Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
I open my eyes to wintry sunlight and a dark-eyed, dark-haired child standing about six inches from my face, staring at me silently. For a confused few seconds, I think it’s Phoebe, but then I realize it’s an older child—maybe five or six—and a boy.
I sit up, blinking the sleep from my eyes. I’m in a bed in one of the dozen cabins at Red Cedars Fishing Camp, on Red Cedar Lake, fifty miles northwest of North Bay. And there’s someone else here.
I look around the bedroom of the cabin and see that Daniel is still asleep next to me, breathing deeply. Last night, we pulled into the darkened camp, half-afraid of what we might stumble across, only to find it looking empty and abandoned. We bypassed the main building and drove to the two cabins farthest from the road; the doors were unlocked, the beds made up, if smelling a little musty. The whole place felt as if it were completely untouched since before the bombs, which was both unsettling and reassuring. I was reminded of Goldilocks, creeping in and trying out all the furniture, and here I was, the next morning, woken by someone who might belong here more than I do .
I prop myself up on my elbow and manage a smile. I tell myself I don’t need to be frightened of a child. “Hello,” I greet him.
The boy blinks at me. He has dark, silky hair and thick, spiky lashes. His face is an impassive oval. I wait for him to speak, wondering who he belongs to. Who else is here, and are they friendly?
“What’s your name?” he finally asks, and I almost laugh at the surreal normality of his question.
“Alex. What’s yours?”
“Jason.”
“Hi, Jason.”
He nods his own greeting, then gestures to Daniel, who is still asleep. “What’s his name?”
“Daniel.” I pause. “Where do you live, Jason?” I ask tentatively.
He gives me a look like I’m stupid, in the way only a six-year-old can. “Here,” he says.
I decide it’s time to get out of bed.
Although the cabin has a log-burner, we didn’t fire it up last night, and it’s freezing as I stuff my feet into sneakers. I went to bed fully dressed, but I grab my parka and zip it up before following Jason out of the bedroom and then the whole cabin. I’m not sure where he’s leading me, or where everyone else is; Ruby and Mattie are sharing one bedroom, Sam and Kyle another, and Ben and Nicole took their own cabin next door, but I don’t see or hear any of them as I step outside.
I pause for a moment, taking in the pristine and wintry landscape of heavy frost, the whole world glittering and white, Red Cedar Lake stretching out in front of the cabin, half-frozen and frost-covered, fringed by evergreens and leafless trees. The cold air catches in my chest and I breathe in deeply. For the first time since we left the cottage, I feel free.
“Aren’t you coming?” Jason asks, sounding impatient, and I turn to this little boy who has somehow become my guide.
“Where are we going?”
“To the others.”
Hmm. Not sure how I feel about that, or even what he means, but I let go of my usual suspicious instincts and follow him down the dirt track that connects the cabins, all of them facing the breathtaking view of the lake. The whole world is silent and hushed, the frost so thick it looks like snow. The air is crisp and clear and improbably, considering all the obstacles we almost certainly face, my heart lightens. Leaving the NBSRC was, I acknowledge, the right decision, and one that superseded anything to do with Sam or William Stratton.
Jason leads me to the main cabin and dining room, which, I see now, is occupied. As I look around the camp in the daylight, I realize with a jolt that it is neither empty nor abandoned, as we’d assumed late last night in the darkness. There are quiet signs of life everywhere, from the canoes and rowing boats pulled up on the dock, to the line of laundry strung out between two cabins, to the two beat-up trucks parked behind the main cabin. In the darkness last night, we missed them all.
I follow Jason into the main cabin, which has a soaring ceiling and wood-paneled walls, with a huge picture window overlooking the lake. It’s half living room, complete with leather sofas and a huge stone fireplace that now holds a cheery blaze, a deer’s head with an impressive set of antlers and a baleful stare positioned above it. The other half of the cabin is a dining room with about a dozen round tables; one is laid out with breakfast items and various people are sitting around a few of the others, eating and chatting. The scene is so relaxed and normal, it takes me by surprise. I find I almost want to laugh.
“Mom.” Mattie rises from one of the tables, a mug of coffee in one hand. I’m jolted by her presence, and not just because I didn’t realize she was here. There are times in a parent’s life when, for no more than a moment, you see your child as others must see them—not as someone who is achingly familiar and beloved, but just as a person in their own inalienable right. And for a second, that is how I see Mattie—her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, her manner relaxed and assured. She is dressed in a cable-knit sweater and jeans, and someone here must have given her a pair of fur-lined boots because I’ve never seen them before but they’re on her feet.
She’ll be sixteen next month and she looks it, or even older—a young woman, fully grown. Someone who, if I’d met her on the street, I’d feel a flicker of interest and admiration for and I’d think to myself she was the kind of person I’d like to get to know.
“Hey.” I embrace her clumsily, overwhelmed by everything, and she laughs at me, shaking her head.
“You look like you can’t believe your eyes.”
“I can’t,” I admit. I glance at the other people, including Jason, who has joined someone who looks like his dad. Everyone is observing our interaction with a sort of smiling bemusement. “What…what’s going on?” I ask Mattie.
“There’s a community living at this camp,” she replies. “Come and meet everyone. They’re all so friendly.”
She tugs at my hand, and I walk toward the group, feeling both shy and hopeful. They all look nice, but my suspicious instincts are still there, ready to rise to the fore.
“Hey, everyone,” Mattie says, “this is my mom, Alex.”
Everyone murmurs some version of a greeting in a way that makes me think I’ve just entered a group therapy session. Why does everyone seem so smiling and relaxed? I feel as if I’ve entered a time warp or a fever dream. This isn’t the way the world works anymore. At least, I thought it wasn’t.
“Draw a chair up, Alex,” a woman invites me. She is mid-thirties, her long, deep-brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, with a calm, capable manner that makes me wonder if she’s in charge. “Have some breakfast.” She gestures to the buffet spread out on one of the tables—a tureen of porridge, scrambled eggs, stewed apples, coffee. Where did they get it all, I wonder. How long have they been living at this camp?
I help myself to eggs and apples as well as a cup of coffee—it’s instant, but better than anything I’ve had in a long while. Then I join Mattie and the woman who invited me to have breakfast at one of the tables.
“Last night,” I say by way of both introduction and explanation, “we didn’t think anyone was here.”
“We were all asleep,” the woman replies with a laugh. “I’m Vicky, by the way.”
“Alex,” I say, before I remember she already knows my name.
The others take the opportunity to introduce themselves—Jason and his dad, Adam; a young hippyish couple called Rose and Winn; a single man in his fifties named Stewart, a middle-aged couple, Patti and Jay. They have two kids, a boy and a girl, who are currently fishing.
“There are twelve of us here all together,” Vicky explains. “My parents, Sheryl and Don, are out back. They ran this fishing camp before the bombs, and a few months ago, when everything started getting crazy, we decided to pool our resources and form a community here. Help each other out. We’re stronger together, that sort of thing.”
“And you haven’t been…attacked?” I ask cautiously.
“I told them what happened to us at the cottage,” Mattie interjects. “But not everyone is like that, Mom.”
“There’s more space out here,” Vicky replies, which is exactly what I’d said to Daniel, although I’m not sure I really believed it at the time. Does simply having more space make people behave more like decent human beings? Is that all it takes? “And people have more resources,” she continues. “ Besides, most people know each other around here. We take care of each other.” She shrugs. “We haven’t had any trouble.”
I can’t quite let go of my skepticism. “How come there are only twelve of you here?”
“That’s all that have wanted to join,” she answers with a little laugh. “We’re open to people joining, though, as long as they pull their weight.” She gives a smiling shrug. “Most people up here have their own outfit. A lot of residents were self-sustaining from before, anyway, and pretty independent about it. They don’t need or want to be part of a community.”
I think of Daniel’s comment, right after the first blasts, about how everyone up here has been waiting for Armageddon, and I smile faintly in acknowledgement.
“Well, it looks incredibly impressive,” I tell Vicky as I take a bite of my eggs. “I can’t remember when I last had eggs.”
“We’re fortunate that we’ve got a few dozen chickens,” Vicky explains. “A few of them are still laying, even though it’s winter.” She goes to refill her coffee before rejoining Mattie and me at the table. “Your daughter said you were at the old 22 Wing base?”
I nod. “Yes, but we…had to leave.”
Vicky gives a little grimace of understanding. “They run a tight ship there, I’ve heard.”
I nod again, not trusting myself to say anything that might be taken the wrong way. The fact that Sam punched one of the leaders of the place might not go over so well here, no matter how friendly they seem. “Tell me about this place,” I say instead. “Where do you get your supplies? I haven’t had real coffee in months.”
“Is instant coffee real?” Vicky returns on a laugh before she explains, “We’re working toward being as self-sufficient as possible. My parents were already building toward being completely self-sufficient before this all happened. The camp has its own artesian well, and the electricity is run on solar panels. We’ve got to be careful in winter, obviously, with the limited daylight, but so far it’s been okay. My parents grew all their own fruit and vegetables, and we have several greenhouses, so we can produce year-round. Patti and Jay ran a farm nearby and we used their fields last summer for wheat and corn. They also had a couple of pigs and cows we’ve brought over here, and of course there’s always fish in the lake. Plenty of walleye and perch, pike and trout.” She spreads her hands wide. “We’ve managed so far. The instant coffee came from the Costco in Sudbury, though. Right at the beginning, they emptied the warehouse and distributed everything equally to anyone who showed up. We got about one hundred canisters of coffee and oats, and a few other things besides. But it won’t last forever, of course.”
They did the same thing at the Foodland in Corville, I recall, but it all went badly wrong when the military took over and someone started shooting. A man died, and my daughters were terrified.
But it seems, I reflect, that not every part of the world has descended to wanton destruction and self-motivated acts of violence, which is heartening. I look around the room and I feel as if I’ve turned back time.
“It all sounds amazing,” I tell Vicky sincerely. “What did you all do before the bombs?” I glance around the table, still humbled and gratified by how friendly everyone seems. Why am I hesitant to embrace it completely? Them? Have I become that cynical? Of course, I’ve had more than enough reason to, but…this place really does feel different.
“I was a lawyer in Toronto,” Vicky tells me, and for a moment her smiling countenance drops and she turns somber. “I was driving up here when Toronto was hit, a few days after the first attacks. If I hadn’t been…”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
“Even now, it doesn’t feel entirely real. The whole city…gone. ”
“The whole world,” someone else—Patti, I think—puts in quietly.
The others tell me what their lives were like before they came to the camp. Rose and Winn were traveling, picking up jobs on farms or fruit-picking; Patti and Jay ran their farm nearby; Adam, who is Native American, was the doctor on the Nipissing Reserve south of here. His wife died of cancer—she’d been going through chemotherapy when the attacks first started—three months ago. Stewart was the local Anglican minister, of a small, wooden church down the road. He still conducts services.
“And Mattie said there are a few of you?” Vicky resumes once everyone has given me their potted biographies.
“Nine,” I admit, like an apology. “They must all still be asleep.” I think of Daniel, who didn’t even stir when I left. Is he simply exhausted…or is it something more? I could ask Adam to take a look at him, but it feels presumptuous, and in any case, I’m not sure I can handle knowing.
“Well, they’re welcome to breakfast when they wake up,” Vicky says, “and then you guys can decide if you want to stay awhile, or if it’s better to move on.” Her voice is friendly, her face open, but I tense all the same.
It feels like there was a veiled threat to those words, but I think that’s just me overreacting. At least, I hope it is.
Over the next hour, while I chat to the various residents of the community—Sheryl and Don come in and give me an effusive welcome—the rest of our crew trickle in. First Sam and Kyle, looking wary, and then incredulous when they see the spread for breakfast. Ruby brings Phoebe, and Mattie sits with her to help her eat. Nicole and Ben arrive, looking as hostile and suspicious as I’d expect them to—I don’t think Nicole has another setting—but they do seem to soften when they’re welcomed just as I was .
It all feels too good to be true, but maybe…maybe, for once, it isn’t.
After breakfast, Sheryl and Don insist we all have a tour of the place, which I accept with alacrity, because I’m curious to see how they’ve managed it all. They’ve basically done what we tried to do back at the cottage, only bigger and better. It’s both humbling and inspiring.
“Where’s Dad?” Mattie asks in a hiss as we head out of the dining hall. Guiltily, I realize I hadn’t even noticed he hadn’t come in, although, I realize, I think I had ; I just hadn’t wanted to.
“He’s sleeping,” I tell Mattie. “Driving all that way in the dark was a lot.”
Mattie frowns, looking like she wants to say more but won’t. Or maybe, like me, she doesn’t want to say more. Either way, she drops the subject, and I’m relieved.
We head outside into the cold, clear day, Sheryl and Don leading the way through the camp. There are fifteen cabins, and seven are being used. Sheryl and Don have their own house, a little way down the road. As they walk us through the greenhouses, the vegetable patch, now sprouting a few winter parsnips, the solar panels, the barn…I’m impressed all over again. This place really is run well.
Vicky falls into step beside me as we head toward the lake to see the dock and boats.
“Red Cedar Lake freezes hard, but usually not until early December,” she tells me. ‘I certainly wouldn’t walk on it now.”
I glance out at the lake. The ice is transparently thin in some places, dark water seething below. The heavy frost of this morning has melted under the sun, but everything still glitters.
“I wasn’t planning on testing it,” I tell her, and she smiles before cocking her head.
“What do you think so far?”
“I think it’s all pretty amazing,” I admit honestly. “We tried to do something similar back at our cottage, but I have to say it was nothing compared to this.” I shake my head as I give a rueful laugh. “To be fair, none of us had the skills to start with. All we had was a book on sustainable living. My daughter Ruby practically memorized the whole thing.”
“She sounds like a smart girl.”
I glance at Vicky; as friendly and open as she is, there’s a slight reserve to her that I sense rather than observe. “What about you?” I ask. “You were living in Toronto. Will you stay up here forever?”
“There’s not exactly a lot of places to go,” she replies wryly before her expression turns serious, even sorrowful. “My fiancé died in the Toronto bombing,” she explains. “I was driving up here, like I said…I’d asked him to come, but he had an elderly mom nearby and he wanted to stay for her. And the truth is, I don’t think either of us ever thought Toronto would be hit. I mean, this is Canada. We’re the nice guys. Nobody wants to nuke us, right?” I give a small, sad nod of acknowledgement and she continues on a sigh, “It all got past that, I guess. Too many people with their fingers on the trigger. In any case…there’s nothing to go back to, and what we’ve got here…it feels important. Meaningful. And it’s enough for me.”
“I can understand that,” I tell her.
“And what about you?” Vicky asks. “Were you headed anywhere in particular when you left North Bay?”
I shake my head. “Just away. That place got kind of…oppressive.”
She nods. “I’d heard that. We have a radio,” she adds by way of explanation. “So we’re in communication with a few different groups and we know a little bit about what’s going on, although we try to keep a low profile.”
“That’s probably wise.”
Everyone is heading back up to the main cabin for hot drinks, and so we turn from the lake and follow the group. “We try to operate as a true community,” Vicky tells me. “Everyone gets a say, a vote. We rule by consensus. I don’t suppose it would work if there were dozens and dozens of us, but there aren’t.” I nod, not sure where she’s going with this. “If you were to stay,” she continues, “that is, if you were to want to stay, we’d vote on it as a group. Obviously, it would be a big deal for us—you’d be almost doubling our size.”
“Right,” I reply after a moment. I don’t think I’d seriously considered staying here, as great a set-up as it is, although I’m not sure why. “Thank you,” I add, although I’m not entirely sure what I’m thanking her for. Maybe just not killing us for descending on their little group.
Vicky gives a brisk little nod and keeps walking. I decide to peel off and head back to our cabin, to check on Daniel. As I slip inside, I breathe out slowly. So much has happened in such a short time, it’s hard to process it all.
And yet there’s more to come because when I come into our bedroom, Daniel is awake, propped up in bed, gently prodding his stomach with one hand. When he sees me, he yanks down his t-shirt, looking guilty.
I still.
“Daniel,” I force myself to ask, “what are you doing?”
“Alex…” He lets out a sigh, a sound of surrender and weary resignation. Everything in me feels fragile, breakable. I walk slowly toward him, barely daring to breathe. He stares at me silently as I lift up his shirt.
He looks the same, I think with relief—the same lean, brown chest I’ve known all my married life, minus the middle-aged paunch he had before the bombs.
Wordlessly, he takes my hand and guides it to his abdomen, wincing as he prods his stomach with my hand. That’s when I feel it—barely at first, and then more insistently, the hard, round shape of it, pressing into my hand.
A tumor.