Next Year, for Sure Page 18
This idea that he would date horrifies Chris. It’s like Kathryn has forgotten who he is.
I want the opposite of dating, Chris says. I want someone to stay home with on a Friday night and play Scrabble in our pyjamas. I want to make a giant pot of soup together and then fall asleep with my head in their lap while they read, or their head in my lap.
You had that, Kathryn says. And you wanted something else.
—
Outside, birds start calling to each other. Chris unzips his tent as slowly and quietly as he can and stands up into the pre-dawn air. He looks around for clues about how late everyone else stayed up. Sometimes you can tell from the number of empties scattered around on the ground, or the food forgotten and left out. But everything is tidy and stowed away. The fire is properly extinguished. These are good campers, you have to admit.
Chris makes his way down to the water and watches the sky fade in. He had hoped there would be a sunrise. He liked the thought of telling Emily he got up and saw a spectacular sunrise, and Emily wanting to wake up with him tomorrow to come see. Instead the sun sneaks up somewhere else, probably on the good side of the park. They can have it, Chris thinks.
Soon, Zachary comes bounding down the trail full of stories. He heard an owl in the night. He got to pee outside and his dad peed, too. He saw stars, stars, stars.
Is anyone else up? Chris asks.
They’re being boring, Zachary says.
Chris knows that Emily won’t wake up for hours. Maybe he will make her coffee and bring it to her tent and kiss her blinking eyes. Maybe he will let her sleep. He has so much love coiling around inside him.
—
The thing that bothers Chris about Kathryn’s whole you-should-date idea is the insinuation that he could just pick someone. It took Chris twenty-some years to find Kathryn; nine more to find Emily. Who knows how long it’ll be before Chris meets another person who cracks him open like that.
And until then he’s supposed to what? Date? Chris doesn’t want to kill time with the cute, friendly woman who sells tents, as appealing as she might be.
He wants to get ready. Ready for what, he doesn’t know. But for starters, he wants to not have all those old books filling his shelves. He wants to not have boxes in the hall closet that say MISC. He wants to use up that 500g bag of caraway seeds that has been in the kitchen cabinet forever. He has started taking one seed a day and carrying it around in his mouth.
Watch, watch, Zachary says. This one is perfect.
He holds up a small, flat stone for Chris to see, and then turns and hurls it at the water. It disappears with a plunk.
I almost-almost did it, Zachary says.
You’re getting there, Chris says, though he can see the poor kid might be years from getting there. Chris tries to think of what helpful advice he could offer. He does know how to skip stones, after all, but he can’t remember learning the trick to it. All he can remember is that he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it, and then he could.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Early versions of the opening chapters appeared in The Malahat Review and The New Quarterly. Thanks to John Barton, Kim Jernigan, and everyone at these crucial and subscription-worthy publications. Thanks to John Metcalf and the folks at Oberon Press for giving those stories a second life in Best Canadian Stories. And thanks to Anita Chong, McClelland & Stewart, and everyone involved in the Journey Prize for including “Sleep World” in the anthology, which felt to me like winning.
This book wouldn’t be a book if it weren’t for Martha Webb, indefatigable and known for her miracles. Heartfelt thanks to her and everyone at the McDermid Agency. I am also profoundly grateful to my editors, Kiara Kent and Liese Mayer, who believed in the book and made it immeasurably better with the lightest touch. I cannot imagine a better pair of champions.
I’m thankful to the wonderful writers—Clea Young, Doretta Lau, Théodora Armstrong, Susan Mersereau, Anna Ling Kaye, Lila Yomtoob, Susan Sanford Blades, Anna Swanson, Kevin Chong—who filled my margins with questions and insights and exhortations. And to the noble souls who read early drafts as they dribbled out and gave me a reason to keep going. Thank you Nikki Scott, Kirby Huminuik, Keshav Mukunda, Louise Tremblay, Sharon Eisman, and Ken Tsui.
Huge thanks to Hal Wake and the Vancouver Writers Fest. To Jaki, who first channelled the Tuna Voice. To Mrs. Riley, who was exactly the teacher I needed. To Jan and Kirby, who made me family. And to my parents, who are still in love and showed me what it looks like.
Finally, love and eternal gratitude to Pam and Rachel who saved my life for all those years, and Susannah who gave it back to me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ZOEY LEIGH PETERSON was born in England, grew up all over the United States, and now lives in Canada. Her fiction has appeared in The Walrus, EVENT, Grain, PRISM international, and has been anthologized in The Journey Prize Stories and Best Canadian Stories. She is the recipient of the Far Horizons Award for Short Fiction (The Malahat Review) and the Peter Hinchcliffe Fiction Award (The New Quarterly). Next Year, For Sure is her first novel.