Extensions (15 page)

“I've been reading a lot since your mother died. Meditation, selfhypnosis, ideomotor responses. You contact your subconscious mind through deep meditation, then you ask it something that has you in a dilemma. It's nothing spooky,” he added, seeing the look on my face.

“Nothing spooky?”

“Nothing outside your own experience, like, ‘Will the Blue Jays win the pennant?' You're simply speaking to your subconscious where all data is stored and ready to be tapped.”

“Of course. Fingertapping.”

“You have to practise. I've been doing it awhile; I just haven't been caught at it before. You instruct your finger to act as the indicator of your subconscious, to cut through all the defences and conditioning that might be counterproductive to your best interests. Our conscious mind often sabotages our best interests, you know, and this is merely a means to open yourself to a new level.”

“Your inner child?”

“Maybe, except I can't stand that term.”

“Well, Sara's child then. You're taking over where she left off.”

Exhaustion was moving in fast and I flopped on the old corduroy sofa, my head and feet braced against the padded arms that were threadbare from years of my imprint. For once Dad had overruled a decorating decision of Mom's. He had insisted on keeping the old couch upstairs when Mom upgraded the living room with a saffron-coloured — real saffron is reddish not yellow, she pointed out — leather sectional. There was just enough room for it and Sara's Queen Anne chair in the passage between living room and eating area. Dad had lined the walls with shelves to hold Sara's books and a small
TV
: being surrounded by the library he had grown up with provided comfort, he insisted, and Mom had to concede to the little den between her modern front room and dining room. They kept most of their own books in the basement, but these served to remind us all of Sara's love of literature and knowledge. As a kid I learned the word “autodidact” from hearing my parents describe Sara to strangers. Then “unconventional and strange” took over in Mom's descriptions.

“No, I told you, I'm not trying to commune with spirits or see the future, I only want to make a decision from the clearest vantage point possible.”

“And what were you asking your finger tonight? Or is that private?”

“I'm at an impasse with Sissipuss.” He grinned shyly. “Should he team up with Cedric the Cockroach and help him redeem his despised insect image, then have Cedric and his family carry off the piece of sponge he pushes upstairs? You do know the myth, don't you?”

“Of course,” I said, thanking Crane.

“But I wondered if I might be accused of borrowing from
archy and
mehitabel
even though Cedric has been in my repertoire since you were a kid.”

No way would he get me to ask who those two were. I had enough crow to eat ahead of me. “What's the alternative?”

“Two separate stories. The triumph of Sissipuss and the heroism of Cedric.”

“Dad, these are supposed to be children's stories and I can't understand what you're talking about.” Seeing his expression made me think fast. “Why don't you have Sissipuss ask his finger for the answer? I mean paw. No, better yet, ask his tail. It's more like a magic wand.”

Dad's face lit up the living room. “His tail. That's brilliant. Especially since it's a bobbed tail and could suddenly become functional. Yes, make it funny — ask his tail whenever he needs guidance. Maybe Cedric could come to him, no, maybe…” Dad began mumbling to himself as if he himself were going into a trance. “This is exactly what I needed — a new idea, even if it doesn't work out.” He bent down and gave me a rare hug before padding into the kitchen in his slippers and returning with two small containers of yogurt and two spoons, handing me one of each. The smooth liquid slid down my throat, easing my gnawing stomach a little.

“Dad,” I said quietly, “I have something to tell you and to ask you.”

“Anything.”

I felt both treacherous and relieved to have my normally undemonstrative father in this state. “I don't know how to write a term paper. I need your help.”

“History?”

“Sir James Douglas.”

“Sir James has been a tenant in our basement for many years. He was a regular on the departmentals I drafted, so you'll find all you need downstairs. Which phase?”

“How his early life determined the leader he was to become.”

“He was of mixed race, you know. His birth certificate was never found, but they established who his mother was from records of her will in British Guiana. He never mentioned his mother, but did name one of his daughters after her. Martha.”

I set the empty yogurt container on the coffee table and fell back on the sofa as Dad's quiet voice repeated much of what Barnwell's booming one had said in class. Both washed over me, but this time I was soothed into assurance that everything would be taken care of. I was back home, after all, and everything always was. My eyes shut on the wish that I had brought a clean uniform for tomorrow. Mom left spare nightgowns and underwear in my old dresser for unexpected visits, and I doubt if Dad had moved any of it.

“He was a pioneer. I think it was the discipline of the Scottish schools, his physical stature and strength, and his ability to deal with all races that made him the natural leader he was,” Dad continued. The last thing I heard was, “Then again, his brother was dismissed from the North West Company for incompetence and stupidity, so it wasn't all genetic…” until I felt Sara's afghan being gently spread over me.

“Dad,” I protested feebly, lifting my head. “I have to get home. Do you think Janetta would forgive me if we postponed our visit until after my assignment is in?”

“I'm sure she'll understand with your busy schedule.”

The rest of me raised itself to an upright position. “Thanks, Dad.” I gave him a lazy hug. “I can always count on you.”

“Ditto,” he said, with a gleam in his eye that told me his night at the drawing table was just beginning.

My car got back home on automatic pilot. Ironing my shirt woke me up slightly, and I allowed myself a few minutes of bedtime reading after setting my alarm. Did I reach for the book on James Douglas? Of course not. Instead, I carefully unfolded the second last worn letter. The date and first line caught my attention. My great-grandmother and I were connected through more than just dripping noses. We were born on the same day.

December 8, 1894

Dear Brother and Sisters,

Today is my sixteenth birthday and I am not much
in the mood for a party. Mama wanted me to bake a
sponge cake with fluffy boiled icing for the occasion and
Tommy brought his friend Roland Hughes for a slice
after their shifts. We also celebrated Tommy's promotion
to timber foreman. He is too shy to bring Lizzie Carter
home and will still not admit she is his girlfriend.
Roland asked me what I wished for when I blew out
my candles and I said, only one thing
—
to see my sisters
and brother again soon.

Mama tries to teach me to sew well enough that
I might take in sewing rather than wash clothes in
someone else's house. There is never any time left over
in my days. I cannot take much more of one customer,
but I would wash the other one's clothes for no pay.
Sisters and Brother, I wish you were here so I could tell
you about the dangerous things I hear from one about
the other.

I am tired now and must find my bed. Tommy and
Roland have gone to the pub and Mama and Gomer are
sleeping. It is cold and wet and dreary, and I hope my
seventeenth year is made up of better days than the past one.

Please write to me often.

xxxxxxxxx
Your loving sister, Jane
xxxxxxxxx

“MERRY CHRISTMAS, THEN,” says Stella.

Pulling her woollen cloak around her shoulders, Jane slips a small package from its inside pocket. “For Norman.”

Stella smiles in surprise at the gift wrapped in red flannel and fastened with a green ribbon. “Why, thank you, Jane.” She opens the fabric to reveal a pair of tiny blue mittens and matching helmet cap with button strap. “I'll bet you knit these yourself.”

Jane nods. “You were supposed to keep it for Christmas.”

“Oops,” Stella giggles, closing up the package like a naughty girl.

Jane steps outside, the bite of frosty air pardoning her from the Cruikshank house until the new year. She welcomes the close of 1894, but does not greet its successor with the hope she mistakenly held at this time last year. After being forced to quit school, she had not believed her burdens would get worse.

“You sure you can't make it just once between Christmas and Old Year's Night,” Stella's voice holds onto her. “I don't know how I'll manage the washing and little Norman with Lance's mother and sister coming over from Vancouver. They like things just so.”

Jane turns back and says firmly, “Maybe they could help with Norman. I promised to give Mama a hand recovering an old chesterfield Thomas brought home, and there's all the Christmas baking yet to do.”

Stella remains shivering on the threshold of the open door, no longer focussed on Jane, but on the path leading to the main road. Where her blue eyes once held anticipation of her husband's return, Jane now sees fear. The bruises circling her wrists disappear when she tugs the sleeves of her cardigan over her knuckles against the cold.

Jane also dreads meeting Lance on his way home. He is always drunk and quarrelsome after stopping off at the Whistle Stop tavern with other miners coming from the train. Abruptly she says to Stella, “I'll be off then. And you'd best go inside before you catch La Grippe.”

She reaches the main road quickly and merges with the other traffic: wagons, horses, traps, miners on foot, a few on bicycles, women in service like herself, hurrying back to families where more cleaning and cooking await them. A light snowfall has filled in the deep ruts and covered horse droppings, lending the rough thoroughfare a purity not normally part of the scene. Since her sixteenth birthday earlier in the month, Jane considers herself to be a full-fledged adult, signified not by the supper and cake she made for herself at her family's urging, nor by the uncomfortable attentions of Roland Hughes, but by the realization that she no longer knows what it feels like to be a child. The carefree years in Wales are past. Running up the grassy mountain after church, hearing the breeze whisper in the currant bushes, minding Gomer as a plump youngster while her father sang and turned fresh-smelling earth to plant leeks, squash, swedes, parsnips, potatoes, and mint with her mother laughing nearby — all still exist in her mind's eye, but are gone from her bones and senses.

Up ahead at the company store, a crowd has gathered. Jane attempts to bypass it, fearing it might be a fight spilled out from the tavern next door. By the time she sees it is just miners and their friends starting the weekend, she is blindsided by a large woman backing out of the store. Lizzie Carter's face twists in irritation until she realizes it is Jane she has hit. They have never spoken before.

“Jane Owens.”

“Hello.”

“Where's that big brother of yours? Helping the family, I suppose.” She speaks mockingly.

“I can't say. I've been at work all day.”

“Maybe I'll have to visit his little sister to get an invitation to your home.”

Jane flushes, not knowing how to respond, then is saved when Lizzie turns to stare at a sleek black coach drawn by two dappled horses. A gold M emblazoned on the door causes the dispersing crowd to reassemble. The curtained window makes it impossible to tell if it is Mr. Mackie or his son paying a visit from one of their mansions to their minions. The Scotsman never appears casually; he always has a good reason. The ponies prance on the spot, snorting aristocratically, as if they know they are transporting the most powerful man on Vancouver Island.

Jane takes advantage of the diversion to slip away through the rest of the onlookers, but not before noticing the passenger who emerges from the Mackie buggy. Butch Hargraves. Once outside, he leans back into the shrouded interior with a half salute, half bow, and a grin that suggests something secretive. At least, that is what Jane sees.