The Shore Girl by Fran Kimmel

walked over to the window. “No one chooses Tuktoyaktuk.” She stared at the ordinary sky covering the empty street.
    â€œWhen I was a little kid my mother kept threatening to ship me there to live with the Eskimos.” I dropped to my knees in front of the blanket, sweeping crumbs into my palm. “She sounded like a machine gun — tuktuktuktuk . I thought it was somewhere you went to be shot. Some imaginary bad place. But it’s real enough. You can find it on the map.”
    â€œI suppose that explains it,” Elizabeth turned to face me again. “Your lineup of moments.”
    Uncle Walter lived in Tuktoyaktuk. He might live there still. I wanted to tell Elizabeth his stories, stories I’ve told no one. About how we made magic that summer, my uncle and me.
    â€œIt’s all about your mother.”
    â€œNo, it’s more about my uncle. My Uncle Walter.”
    But she’d stopped listening. “Mommy threatens. She’s gonna ship you off. To Tuktoyaktuk,” slurred slightly, not getting the word right. “Mommy says it over and over. Of course you’re mad at Mommy. Off you go. Some kind of mad justice blowing you north.”
    I turned away, getting up off my knees, and headed back to the kitchen with my palm full of breadcrumbs. “Perhaps not quite that simple,” I answered, my back to her.
    â€œAah, but it was just a moment ago.” She spoke lightly now. When I faced her, I saw she was smiling. She had her arms crossed, still holding her cup. We stood across the room from each other, she against the light of the window, me lost in the shadows. “What was it the teacher said? ‘Think about the moments that led you to here. Trace them all the way back.’ There we go then. You’re all figured out. Let’s toast the discovery. To the teacher’s life. Mystery solved.”
    She brought her cup to her mouth, eyes glinting at me, and poured the rest of those clotted noble grapes down her throat.
    I marched forward, ready to slap her cold cheek. A sting for a sting. But by the time I got to her window my fire was gone. “Life is not petty,” I said. “Not yours and not mine either.”
    â€œ Tuktuktuktuk .”
    â€œI thought you could use a friend.”
    â€œOf course you did. You’re one of those people who can’t see beyond her cravings. The whole world must need what you need.”
    â€œNo. Not the whole world. But you and Rebee, you’re not like — ”
    She threw her hand up then, wiping the words out of the air. “Leave us alone. Go somewhere else to find what you’re looking for. There’s a second-hand store down the street. Buy yourself a pretty little thing.”
    I couldn’t stand any more, her words or mine. So I backed away from her window and walked out her door.
    * * *
    Delta has brought me turkey soup on a tray. A large china bowl covered with a tea towel, thickly buttered soda crackers on a little scalloped-edged dish beside, and a pitted silver soup spoon.
    â€œAre you feeling better?” she asked when I opened the door. She was huffing heavily from her difficult descent.
    â€œMuch better, thank you. Here, let me take that. Please. Do. Come sit.” I didn’t like this about myself, the church voice I used around old ladies. Sing-song. Quaint. Yet I couldn’t seem to stop it.
    â€œI thought some hot soup might settle your stomach.” She’d hit stormy seas on her way down the stairs. The soup sloshed everywhere, soaked the tea towel, splashing the thickly buttered crackers to a soppy mush.
    â€œThank you. You are very kind,” my church voice said. I put the tray down on the coffee table in front of the burgundy chairs and motioned Delta to sit. She lined herself up against the closest one and dropped backwards, feet lifting into the air before thunking to the rug. I looked at the tray. Chunks of turkey ice floated in the bowl like