Read The Shore Girl for Free Online

Sunburst?”
    â€œNot yet, Miss Bel.”
    â€œAll right then. Rebee, just close your eyes and stretch out your arms.”
    The children moved back slightly, watching Rebee closely. She was breathing fast, panting as she lifted both arms, her eyes squeezed shut. One of her shoelaces had come undone and dangled over the side of the chair.
    â€œYou’re standing in a sunburst, Rebee. Does it feel warm?”
    I held out my hand and clasped the tips of Rebee’s fingers within mine, pushing Rebee’s arm higher.
    â€œLet the light wash over you like a warm bath. From the tips of your fingers right down to your toes.”
    Rebee stood a little taller, her face squeezed into one big wrinkle. She stuck out her chin, holding my fingertips tightly.
    â€œChildren, quietly now, what do you see?”
    I closed my eyes, too, and listened to the children whisper their observations, just like I’ve taught them. The way the light danced over Rebee’s face, the shine in her hair, the halo above her head, like an angel. Her sweater lighting up in stripes from the slats of the window blinds — its colour changing from red to orange. Rebee’s body glowing, growing, how she became taller by standing in the light.
    It’s a silly game I’ve made up for these kids. When I opened my eyes, I saw Rebee, perched on her tiptoes, arms spread wide, like Jesus on the cross.
    I wanted her to know that light doesn’t hurt. “Very good, Rebee. You can open your eyes and come back to the floor.” She stepped down from the chair, tripping over her shoelace. “Sunburst is over. Everyone to your desks.”
    â€œShould we take out our arithmetic scribblers, Miss Bel?” “Yes, Peter. I suppose we should.”
    * * *
    I chose Winter Lake for its coordinates. Longitudinally speaking, I’m now stationed at 110 ° 00 W , directly north of the battered wooden hole, veined and stained, of the old outhouse on the farm where I was raised with the chickens. If I could find a piece of string 560 kilometres long, I could tie it to the outhouse latch, which sits on the southernmost tip of the Alberta-Saskatchewan border, run the string north along the border line, and tie it off at the Messenger School door. The outhouse still stands, although my parents have a real toilet now. It took my father six years to finish the eight-by-four room. My mother said little to hurry the process along. My mother says little during the best of times. Six years to drop a sink into the oval cutout, add a closed-in cabinet, taps to the bathtub, pipes that piped well water in and out. The bathroom door was added in year five. A doorknob to close it — year six. I was ten years old by then, but after all that waiting, the indoor toilet was reserved for visitors. My parents had the well to think about. “Water is as precious as a two-dollar bill, Belinda.” To this day, the flush of a porcelain bowl makes me hear the tinkling of china, cups brought down from the back of the cupboard, teetering on saucers on the way to the table.
    But it’s latitude that matters the most. Latitudinally speaking, I’ve moved up in the world. I found the ad for my Winter Lake position while slumped in the hallway waiting for Christie to open the door. Christie and I shared a room in the dorm at the University of Regina. Having graduated already, I’d been forced to give up my key. But Christie didn’t mind me hanging on. She was a big-boned farm girl who hated change, spoke only when in bed, only when her side of the room was in shadow, always with her nose pressed to the wall, always with a muffled, fluttery lisp. I had no intention of teaching like the rest of my graduating class. I was planning to go north to find my uncle. I needed more money to make the trip — I just hadn’t got around to finding a job.
    I was waiting for Christie, absently scanning the bulletin board across from the elevators