She slips downstairs and her father is in his study with a beer. He’s staring at an old map of Nova Scotia. He’s also smoking, something he gave up years ago, but has been doing more and more since they came to Seabury.
“Dad, how about I do some laundry?” She realizes her father knows nothing about her wardrobe or her underwear situation. He has no idea of what a twelve-almost-thirteen-year-old needs.
He blinks slowly a few times. Stella sees he’s still drunk. “That’s a good idea. I’ll get some laundry soap. There’s a washer in the cellar but no dryer. You’ll have to use the clothesline. We’ll have to get you a winter coat, and some boots.”
“When the moving truck comes, I’ll have my winter clothes, Dad. They’ll still fit me. Mom always bought things a size up. And Cynthia says she’ll give me some of her clothes. You should see her closet. It’s packed. She doesn’t even wear most of it, she says.”
Stella’s father is grateful for the small talk. “I’m sorry about tonight. I guess we got carried away. I’ll be up to tuck you in.”
Stella hovers by the door.
“Yes, Stella? What is it?”
“Can you call the moving company again?”
He sips his beer. “Sure, Little Bear. I’ll do that first thing tomorrow. Now get to bed.”
Stella falls asleep waiting for her father to tuck her in. She dreams she is in a boat on a placid sea, the surface reflecting the sky. She runs her fingers through the clouds in the water but they aren’t a reflection and they come out of the water on her fingers, strange seaweed, clouds that exist in the sky and in the water. There is a splash and she looks to the horizon, where the sky and the water merge. The ocean sky ripples in the distance and the undulating clouds reach the boat. Stella sees something, someone, in the water, swimming, someone down deep but coming up. The surface breaks and through the sky and clouds of the water pops out a wet head, closed eyes — and the eyes open. It is her mother, and she smiles at Stella, who starts weeping and reaches for her. Catriona cries but her tears are black pearls. She reaches out to Stella and their fingers almost touch, but Catriona slips below the surface and Stella is alone in the boat that floats on the rippling sky.
The Poet and the Podcaster.
Now
This time Mal walked through the front doors of the Jericho County Care Centre and went to the front desk. She pumped the hand sanitizer on the counter as she waited by the Plexiglas screen. Not that there had been anyone outside when she arrived — the bench where the old lady was sitting last time, empty. She asked for Grace Belliveau. It was simple, and Mal wished she had done this the first time, instead of acting on her nerves and speaking to the old lady. The young guy at the desk put the phone down. “I can’t reach her. Do you want me to page her?”
“Yes, that would be awesome.” Mal smiled, waiting for him to ask her name but he didn’t.
He pressed a button on the phone and Grace’s name came out over the loudspeaker. Mal wondered what it would be like to live in a place where there were announcements and pages. She couldn’t imagine. There was a sign reminding visitors not to shake hands or hug, and not to take photos or videos anywhere on the premises.
Then Grace was at the desk, smiling as she came over to Mal. They didn’t shake hands. Grace was friendly but reserved, her smile thin but sincere. Grace, unlike Mal, was not reckless.
“Hi. You were looking for me?”
“Yes, I’m doing some research. Jillian at the historical society said you worked here. I’m hoping you can help me. I was driving by and just thought I’d . . . stop in.” Mal knew this sounded ludicrous. But she hadn’t called for fear Grace would refuse to speak to her. Mal didn’t mention meeting the old lady with the clicking teeth, or her encounter with Dianne or Stella. She had the good sense to keep this from Grace. It would look like she was interrogating the residents without having gone through the official channels — exactly what she had done.
“My name is Mal. I’m a journalist and I’m working on a story about an international company with ties to rural Nova Scotia. I was hoping you could help put me in touch with Stella Sprague. I believe she lives here.”
Grace stopped smiling. “I can’t discuss residents, Mal. And in order to speak to Stella you would have to talk to her guardian. And that would involve contacting the Department of Community Services.”
“But doesn’t she have any relatives?” Mal realized she hadn’t even given this woman her full name, or said where she was working. “I was talking to a friend of hers, Seraphina?”
Grace laughed and then quickly composed herself. “Ah, yes, Seraphina. Well, I would take everything she says right now with a grain of salt. How do you know her?”
It came out of her mouth before she could think of something professional to say. “Her mother was friends with my mother . . . when they were kids . . . a long time ago.”
“Oh, so you’re from here?” Grace’s voice was professional and controlled, but curious.
“No, but my mother was, from outside of Bigelow Bay. Look, I just need to talk to Stella, to figure out her connection to Mercy Lake. I found an article in the paper.”
“I guess you should do more research, if you’re a journalist.” Grace’s tone was more maternal now, patient, with Mal so obviously unsure of what she was doing.
“I’m
