CHAPTER 1

Leaving Toronto, 1994

We drive the seven hours to Mikinaak Island in near silence,watching the landscape stumble backwards in time. Walmartsmake way for crippled A&Ps, grocery stores decamp and leave theirgeneral store cousins to man the roads, then general stores abandonthe scene and all that is left is a boarded up gas station that hasn'twhiffed a drop of fuel since Pierre Trudeau was Prime Minister.Paved roads wither into gravel nuisances that ping a hailstormagainst the chassis of the car, and the Escort is now sullied by finewhite dust. By the time I spot the swing bridge that links Mikinaakto the mainland, it seems conceivable that the five-dollar bill in mypocket could purchase a couple of steak dinners and malt shakes atthe local diner. Not that I have an appetite.

The bridge, however, looks newer than I remembered it, moresecure. Eighty meters of metal beams saluting the sky, reinforcedsteel girders signaling its capacity to bear great loads. Nine hundredtons of wasted reassurance for a limnophobic like me. I am gratefulto be in the driver's seat, despite Zane's insistence that he candrive, should drive to practice for his road test. Because the task offocusing on the road in front of me is a much-needed distractionfrom the water.

When I learned I had inherited the island house from mymother, my first instinct was to burn it to the ground. I even wentso far as to think up an accomplice. Surely that fish-mutilatorTubby McCallister had spawned a new generation of grubby littlecriminals by now. But in the end, I spent money I didn't have ona cleaning crew to look after the task of ridding the house of itsmemories, and the unfortunate life of a broken woman.

Then I contacted a realtor, and my family home has sat on themarket ever since.

I brought up the topic of the house as Zane was tending to hischili pepper plants which I had failed to water the previous weekwhile he was in the hospital.

"I have some bad news for you, Zane. We need to move again."

Momsidius, Momosa, Mombabwe. I hadn't realized how muchZane's nicknames meant to me until recently, when they had begunto fade from his speech. Except Marines. That one I wasn't so keenon, which he knew.

"I'm so sorry this is happening again, Zaner."

Zane looked up, his earnest grey eyes locking on mine, and Iglimpsed the sensitive little boy who scarcely showed himselfanymore. My arms ached to reach out and take him in an embrace, tosomehow grasp onto the sweet side of my son before it disappearedagain behind his quiet, pensive exterior.

"Don't sweat it, Madre. Who knows, maybe Medica goingunder will turn out to be the best thing that could've happened toyou. I bet you'll land a new editing gig any day now. Or maybe thisis the push you need to bust out of the science copywriting ghetto.

You could try publishing those stories you're always working awayon at night--the ones you never let me read?"