“Jesus, Charlie. Cut it out,” Sam yelled, his voice cracking.
Both the Florek boys liked to tease; whereas I was the object of Sam’s gentle ribbing, Sam was subjected to Charlie’s relentless digs about his scrawniness and sexual inexperience. Sam rarely talked back, and the only sign of his irritation was the red stain on his cheeks. At the lake, Charlie pushed Sam into the water at every possible chance, to the point that even I found it annoying. “He does it more when you’re around,” Sam told me one day.
Charlie laughed and plunked back down on the couch. He elbowed my side and said, “Your neck’s all blotchy, Pers.” He pulled my arms away from my face and put his hand over my knee and squeezed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” I glanced at Sam, but he was staring at Charlie’s hand on my leg.
We were interrupted by Sue calling us up for lunch. A platter of cheese and potato pierogies waited for us on the round table in the kitchen. It was a sunny space with cream cabinets, windows overlooking the lake, and a sliding glass door onto the deck. Sue stood at the sink in her denim cutoffs and a white T-shirt, her hair pulled back into her usual ponytail, washing up a large pot.
“Hi, Mrs. Florek,” I said, sitting down and helping myself to three massive dumplings. “Thanks for making lunch.”
She turned around from the sink. “Charlie, go put on some clothes. And you’re welcome, Percy—I know how much you like my pierogies.”
“I love them,” I said, and she gave me one of her toothy, dimpled smiles. Sam told me pierogies had been his dad’s favorite and Sue had stopped making them at home before I came around.
After I finished my serving, I piled more onto my plate along with a large dollop of sour cream.
“Sam, your girlfriend eats like a horse,” Charlie laughed. I winced at the g-word.
“Cut it out, Charlie,” Sue snapped. “Never comment on how much a woman eats, and don’t tease them. They’re too young for any of that, anyway.”
“Well, I’m not too young,” Charlie said, wiggling his eyebrows in my direction. “Want to trade up, Percy?”
“Charlie!” Sue barked.
“I’m just messing around,” he said and stood up to clear his plate, knocking his brother across the back of the head.
I tried to catch Sam’s eye, but he was scowling at Charlie, his face the color of a field tomato.
* * *
AS THE LAST week of summer vacation came to an end, I began dreading heading back to the city. I had dreams about going to school naked and finding Sam’s bracelet cut up into orange and pink pieces in my desk.
We were lying on the raft the afternoon before I was leaving. I had tried my best all day not to be a downer, but apparently I wasn’t doing a very good job because Sam kept asking if I was okay. Suddenly, he sat up and said, “You know what you need? One last boat ride.” The Floreks had a small 9.9 motor on the back of their rowboat that Sam had taught me how to drive.
I grabbed my book, and Sam gathered his rod and tackle box. We folded our towels across the benches and set off in our damp bathing suits and bare feet. I drove to a reedy bay, which Sam claimed was a good spot for fishing, and cut the engine. I’d been watching him cast off the front of the boat when he started talking.
“It was a heart attack,” he said, his eyes on his rod. I swallowed but stayed quiet. “We don’t talk about him much at home,” he added, reeling the line in. “And definitely not with my friends. They could barely look at me at the funeral. And even now, if they mention something about one of their dads, they look at me like they’ve accidentally said something super offensive.”
“That sucks,” I said. “I can tell you all about my dad if you want. But I warn you: He’s totally boring.” He smiled, and I went on. “But seriously, you don’t have to talk with me, either. Not if you don’t want to.”
“That’s the thing,” he said, squinting into the sun. “I do. I wish we’d talk about him more at home, but it makes Mom sad.” He set down his rod and looked up at me. “I’m starting to forget stuff about him, you know?” I climbed into the middle bench, closer to him.
“I don’t really know. I don’t know anyone with a dead dad, remember?” I nudged his foot with my toe, and he huffed out a laugh. “But I can imagine. I can listen.” He nodded once and ran his hand through his hair.
“It happened at the restaurant. He was cooking. Mom was at home and someone called to tell us that Dad had fallen and that the ambulance had taken him to the hospital. It only took us ten minutes to get there—you know how close the hospital is—but it didn’t matter. He was gone.” He said it quickly, like it hurt to get the words out.
I reached out and squeezed his hand, then twisted his bracelet around so the best part of the pattern faced up. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Explains the whole doctor thing, huh?” I could tell he was trying to sound upbeat, but his voice was dull. I smiled but didn’t reply.
“Tell me what he was like . . . when you’re ready,” I said instead. “I want to hear all about him.”
“Okay.” He picked up the rod again. Then added, “Sorry for going all emo on your last day.”
“Suits my mood, anyway.” I shrugged. “I’m kind of depressed about summer ending. I don’t want to go home tomorrow.”
He bumped my knee with his. “I don’t want you to go, either.”
5
Now
Sue’s face is staring at me, hair pulled back, smile so wide it’s beckoned her dimples. There are fine lines fanning out from her eyes that didn’t used to be there, but even on the local paper’s smudged newsprint, you can see determination in the slight upward tilt of her chin and the hand that rests on her hip. She’s standing in front of the Tavern in the photo, which runs under the headline “Tribute to a Beloved Barry’s Bay Business Leader.”
I’ve become skilled at warding off the loneliness that threatened to pull me under in my early twenties. It’s a formula that involved throwing myself into work, no-strings sex, and overpriced cocktails with Chantal. It took years to perfect. But sitting in the motel room with Sue’s obituary in my hands and the lake sparkling in the distance, I can feel it in every part of my body—the twisting of my gut, the ache in my neck, the tightness in my chest.
I could talk to Chantal. She’s sent three more texts, asking me to call her, asking me when the funeral is, asking whether I want her to come. I should at least text her back. But Thanksgiving breakdown aside, I haven’t spoken to her about Sam too often. I tell myself I don’t have the energy to get into it right now, but it’s more that if I start talking about him, about how monumental it feels to be here, how scary, I may not be able to hold it together.
What I really need is a bottle of wine. My stomach gurgles. And maybe some food. I haven’t eaten anything except for the raisin-bran muffin from my emergency Tim Hortons stop. It’s a blistering late afternoon, so I throw on the lightest thing I’ve packed: a sleeveless poppy-colored cotton dress that hits above the knees. It has large buttons down the front and a belted waist. I fasten my gold sandals and head out the door.