shimmer rose over the rooftops. My gut twinged, a memory scratching at my ribs. Dad loved the northern lights, had driven us all out to see them when I was younger. It seemed you didn’t get those in the Caribbean, so he and Mom had never seen them till they moved to Canada. Some kind of magic, a small magic, I used to think: how did he know when to go? It turned out he had tracked the solar storm dates using a phone tree round robin with other amateur enthusiasts and the observatory at the University of Alberta. They were good; sometimes the lights would rage for half the night, captivating us on some gravel road an hour from town, no light pollution, just the green and pink ribbons.
Johnny got a much better view from her observatories, but she was always grateful to be invited. In the winter we’d bring hot chocolate, run the car to warm up. The good old days, before everything went to shit. Our parents got divorced less than a year apart when I was in grade eight; we were both shocked, reeling, couldn’t even comfort each other. We dove into distraction instead, and spent as little time at home as possible, like it was a prickly sweater we were occasionally forced to wear. Johnny picked up all sorts of weird hobbies: soapmaking, paddleboarding, Japanese flower arranging, three different martial arts (incompetently, as she hated to be touched so much that she never sparred). I learned to cook. Johnny’s mom started a chain of private spas.
It was all bullshit, anyway, a Band-Aid over a broken bone. Particularly for us, because Dad’s side blamed Mom for the divorce, and Mom’s side—fretful, class-paranoid—blamed Dad. At least Johnny had avoided all that. Divorce was so normal with her parents’ friends that it was almost a given, like having a live band at the wedding.
Tears rose, looking at those northern lights. Jesus, I hadn’t even thought of those trips for a long time. Dad loved the sky just like me, noticed it wherever he went. I wondered if he could see them in Toronto now. Maybe I would ask when he made his monthly call.
Tonight there must have been a really big solar storm; the lights were a silk scarf draped over the black angles of the roofs, gleaming with rich hints of turquoise, even purple—I’d never seen that before. Deep in their wavering centre, something big and fast streaked past. A shooting star? A long, low rumble followed it—I looked up instinctively for a plane, since there weren’t any thunderclouds. Then I kept watching for another star. Were we due for the Perseids or the Leonids or whatever else Johnny got so excited about every year? I didn’t know what the dates were. But God how beautiful, the silver stripe straight and true across the silky colours like a needle.
And if it really had been a shooting star, I would get a wish. Deserved a wish.
But I stood out there for almost an hour and couldn’t think of a single wish that wouldn’t be a waste, now that everything had changed.
CHAPTER THREE
THE NEXT MORNING I made pancakes from the big Costco bag of mix and stared out the window as we ate. Another hot one. Get the boys to weed the front lawn. I had to clean the bathrooms. Carla could help with laundry. Grass didn’t need cutting just yet. Didn’t want the neighbours to call bylaw on us for unkempt property. Who had a year-end book report due? Mom had a late shift at Gold Dust... check the calendar...
The phone rang, interrupting my to-do list. I hoped it was work, but it was Johnny, talking even before I said hello. “Are you busy today?”
“Define ‘busy.’”
“A state of occupation, absorption in a task, engaged in an activity which precludes getting everyone dressed and coming out to the Creek for a pre-Canada Day picnic.”
“A picnic?” Every set of eyes in the room swivelled to me in the sudden quiet. I laughed, at their double-take, with sheer happiness, maybe even with relief that she had survived the night, hadn’t got irradiated or sucked into a black hole or whatever her shoebox did, that she still wanted to be friends, that our family was still her family. “I’m getting some looks here, John.”
“Yeah, scrub ’em up, I’ll pick you guys up.”
“You mean Rutger will. Are you ever going to get your license?”
“How about you shut your piehole and wash your stank