Sophie Malinsky wakes up startled in a fresh sweat. The memory of that day 12 years ago has invaded her dreams yet again.
She contemplates a drive to the river bank. It is only 11:30. She is alone in the house. She has done it before, taken the paved grid through the town to the shoreline by herself at night. She has never thought of letting herself fall into the massive wash of cold muddy water. No, the reason was that the river is where the parting occurred. She finds it best to return to the departure point and speak to the river—it knows best and there is peace in the act.
She rises to reflect, staring without focus at the emotionless bedroom window beyond the cloud of gauzy drapery that covers it. The river is not an enemy. Rather, it is a place of joy and solace.
Chloe loved the river as much as she. The family used to take many trips to the riverside and up the canyon to marvel at nature’s magnificence.
Sophie recalls Chloe’s ninth birthday when all four of them, she, her husband and the two children, headed in the car for Hell’s Gate. It was pleasant mid-morning on a late spring day when they arrived at the Gate to park the car, purchase tickets and wait to embark the shiny red cable car. That was Chloe’s first time to visit the Gate and the first time she was allowed to man the videocam as she wished. They all felt excited as the cabin door was closed and the apparatus released to descend majestically the long stretch of cable high above the river in the Fraser Canyon. Chloe nearly dropped the camera so her dad took it while they all gazed in awe at the steep rocky walls and the thread of river crashing through the gorge below.
“That’s nothing,” scoffed her young teen-aged brother. “It’s not so big.”
“It looks small here,” noted the girl as she tapped her father on the forearm to take over the video camera again and record the moment.
The children’s father spoke to correct them. “The Fraser collects the water from many smaller rivers as it winds its way to the ocean. It has been carving out a gorge along the canyon for centuries, no—thousands of years, ever since the ice age began to melt.”
“You mean it used to be up here?” queried the girl. “The river’s hundreds of metres below us!” she marveled.
“Yes, indeed, dear. That’s how huge and powerful it is. It grinds down the rocks and pushes its way to the ocean unceasingly.”
“Whoah!” said the kids, each just as impressed as the other. “I can’t believe that the salmon make it up the river!” wondered Chloe in amazement.
“They do, though. People have made fish ladders to help them—afterall everybody wants to eat salmon. But each of them has to try to survive the fight upstream.”
The family finished taking pictures and video footage and was ready to dismount when the cable car returned to its dock. They strolled about the station to enjoy the scene from different views and examine the trinkets and memorabilia in the gift shop.
“It really is a fine day,” remarked Sophie, smiling at her partner. “So glad we have the time this weekend to make the most of it.”
“Wanna go farther up the canyon? It’ll be too hot later in the season, as usual,” replied the man.
“What about it, kids?” laughed Sophie. “Shall we continue on up the road and make a day of it?”
“I’m hungry,” complained her son.
“So let’s grab some drinks and snacks. We’ve a picnic in the car that we can eat later.”
“Yea!” cried Chloe. She was still at the age when children love family days.
They happily made some quick purchases before taking the pedestrian overpass to cross the busy narrow highway and return to the car lot. “Try not to make a mess, now,” commanded the mother as her children began tearing open packages while they got back into the vehicle.
The parents listened to a CD of their choice while the kids were hooked up to their own respective iPods and munching at chips and chocolate. Yet it took stern concentration to navigate the narrow winding road among the RV’s and semis and through the tunnels. The adults therefore refrained from speaking during this part of the drive.
In less than an hour from Hell’s Gate they reached the fork of two connecting rivers where the spectacular rushing whitewater of the Thompson River was swallowed by the monolithic Fraser. At the first available site, Mr. Malinsky cautiously reduced speed and made the left turn into the resting and viewing area at the side of the road above the Thompson. The foursome disembarked to absorb the sight of the sage-dotted dry embankments and the mighty blue-green flow. Another party of several 20- to 30-something adults were surveying the water’s movement as the young family met the edge of the cliff. Those people were no doubt planning to go whitewater rafting and therefore the boy was eying the river’s flow with keen interest. He looked upstream to spot patches of whitewater, which would make for exciting passage no doubt.
There being no proper picnic areas between that point and Hope, as far as their driver could think of, the family decided to go still farther to the small town of where there were known to be ample rest sites along the Nicola River just beyond Spences Bridge. “Could we have burgers, then?” asked the teen eagerly. However, his mother answered that she did not wish to waste the food that they had packed in the car for the trip.
The Nicola is a pretty tributary that streams into the Thompson gently through a quiet valley “off the beaten track,” explained mother to daughter. Not many drivers took the road along that river between Spences and Merritt, she said.
“Then the Nicola River is a smaller river,” mused Chloe. “So the Fraser is granddaddy, Thompson is the daddy and the Nicola is the son,” she said with a giggle.
“That’s right, dear, sort of. Well, in terms of size and distance, really,” replied her mother. “In fact, we might find a place to go wading. It’s safe enough, I think,” she suggested, glancing at her husband who nodded his approval.
They soon found an appropriate parking spot in the shade of birches beside the river. The embankment being only one-and-a-half meters high or so, Sophie and Chloe picked their way through the stones and sat down on a couple of large smooth rocks beside the running water to remove their footwear. The water sparkled and the shrubs waved their new leaves as they tentatively placed toes into the chilly stream.
“Ooh! It’s kinda cold!” exclaimed Chloe with pleasure. “Come on, Mom!”
Mother clasped daughter’s belt while daughter grabbed mother’s trouser pocket in seeking each other’s support as they tiptoed along the uneven and slippery stone-covered river bed shin deep in the refreshing water. “I won’t let you fall, Mom,” assured Chloe.
After a couple of hours of play and relaxation by the Nicola River, they decided to start their return home. “Let’s take the fast way, now,” urged the boy.
“Yepper! Let’s get to Merritt and get on the Coquihalla. We’ll have made a complete circle,” said the father with a wink at his daughter.
“Okay!” said Chloe. They gathered their things and completed the leisurely drive past the green First Nations ranches and communities and into the town of Merritt through its “back door.” After humming steadily along the high speed thoroughfare for about two hours, the traffic of three highways merged into one fast superhighway at the town of Hope.
Before leaving Hope, father took them back to the long bridge over the Fraser River, which they had already crossed at the start of their journey that same day. “Now look, Chloe,” he advised. “Just think. That’s all the water we saw traveling through the canyon. Just think how deep that canyon must be at Hell’s Gate.”
“Wow!” said the amazed Chloe gazing through the side window of the sedan at the vast expanse of muddy coloured water surging unrelentingly into the Upper Fraser Valley.
“Yeah, that is impressive,” reflected the teen in a voice he tried to make sound sullen.
“And think of all that grinding through the canyon rocks. The river carries all the ground rock out to the valley here. See those gigantic sandbars? The river builds them. That stuff is great for farming.”
The car was pulled around after completing the traverse one way to take the opposite direction back, and slowed to allow the passengers ample opportunity for photography. Beyond Hope, they took the ramp to a riverside park for another perspective.
The boy stretched out along a bench and looked out across the grey-green river. The “girls” surveyed the scene and looked for stones and flowers along the shore. His father tapped playfully on his son’s shoulder with his knuckles, then he sidled up to Chloe. “Is that big or what?”
Chloe chuckled a bit. “Yeah. That’s big all right.”
“That’s not the whole river you know. You can’t see the whole thing from here.”
“What!”
“Nah, it’s only one arm of the river. It’s separated from the rest of the water by those big sandbars out there.”
“Really? Holy!”
“Yep, it makes for great farmland. That’s why settlers made so many farms out here. It’s a great place for things to grow because of the river. It’s been that way for ages,” explained the parent.
“The First Nations people liked fishing most of all,” inserted Chloe. She ran back to the bench to retrieve the videocam and began recording another sequel to the day’s intriguing drama.
“Yep. Everyone came around here to get the fish. They also did a little hunting and gathering. Like, there are wild potatoes and things.”
“Can we get some, mom?”
Sophie chuckles. “I wouldn’t know what to look for. You’ll have to ask one of your school pals.”
Chloe had been such a happy child, full of light and absolutely thrilled with life and fascinated by everything and everyone. She could have become someone special as an adult, with her intelligence and enthusiasm.
Sophie moves about the living room in the dark, remembering. She shivers a little.
They used to stop by the river in the winter, too. One Sunday afternoon, while the guys were busy at an indoor soccer tournament, Sophie and her daughter decided to get out of the house and into some fresh air. The river’s slow mid-winter cruise fascinated them just as much as its summer rushing rise. Armed with parkas and a thermos of hot cider, they parked the car at the edge of the road and stepped into the frigid air. They faced a sharp breeze and stood in the dazzling January sun to observe the ice flows’ steady passage, mittened hands clutching thermos and cup. The scene appeared surreal. Other than the slight waving of stiff bare branches around them and the flight of a sole crow, they saw no other movement. It was as if they had entered a time period before history, removed from the business and preoccupations of the present. Indeed, the river had always looked like this since the beginning of its existence, some time around the last phase of the ice age amid the explosions and upheaval of the evolving Earth. The strange sound of the shifting snow-covered ice blocks with the river pushing its way underneath them reinforced this feeling of other-worldliness. The pair remained silent as they observed the huge pieces of whitened ice press forward by the rivers undaunted insistence to some unheard universal rhythm. The ice was so thick that one could not see much of the liquid water laboring to transport its burdensome cargo, especially against the glare of whiteness before them.
Soon, the cold became too much and, with a wistful sigh, Sophie lead her daughter back to the car. “That ol’ river keeps going no matter what,” the girl managed to say with numb lips.
Today, the mother feels a frozen river run through her mind and heart unrelentingly, constantly.
It was a vacation day in late August when it happened. The family piled a couple of bikes on the roof rack and headed for the far side of the river in the vicinity of Mission to pick wild blackberries and revel in the last phase of summer. Edging closer to the river’s bank to get the best choice of fruit while the guys roamed back roads by bicycle, Sophie and Chloe slipped on the loose gravelly surface and stumbled over driftwood, buckets in purple stained gloved hands. Setting down the buckets of dark juicy treasure, they suspended the picking to amble along stray logs and toss stones back into the moving waters, waving aside mosquitoes and flies. Sophie decided to perch upon a frayed log, exclaiming “ouch” as the splinters pierced her thighs.
“Be careful, Mom,” warned Chloe.
However, Sophie peeled off her work gloves and proceeded to tug off her canvas sneakers so that she could dangle her feet in the cool water. She felt grimy and sweaty from the work and the water was refreshing. “You should try this, Chloe,” she told the child. “It’s all right. It’s shallow and calm here. The current is weak, right in this spot.” Chloe then complied and took a seat beside her mother, copying the elder to remove her gloves and shoes.
They were splashing each other and laughing when they noticed the hornets. They must have been disturbed by the berry-picking earlier. Chloe was standing on a flat rock ankle deep in the water when one flew at her face and stung her nostril. “Agh!”
That cry haunts Sophie today. She tries to remember how it could have happened, how a moment of joy in mother and daughter bonding could have turned so tragic. It was the last thing she expected. Startled, Chloe must have stepped backwards and slipped and slipped backwards again, finally falling into some recess in the river bed. It was at that moment that the mighty river current took hold of her to drag her along its path. Sophie watched, paralyzed, as the girl was swept away and finally pulled under the surface. Gripped by terror, Sophie, finally launched into movement with the realization that her precious daughter was gone, in an incredible matter of split seconds. She screamed in agony and stepped unthinkingly onto the rocky river bottom only to fall forward herself, cutting her feet and scraping her limbs. She had no control of her movements. “How could she have been so stupid as to dare the river with their flirtatious play on the shore?” is a question she torments herself with to this day.
Sophie had pulled herself, slipping and sliding, back to the log. She suddenly thought to phone for help, but her cell phone had escaped her pocket and was somewhere on the river bottom, completely waterlogged and useless by then. She stood doubled over in pain before she could stuff her feet back into her shoes and scramble up the embankment, brambles tearing at her skin and clothes. She ran to the road and flagged down a passing car, demanding that they call 9-1-1. But minutes had passed and who could determine where Chloe would be by this point. Police were informed and a search well underway when father and brother returned to the family vehicle, roughly an hour after the incident. How to describe their shock? They let their bikes collapse beneath them with the weight of impact that the stunning news hit them with and stood in pale helplessness, cold under the fierce afternoon sun. Eventually, they too joined the search, against the advice of the police.
A farmwoman found her the next day snagged to a fallen tree a couple of kilometers downstream.
Since the day her husband went to the morgue with the merciless task to identify the body, the family unit has crumbled. It was too much for the marriage to sustain. Her son became sullen and withdrawn. He improved as a student, but he cut himself off from people. He chose to move away to study and barely communicates with his mother nowadays. The men still blame her, she imagines, even though they have voiced reassurances that they do not. Their voices ring false; she knows she is guilty. She still blames herself, although the inquest could find no fault. It had just been a most unfortunate accident, said the coroner.
She herself became more and more withdrawn into the safety of frigid solitude and cold mastery of mechanical solemn duty. She readmitted herself to university and completed a master degree in social work. Perhaps counseling others is a safe way to maintain human contact, and a way to pay for her negligence, she imagines.
“It’s been over 12 years since it happened,” she tells herself on this night. “It will never let go of her, that river of time. That river drowned our life. It has dragged our bodies through a course in time that we could not have predicted, against our will, our very essence of being.” Loss could be the only outcome, it seemed.
Was it possible to turn around a make a fight upstream, at this point? That would be pathetic, in their view. But maybe it was the only way to live now, to survive their physical existence. For surviving was necessary. She does not think of seeking enjoyment from life. There seemed no purpose in prospecting for that kind of gold anymore. Yet it was necessary to keep on living for awhile. How, though? How to endure?
How she would have loved having the kind of conversations with Chloe that she had today with Nona! They would have been that kind of mother and daughter. Best friends until—death. Well, they had. It’s just that the parting had come much sooner than expected, and without a chance to say good-bye. It was supposed to be she saying good-bye to Chloe and taking her leave.
“Well, this is what we have here, these circumstances,” signs Sophie, sinking into the sofa’s enclosing cushions. She has tried to accept things before. But she needs some kind of tool, a device by which to accomplish it.
“Would it be a betrayal to make friends with other young women?” she wonders now. The warm and satisfying conversation with Nona has suggested that she might find solace in such company—as a big sister or something—not that she would dare think of finding a reward for her efforts. She does not think she deserves that. She wants to compensate, that’s all. It should have been she who was stung and dragged down by the river.
Catching her reflection in the glass cupboard door above the sink, her graying hair speaks to her. “Well, maybe an auntie or grannie, then,” she chides herself.
She lifts herself up to go to the small kitchen and warm up some milk, switching on the stove hood light to grope for a saucepan from within the reaches of the lower cabinet. No, Chloe would have wanted her to make friends and reach out to young folks. She would have wanted her mother to be happy and live a fulfilled life, she is sure of that.
By the time she is seated at the wooden kitchen table sipping the hot milk, a decision takes hold of her. She sets down the mug and reaches for the pencil and pad of paper she keeps lying on the table, mainly for the making the grocery list. This time, she makes a different kind of note. She will consult the government and local church ministries, as well as the staff of nonprofits she knows, about establishing some kind of teen girls’ circle or club. There is not enough for them, aside from a couple of First Nations programs, the Christian pro-life support services, and employment services. Also, she will contact Nona’s mother soon. The assessment will be done by the New Year, and, by the end of the month, maybe in a Christmas card, she will ask the mother if she may befriend Nona and keep up the dialogue.