Kitabı oku: «A Different Kind of Summer»
David had often seen the woman and child around the museum.
They came once a month, the boy eager, the mother patient, the two of them a perfect example of why he did this work. And now he’d scared them off. She’d asked the question, hadn’t she? How was he supposed to know she didn’t want an answer?
He didn’t have any reason to feel guilty. “Ma’am?” That sounded all wrong. Ma’am didn’t suit her.
Their rush out the door slowed, then stopped. She directed the boy to a cutaway view of hibernating insects and rodents before rejoining him.
“If you were going to apologise, it isn’t necessary. You were trying to do your job. My son will be fine.”
“I wasn’t going to apologise.”
That ticked her off. “What did you want, then?”
Her phone number, for one thing. The thought came out of nowhere. He had no business wanting her phone number. “The gift shop has a very good book about the mammoth, if you’re interested.”
“Does it? Thank you.”
A dismissive smile and they were on their way. The boy was speaking in an anxious tone, the mother trying to soothe. She was good at conveying a mother’s certainty. What she didn’t seem to realise was that it wasn’t helping.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Caron Todd grew up surrounded by books, listening to her parents’ stories and watching her father, a journalist, working at his manual typewriter. She always liked writing, but became a nurse and then a library assistant before a family holiday in the Alberta badlands inspired her first romance novel. She was born in France, where her father was stationed with the Royal Canadian Air Force, and she now lives with her husband in Manitoba.
Dear Reader,
The premise for A Different Kind of Summer came to mind after I watched The Day After Tomorrow. Leaving the cinema, I was surprised to step into a warm, soft spring night instead of a hostile, icy world. If the movie had that effect on me, even for a second, I wondered how a young child would respond to it. What would happen if a single mother got home from work to find that the babysitter had let her five-year-old son watch the video?
I wasn’t sure how my editor, Laura Shin, would feel about the idea of a romance novel set against a background of climate change – after all, some of my relatives were asking me how that could be romantic – but to me, love found during troubled times is the most romantic of all. I was so glad when Laura told me to go ahead, because, like my heroine, Gwyn Sinclair, I had always preferred not to think about the problem and simply hoped it didn’t exist. This story gave me a chance to read about it as widely as time and my unscientific brain would allow. More happily, it took me back to my early motherhood years, with all their worries and joys.
It also took me back to Winnipeg, Manitoba, my home town. The area where Gwyn and David Bretton live is a composite of a few real neighbourhoods made graceful and welcoming by rivers, ageing houses and big, old trees. For a short time the story moves to another of my favourite places, Whiteshell Provincial Park. I’ve enjoyed so many afternoons and holidays there, hiking, canoeing and reading in the shade.
I hope you enjoy getting to know Gwyn and David, and the people who are important to them. Hearing from readers is always a pleasure. If you’d like to get in touch you can reach me at ctodd@prairie. ca.
Yours,
Caron Todd
A Different Kind of Summer
CARON TODD
MILLS & BOON
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To my children, with hopes that you’ll like the
view in 2050. Thank you for your support – your
patience with fast food during deadlines, your
insights and, of course, for making me laugh.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
My thanks to Dr John Hanesiak of the Centre
for earth observation Science at the University
of Manitoba for taking the time to provide
detailed answers to my questions about weather
and climate change. Without him, I wouldn’t
have known about David’s remote control plane
or rooftop weather station! of course, any
mistakes or misunderstandings that may have
found their way into the book are
completely due to me.
CHAPTER ONE
“OF COURSE IT COULDN’T HAPPEN, sweetie.” Gwyn sat on the bed and stroked her son’s cheek. When he didn’t lean away from her touch she felt even more annoyed with the babysitter. Then with herself for needing one. “It was just a movie.”
Now he did pull away, with an irritated wriggle. “I know it was a movie.”
Did he? He so often surprised her, expressing ideas that seemed advanced for his age one minute and showing a complete lack of common sense the next. Maybe all children were like that. Iris had told her about a boy down the street who was convinced Bruce Willis had really saved the planet from an asteroid.
What was Mrs. Henderson thinking? If she wanted to rent a video instead of playing or taking a walk, what about Shrek for a five-year-old? Or Aladdin? Not a disaster movie, especially one that showed the poor kid’s entire country getting flash frozen. Chris knew where Winnipeg was on the map. He knew that according to The Day After Tomorrow he and his house were under ice right now. No, from what he’d told her, it was worse than that. He and she and everybody else in the neighborhood were ice right now.
He looked so small in his bed, nearly edged out by stuffed animals. The boy-size giant panda from his grandparents had pretty much taken over. It was his favorite. He liked the realistic ones the best, the panda and the tiger and the polar bear. Anything related to nature and science got his attention. Animals and plants, earthquakes and volcanos, rocket ships and the solar system. None of it had scared him before.
“You know,” she said, “the hero in the movie wasn’t really a scientist. He was an actor saying his lines. The way you did in the play at Christmas.”
“Somebody wrote the lines.”
“Sure, but not a scientist. A screenwriter, making up a story. Just like somebody made up Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Do you think mother and father bears really live with their children in pretty cabins with furniture and porridge?”
He almost smiled. “Maybe.”
“An ocean couldn’t flood a city so quickly. Could it?”
“Maybe it could.”
“All that water, freezing in seconds? It doesn’t make sense.”
“They said there’s a mammoth, a real-life mammoth, frozen solid with grass in its mouth.” He emphasized the last words. Grass in its mouth. “A real mammoth, Mom. That part wasn’t make-believe.”
Her feet were aching, and she really wanted to have a cool bath and change her clothes. She knew there was a point she was supposed to be getting about this animal but she just wasn’t. “So it died during dinner. These things happen. Maybe it took too big a mouthful and choked.”
“Then it froze.” He tried to snap his fingers. They rubbed together with hardly a sound.
Now she got it. A real mammoth froze instantly, like the flood waters and the people in the movie. “An animal that big freezing all at once, right down to the meal it was eating? Do you believe that, Chris?”
“They said.”
“People say all kinds of things. I promise, cross my heart, there’s no such creature. We’ll go to the museum tomorrow and prove it. How’s that?”
He nodded, but he still looked worried. He didn’t even ask if they could go to the gift shop for astronaut’s ice cream.
“Ah, hon. Come here.” Gwyn held out her arms and Chris climbed onto her lap without hesitation, the way he used to do. The panda fell behind him, grabbing more space in the bed while it could. She tried to memorize the feeling of small limbs and back curled against her, and the smell of soft hair under her nose. One day soon he wouldn’t accept this kind of comfort. Not even on a bad day.
“I wish we’d seen the movie together. We could have had popcorn and laughed whenever it was silly. That’s what your dad would have done.”
Chris looked at the wall across from them. Enough light came through the window that they could make out the mural they’d painted together during her holidays last summer. Considering she didn’t have the slightest spark of artistic ability and he was four at the time she thought it had turned out pretty well. Blue sky and white clouds, smooth green for grass with tufts spiked here and there where they’d tried for realism, trees with bird nests on branches and a small, square house with a triangle roof and white-petaled daisies by the door.
No stick-figure family, though. Instead they’d hung photographs, all of Chris’s father. Blowing out three birthday candles, riding his bicycle, draping Bay of Fundy seaweed over his head. By the middle of the wall, he’d grown up. In one picture he wore his high school graduation gown, in another he held a salmon as long as his arm. The last two showed him standing beside a Canadian Forces helicopter, and smiling with Gwyn on their wedding day.
“Your dad knew all about the weather. He had to, to be in a flight crew. What do you think he’d say about huge sheets of ice springing up all over the place?”
“What?”
“He’d say, ‘Nonsense. Couldn’t happen.’” Not quite. His choice of words would have given the message some added energy.
Chris stared at her with Duncan’s eyes—intent, dark blue. They weren’t showing any of Duncan’s lightheartedness, though. That was something she didn’t see in their son very often. Shouldn’t a boy named for Christopher Robin be more playful?
“You’re not scared of it, Mom?”
“Not for a second.”
“I’ll check the weather one more time. Okay?”
He climbed off her lap and ran to the living room. Over the droning hum of the air conditioner Gwyn heard the television come on, snippets of music and talking as he rushed through the channels, then a woman’s soothing voice mixing the forecast with motherly advice.
“Across the Prairies we’ll see above normal temperatures again tomorrow and for the rest of the week. The humidity will make it feel even warmer, so be sensible if you need to be active outside. Drink lots of water and remember to use sunscreen. That’s especially important in the middle of the day when UV levels will be at their highest. Firefighters and farmers have been asking for rain, but it looks as if they’ll be waiting for a while yet.”
Maybe that would reassure him. After an early spring and more April showers than they’d known what to do with there wasn’t a drop of moisture in sight, let alone a brand-new wall of ice.
DAVID BRETTON LAY as flat as he could in the bottom of the canoe. His life jacket lumped under him, his knees jammed hard against the canoe’s center thwart and the edge of the seat dug into the back of his head.
Drifting downstream without looking where he was going was a dumb thing to do—he could hit a log or other debris—but he didn’t think he was creating a hazard for anyone else. He was alone on the river. There were no motorboats, no teams from the canoe club, and there were never any swimmers. No one chose to swim in the Red River. The currents could suck you down, silt clouded the water and he didn’t even want to think about the bacteria count.
He shifted his weight, trying to find more room for his legs, but only managed to bang his knees. The view was worth a few bruises. Out of the corners of his eyes he could see trees and the tall, narrow rectangles of downtown buildings. Traffic and crowds and noise receded. Looking up instead of ahead was as good as a holiday. It gave him a different perspective, filled his mind with quiet and a sense of timelessness that he sometimes welcomed. The planetarium captured that: the small band of human activity hugging the ground and the vast sweep of sky above.
A very clear sky right now. No sign of wind or even a breeze, no dusty haze, no cloud, no contrails. Just a pink and violet sunset in the west and a slowly darkening blue everywhere else. Plain sailing from the ground to the thermosphere. The only sign of an upward boundary was the moon. A crescent tonight.
It looked so still up there it gave the impression nothing was going on. Not true. Plenty was going on. Air masses swirled all the time, moving heat from the equator and cold from the poles, deciding—along with the ocean currents—how each day would be. How everything would be.
Even the water he floated in, this warm, dirty liquid, was part of the cycle. It flowed in from Minnesota and North Dakota then up through Lake Winnipeg and eventually found its way into cold, clear Hudson Bay. He told schoolkids who came to the museum to think of human circulation, blood carrying oxygen and nutrients all over the body and helping to regulate its temperature. Most of the time they looked at him with blank, incurious faces—how could the Earth be like a human body?—but sometimes he saw understanding click into place.
The jet stream was invisible, but it was up there, too. Misbehaving lately, curving way up north, drawing warm gulf air into the Hudson Bay lowlands. Thirty-one degrees Celsius in Churchill today. What was that in Fahrenheit? High eighties. The polar bears must have thought they’d been thrown into some southern zoo.
Balancing his weight so the canoe wouldn’t rock, David sat up. His plan had been to relax and get some exercise, take his mind off work. Good luck with that. His mind was always on work. It was why Jess had left him. Three years ago now—longer than they’d been together.
“Everything is science with you,” she’d said one evening after dinner in the middle of what he’d thought was an enjoyable washing-up conversation.
“Everything is science,” he’d replied. It was true, but a bad answer under the circumstances.
Her voice had gotten louder. She’d told him he didn’t have a drop of romance in him. It must have really bugged her, because she’d underscored the point. “Not a single drop, David.” Accusingly. By then he’d been annoyed and he hadn’t seen that this discussion was different from the others. So he’d started to explain the science of romance. Next thing he knew he was divorced.
Two sentences—one, really—that summed up the problem. Everything was science. He took an evening on the Red with a setting sun and a faintly glowing ivory moon and riverbanks full of trees and turned it into a satellite image of the weather.
That didn’t bother him—in fact, it suited him fine—but he’d never met a woman who was okay with it. Even the weather girl he’d gone out with for a while thought meteorology had its time and place, generally at twenty minutes past the hour on the morning, noon and evening shows. He didn’t get that. It wasn’t incidental: it was central. The history of humankind was firmly tied to weather and climate. So was its future.
David shifted onto his heels, then dipped the paddle into the water, sweeping it in shallow arcs from back to front and front to back. The canoe began to turn. As it came around he felt the catch of the current. Closer to shore it would be less powerful, but he stayed put.
Right hand on top of the paddle, left on the shaft, he reached ahead and dug the blade into the water. He pulled it through and lifted it out, a quick count, no breaks between or he’d be going north, the way the river wanted. He put the strength of his whole body into each stroke and soon sweat poured off him. His shoulders and upper arms burned.
Just when he was ready for a break he rounded a loop in the river and the current was gone. He took a minute to work the ache out of his muscles, then continued paddling at a leisurely pace.
This was a quiet spot, his childhood playground, behind the backyards of the street where his parents still lived. Through the trees he caught glimpses of the screened porch and a light in an upstairs window. They’d be settling down, feeling dozy, weighing the immediate benefit of tea with lemon versus the annoyance of getting up during the night. He’d be seeing them for breakfast in the morning. A hot breakfast. Something must be up. Nothing bad, though. They hadn’t sounded worried when they called.
One more stretch of hard paddling and he was home. Mosquitoes found him as soon as he drew alongside the wooden dock. Swatting with one hand, he lifted the canoe to his shoulder and carried it to the boathouse. He used his building’s back entrance and took the service elevator to the twenty-second floor. His door locked behind him as it closed.
He gulped two glasses of water, then drank a third more slowly on his way to the shower. He turned the tap off to soap up, on to rinse. Air drying helped him cool down a little more, then he climbed into a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms and switched on his laptop.
Two rows of charts appeared on the screen. Temperature, humidity, dew point, air pressure, wind speed and direction all measured and graphed by his rooftop weather station. No surprises there. The past twenty-four hours had been hot, humid and still—just as his body told him.
He clicked on a series of radar and satellite maps. There was a typhoon off the coast of China, monsoons in India, torrential rains in Europe. A tropical storm had developed over the Atlantic—Elton, the fifth named storm of the season even though it had just begun.
The number of severe weather events concerned him, but not as much as what was happening in the North—thunderstorms from Alaska and the Yukon through the Northwest Territories to Nunavut. For the first time in their lives Inuit above the tree line were seeing lightning. And robins—the traditional sign of a southern spring. Only Baffin Island was getting snow instead of rain.
David opened the drapes and went out to the balcony. From this height in the daytime he could see the Red flowing through farmland south of the city and meeting the Assiniboine to the north, at the Forks. At night the water was mostly black, silvery here and there, reflecting city lights.
No point staring at the sky. Whatever happened he wouldn’t see it here before the collected data warned him. Still, he came out and looked first thing every morning and last thing at night.
That wasn’t scientific at all.
GWYN PULLED the kitchen curtains, closing out the lights from the apartments along the river. Mrs. Henderson had left dishes in the sink. She had a list of things she would and would not do, a list that changed to suit her mood. For the most part meal dishes were fine, but not snack dishes. She didn’t mind heating home-cooked food waiting in the fridge, but wouldn’t so much as open a tin on her own. If a drink spilled, she’d wipe up the main puddle, but leave a general stickiness behind. She wasn’t there to clean, she said.
Tonight Gwyn didn’t have the energy to be annoyed. All she wanted was to ease the burning in her feet. She washed and dried the plates and glasses, put them away behind leaded glass cupboard doors, then shook Mrs. Henderson’s dinner crumbs from the newspaper and refolded it. The main headline, two inches tall, stared up at her.
Typhoon Strikes China: Hundreds Dead, Missing.
Underneath that article, in smaller letters: Elton Bears Down on Caribbean.
She turned the paper over so she couldn’t see the headlines, then went down the hall to the bathroom. Chris still moved around in bed, talking quietly. His own voice alternated with a very deep one. The panda never spoke and the tiger mostly growled, so she guessed he was having a conversation with the polar bear. Getting advice about life on an ice floe, maybe.
Best not to disturb him. She shut the bathroom door quietly. When the tub was half-full, she stepped into the water and leaned back, gasping when her overheated skin touched cold porcelain. Her eyes closed and her tired muscles began to relax.
It had been a long, difficult evening. They’d had two deaths on the ward. Both were expected. That didn’t make anything easier. They were two people she had greeted every shift and tried to make comfortable with back rubs and sheepskin under their heels and fresh ice water to sip, and this evening she’d helped take them to the morgue instead. She never got used to that trip.
When she first started working at the hospital—for the summer between grades eleven and twelve—the head nurse wouldn’t let her go. All the staff had been protective, maybe because they knew her mother or because she was only sixteen. “Sweet sixteen,” everyone had said and of course one orderly had always added, “and never been kissed.” That wasn’t exactly true, but she’d never done any kissing without dwelling on the logistics. A couple of years later she’d met Duncan and all her how-to worries had gone out the window. Her worries and her education. So here she was on a different ward, but still an aide, ten years later.
By the time Gwyn dried off and changed into shorts and a sleeveless blouse, Chris had fallen asleep. In case he called, she left the storm doors to the porch and the living room open and went out to the front steps. The sun had set, but light still glowed in the western sky. People were out on bicycles or walking their dogs, taking advantage of the day’s best weather.
“Hey, you.” Her neighbor, Iris, appeared carrying a plastic watering can.
“Hey. I don’t suppose you watered my lettuce?”
“I did. And your carrots and your beans.”
“Thanks! I was joking.”
Iris emptied the can into a pot of marigolds, then cut across both lawns to join Gwyn. “That babysitter of yours had all the windows open and the TV going full blast.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll talk to her.”
“I beat you to it. She was on the phone when I came over. Had Chris parked in front of the set.”
“You won’t believe what movie she rented.”
“Sure I would. I heard every line.”
Gwyn suppressed an urge to apologize again. “Do you know any responsible, grandmotherly women who would enjoy spending time with Chris?”
“Seriously?”
“Maybe.” She’d never fired a babysitter. Usually they left under their own steam because their circumstances changed or because she gave them too few or too many hours.
“I’ll ask around. Between us we should be able to find someone who’s willing to read stories and play checkers now and then. It sounds like a great job description to me!” Iris held up a hand. “Don’t even think it. Unless you’re offering a pension and a dental plan.”
“How about all the tea and coffee you can drink and some genuine appreciation?”
“Hah.” Iris stood up, brushing the back of her shorts and retrieving her watering can. “Back to the lion’s den.”
“That doesn’t sound good. What’s the matter?”
“Dear daughter is irritated with me.” Molly was older than Chris by several years and growing out of a pleasant, companionable stage. “I interrupted an hour-long phone conversation to tell her to get ready for bed, but I know she’ll still be talking when I go in. Tomorrow she’ll be in a fog all day and she won’t be able to study for exams. There’s too much work, she says.”
“Summer holidays are nearly here.”
“That’s what scares me.” Iris waved and headed back to her house.
She didn’t seem to be joking. Gwyn hoped things weren’t getting that tense next door. Molly had a stubborn streak, but she liked to be in her mother’s good books.
The last light from the sun had disappeared. Gwyn loved this time of day, the calm and quiet, the big old elms dark against the sky, the air scented by the clove currant she and Duncan had planted when they first moved in. They’d put a pink explorer rose beside it, hosta and bleeding heart in the shade and cranesbill geranium and creamy-white day lilies in the sun. They had liked the same kinds of plants, old-fashioned ones that went with childhood springs and summers.
Even though the neighborhood wasn’t far from the center of the city, it felt like its own small town. That was what they’d liked about it. There was a corner store and a community center and row after row of modest houses built in the 1920s and ’30s. The yards were planted with crab apple trees and lilacs, lily-of-the-valley and peonies with blooms so heavy they touched the ground. Closer to the river specialty shops and three-story houses nearly hidden by hedges gave the streets a different character. Her dad had told her that her great-great-grandfather had done the carpentry in some of the houses. She wished she knew which ones.
She slapped a mosquito. If one had found her, more were sure to follow. She took the steps two at a time into the porch, where they could buzz against the screen all they liked but never reach her, and settled into one of the high-backed willow rockers that faced the street.
We’ll watch the people go by, Gwyn. That was what Duncan had said when they’d bought the chairs. It was funny because wherever he went he could never keep still. So she’d rocked while he paced to the window and the door, making plans, then back to her side to tell her she was beautiful.
He would have erased Chris’s fears in no time. Nothing scared Duncan, and being with him made other people feel as confident as he did. He would have enjoyed the movie and laughed and said it was silly, and Chris would have believed him.
Tomorrow after they went to the museum, he’d believe her, too. Better yet, he’d forget about sheets of ice by morning and get back to his usual worries—the lack of a desk or any homework in kindergarten and his inability to go to Mars anytime soon.
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