After River Read Free Page B

talk about the weather, the road conditions, my trip. Anything, except what stands between us.
    â€˜I think you’d better come,’ he says now. It’s the first time my brother has given me advice, or asked anything of me in over thirty-four years. His words are enough–too much.
    â€˜I’ll be there tomorrow,’ I say and we mumble our goodbyes. He doesn’t invite me to stay out at the farm. I don’t ask.
    After I hang up Vern rolls over and places his hand on my back.
    â€˜It’s my mother,’ I say into the darkness. ‘I have to go to Atwood.’
    â€˜I’ll drive you.’ Vern reaches up and turns on the lamp above the headboard. That’s my husband. No hesitation, no questions, just a direct route to fixing whatever needs fixing.
    I turn to him and attempt a smile. ‘No, that’s okay,’ I say, then throw back the covers. ‘I can take the bus.’
    The plane is not an option, and not only because of my irrational fear of flying. We live near the city of Prince George, in the centre of British Columbia. Atwood lies in the southernmost part of the province. There are no direct flights. With an overnight connection in Vancouver it takes two days to get there.
    Vern pulls himself up and sits back against the pillows as I get out of bed. I know what is coming. We have had this conversation before. Although Vern and I have been together for almost ten years he has never been to Atwood. Never met my mother. Or Boyer.
    â€˜I want to go with you Natalie,’ he says, disappointment seeping into his words. ‘John or Ralph can take over the crew for a few days.’ Vern has a tree-planting business. Most of his planters have returned to university for the year. We both know how hard it would be for him to take time off, yet I know he means it. ‘We can get there much quicker in the car,’ he adds.
    â€˜No, really, it’s better if I go alone.’ I pull on my dressing gown. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll have to stay. And I don’t want to drive myself in case there’s snow in the mountain passes. I don’t mind the bus. It will give me time.’
    Time? Time for what? For Mom to die?
    With a sudden pang of guilt I wonder if I have deliberatelywaited too long. We each have our own secrets and regrets, Mom and I. Is it too late for the confessions and questions that I have yearned to voice?
    I pat Vern’s shoulder. ‘Go back to sleep,’ I tell him. ‘I’m going to go and check the Greyhound schedule.’ As I reach up and turn out the lamp Vern’s sigh is heavy with frustration but he does not argue.
    In complete darkness I make my way around the bed to the bedroom door. It’s an idiosyncrasy left over from childhood, feeling my way in the dark as if I were blind, counting the steps, and knowing exactly where each piece of furniture is. Lately when I catch myself doing it I wonder if I am preparing myself for old age. Does my body know something that I don’t? After fifty everything is suspect.
    Moonlight spills through the windows in my home-office. I sit down at the computer without switching on the lights. I’m frugal with electricity. Forced habits stay with you.
    The screen flicks on as soon as I touch the mouse. There was a time when the only meaning ‘mouse’ had for me was the wet grey lumps outside the kitchen door; gifts left on our porch by the barn cats. Now after years of making my living as a free-lance journalist, this plastic namesake moves like an extension of my body. Writing, once done in longhand then typed on my Remington manual, now flows from fingertips to luminous screen; even my mistakes show up neat and clean.
    The Greyhound schedule flashes up. The next bus is at six a.m. With transfers and waiting in stations the trip to Atwood takes fifteen hours. It seems all the roads of my life have led me further and further away from that remote West