“Thanks, Tristan, but I’m feeling rather sleepy.”
“Maybe a little walk would wake you up? It’s a nice day, Mom. We could go sit in the grotto.” The grotto is a cool fake cave Dad and I built by the stream at the foot of our property. It’s where we used to spend lots of fun family time.
Oops, mistake. The tears start down her cheeks.
… patience for now. Then, when you return with what your father left behind for you, it will all be okay.
“No!” I say out loud.
My mother’s body jerks in alarm. “Tristan?”
“Sorry, Mom. Sorry, sorry.” I lean across the bed and wrap her in my arms, absorb her sobs. The more I absorb, the better she’ll get, right?
If only her shrivelled body didn’t feel like a clutch of bones. Soon I leap up and run down the stairs, two at a time. I snatch the eggs and crack them so hard against the mixing bowl rim that the shells disintegrate into a thousand sticky pieces.
Embrace calm.
The bowl, suddenly gone blurry through my tears, is the one in which Mom, a former bakery manager, used to make brownies, cookies, and cakes, including special birthday cakes for me resembling things like fire engines, and later, anime action figures. And giant chocolate-coloured hearts for my dad. We were a real family then.
Maybe flinging pans around will drown out the memory of Elspeth’s words.
“She — will — get — better,” I declare to the moped tracks still visible out the kitchen window. “With or without your psycho-shit.”
My negatory detect-o-meter is screeching. But at this moment, I don’t have the energy to care.
CHAPTER 3
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