North Vancouver
Right until the moment I weaseled my way into the hospital, I thought everything was going to get better. It might take a very long time but eventually things would be the way they were before. Now I knew that was impossible. The last tatters of my old life had been ripped away. Tony had been gone for almost a week and I had waited for him to come home. He wasn’t going to.
I trudged away from the hospital barely registering the stares of other people who waited to get inside. As I slipped through the barricade, the Solitaire woman looked up from her cards and shouted, “How come she got in, if we’ve got to stay out?”
The Iranian family, missing two of the women, pushed toward the barricade. In a second, everyone who had been waiting so patiently, flanked around them. Bodies pressed forward and I swam upstream against them. Grief stripped away my manners. I used my elbows to push people away and didn’t care when someone screeched after I stepped on a bare foot. That was the last sound I heard as silence descended over me and I closed out the rest of the world.
Thoughts and memories of Tony cartwheeled through my brain. The last time I saw him we fought. The same way we had been fighting almost non-stop for the past year. Lately it was about the motorcycle I’d wanted to buy. The green Kawasaki. A bleat of morbid laughter escaped me when I thought about the battle we’d been having at least once a week. In the worst moments, an evil part of me wished he was dead. Now he was and somehow it seemed to be all my fault. Why wasn’t I nicer to him that last afternoon? He’d been out searching for us, and he was worried.
If I had a motorcycle now I’d jump on it and ride. I leaned against a crooked telephone phone and closed my eyes. I imagined my right hand, opening the throttle, my left hand flicking the clutch as I changed gears. The green Ninja flew up the road. I wouldn’t stop until I got somewhere that the earthquake hadn’t touched. I’d ride until I found a landscape where trees stood straight and houses had power and water.
When I broke out of my dream, I was still surrounded by battered homes. I forced myself forward and skirted the public campgrounds. I looked like just another homeless person on the street, drifting from nowhere to nowhere. My pack was thin and flat now. No one would attack me for its contents.
The rattle of the chess set in my pocket made me think of Michael. Michael—what would I tell him?
The people camping on Grand Boulevard seemed to be having a party. Some were laughing. A volunteer in an orange T-shirt led a group of small kids in nonsense songs. I’m a little teapot. Children giggled. Their singing and laughter reached me from far away, like the end of a long train tunnel.
I would never see Tony again. All the memories I had of him were all I’d ever have. He wouldn’t be there for my high school graduation. If I went to university he’d never know. He’d never be grandfather to my babies. That didn’t feel true. It didn’t feel possible. I floated along, lost in some faraway place. Voices and sounds echoed around me but they meant nothing. Without warning tears boiled over again, running down into my mouth. I cried until it felt like a blood vessel in my head was going to burst and I might pass out.
I slid my shaking hand into my pocket for a Kleenex and found Tony’s cell. Turning it on, I found unsent text messages stuck in the dead zone of no service. One to me and one to Michael on the day of the quake. Two more when he was in the hospital. They both said the same thing and a vise-grip crushed my chest. Love you kids. Take care of each other.
There was another one just to me and it read: Don’t ride faster than your angel can fly. Goosebumps popped up on my arms when I realized what the words meant. While giving me the blessing to get my bike, he was telling to make good choices. He knew I was going to fly free of him.
It made me think of when I was first learning to skate and how I used to sprint into his arms at the end of the lesson. He’d laugh and say, “My little girl is growing up.” Sometimes he added, “Don’t grow up too fast my little Rowanberry.”
Maybe that’s what our fight was really about. Maybe he was just sad that I was starting to do grown-up things now, that I couldn’t be his little girl any more. Maybe he wondered where his loving daughter Rowan had gone, just like I wondered who had taken my father and left a grouch in his place. Why did we waste our last hours fighting? I hoped he forgave me before he died.
I followed the roads blindly until I came to the path in the woods behind Tony’s house. In the midday heat, the forest smelled like baking berry pie. I pushed my way through thickets and climbed over fallen trees. Tears blurred my vision. A grey streak shot in front of me. Misty. I dropped to one knee.
“Hey kitty. C’mere.” My voice came out high and rusty, as if I hadn’t used it for a year. Misty stopped on the side of the dried out creek and kneaded the dead leaves. I murmured her name over and over, like a lullaby. Something moved on the edge of my vision. Jake. With the cat carrier! I held up my hand up and he stopped. I knelt on the ground and waited. From the general area of our house I became aware of a low rumble. I tried to read Jake’s face and what I saw there wasn’t good. He chewed his gum hard and fast. When I stopped watching Misty for a second, she disappeared and the leaves of salal thicket shivered behind her. I squinted but saw nothing so I stood and stretched my calf muscles. No second chances for her. I prayed she’d come back when she was hungry, but I couldn’t wait. I turned toward the house.
“How’d she get out?”
“Mom went into your room.”
“Yeah?”
“Misty ran out the door before we could stop her.”
“What was your mom doing in my room?” I tried to keep the anger out of my voice.
“She said if I had to do your shift then you could do mine. When she knocked on your door and you didn’t answer, she went in anyway.”
I jerked my head toward the street. “What’s the commotion?”
“Greg had to go to the hospital so Mom did his watch. Then those neighbours, the ones two houses away—”
“The Redgraves? The ones with the four obnoxious boys?”
“Yeah them. They came over and she let them in.” Jake kicked a rock into the salal bushes.
“Where the hell was Michael?”
“He was sleeping—with ear plugs in. By the time I woke him up, the Redgraves were already in the basement. Mom gave them a couple of cases of canned food, preserves, meat from the freezer, and some of the bottled water.”
“God, why would she do that?”
She and Mrs. Redgrave are in the same book club. She said all the mothers have to stick together.”
“How did she know about all the food and water supplies?” I didn’t think she’d ever even been down to the basement.
Even in the shade I saw a flush crawl over Jake’s face. A pungent smell of sweat wafted off him. “I…I’m sorry. I was trying to make her feel better. I told how well stocked the house was.”
I stood, my mouth bone dry, and searched for words that wouldn’t blow him backwards. It was my fault. I’d used Tony’s supplies to reassure him exactly the same way. He had copied my example.
He smiled slightly. “She did one thing you’ll like.”
“Yeah?”
“She gave the Redgraves every ounce of alcohol she could find.”
I shook my head. “The lock to the cellar?”
“They pried it open.”
“So what’s all that noise?” As if I didn’t know.
“The Redgraves told others. There’re some people at the front gate asking for food.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets.
“Where’s your mom?”
“On the front porch. With Michael. They’re fighting. She wants to give more away, look after more people. He’s telling her that the more we give away, the more people will hear about it and it won’t stop until everything’s gone.”
“Forget Misty. Michael needs us.” I fought my way through the thorny barberry and blackberry bushes that protected the back fence, the way to Greg’s secret passage. The stopgap gate yawned open and anyone could have got in. I resisted telling Jake how careless that was as I squeezed into the back yard. After he followed, I closed the gate and snapped the lock shut behind us. He avoided my eyes and I felt mean. It wasn’t his fault that this mother wanted to rule the world. The bitterness of her betrayal winded me like a punch to the stomach.
“Mom only meant to help,” Jake said without much conviction.
I spat out the first sour thought in my head. “Your mom makes a lot of decisions for others that aren’t hers to make. You should know that.”
Jake caught up to me on the back deck. “What do you mean?” His hand clawed my shoulder and he spun me around to face him.
“Why don’t you ask her who your father is? Your real, live father.” My ragged breaths took in the smell of him, sweat and body wash.
“My father’s dead.”
“Is he really? Who told you that?”
His jaw tightened. He let go of me and ran out to the front porch. By the time I got there he was standing between Michael and his mother.
“What sort of question is that?” Linda asked, hands on her hips.
“Is. My. Real. Father. Dead?” He clipped the words as is if she were hard of hearing.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know he is.” Linda smoothed the sides of her purple capris with the palms of her hands.
“I don’t believe you,” Jake said.
“Not now Jacob,” she half whispered. Taking a deep breath, she moved toward him as if she was going to put her arm around his shoulders like she usually did.
He pushed her away. “Tell me.”
The crowd at the gate was getting noisier. Michael went to the top of the stairs, and glared at the thirty or forty people who stood a cautious distance away from the fence. He looked alone, vulnerable, and my chest tightened.
“Go home,” he shouted. His voice sounded worn out, exhausted.
Behind us Linda was trying to deflect Jake. “We’ll talk tonight, after dinner. Right now we have to help Michael.”
“No,” Jake said, spit flying.
As if they thought Jake was speaking to them, the people outside chanted louder, “Food, water! Food, water! Food, water!”
Linda said, “Later,” in a final tone of voice that I recognized from arguments with Tony. She trotted down to the fence and talked to the mob, gesturing wildly as if she was trying to semaphore them into calmness. I wondered if she was promising them more food later or asking them to leave. Either way it didn’t matter. No one was paying attention.
I squeezed Jake’s hand. “Later,” I said, my way of promising to tell him if Linda didn’t.
He nodded and his fingers wrapped around mine, warm and strong. I gave his hand one last squeeze and strode to Michael’s side.
“I’m going to get the heavy artillery,” I whispered.
Something deep inside me, something primal, had woken. My pulse pounded in my ears and I flew downstairs. I’d made a decision and no one could stop me. Our house would be defended at all costs.
The coolness of the basement rushed over me, perfumed lightly by Michael’s woody shampoo. The noise out front dulled to distant hum as I stood in front of the cupboard that hid the gun safe and focused. My bones were lengthening and my skin was stretching. I was smashing out of the mould that had strangled me all summer. This was it, my leap into a new life. I’d take the guns and disperse the crowd with a few economical rounds of ammunition. That was exactly what Tony would tell me to do if he were here.
He said the guns were there to protect us in case of a major disaster. A scene rose clearly in my head. The crowd would be scared, stunned and voiceless for a minute. Then they’d turn away and go home, leaving us alone forever. Yes, that’s what Tony wanted me to do. For once this summer I’d do what he wanted.
I pulled open the wall to the gun safe and touched the icy combination dial with my fingertips. Slowly I spun the numbers and when the cylinders released, I flipped the handle open. Inside stood three cases: two rigid plastic rifle cases and a leather shotgun case. The shotgun would give the biggest bang for the buck. I imagined racking the slide, hearing the mechanical shuck that announced the ammunition was loaded and ready to fire. I reached for the brown case and as my fingers brushed the thick leather handle, it zapped me like an electrical shock.
Stop. Think. Observe. Plan.
What did I really know about guns? Not much. A few afternoons on the shooting range. No recent experience. Tony was the firearms expert in our family. The memory of his cold body descended around me, a wall of ice. One of these guns had killed him. When he opened this safe a week ago, all he planned to do was put a deer out of its misery. All his years of training and lectures about the safe handling and storage of firearms failed to protect him.
I yanked my hand back and thought of the rising panic in the desperate faces outside. One simple mistake might create another tragedy. It could stain Tony’s land with unnecessary bloodshed. That blood would be on my hands.
Weapons can escalate conflict.
The thought sailed up from deep inside me, not from Tony, not from Mom, but from my own understanding of what I faced. I imagined how the appearance of guns might make the frantic crowd even crazier. People might see our guns as an answer to other problems and be twice as determined to get inside, to get their hands on our weapons, maybe even use them against us.
As I wrung my hands and stared at the guns, the last of my conviction drained from my body. Standing in front of me were two options: arm myself, as Tony intended, and hope for the best. Or I could make my own decision: close the safe and pray that the electrified fence was enough to keep the hordes at bay.
How many gun accidents were too many? One. And it had already happened.
Tony’s choice had been fatal and I would learn from that. I’d find another way, a different plan, and we’d save the compound without the risk of deadly force. Nothing was worth protecting no matter what the costs.
I stretched the ache out of my skin and bones, and felt taller and less afraid than I had seconds before as I reached for the gun. With new confidence, I rummaged through the safe, searching for anything that might be useful. On the top shelf were boxes of ammunition, enough to take out every single person in that crowd. I shuddered. On the shelf below that Tony’s leather passport case lay on top of a few thick envelopes and an old wallet. I picked up the wallet and fanned through masses of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills. If the stores ever opened again we’d be able to buy everything we needed with this much cash. I grabbed out a handful of bills and folded them into my pocket. Maybe crazy people could be bought off. I locked the safe, closed the false wall and pushed cartons of old clothing in front of the cupboard.
Then I balled my hands and pounded them against my thighs. What could I use to shock and awe the crowd? I remembered a plastic storage tub, tucked inside Tony’s fishing boat. I crept into the garage and tore the tarp off the boat. There it was, a waterproof container. I dug out one rocket and one handheld flare and charged back through the house to the front porch. Linda was sitting in the rocking chair, not looking at anyone in particular. Jake and Michael stood like two sentries on either side of the porch. I took a position between them.
“Go back to your homes and shelters now, please,” I said in a firm voice.
“We’re not going anywhere until you give us something,” a thin man in torn overalls said. “We heard you’ve got enough food for a thousand people.”
“You heard wrong,” I lied. If they were certain of our supplies, they’d never go away. “Our shelves are empty. Our neighbours the Redgraves made sure of that today.”
“They said you’ve got a supermarket in your basement,” the man said and picked up a big rock and threw it over the fence. It thudded on the hood of Tony’s truck and I could see the dent from where I stood. I remembered Tony slapping the driver’s door just before he left. I flinched. He would never do that again.
Without another thought I lifted the rocket flare and aimed at the sky. Like an amateur, I closed my eyes and popped the pin. The flare banged as loud as a cannon and launched a thousand feet into the sky. Instantly the crowd shut up. People jumped. A couple ducked. Stunned faces looked up at me from the street. Some people ran away. I searched the thinning crowd but I couldn’t see the Green Death guys at all. I hoped they had moved on, after easier pickings.
I popped the top on the handheld flare and it burst into flames, 15,000 candlepower of burning light. I trotted down to the fence and marched along wielding it at the strangers. Even from four feet away they felt its heat. People moved back, turned away from our house. The crowd thinned to a dozen determined campaigners but the mob power was gone.
When I got back to the porch Jake said, “That was awesome.” He and Michael laughed nervously as if I had just grown horns.
“What’ve you done?” The rocker pitched noisily as Linda rose to her feet.
“What have I done? Ha. I wouldn’t have had to do anything if it wasn’t for you.” I tried to bite back my frustration. Infighting wouldn’t help anything. “You let people into the compound. You gave away our food—not yours—ours. My family’s food.”
She actually listened to me and, for a nanosecond, her face softened in apology. I took a deep breath. “Look we’re all pretty stressed right now and probably we need to chill for a bit.”
She lifted her chin and her face paled. Two trucks sped down the street toward us. They screeched to a halt outside the fence. Green Death gang members climbed out of the van and down from the back of the pickup, like spiders emptying a nest. I counted quickly, nine or ten, all guys. I hadn’t seen that many together before. Two of them waved small hand tools in the air.
“You know what these are, kids?” Scarface held his aloft and grinned.
“Insulated wire cutters,” Michael said as if he was announcing the weather. “Now what do we do?”
No one answered. I thought about the flares in the garage. A couple dozen maybe. Each one would burn about a minute. That might buy us half an hour—then what? We didn’t have enough bear spray for crowd control. There were hunting, fishing, and kitchen knives, for all the good they would do. Green Death members were used to street fighting. We’d last about two seconds if we tried to take them on with handheld weapons.
So Michael, Linda, Jake and I stood transfixed for the few minutes it took to cut a large, gaping hole in the perimeter fence. Scarface and a guy in a muscle shirt and skinny jeans peeled back the chain-link as easy as a banana skin. They were coming in now no matter what we did.
The crowd on the street had formed again pushed towards the new entry gate like a single seething animal. Don Redgrave was the first one through the portal. He led the gang around the back of the house. They didn’t bother with the kitchen; they were going straight to the cellar, to the mother lode.
I turned to go into the house, to lock the heavy security doors that isolated the living areas from the storage space. Before I took my second step through the front door, Linda gasped, “Molotov cocktails!”