Waiting for Harvey (The Spirits of Maine) by Lydia North, Kim Scott Read Free Book Online Page B

would continue to tend to the house.  John and I would be responsible for our school assignments, taking out the trash, mowing the lawn and clearing away snow.  Our mourning period had officially ended, and there would be no more displays of emotion.
    It was a bitter end to the incredible summer.  For the rest of my life, the smell of smoke from a grill would bring on a wave of nausea and painful thoughts of my Mom.  John and I never talked about the vacation at the cabin again.  In time, my mother’s death and the cabin blended in my mind and it all became one unpleasant memory best forgotten.
     
    *
     
    Two decades later, I was back in the cabin.  I had buried all of the memories deeply.  So deeply they hadn’t been called up in nearly two decades.  Annually, I sent a wreath of flowers to my Mom’s grave on her birthday.  I didn’t go there.  I had been to her grave only once, accompanied by dad and John, the first Christmas after she died.  I had no idea what my siblings did to honor her.  We didn’t talk about it.
    The year I started college, Dad quit his jobs and moved to California.  After a lifetime as a welder at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, he had no trouble finding a good job in San Diego.  He remarried and she blessed him with a baby girl.  They lived a life apart from us on the other side of the country.  We talked on the phone for ten minutes or so, every few months.   Every other year we flew out to California for Christmas with Dad.  It was not something John or I looked forward to.
    Recalling the memories of John, Jimmy, and the OUIJA board unnerved me.  I had accepted that it was just the imagination of an eight year-old boy at work.  Yet combined with the recent incident with the snow on the floor it felt more real.  I shook my head, trying to push the unwanted thoughts away.  If I continued to dwell on it, there would be no more sleep before morning.
    I pushed the notions away and welcomed sleep.  It carried me away to a comfortable cloud where I found happy dreams.  I was eight years-old again, fishing on the bank of the St. John River.  Mr. Flaherty helped me choose the best worms and bait the hook.  John and Jimmy sat close by, telling the kind of jokes young boys believe are funniest.  I woke hours later, bathed in morning sunlight, with my dreams fresh in mind.
    My smile faded as the memories slowly flooded back into my head.  I sat on the edge of the bed replaying the events of that summer in my mind.  None of it felt real.  They were no more than recollections from a book that I had read or movie I had seen.  I was eager to talk with John about it, but didn’t know if he would welcome the conversation.  He seemed so at ease in the cabin.  I doubted he would be willing to rehash the pain of the past.
    Like the day before, I packed my gear and cleaned up the cabin.  Not knowing when John or one of his guys might arrive, I left the wood stove burning.  It wouldn’t take long to extinguish it when he or they arrived.  Late in the morning I went out to the old shed and pried the doors open.  I rolled the ATV out and started the motor.  It sat idling while I closed the doors again.  In minutes, I was bumping along the game trail toward the cluster of tall pines.
    I stopped before the fallen tree and turned the key to the off position.  The engine quit and the sound faded.  Quiet settled over the area as I walked around the end of it and looked along the dirt road.  There were no tire tracks or foot prints.  I exhaled and contemplated my options.  I could wait there until my ride came.  Or I could return to the cabin and wait by the woodstove.  An icy gust of wind made the decision for me. 
    The clock on the wall ticked off the hours as I turned page after page in the book I was reading.  I put it down periodically to add a log to the fire, refill my coffee mug or use the bathroom.  My contentment held fast until I realized that the sun had slipped