The Speed of Mercy by Christy Conlin (adventure books to read .txt) 📗

Bigelow Bay and they could move away. Have a real fresh start. This isn’t fresh. It’s stale. Old. Used. They are forcing a shroud of worn-out life over the maimed body of what’s left of their family. And the Seaburys don’t even seem to know they’re doing the same thing. Stella doesn’t want to spend time with Cynthia anymore. Whenever she looks into her dark blue eyes she sees herself reflected in them, in the window, looking in, watching Tommy Jessome slam Cynthia against a wall. Stella feels she is in Cynthia’s eyes, looking at the side window, the dark screen, seeing a head on the other side, watching but staying silent — Stella, doing nothing, nothing but running away as only a coward does. Stella doesn’t have a clue if Cynthia did see her there, if she suspects someone was at the window. Cynthia is impervious. She is a tomb, silent and closed. And she’s still so friendly. Every time Cynthia does something nice, Stella feels sick.

When Stella arrives at Cedar Grove, Granny and Cynthia are already outside waiting to go blueberry picking, so she leans her bike against the carriage house and hurries into the car.

They park near the weigh-’n’-pay shack. The U-Pick is an old farm by the river about twenty minutes away, with the North and South Mountains soaring on either side of the rows of high bushes that are loaded with berries. Granny wants lots of fruit for freezing and for jam. It was cool when they started, but by mid-morning it’s roasting. Granny Scotia is only able to pick for the first half an hour and then she sits in the car drinking ice water out of a Thermos. Her blood pressure is low, she says. She needs some salt because it raises the pressure.

Cynthia and Stella keep picking. The bushes are so heavy with berries that they fill boxes quickly. Cynthia still has a cotton bandage over her stitches and it flashes against the blue sky as her fingers pull berries from the branches.

On the way home Stella thinks Granny seems better, but still, she is inattentive, her gaze wandering up to the sky. Three times Cynthia grabs the wheel and pulls them back into the lane. Granny hardly notices. “Dear, it’s dangerous to interfere with the driver,” she says.

Back at Cedar Grove Granny sprinkles sea salt in a glass of water and gulps it down as she walks away muttering to herself, leaving the girls alone in the old kitchen. The enormous house is very still and Granny’s voice echoes and ricochets as she climbs the huge staircase, and then fades away as she reaches the landing on the second floor.

Cynthia ignores this and shows Stella how to put blueberries in plastic bags. They fill up a rack in the upright freezer in the corner of the kitchen. Then Cynthia scurries around, cleaning up with trembling hands, her face red and her eyes tearing up. Stella watches her but doesn’t know what to say. The Seabury pain is flooding her being and she can hardly stand it. They ride to Stella’s with blueberries in containers in the baskets at the front of their bikes. Her father isn’t home — still out for his walk, Stella thinks. An epic walk. There isn’t an upright freezer at Stella’s house, so they pour some blueberries in plastic bags and put them in the fridge freezer, leaving the rest on the counter for eating. Cynthia knows the recipe for blueberry muffins with rose petals and lemon by heart. She has regained her composure. Now her face is placid, as if nothing at all happened with Granny Scotia. Her backpack is on the chair in the hall and she’s wearing an old apron she found hanging on the back of the kitchen door on a hook.

Stella’s father returns while they’re baking. He has a satisfied smile on his face as he puts his hands on his hips.

“Girls, I have a special announcement. I finished my paper.”

Cynthia claps her hands. “Congratulations. That’s super.”

Stella forces a smile. Why did he wait until Cynthia was here? He finished it in the morning but didn’t say a word. She had to sneak into his office to find out.

“It’s a relief. It’s so hard to work at home. But I managed! So, how was your morning? Cynthia, you are remarkable. You can cook just like your grandmother. I haven’t smelled anything that good in this house since my mother was alive.”

Stella remembers her mother’s peach jam. Her mother’s lemon loaf.

“I think it’s the same recipe, Mr. Sprague. Granny taught it to me. She said it was one of your mother’s. From her recipe book. We looked for it but we couldn’t find it. I knew it off by heart though.”

“I’m sure they’ll be delicious.”

The muffins are delicious. Stella’s father eats five of them, one after another, slathered in butter, washed down with a cold bottle of beer. Then he invites Cynthia to come with them to the Jericho Centre tomorrow, to see the old foundation of the poor farm on the property and then the old graveyard. And then he might take them to Halifax to see the harbour. He seems to forget that he has promised Stella he would spend time with her, alone.

Her father goes out back to smoke and Cynthia and Stella clean up. Stella leaves Cynthia in the kitchen sweeping. In her father’s office she finds his paper, all neatly stacked on the desk now. She takes it and walks down the hall. She can hear the water running in the kitchen sink. Cynthia must be finishing up the dishes. Stella quickly shoves the paper in Cynthia’s backpack, under her pink cotton sweater. Stella’s hands shake as she closes the zipper, but only partway. She leaves the backpack on the chair unzipped . . . just enough.

Stella’s father walks in from the porch, squinting in the kitchen after being outside in the bright sunlight. A car pulls into