Three Little Words (14 page)

When they drive off the ferry, Megan, Chloe and Fariza are in the parking lot, waving and jumping up and down next to the
Caprice Charters
van. They must have been watching every ferry, trying to spot them. It's like I've been away for years, Sid thinks, like the Prodigal Son. Maybe they'll have a big barbecue tonight—kill the fatted calf, twenty-first-century style. Except didn't the Prodigal Son's brother try to kill him or something? Sid puts the thought out of his mind as Elizabeth pulls into the parking lot, and Chloe yanks him out of the car and throws her arms around him.

“I missed you so much,” she says into his hair.

“Me too,” he mumbles. She's rocking him back and forth, her bare arms still clamped around his neck. Her breath smells like it always does, of Double Bubble and strawberry lip gloss. “But you're strangling me.”

“You deserve it,” she says as she steps away from him and extends her hand to Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth, this is my friend Chloe,” Sid says. “And my mom, Megan.”

Even as he says it, he sees Elizabeth flinch slightly. But she is my mom, he thinks. Devi isn't.

“Welcome,” Megan says.

“And this is my brother Wain,” Sid says as Wain climbs out of the car.

Chloe squeaks, “Hey.” Obviously no one has told her that Wain is a brother in more than one sense of the word. Wain looks at her as if she is a cupcake—a delicious, sweet, pink-iced, two-bite cupcake—and he hasn't eaten in weeks.

Sid leans over and mutters, “Try not to drool, man,” in Wain's ear.

Wain grins—his teeth are orthodontist-straight and blinding white—and says, “Hey, Chloe. Nice to meet you. And you too, Mrs…” His voice trails off.

“Just call me Megan,” she says. “Everyone does. And this”—she reaches behind her to pull Fariza forward—“is Fariza.”

Wain squats down until he is eye level with Fariza. “I like your hair,” he says, reaching out to touch a green bead.

Fariza runs over to Sid and wraps her arms around his waist. Sid bends over to hug her.

“What's her problem?” Wain asks, standing up and glaring at Sid and Fariza.

“Long story,” Sid says. “She's not too keen on guys.”

“Seems to like you all right,” Wain says. “But wait, I forgot, you're a puss—” He glances at Elizabeth, who is standing a few feet away at the head of the wharf, where Megan is pointing out the
Caprice
. Wain lowers his voice and says, “You're a fag.”

Sid ignores him, but Chloe grabs Wain's arm and he yelps in pain.

“What did you say?”

“Nuthin'. I didn't say nuthin'.”

I didn't say anything, Sid thinks. He wishes Wain would cut out the tough-guy act. Nobody's impressed, especially not Chloe.

“You better not have,” Chloe says. “Or I'll kick your black ass.”

Wain grins. “You and what army?” He shifts his weight from side to side and fakes a punch at her head with his free hand.

“It's okay, Chloe,” Sid says. “Let it go. Wain's full of shit.”

Chloe lets go of Wain's arm and turns to Sid. “You need to man up,” she says. “Or I'll kick your skinny white ass too.”

“That's what I came back for,” Sid says. “I missed all the ass-kicking.”

“Who you calling full of shit, man? And how come you get to say
shit
?” Wain rubs his arm where Chloe grabbed him.

Chloe smiles as Megan and Elizabeth join them again. “Sid's special,” she says sweetly. “You have no idea. Welcome to my world.”

Fariza loosens her grip on Sid, takes him by the hand and leads him to the van, where Fred is buckled into an infant car seat, his head flopping to one side.

“Okay if I ride back here?” Sid asks. “Chloe, you can go with Wain and Elizabeth—show them the way. Fariza and Fred and I have things to discuss.”

“She's hot,” Wain says. He is sitting on the single bed in the room Megan has prepared for him. Sid is putting clean towels on the dresser.

“Who? Chloe? Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess? Are you blind?”

“Shut up, Wain,” Sid says wearily. “Unpack your stuff and come down for tea. Don't forget to wash your hands first or Megan'll make you do it.”

He turns to leave the room. “You got everything you need? The bathroom's next door.” He looks over at Wain, who is staring down at the hooked rug. “You okay?”

Wain looks up. “Yeah. I'm good.”

He looks as if he might cry, but Sid has no more energy for Wain's outbursts. Maybe Megan can figure out what's wrong with him.

“Come down when you're ready,” Sid says. “Or not. Megan made cookies though. Wouldn't want you to miss out.”

Waking up in his own bed the next morning is bliss. Even the knowledge that he is sharing his home with his angry black brother can't diminish the pleasure of hearing Megan grind coffee in the kitchen, watching the sun wash the walls of his room with light, smelling the bacon that must signal waffles, even though it's not Sunday. Wain hadn't come down for dinner the night before; Megan took him up a tray of food and stayed for a minute to make sure he was okay. Sid thinks he heard him get up to go to the bathroom, but it could have been Elizabeth too.

Everyone had gone to bed early, after a simple supper of pasta and salad. No fatted calf. No murderous brother. Not so far anyway. Sid had been glad of the dark and the silence broken only by the occasional cricket chirp and the sound of the toilet flushing down the hall. Now he hears Caleb's slow deep voice, and then Wain's, higher and faster. He rolls over and tries to prepare himself for another day with his brother.

Maybe Chloe will come over and mesmerize him with her crocheted bikini. Maybe Caleb will take him out on the boat. Maybe Megan will put him to work in the garden. Anything for a little peace and quiet, Sid thinks. He wants to sit at the table with Fariza, check out Eric the Eagle, watch the ferry lineup. He wants to see what Fariza has written; he wants to draw her story for her. Maybe he should start a new one of his own:
The Mighty
Misadventures of Sid and Wain
. He smiles to himself as he pulls on some clean cutoffs and slides his feet into his Vans. He sniffs his pits and pulls a fresh T-shirt out of the drawer. There is a soft knock at his door.

“Just a minute,” he says, his head stuck in the shirt.

The door opens a crack. A voice, soft as the dust on a moth's wing, wafts through the crack of the door and lands on Sid's shirt-shrouded ear. “Breakfast is ready.”

“Fariza?” Sid says when he gets his head free of the shirt. “Fariza, is that you?” He wrenches the door open and runs down the hall. No Fariza. The door to her room is shut. He knocks. No answer. The toilet flushes and he can hear the water running. The bathroom door opens and Fariza comes out, wearing canary-yellow tights, a blue Canucks hockey jersey that comes to her knees, and UGGs that he thinks used to belong to Chloe. She holds up her hands to him, palms up, and smiles.

“Good girl,” he says, “and thanks for calling me for breakfast. Wouldn't want to miss the waffles.” He squats down so she can climb on his back, and he piggybacks her down the stairs and into the kitchen. As she climbs into her chair and settles Fred next to her, she looks up at Sid and places a finger to her lips. He nods and sits down next to her. If she wants to keep it a secret that she said something other than please and thank you, he's okay with that. For now, he's happy to think of those three little words—
Breakfast is ready
—as the perfect welcome-home present.

Go to Hell

“W
hat happened to her?” Wain says. He is rinsing the breakfast dishes and Sid is loading them in the dishwasher.

“Don't know,” Sid says.

“Must have been bad,” Wain continues. “For her to stop speaking.”

“I guess.” Sid turns on the dishwasher. “She'll talk when she feels like it. And she always says please and thank you.”

“Please and thank you,” Wain repeats. “That's it? Weird.”

“Yup.”

“Does Megan know what happened to her?”

“Probably.”

“Did you ask her?”

“No.”

“But don't you want to know?”

Sid considers for a minute. When Fariza first came to the island, he was curious, so he understands Wain's interest. He chooses his words carefully. “Yeah, I'd like to know, but only if she wants to tell me, and only if it helps her.”

“But she won't talk. So how can she tell you? And if it might help her to talk about it, why isn't Megan trying to get her to talk?”

Sid shrugs. “That's not the way Megan operates. She knows what she's doing. She says things happen when they're meant to happen. And you can't exactly make someone talk.”

“But you would like to know?”

“Sure,” Sid says, “if it would get you to shut up about it.” He reaches out and gives Wain's shoulder a light shove, to let him know he's kidding. Sort of.

Fariza comes into the kitchen and drags Sid into the living room, where she has arranged the stuffies on the green couch. She points first at the couch and then at Wain, who is standing in the kitchen doorway.

“He might be a little old for that,” Sid says.

“Old for what?” Wain asks.

“A stuffie. It's a house tradition. Every new kid gets to choose a stuffie. I still have mine. Spike. He's a porcupine. Fariza chose a flamingo.”

“What am I, three?” Wain walks over to the couch and sweeps the stuffies off the couch; then he runs up the stairs and slams his bedroom door.

Fariza cowers behind Sid, tears in her eyes.

“It's okay, Fariza,” he says. “Wain doesn't know he needs a stuffie. He's just really mad, but not at you. Or me.” Is this what Devi is like when she's off her meds? He can't imagine what it would be like to be raised by someone whose moods were so erratic. The worst Megan ever did was swat him with a tea towel and tell him to shoo.

He shudders and puts his hand on Fariza's shoulder and steers her toward the big table. “Why don't you get your notebook and I'll get everything set up. You can show me your story. Okay?”

Fariza heads upstairs and Megan comes out of the War Room as Sid is lining up his pens and pencils on the table.

“Sorry about Wain,” Sid says. “One minute he's okay; then he's freaking out.”

“I'll talk to him later,” Megan says. “When he's not feeling so out of sorts. Elizabeth is outside with her tea and a book. I've got work to do. Caleb says he'll show Wain the boat later. You and Fariza need some time together. She really missed you. She wrote in that book every day—wouldn't show it to anybody. Put it under her pillow every night.”

Sid wants to tell Megan that he thinks Fariza might be starting to talk again, but before he can say anything, Fariza arrives back downstairs, notebook in one hand, Fred in the other. Fariza settles Fred in his chair and points out Eric, who is circling his aerie. The ravens on the wharf are so much more dignified than crows, Sid thinks. Ravens are magisterial. Crows are thugs. He pushes the image of Devi's self-portrait out of his mind as Fariza opens her notebook.

An hour later, he puts down his pens and flexes his fingers. “Time for a break, kiddo.”

So far, the most interesting thing about what Fariza has written is her spelling.
Fred and I went to the store
with Megan. We bott some flower and some butter and some
choklit chipps. We helped Megan make cookies. Fred made
a mess with the eggs. The cookies were reely good.
The next day, Fariza wrote:
I gave Fred a bath. Megan told me he
was a water bird, but I think she is rong.

Fariza smiles when she sees what Sid has drawn—Fred covered in raw eggs, Fred in the bath—but when he tries to look ahead in the notebook, she pulls it away from him, shuts it and runs upstairs. He puts away his stuff, pours himself a glass of juice and goes outside to find Elizabeth.

She is sitting on the porch, staring out at the cove.

“Is that where she tied up the boat? The
Amphitrite
?”

“I guess so,” Sid says. “I don't remember the boat at all. Or her, really. I was only two.” He feels a little mean, saying this, but he wants Elizabeth to understand: Megan is his mother.

“She sent me a drawing of the boat. She drew quite well, you know. Like you.”

Sid shakes his head as if a wasp has landed in his hair. Not like him. Not at all.

“I would have come for you,” Elizabeth says. “If I'd known. You must believe me. Stan and I…” She sounds as if she's about to cry, so Sid takes pity on her.

“I know. But Megan and Caleb—they took good care of me. The best. I'm sorry—”

She interrupts him. “Don't be. It's good to see you here—where you belong. I'm not saying anything should change, unless you want it to, of course.”

Sid's not quite sure what she's talking about—he's had enough change recently to last him a while. He's saved from further conversation by Chloe's arrival with Irena, who is dressed to impress. She's wearing her Christmas dinner outfit: a pink Chanel suit, pumps, pearls. It looks insane on an August morning. Elizabeth, who has on pressed jeans, a crisp white shirt and black sandals, stands to meet her.

Chloe makes the introductions. “Mrs. Eikenboom, this is my grandmother, Mrs. Dawkins. Irena Dawkins.”

“How very Dickensian,” Elizabeth says. “Please call me Elizabeth.”

“And you must call me Irena. And please—explain how my name is Dickensian. I don't remember anybody named Irena in Mr. Dickens's novels. And I have read them all.” Irena lowers herself into a chair and waves regally for Elizabeth to sit again. “Is that tea? Sid, another cup please. Milk in first. And Chloe, a footstool perhaps?”

As Sid and Chloe leave the porch, they hear Elizabeth say, “Dawkins—it's the Artful Dodger's real name. And I only know because I have a friend who's mad for Dickens. Can't stand him myself. So sentimental.”