Tracker's Canyon Read online

  “So, Tristan, you know your mother is not mending with time as much as we hoped.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I feel she is drifting away from us.”

  I picture a lily pad floating across a lake, buffeted by wind, its brown edges curled down into the murky water.

  “Tristan?”

  “Yes.”

  Elspeth looks across our small living room and its few pieces of worn but sturdy furniture at the stairs, as if my mother might come gliding down in her nightgown any second and overhear us. She motions us into the living room, where I evict a basket of dirty laundry from the sofa so we can plunk down. With springs well-worn, the sofa sinks under our combined weight. She plays with the dozen or so rings on long, white fingers adorned by fake fingernails painted a startling pink.

  I instruct myself to listen politely.

  “When a loved one passes away and there’s no body to grieve over,” she begins, “the family’s recovery process is prolonged, delayed.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, gritting my teeth, but only gently.

  “Not so much in your case, dear,” she adds with a lame pat on my shoulder that makes me recoil. “You are strong, and your need to be your mother’s pillar has brought you through the worst already, which I admire.”

  Oh yeah? She thinks she’s a psychic now?

  “But with no … body,” she continues, “there needs to be a special object that will draw out your mother’s grief. Not the few things Search and Rescue returned. Something else, something special. You’re okay with talking about this, right? I believe it’s therapeutic. But I don’t want to traumatize you, honey.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, fingernails pressing into my palms, but only lightly.

  She does a big, dramatic sigh. “Good. Because I feel she needs something important of his to hold on to, something that proves he’s gone. It will help her in her recovery.”

  “But —” How is this any of Elspeth’s business? Why doesn’t everyone just accept Dad is dead? Why do we have to talk about it? I swallow a fat lump in my throat.

  “Darling, I know we can’t ever expect to find the body. But before he disappeared, he may have shed or dropped something Search and Rescue didn’t find. On a tree branch or ledge, perhaps. I feel it; I sense it. My extrasensory perception tells me this. And — well, you’re a tracker and a canyoneer. And I know you want her to get better. If you could just try —”

  “Search and Rescue tried for two whole weeks,” I remind her. “And brought back his shredded sleeping bag and a few clothes.”

  “Shh, you’ll wake her.” Elspeth presses one of her pink-tipped fingernails to her lips. “Yes, Search and Rescue tried to find him alive, then tried to find the body. But their failure doesn’t mean that you — the one with the true spiritual family connection — can’t locate something they failed to discover. You’re his son, Tristan. You have powers they don’t.”

  I open my mouth, but when nothing comes out, I shut it again.

  “I feel it in my bones, Tristan. Your ability to locate something else he left behind, darling. She’ll come out of this depression. You’ll be a family again.”

  “Tristan?” A sleepy voice drifts down from upstairs.

  “Go, honey,” Elspeth urges. She squeezes my hand. “Be gentle with her. We all need to gift her with our utmost patience for now. Then, when you return with what your father left behind for you, it will all be okay.”

  Elspeth, I decide, is crazier than bat shit. One pink hair short of wigged out. Get me out of here.

  As I bolt up the stairs, I hear Elspeth heading out the door. In minutes, the putt-putt of her moped fades down the gravel road.

  “Mom?”

  She’s propped up on her pillows, all bones and pale skin. I breathe in the reek of lavender. What would Dad make of what she has become? If he had known what it would do to her, he’d never have gone into Swallow Canyon that day.

  “Can you close the window, Tristan? It’s chilling me.”

  “Sure, Mom. How are you today?”

  She shrugs and offers a wan smile. “Did you get my pills from the drugstore?”

  “Yes.”

  She smoothes the old, shabby quilt that smells like it should’ve been washed three loads ago. I perch there and take her hand, my throat catching.

  “Elspeth says you washed the dishes and mopped the floor this morning, but forgot to fix the kettle. She had to boil water in a pot to serve me some special herbal tea.”

  “Poor, poor Elspeth.”

  “I know you’re not fond of her, Tristan, but she has been so helpful since — since our tragedy.” Her voice is pleading. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  Her gaze drifts toward the closed window; she’s on the edge of crying, as usual. But it no longer rips me up, I remind myself. No more feeling small and helpless and useless. I have moved on — and filled my father’s shoes pretty well, haven’t I? Someone had to.

  So why does Mom just lie here, numb and wasting away?

  No body to grieve over. Recovery process delayed.

  “I got food today, Mom, but the money tin is empty now.”

  She nods vaguely. “Ask your uncle, darling. You’re a good boy. Any luck with the washing machine?”

  “Only if the goal was to drown the mouse population in the basement. I mopped up the mess and tried duct-taping the hose, but it didn’t work. No worries — I’ll ask Uncle Ted.”

  She smoothes my hair. “What will you make for dinner?”

  “Lobster mornay? Just kidding. Hamburgers?”

  She shakes her head. “Something lighter.”

  “Okay, the usual.”

  She smiles blandly. “Sounds good. Scrambled eggs.”

  “Can I get you a magazine or something? Or read to you from my joke book?”

  “Thanks, Tristan, but I’m feeling rather sleepy.”

  “Maybe a little walk would wake you up? It’s a nice day, Mom. We could go sit in the grotto.” The grotto is a cool fake cave Dad and I built by the stream at the foot of our property. It’s where we used to spend lots of fun family time.

  Oops, mistake. The tears start down her cheeks.

  … patience for now. Then, when you return with what your father left behind for you, it will all be okay.

  “No!” I say out loud.

  My mother’s body jerks in alarm. “Tristan?”

  “Sorry, Mom. Sorry, sorry.” I lean across the bed and wrap her in my arms, absorb her sobs. The more I absorb, the better she’ll get, right?

  If only her shrivelled body didn’t feel like a clutch of bones. Soon I leap up and run down the stairs, two at a time. I snatch the eggs and crack them so hard against the mixing bowl rim that the shells disintegrate into a thousand sticky pieces.

  Embrace calm.

  The bowl, suddenly gone blurry through my tears, is the one in which Mom, a former bakery manager, used to make brownies, cookies, and cakes, including special birthday cakes for me resembling things like fire engines, and later, anime action figures. And giant chocolate-coloured hearts for my dad. We were a real family then.

  Maybe flinging pans around will drown out the memory of Elspeth’s words.

  “She — will — get — better,” I declare to the moped tracks still visible out the kitchen window. “With or without your psycho-shit.”

  My negatory detect-o-meter is screeching. But at this moment, I don’t have the energy to care.

  CHAPTER 3

  I roll up to the shop, lock my bike, and banish the guilt trip that hitched a ride over with me. I really hate asking my uncle for money.

  “Hey, Uncle Ted.” My mother’s kind but ever-anxious brother, dressed in jeans and a wrinkled flannel shirt, is hunched over accounting books in the backroom, as usual.

  “Tristan! Good to see you
.”

  Except that he knows why I’m here. He knows it rips me up to come into the shop for any other reason.

  “Mom says hi and to remind you about picking her up for the doctor’s appointment.”

  “Hey, have I missed one yet? How’s she doing?” He says it mechanically, like he doesn’t really expect an answer.

  I paste on a smile. “I don’t like to bug you, Uncle Ted, but we’re —”

  “— out of grocery money already?” He wipes beads of sweat from his balding head and frowns at the columns of numbers in front of him.

  “And one of the hoses to the washing machine thinks it’s a fountain. I tried to fix it, but we might need a plumber.”

  “A plumber.” The frown deepens.

  “Sorry, Uncle Ted. I’m working on being a washer repair whiz, but I’m not there yet.”

  He leans back in the leather swivel chair, which squeaks just like it always did when my dad sat in it. I tamp down the longing for my father to step in, slap Uncle Ted on the back, muss up my hair, and tell us how business is booming and all is right with the world, even though things weren’t great the months before he disappeared. We were struggling when it came to money, for sure. But he was Mr. Positive, Mr. Happy, Best Dad Ever.

  Except for when he closed himself off in his study to read all those dusty books about the gold-rush days or spent hours at our creek with his gold pan.

  “Time-warped 49er,” the neighbours used to joke.

  “My precious prospector,” Mom teased him.

  But everyone needs a hobby, and I loved the gold-rush stories he told, and the musical chime of flowing water when I joined him by the creek. I miss him, every piece of him. Just imagining his presence now warms the room.

  “Trouble is, Tristan, the shop isn’t doing so well,” Uncle Ted is saying. “I just can’t keep up with the business like your father did. It’s him the customers came for, not me. And even he was finding it a challenge to turn a profit. I’m useless with accounting stuff. Plus, there’s all the fuss with the insurance companies not having proof of his — what I’m saying is, I’m doing the best I can, but — oh, darn. I don’t mean to trouble you when you and my sister have difficulties enough.”

  He produces his wallet, fishes out most of his bills, and lays them in my palm. “I’ll call for a plumber, okay? How’s school and stuff?”

  My fingers close over the money. “School’s excellent. I miss all my friends in climbing club, though. You know, if you cut back on Elspeth’s hours —”

  “Tristan, we’ve been through this before. She’s Mary’s biggest comfort, and — well, you’re right, she costs a little, but not that much. Let’s just wait till your mother is a little better.” He lifts a hand and puts it awkwardly on my shoulder.

  He seems to have missed the hint about climbing club fees, but — I sigh — he’s right about Elspeth being important to Mom.

  “Tristan,” he says, “the coffee maker is on the fritz today. Any chance you could run down to the café and get me a decent cup of coffee? Grab yourself a doughnut while you’re at it, and come back and sit with me a while.”

  “Sure, Uncle Ted.” My taste buds are already wrapped around that doughnut.

  • • •

  Ten minutes later I’m about to re-enter the shop when I notice he has a customer, and she’s wearing black fitness gear. I sink down on the wood bench outside the open window, hoping to learn more about the young woman I saw at school.

  “I see,” Uncle Ted is saying. “Well, unfortunately, it’s Rafael you should talk with. He’s the employee who can best advise you on canyoneering gear, but he’s on vacation this week.”

  “So you’re the owner?” she asks. “But you’re not a climber or a canyoneer?”

  Uncle Ted hangs his head. “I took over from my brother-in-law eight months ago. I don’t know these sports like he did. Just holding down the fort till — Are you in a hurry for the equipment?”

  “Well, yes, actually. Just had a couple of people book a trip on Sunday. It would be on Swallow Canyon Expeditions’ account. I’m a new guide there. Name is Brigit Dowling. Here’s my business card.”

  “Dowling, eh? You look young to be a guide,” Uncle Ted says with a half smile.

  “I’m nineteen and fully qualified,” she replies briskly.

  Dowling is Dean’s last name, so she must be his sister, I reflect, before rising from my bench, strolling in, and handing the coffee — before it gets cold — to Uncle Ted.

  “Dowling … ” Uncle Ted repeats, scratching his head like maybe her name rings a bell with him. Then he shrugs like he has given up trying to place her.

  “Welcome to Canyons and Trails. I’m Tristan Gordon. Can I help you?” I address this skinny woman with long, limp hair and a rather severe face.

  She looks me up and down. “I don’t know. Can you?”

  “I’m betting I can. What kind of equipment are you after?”

  “Anchors.”

  “Okay, what level of canyoneering will your customers be tackling? And are you thinking natural anchors or bolted belay stations?”

  She pauses, looks from Uncle Ted to me. She’s not good-looking, I decide, but has plenty of muscle tone and a self-assured manner.

  “You’re in good hands with my nephew,” my uncle encourages her. “Hoping to get him to take over the shop soon.”

  I throw him the usual sardonic look. Uncle Ted needs to hold it together another year until I graduate, then go back to being a car mechanic. He pats me on my shoulder and lopes back to the rear office.

  “We’re intending to use boulder pinches for anchors,” Brigit says.

  I smile inwardly, knowing she’s testing me.

  “Then I’d suggest you go for sixteen-millimetre tubular webbing.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because it’s stronger — better for making the knot chock anchors you’ll probably set.”

  She nods, like she’s warming up to me. Soon we’re discussing anchors, webbing, static ropes, and belay devices. But between the words, we’re jousting like fencers to determine one another’s rank and knowledge level. By my calculation, it’s a draw.

  Finally, she hauls her load of webbing and rappel rings to the counter. Absent-minded Uncle Ted doesn’t appear right away from the backroom.

  “Have you been canyoneering long?” she asks.

  “Most of my life.” It’s what Dad and I did together, along with tracking, but she doesn’t need to know that. “And you?”

  “Most of my life,” she echoes with a bemused smile. “Just moved here two months ago from Lillooet.”

  An hour away. “And you work for Swallow Canyon Expeditions.” I nod at the logo on her T-shirt, the sight of which makes my chest tighten.

  “Yup. Ever done Swallow Canyon?”

  That question again. “The Upper Canyon a thousand times.” Well, a hundred, anyway. I lift my chin.

  “And the Lower Canyon?”

  My chin sinks. I saw the second question coming, but my body goes stiff, anyway.

  A smile creeps onto her lips at my reaction, unless I’m imagining it.

  “Of course not. You?” I say.

  “Once.”

  As if! “And you came back alive.”

  “I did.” Suddenly, Brigit leans across the counter, her eyes glowing. “I’ll take you into the Lower Canyon sometime if you like.”

  My stomach knots up, and I draw back and stare at her. My first impulse is to spin around and leave her with Uncle Ted, who seems to have forgotten we’re even here. But I’m shocked at the part of me that is tempted to accept. Not because I’m suicidal or anything. Maybe just because it has been so long since I’ve been in any part of Swallow Canyon, or for that matter, had anyone invite me to do anything more than fetch groceries and medicine. Or maybe this Brigit perso
n has some kind of power over people. The way she ordered the firefighters around. The way she just made my uncle feel bad for running a canyoneering and climbing store and not being an expert.

  The way she seems to sense my need to escape and have an adventure.

  No way. I’ve got to stick close to Mom.

  “Saw your brother’s tree-climbing stunt yesterday at school,” I say to counter her bizarre offer.

  She smiles like there has been no abrupt change of topic. “You were there? I suppose most of the school saw it. Dean has a knack for climbing trees. He got in big trouble for it, like he seemed to be asking for — from school and me. He’ll grow out of it soon, I hope.”

  My father’s chair squeaks as Uncle Ted rises and cruises up to the counter. “Sorry, I didn’t know you two were waiting for me. Wow, Brigit, you’ve managed to find quite a few things. I take it Tristan here was useful? Excellent. I’ll ring them in. It’s a pleasure doing business with Swallow Canyon Expeditions.”

  “Thanks,” she says and looks at me. “Can you help me carry all this to my truck?”

  “Of course he will,” Uncle Ted tells the best customer he has had in weeks, drowning out my “Yes.”

  As she unlocks the blue Chevy pickup parked outside, she says, “So, no charge if you want to join the trip I’m guiding Sunday. Could use an experienced hand along.”

  “To the Lower Canyon?” I ask incredulously.

  She laughs lightly. “No, the Upper Canyon, of course.”

  “Sorry, I’d never get permission for that.” My face goes warm for having admitted it. Elspeth is with Mom while I’m at school, but I’m the weekend caretaker. No way can I leave my mom alone an entire day. Who would cook, clean, and listen for when she calls out? Besides, I don’t quite get Dean’s older sister. Why would she offer a complete stranger a free day trip? Maybe because she has heard about my family? (In small towns, gossip travels fast, even if I’ve been too out of the loop to hear anything about her.) If that’s it and she feels sorry for me, I’m out of here. I don’t need anyone’s help.

  She lifts the pile of canyoneering gear from my arms and tosses it into the back of the pickup.