In Case I Go Read online

  IN CASE I GO

  Copyright © 2017 by Angie Abdou

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a license from Access Copyright.

  ARSENAL PULP PRESS

  Suite 202 – 211 East Georgia St.

  Vancouver, BC V6A 1Z6

  Canada

  arsenalpulp.com

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program) for its publishing activities.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons either living or deceased is purely coincidental.

  Efforts have been made to locate copyright holders of source material wherever possible. The publisher welcomes correspondence from any copyright holders of material used in this book who have not been contacted.

  Cover and text design by Oliver McPartlin

  Edited by Susan Safyan

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:

  Abdou, Angie, 1969-, author

  In case I go / Angie Abdou.

  Issued in print and electronic formats

  ISBN 978-1-55152-704-8 (ebook)

  I. Title.

  PS8601.B36I53 2017

  C813’.6

  C2017-904061-8

  C2017-904062-6

  —for the haunted—

  especially for Richard Wagamese (1955–2017) who taught me the crucial YES and, in that moment, brought this novel into focus.

  Gratitude, always.

  Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  IN CASE I GO

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  In Case I Go is a work of fiction. Many of its aspects are drawn purely from the imagination. It is not meant to be a representation of Ktunaxa spiritual beliefs. Ktunaxa people do not want their spirituality represented in fiction or used for profit. Readers eager to learn about the Ktunaxa should visit ktunaxa.org.

  I am immensely grateful to the Ktunaxa people who read this manuscript, provided crucial advice, and granted permission to use the Ktunaxa name and language and land. I am especially thankful to the Ktunaxa Nation Cultural Liaison Natasha Burgoyne and to the Elders Advisory Council. Thank you. Waha hu

  Nothing could be worse for the work of mourning than confusion or doubt: one has to know who is buried where—and it is necessary (to know—to make certain) that, in what remains of him, he remains there.—Jacques Derrida, Specters of Marx

  IN CASE I GO

  The first time I saw Mary, I already knew her. She came with a song, and I knew it too.

  Eye ya ah nuss hewk zoo kah nee.

  The sound rose up out of her, each stretch of vowels sounding like a moan from the wounded. Eye ya ah nuss hewk zoo kah nee. Her melody stirred a memory in me, one that danced barely out of my reach, as real as the smell of bread before its taste of salt and warm butter touches my tongue.

  I wanted this girl to be a kid, like I was. Her body looked thin and childlike, but both her song and her eyes made her seem older. Her yellow dress cinched tight at her waist. The sleeves hugged her arms from shoulder to wrist. The old-fashioned dress looked uncomfortable and constraining, but she moved freely. When she twirled, the skirt swung out around her ankles.

  The girl watched me watching her and flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder, a gesture I somehow already knew. I sat on the ground by my new neighbour Sam as he weeded his potatoes. He’d given me a bucket of hose water, and I scrubbed each potato he handed me, fresh from the ground.

  “You see my niece,” he said. “Mary’s her name, but she won’t answer to it. She won’t answer to anything.” Sam turned back to pulling potatoes. “Mary has had a hard road. She can’t speak a word. But I help her when I can.” I wanted to ask Sam about his niece’s song. She didn’t seem quiet to me.

  Actually, Sam, she doesn’t seem ... The words formed in my mind but I couldn’t make them come out, and then I saw that Mary’s lips didn’t move. They squeezed together tightly in a hard line, but the sounds she made were real. Eye ya ah nuss hewk zoo kah nee.

  Sam was a big man, with dark skin, the opposite of me in every way. He wore his long hair pulled into a ponytail and then bunched into the top of a yellow ball cap. It read Ktunaxa Nation in black squirrely letters.

  “Kah-too-nax-ah?” I said the first time. Sam laughed. “Try after me, kid: Too-Na-Ha. Forget about the “k” sound. All you whities mess that up. Just Too-Na-Ha. Close enough.”

  Sam talked while he worked. “The problem is people in our world respond only to what they see with their eyes, Eli.”

  That’s the way Sam spoke to me, like I was not a kid at all. I might have looked like a kid, but Sam knew that I too was more than what he saw.

  “Nobody objects to fly-fishing because they don’t see a fish’s suffering,” Sam said. “Try it with squirrels. Go ahead. Bait a lure. Get out in the park with it. Hook the suckers. Catch and release. Just imagine a park full of squirrels with gaping holes in their cheeks. Imagine the struggle. The smiling fishermen. Or squirrel-men?” Sam stopped to laugh at his own joke. “Picture the suffering squirrels. Reel them in, let them out, reel them in, let them out. Ignore the look on their fuzzy faces. Then, when they’re good and exhausted, when they’ve given up entirely, pull them all the way in and hold them up by the tail for a photo.” Sam pretended to dangle a bloody, dead squirrel from between his thumb and forefinger. I couldn’t help but picture it. “See what I mean?”

  “Tell me one of your Coalton stories,” I said, though actually, I wanted to know only about the girl. Sam had told me his stories so many times I could repeat them word for word along with him. But on each visit I begged him anyway: Tell me again. So he told me about Turtle Mountain. “The Mountain that Moves,” his ancestors called it, and stayed far away. “Your people, though,” Sam said, lifting his cap and wiping the sweat from his forehead, “they built a town right at its foot, a town now buried under rocks the size of train cars. Your people don’t always listen. Or look. They haven’t learned how.”

  Sam told me the Legend of the Ghost Rider too—about the Chief’s daughter with the shiny black rock hanging like a jewel at her neck. One of the first white men to Coalton promised to marry the Chief’s daughter in exchange for the secret of where to find the coal. The Chief told him the secret, but the white man broke his promise. So the Chief cursed Coalton with fire, flood, and famine. “The mines have thrived,” said Sam, “but Coalton has seen more than its share of all three—fire, flood, and famine.”

  An image of the Chief riding away, leading his ashamed daughter on a smaller horse, is seared into the mountain face as a reminder of the white man’s broken promise and the curse. Sam taught me if you squint just right, exactly as the sun sets, you can see the Chief and his daughter, their heads hanging low.

  Sam kept talking and passing me potatoes to scrub, a scent o
f fresh dirt blowing my way with each one, the pile of clean potatoes growing at my feet as I lost track of his words, my attention drawn instead to the girl’s singing. Soon, Sam might as well have been speaking to me from underwater. I heard only Mary’s song. Mary. Her name sat with me, in the warm space between my ribs, as if I’d always known it.

  She stayed at the far end of Sam’s yard, nearly backed into the trees. As her song grew louder, she looked up at the tall pines, but I knew she sang for me alone. Eye ya ah nuss hewk zoo kah nee. When the song ended, a cold silence fell over Sam’s yard. Then Mary looked my way.

  “Elijah,” she said. Hardly anybody called me Elijah. She stayed far from me when she spoke, but the word was a hot whisper against my ear. “Elijah.”

  I had never had a playmate, not really, but already I knew this girl and I would be friends for a very long time.

  CHAPTER ONE

  We quit the city to save our lives.

  Mama says, “The city quit us, and that made leaving easy.” But that’s silly. Cities don’t care who goes or who stays. This new town, though, it cares. Here, the very ground we live on cares.

  Mama quits many things—coffee, sugar, wheat. Late at night, when she thinks I’m sleeping, her finger tracing a half moon around my ear, her warm toothpaste-breath against my forehead, she says, “I want to be a better person, Elijah. For you.”

  I’m only Elijah in the dark. By day, I’m Eli. It’s a nickname I like when she says it to rhyme with sly, but not when she makes it rhyme with belly. Elly Belly. That’s a baby name, and Lucy claims I’ve never been a baby. Not really.

  “You were born knowing everything, Elly Belly. You came out of that incubator like it was your first year of college.”

  Usually, when she and my dad Nicholas mention Elijah (i.e., hardly ever), they’re talking about my great-great-grandfather, who first lived in this old miner’s shack, the one we’re trying to turn into a home. In the daytime, only my friend Mary calls me Elijah, and when she says it, I’m not even sure it’s me she’s talking to. While her mouth moves, her calm brown eyes fix on my face, but they’re full of something else, something both bigger and farther away.

  Since we came to Coalton, Mama knits and knits and knits. Purple toques. Blue sweaters. Orange scarves. Green mittens. All for me. Like, if she could just knit a scarf long enough, bright enough, warm enough, she could pull me back into the ordinary world. That’s what they did when I was born, actually, pulled me back into their world. I kicked down the door three months before I was invited, Mama says, and then I decided I didn’t want to stay anyway. I was their Last Chance Baby. Without me, they’d have no one. Except each other, I guess, and that doesn’t seem like enough. So with wires and tubes and oxygen, doctors did the work of staying for me.

  “A miracle of modern science” is what Nicholas calls me. But I know what he’s thinking—maybe I’m only half a miracle because I’m only half here. “Earth to Eli,” he likes to say. “Are you with us?”

  I turned ten years old in August, the very week we moved to Coalton. Double digits. One. Zero. I like that: a number to hold onto with each hand.

  (I do want to stay.)

  Nicholas used to say Lucy’s name funny, dragging out the vowel sounds—“Loooooseeeee!”—and slapping her across the butt in a way that made her face turn pink. She’d do that smile that I love, the one that fills my insides with warm honey. Now when Nicholas says “Lucy,” he says it plain and stays at a safe distance. Lucy has a cold ring around her here in Coalton, an icy pool that Nicholas is too chicken to step into.

  Nicholas likes to talk to me about the natural habitat. Dad-a-tat and his hab-a-tat, I used to joke, when I was more of a baby. But jokes get old pretty fast. It actually seems kind of silly now. In the evenings after work, Nicholas and I walk through the forest west of our house, and he shows me that you can, if you know how to look, see leftovers of the old coal-mining town: house foundations showing through the dirt, old stoves buried in sticks and leaves, some railway ties. Gravestones that have nearly disappeared.

  “There was a whole town here,” he says. “Many lives. Then the old mine closed and the people left.” He kicks hard into the dirt to show me the concrete foundation underneath. “People think we’ll kill the natural world. We won’t. We’ll take it to where it can’t sustain us, then it’ll spit us right off and rebuild.” Nicholas leans over to dig out a tea canister. “It’ll carry on without us. That’s what people don’t know.” He waves the rusted can. “Look at this. A whole town. Nearly swallowed by the forest already.”

  I only call them Mom and Dad when other kids are around. To stop the kids from thinking I’m even weirder than they already do. “Different,” Lucy would correct. “There’s nothing wrong with different, Eli.”

  That’s why kids bully me, though. Because I’m “different,” a word that can mean so many things:

  Because I’m small.

  Because I’m pale.

  Because I’m not good at gym class.

  Because I have red hair.

  Because I know things other children don’t.

  Kids don’t need much reason to be mean.

  Sometimes, when I get my sad-for-no-reason feeling, I call Lucy “Mama.” It’s just a joke from our favourite song, but Nicholas hates when I say Mama (even if we’re not supposed to use the word hate). He says it makes me sound like a baby.

  I have a feeling neither of them liked the kind of baby I was. Lucy, who never prays, says she stood with one hand pressed against the glass that separated me from the world while she repeated one word: please, please, please, please. It might have been even worse than that, actually, because that’s the part she told me about.

  “Actually” is my favourite word.

  “Actually, my asthma comes from being premature. My lungs were underdeveloped. Lucy says I’m lucky I wasn’t a blue baby. Those ones die.”

  “Actually, redheads are in danger of extinction. Red hair is quite a rare characteristic. Lucy says being rare makes it precious.”

  “Actually, I don’t have any brothers or sisters. My mom was forty-two when I was born. That’s quite old, actually. Doctors had to put my dad’s sperm on her egg and then put it back in her uterus. That’s quite expensive. We can’t do that again. Actually.”

  “Actually,” I told the woman ringing in our cans at the supermarket, “we moved here because Nicholas’s friend Danic—”

  “Thank you, Eli,” Lucy says. “That’s enough ‘actuallies’ for now.”

  Lucy often tells Nicholas he’s gone to the dark side. “The world is going to hell in a handbasket, and Nicholas works for the bad guys.” Helena Handbasket is what I heard the first time she said that, and I invented a superhero with that name. Helena Handbasket to the rescue! “Raping the Earth, that’s the business Nicholas is in now,” Lucy says in her laughing way, like she’s trying to sound sarcastic but then underneath that like she’s really not.

  “But,” Nicholas reminds Lucy, “I myself am still one of the good guys.”

  “Enviro guys can get work anywhere these days. It’s easy.” Lucy says this as if it’s bad news, which I don’t get. She must be happy Nicholas got work right away at the coal mine closest to Coalton. Nicholas says it’s the best place to work because it pays the most money. Kids with miner dads get trampolines and hockey camps and snowmobiles.

  Not that I can imagine wanting any of those things, actually.

  That’s one thing people have a lot of in the city we came from: Money.

  “Oil money,” Lucy says, scrunching up her nose the way she does when she has to scoop dog poo off the front lawn.

  “Oil money that funded the university where you worked, oil money that supported those grants you applied for,” Nicholas says. “You seemed happy enough to take your share.”

  So, Lucy and Nicholas are actually like every other mom and dad: Money makes them happy.

  “Miners take the mountain down,” Nicholas explained, “and I put i
t back together.”

  I thought he must be exaggerating until he took me to his work for a tour. He was being so nice to me. He gave me my own hard hat. He let me sit in the front of his truck (even though I weigh barely sixty-five pounds and Lucy always makes me sit in the back). I wanted so bad to be what Nicholas wanted. Me and him: buddies. Father and son. Me high-fiving his work friends. “Who’s this big boy? A real helper you’ve got today! I hope you’re paying him. Watch your old man, Eli, don’t let him make you work for nuthin.’” (People always talk to me like that. It’s because of my size. They think I’m six or seven. Not ten. One. Zero. Actually.)

  A sickly boy. I heard Nicholas call me that, late at night when he thought I was asleep. I’m not the kind of son Nicholas had in mind. He never even tried to put me on skis. Not once. He knew better. Anyone with eyes in their head would know better. Walking from the house to the car in the winter is hard enough for me, the cold air raking its way down my throat and chest and then sitting in my lungs, heavy as an amputated arm.

  I tried hard to be his little big man helper in the green hard hat. But when I saw those trucks—each one bigger than our entire house—and the size of the pit they’d dug in the mountain—you could fit all of Coalton in there—it did something funny to my insides. Solid-turned-to-liquid funny. Something-not-right-and-hurting funny.

  Layer by layer, they were taking everything they could sell out of the mountain, hauling it off, and leaving the rest. Deer used to live there. Deer, cougar, moose, bear. Where were the animals supposed to go? What the miners had done—it’d be like if someone burned down our homes. Or flooded the whole Coalton valley. You can’t just take away the place people live. What they had done, it felt so wrong—in my insides.

  Nicholas said, “Put your head between your knees, Eli. We’ll get you out of here.” He kept his voice strong and even. He didn’t seem mad, even when I could no longer hold my stomach down, and the half-chewed dried apricots and pickle-cheese sandwiches landed in stinking clumps between my feet.