Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(51)

The boats had come before, but they wouldn’t come again. The last stubborn holdouts clung to the island like we clung to life. We couldn’t let go, not until life let go of us. Over the years it did, and we slipped away, one by one.

After the storms, Lloyd would’ve taken us over to the mainland if we’d wanted, I suppose. Never asked; he never offered. I don’t know if that was a good decision or a bad one. You stop second-guessing, but you keep living with the consequences.

January 22

Cold rain has kept me indoors for days. I ended up flipping through Grandpa’s old photo album. He had a lot of pictures of his only child, my mother.

Time moves slower here on the island. In my Grandpa’s days, back in the time before, the worries of the mainland would melt away from my mother’s face when we’d visit. All that stress would rush back into her as soon as we stepped on the ferry to cross the strait to Prince Rupert, but for those precious days on the islands, the clock would stand still. A child wants to always speed it up, and it took until I grew up to understand why the islands drew my mother back. It was the only place she could rest. She liked the Interior well enough, and I know she loved my father. Still, the islands called her home.

She never said why she ran away in the first place.

February 3

Snow dusts the ground. Growing up in the Interior, I wouldn’t have even called it a proper snow. Winter doesn’t come as hard to Haida Gwaii as it does to some places. If I pull my toque down over my ears and fasten my coat across my chest, I can’t even feel the cold.

Not that I’d turn down a nice hot cup of cocoa right about now.

With marshmallows. Yeah, that would be nice.

February 17

I looked for silence until I found it.

March 11

I took a hike up to Spirit Lake and had a picnic. It was a nice spring morning with just a hint of winter still on the breeze. I come up here every spring. I think about Gloria. I picked wildflowers as I hiked the trail. I left them for her. She’s buried not far from the lake.

I’ve dug too many graves.

March 20

My Grandpa taught me to carve argillite. He shaped the soft, black stone to honour the traditions of the Haida of Skidegate. The masters carved beautiful pieces, and Grandpa wanted me to remember the way of his people. My people too, but I didn’t think of it that way, not then. I grew up on the mainland, far into the Interior. I considered trips to Haida Gwaii an imposition on my time. When my mother insisted I go, I resented the ferry ride. I complained loud and long about the lack of fast food, the limited connection to the precious Internet, the lousy television reception.

Now, I’m happy to hear a Japanese woman’s voice on the radio. Now, I’m glad to be on the island. Away from the mainland where it all went to hell.

I found a nice piece of argillite and began carving it. I think I’ll make it a dog. Not a very traditional design, but I’ve had dogs on my mind.

March 23

I met her at the university. We ended up paired up for some project. She studied chemistry with a minor in not going to class. I wanted to be a socials teacher, which made more sense at the time than it does now. A professor once joked to me that history is the art of never saying goodbye. That sounds like a bad joke, but I laughed.

Gloria and I hit it off. At spring break, I brought her to the islands. She fell in love with the place. I fell in love with her. I have a picture of her from that trip. She’s posing with the carved totem bear just north of town. She has this smile on her face that I will never forget.

April 3

For three days, I’ve listened to the radio all night. She’s gone, I’m convinced of it. I wonder what happened to her. Did time just catch up? Did she lose power? Did she take a bad fall, like Lloyd? Or did she make up her mind to end it, like Gloria had? I suppose I’ll never know. I’ll keep the radio on again tonight. I have enough fuel for a few more nights.

I don’t think I’ll hear anything. It makes me feel alone. Somewhere, out there in the dark, there must be places with people still. Places where the lights come on at night. How long since I saw the last airplane overhead? Five years? Six.

Longer since the last boat went by the islands.

April 7

I woke this morning and for the briefest instant I forgot. Almost, I could smell the whiff of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Almost, I could hear Gloria’s bare feet in the hall. Almost, I could imagine the door opening; she would slip into bed beside me. Almost, I could feel the touch of her hand on my arm. How sweet it would have been.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them I saw nothing but an empty room. I lay still for a very long time, wishing I could go back to sleep. Wishing that I could find that dream again.

April 9

I have no more reason to keep this diary than I have to keep trying to broadcast my voice out to an empty world. I continue to write, and to speak, for the same reason that some people talk to graves.

I don’t expect an answer. I don’t expect an audience. I don’t know if I’m talking to myself or to God or to the world that was. Or the world that might one day be. To no one. I have words. I have to say them.

After a time, my own voice sounds odd when I speak. I’m a stranger to myself.

April 10

I listened to the radio for a bit this morning. I gave up after an hour or so.

Down near the old ferry terminal, I watched seals playing on the rocks. They didn’t seem to mind me. Once, the terminal had been the island’s lifeline. Everything came through there. Food, mail, even friends. I remember happy days when the ferry would come in to dock, and the late evenings for the overnight trip to the mainland.