Chapter Eighteen
IN THE MORNING, I desperately want to fling my traitorous body into the Pacific Ocean.
“Oh, shit…” I press my face into my pillow as memories of yesterday flood back.
“Are you hungover?” April is awake, one of the library books in her lap.
“I don’t think so? We didn’t have that much.”
“Still more than I got.”
“Believe me, you didn’t need it.” I reach for my pack, digging out a sweater and pair of pants, since there’s no way I’m flouncing around in this dress for another minute. Still, my hand lingers as I stuff it into the bag. My wedding dress.
I don’t fancy meeting Sid after I ended last night as a giggling mess in his arms, but when I open the door, he’s nowhere to be seen.
In fact, there’s nothing to be seen. In terms of layout, the apartment is identical to Silas’s but the couches and blankets are gone.
The only sign of human habitation is a pair of work boots next to the front door.
There’s nowhere to sit, nothing on the walls, not even dirt on the floor.
If the place wasn’t so clean, I would assume it was abandoned.
“What the hell?”
“Yeah. Weird, isn’t it?” says April behind me.
“Did I marry a psychopath yesterday?”
“Maybe. Maybe he’s married lots of women before. Maybe he murders them in the living room, scrubs it, then hides the bodies under the floorboards.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Of course, if that’s the case, then it’s too clean. Draws suspicion.”
“You read too many murder mysteries.”
Still, I hesitate in the doorframe. Why is this bothering me so much?
I don’t care how much crap Sid owns, do I?
Even if this is abnormal—which based on Silas’s place, it probably is—it’s not a crime.
Maybe he likes sliding around the wooden floors in his socks.
But that unnerved feeling doesn’t go away.
Staring me in the face is hard evidence that I know absolutely nothing about my husband.
“He must eat breakfast in the kitchen,” I say at last. “We might as well try going there, too.”
April sighs, picking up one of her notebooks. “I guess.”
Up until now, we’d been avoiding most of the shared spaces around the acreage.
Our rations come with oats and those are easy enough to cold soak overnight, so no need for the kitchen.
We usually eat dinner at the firepit outside.
It feels safer than going into confined quarters with a whole bunch of strange men.
But if we’re going to live here long term, maybe it’s time to explore our new home.
I lead the way downstairs, only to stop in my tracks once I push the kitchen door open. April bumps into me, but once she sees what’s in front of us, she’s equally awestruck.
“Wow…” April says.
I’ve been inside of big kitchens before, back when April and I squatted in abandoned houses.
But what makes this one impressive is that it’s fully stocked.
Drying herbs hang from the rafters, the shelves piled high with bags of beans, oats, wheat, potatoes, carrots, and onions.
A haunch of smoked meat rests on the counter, wrapped in wax paper, and a bouquet of salad greens is stored with a glass of water beneath them, to slow wilting.
I haven’t seen a store of food this size since…
have I ever? I wish I remembered Port Alberni better, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so small.
I wander past the stove to a storage unit and pull open drawers to find bowls, spoons, and wooden cups.
When I happen upon the knife block, I’m tempted to take the butcher knife and stash it in my bag, but I’m guessing they’d notice if it went missing.
A washtub has a collection of dishes stacked inside of it, their surface still damp.
Above it is a chart marking everyone’s dish duty day. That’s got to be Sid’s doing.
“I’m totally studying here from now on,” says April, spreading her books out on the massive oak table at the centre of the room.
“Eat up. You’ve got school,” I say, passing her a mason jar filled with our overnight oats.
“It’s Saturday.”
“Oh. Right.” Damn it, not this nonsense again. “So… what do you want to do today?”
“More factoring,” says April, sharpening a pencil. “My teacher says it’s the key to solving polynomials.”
Whatever that means.
“Cool. Maybe I’ll help on the farm, then.”
Outside, Silas is leading the guys as they pack grain into government-issued bags destined for the Ministry of Agriculture. When I ask him if there’s anything I can do to help, he only shrugs.
“We’ve already got this under control.” He gestures at the two assembly lines of guys filling, tying and stacking bags. “But maybe you could clean up the garden beds? We haven’t had much time to deal with them lately and now the weeds are taking over—”
“That sounds perfect.”
I’m more used to working on my own, anyway.
The raised beds do shown signs of neglect.
Quite a few green tomatoes are rotting from the wet weather, so I start by gathering any that are still in decent shape to ripen indoors.
We’re not wasting tomatoes on my watch. Once I’m done harvesting, I push the leaf litter around so that it isn’t smothering any of the lettuces.
In the process, I unearth several slugs which I have the satisfaction of tossing to the chickens. Finally, I tackle the weeds.
I don’t recognize all the cultivated plants.
Most, like the potatoes, shelling beans and dent corn, are things I tried to keep going in the little plots April and I circled each year.
But there are also rows of something with frilly leaves that looks like carrot tops without carrots attached, and another plant that clearly belongs to the cabbage family, but instead of forming large heads, there are knobby bulges up and down the central stalk.
What I do know well are the weeds. I rip up patches of chickweed and deadnettle, depositing them in a large basket.
By the time I’m done, my muscles are aching pleasantly.
I find myself thinking that if this is what it means to be married to Sid, I’ll survive.
Two years of working with plants sounds nice.
What will these beds look like over the course of a year?
Once I’m done, I have a substantial basket of greens. A few are too sun-scorched to make for good eating, so I drop the detritus off at the compost pile. The rest, I carry into the kitchen.
April is still chewing her lip over the math workbook, so I let her be and hunt through the kitchen drawers until I find a cutting board.
It feels incredible to wield a knife again.
Natural. I chop the greens until I’ve got a large salad, then touch it up with a few dried blackberries.
The noon sun is shining overhead, so I call into the fields that I’ve made lunch, if anyone wants it.
Carlos, James, Wendell, and Dominick are the first to abandon grain packing duty and run inside, but they’re less thrilled when they see what I’m serving.
“What the hell is that?” Dominick asks.
“I think we usually compost these?” says Wendell.
“Compost?” Who knew Salt Spring Islanders could afford to be so wasteful? “You guys are throwing out perfectly good food!”
“Is there dressing?” asks James.
“Hold on, I’ll make some.” Carlos opens a cupboard and pulls a few bottles out—one filled with golden liquid, the other slightly pink.
“You are such babies. It’s food!” April comes to my defence, taking a forkful without ever lifting her eyes from her textbook.
But no one else touches it until Carlos drizzles a mixture of the two liquids over the leaves. Finally, they tuck in.
“This isn’t too bad.”
Thanks a lot, James.
Dominick winces. “Do we have any dill?”
“No, I want to taste this as is.” Carlos chews thoughtfully, not at all put off by my creation. “Yeah, this works. I could use this. What did you say this was, Kayla?”
“Chickweed and deadnettle.”
At that, Dominick spits a leaf out. I smack him on the shoulder. “The names make it sound worse than it is!”
“How many years were you living out there without dressing?” James asks, awestruck. At least he’s finishing his bowl. “Tragic.”
“It’s good! What is wrong with you guys?” I mean, it’s better when I serve it over salmon or something else with a bit of fat. I grab a leaf and taste it, wondering if the sun scald was worse than I thought. “Oh.”
It’s exquisite. Carlos’s additions have done what the salmon always had to, upping the robustness of the flavor. But there’s something else. A fruity pucker that sears my tongue yet leaves me wishing for more.
“What did you do to this?” I round on Carlos. “What was in that—what did you call it? Dressing?”
His eyes widen, afraid I’m about to bludgeon him like I did Dominick. “Canola oil and apple cider vinegar?”
“Vinegar.” I slap a hand on the table. “That’s what it is!”
“Don’t take too long, guys.” Sid’s voice echoes in the kitchen as the last four come in from the field to grab a bowl.
“Your wife made weed salad,” says James, turning to him with a grin. “Isn’t that nice?”
His brow furrows. “What?”
“Sid!” I call, a new hope seizing me. “Can I take cooking lessons from Carlos? Please?”
“We need Carlos for harvest,” says Sid. “Plus, he’s at school half the time.”
“Damn it.” I want to know Carlos’s tricks. Food is life. It’s always been my guiding drive, and unlike everything else on this island, I can understand why this is valuable. Food that only existed in books seems possible now. Vinegar. Cakes, even!
“I mean… it would be good to have someone other than me who knows how to cook on the farm, right? And I still have to make dinner every night. You could follow me around while I do it.” Carlos blushes so deeply it shows even on his dark skin. “If you want.”
“Yes! Yes, I would like that.”
“And I wouldn’t mind if you showed me what else you used to eat in the woods. In case we’re missing things,” he adds. “Like, I never know what mushrooms are safe.”
“I can totally do that!”
“But so you know, I’m not that good.”