Jennifer’s in the mouth of a monster. The ugly interior of a speeding truck, headed west. Movement feels like certainty. She doesn’t want to stop. She wonders if it’s a coward’s escape plan. If failure is when backwards is the only direction you can go. She thinks about her last night in Toronto, the shadow puppets she made on the walls in the insomniac standstill. A purgatory play. A flying bird, a deer, a wolf. The wolf growled and bared its teeth at the deer. The bird flew away. She made a decision and packed her dance bag. She boarded a bus. Then she waited at a gas station along the highway and drank tepid black coffee until she saw a truck driver who looked quiet. A middle-aged man. Not a face anyone would remember. She asked him for a ride. He said he’d drive her as far as Saskatchewan. It would take a few days.
The highway stretches on through the darkness. The driver’s face is masked in silhouette. Jennifer shifts in the passenger seat, wedged as close to the window as she can get. She reaches into her dance bag and clutches her tarot deck to try to conjure the driver’s story. In the red-yellow flicker of brake-lights-headlights she sees the shapes of vague hopes — people, boats, motorcycles, houses — crushed behind his eyes. What most people would call normal dreams. Attainable goals. And still, she sees the driver’s eyes are dead. She intuits he’s given up. She lets her dance bag fall between her feet and stares out the dirty windshield, watching the lines of the road until they blur together. Then she pinches and scratches at her hands and arms to force herself to stay awake. She imagines they’re locked inside a metal crypt. Two skeletons hurtling through a poisoned night, a tenuous veil of consciousness keeping their bones from turning to dust.
Her leg throbs. Osteomyelitis again, a complication from her injury. An infection of the bone and bone marrow turning her inside out. She doesn’t need a doctor to tell her it’s bad. After her ruptured Achilles tendon was repaired, she had pins in her knee, faith in the idea she’d work again. All she had to do was rest and recover. But now the brief interlude between surgery and infection feels to her like an intermission during a dramatic play. A moment’s pause in the green room. She thinks of the specialists, physiotherapists, kinesiologists, osteopaths, and acupuncturists she saw in Ottawa — even a scammer psychic whose “crystal” was an orange glass orb from Ikea. She ended up in Toronto in search of big-city medicine, holding on to ghost shreds of hope long after each one had disintegrated.
The truck driver coughs and spits phlegm into an empty cardboard coffee cup. He slips a white pill onto his tongue and swallows. Something to keep him awake.
Jennifer thinks about Nik’s silences. He was quiet, too, but he spoke to her with his eyes, hands, face, mouth, body, painting, presence. She thinks about how when they slept on his futon together he wrapped his arms around her and appeared in her dreams. About how she used to see him in visions. Small, comforting scenes of him walking and painting.
She thinks of how leaving was selfish, but reminds herself she couldn’t stay. How she got a picture in her mind of an enormous, expansive stage looming far away in the distance, a singular blood-red spotlight pulsating on the place she felt she was supposed to be. More than anything she had wanted to succeed as a dancer. Prove herself. She wanted to live on the stage and in her body. She wanted to always feel like she was sailing through air, flying in defiance of expectation, rules, and space. She wanted Nik to keep painting. Succeed somehow, too, without her. Forget her. It was supposed to be simple.
But Nik’s presence lingered. She remembers how, one night a few weeks after she left Vancouver, she dreamed she was performing a solo. A bright spotlight beamed on her face but she had no choreography, no music. She couldn’t move. Nik stepped out from the wings into the shadows where only she could see him. She thought he was coming to rescue her. He stepped forward and dove over the edge of the stage. She woke up terrified. She got up and found the apartment phone. She’d left Nik with her cellphone as a message that he should not try to contact her and she knew he’d still have it. She dialled the number and it rang and rang. Then a click and a roar like wind and a breath. That was all she needed to know. She hung up before he had a chance to say hello.
Under the rhythmic click and the roar of the accelerating truck Jennifer begins to hear music. Piano and bass, a melody as long and winding as the highway. She replays the scene of her demise. She replays it at least once every day, still processing. She sees it like a movie: She was stretching in the green room before the beginning of her last performance. She was listening to the production music on her iPod, rehearsing the choreography in her mind. Sara-Claire, the dance company’s PR rep, a thin francophone with stringy hair and beautiful clothes, tapped her on the shoulder. Jennifer hears her voice:
“Pardon, Miss Jennifer, there is a man here, he says it is très important to see you.”
Jennifer remembers asking what the man looked like, and the comical gesture Sara-Claire made across her trim hips and belly to show the man’s large size. Jennifer knew right away it was Leo, a bouncer from the club she’d worked at in Vancouver. She refused to see him, but she thinks about how hard it was to keep her composure knowing he was there. How she cut her usual warm-up ritual short and paced, then jumped up and down. She tried to shake the image of Leo from her head. Tried to contain the fear. But it held her in a grip like claws until curtain. When it was time, she shut down her thinking and burst onto the stage, the full embodiment of the choreography. Pure movement. Jennifer thinks about how falling was a shock not just because of the pain of it, but because it broke the spell.
She remembers the long wait in the ER. How Sara-Claire gave her the card and roses Leo brought to the performance. Jennifer threw the roses in the trash and waited days before opening the card. He’d signed it:
Congratulations for making it, Jenny. I was in town on business and saw you on the poster. I couldn’t miss your big performance. Leo.
Jennifer thinks about how Leo operated his side business at the club, and his continuous clandestine transactions. Handshakes and back-pat hugs to conceal the transfer of small packages. She tried hard to stay out of it, but she couldn’t avoid seeing what was going on around her. And he kept trying to get involved with her. The harder he’d tried to pursue her, the more she wanted to get away from him. She hadn’t needed her tarot cards to know how dangerous he was. She thinks about her obsessive, focused state of mind during her last night in Vancouver. She snuck into the back office of the club, reached into the secret pocket in the lining of his black bomber jacket, and grabbed the fat wad of cash he always kept in there. Until she got the flowers Leo sent, she didn’t see the magnitude of that mistake. Anyone who knew Leo would know the flowers were a sign that he wanted something. She read his note as a threat. She should have guessed his business might have taken him across the country, too. She wonders why she thought the people and things she left behind in Vancouver would simply stay put, in her past.
As white halogen lights flash on the highway she simmers with regret. A green sign looms ahead announcing the City of Moose Jaw. Then there are streetlights, stores, brightly lit parking lots. Nameless driver stops at a gas station rest stop and looks at Jennifer, waiting for her to get out of his truck.
“Where you headed again.” It’s not a question. He says it like he already knows he’s not going to get an answer. Jennifer swings the passenger door open and throws her bag out ahead of herself. She walks across the parking lot, listening to the truck driver’s engine rev then rumble into the distance, relieved of his flat, enervating company. She ducks into the gas station washroom, brushes the fur off her teeth, and tries not to look at herself too long in the mirror. She’s sweaty and pale, but she hopes she still looks presentable enough to get a ride.
The hallway stinks like air freshener. Jennifer pauses at the glass door leading to the convenience store. A clutch of truckers leans against a back counter drinking coffee. They all turn when she opens the door. She stares back. She doesn’t realize the one in the blue ball cap and navy jacket is a woman until she speaks.
Blue ball cap murmurs to her friends and they laugh. Then she nods at Jennifer. “Need a ride, hon?” Her voice crackles with the thick, low resonance of a long-time smoker. She fingers the brim of her cap and tips her head. “Name’s Lorraine. I’m goin’ clear across to Van if you wanna go all the way with me.”
The two guys beside her laugh again. One punches her on the shoulder. Jennifer turns to leave.
“Seriously.” Lorraine’s voice bubbles like hot coffee. “I need a little company to help me stay awake. And I gotta get goin’.”
Jennifer looks back, hesitating. When she doesn’t say no, Lorraine grabs the dance bag out of her hands and heads for the exit. Jennifer has to hobble fast to keep up as Lorraine speed-walks across the parking lot toward a big truck with a shiny black cab.
“Got a bum leg there, kid?”
“Yup.”
“Well, lemme get the door for ya.”
Lorraine swings the passenger door open, throws Jennifer’s bag in, and helps hoist her up onto the seat. She circles the truck checking things out, gets in, then readjusts all the mirrors. She plucks a notebook out of the blue plastic organizer caddy between the seats and writes something down in it.
“Gotta be pro about driving truck these days.” She taps the steering wheel with her pencil then starts the engine. “It’s a business like anything else and we’re hauling groceries. Gotta be safe or we’ll spoil a lot of little kids’ lunches.”
She checks her mirrors and grins. “Welcome to my travellin’ circus roadshow. We got everthin’ you need. You name it. Snacks, drinks, Kleenex, good music, extra jackets, first aid kit, a heckuva saucy driver, and plenty of smokes.”
“Great.” Jennifer leans back in her seat. Lorraine pulls out of the parking lot, honking and waving at her roadside friends on the drive-by. As soon as they’re on the highway Lorraine grabs a package of cigarettes from her pocket and offers them up. Jennifer takes one and copies how Lorraine lights hers. It makes her cough, but she inhales again and again, thinking of the dancers and choreographers she knew who smoked to keep slim. She never did. She wanted to keep her lungs clear. Maintain every competitive edge.
Lorraine keeps both hands on the wheel and exhales from the corners of her mouth, not caring about the ash falling onto her jeans. She has a peculiar blend of unhurried energy that Jennifer can sense. Jennifer leans down, reaches into her dance bag, and touches her tarot card deck for reassurance, trying to tune in. Lorraine reminds her of her ex-roommate in Vancouver, a pot-smoking vegan from one of the smaller coastal islands who taught her how to read cards. To her roommate the tarot was fun and mystical — an exploration, like dharma beads and yoga. Jennifer thought if she could figure out the tarot’s magic she could manipulate her fortune.
Jennifer watches Lorraine — whose eyes are steady on the road — bounce along in her seat to the peculiar mix of eighties pop, country, and electronic music shuffling through her iPod. The truck speakers are high-end. Jennifer can see she’s doing well with her trucking business.
“You know, doll, you look kinda familiar,” Lorraine says. “Where you from?”
“I’ve been living down east. Montreal, Toronto.” Jennifer has to clear her throat to talk, unused to cigarette smoke.
“But you lived in Vancouver at one time, right?” Lorraine lifts her ball cap and itches her forehead, as though touching her head will trigger a memory.
“Yeah. That was a while ago.” Jennifer watches as Lorraine navigates a blind corner. She doesn’t volunteer anything specific.
“I’ve got it!” Lorraine turns to her with her big, stupid grin. “You used to dance. Stripper, right? One of Leo’s girls?”
Jennifer stares ahead, not saying anything. She wonders if heading west is a mistake.
“Awww, nothin’ to be ashamed of, hon,” Lorraine says, patting Jennifer’s thigh.
“No. I wasn’t. I was just a club dancer.” Jennifer frowns. “It was a side gig. For cash. It wasn’t trashy like that.”
“Yeah, I get it. Don’t be insulted.” Lorraine thrums her fingers on the steering wheel for a beat. She looks over at Jennifer and gives her a nod. “But were you involved?”
Jennifer pauses. She closes her eyes, trying to feel what’s happening, what role she’s playing. She wants to know who Lorraine is. What she knows. “Involved in what?”
“In Leo’s business.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jennifer opens her eyes again and turns to look at Lorraine, who meets and holds her gaze.
“You know I always hated that guy Leo.” Lorraine makes a face and straightens her ball cap. “Played nice but there was something about him —”
“He’s an asshole,” Jennifer interrupts.
“Is?” Lorraine shakes her head. The truck seems to slow down. “Didn’t you hear, girl?”
“What?” Jennifer shivers and time seems to slow like the truck.
“Leo’s dead.” Lorraine reaches for her pack of smokes. She grabs two, lights them with her silver Zippo, and hands one to Jennifer. “News said it was a heart attack. But between you and me, there’s people sayin’ it was more complicated than that.”
Jennifer wonders if this is a warning. They both smoke in silence. The cigarettes create space and time for thinking. An old Siouxsie song comes on. Lorraine turns up the volume. Jennifer feels for her cards and studies Lorraine’s face, watches her movements, as though the way Lorraine tilts her head or clears her throat will tell her whether or not she can be trusted.
“These straight, flat prairie highways make me starkers.” Lorraine fidgets in her seat. “Talk to me, kid.”
“About what?” Jennifer shrugs, reluctant to tell Lorraine anything.
“Oh, I don’t know. What TV shows do you watch?”
“Don’t usually have time for TV.”
“What movies do you like, then?”
“Same thing.”
“Sheesh, kid. No time for movies or TV?” Lorraine shakes her head. “You’re missing all the fun. It’s pop culture. The stories of our times.”
“Well, when do you watch TV when you’re on the road all the time?” Jennifer sits up and hugs the knee of her good leg. Her foot is up on the seat cushion, shoe still on, but Lorraine doesn’t seem to notice or mind.
“I download shows and watch them when I’ve got time off. No commercials. Takes half the time.”
Jennifer pictures Lorraine with a shiny metallic laptop. “How often do you get time off?”
“Oh, after every long haul. Or every couple of short ones.” Lorraine smiles to herself and shakes her head. “You’re good.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, now we’re talking about me. A minute ago we were talking about you, and I still don’t know anything about you.”
Jennifer stretches her arms and wiggles the kinks out of her neck and upper shoulders. “So ask me another question. An easy one.”
“Favourite colour.”
“Red.” Jennifer answers quickly. It’s trivia, and not likely to get her into any trouble.
“Favourite weather.”
“Rain.”
“Favourite type of music.”
“Symphonic or electronic.”
“Don’t like singing?”
“No. Words get in the way.”
“Interesting.” Lorraine looks in her rear-view mirror, shoulder checks then changes lanes. Jennifer turns and gazes out the passenger side window, as though the inquisition is done, but Lorraine continues.
“Favourite holiday.”
“Halloween.”
“Favourite person living or dead.”
“Martha Graham.”
“That weird crafty lady?” Lorraine makes a face. “Didn’t she go to prison for fraud?”
“Not Martha Stewart.” Jennifer snort-laughs. “Martha Graham the famous modern dancer.” She moves her hands, and lengthens both legs in front of her, daydreaming choreography, Graham-esque movements. Lorraine drums her fingers on the steering wheel in time with Feist’s “1234.”
“Dead though, right?”
Jennifer’s arms flutter. She’s on an imaginary stage somewhere. Lorraine waves her hand to get Jennifer’s attention, and repeats the question — twice.
Jennifer sits still, finally, but brushes her hair back from her face, as though it was work to crawl back into the moment, and the confining truck cab. “Yup. Martha’s dead,” she says.
“Favourite person living, then.”
Lorraine is relentless. Jennifer looks out the passenger window again and sees two eyes flash white and red in the darkened ditch. “I think I just saw a deer.”
“As long as we didn’t hit it,” Lorraine says, turning to look at her passenger. “Are you changing the subject?”
“No, I saw these glowing eyes. It was creepy.” Jennifer folds her good leg over her bad one, resting her head on her raised knee. “What was the question?”
“Favourite person living.”
“That I know? Or anyone?”
“It’s more interesting if it’s someone you know, isn’t it?” Lorraine taps the iPod screen to forward past an old Depeche Mode song and one by New Order. She settles on Boards of Canada.
Jennifer thinks about everyone. She was competitive with other dancers. She considers saying a choreographer or a dance teacher, but can’t decide which one. Not her mom, who wanted her to study business administration. Not her old roommates or ex co-workers and not Leo.
“Nik.” She says it in a whisper, and glares at Lorraine, as though accusing her of making her talk.
“Friend or lover?” Lorraine is grinning.
Jennifer hesitates like the deer in the ditch, transfixed by the highway lights. “Both,” she says.
“Awww. So you’re attached then. I knew it!” Lorraine snaps her fingers in mock dismay.
“Not exactly. Not right now. I mean, I haven’t seen him in a few weeks.” Jennifer shifts her body weight. The pain in her leg is intensifying again. Like needles.
“So that’s why you’re going to Vancouver.” Lorraine prods. “To see your Nik. What does your Nik do?”
“He’s an artist.”
Lorraine smiles. “I dated a tattoo artist once. A real sweetheart.” She checks her mirrors then looks at me with mock concern. “Hope he’s not starvin’.”
“Not yet.” Jennifer closes her eyes and thinks about how thin Nik looked when she saw him last in Ottawa. How angry, too. “Pretty close though.”
“You look mighty thin yourself.” Lorraine pokes her gently in the arm. “Got to put some meat on your bones or you’ll blow away in the Vancouver wind.”
Jennifer doesn’t respond. She doesn’t have any more answers for Lorraine.
“I’ll stop grillin’ you now, hon.” Lorraine taps her on the knee. “Do me a favour and reach behind you into the cooler and get us some colas. I should listen to the radio and get caught up on the latest. Honestly. Truck drivers. Worse than teenagers with all the gossip.”
Jennifer grabs two cold cans. Lorraine cracks hers open, gulps at least a quarter of it down then rests it between her thighs. Jennifer can’t remember the last time she drank pop. She takes a cautious sip and holds it in her mouth, letting the carbonated sweetness bubble against her tongue. Then she rests the cold can against her hot forehead for a moment.
“Did you say you have a first aid kit somewhere?”
“Yeah, pull out the drawer underneath your seat there, hon,” Lorraine says. “What’s the matter?”
“Just a bit of a headache.”
Jennifer leans forward and feels around in the drawer. She pulls out a white plastic case.
“Got some Tylenol 3s in there, I think, if it’s real bad,” Lorraine says. “Leftovers from an old back problem I had.”
“It’s not that bad.” Jennifer glances at Lorraine, whose eyes are on the road. She flexes her injured leg, flinches, and quivers. Then she palms a couple of the Tylenol, sneaking the bottle into her dance bag. She leans her head on the cool glass of the passenger window. Lorraine reaches behind her and then something soft lands in Jenifer’s lap. A travel pillow. Jennifer mumbles a weak thanks and shoves it under her shoulder. When she closes her eyes she sees choreography again. Bodies moving and whirling onstage all around her while she stands still.
Jennifer sleeps and Lorraine drives. They stop at a roadside restaurant, but Jennifer stays in the truck while Lorraine gets out to eat and socialize with her friends. Back on the highway they drive in silence for a while, and Jennifer sleeps some more. She opens her eyes to daylight and unbelievable mountains, trees, lakes, and rivers that all look like magical fakes. Painted landscapes. Set backdrops. A pair of mountain goats run through the blasted rock rubble on the side of the road and dash up toward the trees. More fakes. Jennifer thinks they must be mechanized for tourists. Large dogs in costume. None of this seems real to her. She makes herself talk.
“What’s your favourite movie, Lorraine?”
“She speaks!” Lorraine smiles, giddy at the notion of conversation. “Probably Blade Runner. Or maybe Shaun of the Dead. Nothin’ like a good zombie flick to put you in a drivin’ mood.”
“What happens in Blade Runner?”
“You’ve never seen it? Good lord, kid, you really have been living under a rock.” Lorraine shakes her head. “This guy Deckard is a contract killer and he’s supposed to hunt these androids called replicants, except he falls in love with one. Stars a very hot young Harrison Ford. And a sultry Sean Young as Rachel the love interest.”
“So do the replicants look like people?”
“Exactly like people.” Lorraine nods. “Deckard has to do this test to see if the replicants have normal emotions and feelings like empathy.”
“I feel like a replicant,” Jennifer blurts.
“Today or every day?” Lorraine glances at her then executes a sharp turn into a tunnel. “If it makes you feel any better, in the movie Rachel asks Deckard if he’s ever taken the test himself. So he might be one, too.”
Lorraine lights another cigarette. “I’m a replicant.” She grins and exhales a swath of smoke. “Truck-driving would be an obvious career choice for an android, don’t you think?”
“Well, at least you’re not a zombie.” Jennifer smiles. “My brain’s a little bit important to me.”
“Just a little bit?”
“Well, yeah. I might need it now that I’ve gone and wrecked my body.”
Jennifer looks down at her injured leg. The truck hurtles through another tunnel. Lorraine holds both hands firm on the steering wheel, exhales smoke out the corner of her mouth. Jennifer counts the seconds until they emerge through the other side. Ten. A long one.
“Are you involved, Lorraine?”
“In what?” Lorraine leans her elbow against the window, rests her chin on her hand. She knows what Jennifer’s talking about.
“In Leo’s business.”
Lorraine doesn’t say anything. She stares straight ahead. Jennifer grabs her dance bag and rests her hand on the door handle. “I’ll jump out right now.”
“Jesus.” Lorraine looks at her. She presses a button, and there’s a click from both sides of the truck. Auto lock. “Don’t fucking scare me like that.” She lights another cigarette and stares ahead again. “I used to move product,” she says finally. “Not proud of it. Not doing it anymore.”
“Good to know,” Jennifer says with uncertainty, still not sure whether she can trust Lorraine. She looks at the doors, aware she’s locked in.
Jennifer closes her eyes and in the orange glow behind her eyelids she imagines dancing with Nik. She’s wearing a simple black dress, bare feet, her hair swept up big and tall on top of her head. He’s in black pants, black T-shirt, his hair falling messily over his forehead. His feet are bare, too, so when he turns, the audience sees swooping orange-red designs painted along the backs of his ankles like fire tattoos. The stage lighting is dim, the music an eerie, haunting ballad. They walk slowly, then flail arms and legs. Nik picks Jennifer up and spins her around. They run across the stage then cling together, twirling. Then his hands separate from hers. Jennifer dances solo at the corner of the stage, close to the edge while Nik steps away, still dancing, too, but in the background, in the shadow spaces behind her. They are each dancing their own choreography. An obvious ending for the piece has them coming back together, Jennifer running into his arms in a spectacular lift. But instead Nik leaves the stage, exiting into the wings stage right. She doesn’t notice she’s alone onstage until he’s gone. She walks to stage front, stops, and bows her head.
Jennifer fingers the velveteen of her tarot card pouch fretfully. The truck follows the highway, which follows the winding Fraser River to the ocean. She’s not sure where Nik is, or if there’s any point to this long trek. She’s still amazed Nik followed her, too. She hadn’t guessed he would do that. Until now she hadn’t recognized or understood why. But Nik’s motives were true. She’d had to look closely — for a long time — to see. And she’d had to stand still first.
His ship painting is still in her dance bag, wrapped in a pair of worn-out fuzzy tights. Looking at it is painful. But every time she does, she sees something new, different. She sees him. Until she saw Nik’s new painting, she never thought of his following her as anything other than pure adoration. He was a passive, hovering shadow. A constant, benevolent supporter. It didn’t occur to her he was still making art. Or suffering. He must have set out to find her at the beginning, but the whole thing had evolved into something else. Jennifer feels like the ghost now. Her slim allotment of time as a professional dancer is starting to feel like a fantastical dream.
She closes her eyes and listens to Lorraine’s music, the thrum of fingers on the steering wheel. They stop in Golden, a splotch of a town darkened by heavy, threatening rain clouds, then drive on, both staring silently at the hill-crested roads ahead, out of manipulation games and talk. They stop again in Hope, a depressed clutter of buildings along the lonely highway. Jennifer gets out of the truck to breathe fresh, cool mountain air while Lorraine buys a sandwich and hot coffee.
Jennifer paces back and forth, kicking gravel rocks with her feet. She tries to think about where Nik is, and whether she’s right about him heading west. He could be anywhere. She looks around for a sign — something dramatic, like the sun suddenly burning through slate-grey clouds. But there’s nothing but air, land, and her own fear. She wonders what it was like for Nik to search after her and understands how difficult — and lonely — it must have been. Something about that fact makes her feel closer to him.
Back in the truck and on the highway Lorraine wings an elbow in Jennifer’s direction. “Is that the tiniest glimmer of a smile I see? Happy we’re almost there?”
Jennifer’s good foot stamps an impatient rhythm on the floor mat. “I guess. How much longer is it to Vancouver?”
“Only a couple of hours to go.” Lorraine stretches her neck from side to side and makes circles with her shoulders.
“I’m headed downtown,” Jennifer says. “Main Street.”
“Uh-huh.” Lorraine lifts the brim of her ball cap and runs her hand through her hair, her expression unreadable.
“You won’t tell anyone that I’m back in the city, will you? To see Nik? I can trust you, right?”
“Don’t worry, hon. After this shift I’ll be headin’ back to my apartment and tucking myself straight into my own bed.”
“Where’s your apartment at?”
Lorraine grins at her. “Why? Wanna come over?”
Jennifer smiles at the fake invitation, aware she hasn’t answered the question. “Thanks, but I’ve got some stuff I have to do.”
Lorraine winks. “I like a girl on a mission.”
It’s already starting to get dark by the time signs for Vancouver’s City Centre start to appear. Jennifer keeps glancing at the LCD clock on the dashboard.
“I’m heading to this great big grocery terminal off the highway.” Lorraine taps buttons on her GPS. “But I’m a little ahead of schedule. Is there any place I can drop you?”
“If you can get me to a SkyTrain station I’ll take it from there.” Jennifer checks the time again.
“Sure.” Lorraine lights two more cigarettes. “Let’s have one more smoke.”
“Thanks.” Jennifer takes the cigarette and inhales. “For the smokes and the ride and everything.”
“Nice to have company on this stretch of road.” Lorraine gives her a light punch in the shoulder. “And you’re good company. Anytime you need a ride —”
“I probably won’t any time soon.”
“Well, you never know what’s beyond that next bend in the road, right?” Lorraine reaches into her shirt pocket and hands her something. A business card. Jennifer turns it over in her hand while she exhales a cloud of smoke at the windshield.
“My email and my cell number are on there. Give me a shout sometime.”
Jennifer makes a show of taking her wallet out of her bag and tucking the card in beside her bank cards.
Lorraine stops the truck in the parking lot of a SkyTrain station in Burnaby. Jennifer grabs her bag and climbs out of the truck onto the sidewalk. She and Lorraine stare at each other for a moment. Then Lorraine waves and drives off. Jennifer watches the truck turn the corner before she takes Lorraine’s card out of her wallet and tosses it into a garbage can. She jams change into a fare box, gets a ticket, and hustles up the stairs as fast as she can. The whole time she’s on the SkyTrain she stares at the transit map, planning her route. She gets off the train, climbs aboard a bus, then transfers to another bus.
On the Granville Street Bridge she thinks she sees the faint imprint of her name along the concrete blocks separating the pedestrians from traffic. She remembers how Nik used to leave secret reverse graffiti messages for her — shined into filthy building stucco or written with his finger in the dust across a broken-down van waiting to be towed away. She’d see NIK + J or GOOD LUCK J if she was going for an audition. And sometimes she’d see the words U R BEUTIFLU, recognize Nik’s spelling and know they were for her. Jennifer wonders why there weren’t any more messages in Montreal or Ottawa or Toronto. Why he stopped writing them. If he felt rejected, like she’d chosen dance over him, instead of feeling the freedom she thought she’d given him to pursue his own career. It was impossible to know what he’d thought, she realized. They didn’t talk. Not enough. Their connection was something she’d taken for granted, and didn’t fully understand.
She looks at her watch. The North Vancouver bus she’s on putters along in the slow lane. Jennifer looks at her watch again and then at the faces around her, each one of them anxious, wondering if they’ll make the last evening sailing to Vancouver Island from Horseshoe Bay. The bus rounds a final corner, and the ferry, still in dock, is lit up like a big white beacon. An electronic signboard flashes over the highway: the ferry is delayed. Jennifer has twenty minutes to buy her foot-passenger ticket and hobble up the long ramp onto the ferry. She’s going to make it.
It’s a nighttime sailing to Vancouver Island in the middle of the week, long after tourist season is over, and it’s not very busy. She finds an empty row of seats by the window. She puts her bag on the seat across from her, a sweater on the seat beside her, marking out space. A private zone. She stares out at the twinkling lights of the bay and the inky blackness of the water and half listens to all of the usual “welcome aboard” safety and amenities announcements while the ferry manoeuvres out of its berth. The ferry turns around once it reaches open water so Jennifer is facing the direction of where she came from, not where she’s going. She stays where she is, looking backwards.
Jennifer assumes Lorraine knew she was lying when she told her she was headed to Main Street. She doesn’t regret it, but she realizes she could have told the truth. Lorraine was all right. She sighs, knowing her plan is half-baked, anyway. She looks out the window again at the black velvet Pacific, realizing how much she missed it.
It’s not hard to find someone to give her a ride up island. When she hears the “we are approaching Departure Bay” announcement she heads to the car deck and shakes hands with a middle-aged man who introduces himself as Dave. His car is silver, like his hair, and nondescript. Jennifer gets in as the ferry jostles against the dock and they both wait in silence until the cars ahead in their lane start moving. Dave sends text messages to someone — his wife, Jennifer assumes — and follows the line of red brake lights through the ferry, onto the ramp, around a corner, and up a hill. He takes the northbound exit onto the inland island highway then weaves in and out of lanes, passing aggressively. The ferry traffic thins past Nanaimo. The car speeds through the night, past the last of the traffic lights and streetlights. Dave flicks the high beams on. Jennifer looks at the tall shadows of the trees lining the highway and watches exit signs. Parksville. Qualicum Beach. At Fanny Bay Dave clears his throat.
“How far north do you want to go again? Comox?”
“Campbell River.”
“Okay, then.” Dave shrugs and turns up the volume on his tinny-sounding radio, tuned to the CBC.
Jennifer looks for kilometre signs as they flash by at the side of the road and counts down. Seventy-five then fifty-five then twenty-five. She sees a sign for Miracle Beach where Nik told her he always went for school field trips. A few minutes later there’s a sign for the local airport. Dave takes the turnoff for the south side of town.
“I’m going to head into town and grab some coffee.” Dave glances at the dashboard clock. “What’s still open after midnight?”
“I’m visiting, actually. I don’t really know the place,” Jennifer says.
“Oh.” Dave hesitates at the end of the long, winding exit road. He turns left. There’s a cluster of homes, businesses, shops, and then the ocean. Jennifer sees the lighthouse Nik was always talking about. The long, dark shape with lights on it must be Quadra Island.
“You can let me off here,” Jennifer says.
“Here? Are you sure?” Dave looks around. There are no other cars or people. He stops by the side of the road.
“Thanks for the ride.” She gives the door a hard slam and limps toward the ocean. She hears Dave drive away and feels something hard underfoot. In the shadowy light she sees a path winding along the shore. The sea walk Nik told her about. It’s her best guess and she knows she could be wrong. She’s never pursued anyone before, though she’s well used to steeling herself against people — men — who wanted her. The illusion of her. Nik was different, disarming. Fragile, like her, though he never tried to hide that fact. And he was a dreamer, like her, but he painted his dreams.
She knows if she follows the sea walk she’ll find the park. But which way? She turns to her right and then to her left, guesses, turns right again. Walks for a few minutes, turns around, heads back the other way. She sees the dark shapes of wooden carvings, small totem poles. Dark piles of driftwood line the shore. She rounds one corner then another, limps past a huge hulking boulder perched on the beach like a prehistoric egg. A little farther down the path she sees a couple of old motels, a gas station, houses, and condos. There are lights up ahead. Finally there’s a sign on the path. The shape of it — something she can’t read in the dark. But there’s an open area with tall, shadowy trees. A car drives past and its headlights illuminate the parking lot. She hears the sound of the waves crashing against rock.
She feels grass under her feet now. She can’t see — it’s like being on a darkened stage the moment before the performance begins. She remembers Nik telling her about the circles of memorial stones in the park and stays in the middle of the open area to make sure she doesn’t disturb any of the stones, any of the sleepers. She shivers as cold wind whips off the water.
Her foot hits something. She leans down to touch it. It’s damp driftwood. Her hands guide her over an old log. She sits down, looks out at the shimmering water. Every once in a while she hears a random splash. She watches a solitary boat make its way through the strait. The radiating gleam of the lighthouse is hypnotizing. Clouds scud across the sky and uncover the moon.
She watches another small boat go by, curious about the where and why of its night time mission, and shivers, reminded of Leo. Thugs on the water. The coast’s clandestine trade routes. Her leg throbs. She knows in a few hours it will be shooting darts of sharp pain. She’ll need antibiotics. She doesn’t want to go through that again. She had the other dancers from the company to lean on the first time. They were kind when she was injured, and patient as the infection took hold.
In the white spotlight of the moon she can see the rocks leading down to the beach, toward the water. The ocean is like an old friend. She stands and makes her way across a wobbling shelf of beach stones, concentrating on each step until she feels the soft squelch of sand underfoot. The waves roar in her ears. She walks into the water up to her knees. It’s liquid ice. She forgets about her throbbing ankle and knee, wants to go deeper, but her feet are stuck in the sand. She lifts her hands and clutches her forehead. She holds her breath, ready to duck under. A big wave surges and splashes around her, nearly knocking her over. The moon dazzles over the ocean. A spotlight. She steps back. Then again, until she’s standing on the beach, drenched up to her shoulders. There are tracers in her eyes — dashes of light that aren’t really there. Then a ball of orange fire in the sky. And dancing.
When the stage lights go out she follows the choreography with her arms, moving her head, shoulders, ribcage, hips. Then her legs. She is a tree in the wind, leaves and branches shaking out a rhythm. She is a skipping stone cascading across waves.
When she opens her eyes again there’s seaweed in her hair. Her nose nudges a cold, slimy rock. She realizes she passed out — wasn’t dancing at all. There was no sea stage. She shivers and half crawls, half creeps up the rocks back to her original driftwood perch. Her wet hair drips down the back of her neck. Sea water stings her eyes. She sits on the log and pulls her legs up, hugging them to her chest with both arms. She finds her bag and rummages through, looking for a lighter. She finds a matchbook at the very bottom and lights one, thinking she might start a fire, but all the wood is too damp. So she sits there, remembering, lighting each match in the book then blowing them out like dreams.
Sunrise is a gradual shift from black to charcoal, from charcoal to dull grey. Jennifer sits up and watches the foam of the waves burst and bubble around the rocks. The tide is in, the sandy ledge now flooded and obscured. A seagull appears, swooping then landing in the waves, paddling then diving under. Resurfacing, pecking at stones, flying away. She watches for eagles, herons, seals, and whales.
She stares out across the strait. The lighthouse looks much smaller now than it did in the darkness. She thinks about her life as a professional dancer. Endings. The pulsing sensation of her own blood. The sharpness of the pain in her leg. Seagulls squawk. The sound of the waves, the wind, then voices.
Jennifer turns, but doesn’t see anyone. She stands, steps over the soggy log, up onto the grass, and hides behind a tree at the edge of the park. Now she can see the circles of stones. She wants to go look at them, but stays rooted in place. Two figures emerge from around the bend, following the sea walk. An elderly couple. The woman looks a little unsteady on her feet. Her hands are shaking. The man guides her by the arm. Then Nik rounds the corner. Jennifer grips the bark of the tree. Sticky sap, then splinters. She falls to her knees, too spellbound to notice the sharp burst of pain in her leg.
Nik is wearing a new sweater. A charcoal grey-and-black one that looks hand-knit. There’s colour in his face that wasn’t there before. His hair looks tidier. Someone’s given him a haircut. Jennifer thinks he looks like himself again — but weathered. The elderly man spreads something out on the park bench and the elderly woman sits down, her back and shoulders as straight and correct as a dancer’s. There’s something dignified about the way she holds herself. Nik walks over to her and Jennifer sees that when he’s beside the woman he stands taller, too. Jennifer knows the woman is Nik’s grandmother.
Nik’s grandmother points at something beneath a tree and Nik goes over to it, crouching down for a better look. He picks up a picture frame, dusts the sand and dirt off it, and hands it to her. The man walks over to the place under the tree and pokes at the stones with his cane, saying something Jennifer can’t quite hear. Nik looks around, then walks toward a small metal garbage can by the park’s sign. He grabs it, heads back to the tree, and starts dropping the stones into it, one by one. Jennifer watches him and from somewhere deep within feels her body begin to shake. This is Nik’s own memorial. He picks up something that looks like a plaque, and then something cylindrical, like a fancy jar. Both go in the bin. Then he picks up the can, struggling a bit under its weight. For a moment Jennifer thinks he’s headed in her direction, but he turns the opposite way, stepping down over the beach stones to a circular bay created by a large embankment of rocks she couldn’t see last night in the darkness. Nik heaves the contents of the can into the bay with a huge splash. His grandmother claps her gloved hands together and the man smiles, wipes his brow with an oversized cloth handkerchief. Jennifer shifts farther back behind the edge of the tree so Nik won’t see her as he’s walking back.
Jennifer waits a beat before looking around the tree again. Nik is standing at the edge of the park, staring out at the ocean with such intensity that she wants to see what he’s looking at. She looks down at her piece of driftwood — her nighttime encampment. Her dance bag is still there, within Nik’s view. He nods at it, in subtle acknowledgement. Then he lifts his gaze to the lighthouse and the mountains on the horizon. He turns back toward his grandmother.
Nik sits down on the bench beside her and the top of her head touches his shoulder. His grandmother’s friend stands behind them, both hands resting on the handle of his cane.
Jennifer can’t break the spell, Nik’s magic. She waits behind the tree. Watching Nik with his family feels like an intrusion to her, like staring through the windows of their living room. She lets the dream of it unfold like cinema, wondering if it’s real or exhaustion. A feverish hallucination. She crouches down at the base of the tree until she no longer hears the rise and fall of their quiet voices. She looks out from behind the tree again and sees the elderly man take Nik’s grandmother’s arm gently in his as he leads her around the corner, back on the path, heading home. And then the trio is gone. Jennifer thinks about how Nik’s grandmother will make him dinner later, daydreaming about how he will relax, curled up under a warm blanket, all the tension in his face dissipating in comfort. She thinks about that — a sense of home — a place where one feels calm and cared for. She had looked for that — and found it — onstage.
She steps out from behind the tree and looks out at the water, listening to the sound of the waves crashing violently and repeatedly onto rocks, pummelling them out, and slowly over time eroding them to stones. If she read Nik’s tarot right now, she knows she would see that his grandmother never gave up on him. The whole time he was away — disappeared, lost, given up for dead — she was knitting him that sweater.
Jennifer hobbles toward the log to retrieve her dance bag. She knows she needs to get to a doctor and try to heal her leg. But she sits on the log and pulls both legs up again, hugging them to her chest with both arms, the injured one swollen, throbbing, and hot to the touch. Then she rests her forehead on her knees immersing herself in her own waves, the peculiar noise of her own voice rising and falling somewhere outside her body.
She feels her hair move gently away from her face and thinks it’s the wind. When she finally lifts her head again she sees Nik sitting beside her on her piece of driftwood. She wonders, at first, if he is a ghost. One of her illusions. But when she rests her hand on the top of his thigh it feels admirably solid. It’s real. He circled back for her. And she does not want to let go.