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We came ashore, and Dad hauled the canoe up halfway out of the water. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to gather kindling and wood for the fire,” he said. “It’s just for lunch, so we don’t need much. Look for—”
“I’ve been camping,” I said. “I can figure out how to pick up sticks.” I stomped toward the tree line.
“Stay close,” Dad called.
I plunged into the trees. I kept moving until I couldn’t see him directly, though I kept glancing back to make sure I could at least see where the trees ended. I didn’t want to get lost in the middle of nowhere, Canada, on my first day here.
As I kicked through the underbrush, stacking my arms with fallen branches, I pictured the heading we’d been on. I calculated speed and tried to remember exactly how long we’d flown. But I didn’t really know where we’d started from, and to me Canada was a big endless stretch from North Dakota to the North Pole.
No wonder Dad liked it out here, if what he wanted was to get away from people. Even if I wanted to, I didn’t think I could tell anyone how to find us.
A growl rumbled behind me as I reached for a fallen branch. I froze. Bear, I thought, or maybe a wolf—but when I peered behind me slowly, it was Bo, standing with his fur bristling on his shoulders and his teeth bared.
“H-hey,” I said, holding out a placating hand. Then I realized he wasn’t looking at me. A hissing, rattling sound came behind me and I jumped toward Bo, Snake! running through my mind, but instead of a snake a fat porcupine came waddle-bolting out of the bush I’d been rummaging in and made for the deeper woods.
As soon as it was gone Bo’s growl vanished and he sat, licking his chops and thumping his tail on the ground.
“Good boy!” I declared. I wrapped one arm around my bundle of sticks so I could scrub his ears. “Just about got a face full of quills, didn’t I?”
My heart was beating pretty fast, but now I felt foolish. Getting stuck with quills would have hurt like crazy, but it wasn’t like a porcupine was going to eat me.
I whistled to Bo, and we headed back to the beach. The dog never left my side. Maybe he sensed that there was no way I’d make it on my own out here. Or maybe he was enjoying the novelty of getting affection.
Dad didn’t talk to the dog except to give him orders. The most praise Bo got was a grunted “g’boy.” But still Bo ran to Dad when we got back to the pebbled beach. I dumped my armload near the canoe and waited for judgment.
“Make three piles. Different sizes,” Dad said. “That way it’ll be easy to pick out the next one to toss on.”
“Won’t it be faster if you just do it?” I asked. My stomach was rumbling and my leg hurt. When it hurt like this, it felt like there was still glass in it, and sometimes I found myself touching my thigh and calf gingerly as if they would slice my fingers open.
Dad looked at me with squinted eyes, and I could tell he was making a decision about more than just lunch. He finally nodded. “All right. We’ll hold off on the lessons for now. Just watch what I do, and try to pay attention.”
I looked around and located a log to sit on. I dragged it closer by a broken branch that was sticking up, but three steps in, pain jerked up my leg and my knee and ankle just collapsed.
Sometimes the muscles and the tendons don’t do what they’re supposed to fast enough, so it’s like trying to put weight on a hinge. Just snap and shut, and I’m on my face or my ass. Luckily this time I was leaning backward to drag the log and I just landed hard on my butt, jarring my tailbone and my spine, and making my teeth click together hard.
My eyes watered, but I bit down on the inside of my lip to keep from crying or making any noise. My leg throbbed and sparked with pain in turns, but I knew it would fade. I hadn’t wrenched it or anything, it was just acting up, and the pain would be gone if I could just count to a hundred and not pay attention to it.
Dad laughed. “Watch yourself there, baby bear. You always were a bit clumsy.”
I twisted around to glare at him. My vision was blurry with tears. “Last time you spent any time with me I was a baby. All babies are clumsy. I’m hurt. My leg doesn’t work anymore, and you made me sit all scrunched up in a canoe and then go walk around in the woods and collect sticks, and I’m supposed to avoid uneven ground. I’m supposed to stick to sidewalks, and I’m not even supposed to go up and down stairs without a handrail. So maybe you can tell me where to find the sidewalks out here. And how about a physical therapist? Because the social worker said you’d have to keep sending me to one. My doctors said it’ll take a year for me to get better all the way, and if I’m not careful, I might not ever be able to walk right, and if you’d bothered to pay attention, you’d know that.”
Dad gave me a patient, pitying look. “Honey. You don’t need a physical therapist. You’ll get strong out here,” he said. “Who do you think knows what you need better? Some overworked social worker who can’t even remember your name, or your dad?”
“You didn’t know my name,” I said. “I haven’t been Sequoia since I was a baby.” That wasn’t completely true, but it felt true and hot and right in my chest, like a burning coal, and I wanted it to burn him. “Christ, Dad!”
“Don’t say that,” he said.
“What? Christ? You don’t want me to take the Lord’s name in vain?” I rolled my eyes.
“There is no Lord,” Dad said. “God’s just a lie the powerful people tell the little people to keep them in line.” He gave me an even squintier look. “You’re not religious, are you? Moira was never religious.”
“We went to church all the time,” I said. It was a complete lie. When Mom was out of town and I stayed with my friend Michelle, we went to church on Sundays and youth group on Saturdays, but that wasn’t very often, and she moved away a couple of years ago. Usually I stayed with my friend Ronnie and her family because she already had four brothers and her mother said having an extra set of ovaries around could only improve the situation. Ronnie’s mother didn’t go to church, even though she believed in God, because she said that if God was everywhere she could talk to Him anywhere she damn well pleased.
And then for a couple of years I’d just stayed with Scott when Mom was gone, and then Sundays were for waffles and whatever I wanted on them, even chocolate chips and whipped cream five inches deep. I had the vicious urge to say something about Scott now, about how great he’d been, but thinking about him dragged me up close to all those memories I’d locked away with our stuff, and instead I just glared damply at Dad and crossed my arms.
“Well, I don’t hold with that,” Dad said. “There will be no praying under my roof.”
“What roof?” I asked, and flung my arms out. Bo took this as an invitation to sidle over and lick my fingers, and I snatched them back. He tilted his head to the side and sat down, licking his lips. “Why do you do that?” I asked him. “I’m not a snack.”
