Monday, 16 December—The James Whalen arrived today to pick up Grayson to return him to the mainland for the winter, but the man is missing. I have not seen him for five days now. He cannot have gone far. The punt was found on Edward Island, but a search has turned up nothing, and I suspect he has fallen into the Lake’s grasp. We even went so far as to explore the deserted mine shafts, but there was no sign of him. Lil, the children, and I have decided to winter on the island. We have provisions to last the season, and game is plenty. I have a sufficient supply of shot and Lil her snares and we have begun to cut firewood, enough to keep us warm through the long, cold winter. There is no work in town for a lighthouse keeper, with all the returning soldiers also seeking employ, so it makes little sense to pay rent when there’s a perfectly good house right here. And if that weren’t reason enough, more and more people are sick and dying of this flu. It is taking the young and strong, filling their lungs with fluid until they can no longer breathe. We shall be safe here, and warm. And should Grayson wander back, God willing, we can attempt to provide for him as well until word can be sent back to town.
I feel like I’m reading a bedtime story, but when I look at her, she isn’t drifting off to sleep, but sitting bolt upright. I can’t read the expression on her face. I pause for a moment, and I hear her whisper, “Oh, dear God. It was him. All those years later. Grayson.” She isn’t talking to me.
“Is something wrong, Miss Livingstone?” She doesn’t answer but tilts her head, thinking.
“Pa never knew what happened to him, never saw him again. No one saw him. Except Emily and me. And she would have told no one. She couldn’t have. And I never did.” She settles back into the bed. “Go on.”
Wednesday, 1 January—A celebration of the New Year! We had a feast with rabbit soup, boiled beef, sponge cake, and rice pudding. The ice has covered large sections between the islands, and temperatures continue to fall. Before long, the Lake will be solid enough to cross, and we will once again be in touch with the outside world. Peter and I spend long hours looking at books and I read to him often. He is bright, I can tell already. I am grateful for the education I received in Scotland in spite of being a poor farmer’s boy. It will allow me to ensure my son receives the same, even if it means Lil and I deliver his lessons here on the island. There has been no sign of Grayson.
Thursday, 27 February—I can feel the approaching spring in the warmth of the sun. Richardson was able to travel with the dog team and sled from Silver Islet, as the ice is solid. He brought with him the mail as well as news and has supplemented our larder with welcome tins of milk. Two of his sons accompanied him this trip, and the children skated for hours on the frozen Lake. Lil made a hearty stew of salted fish, which we shared to keep them warm on the cold journey back.
Tuesday, 4 March—The ice is losing its grip on the Lake, it is being chased out of Black Bay, and the wind is tossing floes up against the shore. While Superior is beginning to shake herself loose, it will still be almost a month before we will see ships in the lanes and have to light the beacon. Peter has been unwell these three days past. So much so that I retrieved my bottle of whiskey from its hiding place in the fuel shed in the hopes that its medicinal properties would be of some benefit. Lil greeted its appearance with disapproval and skepticism, and I had to insist on it being administered. Her father forbade any form of liquor in her home, and his strict upbringing has stayed with her. Instead, she has gathered the inner bark from poplar trees and steeped them to make a strong tea. I fear the insipid venom from the Spanish flu has reached our lonely post, innocently carried by boisterous boys who skated on our shore and supped in our humble home.
Thursday, 13 March—Peter is recovering. I care not whether it was the whiskey or the herbs, our son will survive. Richardson’s family, however, has not been spared. We have received word that the eldest of his boys has died.
I stop reading. I can hear Marty’s cheerful whistling coming from his office down the hall. I recognize Chopin and start to follow the melody, anticipating the next notes. I can’t help myself. It’s part of me, a deep, deep part and one that I try to keep buried, but the music stays with me. It’s always been that way.
The old woman lies silent for a moment. I think she’s fallen asleep, but then she speaks. “Thank you, Morgan, that’s enough. There is only so much memory a heart can bear to hold.”
I close the cover of the journal and place it back on top of the others, taking a moment to rewrap the cloth around the bundle and tie the twine. I place the package on the table near the old woman’s bed and turn to head out the door.
“Mind you keep your hands off my things.”
I pause for a moment, looking at the white-haired woman sitting among the pillows, then glance quickly at the dragonfly picture. Without a word, I head down the hall, back to Marty’s office.
*
By the time I leave Boreal Retirement Home, the rain has stopped, but there’s a damp chill in the air. The streetlights are already flickering on.
Derrick is here, sitting slouched over the steering wheel of his black Honda Civic, and my heart skips a beat. I haven’t seen him for a few days, between spending time scraping fences and trying to patch things up at home. Laurie thought I should be grateful that all I ended up with was this restorative rehabilitation crap. It could have been worse, she said. She asked me about the graffiti, about writing, where I got the paint from, who I was with. God, it was like being interrogated. I get it; it’s her job. She knows that I’ve been seeing Derrick. I had him over one night to watch a movie; I thought it would be fine, that it would get her off my back. He has a way with adults where he’s all polite and helpful and they think he’s fabulous. But not Laurie. I can tell she doesn’t like him, so we don’t go to my place anymore. That’s fine with me. Derrick sees me and starts the engine, pulling up to the entrance. I climb into the front seat and he heads out of the parking lot and we haven’t even said a word to each other.
I’m learning that he can be that way. He says he’s contemplative, but I told him that was a fat-ass word for being moody. So when he doesn’t say anything, I know he’s thinking. He’s always thinking. Planning shit. He’s got so many balls in the air, I can’t keep count.
He apologized for taking off when the cops showed up. I had to make my own way to McDonald’s, where they caught up with me anyway. I know he had a hell of a lot more on the line than I did. I know it. But I don’t feel it. Deep down, in the part of me that wants so desperately to matter to him, to somebody, it hurts. At least he could show that he’s grateful, that he appreciates me keeping my mouth shut about everything. He knows that without me, he would have been screwed that night, if the cops had searched him, searched his car, if I hadn’t told them I was alone.
He says he doesn’t use the hard stuff, and I believe him. I don’t either. I’ve seen what it does to people; how it robs them of their lives.
Derrick’s client list is a who’s who of the city’s spoiled brats, and while he never lets on when he’s around them, he hates their “pretentious goddamn asses.” He tells me he’s a businessman, just giving them what they want, what they would find someplace else anyway, so he might as well be the one to take their mommies’ and daddies’ money. Demand and supply. They look for him at school or text him, and he sets up drops. They pay what he asks without question and come back for more.
I never asked him how he knows the graffiti writers. He hangs out with them, but he never writes himself. I think he likes the thrill of it, that feeling of living a little bit on the edge, of staying one step ahead of the cops, of running around at night, of the messages in paint. It’s what drew me to him. For the first time in God knows how long, I feel like I belong. When I’m with him, I feel alive. When I’m with him, I feel.