Dreaming the Bear Read online

  Oh, God. I thought I’d be able to rest today. “Well,” I say, “I should probably go now, while it’s sunny.”

  “Would you like to come over to the observation hut with me?” he said. “I hate to waste the weather.”

  I can’t ski. I mean, I can ski, of course. But I still fall over a lot. And the doctor said that I wasn’t to get wet, so that means I shouldn’t fall over in the snow. So right now, I’m not supposed to ski. I say, “But…”

  And Dad says, “It’s okay. We can shoe over there.”

  It’ll take forever. I’ll be shoeing for about an hour there and an hour back. I’ll be utterly exhausted. I say, “No. I’d just hold you up. You go.” And when he pauses, I say, “I’ll just shoe around nearer the house, in case I get tired.”

  He looks at me. He says, “Well, you were out a long time yesterday.”

  Yes, and I nearly killed myself, I think.

  He says, “Right. We’ll go out in…what? Twenty minutes. And I will meet you back here in exactly two hours. Unless it starts to snow, in which case I’ll race you home. Deal?”

  He holds out his hand to be slapped. I raise my eyebrows. “Deal,” I say, but I don’t slap it.

  I wonder if I can control the whole seeing-myself-from-the-outside thing. If it’s part of my illness or if I’m just really good at imagining. I decide to give it a try while Dad is there, while we are getting ready to go. I picture the cabin, how it must look from above…

  The house in the snow. Only a thin thread of smoke curls from the roof, like an old man smoking a pipe out in the sun.

  The stillness of a winter pine forest explodes with noise as the door bangs open. The air itself feels startled and affronted, and any tiny rustlings in the forest stop instantly. Anyone who is listening immediately understands that all of winter nature has been frightened.

  The man in dirty white camouflage is not listening. He slams his boots into his ski bindings and settles his pack and his rifle over his shoulders. He speaks loudly and jovially to me, sitting down on the front porch, fiddling with my snow shoes. My lavender hat clashes with my coat and hair.

  The man is poling away when he stops and effortlessly slides to turn and shout, “See if you can find your hat! It was expensive!” before spinning on one ski and gliding away.

  I stick out my tongue at the man’s back. I waddle off the porch and begin to stump heavily away.

  Chapter Three

  How many words would a bear have for sleep?

  As the morning wears on, she finds herself leaving the well of coma and swimming up through unconsciousness to a heavy drowse. Bear is expecting something. Bear is waiting.

  —

  I have no intention of going back to the cave. It would be stupid—worse than stupid. Suicidal. Mum would never forgive herself for leaving if I died in the cave today.

  I look for my red hat.

  I hurt everywhere, and I am so, so tired. Why didn’t I just pretend to go out and then go back to sleep by the fire? Dad would never know.

  I guess I actually want to get better and stop feeling like I’m stuck in a giant marshmallow. I’m sick of plodding along in this white world, where my feet stick and everything pulls against me.

  How hard can it be to find a red hat in the snow? I’m pretty sure I had it going up. It would have fallen off when I was all dozy and going back to the cabin. I can’t even remember that bit.

  I look carefully on both sides of the trail, but in no time, I’m at the bottom of the hill.

  I have no intention of going up the hill. I have not planned to go back to the cave. But then, I did bring my poles….

  It’s so much easier going up now that I’ve already cut the stairs and have my poles. I’m up in less than half the time it took yesterday. But my lungs still sound horrible as I gasp for air at the top. I have to work hard not to let myself flop in the snow again. And as I gasp, I get that faraway feeling….

  …I lean my hands on my knees and breathe raggedly. When I straighten I waver on my feet. I am drawn to the cave. My arms and legs seem to fall away behind me, almost as if I am floating, stomach-first, on an invisible current of air. I’m some new species of Gore-Tex jellyfish, blowing through the atmosphere on the faintest of breezes, being sucked into the depths of a dark, draining sea.

  The bear raises her arm, and I am the little cold creature that crawls into warmth. Together we dive down into a dreamworld. The bear feels a catch in her breath, smells the antiseptic air of the pulmonary ward. I feel the sting of the bullet, the ripped shoulder. We mourn the ones who are lost, the love, the light, and the summer.

  —

  “Why do you keep washing your coat and overalls?”

  Dad doesn’t notice when I’m hungry. He doesn’t notice when I’m sad. But he notices that I’ve washed my outer layers twice in two days.

  I say, “They smelled bad.” Which is true, but not as true as “They reeked of grizzly bear.” Of the two, though, I think I’ve said the one he’d most like to hear.

  Dad thinks about this. It’s one of the things I used to like about him, the way he takes his time to think about what you’ve said. He is tall and blond, and his forehead crinkles up when he thinks. I remember loving him, but it feels like a long time ago. Now when I watch him think, I only feel an echo of it.

  He says, “It’s a bit of a waste. Next time, hang them outside to freshen. I’ll anchor some carabiners to the porch, so they won’t blow away if it storms.”

  This is typical Dad. If you have a problem, equipment will help you solve it. Ideally, something we already have, like the metal D ring of a connector called “a carabiner.” He has got millions of them in the climbing kit, but every time we get to an outdoor shop, he’ll look at all the carabiners, as if there might have been some startling new technological innovation since the last time he went in.

  He looks at his watch and then out the window. It’s starting to snow, and Jem isn’t home yet. I’ve filled the kettle, and it’s on the stove, starting to steam, but there’s still no Jem.

  Back home, if Jem was late, we’d think he’d stopped to buy junk food or was browsing the used games at the place on the corner. Now we think he might have dropped into a ravine or missed the orange-topped poles and lost himself in the endless trees.

  And then we hear the whine of the snowmobile. Dad sits down and tries to look like he’d been working and not standing at the window worrying over Jem. That’s a boy thing. They can’t look as though they do things like that. I put tea bags into the pot and biscuits onto a plate.

  Jem always fills up a room. He is big and blond, like Dad. He’s handsome and clever and good at everything he does. We’d been here exactly three weeks when he won a log-splitting contest. He’s already on the cross-country-skiing team. He’s like that.

  I’ve spent my life trying to keep up with Jem.

  I’ve always failed.

  And now that I’m so sick and weak, I’ve given up. Just watching him makes me feel tired. I don’t look at him when he comes in.

  So it’s a surprise to hear the other voice.

  I don’t remember much about school. I got sick right after we moved here. It was just a cold then, but I was so unhappy and ill that I was kind of in my own little world. Jem keeps coming home and talking about his day and saying I must remember this person or that person, but I don’t remember very many of the kids who go to the little high school.

  But I remember one. He’s dark and thin, with black hair and green eyes. And I fell in love the moment I met him.

  “You know Tony, don’t you?” my brother asks. Tony Infante looks at me shyly, and smiles.

  Dad has this horrible habit of answering questions people are actually asking me. I usually hate it. But just then I’m happy that Dad says “Sure” and stands up to shake hands. Jem’s eyes meet mine and he shrugs, sorry that Dad’s done it again, assumed that I can’t, or don’t need to, speak for myself.

  For some reason, this afternoon, Jem�
�s kindness makes my eyes sting, and for a moment I think I might burst into tears, right then and there, in front of Tony Infante.

  “We’re Tony’s weather plan,” Jem says. “Mum signed the form so that we’re his storm residence. His people live even farther out.”

  “My father is Matt Infante,” Tony says, as if that explains something. And it does, to Dad.

  Dad says, “Ah,” in a don’t-bother-to-tell-me-more-because-I-know-everything kind of way. I bring the tea tray with an extra mug to the table.

  They talk about the weather. The snow is coming down hard, and the wind is starting to pick up. It’s meant to be the biggest storm of the year.

  Outside the window is still bright, but it’s getting dark in the house. Jem gets up and turns on the lamps.

  At last, Dad remembers to make dinner. Jem and Tony go up to Jem’s room.

  I sit at the table and watch the whirling snow. It’s coming from all directions, blowing up from the ground and from side to side and still coming down hard from up above. If you were out in this, you wouldn’t be able to find your way. You’d only know which way was down because you could feel the earth under your boots. People have died just yards away from their houses. They went out to get some wood or something and never found their way back to the door.

  Dad is frying an onion. He seems to know what he is doing.

  I go up to change my top and brush my hair.

  It exhausts me.

  Bending down to open a drawer. Stripping off one top, pulling on another. Walking to the wash basket. Bending down to close the drawer. Raising my arms above my head to brush my hair.

  Instead of going back down the stairs, I sit on my bed, propping myself up on the pillows. Finally, I forget about the idea of sitting again and pull my heavy legs after me.

  Next door, I can hear Jem and Tony talking. They don’t chatter away nonstop. You do that with people you like but you don’t know very well. They sound like proper friends. There are long periods of silence, and then one of them will share something with the other, and they’ll talk about it or laugh. And then they’ll go back to doing whatever they were doing, separately but side by side, until there’s something else to share.

  And the rhythm of this reminds me of something so painful that I curl into a ball.

  Sue.

  All my other friends have faded in my mind to a picture of sunshine and laughter and warmth. Of course, I can still picture Izzy and Sophia and Molly and the rest in my mind, but I can’t picture them apart. I see them in one joyous gang. I see them from the center of that gang. I am the white shadow in the picture.

  It’s different with Sue.

  I don’t remember her a hundred times a day. A hundred times a day, I get close to remembering her and stop myself because it hurts so bad. Ever since I got sick, I write her an email once a week, and it’s rubbish. I download it onto a USB, and Dad takes it in to the nearest Internet connection in Mammoth, sends it, and brings me the ones she writes back. They’re brilliant—like she’s talking to me. And this whole process is so terribly painful that I haven’t started it up again since I got out of the hospital.

  How can I describe Sue? I could write a thousand words describing Sue’s left eyebrow. I know every hair of it, know how it curves slightly differently from her right eyebrow. Sue and I were at nursery together, and then primary school, and then we went to Jem’s school. Sue is not just my friend. She is part of me. Leaving her felt like I was getting ripped in half.

  I reach under the bed and take out a brightly wrapped box.

  I don’t know why I didn’t open her Christmas present. At first I said I wanted to open it by myself. And then I said I was saving it. And now it’s after Easter, and it’s kind of dusty and faded-looking.

  I hear Jem and Tony talk again and then fall silent together again. And finally, I decide I can’t hurt anymore, and it’s time to open the present.

  The paper sounds loud to me when I rip it, and I have some trouble getting the ribbon off.

  It’s a box. It’s a big, pretty, pinky-purple box. And she’s decorated it. She’s pasted pictures of us together and my mates and my favorite pop stars and actors all over it. And she’s put ribbon on it and flowers and got somebody to varnish it, so it’s smooth and bright and really wonderful. It glows on my bed.

  There’s a particularly strong gust of wind outside, and the whole cabin sways a little. My window is just a white square. You can’t even see snow anymore.

  On my bed, the box seems to pulse with color, like neon.

  And this hurts, but kind of in a good way, a way I can take. I have tears leaking down my face, but I’m happy. I’m happy knowing she loves me and misses me, too. Even though I knew it before.

  After I’ve looked at it awhile, I open the box. I don’t know what I was expecting.

  It’s everything. Sue has sent me supplies.

  Strawberry sweets and Dairy Milk Buttons. A CD, because she knows I can’t download music. No, two CDs, no…three! And three DVDs. A makeup case with sparkly eye shadow, and lipstick. A fake-nails kit. Pedicure jewels. Fake-tan cream. A highlighting kit. Little things you put in your bra to make your breasts look bigger (we’d always wanted those). Four bottles of nail varnish in all my favorite colors. A really grown-up bra and panty set. A thin little black T-shirt with “Diva” written in rhinestones on the front. Little notes on heart-shaped paper from all my friends, saying they love me and miss me.

  I suddenly realize my door is open. Jem and Tony and Dad are all looking at me. Dad’s got an oven glove on and a spatula in his hand.

  I blink at them like I’ve never seen them before.

  “You were screaming,” Jem says.

  “More like squealing,” Tony says. “I think.”

  They all come closer and take a look at some of the stuff that’s in the box. Thank goodness none of them notice the plastic things you put in your bra.

  Dad says, “I feel like I should lecture you about the throwaway culture and how materialism is destroying Earth. But it’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in months.”

  Tony is looking at the bottle of navy-blue nail varnish. “I wouldn’t mind wearing this,” he says.

  Dinner is pretty good. And afterward Tony and I paint our nails navy blue. Jem tries one finger, but he cleans it off immediately. When my nails dry, I write Sue a huge long thank-you email, telling her all about the blizzard and the way the cabin shakes and how I have to snowshoe every day. I have just saved it onto the USB when the power goes out.

  We still have our woodburning stove downstairs, but there’s no electricity to run the central heating. Tony tells us it could be days before it comes back on.

  We have drilled about what to do. We all have quick showers while the water is still hot. And then we pack up boxes of everything in our rooms that could be damaged by freezing and store them in the big cupboard downstairs. I add my beautiful box from Sue. We take out enough clothes for four or five days. And then we seal up the doors to our rooms with special insulating tape. Dad drains the toilet tank and the hot-water tank and shuts off the water to the upstairs. We’ll have to pump up water from the well. We’ll have to use the embarrassing little bathroom downstairs, where everyone can hear you do a poo.

  While Dad does that, Jem and Tony and I move the big table against the kitchen island. We’ll just have to sit closer together.

  We move the sofa the other way, against the wall, and get out the sleeping pads and bags, lining them up on the rug. When Dad comes down, he tells us we’ve done it all just right.

  Then Tony remembers about the fridge and the freezer. We put everything that needs to stay cool on the windowsills, and everything that needs to stay frozen in big, animal-proof canisters outside.

  Dad goes out on the porch and attaches them to the special bolts. He is right outside the window, but we can hardly see him.

  When he comes back in, his beard is matted with snow and ice. He says he had to feel his way to the do
or.

  Tomorrow, he and Jem have to go to the woodpile. They’ll take the sled and haul a lot of wood back, even though it’s only around the side of the house. We have a cup of tea while we plan how we’ll do this. Tony and I will be on the porch. Jem and Dad will wear climbing harnesses and rope while they’re off to the porch, so that they don’t get lost. I will bang pots and pans when they blow a whistle to say they are coming back, and Tony will pull in the slack on the rope.

  Dad is worried because I washed my hair and it’s still damp. We move the sleeping bags so that I am closer to the living room log burner. Then we stoke up both burners, use the embarrassing toilet, and brush our teeth together at the kitchen sink.

  It’s all actually kind of fun. When I lie down, I even stay awake for a minute or two and look at the fire.

  Chapter Four

  How does a sleeping bear sense weather? Her paw is over her face. Does her sensitive nose smell the snow? Does she feel the drop in pressure in her lungs and kidneys?

  Deeper and deeper into sleep she sinks. Her heartbeat slows to an unimaginably faint pulse. Her diaphragm rises and falls as a slow ripple of muscle, and her lungs never inflate—they only whisper a bird’s breath up and a bird’s breath down.

  She is gone beyond dreams, deep into the pea at the top of her spinal cord. Everything else she is, is gone. She is little more than a collection of cells. One slightly too-slow beat or one bird’s breath too few, and the collection will break free. What was once the bear will dissipate into the air and the earth of the cave.

  To survive she must go to this fine line between life and death and make her bed on it. And she cannot doubt herself. She must be certain that she is able to do this, to surrender to the deepest, most unknowable part of herself, or she will never be able to sink down, down to where she uses nearly nothing and survives.

  —

  Four people sleep in a neat row. Three are still. The one nearest the cold window is troubled by dreams. His arms struggle against the restraint of his sleeping bag, as if he is fighting it, as if it is trying to kill him.