Page 5 of What You Never Knew

“I can look at your work over and over and never get bored,” she used to say, when I teased her about it. “I’m always finding something new, some subtlety that I somehow missed before. You’re the best photographer I know.”

“I’m the only photographer you know,” I’d shoot back. “And I’m your sister, so you’re biased.” I wish now I’d just taken her compliment, believed her, been grateful for the encouragement that she was never short on giving. That night she stopped and stared at a photo I’d taken when I was only twelve—an up-close black-and-white of our mother. She scooped her long hair up and pulled it away from her face. “Think I could pull off a pixie cut like Mom?” she asked.

“Sure, why not?” I was only half listening, preoccupied with the stubborn vacuum-sealed plastic wrap on a block of Gouda.

She set her wineglass down and left the room. I heard the bathroom door close, so I didn’t think anything of it. Only when nearly twenty minutes passed did I start to wonder. I called out her name and got some muffled response in reply.

“June?” I said, tapping on the bathroom door.

“Are you ready?” Before I could answer, she pulled the door open and stood face-to-face with me, her eyes wild, her long, thick black hair gone—chopped into a poor attempt at a pixie cut.

She laughed a deep belly laugh at the shock all over my face, as though she’d done it for that alone. “What do you think?”

“Honestly? You look a bit like a Dickens street urchin.”

She glanced at herself in the mirror. “Oh my god. I totally do.” She looked back at me with horror, and then we both started laughing—the hysterical kind, with tears and snorts, the best kind, the kind I shared most with my sister.

The next day she went to a proper hair stylist and emerged looking even more stunning than she had with long hair. That’s June—impulsive, impervious to societal dictates, and oblivious to consequences. Sounds like a magical combination, but in truth, it meant she needed a lot of taking care of.

Impulsive—she makes lots of mistakes. Impervious—she can never understand why people are so bothered by those mistakes. Oblivious—she never, ever seems to learn from those mistakes. She’s also generous and caring, and she loved me deeper than anyone else in my life ever did, and so I put up with the roller coaster that is my sister.

June rolls over onto her other side, licking her dry lips and letting out a weak cough. “What are we doing here, June?” I ask, knowing there will be no answer.

“Avril Island.” June’s words are mumbled sleep talk, but there’s no denying what she said.

The vision of our family cottage is suddenly right there for me to see. A quick succession of memories flash by—swimming, running through the forest, jumping from high cliffs, board games, suntanning—a kaleidoscope of beautiful childhood summers. The brightness of those memories is suddenly eclipsed by a shadow of something. Another memory, I think, but it’s buried deep down in the darkness of my consciousness. Resting there like an ancient sea creature waiting for something to summon it, biding its time until it can devour me whole.

JUNE

There’s no gentle waking this morning. As soon as consciousness hits me, pretty much every sense protests. My head is pounding with pain; my skin is prickling, itchy with heat; there’s a horrible sickly sweet taste in my mouth—buried under my furry, sandpaper-dry tongue. The musty scent of whatever I’m lying on tops it all off, and my stomach tightens with the threat of vomit.

I carefully push myself up off the bed and shuffle into the bathroom. There’s no glass, so I cup my hands under the tap and splash water into my mouth over and over again until finally the sandpaper is gone along with most of the sweetness.

Next I peel off my clothes and step into a cool shower, washing away the sweat and rot from that comforter. The water brings some lucidity to my cloudy brain.

I remember a dream I had last night. May was in the room. She stood over the bed, laughing at me for drinking too much. Then she asked, Why are we here? I told her Avril Island, and she suddenly disintegrated right in front of me, like she was made of sand and was being blown away.

I find some headache pills in my travel bag and then go sit on the bed, wrapped in a towel, to wait for them to kick in. The sight of the half-empty whiskey bottle on the desk sends a wave of sickness through my stomach and a resounding pounding through my head.

Whiskey—what was I thinking?

I was thinking that I wanted to be drunk, and it was all I could find when I arrived last night. My plane landed at eight PM. I had to get a bus north, and by the time I arrived at the small lakeside town, it was well past midnight. Only one motel had any vacancies, and the only things on offer behind the reception counter were bags of stale chips, bait, and whiskey. I bought two of those items and retreated to my sad room to consume too much of both before passing out.

The sad cliché of it all motivates me to get moving. I put on some fresh clothes, shove my dirty ones into my suitcase, and I’m packed. The headache pill has kicked in and a few handfuls of chips have settled my queasy stomach, but I need to move slowly so as not to disturb this delicately constructed state.

It’s a futile effort. As soon as I step out into daylight and see my surroundings, the nausea and pounding are back, an awkward combination of hangover and nostalgia.

I haven’t been back to this town since I was twelve, but not much has changed. The main road crosses in front of the motel, and beyond that is the lake, sunlight flashing across its surface, so clear you can see the sandy, shallow bottom. Locals spread across the public beach in front of it, and children in bathing suits hang off the old jungle gym equipment that still sits on a patch of lawn too close to the road.

Wheeling my suitcase down the sidewalk, I pass the bright-red ice cream stand, the Red Engine—same sign, same wooden structure, just a new coat of paint, ready for summer, which is only a week away. It’s closed, resting itself for high season when the cottagers arrive.

The chip truck is still there as well, and it’s open for business. Its metal frame is rusting around the edges where it sits on gray cinder blocks, grease stains decorating the pavement all around it. The scent of malt vinegar hits me along with memories of chips shared with my mother and sister.

Every time we made the trip into town, my mother allowed us to get our own cardboard boat of hot, greasy chips. My sister bathed hers in ketchup. I coated mine in vinegar and salt. My mother never got her own, preferring to pick at ours instead, fooling herself that the calories didn’t count if they were stolen from her daughters. I consider stopping to buy some for old time’s sake, but my sensitive stomach pushes me on.

The marina isn’t far, right where it always was, but it’s been updated—more gas pumps, more boats, a few more floating docks. I scan the area for Jim, the owner. His mop of white hair spilling out from under a red ball cap always made him easy to spot. It takes a second to dawn on me that it’s a vain search, considering the man was in his late fifties, at least, the last time I saw him. He’d be dead by now for sure. The thought is lead inside me, which makes me wonder if I’m really ready for this.

A flash of red appears from a side door, and I spot Jim’s ball cap. It’s not the friendly old man wearing it, though. It’s his son, their likeness unmistakable. I yank my suitcase off the sidewalk and down the gravel path toward him.