Théodora Armstrong: Clear Skies, No Wind, 100% Visibility

So far the trip lacked the camaraderie and good humour he was hoping for. He hadn’t anticipated the dim panic he felt during the drive up along the Island Highway. His usual tricks with the girls weren’t working. Anna sat sullenly, refusing to crack a smile as he went through his standard comedy routine, and Leslie bounced and chattered in the back seat like she’d had a bag of sugar for breakfast. He can’t calm Leslie the way Heather can — a hand between the shoulder blades, soft words, kindness. At home the girls hole up in their rooms behind closed doors. On occasion a head pokes out with a demand or complaint; he obliges. Conversation takes place during commercial breaks or chauffeured trips to the mall. But Ted is confident that once they reach the island and the girls are surrounded by forest and salt air, everything will sort itself out.

He waits for the last of the coffee to splash into the cup before heading back to the car — he will need every drop. The dull clutch of a headache is tightening the base of his skull. He gets back just before his lane starts loading onto the ferry. The client on the phone is looking for an informed answer and Ted gives him his standard investment banker’s dictum on maximizing profits — higher risk, higher return, words applicable in most scenarios. The rain is coming down hard now, fat drops they were lucky to avoid on the highway. As he opens the car door, he’s hit with the damp, flowery smell of the girls’ mingling perfume.

“Oh my God, Dad! Where were you?” Leslie says, gripping the back of Ted’s seat and giving it an aggressive shake. “The ferry’s leaving.” He holds a finger up to his lips, pointing to the phone. She leans forward, positioning her nose an inch from his face, her cheeks puffy and red with excitement. She holds an imaginary cellphone up to her ear and pretends to have an animated conversation. In the rearview mirror, Anna rolls her eyes.

“We’re getting onto the ferry now. I’ll be back in Victoria on Monday,” Ted says into the phone. “All right — I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.” He puts the phone on the dashboard. “Seatbelts,” he calls into the back seat.

“Why?” Leslie rolls down the window and ducks her head out. “We’re next.”

“I thought I was going to have to drive on without you, but you didn’t leave the keys,” Anna says without looking at him, her finger tracing swirls in the condensation on the window. “You should always leave the keys.” She reaches over and yanks on one of Leslie’s belt loops. “Sit down. Quit being such a little shit.” She’s been taking harsher tones with her sister, but it might be what Leslie needs. Ted remembers road trips when they were girls, with their armies of stuffed animals and whispered secrets. A distance has grown between them lately, one that only seems to make Leslie crave her sister’s attention more. “Hey, remember that trip to Tofino? That was fun,” Ted calls into the back seat. The memory is vague at best in his own mind — he’s grasping.

“Oh right, when I was like three,” Anna says.

“I wasn’t even born yet!” Leslie laughs and punches the seat. “Yeah, Dad. I remember that trip. I was in the womb. It was warm and red. It was a great trip!”

“Oh, come on,” Ted says, and he laughs too.

Leslie hangs out the window again and shakes her bum in Anna’s face. Anna gives her a hard smack on the butt cheek. “Bitch,” Leslie screeches and the muscles in Ted’s neck tighten. “Leslie, get in,” he shouts. She ducks back into the car, her face speckled with raindrops that she wipes away with the sleeve of her sweater. Ted fumbles for the keys in his jacket as the brake lights of the car in front of them light up and engines rev. “Okay, we’re off,” Ted says, turning on the car and taking a sip of his coffee. His headache has gone from dull to throbbing. He’s hit with the sudden wish for a couple drops of whiskey to sharpen the taste of the drink, anything a little stronger. He thinks about the four bottles of wine tucked into the cardboard box of provisions in the trunk. The car in front of them inches forward and the driver behind them honks.

“Dad, oh my God! Go already.” Leslie gives the front seat a hard kick and lets out an annoyed sigh. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she says and then bursts into giggles, turning to Anna for a reaction. The car honks again.

“Asshole,” Anna says, under her breath. She wipes away the condensation on the back window and gives the driver the finger. Leslie bites her lip, cheeks puffing out again as she tries to hold back her laughter. Ted gives Anna a look in the rearview that says mind your sister , but he can’t help a smile.

As they cross the loading ramp onto the ferry, Leslie holds her breath, her face turning pink, and for several seconds there’s silence in the car. She slaps Anna’s knee to encourage her to do the same, waving her arms above her head insistently. Anna’s gaze remains fixed on the lineup of cars ahead filing onto the ferry’s deck, but Ted hears the sharp intake of her breath. Beneath the loading ramp the dark water surges.

Whenever they cross onto a ferry, everyone in the car is supposed to hold their breath — this is their strange family ritual. The girls created the game and when they were young Ted played along, but he doesn’t bother anymore. They invented it so long ago they’ve forgotten its origin, but Ted remembers. As they pull onto the deck Leslie exhales dramatically. A young ferry worker motions for Ted to roll down his window. “We’re going to get you in a little tighter,” the boy says. Ted backs up the car and pulls hard over to the right. “How much room do I have?” he calls out the window. “You’re good, keep it coming,” the boy says, and taps the hood of the car when he’s close enough. The girls are quiet again and Ted catches them staring at the boy. He’s around nineteen and smiles at Anna as he walks by. Ted turns in his seat to give the boy a harder look. “What are you girls staring at?”

“Nothin’,” Anna shrugs and Leslie turns a shade of red.

The ferry shudders to life and pulls away from the dock.

“I’m stuck,” Leslie says, looking out the window. “There’s no room to open the door.”

“It’s a ten-minute ride,” Ted says. “Close your eyes and we’ll be there.”

“But I want to get out!” Leslie rattles the door handle.

“There’s no passenger cabin,” Ted says. “Everyone stays in their cars.”

“I want to walk around,” Leslie whines. “My legs are cramping.”

Anna scrambles through the space between the two front seats and slumps down in the passenger side, bringing an arm up over her face. The skin of her forearm is translucent, a flawless white threaded with blue veins. “Seriously,” she mutters. “She doesn’t shut up.”

“We’re going to have a nice weekend,” Ted says, tapping Anna’s knee lightly.

The rain has stopped and the island is circled in a thick mist hanging low along its shores, the green hump of its back breaching the haze like a whale surfacing. Leslie is finally quiet and Ted, the full weight of the workweek suddenly hitting him, leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.

Many years ago a minivan plunged off the loading ramp of a ferry leaving Tsawwassen. There was a reason Ted couldn’t remember: rough waters, a careless worker, a mechanical malfunction. The van sank in the deep water where the ferry berthed, and got trapped between the massive hull of the boat and the barnacled underwater pillars of the dock, making the rescue difficult. There was a family inside: three children, a mother, and a father. The father was the only one who survived. He managed to pull out one child, a daughter, who died later in hospital. It took them several hours to haul the minivan to the surface. What could anyone do? A car fills quickly. Water makes movements slow. A scramble over the seats takes forever, like a thick-limbed nightmare. Ted can’t imagine the feeling of failure that must haunt that father. Heather used to use the story as a warning, a way of keeping Leslie and Anna quiet in the back seat. That’s when the girls started holding their breath.