- Home
- Helen Marshall
The Migration
The Migration Read online
PUBLISHED BY RANDOM HOUSE CANADA
Copyright © 2019 Helen Marshall
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2019 by Random House Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.penguinrandomhouse.ca
Random House Canada and colophon are registered trademarks.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Marshall, Helen, 1983–, author
The migration / Helen Marshall.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 9780735272620
eBook ISBN 9780735272637
I. Title.
PS8626.A7668M54 2019 C813’.6 C2018-903548-X
C2018-903549-8
Book design by Jennifer Lum
Cover image © Lenore Humes / Arcangel Images
v5.3.2
a
For Laura.
For a while now, Duck had had a feeling.
“Who are you? What are you up to, creeping along behind me?”
“Good,” said Death, “you finally noticed me.”
—Wolf Erlbruch, Duck, Death and the Tulip
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Before
One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Two
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Three
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
After
Acknowledgments
About the Author
BEFORE
When I was younger, I used to play dead.
That was back before I knew what dead meant—what it really meant. But when you’re a kid you play at things you don’t understand. You play doctor. You play house. At ten I didn’t know a thing about death. I thought it meant stillness, a body gone limp. A marionette with its strings cut. Death was like a long vacation—a going away.
Mom was pregnant with Kira when my golden retriever, Knick-Knack, got hit by a Buick speeding down Dupont Street. I was six years old, in first grade, still getting used to whole days away from home. Afterward Mom said it was lucky it happened on a school day, lucky I wasn’t around.
Lucky, she said, but it wasn’t. Knick-Knack was my responsibility. There had been long talks before we got him, Dad on his knees, eye-level, saying: “I know you want him, Feef, but he’s a living thing. You’re going to have to take care of him.” And so for two months I had walked Knick-Knack around the block, Mom holding my hand, me holding the leash. I brushed his coat, wiped thick black gunk from his eyes, and slid my hand into the silky white curls that covered his belly. I let him slink onto my bed, his head low, when the crash of thunder left him shaking.
But even when Mom sat me down at the kitchen table with a glass of water to tell me what had happened, her round belly pressing against her cotton dress and me in my navy Hudson College jacket and tie, knee-high socks rolled down to my ankles because it was a warm September and my legs got so itchy in the heat, I still didn’t really understand. What it meant for something to die. Dad never cried much, and the day Knick-Knack died, he was true to form, no waterworks. He’s a tough guy, Dad is, poker-faced. But he kept rubbing his sleeve against his chin. His gaze wandered toward the half-empty dog bowl, the leash hanging from a hook next to the door. I don’t know if he hugged me—maybe he did.
By the time I was older, I understood more of the way the world worked, but it still wasn’t real dead I was playing at. It was something else. Something mysterious and deliciously terrifying. Like kissing a boy for the first time.
This is what I remember about the last time I played: late summer, the morning thick with humidity. A storm was coming and the air had that eerie electrical charge that made the hairs on the back of your arm stand up. Murky blue light streamed through the filter of my curtain.
The house on Dupont was old but gorgeous, a beautiful, nineteenth-century bay-and-gable with two-and-a-half stories of red brick. A bedroom each for Kira and me, mine in the attic where the steep roof came to a point above me. Skeleton beams all musty and sweet-smelling.
I pulled up the covers snugly around my neck, halfway in and out of sleep. The grandfather clock chimed from downstairs. Bong, bong, bong. Back then the chiming was a part of what it meant to be home. I loved listening to it in the morning. Counting out the hours until everyone else came awake, thumbing through the books Aunt Irene had sent me from England where she lived now. The Ladybird Book of British History, all those complicated family squabbles spilling into death, the rise and fall of the nation. A complete set of Susan Cooper’s The Dark Is Rising series, which must have come from a used bookstore because some other girl had scrawled her name on the inside covers. I loved those stories for their strangeness. They offered a vision of somewhere else, the past opening up like a fairy tale, filled with wondrous happenings, signs and portents.
But that morning I wasn’t reading. My eyes were shut, my breath shallow. “I’m dead,” I whispered to myself. Outside the window grackles and robins and chickadees hummed above the traffic sounds of the Annex waking up. They felt so close, like they were nesting in the attic with me. The air was full of light, movement, the anticipation of things to come.
And then I heard Kira, three years old, toddling on her pudgy legs. She opened my bedroom door a crack. “Sleeping, Soff?” she asked. I didn’t answer, not right away. I listened to her feet padding across the carpet, waited to feel her finger hovering right above my forehead. And then, like a butterfly landing, the nail scraping gently between my eyebrows.
“No, Kiki, I’m playing dead.”
Kira was seven years younger than me, Mom and Dad’s darling—their stopgap measure against a divorce that loomed on the horizon even back then. Kira didn’t fix things but she bought us all time together. Time for me to grow up. It wasn’t Kira’s fault that she couldn’t build a bridge between my parents. She was beloved regardless.
I felt the bedsprings give way as she climbed up and slid her feet beneath the covers. She curled into me and whispered into my ear so that the little hairs moved: “I gonna play dead too, Soff.”
I couldn’t help smiling, my lips twitching though they weren’t supposed to. Kira’s hair was a cloud of velvety down against my cheek. She smelled of milk and soap. She snuggled up, warm like a
hot water bottle, and placed her ear against my ribcage. I tried to slow my breathing but I knew my heart was still beating a loud thumpa-thumpa-thumpa.
“Soff, am I dead?”
“No, Kiki-bird, the dead don’t talk.”
“Why?”
“Because they can’t breathe anymore. You need air to talk.”
“Oh.” She thought. “Like fish?”
“Not like fish.”
“Last night, Soff, um, I was an octopus. We were underwater and everything was blue. You were a fish, and Daddy was a fish, but I didn’t eat any of you.” She brought her palms up to her face to hide her giggles.
“I’m glad you didn’t eat us.”
“I wouldn’t eat you!”
Her knees tucked into my side. Her toenails touching my thigh through the thin fabric of the pyjamas. “What’s being dead like?” she asked me.
“I don’t really know, Kiki.”
“I play too,” she whispered.
And we lay together, side by side. My breath went in and her head rose gently. It was the first time I let Kira play dead with me, and somehow it made things different. I’d been imagining a kind of passage, crawling through darkness into a very bright light where everything was new and beautiful. But with Kira beside me all I could think of was Knick-Knack’s empty bowl, the hole in our lives he had left behind.
I remember how Kira looked that morning. Her long eyelashes and her clear blue eyes hovering on the edge of grey. A smattering of freckles around her nose. Her face so like my own, but smaller, rounded in baby fat. I didn’t want her to play dead with me.
“Everything born will pass away,” Mom had told me when Knick-Knack died. “Sometimes it’s sad, and sometimes it’s scary but that’s just the way the world works.” It frightened me to think that everything I knew would one day be gone. I didn’t want to see Kira as still as that so I ran my fingers over the ticklish bit of her tummy until she squirmed. “Read me a story, Soff,” she begged when I finally let her go.
* * *
—
I miss the house in Toronto. I miss how my life was before everything changed.
Last August—just before the start of my senior year—Kira caught the chickenpox. Half her friends had it but she was the only one left dizzy. The light from the window bothered her. Her hands shook when she tried to turn the page of her book. A week later she collapsed.
The doctor at the intensive care unit said she’d had an episode—that was what he called it. He was handsome in a craggy-faced way, the hair at his temples threaded with grey. In a calm voice he told us her immune system had gone into overdrive and was attacking her brain. Kira stayed in the hospital for weeks. After they released her she was prone to bursts of temper, violent fits. She would start to cry for no reason.
There were more tests. Protein electrophoresis. Something to do with her cerebrospinal fluid. They didn’t know what the results meant. Then two of her friends developed the same symptoms. The school year resumed with a strange air of dread and quiet, everyone glassy-eyed, some wearing face masks, others wiping their hands again and again with antimicrobial gels. But Kira never went back.
Mrs. Burnett told me in one of the counselling sessions Mom recommended that sometimes a stressful event can bring a family together. The shock jolts you out of bad patterns. But it hasn’t been like that for us. When Mom said we were going to live with Aunt Irene, a professor in the Faculty of History, for a while in Oxford where there were better doctors, I knew Dad wouldn’t be coming. They both said it was temporary but I guessed that was only for Kira’s sake. Mom had always been there for us while Dad was away at the office. He had been more of a spectator to our lives. He’d make special appearances on the weekends, serve us breakfast, take us to the zoo once in a while. I’m not surprised he couldn’t take it.
Lately I’ve been telling myself stories about our life in Toronto, trying to fix my memories in place. It’s not easy though. Memory is a tricky thing. It isn’t a ruler, a hard, straight line for measuring the past, the passage of days, months, years. Memory doesn’t work the way my old grade school history books do. It isn’t neat and tidy. It’s more like murmurs, voices whispering in the darkness. Aunt Irene told me that was how the monks used to remember things. They would whisper the words to themselves over and over again, fixing images, sentences, whole histories in their minds so they wouldn’t be forgotten. Memor. Murmure. The meanings of the words are intertwined.
A long time ago I used to play dead. Back then I wanted to keep death near me, to imagine what it might be like. Not Death with the robes black as midnight carrying a mirror-bright scythe. Not the death in monster stories, a hand that grabs you in the night. But the feeling of rest after a long journey.
But ever since Kira got sick I’ve been thinking about things differently. Death is a doorway and I don’t want to know what’s on the other side.
ONE
The powers of creation come into violent collision; the sultry dryness of the atmosphere; the subterraneous thunders; the mist of overflowing waters, are the harbingers of destruction. Nature is not satisfied with the ordinary alterations of life and death, and the destroying angel waves over man and beast his flaming sword.
—Justus Friedrich Carl Hecker, “General Observations,” The Black Death in the Fourteenth Century
1
The episodes always begin the same way, with a strange look in Kira’s eyes and that twist of her mouth. Everyone says they’re a symptom of her condition, an intermittent twinge of paralysis. “Watch for changes,” Mom said, “but don’t be afraid. Just write it down, record everything.”
It’s early January now, a month since we arrived in England. Christmas was a blur of torn paper and scraps of twirled ribbon. Gifts grabbed last-minute from Oxfam to replace things we left behind.
And now this. Aunt Irene has driven us out to Bunkers Hill, a little nothing stretch of road twenty minutes north of where we live. Kira’s wearing oversized rubber boots, the thinness of her body hidden by a waterproof jacket, her small hands in ratty purple mittens. She trudges gracelessly ahead of us on the opposite side of the road. It’s just the three of us today, Mom absent again because of another meeting with the specialists at the Centre where she’s been taking Kira for treatment. When she left this morning I could tell she wasn’t expecting good news.
So we’re still doing our best at make-believe. Aunt Irene suggested a trip to the countryside, and here we are—just outside Oxford, a place I’d only heard about in stories. I’m surrounded by a tangle of green, gappy hedgerows of hawthorn and blackberry scrub. My aunt has been pointing out features of the new landscape to us: early blooming irises, nettle husks that still sting if you brush them with bare hands, jack snipes, chaffinches, all the other birds I don’t recognize yet. The air is milder than it would be back in Toronto this time of year, the wind more like breath. Flowers in January.
On the right is a row of terrace houses, most of them showing signs of abandonment. In front of me an inflatable snowman lists to the side, sagging and dingy. A walnut tree has dropped a branch as thick as my wrist into a tangle of clothes line. Just before Christmas the River Cherwell broke its banks and flooded this area, prompting a temporary evacuation. The water has drained into ditches and culverts but most of the families still haven’t come back. Maybe they never will.
Storms have been worsening everywhere. In the airport before we left Mom couldn’t tear her eyes away from the monitors, watching the presenters go on and on about the devastation. All over England, rivers have been breaking their banks, or trying to, only held in check by levees and diversion canals. Whole villages in the south have vanished and in Wales the flooding has stripped away the peat, leaving behind ancient animal bones—bears, red deer and aurochs, things that have been extinct for hundreds of years.
“Do you really think it’ll be better for us in England?” I’d wanted to know.
“It’s for your sister, Feef,” she’d said tiredly.
“Your aunt said they’ll be able to help her. And it’s only for a little while.”
Kira coughs hoarsely into her fist, another sign of trouble, and her medical ID bracelet jingles. She showed it off like it was a charm bracelet when her clinician first gave it to her, twisting it this way and that in the light. Now she usually keeps it hidden. KIRA PERELLA – JUVENILE IDIOPATHIC IMMUNODEFICIENCY SYNDROME.
“Should we go back?” Aunt Irene asks. There’s a muscle over her left eye that starts to jump when she’s worried. Mom has the same twitch.
I shake my head, watching Kira. “Let’s wait.”
Kira plods along the road, stiff-kneed, ignoring us. She sets one foot in front of the other, walking an imaginary tightrope, toe pointed. Then she points to her right, squinting into the distance. “What’s that?”
Through the tangle of hedges and brown brambles I see what caught Kira’s attention. The silhouette of a tower, at least a hundred feet tall, jutting into the sky. “Well spotted,” Aunt Irene says, smiling. “That’s the old Cherwell cement works. It’s been empty for a good while now. That was the chimney, I think? There used to be all sorts of other machinery around it, and flues for separating the hot gases from the kilns. You can just see the quarry lake from here. I imagine it’s drenched down there right now. I used to…” She shades her eyes with her hands. “There was a man I knew who worked at that site, a quarry engineer who sometimes did freelance work assessing dig sites for the School of Archaeology. We went for walks around here.”
A trace of emotion crosses her face but I don’t say anything. I always used to ask Mom about her life before I was born, old boyfriends, how things were when she was my age. Not so much now.
Before Kira got sick all I could talk about was university. I spent late nights at Jaina Heymann’s place, she and I flipping through course catalogues together, looking at media studies or English, maybe journalism. It all seemed within easy reach. Now there’s a painful squeeze in my chest when I think about how my future was supposed to be. Mom’s trawling for a sixth form college here that will take me at short notice. A whole new system with A-level exams in the late spring I’ll need to pass.