The Shore Girl by Fran Kimmel Page A

bog bodies. An archaeological find, preserved in the depths of her freezer.
    â€œJust look what you’ve done with the suite,” she gazed with pleasure at her doilies and figurines, her petit point-topped stools and brocade curtains. I’d done nothing but move a few lamps and add a few nightlights. “It’s just lovely.”
    â€œThank you, Delta.”
    â€œAnd you keep it so tidy. Your mother must be proud.”
    When I left the farm for good, all my mother said was, “Don’t forget to soap the can opener.” Delta didn’t need to know this.
    â€œWhen I was your age, I enjoyed dusting too.”
    I did keep dusting.
    â€œBut these old bones aren’t what they used to be.”
    â€œWell, I appreciate being able to borrow your vacuum cleaner,” I answered pathetically.
    But she was looking down, picking a bouquet of yellow fluff from her afghan. “And I’d be pleased to do the upstairs anytime at all.” I raised my voice so the whole congregation could hear.
    â€œDo you think you’ll be well enough to go to school tomorrow? Mrs. Bagot has been asking about you.”
    For a moment I felt strangely inclined to tell the truth. To tell Delta that I was worried I might never be well enough. Delta looked right at me, ready to hear my words. I could have rested my head on her lap. Tell her how lonely I’d been. How confused. How I couldn’t sleep at night. We could have talked about my new friend, a woman, a beautiful woman who was lost like me.
    But the moment passed. “Oh, yes. I can’t bear to miss a second day. There’s so much to catch up on. I’ve got tomorrow’s lesson still to plan. I’ll be at it all night.”
    â€œPlease, dear, don’t let the stress of the job wear you down. You can only do your best. That’s all you can do.” She leaned forward, reaching for my hand.
    â€œSuch a responsibility.” I leaned too, covering her warm hand in mine.
    â€œWell, yes. It is that,” she smiled at me fondly.
    I smiled back. Purpled veins flattened under the pressure of my fingers.
    â€œBut you’ve had quite an upset and mustn’t push too hard. No sense working yourself into a frenzy.”
    I was startled when she said this, but then I remembered we were talking stomach bugs, teaching jobs.
    â€œI insist on driving you tomorrow. Will you let me do that at least?”
    She brought me soup. I nodded.
    â€œGood. Well, eat up. Before it gets cold.”
    I got Delta out of her chair with discrete little tugs and pulls, before hugging her gently at the door to my suite. Yes, most certainly, I would eat all my soup, and return the tray tomorrow when I caught a ride for school. She took the stairs, painfully slow, her grip firm on the railing, two feet to a tread before moving to the next. At the top, she turned and beamed, holding her thumb high, as though she’d already forgotten the climb. As though she were a sparkling young woman, just now returning from secrets and laughter in a rented room. Best friends forever, we could write in our diaries.
    I closed my door. When I poured the soup down the sink, the shrivelled turkey chunks caught in the stopper and I dumped them in the garbage can.
    I went into my bedroom, lit up my clown nose in the socket by the dresser and clicked both tri-lamps to high. I went to my drawer. Rebee’s tooth was there. It lay on a bed of cotton inside a tiny gold heart-shaped container that used to hold mints. Elizabeth’s rock was there too, wrapped in the folds of my favourite silk scarf. It was glittery cold stone with jagged rose edges, like an opening flower. I lay face down on my bed, that rock cutting into one fist, that tiny gold heart pressed to the other. I breathed deeply, imagining the scent of the Shore girls. But it was Delta’s talcum on the comforter, her Lily of the Valley was all.
    * * *
    It was bannock day. Mrs Bagot had set this