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“Call me when you’re across the border, okay?” I say, giving Sophie a hug. I add, in a whisper, “and let me know when you’re coming back through just in case I can’t handle it here.”
“I will,” she promises, and they jump back in the van.
I watch them pull out, and for a moment I’m overcome with an urge to run after them. I could flag them down and fling the side door open and jump in. Then I wouldn’t have to go inside or start my summer job at the toll booth on Monday. But before I can act on it, they turn on to the road, honk twice, and they’re gone.
My dad has my two boxes stacked in his arms. He carries the load ahead of him up the walkway and in the backdoor. I follow him in and take off my shoes in the entryway.
“Your room will be down here,” he says. “This’ll give you some privacy. Our room’s at the other end of the house.”
“Isn’t this your exercise room?”
“We moved everything to the side.”
A weight bench, tread mill, and TV stand have been pushed off to the far side of the small rectangular room to fit in a single bed. The one bookshelf is filled with paperbacks and movies. Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Dean Koontz.
“This’ll be fine,” I say. “Thanks.”
Pat is in the kitchen brewing coffee when we come out. She hands us each a cup, and my dad takes his into the living room and opens a newspaper. The kitchen has been redone since I was here last. Oak cupboards, marble countertop.
“How was the drive?” Pat asks.
“Fast. We left Salt Spring Wednesday morning. So it only took us two and a half days.”
“Did you bring any clothes that’ll be appropriate for work, or do we need to take you shopping?”
I look down at my velvet shirt and Indian cotton skirt. I don’t remember what I packed. “I’ll go see,” I tell her, and I bring my coffee into my temporary room.
I kneel on the floor and open the boxes. I didn't bring many clothes, and what I did bring is scrunched up, wrapped around breakable items. I unwrap and spread my things out on the floor around me. The jewelry box and the wooden candle holder with the half burnt black candle can go on the bookshelf. The framed picture of arbutus trees on Salt Spring can go on the nightstand table with my journal. The Mexican blanket I wrapped around me on the long nights in the VW van can hang on the wall.
I sit on the bed and look around. Yeah, if I scatter a few things around the room, it'll make a big difference. I lay back and count the seconds until the bed stops moving...one...two...three...four. The ceiling is speckled with little shimmering flecks. My dad and Pat’s muffled voices seep in from the living room.
Then, the phone’s ringing. I must have dozed off. A moment later Pat comes in. “It’s a collect call from Sophie.”
I pick up the extension in my room and wait for Pat to hang up the other line. “Hi, Sophie! You made it?”
“Yeah, we’re in International Falls.”
“No problems getting across the border?”
“Oh man,” she says, “we totally lucked out. We had the coolest Customs officer. He just asked us a few questions and then told us to have a good trip. All that worrying for nothing.”
“That’s awesome.”
“So I just wanted to let you know we’re across. I have to go. We’re going to drive through the night.”
“Okay. Have a good time. And don’t forget to call me when you come back through.”
Differences
Fort Frances is a mill town, meaning that most of the people who live here either work at the paper mill or at a job that exists because of it. Here, people own four by four trucks and go driving around for fun. And, because the mill makes paper products, people here don’t believe in recycling. In fact, when I ask where the recycling bin is as I’m being trained on my first day at work, my trainer tells me that the recycling bin is the garbage can.
“Job security,” he says.
I smile politely and look down at my black cords and white cotton shirt, the only respectable-looking clothes I brought. The guy training me is wearing jeans, though, so tomorrow I’ll wear whatever I want.
The job is simple. There are two of us inside a six by ten booth that sits at the base of the metal international bridge that’s privately owned by the mill. On one side of the bridge is American Customs, and on the other side is Canadian Customs. Traffic heading into America stops at the right hand window, and traffic coming into Canada stops at the left hand window. Each car pays four dollars to cross.
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