“Yes, Mom?”
“Just tomorrow. Be careful. Okay?”
Her warning puts me on edge. When Mrs. Van Dortmund’s cat flashes past my shins, I jump and clutch the banister. This jolt of fear is quickly followed by annoyance. Careful of what? What happened two months back was a one-off. Me and Josh are taking a cruise on a totally safe, modern luxury yacht. That’s pretty much a dream date. Can’t Quinn and my mom just be happy for me? I’m going out with one of the most eligible bachelors in town, if not all of Canada. Josh—aka Adonis—Barton!
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I blurt out, before I can stop myself. Immediately, guilt kicks in.
“I just . . .” My mother sighs, her voice tremulous and apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’m just feeling anxious. About Daphne, I guess, and now it’s spilled over onto you.” She takes a deep breath, then sounds more resolute. “I’m being ridiculous. You go and have fun. Tomorrow’s forecast is decent, so hopefully you’ll have good weather.”
Her apology makes me want to apologize too. Instead, I just say goodnight as I climb the final steps.
“Sweet dreams, sweetheart.” A pause, followed by a couple more plops as brightly colored stones slide through her fingers. “Just promise you’ll wear your lifejacket, okay?”
I roll my eyes. What am I, six? “Of course, Mom.”
Across the hall, I can hear tinkly feminine laughter waft out of Mr. Garlowski’s place. One of the building’s few widowers, he’s a hot commodity amongst Oak Bay’s countless single senior ladies—despite bearing a resemblance to a gargoyle.
I unlock my door. Stepping inside, I kick off my heels, then try to sound less like a teenaged brat. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you t—” A little gasp makes me stop.
“Mom?” When she doesn’t answer right away, I can’t help but imagine the worst: a heart attack, an aneurysm, a fall . . . “Mom?” I say again.
“It’s the turquoise!” says my mother. “It’s . . .” Her voice drops to a stricken whisper. “Oh my goodness! The color! It’s faded . . .”
I swallow hard, torn between relief and teeth-clenching annoyance. While I have no idea what she means, she will surely inform me.
“Turquoise can sense danger,” says my mom. “And infidelity and poison. When it changes from dark to light . . .” Her voice shudders. “That’s a very bad sign.”
Not wanting to encourage her, I stay quiet. I head into my tiny kitchen to fill the kettle. My mom’s Sleeping Beauty turquoise has always been one of my favorite stones, a wonderful smooth, robin’s egg blue. I used to press it to my eyelids as a kid, convinced some color might rub off, like Barbie’s powder-blue eyeshadow.
“Toby?”
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Honey, this is terrible. You gotta be c—”
Since it’s obvious what’s coming next, I cut her off. “I know, Mom. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
After hanging up, I wonder if my mom’s eyes—or head—need checking. Pouring my tea, I can’t help but sigh. While rocks don’t change, people do. Is old age making my mom even less logical and prone to wacked-out, magical thinking?
The tea is scalding. I open and slam some cupboard doors, unable to find the honey. While it seems my mom beat her breast cancer, that scare changed me, opening up a new, inescapable reality: sooner or later our roles will flip, caregiver turned dependent. My mom, who’s always supported me, will need me to support her. I don’t feel ready for this role, which seems impossibly adult. But like it or not, it’s coming. As my mom gets older, weaker, and nuttier, I’ll have to be the strong, sane one.
CHAPTER 9:
GETTING SOMEWHERE
The morning dawns cool and overcast. The days are rapidly getting shorter and the temperatures lower. While there’s no wind, it’ll be cold on the water. I don thermals under my jeans and a thick wool sweater.
Stuffed with a thermos of hot chocolate, a package of ginger snaps, a warm hat, and four bottles of Corona, my backpack clinks as I descend the stairs to the lobby. From his tree-top perch, Angel Chucky leers down at me. Someone has trod on one of the fake presents. Half squashed, it looks sadder than ever.
Rather than inhale the lobby’s standard odors of cat pee and Vicks VapoRub, I wait outside. I sit on the low, mossy wall that runs along the sidewalk.
As usual, Josh is late—something else I don’t like about him. But no one’s perfect, least of all me. When he pulls up my stomach does its customary gymnastics routine. Ten out of ten at the Crush Olympics.
“Hi,” I say, breathless as a schoolgirl jumping into her first boyfriend’s first car. In both good and bad ways, Josh’s presence transforms me into an adolescent—excited and insecure in equal measure.
“Morning,” he says. He leans in for a quick kiss. As always, he smells wonderful, like spice and the ocean. With his bright blue eyes, tanned face, and mussed blond curls, the man is summer personified. It’s like he travels in his own sunbeam. Sure enough, despite the cool day, the Porsche’s sunroof is open.
Doing up my seatbelt, I feel shy. When we talked on the phone last night, I told him about my hopes of finding Daphne Dane’s summer cabin. “You still want to head out past Sooke?” he asks. “There’s a high chance of rain. Should we risk it?”
“Yes,” I say. I don’t care if it rains. “That’d be fantastic.” I hand over the road directions I got from my mother.
Josh squints at my handwriting. “Wait, let me check.” He turns on the car’s sat nav. “Hmmm,” he says. On the screen, grids of neighborhoods give way to sparse lines and white space. “It must be around here someplace,” says Josh, pointing at a blank spot. “There’s no road access, right?”
“You have to walk in,” I say. “But there’s a bay with a jetty.”
“Great.” Josh takes out his iPhone and opens Google maps. “So it’s somewhere around here,” he says. I examine the smaller screen. “We should be home before dark. Want to stop at Subway to grab lunch?”
“Good thinking.”
The last time we went out on his boat he’d prepared a fancy picnic with strawberries and champagne. I’m glad he hasn’t tried to recreate that romantic scene. It feels better to keep this casual—subs, hot chocolate, and cold beer. I get a six-inch tuna. He opts for a foot-long pepperoni.
By the time we reach Oak Bay Marina, some blue sky is peeking through the clouds. We park near the restaurant and walk through the coffee shop’s large outdoor deck. Looking out at the docks and boats, it’s hard not to think of Josh’s estranged wife, Tonya, who was murdered here last summer.
Maybe Josh is thinking about her too because his steps slow. I wonder if I should bring her up, and give him the chance to talk about her death, or if it’s better to leave it.
I’m saved from having to decide by the arrival of a large black standard poodle. It bounds up to Josh with its tail wagging. “Hi, Claude,” he says. He bends to pet its wooly rump. The dog spins in happy circles.