Island Girl (7 page)

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Authors: Lynda Simmons

BOOK: Island Girl
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The music might keep me awake, but the notes are what keep me moving.
“Go canoeing,” I whispered this morning while pulling on shorts and a T-shirt. “Go canoeing,” I said again as I tied my hair back in a scrunchie. “Go canoeing, you stupid cow,” I told the pale and puffy face in the bathroom mirror, then grabbed my notebook from the bedside table before dashing down the stairs.
In the kitchen, I opened my notebook and read the first lines on the page.
Take meds. Check appointment book
. The doctor had given me a brand-new medication box—a big clunky affair with separate boxes for each day of the week as well as time of day: morning, afternoon, evening, and night. A DYMO label across the bottom read, Flip up the next closed lid. Do not close it after taking medication. I lifted the last closed lid. Tonight, I would need to refill the container for the next week.
After jotting that down in my notebook, I poured a glass of water and shook the pills into my hand. Grace thinks they’re hormones—the benefits of which we have discussed at length. Just as we have discussed the memory cards the doctor gave me, as well as the reasons why I need to get lots of sleep and drink at least eight glasses of water a day. Preventive measures, I told her. To keep me healthy and help stave off old age—a luxury I won’t have anymore.
Pills swallowed, I poured more water and sat at the table, sipping slowly while doing Mindfulness Exercises. Breathing deeply, in and out. Focusing on the breath, holding firm to the breath before opening the memory box and picking a card, any card.
Who is the prime minister? Where are you? What day is it?
Silly little questions that were both telling and reassuring.
This morning, everything was wonderfully clear. No fog and no hesitation. It was Friday, I was in my kitchen and only too well aware of who was still in power. I was having a good day. I didn’t even need to check the appointment book. Every Friday, Betty Jane Parker came at nine for me, and June McKnight came for Grace. One point for Ruby.
Grabbing a couple more memory cards, I slid them into my pocket with the notebook and glanced over at Grace’s bedroom door. We usually ran into each other here in the morning, grunting a greeting, kissing a cheek before setting off in different directions. But I hadn’t heard any movement in her room since I came down the stairs.
I tiptoed over and rapped lightly. “Grace, you up?” No response. I knocked louder. “Grace?” That was when I noticed her binoculars weren’t hanging by the back door. Her shoes were gone too. I wandered over to the window. As was her bike. She always says the birding is best at dawn—or maybe she still wasn’t talking to me.
It still amazed me how quickly Grace took to bird-watching. She’d spend hours with that little bird book if I let her. Committing every fact, every statistic, to memory and throwing them out at the oddest times. Like the tidbit about Canada geese at the birthday party. Honestly, who cares that the dirty things poop every six minutes? And who was paid to find that out anyway?
But there were no tidbits for me when she came home yesterday afternoon. No interesting facts to ponder, no picture to look at. Just a tube of sunscreen slapped on the counter and a grumpy “You should use this,” when I asked her what was new.
She was still angry and restless when we sat down for dinner, which was unsettling enough. But then she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, wouldn’t talk to me at all while we washed the dishes, which was doubly unsettling because we talked about everything. From sex to politics, there was nothing Grace and I couldn’t discuss, nothing we weren’t perfectly open about. Except the Alzheimer’s. That remained private.
Mark, and presumably now Liz, were the only ones who knew, and that was how I intended to keep it for a while yet. Mary Anne would be annoyed for days when I finally told her, but the truth is that Alzheimer’s scares people—Lord knows it terrifies me daily—and I cannot imagine being gracious if I am ever on the receiving end of one of those false bright smiles people reserve for poor unfortunates like myself. They say Alzheimer’s patients are given to violent outbursts, and is it any wonder?
I’ll have to tell Grace eventually, but for now it was more important that I went canoeing. I’d find out later what was on her mind. To make sure that happened, I scribbled,
What’s wrong with Grace?
into my notebook and stuffed it back into my pocket. Then I grabbed a life jacket from the hook by the door, my paddle from the shelf above, and headed outside.
The sky was clear, the air warm. I pedaled slowly, watching for Grace on the narrow streets and playing the memory game again.
What did you have for dinner last night? What time is it? What color is a five-dollar bill?
I had pork chops, the time was 6:21 A.M., and a five-dollar bill has always been green. Or was it pink? Maybe it was blue. I sighed. One point for Big Al.
The memory blanks have been coming more frequently lately, lasting longer. Before the diagnosis, I’d shrug and put it down to menopause or overwork. Convince myself that losing my keys a half dozen times a day was perfectly normal. And hadn’t everyone put the toaster in the freezer at least once? Now, of course, I knew the truth. The sad and ugly truth. And the color of that bill would haunt me until I got home. Or until I forgot, whichever came first.
Grace was still nowhere in sight when I reached the boat launch by Algonquin bridge. Just me and two young men carrying their canoes down to the water. I was fairly sure they weren’t Islanders. Someone’s guests perhaps or members of the yacht club. Whoever they were, they were blond, tanned, and equally fit. If not for an eyebrow ring on the one on the right, it would have been hard to tell them apart. They stood on the shore, stretching triceps, loosening hamstrings, getting ready for a real workout I’d say. With luck, they wouldn’t be making a habit of it. “You’re out early,” I called.
“Have to be if we want to beat the rush,” the one with the ring called back.
“I hear you.” I hauled my canoe off the rack, tossed the paddle inside, and dragged her down to the edge of the lagoon. “You training for something?”
“We’re planning a corporate canoe challenge,” the other one said. “Laying out the course for a mini-marathon. Nice boat, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I said, and smiled because it was true. She was a nice boat. After a season in that old used canoe, I figured I owed myself something a little nicer. Something in lipstick red with a carbon fusion shell. And this baby was perfect. Lightweight and tough, much like myself.
“You do a lot of canoeing?” the boy without the ring asked.
“Every day,” I said, and should have left it at that, but I couldn’t resist. “In fact it’s funny you should mention marathon canoeing. I used to do a little of that myself.”
“Hey that’s great.” He held out a hand. “I’m Jason, and this is Jonah.”
Jason and Jonah. Of course. I shook their hands. “I’m Ruby.”
“Ruby,” Jonah said, “I hope this doesn’t come off wrong, but could we use you for a little while? Just to help us set up the course, see how long it will take, level of difficulty, that sort of thing. You probably represent the top end of the ages we’ll encounter, so it will be good to see how it works for you.” He gave me a quick grin that might have been endearing if I hadn’t wanted to slap him so badly. “That didn’t come out right. What I meant is—”
“I know what you meant and I’d be happy to help. Are you planning a portage or is it strictly a water race?”
“Strictly water,” Jason said. “We don’t want to lose anyone on this thing.”
“I understand. Bad for business.” I nudged the canoe into the water and followed her in. “It’s about eight kilometers from here to Lighthouse Pond and back. Sound good?”
“Sounds far,” Jonah said.
“For whom?” I asked as I fastened my life jacket.
“The suits,” he said with that same charming smile. “Half that would be better. Let’s end at the lighthouse.” He dipped his paddle into the water and nodded at mine. “Bent shaft, eh?”
I shrugged and settled into the Lipstick Queen. “Once a marathoner ...”
He chuckled. “I’m just surprised is all.”
And rightly so. The Island waterway isn’t exactly a raging river. Just a winding series of lagoons that take you from Ward’s Island to Hanlan’s Point at whatever pace you want to set. A straight paddle would definitely have been easier to use in these waters, especially since I was canoeing solo these days. But I was used to a racer’s paddle and a racer’s stroke and couldn’t bring myself to abandon either.
I aimed my canoe at the bridge. “How long do you want this race to take?”
“As long as you need,” Jason said, and I like to think he didn’t mean to be rude.
“Tell you what. Why don’t we make this a little more interesting?” I looked from one to the other. “Ten bucks says I beat you both to the lighthouse.”
Jason bit first. “Make it twenty and you’re on.”
“Twenty it is.” I wrapped my fingers around the paddle. “You might want to get in line.”
They laughed and shook their heads but got themselves into position nonetheless—canoes even, paddles out of the water. “From a dead stop?” I asked.
“Is there another way?” Jonah answered.
I sat up straighter. “Which one of you wants to get us started?”
“On your mark,” Jason said.
I flexed my fingers, eyed the route ahead. I wasn’t facing white water and there wouldn’t be a decent ice jam for months, but still my heart started beating faster, warming my skin and turning my stomach just a little, just enough. Prerace jitters. God, how I’d missed them.
“Get set.”
I raised the paddle.
“Go!”
They weren’t expecting much, so it wasn’t hard to shoot ahead right off the mark.
But they figured out quickly enough that I wasn’t kidding and both of them rose up on one knee, assuming a sprint racer’s stance and pulling ahead as we passed Snake Island.
“Nice start,” Jason said on his way by. “Too bad the race wasn’t over back there.”
I laughed and held to a steady pace because a marathon isn’t only about speed. It’s also about stamina, breath control, and negotiating the twists and turns while maintaining a constant pace. Not an easy task in a racing stance.
I was sure Jason was going over on the first turn past the church. He managed to right himself and hold on a while longer, but by the time we reached Far Enough Farm, they were both sitting lower and they were both starting to slow. There’s a reason sprint races are short. Not many people can keep up that kind of pace for long.
While the two Js continued to flag, the Lipstick Queen and I powered on, catching up to them as we rounded the curve by the Carousel Café, and nosing ahead as all three canoes burst into the Regatta Course. I whooped as I pulled into the lead, my back, my arms, every muscle in my body working, pulling, stretching. I felt strong again, more like myself, or who I used to be. Adventurous, fun. Free.
I was reaching my stride on the straightaway past the grand-stand and knew I could have kept going for miles. Paddling until the moon came up, and pushing on until the sun returned, just as I had on so many rivers for so many years. But the end of this race was around the next bend, and I didn’t look back until I reached Lighthouse Pond.
The Js arrived a minute later, wiping their faces with their T-shirts as they pulled up alongside my canoe. “You should have warned us,” Jason said, taking his wallet from his backpack and digging out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. It was green.
I snapped the money out of his fingers. “Not bad for my age level, I guess.”
Jonah groaned and went for his wallet, handing me two wilted tens. Both purple. If only he’d handed me fives.
“Nice race,” he said.
“You too,” I said, and shook their hands, because I’d mellowed and was now gracious in victory. But that didn’t mean I’d be returning their money. “If your suits enjoy themselves half as much as I did, you will have a definite hit on your hands.”
“We’re going out to explore the inner harbor a little,” Jason said. “See if there’s something we can do out there as well. Want to come along?”
A year ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I would have been right there beside them, talking paddles and canoes, races and strategies. But not only has Big Al made me mellow, he’s also made me fearful. I no longer leap before I look, no longer fly by the seat of my pants. Every move, every decision is carefully weighed and measured, examined for dangers and possible traps. The lagoons were safe, the shore always within easy reach. But the harbor was a different story, with heavy boat traffic and water cold enough to steal your breath, even this time of year. As much as I longed to go with them, open water was no longer safe for me.
Clutching the bills and my small victory tightly, I smiled and waved them away. “You go ahead. I should be getting back.”
“Nice meeting you,” Jason said.
“Good luck with the suits,” I told them, and split off, leisurely making my way back to the regatta course without once looking back. What was the point, after all? As Grandma Lucy used to say,
The foolish woman dwells on what’s gone by her. The wise one looks ahead at what’s to come
. Even when what’s to come is hard to imagine.

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