Happy Sands by Barb Howard

Author:Barb Howard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fiction
ISBN: 9781773852188
Publisher: University of Calgary Press
Published: 2021-06-29T17:29:17+00:00

Day 5

The morning after the bonfire, I’m up early, feeling dry-mouthed. I should have glugged a gallon of water before bed. I decide to swim some lengths to rehydrate my whole body. Not that I’m drinking the lake water. It’s hydration by osmosis. I grab my goggles and my two-piece bathing suit. I don’t look like Darla or Shelley in a two-piece. I’ve got a worker body. Not a complaint or a brag. Just an observance. People always bring up fingerprints as unique. But a massage therapist knows every body is unique. There are birthright features like lipomas and dimples and skin colours and textures. And imprints of the previous years the body has experienced: old surgery sites, former fractures, misalignments due to specific jobs and sports. Variety — that’s one of the reasons I ended up as a massage therapist. The other reason being there was a massage school that I passed every day on my way to my brief and unhappy sojourn at a call centre for a national courier company. I need to talk to people face to face or, at the very least, as happens more often in my job, face to back.

I open the cabin door and am greeted by the smell and sight of Alistair’s vomit on the deck and the railing. A magpie hops at a short distance, perhaps deciding whether the vomit is worth investigating. I return to the kitchen to fill the mop bucket with water. When I arrive back at the deck the magpie is gone, the vomit is still there.

I start to clean. So much for natural consequences. Alistair drinks too much, barfs, I clean, he sleeps in. But I don’t need everyone knowing about his barf, and I don’t mind cleaning it. I’m not squeamish about vomit. Human effluent is just another body function. I mean, it’s not great on the rare, unfortunate, occasion when I find it on my massage table, but it doesn’t make me gag. I’ve been known to eat a peanut butter sandwich right after changing a baby’s diaper, and after washing my hands, of course.

I scan the empty beach. The empty dock. The Rocco and Oliemen ski boats float out past the swimming area. Way out. There is no movement in or around the boats, and when I squint to focus more closely, the boats look empty. Are the Roccos and Oliemens lying down in them, sleeping out there? Ginny, you are a snoop. Why, thank you. If I didn’t have a hangover, I’d pour us a drink. Empty cheers.

Once the deck is clean, I head to the beach for my swim. I step into the lake, walk up to crotch depth, and then dive forward. After a few strokes, I pause, look at the boats. Still no movement within them. I breaststroke out to the nearest boat — no small task, since it is quite a way. I pause a few times en route, tread water, give myself a short break, and then resume my swim to the boat.

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