The Darkhouse Page 2

  The woman stands in the middle of the diner while everyone smiles and waves at her. I can tell they’re as taken aback as I am.

  She’s covered in fuzzy brown clothing: a soft brown scarf is wrapped around her neck, a half-tuque of the same material caps the top of her head, brown-red hair curls from underneath it and around her face, a tight long coat — soft and brown as well — swings down her body. She has a mouth that looks like it wants to be kissed and hazel eyes that owl around. Doris would say she looks “fancy,” but I think she looks like a jackrabbit pretending the wolves can’t see her. Either way, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

  Doris is the first to say something. Doris is always the first. She pats her bleached-yellow bun and pushes out her giant boobs. “Well, skinamarink, you’re our first guest this year!” She calls out to the back, “Randy! Fire up the grill. Our first guest of the season is here!” Doris beams at the woman, her red lipstick already messing up her dentured teeth. “Welcome to the island, honey.”

  The tourist doesn’t say anything, but looks as pale as a breaking wave.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, come on in!” Doris ushers the woman to the nearest table. Transfixed, the tourist lets herself be moved. “Ooh, aren’t you chilled through? A nice hot cup of coffee will do just the trick.” Doris knows tourists always prefer coffee. She introduces everyone while she grabs a menu and brings it to the woman. I slip into a back booth where I can watch her without being noticed.

  “This here is Peg,” Doris says, introducing the last adult. “She owns the diner, and also our only B&B, which is that pretty house over there and a place you’re more than welcome to visit.” Doris points out the window across the street. Peg’s house is the biggest on the island, made of brick and not the usual painted shingles or siding. It has three stories and a front porch. “Peg is also our local nurse, saver of lives and curer of illness.”

  “That’s a bit much, dear,” Peg says. “But I’m certainly around for anyone who might get hurt or sick.”

  On the ground floor of Peg’s house, there’s an examination room where you might lie as a patient until Peg can decide if your injury or illness is serious enough for Dr. Thomas in Kingsmith.

  The tourist’s face drains paler. Peg must notice, because she says, “Would you like a visit, dear?”

  The woman startles and shakes her head. She pulls off her hat. Static ruffles her brown curls into a matted halo.

  “And what’s your name, miss?” Doris asks with a raised eyebrow. When the woman doesn’t speak, Doris says again louder, “Miss …?”

  “Oh.” The woman tilts her head. She says, “Luellen.”

  “Well, hello, Miss Luellen.” Doris sets a cup of coffee in front of her — reward for a job well done. Then she points at me. “And I almost forgot to introduce our little doll.” She smiles. “Miss Luellen, this is Gemma.”

  I can’t help it; I hold my breath.

  “Gemma is our angel,” Doris says.

  A blush eclipses me so fast I don’t have time to look away.

  “Your angel?” the woman asks. She looks at me and repeats my name: “Gemma.”

  Something happens between us. Our eyes connect, and her face softens and I feel myself smile. A true smile, not one conjured to be polite. She sees me. Will she say something that will change my life?

  “And where are you from, Miss Luellen?”

  Doris’s voice breaks the connection between us. The woman looks down at her coat. She begins to unbutton it. “Toronto.”

  It’s like I’ve run a great distance for no reason except to feel it in my legs. I’m not sure anymore what to do with myself.

  “Oh my, Toronto.” Doris hates Toronto. Thinks it’s too snobbish. She says as if we hadn’t heard, “Miss Luellen is from the big city.”

  “Please, call me Marlie.” Marlie doesn’t look at us as she fumbles in her bag. “Well, I guess I should …” She pulls out a computer. Many tourists bring computers with them. She sets it on the table in front of her and opens it.

  Doris waggles the menu. “We have a lovely breakfast if you want.”

  “No, I …” Marlie says, blinking. “I should really do some work.”

  “Oh, so you’re here to work?” Across from me, Peg brightens and sits up. “It’s a lovely place for it. Very peaceful. Right, Gemma?” I nod, and Peg looks pleased. She leans across the aisle. “Are you a writer then, Marlie?”

  Marlie taps at a computer key. “I don’t … well, yes, I do use it to write and things like that, but not —”

  Peg gives an excited wave. “A writer! How wonderful. What are you working on then?”

  Doris nudges Marlie’s arm. “Is it like Alistair MacLeod or Lucy Maud Montgomery? There’re some wonderful Maritime stories.”

  Marlie taps a different set of keys. “Well, no, but —” She watches her screen.

  “Oh my, this is really, really wonderful,” Peg says, eyes shining. “We’ve had some visiting politicians, a few doctors, many, many teachers. There was a forensic scientist once. And several historians. We’ve had a few photographers, and a minister who was thinking of settling here back when there was still a church. Mind, we’re looking over the whole of fifty years now. But never once did we have a writer.” She takes a long, appreciative breath.

  Doris leans in, also excited but not as much as Peg. “If you want to know anything about the island for your book, just ask me. I’m a, what do you call it, a wellspring of island trivia.”

  Marlie stabs another computer key then slumps back. “You don’t have Internet here.”

  “I can tell you this,” Doris says. “There are more widows and widowers on the island than you can shake a stick at. But no mischief, if you know what I mean. We’re a loyal bunch. ” Sometimes Peg has to remind Doris that city folks don’t want to hear all our business, but Doris never remembers that part.

  “What about cell service?” Marlie says, pulling a phone from her purse. But Doris doesn’t hear her, just keeps sharing island trivia. Marlie puts the phone to her ear. I notice tears start to puddle along her lower lids. “No service.” She wipes her eyes and drops her phone back into her purse. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she says, interrupting Doris. “But I was looking for the famous lighthouse? It’s up on some cliffs?” She casts her gaze from one adult to the other, not to me. “I had a link with the directions,” she says. “But now it’s lost in the, um, ether.”

  “Oh, well,” Peg says, instantly excited, “as long as you’re here to see the lighthouse, you should ask Jonah to give you a tour.”

  With a start I remember Jonah. I notice that his van is still parked on the road by the ferry.

  “That’s okay,” Marlie says, shaking her head. “I don’t need a tour.” A small tremor vibrates over her hands, and she cups one over the other. “I just want to know where the lighthouse is.”

  “It has some very interesting history,” Peg says. “You may well want to include a few lighthouse facts in that book of yours. And please don’t worry — a tour is not a bother at all. In fact, Jonah is supposed to give tours.”

  “Jonah?” the woman repeats his name the way she repeated mine.

  “Jonah Hubb — that’s Gemma’s father — he brought you over on the ferry. He and Gemma live up by the lighthouse.” Marlie’s eyes drift over to me again. As she looks at me, my breath flutters and doesn’t work as it should.

  I’m Jonah’s daughter. Peg has revealed the truth.

  “You live by the lighthouse?” Marlie asks me.

  I can hardly speak. “I do.”

  Marlie’s mouth rounds into a silent O, then she says, “That must be great.”

  “It is,” I say.

  “Jonah is a lovely man,” Peg adds. “Especially when you consider all he’s been through.” She gets the far-off, pitying look she always gets when she remembers my history.

  Doris says, “Jonah’s not one to get caught up in all our island shenanigans. No, he keeps his hea
d down, works hard, doesn’t speak an unnecessary word, doesn’t poke his nose in. If he gives you the gears, you can’t take it hard. It’s who he is.”

  “Although,” Peg says, “he has quite a lot to say about animal behavior and such. What is it again? Oh yes — ethology.”

  “Yeah,” Doris says, rolling her eyes. “Or all that stuff about genes and evolution. Don’t get him started.” She swats a hand through the air.

  “When Jonah first came to the island way back,” Peg explains to Marlie, “he was our lightkeeper. But then we lost Henry Jasper, captain of our little ferry, a few years later and Jonah took over. We’re lucky to have him. He’s something of a genius, I guess.”

  “And easy on the eyes to boot, eh?” Doris says, slapping the table in front of Marlie and adding a wink. “Now, doesn’t an island tour sound like a wonderful plan?”

  I picture myself showing Marlie around: This is my house, this is the yard, this is the Rock Pit, this is the best place to look at the stars, this is the lighthouse, this was my favorite tree for climbing when I was a child.

  I check on her, but she only stares into her cup of coffee.

  “You heading back on the afternoon ferry?” Doris asks her. “Last run leaves at two, for your information.” She nudges Marlie’s arm again. “But you know, you don’t have to leave. In fact, we hope you’ll consider staying on for a few days. There’s a whole world of wonderful waiting for you here.”

  Peg’s eyes mist up. “That’s right. No one ever visits in the spring. It would be just lovely to have you stay for a bit.”

  Marlie looks up from her cup. Her eyes are clouded, her expression vague.

  I surprise myself by saying loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’d be happy to show you the lighthouse. I know it really well.”

  Marlie composes a smile. “No, that’s okay,” she says.

  I turn my face to the window. Is it possible to be hot and cold at the same time?

  “You’re very sweet to offer, though,” she says. “Thank you.”

  A queasy feeling grinds up my stomach. It pleats upwards, through my chest and into my throat. It makes me lightheaded and dizzy. If I faint, Peg will make a fuss.

  I push myself up from the table. I’m not the least bit certain I can stay upright. “Excuse me,” I say. Without looking at anyone, I creep to the back of the diner and into the ladies’ room.

  In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection and take deliberate breaths until the sound of my breathing is the only thing I hear.

  I recognize the urge inside me that grasps for something I can’t have. That invents a hope that will crush me when it doesn’t happen. It’s a terrible urge, and it makes me terribly angry at myself.

  Wouldn’t it be nice if mirrors were like the mirrors in stories? The ones that tell you what you want to hear no matter the consequences.

  When I go back into the diner, everyone is bustling about and chatting too quickly, and Doris is wiping a table. “She didn’t even eat,” Doris says, not to me but to everyone. “Typical. City girls never eat.”

  The booth where Marlie was sitting is empty.

  I go up to Peg. “Where is she?”

  Peg pats my cheek. “Oh, my darling dear, turns out our new friend wanted to take a tour of the island by herself.”

  “By herself?” I say, embarrassed, defeated.

  “Yes,” Peg says, smiling. “Isn’t that lovely?”

  “Mark my words,” Doris says, putting on a fresh pot of coffee, “that was definitely the face of heartbreak.”

  Irun without thinking to get my bike from where I left it, hobbled on the ground near the FoodMart. I wheel it down the road through Keele’s Landing.

  Like a dropped length of string, the road home weaves into the distance away from me. Through fields, into woods.

  I don’t see Marlie anywhere along it, but I’m certain she’s heading toward the house. It was the lighthouse she asked about. The famous lighthouse on some cliffs.

  I jump on my bike and push for momentum, but in my sloppy hurry, my pant leg gets caught in the chain. It tumbles me and the bike into a pile on the gravel.

  I don’t even stop to think about bruises or cuts, but gather myself as quickly as I can. Crouched over the tangle, I yank my pants out of the chain. Again, too messy, too fast, and the chain pops off the sprocket.

  I rage with frustration. An easy fix, but a taker of time. I crouch to sort the mechanism, seething, swearing under my breath.

  “Gemma.” My name from a voice I don’t recognize. “Are you all right?”

  Before I can check who it is, I feel the pressure of a hand on my bent back. Someone I don’t know touching me. I jerk my head up.

  It’s Mr. O’Reardon’s son, Scotty. After five years away, he’s come back to the island.

  I was eleven the last time I saw Scotty. He seemed old to me then, a man just turned twenty, someone who could make everyone laugh, and mostly me. He was the last of the islanders’ children, and so spent his school years on the mainland, living with an aunt. He came back when his mother got sick, and stayed a while after she died. When he was sixteen, he left school for work, but for the next four years he came back to the island every spring and stayed for a month to keep his father company and help with chores — the only grown child who returned on a regular basis. I rejoiced in his company. He had the energy and humor to play with me. Tag or hide-and-seek or running piggyback.

  Scotty’s mother had been sick for a long time before she died. When she left the island for the last time, I was five and didn’t understand what was happening. I watched from the windows of Peg’s Diner as Scotty cradled her arm and escorted her from their house to his father’s pickup. She leaned against him. Fallen branches from a tree. I mostly remember Scotty’s wincing face, tears not there but drawn in deep lines around his eyes and mouth. He seemed so grown-up, but now I understand he was just a boy. Soon after, Scotty and his father and a bunch of islanders went to her funeral in Fredericton. Because I’m not allowed to leave the island, Jonah and I didn’t go.

  Scotty and his father taught Jonah how to climb at the Rock Pit. As the lightkeeper, Jonah has to maintain the lighthouse, and that means once a year he has to rappel down its sides and repair any crumbling stone, then whitewash it to keep it pretty for tourists. When I was ten, Scotty taught me how to rock climb too, and it was amazing. We climbed the Rock Pit every day of his visit that summer, and then every day of his visit — his last visit — the summer after that. He taught me how to set the rope and lock off the gear, to rappel down, and to climb up by balancing on jutting ledges, reaching my fingers for holds that he called “crimps” and “jugs,” “pockets” and “slopers.” Even to fly up using mechanical ascenders, pulling myself up and up. I felt like a spider spinning its web. Like I could stick to the sky.

  Scotty married a woman in Fredericton five years ago who never wanted to come to the island. Everyone whispered that twenty was too young for a boy to marry, and Doris still grumbles as she serves pie in the diner that you can’t trust a woman who won’t know her husband’s home. That’s how I forgot about Scotty: a strong, joking, helpful young man who’d gone his own way.

  Scotty has one hand on my back and stands so close to me that puffs of air from his mouth mix with my own. His red hair shines golden in the hazy light, his eyes are as blue as compressed ice, his chest and arms fill out his winter coat.

  Breath clots in my throat. All the atoms in the universe seem to gather around us, as if the only reason the island was created was to hold Scotty on this day.

  There’s no imagined world more distracting than the one that has someone to love in it. Someone holding you and whispering your name.

  “You need to sit down, kiddo?” he says. “Can I help you to Peg’s?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m fine, thanks. Just winded is all.” I sound like a child, like a baby, and feel terribly stupid.

  To forget myself, I bend over my bike. Scotty scrambles to help m
e, but I don’t let him. I release tension from the rear derailleur and pull the drooping chain back onto the teeth of the sprocket, then lift the back wheel off the ground and crank the pedal until the chain catches again.

  “Hey,” he says, “you got the hang of that pretty good.”

  Trying not to grin like a fool, I get up and lean my bike against my hip. I hide my greasy hands behind my back, secretly wiping them on my jeans. “It’s good to see you, Scotty. It’s been a long time.”

  He chews his lip and contemplates the ocean. “Yeah, too long.”

  “When did you get in?” I don’t know how I could have missed his arrival, having sat in Peg’s Diner every day this week.

  “Yesterday. On the afternoon run.”

  Yesterday afternoon Phyllis Ketchum had asked me to help fill shelves at the FoodMart. Every spring I help her unpack, and even though it’s always the same cans of tomatoes and stew and boxes of pop and chocolate, it’s like those things from far-off places bring along some exotic information. My way of being a tourist.

  “Right.” I nod at him like everything makes sense now. “I was doing inventory.”

  “Right.” He nods back at me. Then he does something that he used to do every time he saw me: he tousles my hair. Back then, it was another thing he did that made me laugh. Today it melts me so quickly, I actually sink a bit, and his fingers get tangled in the long strands. I have to pretend I’m ducking away from him. Have to pretend I don’t like it.

  “Sorry, Gemma. I guess you’re not a kid anymore. How old are you now?”

  “Sixteen. Well, sixteen next month.” I try a smile. Sincere. Grown-up.

  “Almost sixteen. Wow. Pretty soon you’ll be older than me.” He gives a kind of snorting laugh. The idea that we’ll soon be adults together also fills me with unspent laughter.