Hush

my outside pain and not how badly I was hurting inside.Cutting became somewhat of a ritual for me. Whenever my heart wasaching, I’d go to my room and drag the knife along my legs. Onenight during dinner, my father had made jokes about me being gay. Iwent to my room and got out the knife. This time, I pushed a littletoo hard on the blade, slicing through a vein on my thigh. Therewas a huge gash and I couldn’t stop the bleeding. I called for mymom to come to my room. As soon as she saw my leg, she called theambulance. After hours at the hospital, I ended up getting tenstitches. The drive home with my parents was unbearable. My fatherkept telling me how I embarrassed him by cutting myself. My motherdidn’t say a word, as usual. To this day, I still have the scar onmy leg.

I wipe my eyes so that thepeople who are parked close can’t see that I am crying—anotherfucked-up lesson from my father. Never let people see you cry. Theywill think you’re weak. No wonder Denny turned out to be such abasket-case.

At this point I think of mymother. How she walked around with her head down, completelysubmissive to my father’s bullshit. I wonder again, if it makes herexempt from responsibility. As much as I feel badly for everythingshe went through with Dad, I think of how she could have taken uskids and moved—anywhere. And how she didn’t. She just stuck it outand we had to stick it out with her.

I wonder if Denny ever thinksabout this. Does he feel anger towards my parents, or is he runningso fast on his journey to destruction, he doesn’t think of it atall? But how could he not? Maybe he just grabs a bottle of anythingstrong when he has a memory flash.

The one good thing my parentsreally did was let me have the cottage. I was on a fast train tonowhere before I came to Gabriola. Then, after landing a job at thehatchery and personalizing the cottage, I eventually came into myown. My head stopped racing and I didn’t have the urge toself-medicate or run from my problems anymore. Because of myphysical job at the hatchery, my body was tired and my mind couldprocess things at a slower pace.

Not that I was cured, or that Iwouldn’t fall back into my old headspace. Just going over to WestVan for my dad’s service reminded me of the way I feltbefore—confused and over-stimulated and ready to run.

Lost in thought, I don’t noticethe cars moving in the lanes beside me. The truck behind me beeps.Shit! I start the engine and slowly drive onto the ferry.

It doesn’t matter how shelteredany of the small islands may look on a map; in the Strait ofGeorgia, the wind can pick up and the sea can get choppy. Thismorning was a great example. Instead of going to the upper deck andrisk getting stuck behind people in the stairwell, I decide to rideout the twenty-five minutes in my truck.

The workers walk around the cardeck ensuring everything is secured, making it impossible for me tosmoke undetected. The penalty for lighting up is huge on the ferryand I don’t want to risk the embarrassment of landing a steep fine.I look around the car deck and wonder which vehicle Stinky isriding in. I bet his owner is all over him, giving him big shit forbolting. I open the window and get a huge whiff of sea air. I canhear the waves hitting the hull and I watch the sea foam splashonto the car deck and roll back out.

I think of Annie and wonder whythe hell she didn’t bother to text or call last night. I just prayit wasn’t because she couldn’t. I push it to the back of my mind,focusing instead on the upcoming land and ferry dock. I get out ofthe truck and walk to the front of the ship. Ever since I was ayoung girl, I’ve loved to watch the boats dock. I love the joltwhen the ferry hits the pylons.

An automated voice comes overthe loudspeaker, informing passengers of the docking. After thejolt I walk back to the truck and hop in. People are clamoring intotheir vehicles, parents securing kids in car seats, enginesrumbling to life. Then, a lane over and about three cars ahead, Isee a blond tail wagging in the back of a station wagon. Then, thetail disappears as the animal sits up. He’s wearing a red harness.Yep, that’s my Stinky. I hope they have the windows open—the peanutbutter sandwich I fed him generated some evil gas.

* * *

After a drive that seemed totake forever, I’m parking in front of the cottage. On my way to thedoor I grab a pretty purple flower from the long grass.

The door is unlocked.

I take a deep breath. Annie hasforgotten to lock the door before. Not often—only a few times—butit has happened. I put my keys in my pocket and open the door.

When it swings open, the daylight shines on the living room and I see empty beer cans, chipbags and empty glasses on the coffee table. I clutch the flower sotightly the stem breaks. I drop it outside and close the door.

“Annie?” I call, but no oneanswers.

I feel sick. I walk slowlythrough the room, which is thick with the smell of stale booze. Thebedroom door is open. I’m scared to go through, not sure what—orwho—I’ll see. Or if I’ll see anyone at all. I get a vision of Dennyforcing Annie onto his boat in the dead of night, and I push itaway.

Slowly, I open the door and peekin. Someone is lying under the covers in the bed, motionless. Icough loudly, hoping to stir the person, but the lump doesn’t move.“Hello?” I say loudly, shocking myself at the volume of my voice.Still, no movement. Slowly, I reach out to poke the lump, then Ichange my mind and grab the edge the blanket, peeling it back. Thefirst thing I see is hair, blonde hair. I whip the covers