Читать книгу Fire in the Stars - Barbara Fradkin - Страница 5

As the bleak tundra of the southern tip gave way to the canyons of the Humber River valley, Amanda felt the tug of this extreme, unforgiving land. Over the centuries, countless explorers had been lured to the soaring cliffs and dark, secretive forests, but its storms were too fierce and its terrain too barren for all but the most intrepid to settle. The first nor’easter to come through blew most of them off the island, leaving only a few stubborn and contrary fishermen clinging to its sheltered coves.

But it was this primal challenge of nature that excited her. She was in search of a toehold in something pure and timeless, beyond the struggles and cruelties of man — a sense of awe and inspiration that would lift her above the quagmire of her life and help her see further down the road.

Because she knew she could not go back to Africa.

She leaned into the wind and felt the engine throb as she accelerated down the empty road. The bike chewed up the kilometres effortlessly, leaving her thoughts free to return to Phil. She hadn’t seen him in nearly a year since they had both managed to reach the capital of Nigeria. Like her, he’d been a feral shadow of himself, scrawny with hunger and fear, his blue eyes hollow above his matted, black beard. It had taken her three hours in the hotel bath to soak the pain and filth from her body, but Phil had barely tried. He’d just wanted to go home.

Home at the moment was Grand Falls, Newfoundland, where Sheri had lived until her university years and where she and their son were waiting for him. Tyler had been born in happier times when they were all working together for Save the Children in Cambodia, but Sheri had wisely refused to bring him to unstable West Africa and had moved back home instead to live with her parents until Phil’s return.

Nigeria was supposed to be a quick stint, four months at most to help the northern villages cope with the influx of refugees fleeing Boko Haram, but when the violence intensified and their replacements did not arrive, the posting had stretched to nine. Despite repeated entreaties from Sheri to come home, Phil had stayed on with Amanda. The makeshift refugee village in northern Nigeria had seemed so much more real and needy than the cozy Canadian town he barely knew.

Since their return to Canada, his emails to Amanda had been sporadic — crisp two- or three-liners about his latest joe job or his repair work on the little house they had bought on Sheri’s teacher’s salary. His determinedly upbeat emails skimmed the surface of his days, bouncing gaily over the pain of lost jobs, the empty hours, and the lingering wounds of Africa.

Just what was his state of mind? Amanda wondered now, as the afternoon shadows lengthened and the desolate expanse of black spruce continued to unfurl. Phil had never been a talker, unless it was to share a joke or a tall tale. Even now, he had couched this trip as a great adventure, not as the pilgrimage toward healing that she knew it to be. Not just for her, but for him. I can deal, he’d always say. Canadians have no right to complain. Unlike those we help, we have a warm, safe country to go home to.

But warmth and safety, she knew, was not a place. It was a state of mind.

The city of Grand Falls came up unexpectedly out of the rolling emptiness of interior Newfoundland. Unlike most of the rough-and-tumble fishing villages that had cropped up like barnacles along the rocky ocean coves, Grand Falls had been built as a pulp-and-paper company town, prosperous and orderly. But according to Phil, the closing of the mill after a hundred years had left it bruised and struggling for a new source of purpose and jobs. He’d been lucky to land seasonal work during the Christmas holidays and the mid-winter festival.

Amanda knew it wasn’t about the money, for both of them had received modest compensation for their ordeal through the NGO’s medical plan. It was about having a reason to get out of bed and a goal to aim for, preferably mindless and light. Amanda had spent her year focusing on her mind and body— yoga, meditation, and a rigorous fitness regime, all designed to make her feel in control again. Sometimes it even worked.

Phil and Sheri’s house was a small bungalow in the older section of town down near the Exploits River. The clapboard siding was painted a vibrant yellow, and purple asters and miniature white roses spilled onto the slate path leading to the covered porch, complementing the large, hand-painted welcome sign on the door. The place had an optimism that belied the worn treads on the steps and the peeling paint on the siding. Like Phil, it was making the best of lean times.

She rumbled gratefully into the gravel lane that ran up beside the house. There was a white Cavalier parked against the house, and the door flew open just as she was easing her stiff body off the bike. Sheri appeared in the doorway, her lips a tight slash of red.

“Any word?” she asked before Amanda could even say hello, sending her hopes crashing. She studied Sheri cautiously. Neither woman had ever been a fashion plate; in the places they’d worked, comfort and availability in clothing trumped any thought of style. But the woman had obviously done herself over. She’d lost the residual mommy fat and clothed her now curvaceous body in skinny jeans and long red sweater. She had cut her long brown hair to a fashionable shoulder length and added auburn streaks. Oversized gold hoop earrings danced in the sunlight.

Amanda tugged off her helmet and ran a futile hand through the dusty tangle of her hair, feeling every inch of the long, sweaty, gas-fumed drive she had endured. She shook her head.

“Fucking Phil!” Sheri said. “What the hell is he up to?”

“Maybe it’s just a mix-up. Cellphone reception over here seems to be pretty spotty.”

Sheri seemed about to retort, but stopped herself. She shielded her eyes and squinted against the sun. Her restless gaze flitted the length of the street before it lit upon Amanda’s motorcycle, where Kaylee was poking her nose eagerly through her mesh door. For the first time a smile broke Sheri’s tense features.

“What in the name of God is that?”

“My dog.”

“Oh, for the love of —” Sheri hopped off the porch, lithe as a cat, and strode over to release her. “Look at you!”

The dog bounded out to greet her as if she were a long-lost friend. “Dog in a trailer. This is a first even for you, Amanda Doucette,” she said, laughing in spite of herself as she straightened up. “Oh, come on in then, I’ll put the kettle on. Tea?” She paused on the steps. “Or something stronger?”

“Something stronger would be heaven!” Amanda’s whole body ached. She reached into her saddlebag. “I picked up some wine.”

Inside, the house was small and simply furnished in what looked like hand-me-downs, but the curtains and cushions were made of bright prints bought for pennies in Asian and African street markets. Late-afternoon sunshine spilled through the bay window, setting the reds and golds in the fabric aflame. Amanda followed Sheri into the kitchen and filled the dog’s water bowl while Sheri opened the wine.

“This is a treat,” Sheri said. “All I have in the fridge is half a bottle of blueberry wine. I don’t keep much in the house because Phil —” She broke off and turned quickly to get the glasses.

Amanda hid her surprise. Phil had never been much of a drinker, despite the many opportunities afforded by the foreign aid circuit. Back in the living room, Amanda sagged into a rocking chair and took a grateful sip of wine. In the silence, Sheri paced to the window and stared outside. For the thousandth time, Amanda suspected.

She approached the issue carefully. “What’s Phil doing, Sheri?”

Sheri swung around, tightening her jaw. “I thought he was going camping with you.”

“Well, he was. He wanted to show me the whales and icebergs. He was very proud of your island. His adopted home.”

Sheri blew out a small puff of air. Dismissive and impatient. “Where are you two supposed to be going?”

“That’s the thing. He was looking into it, checking out the most spectacular places and what campsites were open where I could take the dog. He was going to tell me where to meet him.”

Sheri’s eyes narrowed, and Amanda could almost see her searching her thoughts. “Whales and icebergs. Now there’d be plenty of them in Newfoundland. Could be anywhere, from the Avalon Peninsula near St. John’s to Gros Morne on the west. Even Twillingate, in Notre Dame Bay just up north there —” she pointed “— that would be the closest.”

“I think he wanted something wild. Not a place full of B&Bs and tourists.”

“Probably not the Avalon, then. But it’s a big, empty island most of the year. Lots of rocks and ocean to choose from.”

Amanda took another small sip of her wine, which was already going to her head after the long drive. Sheri, she noticed, had almost finished hers. “Did he drop any hints? Any place he really wanted to see?”

Instead of answering, Sheri turned away from the window. “You must be hungry after that ride. I’ve got some cookies in the cupboard.”

Amanda followed her back into the kitchen. “Didn’t he talk about the trip at all?”

Sheri’s back was rigid as she rummaged through the shelves. “No, he didn’t. That was between him and you. He knew I wasn’t thrilled. He just said it was something he had to do. Something you and he had to do.”

Amanda hid her surprise. “I’m sorry, I thought … he said it was your idea.”

“Did he, now?”

Amanda cast about for a way out of the hole she’d dug. “He was doing it for me, Sheri. To help me get past the awful time in Nigeria. He thought your island — his island — would give me a lift. That’s all. I would never —”

Sheri gave an odd, strangled grunt. “Since when have you needed help with that?”

“I’ve been kind of stuck back at home. I couldn’t just go back to my old life on the front lines, but I didn’t know what I wanted to do next.”

“And you figured a few whales and icebergs with my husband would do the trick?”

So there it was. Tossed on the floor between them like a sack of stinking garbage. The rebuke and bitterness. The unspoken jealousy. Amanda wanted to say Phil and I have been friends for a long time, since graduate school, and we’ve been through a lot together, but he chose you, remember? Without question, without doubt. But that wouldn’t be enough.

Sheri had piled almost the entire box of cookies onto a plate before Amanda reached out to stop her hand. “Sheri, Phil loves you. Always has. You were his rock during that terrifying time. But Nigeria wasn’t like other posts. You just don’t walk away from it. I needed a way to heal, and I know Phil needed that too.”

Sheri managed a brusque nod, stared at the plate of cookies and eventually heaved a sigh. Her words tumbled out, as if they had been dammed up for months. “Yes, damn it. I know that. I’ve tried to be patient this past year. Tried to keep our home stable and happy, for Tyler’s sake as well as Phil’s. But he shut me out with this fucking, monstrous wall. Everything’s hunky dory, he said. I just need a little time, a little space. Don’t nag me. Goddamn! I’m not a needy wife, you know that, Amanda. He said I didn’t understand, but I did. I haven’t lived my whole life on this sheltered little island. We met in Senegal working with AIDS orphans, for God’s sake!”

“Nigeria was different.”

“He knew that going in! He chose to go there, even when I told him not to. He chose it —”

“Aid workers were pulling out in droves. He knew they needed him.”

“And Tyler and I didn’t? And now we’re the ones paying the price!”

Not as much as the kidnapped school boys, Amanda thought. Anger was never far from the surface these days, and now she felt it bubbling through her, tugging at her thin, fraying reins of control. She tamped it down. “I know you are. So is Phil,” was all she said.

Sheri snatched up the plate and stalked back into the living room. “Why do you think I’ve tried so hard? I know he’s a good guy and if he’s got a fault, it’s that he cares too much. He can’t turn his back on suffering.” To Amanda’s surprise, tears welled in Sheri’s eyes. Sheri was seasoned and strong, and tears didn’t come easily.

Amanda softened. “So what happened, Sheri? What’s this about?”

The tears hovered on her lashes. For a long moment she said nothing. Took one breath. Two. “I turned my back,” she whispered.

Amanda said nothing. Waited.

“I didn’t mean to. I needed … a friend. At first it was just for Tyler. This friend. He was Tyler’s hockey coach and kind of took Tyler under his wing while Phil was away. Later we’d all go out for pizza after the game, and he fixed a few things around the house here. Shovelled the drive during that awful winter last year.” Sheri broke off. She picked up her wine with a trembling hand, brought the glass to her lips, and drained it. Once again, Amanda fought her own rising temper.

“Nothing happened. I mean, not then. When Phil came home, the guy backed off. But Tyler … Phil spent long hours out in the bush, fishing, riding his dirt bike, doing I never knew what.”

“You don’t have to tell me all this, Sheri. I get it.”

Sheri must have heard the grit in her voice, for she shot her a glance. Flushed. “No, you don’t! Because I didn’t want it to happen! I know that sounds like a cliché, but I love Phil. He’s Tyler’s father. Tyler needs him, not some hockey coach! But the Phil who came home was a stranger. He pushed us both away. Tyler didn’t understand why my friend no longer did things with him and why his own father ignored him. This cold, brooding, Mr. Unreliable was hurting my son.”

Don’t pretend you did this for Tyler, Amanda wanted to say, but she held her tongue. “Our work is brutal on relationships,” she managed, strangling on her self-control.

“You can’t imagine how helpless I felt,” Sheri said. Then she paused, as if she heard herself. Flushed. “I’m sorry, I guess you can.”

“Yes.”

“And I know my problems sound trivial compared to Phil’s and yours. They are trivial! But … but …” She raised her hands in futile defeat.

“Okay, so what happened? You started seeing the guy and Phil found out?”

Sheri thrust her chin out. She had always been a fighter and hated to be cornered. Amanda’s challenge was enough to energize her. “No. I finally realized I couldn’t help Phil if he wouldn’t let me, but I could help my son. So I told Phil I was leaving him.”

“When?”

“A week ago. I told him I’d met someone. I thought maybe it would be the jolt he needed. He wanted to know who, but I wouldn’t tell him.”

“And how did he …?” Amanda let the silence hang, too upset to trust herself with more words. The image of Phil in Nigeria, haunted and hollow, rose before her.

“He took off into the bush for four days, and when he came back, he said I was right. He’d been a bastard and he was glad I’d found someone who treated me better. But he still wanted to be a good father to Tyler, so he hoped the father-son camping trip was still on.”

Amanda felt a sliver of fear slip through her gut. Tyler had never been part of the plan. She and Phil couldn’t predict what demons would be dredged up, what drunken rages and howling tears, what cathartic challenges the wind and the cliffs and the surf would hurl at them. It was not an adventure for a child.

But now Phil had cut her out and had taken off with his son, after feeding Sheri a pile of lies about forgiveness, understanding, and fatherly concern. Amanda knew Phil. He had always loved Sheri, but during the deepest darkness of Nigeria, he had clung to her memory like a drowning man. Afterward, he had ignored the advice of counsellors and debriefers in his headlong rush to get back to her.

Five days to put all that behind him, to master his rage and despair, and to reach a state of calm forgiveness?

Not a chance.

Instinctively she snapped her fingers to call her dog to her, so that she could sink her fingers into her soft, warm fur. Reading her distress, Kaylee nuzzled her and licked her hand. Amanda took a deep breath, stepped back from her fear, and rallied her common sense.

“What gear did he pack?”

“Camping stuff — tent, sleeping bags, cooking gear, life jackets.”

“Boat? Kayaks?”

Sheri shook her head. “Those are still out back. He said you guys would rent what you need.”

“Navigational gear? Sat phone, personal-locator beacons, GPS?”

“You know Phil. He likes the old-fashioned way.”

“Didn’t he at least take his cellphone? I’ve been texting him and he’s not answering.”

Sheri shrugged. “I haven’t seen it. He may have it on him, but it could be turned off. He does that when he doesn’t want to talk to people.”

Amanda pulled out her own phone. “We should check in the house. If it’s turned on, we’ll hear it. We might find some clues too.” She punched in Phil’s number. She listened for ringing as she walked through the kitchen and dining area into the small den. The house was neat and full of local art from their travels, but no maps or guidebooks had been left on the tables to provide clues. When Phil’s cheerful voicemail message came on, she dialled again.

“Do you mind if I check upstairs in your bedroom? It’s ringing, so it’s turned on. He may have left it there.”

Sheri waved her hand in permission. “Since you called this morning, I’ve pretty much torn the place apart, but be my guest. Phil’s been staying in the spare room since he came back from Nigeria. He has trouble sleeping so he’s often up reading or watching TV. He says he feels better not disturbing me.”

Amanda nodded. The depths of night were always the worst, when the wakeful mind filled the darkness with fiery images, screams, and the incessant yammer of self-doubt. She mounted the stairs, listening for a phone. Kaylee bounded ahead of her as Amanda had taught her, providing comforting reassurance that no danger lay ahead. Phil’s little room was a mess; bedding was flung back, drawers opened, and clothing strewn about. Papers were spilled all over the desk, and Phil’s laptop was open.

Sheri came up behind her. “I tried it,” she said. “But he must have changed his password. It used to be ‘password.’”

They both shared a spontaneous grin. How like impatient, cavalier Phil.

“Do you mind if I take it?” Amanda asked. “I’ll try to figure it out later.”

When Sheri shrugged her acceptance, Amanda closed the laptop and picked it up. She scanned the room, but there were no telltale maps or brochures, and the only books in the bookcase were dog-eared thrillers and university texts from his global development studies.

No sound of a cellphone ringing, either.

Tucking the laptop under her arm, she went back downstairs, with Sheri at her heels. “Let’s check the shed.”

Like their house, their backyard was neatly kept. The grass was lush and mowed, the perennials trimmed and mulched. Gladioli were swollen with buds, and purple asters and nasturtiums spilled over their beds. Phil’s kayaks and small aluminum fishing boat were stacked on racks beside the shed.

As unreliable as Phil was with people, he had always taken excellent care of his physical space, as if it at least was under his control. Amanda opened the shed door. Inside, garden tools and bicycles hung on walls, and supplies and equipment were stored on shelves. Hockey and ski equipment was suspended on the beams overhead for next winter. A mower and snow blower took up one corner, a stack of winter tires another.

All the usual equipment of a middle-class homeowner. Nothing unusual struck her. He had an entire cabinet of fishing paraphernalia, but no guns or hunting gear. Phil had grown up in rural Manitoba with an annual family tradition of duck and deer hunting, but since his first encounter with tribal violence overseas, he had rejected all guns.

But that was before Nigeria.

Amanda turned to Sheri, who was examining his supply of fishing rods. “Did he have a gun?”

Sheri whipped her head back and forth. “He hates them now more than ever. My … my friend wanted to take Tyler moose-hunting last fall — that’s almost a Newfoundland rite of passage — but Phil blew a fuse.” She paused, fingering the long, slim rods. “He’s taken two of his salmon rods and his wading gear. That’s not much help, since salmon brooks and rivers are everywhere.”

“That’s good, though,” Amanda said. “It shows he’s still following a plan.”

Her cellphone had gone to Phil’s voicemail again so Amanda dialled a third time. From deep in the farthest corner of the shed came the muted sounds of a trumpet call. Both women rushed over. The sound was coming from somewhere in a pile of equipment beside the fishing cabinet. They tossed aside a folded tarp, dug out a bag of fertilizer, and began to shove aside the stack of tires. The trumpet trill grew louder. Finally, half hidden beneath the tires, Amanda found the phone.

The front screen was completely filled with notifications, most of them text and phone messages from Sheri and Amanda, none of them even opened, let alone answered.

Sheri craned her neck over Amanda’s shoulder to catch a glimpse. Seeing the unread messages, she swore.

“Oh, spectacular! So now he doesn’t even have a phone!”

Still squatting in the corner, Amanda glanced around the shed. How had the phone ended up buried under the tires? Someone had to move a tarp, a bag of fertilizer, and four heavy tires in order to hide it there. That made no sense. If Phil had simply put his phone down while collecting his fishing gear, or if it had fallen out of his pocket, it should have been sitting in plain sight, on top of the tarp, not underneath.

It was almost as if he had hidden it on purpose. But why go to all that trouble? If Phil wanted to get rid of the phone, so that no one could reach him or track him, why not just throw it in a Dumpster on his way out of town?

She tried to imagine the twisted path of Phil’s reasoning. He had discarded his phone, but rather than throwing it away, he’d left it within easy earshot of the house. Had that been deliberate? Had he known that a little ingenuity and detective work would discover it? Was he counting on that? Was he counting on the confusion and worry that discovery would provoke?

Amanda held the phone in suddenly nerveless fingers. Did he want Sheri to find it, she wondered? And to know that he had chosen to cut all ties? Did he want her to know that he was beyond reach? Beyond salvation?

The ultimate revenge.

She stood up, bumping into Sheri in her haste to turn around. “I think you better call the police.”