Through Indigo's Eyes (15 page)

My body tensed, froze almost. Light from the streetlights shone like flashlight beams into the car, and I could see from the look on his face that he was deep in his thoughts, and they weren't going away. It made me really nervous.

“Done what?” The conversation made my head spin. I didn't want to talk about this again. I wanted to go to Zoe's and have fun. I tapped my fingers on my thigh.

“Make predictions on lottery tickets. Think about it. I know there were no lottery tickets in those days, but if there had been, he could have made millions.”

“No one can do that.” I really wanted him to shut up and kiss me.

“It's such a mystery,” John said as if he were talking to himself. “It's like I'm being drawn toward finding out more about it. It's something that I can't explain.”

I wanted to say, “That's because there is no explanation,” but I kept my mouth shut. I put my hand on the car door handle. “I better get going.”

He turned to look at me, and when our eyes connected, my skin flushed and my body ached for some contact with him. Why wouldn't he stop talking about this stuff—actually, just stop talking, period—and kiss me?

At last he put his hand on my forearm. He traced his finger up and down it, pushing my jacket up so he was touching my bare flesh. My skin tingled, sending unearthly shivers through my body as I enjoyed every little movement.

“Tonight was fun,” he said.

“Yeah,” I replied, slightly dazed.

“I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

Then he took his hand off my arm.

I got out of the car and walked slowly up my driveway, thinking about how badly I wanted him to kiss me. I also thought about how I continually lied to him to hide who I was.

“Why am I lying?” I whispered.

He won't like who you are
.

 

Chapter Nine

“Where you off to?” My dad was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading
The Globe and Mail.

“Sarah's,” I said. “We're reviving our band.” I slung my guitar case over my neck.

“You need a ride?”

“Sure,” I said.

I put my guitar in the backseat and got in the front. For the first few minutes on the drive, Dad and I talked about the weather and how it was going to be a long winter because they were predicting early snow. Then out of the blue, he said, “John seems like a nice guy. Seems to know a little about hockey.”

“Yeah, he does.” I picked at some lint on my jacket.

“Did he ever play when he was young?”

I shrugged. “I'm not sure.”

“Does he play any sports?”

Again I shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

“Not that it matters,” said Dad. He took his eyes off the road to glance quickly at me. “What matters is that he treats you right.”

“He does,” I said.

My dad turned his gaze back to the road ahead of us. “Does he golf?”

This time I laughed. “Enough with the questions.” My dad was an avid golfer. It was like an obsession with him.

“I should be able to get a few more games in this fall,” he said. “If this nice weather comes back. Maybe tomorrow the sun will shine.”

I knew the conversation about John had ended, and for that I was glad.

The Bad Girls' rehearsal went well, and it felt great to be doing something creative. I loved the energy and enthusiasm and passion we all shared for music.

We didn't complete any songs, because Sarah was getting used to her new drumsticks, and Zoe couldn't get her bass guitar tuned properly, and I ended up phoning home three times to see if John had called. It didn't matter, though, because Carly had called the animal shelter, and they said they were definitely interested but were booked solid until March. So we fooled around a lot at our first rehearsal, knowing there was tons of time.

I arrived home at around 4:00
P.M.
and, after finding out no one had called me, went right to my room and started pacing like a caged animal. Back and forth. Back and forth. And I talked to myself, trying to think of song lyrics. “I'm always said to be wrong and doing strange things. But it's not me. It's someone else I'm being.”

I pulled out a pen and paper and wrote down my words. Then I looked at them. I didn't want to use those words for a song. They were about me and the fact that I had visions. I got up and started to pace and talk to myself again.

“He's all I think about. All that I love. My heart bleeds year after year. Being left alone again is what I fear.”

I flopped down on my bed. “He's not going to call.”

Suddenly, my phone rang, the noise startling me. I grabbed it at the first ring. But it was Sarah, wanting to talk about Zoe and how she wasn't pulling her weight in the band. I didn't want to talk to Sarah, not if John was going to call. Finally, she had to go, so I hung the phone up and pulled out my guitar.

I had strummed a few chords and sung a few of my lyrics when my phone rang again. Two rings. I snapped it up again, fumbling as I said hello.

As soon as I heard his voice, my shoulders loosened. I lay my guitar on the floor and fell onto my bed, my body feeling as if it were liquefying into a pool of calm.

Yes, I wanted to go out again.

What time?

Where?

Just us.

Sure.

A few hours later, I was in the passenger seat of John's car as he drove through downtown toward the Rideau Canal, a waterway that feeds from the Ottawa River and starts at the Parliament buildings. He parked his car on a side street, and we both got out.

“Let's walk around the Parliament buildings,” he said.

“Sure.”

A cool fall evening breeze brushed my face as we walked into the huge grounds. There were only a handful of people walking, and I liked that—made it kind of quiet and solemn. We headed to the Centennial Flame, directly out front of the Parliament buildings, and John dug his hand in his jeans pocket, pulling out two loonies. “Here,” he said. “Let's make a wish.”

The eternal flame burned in the middle of a fountain that was surrounded by shields of all the provinces and territories in Canada. People loved to throw money in the fountain and make wishes, and all the money collected was used by an organization that helps support Canadians with disabilities. I clutched my loonie in my hand. I knew exactly what I wanted to wish for.

“On the count of three,” said John.

I squeezed my eyes shut and said, “One, two, three.” Then I threw the gold coin in the water.
I wish for John to kiss me tonight.

“What did you wish for?” I asked John.

He laughed and took my hand. “Not a chance,” he replied. “What did you wish for?”

“No way I'm telling you!” I laughed along with him.

Hand in hand, we walked toward the majestic Parliament buildings, then we veered right and followed the path along the stone wall at the back of the buildings, which gave us a view of the Ottawa River and Hull, Quebec. The red, orange, and yellow of the maple trees provided an absolutely breathtaking backdrop for the fast-flowing river.

“The trees are so beautiful,” I said in almost a whisper. “It looks like a postcard.”

“Yeah. It's something to see.” Then he turned, leaned against the stone wall and looked upward. “I love these buildings,” he said. “Every year I take the tour and think about what it would be like to have lived back then.”

I didn't want John to know that I had never been inside because the buildings were haunted and that so many of the people from back then were stuck on earth. “I love the stonework,” I said. “The etchings and the spirals.” Then I grinned. “And I love the guards out front in the summer. You know, the ones in the red coats and big furry hats? Lacey and I jump around like monkeys in front of them, trying to make them laugh, and they never crack a smile.”

John shook his head at me and laughed. “You would do something like that?”

“Lacey says I do the best monkey impression.”

“Show me,” he said.

“No way.”

“Come on,” he teased.

He stepped toward me and wrapped his arms around me, tenderly maneuvering me so that he was once again leaning against the rock wall, but now I was in nestled in his arms with my back pressed to his chest. His breath warmed the nape of my neck, and I let my body lean and relax into his, knowing his strength would hold me.

We stayed like that for a few minutes, just looking up at the buildings, wrapped in our own world. Then we pulled apart and he said, “You want to get a BeaverTail, then walk the canal?”

“You bet,” I replied.

We walked to ByWard Market and went right to a little BeaverTails hut, which had these amazing pastries shaped like beaver's tails that came with all kinds of different toppings: cinnamon, sugar, lemon, chocolate, bananas, and so on. I ordered my favorite, the original cinnamon and sugar, but John opted for a lemon-sugared one, although he spent a couple of minutes waffling between strawberry and lemon.

As we ate, we walked out of the Market and toward the canal. The Rideau Canal is a major tourist attraction in Ottawa, and in the summer tons of boats cruise up and down it. Some are pleasure crafts and others are tourist boats giving people a view of the city. In late September it's always quieter, and there are fewer boats. We walked five minutes before a boat floated past, playing loud music. I wiped the sugar off my mouth with my napkin before I said, “Someone's trying to get in the last good days before winter.”

“Yeah. Soon the canal will be frozen,” replied John. “Hey, maybe we can skate the canal this winter.”

My heart skipped. Was he thinking ahead … about us being together in winter?

“Sure,” I said.

Finished with his BeaverTail, John threw his napkin in a metal trash can. Then he raised his eyebrows. “Can you skate?”

I playfully slapped him on the arm. “Of course I can skate.” Then I threw the remainder of my pastry in the trash. In the winter months, the canal froze, and it became known as the world's longest skating rink. Huts dotted the sides, serving BeaverTails, as well as hot chocolate and hot dogs. Bonfires burned to warm cold hands, parents rented red sleds for children, and lovers skated hand in hand.

I stared out at the sunset. An orange hue was swirled with a cobalt blue and pink-lavender and a hint of gray that reminded me of smooth stones. The combination of colors was spectacular. I liked being by the canal at this time of year. We'd only seen the one boat. When a jogger passed, I moved over and let my shoulder connect to John's. The atmosphere was serene, and we didn't talk.

He took my hand in his. At school he barely touched me. He was a hard guy to figure out, but I guessed that was what I liked about him. I liked not knowing, his unpredictability.

We meandered quietly for a few minutes before I said, playfully, “I didn't know you were from Newfoundland. You don't really have a Newfie accent.”

He swung my hand a bit and avoided looking at me. “I wasn't there long.”

“Did you move directly to Ontario?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“How old were you when you left?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Around four, I guess.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

He shook his head. “No, it's just my mom and me.”

“Do you … have a dad?” I asked quietly.

He dropped my hand. The sound of the wind rustling through the trees, shaking the leaves, took over the silence that had followed my question. I was just about to change the subject, figuring I wasn't going to get an answer, when John said, “He's never really been in the picture.”

“Oh,” I said. I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“He left my mom when I was little. Just before we moved. From what she tells me, he just took off and she never heard from him again. She thinks he must have changed his name, because she could never find him. That's when we moved here. We lived in a car for the first few weeks. I do remember bits and pieces of sleeping in the backseat.”