Читать книгу Tracker's Canyon - Pam Withers - Страница 6

I roll up to the shop, lock my bike, and banish the guilt trip that hitched a ride over with me. I really hate asking my uncle for money.

“Hey, Uncle Ted.” My mother’s kind but ever-anxious brother, dressed in jeans and a wrinkled flannel shirt, is hunched over accounting books in the backroom, as usual.

“Tristan! Good to see you.”

Except that he knows why I’m here. He knows it rips me up to come into the shop for any other reason.

“Mom says hi and to remind you about picking her up for the doctor’s appointment.”

“Hey, have I missed one yet? How’s she doing?” He says it mechanically, like he doesn’t really expect an answer.

I paste on a smile. “I don’t like to bug you, Uncle Ted, but we’re —”

“— out of grocery money already?” He wipes beads of sweat from his balding head and frowns at the columns of numbers in front of him.

“And one of the hoses to the washing machine thinks it’s a fountain. I tried to fix it, but we might need a plumber.”

“A plumber.” The frown deepens.

“Sorry, Uncle Ted. I’m working on being a washer repair whiz, but I’m not there yet.”

He leans back in the leather swivel chair, which squeaks just like it always did when my dad sat in it. I tamp down the longing for my father to step in, slap Uncle Ted on the back, muss up my hair, and tell us how business is booming and all is right with the world, even though things weren’t great the months before he disappeared. We were struggling when it came to money, for sure. But he was Mr. Positive, Mr. Happy, Best Dad Ever.

Except for when he closed himself off in his study to read all those dusty books about the gold-rush days or spent hours at our creek with his gold pan.

“Time-warped 49er,” the neighbours used to joke.

“My precious prospector,” Mom teased him.

But everyone needs a hobby, and I loved the gold-rush stories he told, and the musical chime of flowing water when I joined him by the creek. I miss him, every piece of him. Just imagining his presence now warms the room.

“Trouble is, Tristan, the shop isn’t doing so well,” Uncle Ted is saying. “I just can’t keep up with the business like your father did. It’s him the customers came for, not me. And even he was finding it a challenge to turn a profit. I’m useless with accounting stuff. Plus, there’s all the fuss with the insurance companies not having proof of his — what I’m saying is, I’m doing the best I can, but — oh, darn. I don’t mean to trouble you when you and my sister have difficulties enough.”

He produces his wallet, fishes out most of his bills, and lays them in my palm. “I’ll call for a plumber, okay? How’s school and stuff?”

My fingers close over the money. “School’s excellent. I miss all my friends in climbing club, though. You know, if you cut back on Elspeth’s hours —”

“Tristan, we’ve been through this before. She’s Mary’s biggest comfort, and — well, you’re right, she costs a little, but not that much. Let’s just wait till your mother is a little better.” He lifts a hand and puts it awkwardly on my shoulder.

He seems to have missed the hint about climbing club fees, but — I sigh — he’s right about Elspeth being important to Mom.

“Tristan,” he says, “the coffee maker is on the fritz today. Any chance you could run down to the café and get me a decent cup of coffee? Grab yourself a doughnut while you’re at it, and come back and sit with me a while.”

“Sure, Uncle Ted.” My taste buds are already wrapped around that doughnut.

• • •

Ten minutes later I’m about to re-enter the shop when I notice he has a customer, and she’s wearing black fitness gear. I sink down on the wood bench outside the open window, hoping to learn more about the young woman I saw at school.

“I see,” Uncle Ted is saying. “Well, unfortunately, it’s Rafael you should talk with. He’s the employee who can best advise you on canyoneering gear, but he’s on vacation this week.”

“So you’re the owner?” she asks. “But you’re not a climber or a canyoneer?”

Uncle Ted hangs his head. “I took over from my brother-in-law eight months ago. I don’t know these sports like he did. Just holding down the fort till — Are you in a hurry for the equipment?”

“Well, yes, actually. Just had a couple of people book a trip on Sunday. It would be on Swallow Canyon Expeditions’ account. I’m a new guide there. Name is Brigit Dowling. Here’s my business card.”

“Dowling, eh? You look young to be a guide,” Uncle Ted says with a half smile.

“I’m nineteen and fully qualified,” she replies briskly.

Dowling is Dean’s last name, so she must be his sister, I reflect, before rising from my bench, strolling in, and handing the coffee — before it gets cold — to Uncle Ted.

“Dowling … ” Uncle Ted repeats, scratching his head like maybe her name rings a bell with him. Then he shrugs like he has given up trying to place her.

“Welcome to Canyons and Trails. I’m Tristan Gordon. Can I help you?” I address this skinny woman with long, limp hair and a rather severe face.

She looks me up and down. “I don’t know. Can you?”

“I’m betting I can. What kind of equipment are you after?”

“Anchors.”

“Okay, what level of canyoneering will your customers be tackling? And are you thinking natural anchors or bolted belay stations?”

She pauses, looks from Uncle Ted to me. She’s not good-looking, I decide, but has plenty of muscle tone and a self-assured manner.

“You’re in good hands with my nephew,” my uncle encourages her. “Hoping to get him to take over the shop soon.”

I throw him the usual sardonic look. Uncle Ted needs to hold it together another year until I graduate, then go back to being a car mechanic. He pats me on my shoulder and lopes back to the rear office.

“We’re intending to use boulder pinches for anchors,” Brigit says.

I smile inwardly, knowing she’s testing me.

“Then I’d suggest you go for sixteen-millimetre tubular webbing.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because it’s stronger — better for making the knot chock anchors you’ll probably set.”

She nods, like she’s warming up to me. Soon we’re discussing anchors, webbing, static ropes, and belay devices. But between the words, we’re jousting like fencers to determine one another’s rank and knowledge level. By my calculation, it’s a draw.

Finally, she hauls her load of webbing and rappel rings to the counter. Absent-minded Uncle Ted doesn’t appear right away from the backroom.

“Have you been canyoneering long?” she asks.

“Most of my life.” It’s what Dad and I did together, along with tracking, but she doesn’t need to know that. “And you?”

“Most of my life,” she echoes with a bemused smile. “Just moved here two months ago from Lillooet.”

An hour away. “And you work for Swallow Canyon Expeditions.” I nod at the logo on her T-shirt, the sight of which makes my chest tighten.

“Yup. Ever done Swallow Canyon?”

That question again. “The Upper Canyon a thousand times.” Well, a hundred, anyway. I lift my chin.

“And the Lower Canyon?”

My chin sinks. I saw the second question coming, but my body goes stiff, anyway.

A smile creeps onto her lips at my reaction, unless I’m imagining it.

“Of course not. You?” I say.

“Once.”

As if! “And you came back alive.”

“I did.” Suddenly, Brigit leans across the counter, her eyes glowing. “I’ll take you into the Lower Canyon sometime if you like.”

My stomach knots up, and I draw back and stare at her. My first impulse is to spin around and leave her with Uncle Ted, who seems to have forgotten we’re even here. But I’m shocked at the part of me that is tempted to accept. Not because I’m suicidal or anything. Maybe just because it has been so long since I’ve been in any part of Swallow Canyon, or for that matter, had anyone invite me to do anything more than fetch groceries and medicine. Or maybe this Brigit person has some kind of power over people. The way she ordered the firefighters around. The way she just made my uncle feel bad for running a canyoneering and climbing store and not being an expert.

The way she seems to sense my need to escape and have an adventure.

No way. I’ve got to stick close to Mom.

“Saw your brother’s tree-climbing stunt yesterday at school,” I say to counter her bizarre offer.

She smiles like there has been no abrupt change of topic. “You were there? I suppose most of the school saw it. Dean has a knack for climbing trees. He got in big trouble for it, like he seemed to be asking for — from school and me. He’ll grow out of it soon, I hope.”

My father’s chair squeaks as Uncle Ted rises and cruises up to the counter. “Sorry, I didn’t know you two were waiting for me. Wow, Brigit, you’ve managed to find quite a few things. I take it Tristan here was useful? Excellent. I’ll ring them in. It’s a pleasure doing business with Swallow Canyon Expeditions.”

“Thanks,” she says and looks at me. “Can you help me carry all this to my truck?”

“Of course he will,” Uncle Ted tells the best customer he has had in weeks, drowning out my “Yes.”

As she unlocks the blue Chevy pickup parked outside, she says, “So, no charge if you want to join the trip I’m guiding Sunday. Could use an experienced hand along.”

“To the Lower Canyon?” I ask incredulously.

She laughs lightly. “No, the Upper Canyon, of course.”

“Sorry, I’d never get permission for that.” My face goes warm for having admitted it. Elspeth is with Mom while I’m at school, but I’m the weekend caretaker. No way can I leave my mom alone an entire day. Who would cook, clean, and listen for when she calls out? Besides, I don’t quite get Dean’s older sister. Why would she offer a complete stranger a free day trip? Maybe because she has heard about my family? (In small towns, gossip travels fast, even if I’ve been too out of the loop to hear anything about her.) If that’s it and she feels sorry for me, I’m out of here. I don’t need anyone’s help.

She lifts the pile of canyoneering gear from my arms and tosses it into the back of the pickup.

“You wouldn’t get permission? You haven’t even asked!”

Then, without a “nice to meet you” or “thanks for the help,” she climbs in, slams the driver’s door shut, fires up the engine, and drives away. Her ancient mountain bike rattles from where it’s tied up in the back.

I’m left standing there, coughing up road dust and scratching my head. A part of me would do anything to canyoneer again — to reclaim the sport I love and miss. Even if it does trigger thoughts that can cut me up like a chainsaw: flashbacks of happy trips with Dad that fight with the crippling memory of the day two grim-faced police officers showed up at our door, and blew up the entire planet.

But anyway, I’m not going to find my way back to the canyoneering world anytime soon. Mom needs me, and she’s so fragile. Just the word “canyon” would trigger her.

Of course, I’d never try to explain to her that canyoneering was a special connection Dad and I had. Which is why, despite the tragedy, it’s a link to my father that I’ll never stop craving.