Surfacing

Acknowledgements

When we sat down at our keyboards and began a simple writing exercise, we had no idea of the journey we were about to begin. Writing the story was fun for both of us. Our weekly writing sessions were filled with laughter and surprise as we created one amazing, believable character after another.

Like puppeteers, we pulled their strings and made them laugh, cry or love with a simple touch of the keyboard. Soon our characters came alive and became like neighbours or family to us. Indeed many of the people you are about to meet are fashioned on people who have crossed our paths along the way.

The book was a few years in the making but it seems every time we took a break or got lazy we had family, co-workers or friends asking us, When is the book going to be done? Without their encouragement we may have let our story slip away.

We must thank our families for their patience when our computer room doors were shut and the dinners were late. We thank our friends for their encouragement and their excitement that became contagious.

We had some technical help. Jodie Millward from the Fraser Valley Brain Injury Association and Ken McGregor from the Lions Gate Hospital provided insight and data that became important factors in our plot. Thanks to both for your contributions.

Thanks to all our test readers, Al Irwin, Craig Spence, Kelly McGregor, Lynn Whitehouse, Bonnie Stewart, Tessa Thiessen, Meagan Castron, and Shirley Stewart. They were a great cross section of age and gender and their valuable comments pulled no punches and shaped our story.

Our story would still be in draft form if not for the talent and energy of our editor, Wendy Dewar Hughes of Summer Bay Press. Wendy gave us advice and encouragement until we had crafted a good story into a great story. Our finished product is better for her guidance.

We must also thank the good Lord for the talents He has given us and the courage to share them with you.

We thank all of you have picked up our book because, to paraphrase an old theatre idiom, without an audience there is no show. Sit back and enjoy our story.

CHAPTER ONE

Jeremy closed his eyes to block the stinging spray of cold lake water. He set the paddle in the water close to the canoe and pulled with all the effort his eleven-year-old muscles could produce. He knew he had one, maybe two, more chances to turn the bow of the canoe. If he did, just maybe, he could paddle back to shore. If he lost the battle he would be blown out to the middle of Crystal Lake.

Pull boy, pull! His Grandpa Brent’s voice filled Jeremy’s head. The voice was stern and commanding but Jeremy sensed no panic. Set it close to the canoe boy, set it deep then give it a full pull with everything you’ve got.

Jeremy’s shoulders ached, his hands were numb and his knees screamed with pain but he pulled with everything he had. The salty cigarette smell of Grandpa’s hands was always a sign. He knew it meant Grandpa would speak soon. He knew his Grandpa was dead but when he heard the voice, it usually had a message he was supposed to follow.

Did the canoe turn? He thought so; just a bit. He pulled again and now he could see the bow swinging. He could feel the wind at his back. He had to find the dock, hidden somewhere in the mist and tossing waves. He sensed his grandfather’s support behind him.

Why hadn’t he listened to his mother? He was supposed to stow the jackets and paddles in the shed and pull the canoe up on shore – that’s all. But he wanted one more look at the deer. He thought maybe they would be in the clearing again, just around the point, so he had taken the canoe out one last time. The deer had been where he’d hoped and he had glided the silent canoe into the weeds and watched them.

Minutes stretched and time bent until Jeremy felt lost in the wonder of the trees, the graceful animals and the water. It was only when he shivered that he realized the wind had chased a low bank of clouds around the point. Crystal Lake squalls had tested even the best boatmen and Jeremy had suddenly realized his mother’s anger over his disobedience was going to be the least of his problems.

He plunged the paddle into the darkening water again. He was almost home free. The canoe surfed the bigger waves and he paddled hard in the troughs between. As the dock loomed into view he could see his mother and sister, wrapped in rain slickers, watching his approach.

He was close enough to hear them calling and he stroked faster, leaning with all his weight on the paddle. As he came close to the dock he relaxed just as a wave caught the stern and twisted the craft sideways. The next wave picked up the canoe and flung him headlong into the water.

Jeremy heard his mother scream and opened his eyes to see her running down the long wooden dock toward him. Gravel skidded under his shoes as he tried to stand but another wave smashed the back of his head and he was washed forward, gasping for breath.

With eyes smarting from the cold and arms reaching, he stumbled, plowing his hands into the sand at the edge of the small beach. Grabbing handfuls of pebbles, he felt his mother grip his jacket and yank his body up. As he scrambled to his feet he saw a flash of gold drop from his open hand. Shaking his wrist loose from her grasp he plucked the object from the sand before the next crashing wave could steal it again.

Coughing, he heaved himself to his feet and looked down. In his palm lay a heavy gold ring. He closed his fingers over it and dropped his hand back in the water to rinse off the sand. When he opened his hand again, he felt like his heart stopped. It was his Dad’s Fire-fighter’s Service ring.

My God, Jeremy, what were you thinking going out there? his mother, Debbie, cried, shaking him. Why didn’t you just do what I asked?

He looked into her eyes and opened his hand to show her the ring. She caught her breath. She leaned towards him taking in hers the cold little hand that held the ring and squeezing it tightly.

She felt him relax as she touched him and he opened his palm.

It’s Dad’s ring, he whispered. I found it in the water. I was just thinking about him. Grandpa was telling me how proud Dad would be that I made it back to shore.

He’s not here, darling, his mother said. Grandpa’s not here anymore. She leaned back against the cedar railing and flattened her hands on it to steady herself. She began to cry and slowly she slid back down to his level then reached out and pulled him to her.

While she sobbed and rocked gently, she had a fleeting memory of how Jeremy used to love her coming into his room to tuck him in. Everything was so safe and simple back then. She wanted that time back.

Rosie came and knelt beside them. Debbie wiped her eyes with her sleeve and smiled bravely. C’mon you two, up to the cabin so we can dry off and talk. Rosie, can you go and put the kettle on? I think we are going to need some tea and hot chocolate.

Debbie and Jeremy came into the cabin just as Rosie slammed the cupboard door and Debbie heard her mutter, Our darling Jeremy comes out smelling like a rose again.

Debbie had noticed this caustic attitude more often since Rosie had turned thirteen. She made a mental note to address this new behaviour but knew that now wasn’t the right time. Still, she couldn’t let her get away without some reprimand.

Rosie, those are the old cupboards from Grandpa’s kitchen and they won’t take much slamming, Debbie said.

The cabin had started life as a one-room hunting shack overlooking the lake. As the years passed and money and time had permitted, two bedrooms had been added and the kitchen was renovated, handyman-style. The interior décor reflected the era in which the addition had been built. The floors in the main room and kitchen were yellowed linoleum, one bedroom was done in green shag carpet and another sported a dark walnut laminate. The furniture was a mixture of family castoffs and garage sale specials.

In the five minutes it took the water to boil, Debbie’s mind raced to come up with answers to the questions she had always known would come. With Jeremy snuggled on the old comfy couch beside her and Rosie slouched on the tired recliner across the room, Debbie took a long look at her children.

Jeremy was a miniature copy of his father. His blonde curly hair always looked like it needed combing. He was skinny and short for his age with pale blue eyes that, at times, gave away that he was off in some other world.

Rosie looks more like me everyday, Debbie thought. Her dark, almost red, hair fell below her shoulders. She was developing a slender athletic build with long legs. Much to Debbie's dismay, she looked older than her thirteen years.

Debbie took a deep breath and began. Your dad was having an operation to repair something called an aneurism. Seeing their puzzled looks, she continued. An aneurism is a weak spot in an artery that takes blood and oxygen to your brain. Daddy had that weakness in his brain that nobody knew about and one day, it burst. They took him to the hospital and did an operation but it didn’t work.

Jeremy looked up at her. Is he with Grandpa Brent and the angels now?

Oh no, Jeremy, she replied, he is still in a coma. That means that he is alive but in a special hospital because he can’t speak or hear. I knew he would never have wanted you kids to see your big strong Daddy that way so I told you the hospital wouldn’t allow children to visit. Even if you did go, he couldn’t hear you anyway. Now I’m so sorry that I kept you both away these last three years.

He will listen to me, Mom. Whenever we were out in the boat and it was real quiet, he would say, ‘A penny for your thoughts, JD.’ He always said if we had questions or something on our mind we should talk and he would listen. He’ll hear me Mom. Can we go see him?

Jeremy’s plea hung in the air and in the silence that followed the latch of the storm door suddenly and mysteriously clicked closed. The three of them turned towards the door but there was nothing to see, only the fading daylight.

Jeremy opened his hand and stared at the ring and waited. He got a whiff of a stale, dank room then an image of his Dad beckoning to him. He jammed the ring back in his pocket. He didn’t want it to happen right now, even though he could seldom control when the images came into his head.

Taunting and ridicule from kids at school had taught him to repress any outward sign of his gift. He had learned the hard way that it was safer to be cast as a dreamer than to let everyone think he could talk to people on the other side.

If we’re going to make it home before it gets really dark, we’d better leave now,  Debbie said, pushing herself up from the deep sagging cushions.

So we will go and see Dad when we’re home? Jeremy asked.

Let me think about it on the way home.

Debbie was relieved that she only had to nag the kids a couple of times to get their butts in gear. Debbie listened to their conversation and could tell Jeremy couldn’t wait to see his Dad but Rosie was just looking forward to leaving the lake and getting back to civilization, the chat line, Facebook and her friends.

Jeremy took one last glance back at the lake, where he’d canoed and fished with his Dad, skipped stones and where he’d made his startling discovery. He still had his Dad’s ring stored in the deepest pocket of his jeans. Every now and then he pushed his hand down until his fingertips touched the ring. It was all he had of his Dad, and it felt good.

Jeremy didn’t even have to look on the inside of the band to know there would be an inscription there: To Don for Ten Years Service. Jeremy had sat on his Dad’s lap for hours turning that ring on his finger while his Dad read to him or they watched cartoons.

The drive home was quiet without the noisy chatter that usually accompanied their rides together. Once they got away from the mountains, Debbie turned on the radio and played the music low. Rosie was reading as usual but Debbie noticed that every so often she’d lift her eyes from her book to stare out the passenger window. A familiar song came on the radio about some man promising his lady that he’d be there to the end. Debbie sighed. Just as the song ended Rosie snapped her book shut and turned to face her Mom.

We’re going to see Dad, aren’t we, Mom? We’re going to see him tonight?

Not tonight, Debbie answered, her eyes never leaving the road. We have to really think about this. Maybe tomorrow.

Crystal Lake was tucked away in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest. The cabin had been a family retreat for many years and the two and a half hour drive was always a pleasant part of the vacation, coming or going. Tonight, though, Debbie found the white lines on the road hypnotic. Three years ago, she had been on the same road heading up to the cabin and running away. Her life had come apart, the doctors were telling her what to do, her sister was telling her what to do, and counsellors were telling her what the kids needed. She had left her kids with her sister and fled to the quiet calm of the lake to think.

The high beams of an approaching truck snapped her back to the present. How had the ring got from the drawer in her night table to the shore of Crystal Lake? She took a curve in the road a little too fast. Stepping on the brake, she put both the van and her mind on cruise control and for now, at least, navigated the winding road in silence.

CHAPTER TWO

Debbie’s sister and brother-in-law, Christine and David, worked a productive dairy farm in Lynden, Washington, just south of the Canada-U.S. border. She knew her kids loved the expanse of the farm, all the animals, the tractors and their American cousins.

Christine was Debbie’s closest family connection. Their parents were distant in more ways than one. Their mother, Helen, had been born in Canada and in her youth had migrated south to Los Angeles to become a movie star. Helen had met her husband, a sitcom producer, and became a wife and mother without ever setting foot in front of a camera. Debbie had grown up in LA but had finished her nursing training in British Columbia. She enjoyed the slower pace of the smaller town and took her first job at the Cedar Grove Hospital. One of her first patients was a young man who was to become the father of her children.

It had all changed so quickly. They started life together as the perfect couple. Debbie the slender, attractive nurse with long mahogany hair and flashing smile and Don the fair haired, blue eyed firefighter with the chiseled six pack and the mischievous grin.

All of that seemed so long ago.

She snapped back to reality just in time to take the exit off the highway that led to her sister’s place. Christine is going to love this, she thought as she cruised down the two-lane road. Her sister had badgered her for years to tell the kids about their Dad’s situation. She started every conversation with, Have you told the kids about their Dad yet?

She knew that no matter what the hour, they’d be made welcome. Christine and David were like that. The house might as well have had a revolving door because everyone was always comfortable in the big country kitchen.

Debbie pictured her older sister putting her two sons to work getting the guest room ready. Probably, she thought with a smile, all three boys would camp out on the floor together and talk and laugh until David rapped on the door with a firm, That’s enough, boys. Plenty of time for that tomorrow. This had been the routine in the early days of Don’s hospital stay, that is, until everything had gone sideways.

Rosie would sleep with her in the bed, the big bed where... no, she wouldn’t allow herself the luxury of thinking about Don and her together in bed. Not now. She’d blocked it out for three years and this was no time to start entertaining ideas.

The children’s enthusiasm about seeing their father had softened her original resolve. For the first time in a long time, she felt no apprehension about Christine’s quizzing. She couldn’t explain this change to herself. For some reason, she wanted to think about Don now, as the husband she loved and the husband she had, fleetingly, hated three years ago. She wanted to think about him in every way that he had been to her. She wanted him back again.

Mom. Jeremy interrupted her reverie. You just drove past the farm.

Debbie turned around and negotiated the long, tree-lined driveway. Jeremy was out of the van before she shut off the engine. The porch light came on and Christine opened the door, shadowed by one of her boys.

We’re going to see our Dad tomorrow, Jeremy shouted, before his feet hit the ground. He gave his aunt a quick hug and disappeared inside with his cousin. Christine folded her arms and leaned on the doorjamb. So what’s all this about then?

Debbie and Rosie, laden with overnight bags, pushed past her. First coffee then wine, Debbie answered, and then we’ll talk.

After the kids were quiet and David had said goodnight, Debbie and Christine settled into a quiet corner on the floor of the family room, propped against beanbag chairs.

Debbie, level with me, Christine said, looking her in the eye. This whole thing with Don has had to have been hell for you. You know I’ve tried several times to get you to unload and let me help you. Why did you take so long? We’ve always shared the important stuff.

Christine, slightly taller than Debbie and with the same thick, dark hair, stretched out on the rug in front of the gas fire. Go ahead, tell me everything. Let it go.

Debbie took a sip of wine. Why didn’t I go to see him every day, you mean? Sit with him, read the newspapers to him, tell him about our lives? At the beginning I did. But the truth is, that the first time I saw him after his operation, something happened and I made the decision, perhaps the wrong one, not to take the children back there again. She saw Christine frown.

I was at the hospital while Don was having his operation. When the surgery was over, a nurse came to me and suggested I go home, get some rest and come back later. Don was still under anaesthetic and it would be morning before they could say if the operation was a success. They wouldn’t let me see him, even though I told them I was a nurse. I went home, and the kids were begging me to take them to see their dad. I said I’d take them in the morning, which was a Saturday, so there was no school. That night, I couldn’t get comfortable. I kept tossing and turning, chasing sleep. It’s ironic, really, because even though I didn’t know it, Don had slipped into a deep sleep and, well, I didn’t know he wasn’t going to wake up, did I?

Christine leaned forward and topped up the glasses with Pinot Grigio. She saw Debbie shiver. Are you cold? I can get you a blanket.

No, I’m fine.

When they wouldn’t let us see him on Saturday, I knew something wasn’t right but I wouldn’t admit it to myself. The kids, especially Jeremy, were getting agitated. It was Sunday afternoon before they let us in to see him, and then only through glass, as he was in intensive care. I didn’t recognize him, Chrissie.

Tears slid down Debbie’s cheeks and she began to sob. When she paused to blow her nose, Christine took a deep breath and asked softly, Why have you waited to so long to tell me? You have bottled all of this up for all three whole years.

Debbie drew in a quivering breath. His entire head was wrapped in white and there was a huge red blotch on the bandage. There was a web of tubes everywhere. He was on his back but his legs seemed to be lying awkwardly. That’s when I knew it was really bad. He looked like a ghost. His skin was grey. And his face, his face... she struggled to find the words. Even though his eyes were shut, his face had this vacant look like he wasn’t even there.

What about Rosie and Jeremy? What did they say?

Debbie took another sip of wine. Rosie turned away and buried her face against me. She just called ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy’ and wouldn’t stop crying.

And Jeremy?

The look on his face, Chrissie, I can hardly describe it. He had the look of a boy much older. He didn’t cry. He mumbled ‘That’s not my Dad.’ And then he turned and walked away.

Christine leaned over and squeezed Debbie’s hand.

Over the next few weeks, I went often to be with Don. I took the children one more time, before Don was transferred to the Franklin Centre. Rosie broke down again and the doctor in charge of Don’s case urged me not to bring the children because it upset them so much. Perhaps it had been a mistake to listen to that advice but I finally told the kids that Don was very, very ill and that he wouldn’t be coming home again.

I see.

They seemed to understand but I wonder if they really did. Gradually, I went back less and less and I never saw a change. Not once. Eventually, raising the kids and working fulltime at the clinic occupied all of my time. The shock of what happened subsided and I finally realized that we had to move on without Don. If I did visit it was out of guilt. She shifted her back against the chair.

The Franklin Centre is for people who aren’t expected to leave, she said. I felt that every time I left him, I left him to die.

CHAPTER THREE

That night, Debbie slept more deeply than she had in a long time and dreamed