Finding Grace (10 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

I make it all the way to dessert before I blow up. It's Daphne's famous chocolate pie and it's wrecked for me because I'm so mad. Ever since we sat down, Mom's been firing questions at me. I've only known Grace one day and I'm supposed to be an expert on her. How should I know what her favorite color is? Or if she likes dogs? Or what kind of grades she gets at school?

We all ordered fish and chips. I noticed Mr. Pinn ate every scrap, mopping up his ketchup with his last few fries, but Mom hardly had a bite. She was too busy interrogating me like the FBI.

Now we're at dessert and my mouthful of creamy chocolate pie sticks in my throat. I swallow and then explode. “I'M NOT A SPY!”

“Don't be silly,” Mom says.

“That's what it feels like.” I lower my voice because a girl at another table is staring at me.

I hate this. I'm not exactly lying to Grace, but I'm hiding stuff and that makes me feel horrible. And the longer it goes, the worse it's going to get.

“You're making me into a spy,” I repeat. “I thought you were going to talk to her aunt.”

“I haven't decided,” Mom says.

“Because you don't have the guts,” I practically hiss. “Just like you don't have the guts to admit what you did to Grace. That you gave her away like she was worth nothing.”

Mom turns white. She clamps her lips together.

I hate fighting with Mom. But I hate what she is making me do even more.

I ignore an annoying voice in my head that reminds me:
This whole thing was your idea.

I
just
didn't think it was going to be like this. The truth is, I didn't really think about what was going to happen. I push my pie away
.

I'm ready to pounce on Mr. Pinn if he says anything, anything at all, to defend Mom. But he's gobbling up his chocolate pie and he keeps his eyes on his plate.

• • • • •

After supper, Mom and Mr. Pinn and I walk along the path that goes past the hotel, away from the village. I wasn't going to go, but at the last minute I change my mind. There's nothing else to do. The lake is on one side and a steep forested hillside is on the other. Mom and Mr. Pinn are holding hands. Cripes. What does that mean? Mom is talking to Mr. Pinn, but she hasn't said one word to me. She's still hurt or angry or something.

After about ten minutes, we come to a small fenced enclosure. There's a square pool inside, like a well, deep and dark and smelly.

“What's that?” I say.

“The hot springs,” Mr. Pinn says. “They pipe the water from here to the pool. It's very therapeutic.”

“What does therapeutic mean?” I say.

“That it's good for you. People have been coming to Harrison for the water since the 1800s, when the hot springs were discovered. The story is that some miners were coming back from the gold rush. They were half frozen to death and decided to land on the shore of the lake and build a fire. One of the miners stood up in the canoe and fell in. To his surprise, the water was hot. He called his buddies to come and join him. They warmed up in the water, then built their fire, ate some baked beans, and continued on their way. The rest is, as they say, history.”

“Is that true?” I look around. It might have happened right here.

“Maybe,” Mr. Pinn says. “It's a good story, anyway. And it's true that people have been coming to Harrison for almost a hundred years to partake of the healing waters.”This is probably the longest, most interesting conversation Mr. Pinn and I have had. He's really not so bad. Even if he uses words like
partake
.

Healing
. I think about that as we walk back to the hotel.

It's what Mom needs. To heal. Maybe it was a good idea to come here after all. But she seems to be getting worse, not better. I wish I could take back what I said at supper. But it's too late.

• • • • •

I don't want to go inside yet. I tell Mom that I'm going to walk around the village for a while. She gives me this look that's kind of sad and mad at the same time and says, “Don't stay out once it gets dark.”

I don't really think about where to go. I just wander, mixing in with the tourists. My stomach is in a knot. How am I going to tell Mom that Aunty Eve is mean?

Aunty Eve is so different from Mom. Mom wouldn't make me go to Bible Camp if I didn't want to. And she doesn't care a wit if my bedroom is messy (I don't even have a bedroom right now, but that's beside the point.) And Mom trusts me. She would never make me write a book report just to prove that I'd read a book. She'd
believe
me. And I bet she'd let me shave my legs if I really wanted to.

When you add it all up, Aunty Eve really is Aunty Evil. What if I tell Mom? For a second, I imagine her rushing in like a knight on a white horse to save Grace from the witch. Kidnapping her and taking her home with us. And everyone living happily ever after.

Wait a sec. This is Mom I'm talking about. She doesn't do white knight stuff. If she finds out what Aunty Eve is like, she'll feel so bad about Grace that she'll probably crawl into bed and never get up again. And then my whole plan to find Grace will have totally backfired.

Without realizing it, I've come to the end of Grace's street. I walk past her house. My stomach tightens. What if Grace has been grounded for sneaking out without cleaning up her messy room? What if I never see her again? I've just found my sister. I can't lose her now.

I stare up at the house. Grace's bedroom window is at the front, wide open, with the lace curtains pulled back. Grace is leaning on the sill, looking out. She waves when she sees me and yells, “I'll be right down!”

I wait on the porch and she appears in a moment, banging the screen door behind her. We flop down on the couch.

“Is your aunt here?” I ask nervously. I'm praying she's out somewhere. Aunty Eve is scary.

“She's at the chapel,” Grace says. “There's some missionary woman showing slides of Africa.”

“Did you get in big trouble?”

“Grounded.” Grace doesn't sound too upset. She sticks her good leg out and spins her bare foot in circles. She's painted her toe nails bright red since this afternoon.

“For how long?”

Grace shrugs. “I don't know. I bet I'll still have to go to Bible Camp tomorrow, which is very unfair. Don't you think if you're grounded, you should be grounded for everything? Not just the good things?”

“I guess so. I've never been grounded.”

“Really? I've been grounded
millions
of times.”

Just then, the orange and black cat that looks like Jingle pops through a rose bush at the end of the walk. He saunters towards us. Something is dangling from his mouth.

“It's a mouse!” Grace squeals. “Don't bring it here, Tiki!”

The cat veers onto the grass and hunches under a bush.

“That's Tiki,” Grace says. “He's Mrs. Jordan's cat. He lives next door.”

We watch Tiki devour the mouse. “It's disgusting when he does that,” Grace says. “But he's actually quite a nice cat. He's a Persian.”

“He's gorgeous.” I still can't believe how much he looks like Jingle.

“I used to have a cat that looked just like Tiki,” Grace says suddenly. “At least I think I did. It's so weird. Whenever I see Tiki, I remember this other cat. I have this picture inside my head of myself petting it when I was just a little kid.”

I stare at Grace. “What was its name?”

“I don't know. I asked Aunty Eve if I had a cat when I lived in Vancouver with my mom and dad, but she says I didn't. She says my mom was allergic to cats. So maybe it's just something that I made up.”

I'm shaking. Grace didn't make it up. She's remembering Jingle. I want to tell her, but I can't. I feel miserable again about this whole big secret.

Tiki abandons the remains of his mouse, strolls over to the walk, and disappears back into the rose bushes.

Grace jumps up. “I've been thinking about David's raft. I'm going to go take a look at it. See if it's any good.”

“Now? You're grounded.”

Grace grins. “I'm safe for awhile. The Africa slides will take ages, and there'll be tea and cake afterwards. I can get down to the beach and back and Aunty Eve will never find out. You want to come?”

I can't believe Grace would take that chance. But I don't want to miss out on anything. “Sure.”

I wait while Grace goes inside for her sandals.

Then we set out for the lake. We have to walk right past the chapel where the missionary is showing her slides. The door is propped open and applause spills out from inside.

“It sounds like it's over. Maybe we should go back.” I'm scared stiff about Aunty Eve catching Grace.

“Everyone will want to ask tons of questions,” Grace says. “And then they have to eat and have their tea. That'll take forever. Trust me. I've got lots of time.”

There are quite a few people strolling along the path beside the lake, but the little beach is deserted. The raft is pulled up on the gravel, away from the water. It's made out of two skinny logs with old boards nailed across. Some of the boards are crooked and there are gaps between them.

Grace stares at it for a minute without saying anything.

“It looks pretty good,” I say.

“Not bad,” Grace grunts. But she looks impressed. “It probably floats okay. How many boys did you say were working on it?”

“David, and two others.”

“Harry and Sam, David's best friends, I bet,” Grace says.

She picks up the end of a long pole resting across the raft. “This must be for pushing it along. I'd give anything to try it.”

Just then, something clatters against the end of one of the logs.

A rock.

Then another one, zinging right past my ear.

Holy Toledo!

“Look out!” Grace cries.

I duck, terrified.

“HEY!” a voice hollers. “GET AWAY FROM THERE!”

Grace and I spin around. David is charging across the beach towards us, his arm raised, ready to hurl another rock.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? DON'T TOUCH THAT! GET AWAY!” he yells.

He's close enough now for me to see that his face under his tan is red and his eyes are flashing with fury.

My heart leaps into my throat.

“PUT THAT ROCK DOWN, YOU MANIAC!” Grace screams back. “ARE YOU CRAZY?”

David hesitates. Then he drops the rock. He sticks his chin out. “Stay away from my raft!” he growls.

“You could have killed us!” Grace says in a shrill voice.

“With a rock? Right. Ooooo, I'm so scared of a teeny little rock. What are you going to do? Tell your aunty?”

“Shut up!” Grace screeches.

David narrows his eyes until they are slits. “Now get out of here.”

“Ha! You don't own this beach. Is there a sign somewhere that says we can't stand here if we want? I don't see any sign. Do you, Hope?”

“No,” I gulp.

“I own the raft,” David spits back. “And there's no girls allowed.”

“Oh. So that's what this is supposed to be? A raft? Really? You sure can't tell.”

“Very funny. It's a lot better than you could make.”

“If I wanted to make a raft, which I
don't
, at least I'd make something that wasn't going to fall apart.”

David and Grace glare at each other.

Then Grace says in a loud voice, “Come on, Hope. We've got better things to do than stand around here looking at this pile of junk.”

Grace marches back towards the road, her head held high. I follow her, my heart thudding.

Partway, she turns and shouts over her shoulder, “AND I WOULDN'T USE ROTTEN BOARDS!”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

When we get to the chapel, people are standing outside on the sidewalk, chatting in little groups. I spot the tall straight back of Aunty Eve, who towers over everyone else. She's facing away from us.

Grace must see her too. “Walk faster,” she hisses.

Grace is limping a lot by the time we get to her house. We go into the kitchen, pour ourselves glasses of cherry Kool-Aid, and bring them out to the porch.

We've only been back eight minutes, max, when Aunty Eve arrives.

Too late, I realize that I don't really know how being grounded works. I panic that Grace is going to get in trouble because I'm here. I'm ready to flee.

Aunty Eve frowns, and she seems to look at me extra hard, but she just says, “Hello, Hope.”

“Hello,” I say.

“How was the slide show?” Grace asks.

“Inspiring,” Aunty Eve says.

“Great!” Grace says.

“Mrs. Gillingham was there.”

“Oh.”

I have no idea who Mrs. Gillingham is, but I have a horrible feeling this means trouble.

“I asked her if you were behaving at Bible Camp. If you were helping out with the younger children and setting a good example.”

“Oh,” Grace says again.

“I was extremely disappointed to hear the exact opposite. That you're not participating at all.” Aunty Eve looks grim. “I'd be interested to know what you have to say.”

Grace studies her red toenails. I don't think she has anything to say.

“Mrs. Gillingham is going to a lot of work to make Bible Camp exciting,” Aunty Eve says.

“Planting beans?” Grace mutters.

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing.”

“Since you're apparently wasting everyone's time,” Aunty Eve continues, “I've decided to pull you out.”

Grace looks up. Her eyes shine. “Really? Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. I promise I – ”

“You can help me with the pies tomorrow instead,” Aunty Eve says. “I have a huge order. Forty-three.”

I'm positive I see a tiny smile flicker across her face. “We'll start extra early because it's going to be hot. Five more minutes and then I want you to get ready for bed.”

“Now?” Grace says. “It's only eight o'clock. And it's roller-skating tonight!”

“Roller-skating will have to wait until next week.” Without another word, Aunty Eve sails inside the house.

“Every Tuesday night they have roller-skating at the community hall,” Grace says with a huge sigh. “It's so much fun.”

“I'm a good roller-skater,” I say, and then I worry that I sound like I'm bragging. “Well, not
that
good.”

“I'm terrible,” Grace says. “I can only go in one direction and my leg gets tired really fast. But I love it.”

We sit quietly for a moment.

Then I ask, “
Forty-three
pies?”

“They're for the logging camps. Aunty Eve makes pies for them every week.” Grace groans. “Forty-three! It's gonna take all day!”

She slumps back into the couch. “Pie Day. It's a fate worse than death. And no roller-skating! Aunty Eve is trying to torture me. I knew it! I should have planted those stupid beans!”

• • • • •

When I get back to the hotel, I change into my bathing suit and go to the pool. I practice my tuck turns for a while, but some guests who are soaking in the shallow end glare at me. I guess it's because I'm making little waves, and people come to this pool to relax.

And heal.

That makes me think of Mom, but that makes me feel sad so I decide to think about something else instead.

I float on my back and think about pies.

I've never made a pie, but it can't be all that hard.

By the time the man comes to tell everyone that the pool is closed for the night, I've made up my mind.

Fifteen minutes later, I crawl into bed beside Mom.

“You smell like a swimming pool,” she murmurs, half asleep.

Mom's been getting up early in the mornings to help Daphne with the breakfast crowd. “Will you wake me up when you go to the café?” I say.

“Mmmm,” Mom says. “Why?”

I wriggle deeper into the blankets. “It's Pie Day tomorrow,” I say. “I don't want to be late.”