thinking about it.
“They get weekends off.”
“Weekends?”
“Saturdays and Sundays. You’ll get used to it. They’re big on dates and months and shit here.”
“Right.” I nod, pretending this is what has me worried and not the idea of April going to a school.
On the one hand, school was great when I was a kid in Port Alberni.
My mum taught us real things about the world, plus math and spelling.
Astolia was another matter. It was ground zero for the Grand Astrologue to indoctrinate kids with whatever nonsense he wanted.
“We’re in the middle of harvest right now, which kinda sucks for you. Busy time of the year. But I can try to take some time off and show you around town, too.”
“No, don’t go out of your way for me.” I already owe this man too much and even now, I keep wondering when the act will drop and he’ll demand something in exchange for all the trouble I’ve caused him.
I think of April and her grand dreams about being good at life on this island and in a way, I get it.
We have to figure out how to exist on our own terms here, rather than constantly being in debt to everyone.
I need to get a job and our own place to live and the hell out of here before we end up trapped.
Unfortunately, that does mean asking Sid for one more small favour. “There is one thing I could use your help with.”
“Of course,” he says, perking up.
“I need a job. Maybe two. Where do people get jobs?”
“Really?” His eyes flick over me in a way that makes me uneasy. “I thought you didn’t plan on staying on the island.”
“Diabetes.”
“Oh! Oh, shit. Right. It’s permanent.” He blinks. “Sorry. I should have realized.”
“It’s okay.” It’s not like the average person is an expert on health matters these days.
“And you aren’t citizens yet, so… damn.” He rubs his hand across his chin, which shows a faint prickle of beard growth against his pale skin.
He must have missed shaving this morning.
I quickly avert my eyes before he can notice me staring.
It doesn’t take long for him to put the final pieces together. “I guess you need a paycheque soon.”
“Bingo.”
“Normally, I would tell someone who just arrived on the island to wait a few months before worrying about job hunting. You’ve got enough on your plate already,” he says, which is a very nice way of calling me a weakling. “But if you need something quick, there’s ads in the newspaper. Can you read?”
“Of course, I can read! Why does everyone keep assuming I’m some kind of wild animal?”
“Sorry!” He raises his hands defensively. “I only meant… sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say. His opinion doesn’t matter. So why does it sting that he thinks just as little of me as Tom does? “I’m tired. I’m heading in.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
We walk up the slope toward the homestead side by side, not speaking. Sid doesn’t actually head for his apartment. Instead, he turns toward the firepit where the other guys are gathered.
“Ah, you’re back,” says James, sliding a large wooden object into his lap, left hand gripping the narrow neck. As Sid sits, James starts plucking at the strings and the same magical sound that filled the night yesterday takes up again.
Country Roads, he sings. I feel like a small child, sliding her finger over a page in a picture book until it lines up with the right image.
Guitar. The music is coming from a guitar.
For a second, I’m motionless, entranced by the warmth of the music and smouldering fire. But then Sid looks up and catches me staring. He gestures for me to join them.
I bolt.
These aren’t my people and he shouldn’t have to keep pretending to want me around.
Inside the apartment, I slide into the bed I share with April.
“I promise,” I whisper, careful not to wake her up. “I’m going to solve this. No one is taking you from me.”
* * *
THE GUITAR IS only the first of many things I try to make sense of through books.
Books are my only context for concepts like months, days of the week, and—by far the strangest thing to care about—hours of the day.
But people here do care. April’s school placement test can only happen during “regular working hours” or some shit.
In fact, it also needs an official appointment like we’re meeting with a barrister from a Charles Dickens novel or going to the dentist like the Berenstain Bears.
See? Books. I can read, thank you very much, Sid Charles.
All this is to say that it’s over a week before we’re able to set up the appointment.
April and I ride the bus into town and ask to be let off outside City Hall.
Inside, the smell of so many people in close quarters is overwhelming.
It’s a cramped, weaving warren of a building.
The signage hangs from the ceiling, nailed over what used to be grocery store aisles.
Sid says the old market was one of the few buildings in town large enough to accommodate a full-scale government.
The regional offices that used to service the island weren’t enough once Salt Spring needed to operate as an independent entity, so now aisle four is where you meet the Minister of Economics instead of grabbing a can of soup.
We find the aisle labelled EDUCATION – SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT where a pleasant looking woman is seated at a desk. Behind her, the old store shelves are filled with boxes of files. She sets April up with a registration at the local high school—effective next week—and then pulls out the test.
“Since you’re coming to us as an older student, we’ll have to assess your literacy and mathematics skills, to see if they’re in-line with expectations for your grade,” she says.
“Totally on it.” April tosses her ponytail over her shoulder with a flourish.
We spent the days leading up to her appointment drilling spelling and grammar, so she’s going in confident.
Unfortunately, the last time I was in a school of any kind, I was a year younger than she is now.
But she’s a better speller than I am. Hopefully, that will be enough.
“Wonderful.” The woman gestures for April to step past a curtain partition that’s been added to the aisle to give her some privacy. “You can pick her up in a couple of hours.”
“Great!” I say, as if I have any sense how long an hour is, let alone two of them.