Circle of Stones (23 page)

Lorraine winks. “I like a girl on a mission.”

It's already starting to get dark by the time signs for Vancouver's City Centre start to appear. Jennifer keeps glancing at the LCD clock on the dashboard.

“I'm heading to this great big grocery terminal off the highway.” Lorraine taps buttons on her GPS. “But I'm a little ahead of schedule. Is there any place I can drop you?”

“If you can get me to a SkyTrain station I'll take it from there.” Jennifer checks the time again.

“Sure.” Lorraine lights two more cigarettes. “Let's have one more smoke.”

“Thanks.” Jennifer takes the cigarette and inhales. “For the smokes and the ride and everything.”

“Nice to have company on this stretch of road.” Lorraine gives her a light punch in the shoulder. “And you're good company. Anytime you need a ride —”

“I probably won't any time soon.”

“Well, you never know what's beyond that next bend in the road, right?” Lorraine reaches into her shirt pocket and hands her something. A business card. Jennifer turns it over in her hand while she exhales a cloud of smoke at the windshield.

“My email and my cell number are on there. Give me a shout sometime.”

Jennifer makes a show of taking her wallet out of her bag and tucking the card in beside her bank cards.

Lorraine stops the truck in the parking lot of a SkyTrain station in Burnaby. Jennifer grabs her bag and climbs out of the truck onto the sidewalk. She and Lorraine stare at each other for a moment. Then Lorraine waves and drives off. Jennifer watches the truck turn the corner before she takes Lorraine's card out of her wallet and tosses it into a garbage can. She jams change into a fare box, gets a ticket, and hustles up the stairs as fast as she can. The whole time she's on the SkyTrain she stares at the transit map, planning her route. She gets off the train, climbs aboard a bus, then transfers to another bus.

On the Granville Street Bridge she thinks she sees the faint imprint of her name along the concrete blocks separating the pedestrians from traffic. She remembers how Nik used to leave secret reverse graffiti messages for her — shined into filthy building stucco or written with his finger in the dust across a broken-down van waiting to be towed away. She'd see
NIK + J
or
GOOD LUCK J
if she was going for an audition. And sometimes she'd see the words
U R BEUTIFLU
, recognize Nik's spelling and know they were for her. Jennifer wonders why there weren't any more messages in Montreal or Ottawa or Toronto. Why he stopped writing them. If he felt rejected, like she'd chosen dance over him, instead of feeling the freedom she thought she'd given him to pursue his own career. It was impossible to know what he'd thought, she realized. They didn't talk. Not enough. Their connection was something she'd taken for granted, and didn't fully understand.

She looks at her watch. The North Vancouver bus she's on putters along in the slow lane. Jennifer looks at her watch again and then at the faces around her, each one of them anxious, wondering if they'll make the last evening sailing to Vancouver Island from Horseshoe Bay. The bus rounds a final corner, and the ferry, still in dock, is lit up like a big white beacon. An electronic signboard flashes over the highway: the ferry is delayed. Jennifer has twenty minutes to buy her foot-passenger ticket and hobble up the long ramp onto the ferry. She's going to make it.

It's a nighttime sailing to Vancouver Island in the middle of the week, long after tourist season is over, and it's not very busy. She finds an empty row of seats by the window. She puts her bag on the seat across from her, a sweater on the seat beside her, marking out space. A private zone. She stares out at the twinkling lights of the bay and the inky blackness of the water and half listens to all of the usual “welcome aboard” safety and amenities announcements while the ferry manoeuvres out of its berth. The ferry turns around once it reaches open water so Jennifer is facing the direction of where she came from, not where she's going. She stays where she is, looking backwards.

Jennifer assumes Lorraine knew she was lying when she told her she was headed to Main Street. She doesn't regret it, but she realizes she could have told the truth. Lorraine was all right. She sighs, knowing her plan is half-baked, anyway. She looks out the window again at the black velvet Pacific, realizing how much she missed it.

It's not hard to find someone to give her a ride up island. When she hears the “we are approaching Departure Bay” announcement she heads to the car deck and shakes hands with a middle-aged man who introduces himself as Dave. His car is silver, like his hair, and nondescript. Jennifer gets in as the ferry jostles against the dock and they both wait in silence until the cars ahead in their lane start moving. Dave sends text messages to someone — his wife, Jennifer assumes — and follows the line of red brake lights through the ferry, onto the ramp, around a corner, and up a hill. He takes the northbound exit onto the inland island highway then weaves in and out of lanes, passing aggressively. The ferry traffic thins past Nanaimo. The car speeds through the night, past the last of the traffic lights and streetlights. Dave flicks the high beams on. Jennifer looks at the tall shadows of the trees lining the highway and watches exit signs. Parksville. Qualicum Beach. At Fanny Bay Dave clears his throat.

“How far north do you want to go again? Comox?”

“Campbell River.”

“Okay, then.” Dave shrugs and turns up the volume on his tinny-sounding radio, tuned to the CBC.

Jennifer looks for kilometre signs as they flash by at the side of the road and counts down. Seventy-five then fifty-five then twenty-five. She sees a sign for Miracle Beach where Nik told her he always went for school field trips. A few minutes later there's a sign for the local airport. Dave takes the turnoff for the south side of town.

“I'm going to head into town and grab some coffee.” Dave glances at the dashboard clock. “What's still open after midnight?”

“I'm visiting, actually. I don't really know the place,” Jennifer says.

“Oh.” Dave hesitates at the end of the long, winding exit road. He turns left. There's a cluster of homes, businesses, shops, and then the ocean. Jennifer sees the lighthouse Nik was always talking about. The long, dark shape with lights on it must be Quadra Island.

“You can let me off here,” Jennifer says.

“Here? Are you sure?” Dave looks around. There are no other cars or people. He stops by the side of the road.

“Thanks for the ride.” She gives the door a hard slam and limps toward the ocean. She hears Dave drive away and feels something hard underfoot. In the shadowy light she sees a path winding along the shore. The sea walk Nik told her about. It's her best guess and she knows she could be wrong. She's never pursued anyone before, though she's well used to steeling herself against people — men — who wanted her. The illusion of her. Nik was different, disarming. Fragile, like her, though he never tried to hide that fact. And he was a dreamer, like her, but he painted his dreams.

She knows if she follows the sea walk she'll find the park. But which way? She turns to her right and then to her left, guesses, turns right again. Walks for a few minutes, turns around, heads back the other way. She sees the dark shapes of wooden carvings, small totem poles. Dark piles of driftwood line the shore. She rounds one corner then another, limps past a huge hulking boulder perched on the beach like a prehistoric egg. A little farther down the path she sees a couple of old motels, a gas station, houses, and condos. There are lights up ahead. Finally there's a sign on the path. The shape of it — something she can't read in the dark. But there's an open area with tall, shadowy trees. A car drives past and its headlights illuminate the parking lot. She hears the sound of the waves crashing against rock.

She feels grass under her feet now. She can't see — it's like being on a darkened stage the moment before the performance begins. She remembers Nik telling her about the circles of memorial stones in the park and stays in the middle of the open area to make sure she doesn't disturb any of the stones, any of the sleepers. She shivers as cold wind whips off the water.

Her foot hits something. She leans down to touch it. It's damp driftwood. Her hands guide her over an old log. She sits down, looks out at the shimmering water. Every once in a while she hears a random splash. She watches a solitary boat make its way through the strait. The radiating gleam of the lighthouse is hypnotizing. Clouds scud across the sky and uncover the moon.

She watches another small boat go by, curious about the where and why of its night time mission, and shivers, reminded of Leo. Thugs on the water. The coast's clandestine trade routes. Her leg throbs. She knows in a few hours it will be shooting darts of sharp pain. She'll need antibiotics. She doesn't want to go through that again. She had the other dancers from the company to lean on the first time. They were kind when she was injured, and patient as the infection took hold.

In the white spotlight of the moon she can see the rocks leading down to the beach, toward the water. The ocean is like an old friend. She stands and makes her way across a wobbling shelf of beach stones, concentrating on each step until she feels the soft squelch of sand underfoot. The waves roar in her ears. She walks into the water up to her knees. It's liquid ice. She forgets about her throbbing ankle and knee, wants to go deeper, but her feet are stuck in the sand. She lifts her hands and clutches her forehead. She holds her breath, ready to duck under. A big wave surges and splashes around her, nearly knocking her over. The moon dazzles over the ocean. A spotlight. She steps back. Then again, until she's standing on the beach, drenched up to her shoulders. There are tracers in her eyes — dashes of light that aren't really there. Then a ball of orange fire in the sky. And dancing.

When the stage lights go out she follows the choreography with her arms, moving her head, shoulders, ribcage, hips. Then her legs. She is a tree in the wind, leaves and branches shaking out a rhythm. She is a skipping stone cascading across waves.

When she opens her eyes again there's seaweed in her hair. Her nose nudges a cold, slimy rock. She realizes she passed out — wasn't dancing at all. There was no sea stage. She shivers and half crawls, half creeps up the rocks back to her original driftwood perch. Her wet hair drips down the back of her neck. Sea water stings her eyes. She sits on the log and pulls her legs up, hugging them to her chest with both arms. She finds her bag and rummages through, looking for a lighter. She finds a matchbook at the very bottom and lights one, thinking she might start a fire, but all the wood is too damp. So she sits there, remembering, lighting each match in the book then blowing them out like dreams.

Sunrise is a gradual shift from black to charcoal, from charcoal to dull grey. Jennifer sits up and watches the foam of the waves burst and bubble around the rocks. The tide is in, the sandy ledge now flooded and obscured. A seagull appears, swooping then landing in the waves, paddling then diving under. Resurfacing, pecking at stones, flying away. She watches for eagles, herons, seals, and whales.

She stares out across the strait. The lighthouse looks much smaller now than it did in the darkness. She thinks about her life as a professional dancer. Endings. The pulsing sensation of her own blood. The sharpness of the pain in her leg. Seagulls squawk. The sound of the waves, the wind, then voices.

Jennifer turns, but doesn't see anyone. She stands, steps over the soggy log, up onto the grass, and hides behind a tree at the edge of the park. Now she can see the circles of stones. She wants to go look at them, but stays rooted in place. Two figures emerge from around the bend, following the sea walk. An elderly couple. The woman looks a little unsteady on her feet. Her hands are shaking. The man guides her by the arm. Then Nik rounds the corner. Jennifer grips the bark of the tree. Sticky sap, then splinters. She falls to her knees, too spellbound to notice the sharp burst of pain in her leg.

Nik is wearing a new sweater. A charcoal grey-and-black one that looks hand-knit. There's colour in his face that wasn't there before. His hair looks tidier. Someone's given him a haircut. Jennifer thinks he looks like himself again — but weathered. The elderly man spreads something out on the park bench and the elderly woman sits down, her back and shoulders as straight and correct as a dancer's. There's something dignified about the way she holds herself. Nik walks over to her and Jennifer sees that when he's beside the woman he stands taller, too. Jennifer knows the woman is Nik's grandmother.

Nik's grandmother points at something beneath a tree and Nik goes over to it, crouching down for a better look. He picks up a picture frame, dusts the sand and dirt off it, and hands it to her. The man walks over to the place under the tree and pokes at the stones with his cane, saying something Jennifer can't quite hear. Nik looks around, then walks toward a small metal garbage can by the park's sign. He grabs it, heads back to the tree, and starts dropping the stones into it, one by one. Jennifer watches him and from somewhere deep within feels her body begin to shake. This is Nik's own memorial. He picks up something that looks like a plaque, and then something cylindrical, like a fancy jar. Both go in the bin. Then he picks up the can, struggling a bit under its weight. For a moment Jennifer thinks he's headed in her direction, but he turns the opposite way, stepping down over the beach stones to a circular bay created by a large embankment of rocks she couldn't see last night in the darkness. Nik heaves the contents of the can into the bay with a huge splash. His grandmother claps her gloved hands together and the man smiles, wipes his brow with an oversized cloth handkerchief. Jennifer shifts farther back behind the edge of the tree so Nik won't see her as he's walking back.

Jennifer waits a beat before looking around the tree again. Nik is standing at the edge of the park, staring out at the ocean with such intensity that she wants to see what he's looking at. She looks down at her piece of driftwood — her nighttime encampment. Her dance bag is still there, within Nik's view. He nods at it, in subtle acknowledgement. Then he lifts his gaze to the lighthouse and the mountains on the horizon. He turns back toward his grandmother.