Avalanche Dance (8 page)

“Oh yeah,” he said, blushing a little. He was the shier of the two brothers, the more serious. Gwen knew where her friend Danny, Robert’s son, got his quietness from. Gwen had fished off the dock or scavenged on the beach with Danny many times when they were younger, and he could go all day without saying more than a few words.
Comforting
, she thought now.

Robert lay his brown paper–wrapped parcel on the table and opened it to reveal a whole salmon, sliced into inch-thick steaks, seasoned with lemon and herbs.

“Thought you could use this, what with all the to-ing and froing,” he said, taking off his ball cap and rotating it in his hands. “All you have to do is pop it in the oven for ten minutes.”

“Oh, Robert,” Gwen’s mom said, rising and giving him a hug. He hugged her back awkwardly, then turned and patted Gwen on the cheek and kissed his niece.

“Sit, Robert,” Sally said, so he did, first placing his jacket on a hook and his rubber boots on the mat next to Sally’s. The kitchen took on the familiar smell of damp wool.

The kettle whistled. Sally bustled about, clattering cups, getting the milk and sugar.

“So … how’s Andrew?” Robert asked.

Gwen darted a glance at her mother. The expression on her face made Gwen look away.

Bridget pushed a hand through her hair. “His liver’s swollen. He’s in a lot of pain.”

For a second, Gwen felt dizzy. She clung to the baby, taking deep breaths.

“What are the doctors saying –” Sally began.

There was another tap at the door. It opened, and Cynthia Robichaud, the mother of Gwen’s friend Susie, poked her head around. Plump and dimpled, she had the same wavy, strawberry-blond hair as Susie, frizzy now in the humidity.

“Bridget!” she said. “I wasn’t sure if you were back.” Then, coming inside, “Sally, Robert, Gwen. Hi.”

“Join the party,” Sally said with a laugh, pulling up another chair.

Adding her wet jacket to the row of others, Cynthia deposited four loaves of bread on the table. A fresh-baked, yeasty smell
filled the kitchen. “Made you a few loaves,” she said. “Whole wheat, raisin, rye, and rosemary-walnut. Figured you didn’t have time to shop, let alone bake.”

Gwen’s mother burst into tears. “Oh, Cynthia …”

“Don’t be silly,” Susie’s mom said, patting Bridget on the shoulder. “What are neighbors for? Actually, I came to see if you need anything from the store. I’m going, anyway, so give me your grocery list.”

Laughing at herself, Gwen’s mom broke into a fresh bout of weeping.

“Here, drink your tea,” Sally said, pushing a cup into Bridget’s hands and handing mugs to the others.

Gwen stood near the doorway to the living room, holding Tanya, who was amusing herself by grabbing handfuls of Gwen’s hair and pulling. Gwen longed to get out of the kitchen. There were too many people, too much talk. It would be rude, she knew; they were old friends. But she couldn’t stand it. Maybe now, when no one was looking –

No. Cynthia came over to her. Trapped. Placing her hand on Gwen’s shoulder, Cynthia asked, “How are you, sweetheart?”

Gwen stiffened. “All right.”

Cynthia shook her head. “What you went through! It must have been horrible. It’s a miracle you both got out alive, isn’t it?”

Gwen nodded.
I’ve got to get out of here
, she thought. But she couldn’t, not while they were all looking at her.

“Thank God for Simon, eh?” Cynthia turned to face Sally and Robert. “What a hero. You must be so proud.”

“Yeah – when I’m not reaming him out for being on the mountain in the first place,” Sally said, rolling her eyes. The others chuckled.

Tanya started squirming in Gwen’s arms. “I’ll take her to the living room,” Gwen said. Finally, an escape.

She grabbed a stack of yogurt containers from a kitchen cupboard, then put Tanya on the living room floor, gingerly lowering herself down beside her. The baby happily started taking containers off the pile, handing them to Gwen, taking them back and making new stacks, chortling each time one container slipped over another.

Listening to the baby’s babbles, Gwen wasn’t paying attention to the conversation in the kitchen. Then, “The cabin … Molly Norquist …” caught her ear.

She turned sharply, but she couldn’t make out what Cynthia said next. Then, “Shameful … trouble …”

Tanya burbled, drowning out the rest.

Absentmindedly handing a container to Tanya, Gwen tried to make sense of what she had heard. Of course she had seen the cabin, knew that someone had burned it down.

But
Molly?
Did Molly have something to do with the fire? Did
she
burn the cabin down?

And what was Molly doing in the cabin, anyway?
Gwen thought indignantly. That was
her
cabin. Molly had no right –

She heard her father’s name again. Cynthia’s concerned query.

“Look, Tanya,” Gwen said quickly, now trying to drown out her mother’s words. “Look at this!” She showed the baby how to balance one container on top of another.

“Ga!” Tanya exclaimed.

Not loud enough. “X-rays … MRIs … kidney … permanent damage …”

Gwen turned her head aside, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Tanya looked puzzled. She offered Gwen a container. “Ga!”

After everyone left, Gwen retreated to her chair, returning to her window, to the steady rain falling, falling. She heard her mother tidying up in the kitchen.

I should help
, she thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

Then she heard her mother’s tread. Bridget came and sat on the windowsill, facing her.

“What is it, Mom?”
Had there been a phone call she hadn’t heard?
Gwen thought, alarmed.
Something from the hospital?
“Is it Dad?”

“No, it’s
you
. “ She leaned forward and took Gwen’s hands. “I’m worried about you, honey.”

Gwen let out a breath. “I – I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not. You’re not yourself. I can see it in your face.” She touched a hand to Gwen’s cheek. “You’re so quiet. You’re hardly eating.”

Gwen’s mind raced, trying to think of excuses, explanations. “Mom, I –”

Her mother pulled her to her feet and wrapped her in her arms, stroking her ragged hair. “Gwennie, my darling … you seem so sad.”

Gwen melted into her mother’s warmth. For just a moment, she thought how wonderful it would be to tell her mother everything. To let it all out.

No
.

“I
am
sad … about Dad,” Gwen said carefully.

“So am I …” Her mother’s voice cracked. She hugged Gwen tighter.

Gwen’s eyes filled. She squeezed them shut.

Her mother held her at arm’s length, her eyes wet with tears.

“You’re a wonderful daughter, to care so much.”

Oh God
.

“But it’s still not healthy. Maybe Dr. Chan was right. Maybe you need help.”

“No!” Gwen cried. “No, Mom, I don’t. Really –”

Her mother placed two fingers over Gwen’s lips. She gazed at her daughter. Finally she said, “We’ll give it a little longer. But I’m not letting you go on like this, Gwen.”

I can’t go on like this either
, Gwen thought.
But what can I do? What can I do?

The next day, Gwen’s mom went back to Vancouver. She’d been going every few days, having Sally stay over with Gwen and Percy when she could, checking in on them when she couldn’t. After her mother left, Gwen was sitting, as usual, in the living room when Percy came in. Gwen had noticed that he did this now: instead of playing soccer or building tree forts or scavenging on the beach with his friends, he stayed indoors, shadowing their mother when she was home, following Gwen around when she was away. Or he stayed in his room – doing what, Gwen didn’t know. Sleeping, maybe. Or staring out the window, like she did. Whatever it was, he was quiet.

Listlessly, he ran his racing cars up and down the windowsill, moving his arms mechanically, not making the gear-grinding, engine-throttling, metal-crashing noises that usually accompanied this play. Gwen took a good look at him for the first time in days. His face was pale, the freckles standing out sharply against his white skin. There were circles under his eyes.
No wonder
, Gwen thought; lately she’d heard him crying in the night. Even from the floor below, she’d be awakened by the high-pitched sound of his little-boy sobs.

On nights when their mother was home, Gwen would lie in her bed and listen for the sound of her footsteps crossing the hallway above, the soothing murmurs, Percy’s half-articulated “Daddy …” and “scared …” and “die …,” then the gradual hushing of his cries, the soft footfalls padding back across the hall.

Last night, though, their mother had been in Vancouver, and Gwen was awakened by Percy’s muffled weeping. She lay there, rigid, knowing she should go to him, unable to move. What could she say to him? How could she comfort him? So she stayed where she was, listening to every choked sob, until his cries finally tapered into silence.

Now, he put down the cars and stood in front of Gwen.

“Gwen?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you miss Daddy?”

Gwen froze. “Yes.”

“Me too. A lot.” A pause. “I wish I could see him. Just … see him.”

Gwen didn’t answer.
Me too
. She longed for it. She was terrified at the thought.

Percy put his hand on Gwen’s arm. “Gwen? Daddy’s really bad, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

He swallowed. “Gwen?”

“Yeah?”

“What if … what if he doesn’t make it?”

Gwen threw off his hand. “Percy, for God’s sake! What kind of a thing is that to say?”

“But I just want to know –”

“That’s horrible!”

“But Gwen -”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But what if –”

“Forget it!

He stared at her, lip trembling. Then he ran upstairs.

Gwen gripped the arms of her chair, waiting for her heart to stop racing. She focused on the view. Clouds scudded across the sky like tumbling rolls of cotton. A fishing boat became a distant speck. Slowly her breathing returned to normal. She emptied her mind. No thoughts. No questions. She sat, a rock, a tree, watching the sky grow dark, watching night creep up from the horizon like a curtain being drawn upward from the edge of the earth.

I
pound on the door. I’m supposed to meet Cal here so we can talk to Bridget and find out what she wants me to do. But I’ve come early, on purpose, to have it out with Gwen.

No one answers. I pound again, harder. Finally the door opens. Gwen stares at me. I don’t let her say a word. “You ratted on me!” I yell, stepping inside.

“What?”

“You ratted me out! Called the cops and got me in trouble.”

Only it turns out I was wrong. It couldn’t have been her, because she was in the hospital at the time. She had been with her dad in that avalanche. How was I supposed to know?

I turn away and Gwen closes the door. Of course I feel like an ass. She looked devastated to be accused. But there’s more to it than that, I think. She seems … weird. Not quite there. Haggard. And what’s up with that crazy, ragged haircut? I guess being in an avalanche can really mess you up.

Now what? Cal isn’t here yet. I figure I’ll wait for him on the
porch. Just as I go to sit down on a chair, Bridget comes out of the kitchen and sees me.

“Molly!” she says. “Oh, Molly, what have you done?” Only she doesn’t say it harshly, like my mom; she says it as if her heart’s breaking. As if she had such hopes for me, and I’ve totally let her down.

“I’m sorry, Bridget,” I say, my voice thick. “I’m so sorry.”

She takes two steps toward me and wraps me in her arms. How can she hug me? I hug her back, fighting tears. She steps away, holding me by the shoulders. “You crazy girl! How could you be so stupid? You knew that stove was old and rickety.” Before I can answer, she says, “I’m just so glad you’re all right. You could have been killed!”

I can’t believe this. It makes me feel worse. I wish she was mad. I wish she’d yell and scream and let me have it.

I deserve it. Walking here today, I couldn’t avoid going by the cabin. It’s nothing but a pile of ash and scorched earth, a few half-burned boards scattered like oversize matchsticks. The woodstove, its chimney toppled over, stands in the middle of the cold ashes like a wrecked ship. There’s a smell of old, wet charcoal, like when you douse a campfire.

I didn’t want to look, but I had to. I wanted to turn back the clock. I wanted to dig a hole and disappear into it.

Now, Bridget shakes her head. “What’s happened to you, Molly?”

I don’t know if she means
Where have you been?
or
What have
you turned into?
I pretend she means the first. “Oh, I’ve been around … you know … hanging out …”

She gives me a look. I’m not fooling her. “I don’t hear good things.”

I look away. “Does Andrew know?” I ask in a low voice.

She gives a strangled laugh. “Andrew? No. Andrew’s mostly been unconscious. On top of that, Gwen thinks she’s injured. Percy’s a mess. And I …” She runs a hand through her wavy black hair. She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to. There’ve always been lines in her face, vertical lines down her cheeks, horizontal lines in her forehead – but now they’re deeper. There are dark shadows under her eyes. She looks old.