The Runaway Midwife Read online

  I have a cell phone in my briefcase, but I haven’t tried it yet and anyway who would I call? Not the police, assuming they have some kind of law enforcement on the island. How would I explain my presence here? A woman without a passport, who didn’t come through Customs, just dropped down like a dead swan out of the sky?

  I’m sure, like the guy at Red Hawk said, I would be instantly deported as an illegal alien. This would start a chain of events that would draw me back to West Virginia and the county jail. They wouldn’t even allow me the opportunity to be bailed out. I’ve already proven I’m a flight risk.

  No, it’s best to leave sleeping humans where they lie. “Rest in peace, stranger,” I say out loud. “When the next storm comes, the waves will take you away.”

  Expedition

  For three days the rain and wind pound the shore. The waves crash up on the breakwall and the cakes of ice boom as they collide.

  To entertain myself, I do a thorough cleaning of the cottage and then I go through the books in the bookcase and discover a binder with lined paper that I can keep for a journal instead of the old appointment book that I found in my briefcase. I also find a three-year-old tourist brochure titled Welcome to Seagull Island.

  In the back is a detailed map and I’m surprised to see that the island is roughly shaped like a gull and is about three miles across and seven miles long, smaller than I remembered, though everything is smaller now than when I was a kid.

  In 1781, the pamphlet explains, the first European settler, an Irishman named Simon Gaul, purchased the island from the two indigenous people camped here for the equivalent of a hundred dollars. The natives thought it was a joke because, first of all, they didn’t own the land, and second, it was mostly swamp and rocks. Over the years “Simon Gaul’s Island” became “Gull Island,” then Seagull Island, and in 1893 the Canadian government made the name official.

  Studying the map, I make note that the names of the main roads are easy to remember. Sunset Road runs up the west shore, where presumably one can watch the sun drop into the blue water. Sunrise Road runs up the east shore. Down the middle, north to south is Middle Way, and across, east to west, is Middle Loop. At the top, North Wing Road runs from Light House Park to the island cemetery with many short roads running into the interior. Not far from my cottage, which I learn is on the unplowed Grays Road, is the town of Gull and a grocery store.

  FINALLY, IT STOPS raining. I fear meeting people, but my provisions are low and I have to get food. I have no idea what the store’s hours are, but despite the risk, I’ve got to shop, so I charge up my cell phone and attempt to get the store’s number from information.

  What the . . . ? When I stare at the screen the little circle goes around and around. When I power up my laptop there aren’t any Wi-Fi networks to connect to. Damn! I should have thought that I might not have service, but I’m so used to being plugged in, it never entered my mind. I stare at the useless phone and realize the date is displayed right under the time. It’s already March 5. I’ve been here two weeks.

  There’s nothing else to do, I just have to walk to the store and hope it’s open. Ten o’clock seems like a good guess, so midmorning, dressed like an Arctic explorer, with a pocket full of money and an empty backpack, I leave the cottage and head into the unknown.

  CHAPTER 10

  Molly Lou

  Struggling through wet snow halfway up to my knees. I push on for an hour, until I see a white farmhouse about one hundred yards ahead. There’s smoke coming out of the chimney and I stop in my tracks. Should I go up to the door? What would I say? What if the people aren’t friendly? What if they ask a lot of questions? What if they’ve seen my mug on TV? Do Canadians even get the US TV stations?

  Still uncertain what I’ll do, I plow forward until I’m almost in front of the two-story dwelling. Here the road has been cleared and there’s a tractor with a snowplow blade in the yard, along with a fishing boat in front of a barn. A little boy of about six is playing on the boat and he yells, “Mom! There’s someone in the road.”

  Apparently, the woman hears him because a lace curtain moves in the front window and the door opens. “Hello,” she calls from the porch. “Need some help? Come on in.” Still unsure what I’m going to say, I decide to improvise. “I’ll be right with you,” she continues. “I have something on the stove.”

  On the porch, I step out of my boots and enter a large warm living room. The first thing that strikes me is the big-screen TV, a shock compared to the relative simplicity of the rest of the home, furnished with an overstuffed sectional sofa, an easy chair and a recliner in front of a fireplace. The volume on the TV is muted while a commercial plays, then the news comes on and I freeze. It’s the blond newscaster again, with Clara Perry’s photo, bigger than life, behind her. The woman’s mouth moves and words run in a line along the bottom of the screen. “West Virginia midwife still sought for manslaughter.”

  I swallow hard, cross the living room and stand in front of the screen to block it from the woman’s view. Now I know the answer to my question. Yes, Canadians in Southern Ontario do watch US television, a danger I hadn’t counted on.

  “You have car trouble?” my host asks, coming into the room from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a white dish towel. “I’m Molly Lou Erickson by the way. Worst winter we’ve had in years. Supposed to be almost spring, not that you can tell. The roads are a mess. Township doesn’t have the money to keep them up, so they just plow Sunset Road through the village, Middle Loop, Middle Way and Sunrise. The rest of us have to fend for ourselves, except the people on North Wing because of the school.”

  She stops for a breath and I’m glad I studied the map, because I have a vague idea what she’s talking about. Molly Lou is a big natural blond who looks to be of northern European extraction. She wears a blue turtleneck that matches her eyes and her skin is perfect and pale pink.

  “My husband, Chris, has a new snow blade on his tractor, so he’s got us plowed from here to the township office. You didn’t try to go down Grays Road, did you?” She rolls her eyes as if that would be crazy.

  “I’m Sara. I’m staying at the Nelson place, Seagull Haven,” I introduce myself.

  “You aren’t one of the hippies, are you?” She narrows her eyes.

  “Ahh, no,” I say, unsure what she’s talking about. “I’m a writer.”

  “Good. We’ve had some problems with a group of hippies on the north end. I was hoping they weren’t spreading like weeds.”

  “I understand,” I comment (though I don’t understand at all). “You may have heard, Lloyd Nelson’s very ill, so I’m taking care of the cottage. They have the hospice nurse at their home in Findlay now. That’s why they haven’t been back this year.” Without planning it, I make it sound like I know the family. “Wanda is pretty broken up.”

  “So you’re a relation? Here, take off your things.”

  “No, just a friend. I’m a writer and wanted to stay somewhere quiet to finish my book. The Nelsons needed someone to take care of the cottage. Wanda was worried about the pipes.”

  “So do you need your vehicle pulled out? Christian will be home later for lunch. He’s on the township road crew and a handyman for some of the cottages. Had to tow the mailman out yesterday. I’ll get him to plow down to Seagull Haven. We didn’t know anyone was living there. You by yourself?”

  “Yes, but I don’t have a car. I thought I could just walk to the store. Would it be open this morning?”

  “Oh, honey, that place hasn’t been open for years. We have to go to the north end for supplies. Since the population’s dropped, there isn’t enough business for two stores.”

  My face must have shown my disappointment. In truth, I feel like crying. By the map, the north end is almost seven miles away. What have I gotten myself into?

  Island Tour

  Tell you what. Little Chris and I need to get out of the house. Why don’t I give you a ride up to Burke’s Country Store? That’s where we all shop. You c
an get almost anything you need.”

  “I hate to trouble you.”

  “No trouble at all. It’s just a hop and a skip. I need some milk and eggs anyway and there should be fresh fruit.”

  Twenty minutes later we’re bouncing along a rutted, partly snow-covered road in Molly Lou’s gray Subaru. A pickup comes toward us and the driver toots his horn and salutes with two fingers. Molly toots back and gives him the peace sign.

  “Friend?” I ask.

  “Not really. It’s a tradition. A toot and a wave is what Mayor Ambroy asked us to do when we pass someone. Good PR for the island. The salute just gradually turned into a peace sign. Even the tourists and the summer cottagers are into it.” Now and then, where waves have splashed over the breakwall, we hit an icy patch, but my driver handles them easily.

  “That’s Seagull Island Cider Farm and the dorms for the migrant workers,” she says as she turns onto Middle Loop, sliding sideways, almost into a ditch. She points out a large rustic wooden building with a glassed-in wraparound porch, surrounded by an extensive orchard of midsized bare fruit trees. In back, away from the road, are three white metal outbuildings and a long cement block structure that looks like a motel.

  “The cider farm is a big deal in the summer. Lots of people from the Canadian mainland and the US come over on the ferry to watch them press fruit and make cider and wine, then they stay for lunch or dinner. Those are the apple orchards. They’ll bloom late this year because of the hard winter.

  “Earl Prentiss, the owner, has hundreds of acres of apple trees all over the island. He’s started to grow peach and apricot trees too. Makes beautiful wine. During the summer, they have live music at the Cider Mill and also at the two taverns. The orchards, the sheep and the tourists are about all that keeps the island alive.”

  Then she’s silent as we pass fields flat as a pancake, but covered in snow with black rocks sticking up like jagged teeth. Here and there I catch sight of a farmhouse with a barn and white and brown sheep dotting the white fields. For long stretches there are the rows of apple trees she’d mentioned, a semi-dwarf variety with their gray pruned limbs reaching up for the blue sky.

  Alongside the well-tended orchards and upscale beach cottages are homes with multiple vehicles in the yards, some of which are up on cement blocks just like you’d see in West Virginia. Rusty farm equipment is parked next to old boats that haven’t seen water for years. Some of the houses are abandoned, surrounded by brush and about to fall down. There are FOR SALE signs everywhere.

  “No school today?” I ask the little boy in the back, just to make conversation.

  “Teacher’s sick,” he responds.

  “We’ve had so much time off this year, what with the snow, and we only have one teacher. She’s from Toronto and doesn’t like the island life,” Molly Lou informs me. “When I was a kid we had two teachers, but enrollment is down. The new people, the hippies, do home schooling. It isn’t fair.”

  “Why not? Lots of families prefer home schooling for religious reasons or maybe they just think they can do a better job than the public schools.”

  Molly Lou doesn’t respond at first and I think I’ve offended her, but she finally answers in a low voice. “It’s just different here than in the States. There are only about 250 people living on Seagull Island year round. Actually, more like 275 since the hippies came in. They live on a farm on the northeast shore. If their kids came to the township school, we could have two teachers and the island children wouldn’t be missing so much.”

  We stop to let a red squirrel cross the road. It halts in the middle to stare at us, munching something in its chubby cheeks, then continues into the ditch.

  “To the right is the Nature Conservancy’s Park.” My driver indicates a sign and a parking lot. “The tree huggers and land speculators are gobbling up every piece of empty land that goes up for sale . . .”

  A few minutes later, we pass a small airport where two officers in dark uniforms with dark glasses lean against a white van that says CANADIAN BORDER SERVICES AGENCY on the side. I shrink down in my seat. Presumably, they’re the ones who would have registered me if I’d come on the plane.

  Molly Lou stops in the middle of the road and rolls down her window. “Hear that? It’s the eleven o’clock flight from Ohio. After a while you can keep time by the planes.” We both shade our eyes as a single-prop aircraft with a red hawk on the tail circles and lands. SEAGULL ISLAND INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT the sign says on the side of a tiny brick terminal.

  I watch, holding my breath, as the two unsmiling customs officers approach the plane with their clipboards and begin to ask the five arriving passengers questions. “Where are you from? How long will you be here? Where are you staying? Do you carry any firearms, weapons or alcohol?” They intently scrutinize the passports and hand them back. One guy tries to make a joke about the bumpy flight, but the officers don’t smile. There’s no kidding around. No friendly greetings. No “Welcome to Canada!”

  My driver pulls back onto the road and I let out my breath, glad to leave the Customs agents in the rearview mirror.

  Hippies

  Here we are!” Molly Lou points to a two-story green building with a sloping red roof. Beyond is the lake, with big chunks of ice floating in the water, a rocky snow-covered beach and seagulls crying in the wind. I’m surprised when a shiny white convertible speeds into the lot, throwing gravel. What’s the hurry? A woman in tight designer jeans, a fitted leather jacket and knee-high alligator boots runs up the steps in front of us without saying hello.

  Over the double glass doors, there’s an old fashioned sign that says BURKE’S COUNTRY STORE and underneath in the center a seagull in flight. A little bell rings when we enter.

  “Thanks so much for bringing me here, Molly Lou. I really appreciate it. This was a lot more than a skip and a hop.” (In fact I’m so grateful, I feel like hugging the woman. Except for her remarks about the hippies, she seems so generous and kind.)

  “Nothing to it. Now Little Chris, don’t go begging for everything in the store. You know money’s tight until the township pays your daddy.”

  As we enter the establishment, I take a few minutes to look around. There are six aisles in the middle that hold dry goods and canned food, coolers in the rear with dairy and pop, a section for hardware and an L-shaped coffee bar with six stools in the corner. On the right is an area called The Beer Store, apparently a separate outfit run by the province, like a state liquor store in the United States.

  Molly Lou pulls me aside while I’m picking out apples, asks my name again then leads me up to the counter where two clerks, a male and a female, are waiting on the woman in alligator boots. “Anything else, Charlene?” the female cashier asks with deference. “Just got some nice cheesecake flown in from the mainland.”

  “No thanks, all I need is the beer and the sandwich stuff. I wish you would get some IPAs like we asked, though, like Hop Circle out of Victoria or Imperial Beer made in Halifax. My brothers, Jake and Will, prefer them and they’re flying in tomorrow to look at some real estate.” She grabs her bags and two six-packs of beer and without saying goodbye, lets the door slam behind her. No one even blinks.

  “Who’s she?” I ask under my breath, but my companion doesn’t answer.

  “Hi, Molly,” the woman at the checkout says. “Surprised to see you back. Forget something? We just saw you yesterday.”

  “Oh, I needed a few more things and I wanted to show our new neighbor the store. This is Sara Livingston. She’s staying at Lloyd and Wanda Nelson’s place down on Gull Point. Sara, meet Helen and Eugene Burke. If you need anything special they can try to get it for you from the mainland.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the woman answers. She’s about my age with short curly black hair. “I didn’t know anyone was staying down there. Where you from?”

  I swallow hard. I’ve told so many lies I’m getting confused. “Oklahoma,” I try, hoping she doesn’t ask me what town. I don’t know a single city or pe
rson in the whole state.

  “How’d you happen to come to Seagull, of all places?” Helen asks.

  “Sara is a writer. She’s working on a book,” Molly puts in.

  “Really, what kind?” That’s Helen again. (I never knew people would be so curious!)

  I’m just getting ready to explain “It’s a story about . . .” when the glass door opens again and four hippies enter. The conversation stops, abruptly. A cold fog has rolled in.

  “Howdy, Mr. Burke. Miss Helen,” says the bigger of the two men, who looks like someone out of a documentary about the 1970s: long hair, short beard, fringed leather jacket. The smaller of the males is clean shaven, has a buzz cut and wears a green down jacket over a plaid flannel shirt and jeans.

  It’s the women who interest me, probably because my work has always been with women. One is blond and round and carries a baby in a sling on her hip and the other has a long brown braid down her back and is thin and almost as tall as the men. Outside on the porch I see two hippie kids about Little Chris’s age. Molly Lou’s son stares at them like he would like to go out and say hello, but his mom pulls him away.

  “Hi, I haven’t seen you around before,” the tall woman greets me in a friendly way. At first I don’t answer, wishing she’d go away. (Since I’m new on the island I don’t want to get involved until I know more about the social scene.) Out of the corner of my eye I watch as Helen turns her back and picks up the telephone.

  “Yeah,” I hear the storekeeper say into the receiver, “same ones back again. You better get over.” Molly Lou and Helen continue to gossip in hushed voices, but neither takes her eyes off the newcomers.

  “What’s your name?” the hippie woman persists.

  “Sara,” I answer in a low voice. “I just moved here a few weeks ago from Oklahoma, but I’ve lived all over. I’m a writer.” (I don’t know why I offer this information. It’s like I’m beginning to believe it.)