STAFF/VOLUNTEER READER SHOWCASE
BY NANCY KAY CLARK
Copyright is held by the author.
ON THE edge where the rocks meet the lake, the wind whispered through my t-shirt, close to the tiny hairs on my arms. I dipped my cloth in the cold water and began to relax, slowing down my breath, sighing in the luxury of the breeze, in the faint morning heat on my eyelids and cheekbones. I washed my pale face, my neck, my hands, my freckled arms. Then, stripping away my shirt, I washed my underarms, my breasts and as much of my back as I could reach, shivering as the cold wet cloth hit my skin. I brushed my dark hair back from my eyes with wet fingers.
A murmur on the breeze made me look up. Through a low-lying mist, I saw the three white pines on the ship-shaped island in the southern arm of the lake. They looked like a steamer’s three smoke stacks puffing wafts of needles and branches. The ship itself was stuck in harbour, unable to move — though it kept trying. All the trees leaned forward in the effort, straining, the engines going full blast. Stocky little jack-pine men were on the deck; their arms twisted in frantic gestures.
Putting my shirt back on, my mind wandered to all the exotic destinations the white-pine ship might venture if it ever got unstuck. It had been ages since I could get on a plane and just go. I tried to breathe into my belly like the yoga instructors on YouTube had taught me and scanned my eyes across the island again. That’s when I saw one of the jack-pine men on the deck beckon me.
I blinked and fetched the binos from my backpack. Looking through the lenses, I laughed. It was just the breeze catching in the jack pine’s bows making the bow wave at me. I smiled, tempted to wave back.
“Go! Go!” I thought I heard a red squirrel chitter in the woods behind me.
Then a loon from across the lake warbled, calling to me.
I looked over my shoulder to where Ben and the kids still slept in our old, tattered tent, and I thought why not? It’ll be at least an hour and half before they wake up and want their breakfast.
I took only the essentials — sun hat, water bottle, binos, trail mix, life jacket and paddle — and launched the canoe into the morning mist. I breathed the rich air in, as my paddle broke the water, plunged deep, came out behind, and dripped, dripped, dripped forward to be plunged again. I relaxed into the security of the rhythm, and moved at a languid but sure pace towards Ship Island.
A chorus of birds greeted me as I floated by the shore past the drooping green arms of cedars and hemlocks. The breeze had died down, and the white mist had thickened, so that the outreached fingers of the trees emerged quite suddenly from the fog as I drew near, and disappeared behind just as quickly. My mind went blissfully blank. Gone were the high-pitched voices of my kids and the weight of them always there. Gone too were Ben’s complaints, the itches he couldn’t scratch, his tennis elbow, his suspicious moles, his frequent sinusitis.
I don’t know how long I paddled beside the shoreline, all in a white cloud, but when the sun finally burnt away the mist, I was nowhere near Ship Island — in fact I was not even on the lake anymore. I had veered off into the mouth of a river. Should I turn back? Where was I going again? Does it matter?
While I was pondering these questions, and wondering whether Ben could handle breakfast, the current had pulled me further down the narrowing river. I had descended into the world of mosquitoes and mating dragonflies — turquoise and blue and silver with black spots. Burping bullfrogs. A high squeak from a red-winged blackbird. Water weeds like green hair swept back in the current. My paddle brushed the strands as I stroked forward.
I should really turn back. No sooner had that thought escaped than the river seemed to close more snugly around me. Ahead, the sun sparkling on the white water lilies lured me forward. The cattails and pickerel weed, urged on by the stick-figured spruce on the shore, leaned in to brush the sides of the canoe. Movement and a splash touching my hand made me turn around in my seat. Otters? I saw nothing. Maybe it was just a frog or a turtle. I paused, leaning over the side of the canoe to look. Something blinked back at me. It was a set of tiny bulbous eyes sticking out of the water — the rest of the frog’s body was camouflaged among the lily pads and weeds. I blinked, and when I looked again I noticed other sets of eyes in the water. I was surrounded.
What am I doing? They’ll be up soon. Maddy gets scared when she can’t see me and Ella always runs off and Finn only likes the scrambled eggs I make him. I should leave here. The river had narrowed so much I couldn’t turn the canoe around — I would have to back up. I picked up my paddle, now heavy in my hands, and began to stroke backwards. But now the water weeds tangled around my paddle. I pulled it free again and again, straining against the current. The green strands seem to grip my paddle even tighter.
Soon hot and out of breath, I stopped to take a swig of water from my canteen. My arms felt heavy—my whole body weary. Conscious of the all those eyes in the water, I sat panting, warring with myself to try again, as my canoe drifted slowly down the river’s throat. They’ll wonder where I’ve gone. Becoming heady on the oxygenated air, my nostrils filled with the smell of water, rotting plant matter — and something else. What was that smell? It reminded me of a mysterious smell in our bedroom once. I couldn’t figure out what it was, until I moved a bureau and found a dead mouse. Yes, that’s what it was — rotting animal matter. I looked up and saw the turkey vultures circling. Trying to see through the thick marsh plants, I scanned the shoreline with my binos, looking for the carcass, but soon gave up.
I was surprised at myself. I would have thought that smelling death so close would upset me, but somehow it didn’t. Pee, shit, vomit, snot, sweat, puss, tears, blood from nosebleeds and bashed knees, cat hairballs, leaking garbage, overflowing compost, and clumps of wet hair in bathtub drains — I’ve dealt with them all many times. That’s what you do when you’re a parent, when you’re an adult. And I used to be so fastidious. I should do something. I should pick up that paddle again and get back — to them — to Maddy, and Ella, and Finn and . . .
But I didn’t. It was too much of an effort. He can take care of them for a while. Yeah, I know that’s mean. And it’s not that he doesn’t care for them, he does, but it’s like he prefers to be their favourite uncle not their dad.
Though the sun was high now, I shivered. Something touched my hand, but I swatted it away. A sudden breeze skittered the canoe sideways and it caught in the bulrushes. Forward momentum stopped. I was stuck, just like Ship Island I suppose.
Something on my hand again. I shook myself, trying to rally. Come on! Get unstuck. Get yourself back. There was a buzzing in my head. Where’s my water bottle? I should take another swig. Maybe eat some trail mix.
But I didn’t. Instead, I took off my life jacket, and using it as a cushion, I lay flat on the bottom of the canoe and closed my eyes. Let me rest, I pleaded to the sun, to the bulrushes, to the mosquitoes that kept landing on my hand and the frantic jack-pine men on the island I couldn’t find, let me sleep for a just a little while more.
Under the warmth of the sun, my world shrunk. With eyelids closed, I could see shadows and movement outside myself, but I didn’t care anymore what the dragonflies were doing or what the vultures were circling.
I noticed other sensations, but only fleetingly: the hardness of the Kevlar canoe against my back felt one moment and then forgotten the next; the chatter and chitter of life around me now muted; the pervasive smell of rot I could no longer sense anymore.
So when the current unmoored the canoe from the bank and with gentle persuasion pushed me down the gullet of the river, I had no objections.
Placing my hands on my belly, I breathed in and out.
I tried to think about him . . . I tried to think about Maddy, and . . . Ella . . . and the other one. I tried to think of all the things I wanted to do, but . . .
My head was full of words: pee, shit, vomit, snot, sweat, puss, tears, blood and clumps of hair.
Pee, shit, vomit, snot, sweat, puss, tears, blood. This body empties itself.
Pee, shit, vomit, snot, sweat, puss, tears. This body . . .
Pee, shit, vomit, snot, sweat, puss. Breaks . . .
Pee, shit, vomit, snot, sweat. Eventually . . .
Pee, shit, vomit, snot. Until . . .
Pee, shit, vomit. Only . . .
Pee, shit. The breath . . .
Shit. Remains.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
In and out.
In.
Out
***
Toronto-based writer, and CommuterLit editor and publisher Nancy Kay Clark likes to keep busy. When she’s not fending off her cat Daisy (who scratches and occasionally draws blood), or binge watching sci fi and police procedurals, you’ll find her at her messy writing desk crafting fiction for both kids and adults, working on a memoir of her late mother, dabbling in drabbles, volunteering for the Brockton Writers Series, and co-hosting Mom and Son Book Reviews, a spec-fic podcast with her adult son Nathan. Check out her middle-grade novel The Prince of Sudland on our Book Store page.
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