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The soft morning light wakes me up. I look around the room, confused for a minute, expecting the same mottled off-white walls and nondescript artwork that I’d gotten used to in the motel rooms on our trip east. It’s the sight of a small wooden toy sailboat sitting on the dresser by the door that brings me back.
The bedroom Nora and I are sharing has two twin beds pushed against either wall. Nora got the bed at the front of the house, under the window that looks out on the road. My bed looks out the back window. Behind the house, a small yard of patchy green grass makes its way towards the ocean. If you squint, you can just make out where it drops off into a rocky cliff and down to the Gulf of St. Lawrence below. The same fog that slowed our crossing yesterday still lingers here, swallowing the lawn and hiding the cliff’s edge.
Climbing out of bed, I notice the nice clothes that are laid out, neatly folded over the end of the bed: khaki pants, a white button-down shirt, a dark navy blazer, and a clip-on tie. Leaving the clothes behind, I head to the landing. Here there’s a small bathroom, as well as the door to the room Mom slept in. There’s a smell of cooking bacon coming from downstairs. Quickly I duck into the bathroom, pee, and wash my hands.
As I’m about to head downstairs for breakfast, I glance into the room my mom slept in, my grandfather’s room.
The bed is mostly undisturbed, a small turned-over corner the only sign that someone has been in it recently. The suitcases we hurriedly packed before leaving home sit neatly in a corner of the room. In front of the bed is a large cedar chest. Its rounded top and large iron hinges make it look like a treasure chest from an old pirate story. Breakfast is still cooking; I have a minute.
Stepping into my grandfather’s room, I’m immediately met with an odd sense of déjà vu. It’s familiar, and I know I’ve been here before, yet I don’t remember any of it. The room is decorated a lot like the rest of the old house, with old nautical trinkets and paintings of sailboats. My grandfather clearly loved sailing. The pictures that aren’t of boats are pictures of our family. A few older photos I don’t recognize, of a boy playing on rocky beaches, must be my father. Then there’s one of a young man and a young woman getting married. I recognize my father’s dark tan skin, messy curls, and sparkling brown eyes – the same sparkle Mom says I have. Next to him is my mother in a simple white dress; she looks happy. Beside my dad stands an older man, clearly my grandfather. He’s got the same dark skin, dark curly hair, and sparkling eyes, and he’s wearing a nice suit. Then, to the side of my mom, is a woman I don’t recognize. Her tanned dark skin, black hair, and brown eyes – with that same sparkle – look similar to my dad’s and grandfather’s. Is she my grandmother, or a relative? I never met my grandmother; she died before I was born. I’ve never really heard any stories about her from my mom, and I don’t remember if my dad ever told me about her. I think about taking the photo down, opening the frame, and seeing if there are names written on the back like the photo at home. “Better not,” I think to myself. We’ll have time enough to go through everything in the house after the funeral. That’s why we’ve driven most of the way across Canada to get here, after all. We’ll need to go through all of the things my grandfather left behind, and most of it seems to be nautical knick-knacks and sailboat paintings. Some of these things we’ll be bringing home with us; some of them we’ll be selling or giving away.
I can tell from the fact that the sizzling of bacon has stopped that breakfast is almost ready. I should head down, but I remember the cedar chest and turn back to it. At the front of the chest is a wrought-iron loop where a lock would hold it closed. I lift open the heavy lid and look inside. Inside are neatly folded piles of old clothes. I reach in and lift a corner here and there: denim, a white cloth, and then something grey, leathery, and warm. There’s something odd about it. I carefully pull at the stack and slide the grey thing out from between the other clothes. As I pick it up, it comes unfolded and I see the shape of it. It’s a leather bomber jacket. The colour on the outside is a light grey that shimmers pearlescent, laced with periwinkle blues and light yellows. The inside is a soft white fur.
“Oh, here you are!” My mom’s voice comes from the door. I turn quickly, dropping the jacket to the floor like it’s something I’m not supposed to have. She cocks her head to the side and sees the jacket on the floor beside me. “Oh, you found that,” she says matter-of-factly, and walks over to pick it up. I watch as my mom studies the jacket with a certain familiarity. “This was mine,” she says. “I used to wear it every day when I was in high school. Drove all the boys nuts.” She gives a little laugh at the end of it, then pauses for a moment. “I gave it to Esteban – to your grandfather – for safekeeping.” Reaching behind me, she closes the chest and places the unfolded jacket on top. “Let’s go downstairs and have some breakfast.”
In the kitchen, three mismatched plates of food are laid out on the small wooden table: bacon, a fried egg, and some crusty toast. “There wasn’t much left in the fridge,” Mom says as we come in. She means it as an apology, but honestly, after all the drive-thrus and Esso station meals we’ve had this past week, this food looks gourmet.
I’ve always loved Mom’s cooking. It isn’t fancy, but what she does, she does well. Of course, living in Saskatchewan, we have plenty of bread and steak, but I remember one time at a market when she’d started talking to a local farmer about the foods she missed from Newfoundland. When she mentioned rabbit, he hunched his shoulders a little, looked around, and then produced a small vacuum-sealed bag from his cooler with a whole rabbit in it. “I trapped this guy. Can’t sell him to you,” he said, “but you should have it. Give your kids a chance to taste real rabbit stew.” Mom was ecstatic and thanked the man profusely. That night we had the richest, warmest, most delicious rabbit stew. When we were asked in school the next week what our favourite foods were, the other kids all said pizza or ice cream. I said rabbit stew. That earned me a few looks.
Nora has taken over the kitchen floor. She’s sitting in front of an open pantry cupboard, surrounded by cans. “What’s Dark Tickle?” she asks, holding up a jar of jam.
“What’s a dark tickle?!” Mom says back, running over and tickling Nora. “Tickle, tickle, tickle,” she says teasingly.
“Stop it, STOP IT!” Nora cries, and Mom stands up, letting my sister catch her breath.
“Dark Tickle makes jam up the coast. That one’s bakeapple,” Mom says, answering Nora’s original question. “We’ll stop at the Co-op later today, get some bread, and have bakeapple on toast for breakfast tomorrow. Now it’s time to eat. We’ve got a lot to do today. I’ve got to go make the last of the arrangements for the funeral tomorrow with Reverend Hiscock, and we’ve got to get this house in order for the wake this evening.”
As I grab a seat at the table and start to dig into the bacon and eggs, Nora gets up off the floor and asks, “What’s a wake?”
“A wake?” Mom says as she pours water from the kettle into the large mug she’s holding. “Awake is how I feel after my tea!” she jokes. Nora’s face twists into a grimace. She’s always so curious, and she hates it when Mom doesn’t answer her questions.
“A wake is when people who knew someone who died all get together and have, like, a party,” I say, doing my best to answer Nora.
“A party for someone who died?” Nora asks.
“Not a party,” I say, trying to clarify. “Like, everyone gets together and says what they liked about someone, and what they remember about them.”
“That’s right,” Mom says, coming to my rescue. “It’s a way to remember someone who has died. It’s important that we get a chance to talk about what we remember about him.”
“But I don’t remember anything about him,” Nora says stubbornly.
The expression on Mom’s face falls, and her shoulders go slack for a moment. “I know, dear,” she says, a note of apology in her voice. “Your grandfather had friends here too, and they’ll want to remember him. They’ll want to see you too. When we moved away you were just a little baby; everyone will be so amazed at how grown up you are.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she turns to me. “How grown up you both are,” she adds.
“After breakfast, can I go down to the harbour?” I ask.
Mom thinks for a second and then says, “Sure. After you eat, you can walk down, and we’ll pick you up after we’re done at the church and the Co-op.”
Hurriedly, I finish my breakfast and bolt out the door.
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