Spencer's Child. Joan Kilby
of aqua. The detritus of beach-combing expeditions littered the windowsills: shells, bits of twisted and polished driftwood, colored glass fishing floats washed ashore after perhaps decades at sea.
The plain board floor creaked beneath his feet, the sound muffled by a large oval rag rug. He crossed to the far wall, drawn by an enlarged black-and-white photo of Subpod C3: Kitasu, the matriarch; Geetla and Joker, her two grown sons; and Takush, her daughter. Takush was old enough to have a calf of her own by now. Spencer could still recognize individual killer whales by the shape and size of their dorsal fins and the scars on their sleek black-and-white hides. They seemed more like old friends than the subjects of his honors thesis.
He wondered if their dialect of calls and whistles had altered in the years he’d been gone. He planned to paddle out to see them for old time’s sake, but there was no point starting a research program when he’d be leaving again so soon. Doc had sounded robust in spite of his slurred speech when Spencer had called the hospital from Seattle. He’d surely be back by Christmas.
Dropping his duffel bag next to a low bookshelf crammed with tattered paperbacks, Spencer carried his laptop into the kitchen. His head was fuzzy with fatigue but he wanted to check his e-mail—the closest thing he had to a permanent address—before he hit the sack for a few z’s. He set the laptop on the table, plugged it in, then attached the modem to the phone jack on the wall beside the fridge. As he flicked the switch he realized belatedly there might not be any electricity or phone connection. To his surprise, numbers flashed across the screen as the system booted up. He dialed his service provider in California, waiting for the dialog box that would tell him he couldn’t connect...
Brrrinnng.
So the phone was on, too. He hit “receive messages” and got up to look around while the in-box filled.
A used coffee cup sat in the sink. An empty milk carton peeked out of the garbage bin. Damn. Someone was here, after all.
Spencer strode back to the living room and stood at the entrance to the short hall where the two bedrooms were. “Hello? Anybody home?”
Silence.
He knocked softly on the door to the main bedroom and when there was still no answer, pushed it open. The bed was a tangle of thin wool blankets and forest-green sheets. A pile of dirty clothes sat on the floor beside the open closet.
Who was staying here? And where were they now?
Then Spencer noticed the battered guitar case propped against the wall behind the door. The medley of souvenir stickers from cities across the continent spoke of decades of life on the road. He knew that guitar case. A grin spread across his face. His father was in town. He hadn’t seen Ray for a few years, not since he’d driven down to San Francisco from Seattle to catch the Brass Monkeys in concert. Ray had been riding high, a new record deal and a promotional tour in the offing.
Spencer had a flash of memory of doing schoolwork in a bus seat while music blared and his father and the guys in the band played cards or wrote songs. As a kid, he’d loved going on the road with them. Pulling out of the hotel parking lot at dawn, a new city every night, the excitement of the unknown—all were magnified in his young mind. As an adult he still got a kick out of moving on. As if maybe this time he was going to find the Holy Grail, whatever that was. Victoria was a step backward, but seeing Ray would make the trip worthwhile.
Where the hell was he? Spencer shut the door to his father’s room and went back to the kitchen. Ray would turn up sooner or later. Meanwhile, at the top of his in-box was a message from the head of the biology department at University of Victoria.
Dr. Valiella,
Did I mention that Angus Campbell has an honors student? Please give her a call ASAP. Her name is Meg McKenzie, phone number...
Spencer rocked back in his chair, his pulse thrumming. Meg. Could this be his Meg McKenzie? No way. She’d only been one year behind him. She would have finished her degree long ago and gone on to either graduate studies or a job somewhere.
Spencer got up to pace across to the window overlooking the tiny backyard. Meg’s image, tucked away in his subconscious, surged forth. Impish smile, bright eyes the blue of a robin’s egg, hair the color of sunlight. The memory of her laughter rang in his ears, the careless confident laughter of a girl possessed of talent, brains and wealth.
He shut his eyes and the blackness behind his lids pulsed with pinpricks of light. They were the stars above a campsite on Saltspring Island. Sleeping bags zipped together, bare limbs entwined. The wonder of their first time together.
And their last. For a few short hours he’d been able to give her what she wanted.
If only she hadn’t said what she’d said.
He’d known then he’d never be able to give her what she needed.
Spencer ran a hand through his hair. It was years ago. Time he forgot about her.
But he had to call.
His hand hovered over the phone. Even if it was Meg, she might not remember him. The weekend imprinted in his memory was probably just a blip on her busy social schedule.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number, annoyed to notice his palms were damp and he had trouble taking a breath.
ABOVE THE INCESSANT squawk of Noel, her son’s golden cockatiel, Meg heard the ringing telephone. She ignored both and cocked an ear toward Davis’s bedroom. His cry of frustration stabbed straight to the “mother” center of her brain. God, she hoped this was only a phase. But it was one phase after another.
With a sigh, she turned off the heat under the pot of oatmeal and strode down the narrow hallway that linked the kitchen with the bedrooms. As she passed the bathroom she could hear Patrick warbling Gilbert and Sullivan over the roar of the shower. At least Patrick’s noise was cheerful.
She paused in her son’s doorway. Davis, in his little white Jockeys and socks, was struggling to do up the buttons on an inside-out shirt. At the sight of her, his cries rose a decibel.
“Mom! It won’t do up.” Angry tears spurted from his dark green eyes. Eyes that were a daily reminder of the best. and the worst, period of her life.
“Come here, sweetie.” Meg dropped to her knees and held out her arms. From the rumpled bed, Morticia, the black-and-orange cat, looked up sleepily.
A lock of straight brown hair fell over Davis’s scowling forehead, but he didn’t budge. Sometimes he reminded her so much of his father it made her heart ache.
With a grunt, Davis jammed the button through. “I did it!”
“Do you know why it was so hard?” Meg asked, her tone carefully matter-of fact. “Your shirt is inside out.”
“I know that.” He started to jam another button through its hole. His smooth olive skin stretched tight over his cheekbones and once again turned crimson with frustration.
Shaking back her long hair, Meg ignored his protests and pulled his shirt over his head, then quickly whipped the sleeves right side out. “Now, show me again how you can do up those buttons.”
A few minutes later Davis’s buttons were fastened and he was proud to bursting.
Meg pulled him into a hug. Small progress for most kids perhaps, but for Davis, some things had to be learned over and over again. He could build complex Lego structures without instructions, figure out how simple machines worked and knew almost as much about the insects he collected as Meg, who’d done three years of university biology. But he couldn’t sit still for more than two seconds at a time, had difficulty putting thoughts into words and forgot instructions as soon as they were given.
He was the most exasperating child in the universe, and if she didn’t love him desperately, she’d surely have strangled him before he’d turned three. But here he was, six years old, and weeks away from starting school.
“Put your pants on,” she