Harmony House

1975

I am well now.

When the pink dawn draws near to my bedroom window I take comfort in those words. For a long time I wouldn’t have been able to make that claim, but now, if someone were to ask, “How are you, Elizabeth?” I could reply, “I’m very well, thank you,” and I’d be right, and could show proof if need be. Still, there are times when I’m uncertain about that claim—when I fail to remember something so simple, or when a kernel of fear sprouts in my chest, sending out gnarly vines that spread far and wide, or when a whispered thought comes into my head when I hadn’t been thinking of anything in particular at the time. The hospital says I’m well and so does the doctor who signed my release forms. They said that more than five years ago, and no one in their right mind would argue their own wellness when it’s been clearly stated as fact, and neither should I.

They released me—the same authorities who declared me well—when dandelion seeds were blowing in the wind. There was a field of them along the route we took the day I came to Harmony House. I hadn’t seen a dandelion for years, let alone a field full of them; soft grey balls of fluff trembling in the wind, their downy pips flying out across the air. I smiled and imagined that I might like to chase after them had we not been going at such a speed that I couldn’t cry out for the car to be stopped.

That would not be the behaviour of someone who is well.

Wellness brings with it a certain responsibility, a promise not to act in a particular way or to say things of an inappropriate nature. So I watched and imagined and smiled until we were well past the field of dandelions, with Mrs. Weaver none the wiser.

“You can go home,” the doctor said the day I was declared well. He was smiling as if this suggestion would have me leaping for joy. Home was a word I hadn’t uttered in years; I feared for the longest while no such word existed for me. Or maybe it did exist in some strange, out-of-the-way place, one no one would tell me about. For sure it was some closely guarded secret and, somehow, intended for my own good.

“Where is home?” I said, sitting across from the doctor. I looked down and stopped myself from fiddling with the hem of my dress. I wondered if he knew more than he was letting on. He was a young man, too young to be in charge of my life, yet I accepted what he said even with the reservations I felt inside. They would send me home no matter where that home was. It was time to release the secret they’d been keeping from me for all these years.

“You’re ready to re-enter the world, Elizabeth. That’s all you need to know at this point.”

His words caused my knees to tremble, and I crossed my legs to tame the uneasiness hammering away inside me. I didn’t want the doctor to see how jumpy this made me in case he reversed his declaration of my wellness. His smile didn’t wane, but neither did he look directly at me, as if he didn’t want to see that far into the future—my future. The future that suddenly seemed murky and undefined. What was waiting for me in this future he spoke of? Even he didn’t seem to have the answer to that.

“Someone will make all the arrangements. No need for you to worry about any of it,” he said before he left me that day. I spent the next few weeks wondering about this someone and the arrangements they were making for me to go home.

Home. I had a home one time, one that hadn’t been arranged. I must have. Everyone does. Step by step we build our lives with every choice we make, every thought we think, everything we feel and all the people we encounter. But that life, my life, was gone. I had no idea where. Places cannot stop existing. Yet it seemed that home, or at least my home, had done just that. Now there was nothing but a vague sense of familiarity lurking deep within me, a tangle of stale memories that I fought hard to remember. Flashes and flickers, small bits of the past, moved like static in my brain as I waited to start my life over again. And I began to wonder just how important those flashes and flickers might eventually prove to be. Some nights I couldn’t shut them off. I’d toss and turn and wrestle the unknown, certain that something, or someone, would prevent me from ever seeing home.

This home the doctor spoke of became Harmony House, on a quiet back street in a little town not far from Halifax; a new start with freedoms I could only have dreamt about from inside the hospital walls. Home was a place to eat and sleep and watch TV, a place to breathe in the wide-open spaces, with trips into town and some money in my purse. And there was an old woman, the occupant of the bed on the other side of the room, who had been there for several years before my arrival.

“Mrs. Zimmer has her ways, but you’ll get used to her soon enough,” said Mrs. Weaver as we pulled up the driveway to Harmony House. “She means well.” She left me standing in the middle of the room without a clue as to what I should do next. Setting my suitcase on the empty bed, I looked toward my roommate.

“Hello,” I said with a smile she didn’t return. Her mouth was pulled into a scowl and her flabby arms were folded in front of her. She turned her head and stared directly at me. I felt like an alien from a distant planet, a being with three eyes and a pair of horns sticking out from my head.

“Sal croaked just the other night,” she said as I put my things in the dresser that had my name on it. “Stiff as a poker in the morning when they came to wake her. They just changed the sheets before you got here. The bed’s probably still warm. We shared this room for four long years,” she said, stretching out those last three words to indicate how miserable those years had been for her. She finished her speech by adding, with what seemed like a fair bit of satisfaction, “She always had a lot of gas.” Raising a bushy eyebrow, she added, “You’re not gassy, are you?”

Since the declaration of my wellness, I’ve contemplated my illness as many times as one can consider something they have little memory of. I’m uncertain as to when I became ill, what time of year, or even the year itself; whether dandelions were blooming or coloured leaves were hanging on the trees. I like to imagine it might have been in the cold of winter, a time when nature pulls back her hand, tired of making the flowers bloom and the grass grow; a time of rest. Certainly not in spring, with small shoots popping up from the ground, new life emerging. Perhaps I went to sleep one night fully aware of my life, but then entered a whole new realm of existence, a corridor that led me into a world different from the one I’d known all along. Or I might have been put under a fairy spell, transported to another land, stripped bare of my life, my memories stolen.

But I am well now, and all that is childlike thinking, hardly plausible explanations for the life I’ve lost.

So much of my life is now made up of uncertainties. But I’ve been told there is nothing unique in that. The only certainty in life is life’s uncertainty. Sometimes in order for us to get to that place of wellness, things must be sacrificed. Life is a trade-off, a juggling of people, places, and events, maybe even the disappearance of time and memory if I were to make a guess. Isn’t it only right that we lose some things along the way? I’m told even the most experienced juggler will drop a ball or two; I, who knows nothing about juggling, have managed to drop them all.

All these years and I still fight to push back the fear I sometimes feel, even with the declaration of my wellness. For a time it works and the panic quells for weeks, months, but eventually it floats to the top like a dead body at the rim of a lake. It’s my own fault. I’ll admit that much. An important aspect of wellness is the acceptance of the part we play in our own life’s circumstance. If this hadn’t happened, or If only I had done things differently. Perhaps if I had been stronger. I think all these things and wonder how much of it is true and how much is imagined, and it always comes back to the same irreversible thing.

A whispered thought as I drift into sleep.

The one thing that started it all.

You wouldn’t have lost the life you had if you hadn’t gone crazy.

Jewel

“The roads aren’t fit to be on, Cliff. You and your big ideas. How are you going to spare the gas for a joyride to Chester? You’re not using the money from the steers you sold. You aren’t.”

“I know what I’m doing, Lizabeth,” said Daddy. “Just get yourself ready.”

We hadn’t been to visit Aunt Joan and Uncle Dylan since Christmas. Mumma had been sulky that day. She let out a big sigh as Aunt Joan showed us the perfectly displayed gifts beneath the tree. On the way home, Daddy scolded her for acting out. “I suppose you think those fancy gadgets Dylan gave her aren’t going back to the store next week. It’s all for show,” she’d said, turning toward the window of the truck.

When Mumma failed to move from her place at the kitchen table, Daddy looked at her and said, “Get around now, Lizabeth.” She screwed up her face.

“Are we staying for dinner?” asked Jacob, gulping the last of his milk.

“We’ll see,” said Daddy, dipping the facecloth into a basin of warm water before wringing it out.

“And can we play down by the shore?” I asked.

“Possibly.”

“No, you may not play by the shore,” Mumma said, jumping to her feet. Jacob and I moaned our disappointment. Other than playing on the beach, there was little to do when we went to Chester. Ripping the washcloth from Daddy’s hands, Mumma removed the milk from the corner of Jacob’s mouth.

“Maybe some other time. The kids like playing on the sand, Lizabeth.”

“Some other time is your answer for everything, and one day it’s going to backfire on you, Cliff—on us all.”

I looked out the kitchen window. Wet snow was spinning from the wheels of a passing car going at a snail’s pace up the hill. I wondered why Daddy was so insistent that we go to Chester. Mumma was right: there would be better days for travelling.

“It’s not fit to be on the road today, especially with the kids in the truck.”

“You’re exaggerating again, like you always do. Do you think I’d go out if it wasn’t safe?”

“Go then, if you want. You don’t need me.”

“We’re not going without you, and if you don’t go Dylan and Joan will think something’s wrong.”

Mumma laughed. “They won’t care. I could kick the bucket and they’d be happy as clams, the two of them.”

“Now, that’s just crazy talk, Lizabeth,” said Daddy, steering Jacob’s foot toward his boot. I looked quickly at Mumma, saw the peculiar look she was giving Daddy. There came a pause and I waited for what was to come.

“So you think I’m crazy, do you, Cliff?” Despite the smile that was now stretched across her face, Mumma didn’t look the least bit happy. Tossing the damp washcloth at the counter, she threw her arms into the air and began to dance around in a little circle, breaking out into song.

“Crazed…crazy…crazy Elizabeth,” she sang, stomping her feet as she moved around the kitchen.

“Look, I didn’t mean….” Daddy’s words fell flat as Mumma’s voice grew louder.

“Crazy Elizabeth,” she continued to sing as if it was the most delightful song in the world.

Grabbing mine and Jacob’s hands, she pulled us along. Smiling, she continued to sing, “La…dee…dee…crazy Elizabeth…crazy Elizabeth.” When Daddy demanded she stop, she sang even louder.

“Crazy Elizabeth…crazy Elizabeth.”

We moved around in a circle, one foot over the other. Our feet gliding across the floor. We had no choice but to follow.

“La…dee…dee. Crazy…crazed…crazy Elizabeth.”

“Lizabeth!” Daddy shouted, smacking his hand against the table. We all flinched.

“What’s the matter? We were just having a little fun,” she said, letting go of our hands.

“Can’t you understand how important this is? The bank wants its money. We’re barely scraping by. I’ve got to do something.”

“And Dylan MacKay is our saviour? Well, hallelujah!”

Grabbing our coats from the hooks in the porch, Daddy began shoving Jacob’s arm through one of the sleeves, nearly upsetting him off his feet. I zipped my coat and put on my cap and mitts while Jacob whined. I whispered, “Shush, Jakey-boy,” my lips trembling softly, as Daddy hastened us out the door.

“Hurry along, Lizabeth,” said Daddy sternly. Pausing on the doorstep with his back to Mumma, he cleared his throat. “The sooner we get going, the sooner we’ll get back.”

A waft of April air blew past me. Taking Jacob’s hand, I ran toward the truck. “If you make me do this, Cliff, you’ll be sorry,” shouted Mumma from the doorway. I was sure everyone in the Forties Settlement could hear. I turned back toward the house. The look on Mumma’s face sent a chill through me.

“But Mumma,” Jacob protested as we climbed into the truck.

“Don’t worry about Mumma. She’s coming,” Daddy reassured him as he pressed the palm of his hand into the horn.

Honk. Honk. Honk. The sound echoed out across the Forties Settlement in the cold, damp air. Honk. Honk. Honk. It wouldn’t go away. I shuddered, looking back toward the house. Honk. Honk. Honk. Daddy wouldn’t stop blowing the horn, not until Mumma gave in. When the front door finally banged shut, the vibration reached us.

“Here she comes!” announced Jacob, sounding pleased. My heart fluttered when I saw Mumma step down off the doorstep, her bright red shoes a stark contrast to the snow.

“Where are your boots?” asked Daddy as she climbed into the truck.

“Bend over for a second, I’ll give you a boot,” she said, releasing a harsh laugh as she slammed the truck door shut.

“Suit yourself, but if the truck breaks down and we have to walk, you won’t be laughing then.”

“You got your way—isn’t that enough?” she said, folding her arms across her chest. She looked over at me and quickly winked. That’s how I knew she wasn’t going to tell.

“Stop it, Lizabeth. Just stop it,” said Daddy as he started backing out of the driveway. “Do you have to do this today? Life isn’t one big joke, you know.”

A shot of guilt drew me to glance down at Mumma’s feet as we pulled onto the road. Two days earlier, she’d given me her boots to wear. One of mine had gone missing from the closet at school.

“It has to be here somewhere,” Mrs. Carver had said as she opened the closet door. I’d already assured her it was nowhere to be seen, but she seemed not to care about what I had to say.

“Did you check the shelf?” I caught sight of the white bloomers that reached down past her plump thighs as she climbed onto a chair to get a better look. I knew she wouldn’t find it there either. This wasn’t the first time something of mine had gone astray—a mitten, a toque, the wooden pencil box Poppy made me last year. I sometimes found the missing object trampled into the dirt on my way home from school. Sometimes it was lying in the ditch. The pencil box never did come back, but two days after it had gone missing, Jeff Peterson showed up at school with a shiny green pencil box. It wasn’t hard to see it had been given a fresh coat of paint, but there was no way to prove it was mine.

“I don’t expect your parents will want to replace a pair of boots this late in the season. You’re a careless girl, Jewel MacKay. Maybe next time you’ll take better care of your things.” Mrs. Carver’s mouth was tucked into a frown. I didn’t tell her that Jeff Peterson was to blame for my missing boot. I knew it because of the pencil box and the things he said to me out on the playground, but if I told any of this to Mrs. Carver, Jeff Peterson would come after me. I walked home wearing a boot on one foot and a shoe on the other. On top of all that, the sole of my shoe had a crack in it. I walked most of the way on my heel, with my left foot stuck up in the air so it wouldn’t get wet. Mumma gave me a curious look when I came hobbling into the kitchen.

“Well, isn’t that a stylish combination. You must have got your fashion sense from your mother,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. Tilting her head from one side to the other, she looked me over. “So, where did your boot run off to, or is it your shoe that ran off? There’s one of each, so it could go either way.”

I’d hoped to see the boot on my way home, had practised what I’d tell her if I didn’t, but when Mumma pulled the boot from my foot, I burst into a blubbery mess.

“Stop your crying,” she ordered. “Tears are a waste of time, and pity won’t get you anywhere in life.”

A strange noise escaped me and I snuffed back my tears. Taking my hand in hers, she marched me out to the porch to where her own boots sat on some old newspaper. Picking one up, she held it out and told me to shove my foot in.

“My sock,” I said. “It got wet.” There was a row of clean socks hanging from the line above the wood stove. She went into the kitchen and grabbed a pair. The socks warmed my feet as I tried on the first boot.

“Now the other one,” she said, handing it to me. I took a few steps back and forth the porch. They were a bit big, but I was used to making do.

“Now, we can’t leave any evidence behind. You know what your father gets like,” she said, marching my lone boot back out to the kitchen. Removing one of the stove lids, she gazed down into the fire, watching the flames dance inside the firebox.

“Bye-bye, little boot. You’re no good by yourself,” she said, pushing it into the hole. I smiled as the flames devoured it up. Mumma was right. One boot was good for nothing and Daddy would never have to know.

“Now—what you need is a good pair of sensible rubber boots for this time of the year,” continued Mumma. “Spring means mud. You can’t wear winter boots all year long. Your father knows better than that. We’ll have to check out the spring rummage sale the first chance we get.” Next, she inspected my shoe. I wondered if it would meet the same fate as my boot. She bent the sole, revealing the deep crack that ran from one side to the other.

“No wonder your foot got wet. Look. That crack is bigger than the one in my head,” she said, letting the sole snap back into place. “Hmm,” she mused, “what to do with a cracked shoe? That’s the question.”

She thought for a few moments, then hurried to the closet. There was an empty shoebox on the shelf and she cut out a piece of cardboard to fit inside my shoe.

“A little trick I learned from Poppy,” she said, looking pleased with herself. “There. As good as new, or darn close to it…. See, you were worried for nothing. Your shoe is fixed and you have a pair of boots for Monday morning. All’s well that ends well.”

“But what if these boots go missing too?” I imagined Jeff Peterson stealing one of them as well.

“Oh, bologna! If your boots go missing again, I’ll march myself down to that schoolhouse and I won’t leave until I find out where they went.”

As I stood in the kitchen that day looking at Mumma, part of me feared that one day she’d make good on that threat and just what would happen to me if she did.

Elizabeth

The blinker clicked at a rapid rate as the truck slowed to a stop. I didn’t have to open my eyes to know where we were. We sometimes stopped at this gas station to use the restrooms. The big thermometer had been on the side of the building for years. Winter or summer, the owner never took it down. The children and I sometimes made fun of it—Santa Claus tipping back a bottle of Coca-Cola in the heat of summer.

“Can we have potato chips, Daddy?” Jewel asked before the truck had time to stop. The jingling of change reached my ears as Cliff and the children climbed out. Moments later, the smell of gasoline found its way inside the cab of the truck. I didn’t even care about the money it would take for the gas when I heard Cliff say, “Fill ’er up.” I just wanted him to get back on the road, face Joan and Dylan’s scrutiny, their disapproving looks, and get this miserable ordeal over with. But when two more vehicles pulled up, got gas, and drove off, I began to wonder what could be taking Cliff so long. There couldn’t be a lineup of people inside the station, as ours was now the only vehicle in the yard.

An odd feeling descended over me, a feeling that rivalled the rational part of me as I weighed out the scenario I found myself in. There were no signs of anyone inside the garage that I could see through the narrow side window; not an attendant, not Cliff, not even a little head bobbing around. All I could make out was an array of fan belts hanging up on the wall inside the station, a cluttered counter, and a rack of potato chips in the corner. The place was deserted. Something had happened. I knew we should have stayed home. I was the only one in that godforsaken place. Something had reached down and snapped the children up. Kidnapped. Stolen. Lost—but not found. It was the only explanation.

Cliff wouldn’t let that happen.

“He might if he wasn’t paying attention.”

No, he wouldn’t.

I gripped the door handle.

Run into the station.

“No, I can’t.”

If I were wrong, Cliff would cart me off to Dr. Scott’s office. He’d been threatening to do so for weeks now. I knew where that could lead—Roseland. I didn’t plan on ever going back there. I could be rotting away in that place right now if Poppy hadn’t brought me home the last time. And Jacob less than a year old—he wouldn’t have remembered a thing about me. I tried to draw in a deep breath, but it got caught up in my chest and wouldn’t let go.

Slow down. Slow down. And think.

There had to be some other explanation as to why Cliff and the children were taking so long. Inching toward the edge of my seat, I squeezed the door handle tighter. There was a strange beating in my chest, a fluttering of broken moth wings. My heart might explode if I didn’t do something. As I pulled up on the handle, the truck door opened a crack—and at the same time a small bell tinkled somewhere; a door rattled shut. The sound of children’s laughter expanded into the air. My hand squeezed fast to the door handle, the muscles in my arm trembling. Jewel in her pink coat scurried across the front of the truck. Cliff and Jacob were close behind. They were back from wherever it was they’d disappeared to. Quickly closing the door, I shuddered, completely spent. Hot blood flowed through me, flushing my face and neck, running down my arms and legs, finding a pathway to my fingertips and dripping out on the floor of the truck. I shook my hand to make it stop.

“Sit still, Lizabeth,” Cliff commanded as he helped Jewel and Jacob back into the truck. Their chip bags crinkled as they settled in for the rest of the trip.

“The man had a nickel on the floor, Mumma,” chirped Jacob, “but we couldn’t pick it up.”

“It was a trick,” laughed Jewel, tearing open her bag of chips. “It was stuck right fast to the floor.” There was a carefree ring in her voice, as if she hadn’t a problem in this world. I looked over at her reaching into her chip bag and wondered, why hadn’t I ever felt that way?

“If I could be anything other than a farmer’s wife, it would be a fish,” said Mum as the sea wind blew through her auburn hair. Ordinarily, she would have tucked the loose strands behind her ears so as not to have them whipping about her face, but that day she didn’t seem to mind. “No, wait! A dolphin! I’d rather be a dolphin than a fish,” she mused.

“Why a dolphin?” Poppy asked, his eyes smiling as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears.

“They’re far more compassionate, Everett. I fancy being something warm-blooded.” Her laughter climbed the air like a kite and I wanted to grab fast to it, soar up over the water, see us walking along the beach together, happy in that moment.

Mum used to say that because she was born under some sign called Aquarius, she craved water. Poppy would tell her she read too much and it was putting crazy ideas in her head. He would say it as though it were a bad thing, but his eyes always told a different story.

As a surprise, Poppy had taken us down to the water that day, and when Mum said perhaps we should stay home with all the work that needed to be done on the farm, Poppy said, “You won’t be happy until you’ve dipped your big toe into the Atlantic, Marion,” and he kept on driving. “I’d drive an entire week if that’s how long it took us to get there.”

“Lucky for you, you’ll never have to prove that,” Mum said, looking across the seat at him. I loved the look on her face as we drove up to the beach that day, and then she got out of the car and walked toward the water, not saying a word for the longest while. The sadness that had been following her seemed to have disappeared. I thought the fairies must have taken it away. I’d lain awake many nights listening to her and Poppy mumbling long into the hours of darkness and now the old Mum was finally back.

Gulls were swooping and calling out to us. The cool mist wetted my face, leaving a salty taste on my lips. In a quick moment, a shadow appeared to pinch Mum’s cheek and I thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. We walked across the sand holding hands. The water lapped at the shoreline, and Mum pulled off her stockings and waded out into the water, bunching her dress up into a ball to keep the hem from getting soaked. I played at the water’s edge, zigzagging through the waves. The sun winked at me through the clouds. The day couldn’t have been more perfect.

With the truck in gear, Cliff pulled out onto the road. The children jabbered and ate their chips. I closed my eyes; my heart withered inside me. The radio snapped on. Static screeched across the airwaves and stopped on the local station. The song playing was about lonely hearts and lost love. I settled in for the rest of the trip, my head resting against the cold window. The vibration of the truck lulled me as we continue along. It was distracting, comforting, soothing. I drifted into one of Poppy’s fairy tales, a world of queens and kings, once-upon-a-times and happy-ever-afters—my safe place and the only place where the dark prince couldn’t reach me. I opened my eyes when Jacob cried out, “There’s Uncle Dylan’s place!”

And the dark prince slipped his hand in mine as he brought me back to the truth once more.

Jewel

All through dinner Mumma didn’t say a word. She picked the bones from Jacob’s herring and laid them on the edge of his plate. They looked like whiskers pulled from a cat, sticking straight up in the air. Aunt Joan babbled away about the work the church guild was doing and how they were busy raising money to send to the starving children in Africa. Every so often Daddy would ask her a question. He sounded interested, but I didn’t believe he was. Uncle Dylan was too busy eating to pay much attention to what Aunt Joan was saying, asking for the pepper and salt and the bread, thanking her politely each time something was passed his way.

“Christian duty, that’s what I say. We all have our Christian duty to perform.” She was looking directly at me when she said “Christian duty.” I glanced quickly down at my plate, stabbing some potato with my fork, wishing she’d take her eyes off me.

My cousin, Richard, was sitting across the table from me. Every so often, he’d peek out from between strands of hair that were hanging down from his forehead, presenting a set of cold dark eyes. Scowling, he picked through his bony meal, his warty fingers rough from working on Uncle Dylan’s boat. Reaching in front of Aunt Joan, he accidentally knocked over the salt shaker.

“Excuse me,” Aunt Joan said, eyeing him with irritation as he dug around the potato pot unconcerned. Grabbing the shaker, she scattered salt grains over each shoulder before setting it back onto the table. Richard mashed up the potato with his fork and ate it like it was going out of style. When he was through, he stood up from the table, grabbed his glass of water, and drank it down in one gulp.

“You can all stop gawking,” he said, pushing away what was left of his plate of herring and stomping away from the table.

We sat in awkward silence for a time before Aunt Joan bleated out, “Your good herring, Richard. You like herring! Come sit back down.” She looked about the table as if searching for an answer. “Well, he always did like herring,” she said. Her hand was shaking. I hoped she wouldn’t start crying. I’d seen her cry once before, after Grammy MacKay’s funeral. Just before she stuffed a date square in her mouth, she’d started to wail. Up until then she’d seemed fine.

“She’s probably lamenting the cost of the dates in those squares she made,” Mumma said. At the time it seemed funny and I struggled to keep from laughing, Aunt Joan bawling her eyes out in front of all of us. But as I sat at the dinner table that day, waiting to see if she was about to break out into tears, there didn’t seem to be anything humorous about the situation at all.

Right after dinner, Aunt Joan scurried Mumma and Daddy and Uncle Dylan out of the kitchen and closed the door after them. “I’ll find something to keep you occupied while the grown-ups have a talk,” she said, cleaning off the table and quickly wiping it with a dishrag. She rooted through the kitchen drawers until she found a writing tablet and a pen.

“Now, you two stay put. Do some drawing or whatever. Your mother says you’re a good little artist, Jewel.”

I knew that was a lie. The last person Mumma would have mentioned my sketches to would have been Aunt Joan. Besides, Mumma had no interest in the things I drew. Whenever I showed her something she’d stare down at the paper. Sometimes she’d smile, but she never told me it was good.

“Your good herring,” I mocked, opening the tablet. “He always did like my good herring.” Jacob giggled and squirmed in his chair. Drawing for Jacob was always easy. If I sketched one of our farm animals, he’d be happy. I moved the pen across the paper quickly to keep Jacob interested.

“Look, Jakey, there’s Bright and Lion!” I said, pointing down at the paper. It wasn’t very good, but there was no way to change it. The look on his face told me right away that I shouldn’t have drawn his steers. It had only been a few weeks since they’d climbed aboard Dell Jameson’s old cattle truck and gone away. The empty stalls in the barn still ached for them to come home. I’d sometimes find him curled up in one of the mangers and make him come into the house to get warm.

Last summer he’d led them around the dooryard while Daddy kept an eye on him. “The smallest teamster in the land,” Daddy said, laughing. Jacob had been planning to take them to the Bridgewater Exhibition this summer. Daddy had even promised. It was all Jacob talked about last winter, those frosty days when he’d hurry to the barn to help tend them.

“I can draw Dusty if you want,” I said, flipping the page. I made a small, pointy ear on a clean piece of paper as I began to sketch again. The lines across the tablet spoiled the picture, but I hoped Jacob wouldn’t notice. I continued to draw until a picture of Dusty materialized on the page. Jacob grinned.

“Look, Jakey, there’s Dusty’s long tail!” A troubled look crossed his face when the voices in the living room grew louder. I continued to draw Dusty running across our pasture, legs galloping, tail pointed outward. When the voices grew loud once again, I slipped out of my chair and crept toward the living room, pressing my ear to the door. I still couldn’t make out what was being said. Jacob rolled his brown eyes up at me. When an odd sound came from Mumma, he jumped out of his chair. He hurried toward the porch and put on his boots. Jumping into the air, he grabbed hold of his coat and pulled it from the hanger in the closet. I helped him with the zipper and quickly put on my own. Shoving my feet into Mumma’s winter boots, I opened the door. The snow was heavy and wet, melting now that the temperature was rising. Water dripped from the eaves and I ducked to escape the drops. As I closed the door, a gull screamed out at me. The ocean breeze touched my face and I was suddenly free.

Elizabeth

A mean fist hit me in the chest. It was all I could do to stop from calling out when I looked out at the ocean, swelling and rocking and slapping the shoreline.

Jacob. Down by the shore. Scrambling on top of a large boulder.

Jewel. I couldn’t see her pink jacket anywhere.

Water struck the rocks, sending large waves into the air. Gulls cast shadows over the water; swoop high then low.

They were told to stay in the kitchen.

“Dylan could use the help. Couldn’t you, Dylan? It would be a great opportunity for you. Richard’s been talking about going back to school.”

I pulled my breath in. A sharp pain jabbed me in the ribs as Jacob caught himself seconds before sliding off one of the rocks.

“And there are plenty of places to rent down here. You wouldn’t even have to buy until later.”

Wet, slippery April rocks. Jacob looked no bigger than a bug. Slip and fall. Slip and fall. Slip and fall. Broken bones and a cracked skull. I couldn’t let it happen.

“I dare say a change of scenery might be good for Elizabeth.”

In a second Jacob was in my arms, as I held fast to him on top of that rocky crag. Another second and we were sitting in the truck on our way back home. Still another second and I was tucking him into bed for the night, safe and sound.

“It’s a big move, but it might be for the best. What do you think, Lizabeth?”

I had to get to the children. Jacob needed me. I had to catch up to all the places my mind had already been—Jacob safe and sound, and in my arms. Cliff touched me, and I shrugged him off. Jewel. I craned my neck. I still couldn’t see Jewel. I went for the door. Cliff’s hand tightened around my arm. “What are you doing, Lizabeth?”

Fighting to get away, there was only one thought on my mind. One final push and I managed to wrench free of his grip. Time was being wasted. It was sifting through my fingers like beach sand, and if Cliff didn’t stop his foolish talk something bad was sure to happen. This time Joan was standing in front of me, blocking my entrance to the outside; to Jewel and Jacob.

“What’s wrong with you, Elizabeth? You’re acting crazy. Now, come sit down and let’s talk this over like sensible people,” she said, grabbing my arm.

“Get out of my way, you stupid bitch. You stupid, miserable bitch,” I hissed. Pushing her aside, I threw open the front door. The wind coming up across the bay nearly blew me off my feet as I stepped down off the doorstep. Nothing was going to stop me. Sunlight fell through the clouds. The wind lamented and carried on. Trees rubbed their bare branches together, squeaked and complained. Gulls swooped and screeched. And I ran. The breeze pulled the words from my parted lips, scattering them like ocean mist as I screamed out to Jacob. Knowing there would be no reply, I kept going. Yet I hoped he’d hear. By some small miracle I hoped, the same way you come to hope, however foolishly, that at least once in your lifetime the rules will bend in your favour. That could have been my one time to bend all the rules. As I narrowed the distance between us I was struck by the realization that so much was depending on me; me—and only me.

If it hadn’t been for me, Mum wouldn’t have jumped into the water that day by the shore. If only I hadn’t leaned too far over the edge of the wharf where I was playing. If I hadn’t seen the tangle of lines and spinners, the red and white and sparkly gold, when she was talking to Poppy on the beach. But I did see it, and I reached out until my fingertips brushed against the bright gold spinner. Mum’s laughter sounded like a lark song over the marsh. I kept stretching out my arm, my body, wiggling my fingers to make them as long as I could until I had the spinner in my hands. And then I was falling; screaming and falling. The sky pulled itself on top of me. I thrashed my arms and legs. And then I was going down, down, down into the salty water. It was cold, so cold I could barely move my arms and legs. And then Mum was in the water with me, telling me to calm down, to stop and be quiet. But I couldn’t be quiet and I couldn’t calm the monster struggling inside me to escape. I grabbed fast to Mum and then we were both going down.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” someone whispered again and again. Somewhere between the whispers, Poppy pulled me out of the water. I kept screaming and crying for Mum, but she didn’t come back. It was my fault she didn’t come back.

With all the strength in me, I scrambled closer to the shore as something deep inside urged me onward.

Hurry, Elizabeth!

I slipped, not once but twice, into the wet snow, landing hard on my right knee both times. Yet I forced myself to keep moving.

“Can we play by the shore, Daddy?”

The ugly pile of rocks I’d always warned the children to stay away from loomed in the distance. Water and wind and wet, slushy April snow, it all cried of Jacob’s imminent demise. It cried and wept inside me, this April snow and cold, slushy, wet wind, and the grey rocks Jacob was climbing as I lessened the gap between us.

Hurry, Elizabeth!

If I didn’t get there soon, he’d be lost for good, swept into the sea. If only the snow would melt. If only it would rain hot water for even a few moments. I would stand a fighting chance.

“Can we play by the shore, Daddy?”

“Possibly.”

Cliff’s flippant answer from the morning filled me with rage.

And then, a fleck of bright pink flashed between the rocks not far from where Jacob was climbing. Jewel’s blond head popped up over the rocks. I stood at the edge of the shoreline screaming until she finally turned my way.

“Stop him!” I cried, pointing to where Jacob was teetering on the rocks. Moments later, Jewel was helping her brother down to the shore. My heart throbbed, my lungs squeezed tight with relief.

“That’s my girl. You did good, Elizabeth, you did real good.”

Joan

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” I whispered as we watched Cliff drive off. No one should have to be insulted in their own home. Dylan slipped his arm around me and pulled me close.

“You did the right thing,” he said. “You can’t have her come in here and say those things. This is your house.” I knew Dylan was right, but I still felt bad about the way it all happened. I was only trying to calm her down, stop her from racing out of the house like a madwoman, when she turned on me like a feral cat, swatting and hissing. I don’t know what came over her. One minute we were in the living room discussing their future, and how we might be able to help, and the next thing she was heading out the door, screaming like a crazy woman.

To tell the truth, a part of me wasn’t surprised. Things had been building between us for a while. I used to try and reason with her when she was being unreasonable, so protective of those children I swore she was going to suffocate them. She’d tell me to mind my own business, even had the audacity to tell me I hadn’t done such a great job with Richard over the years.

“Children need structure. Richard’s a boorish child,” she said. I had to look the word up later to know what she was talking about. Elizabeth was someone I just couldn’t warm up to, no matter how hard I tried. Yet, I did try—for Cliff’s sake, I did—but we were like water and gasoline. It takes two, I used to tell Dylan. It always takes two.

As I watched the taillights of the truck disappear down the road, I couldn’t help feeling like a failure. Elizabeth might be forbidden to step foot in our house, but she would always remain a footprint in our lives. Eleven years ago, I didn’t believe we’d reach this point in time. Back then I made this family a promise to rid ourselves of Elizabeth one way or another, and it was a promise I still intended to keep.

“I showed her how we sort the clothes in the hamper and she couldn’t even get that right. I mean, really, how hard is it to sort the sheets from the johnny shirts? She must have been brought up by a bunch of chimpanzees is all I can say.”

It wasn’t as if anyone had invited Doris Putman to our quilting bee. She showed up without an invitation, my guess bored to tears at her parents’ house even though she insisted on coming home on her weekends off from the hospital.

I thought Sharon Fredericks was going to split a seam, of course Sharon was prone to laughing at anything that sounded the least bit humorous. And then, quite seriously, Abigail McMillan looked up from her quilt block and said it must be disappointing when they get in girls who don’t know the ass end of a cow from the front, and that sent Sharon over the edge, all of us, if I’m being truthful. Abigail wasn’t one for making such comments about others, but she did that day. Pastor Hennigar would have said that poking fun like that wasn’t a Christian thing to do, and I did feel a smidge guilty, really I did, seeing how we were in the church basement putting together a quilt to be raffled off at the spring bazaar, but Doris had such a comical way of putting things you couldn’t help but laugh. And the faces she made while talking. Oh, the faces were something wicked.

“She can’t be that bad, Doris,” I said, wiping at the tears in my eyes.

“It’s a good thing she’s only working in the laundry. It’s not like the health and welfare of the patients is in jeopardy. Most of the stuff I just keep my mouth shut about, but after a while it gets to you.”

Now, Doris might be able to tell the other women that and have them believe her, but I knew better. Keeping her mouth shut was never Doris Puttman’s strong suit in life. Knowing Doris, she was spreading stories to anyone who would listen, making this new girl’s life miserable if I knew anything at all about Doris.

“I’d seen her around before, I knew I had, but do you suppose I could place her? No, sir. We worked all that first morning together until it finally came to me.” Doris paused right about then, waiting for everyone to urge her on.

Playing the field,

“Elizabeth went funny in the head after her mother drowned, is what they say. I heard that she planned to drown them both. Everett got there but only in time to save Elizabeth.” Doris was shaking her head as if she was sympathetic, but there was no kindness in her voice when she spoke.

“It would have to affect a child,” I agreed, and really, what kind of person wouldn’t feel sorry for a child whose mother tried to drown her?

“Oh, it’s obviously affected her. Mrs. Hampton had to speak to her a few times for wandering around the corridors at night, sneaking into people’s rooms. It’s just too weird. They say those things run in families. I don’t suppose she’ll last long at the hospital—unless she gets herself thrown into one of their padded rooms.”

I told Dylan what all Doris had to say on the subject of his brother’s new girlfriend, and by my insistence he agreed to have a word with Cliff. Not that it did any good. Cliff as good as told him to mind his business, that it was gossip and for him to never mind. You’ll find out sooner or later, Cliff MacKay, I thought to myself. A leopard eventually shows its spots. You’ll find out your older brother is right. I didn’t figure it would take too much time for that realization to hit Cliff, but how could I have figured on what would happen next?

Advance Praise for

Harmony House

Part I

Jewel

Elizabeth

Jewel

Elizabeth

Joan