Birthmark

By Suzanne Benner

Netalie arrives in Hand Creek—small town, Alberta—determined to find her birth mom. A job at the Cold Water Café seems like the perfect place to quietly carry out her search. She soon realizes however, that without a real plan, locating her mother may not be as simple as she hoped.

The sense of injustice Netalie carries since she was nine years old is as hard as stone, and just as cold, rubbed smooth from years of slowly turning in her mind. It taints every relationship, making friendship difficult. So it’s surprising when talking with Thompson—the old man who runs a gas station outside of town—quickly becomes part of her daily routine. With his unusual approach, he manages to bypass her defences and befriend her. Does he see something in her that no one else can?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne Benner
• Release date: Jun 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988041417

Suzanne Benner

Suzanne Benner has been memorizing and presenting Scripture verbatim for thirty years. She writes for OneBook and lives in Calgary with her family. BEHOLD is her second book.If you are interested in having Suzanne recite all or some of Revelation at your church, you may contact her at: [e-mail]

Book preview

~ one ~

Before she retrieved her duffle bag from the ground, gravel crunched under the wheels of the departing Greyhound. A hand bereft of jewellery shielded her eyes from the dazzling sunlight as she watched it go. Dust and exhaust fumes temporarily contaminated the air she breathed, her solitary existence accentuated by the bus vanishing from sight.

Netalie pulled her faded navy sweatshirt over her head, as defence against the morning chill. She poked heavy arms into the sleeves and released her long brown hair from the crewneck collar. Barely five in the morning, but the full light of day rapidly approached. The Esso station, which doubled as a bus depot, stood on the west side of Highway 2, a lone sentinel on the endless prairie. Another bus ride, in a long succession of bus rides, completed.

She heaved her sack of worldly possessions over her shoulder to walk the twenty paces past the pumps to the sole building in sight. A quick glance at the posted hours and then her Timex, told her she had about an hour to wait before it opened. Moving to the east side of the building to make the most of the limited solar warmth, Netalie tossed her bag against the wall and flopped down on top of it.

The only evidence of her exotic travels over the past three years were the black ink stamps on her passport, now buried deep inside the hockey bag that served as her luggage. She had returned to her homeland, but not her home. The past prevented her from returning home. So instead she wandered her native land, cooking at a logging camp near Smithers, British Columbia; waiting on tables in Weyburn, Saskatchewan; landscaping in Thompson, Manitoba; pumping gas in Kenora, Ontario. Never had she remained stationary long enough to be known. Predestined to end up in rural Alberta, she had at last arrived.

An ancient heart beat within her, though she hadn’t reached twenty-one. The distance travelled, both body and soul, took its toll. Anger and guilt constantly wrestled for supremacy as her brain recited the litany of wrongs she had suffered and committed. The sense of injustice she carried since she was nine years old was as hard as stone, and just as cold, rubbed smooth from years of slowly turning in her mind. The process exhausted her. Now, she had no energy for the task ahead of her; nor did she have the strength to resist it any longer.

Weariness of body overcame restlessness of mind. In that sheltered spot, in the morning sun, her body gave in to slumber.

Hey. Wake up. A gruff voice pierced Netalie’s dreamless sleep.

Are ya drunk? Whatcha doing here? A worn boot kicked the duffle bag beneath her sprawled body.

Her eyes opened to a featureless shape looming over her. She squinted at the man. With the sun behind him, he seemed enormous. Shadow obscured his face, the colour of his hair, his expression.

No, sorry, I— She said, unable to stifle a yawn.

Sitting up, she tried again. I was waiting for the gas station to open. She flung her arm in the direction of the highway. I came on the bus. Her mouth stretched wide with another yawn. I must’ve fallen asleep.

Well, it’s open now, he said. The sapphire of her eyes arrested his attention. His face softened into a smile.

The tone of his voice and outstretched arm seemed to Netalie the warmest invitation she had received.

A broad calloused hand grasped her smaller one and effortlessly propelled her into standing. The old man, for now she could see wiry white hair jutting out from under the green John Deere cap on his head, handed her a key attached to a carved piece of wood.

I reckon you’ll want to use the restroom, he said, his left hand pointing. It’s around the other side.

Netalie tugged back the zipper of her duffle bag to find her small fabric toiletry case. Her muscles, cold and stiff, complained as she walked in the direction he indicated. The key turned easily in the lock. Inside the large but mostly empty room, she assessed herself. Though she carried 15 more pounds than she wanted to, her tall frame could handle it.

Water burst out of the faucet with a slight turn of the tap, splashing beyond the confines of the sink before she quickly turned it back. It remained cold, even after letting it run a bit, but it felt good to wash the sleep off her face. She scrubbed a night’s worth of grit from her teeth, then brushed her hair and pulled it into a ponytail.

As soon as she entered the shop, the man handed her coffee in a Styrofoam cup. She wondered who he was—the owner or just an employee?—as she took in her surroundings. There was a stool by the counter with the cash register, so she sat on it. There she added two creams and a couple of packets of sugar to her coffee.

Netalie found a Mars bar within arm’s reach, unwrapped it and chomped a third of it with one bite. Only then did she dig in her pocket for the coins to pay for it.

Where you headed? His wrinkled and weathered face gave the impression of a lifetime spent outdoors.

Hand Creek.

His eyes widened in disbelief, but he covered his surprise. Hand Creek is beautiful this time of year. Of course you don’t have to take my word for it; ask the 847 other people who live there.

Sarcasm or friendly mockery? wondered Netalie.

Not your typical tourist destination, he mused. You plannin’ on walkin’? It’s close to thirty miles from here. Oh, I s’pose you young folk think in ‘kill-oh-metres’ these days. I wouldn’t know how many of those it would be. Seemingly unaware of the one-sidedness of the conversation, he pulled a stubby pencil from behind his ear with grease-darkened fingers. Licking the lead, he wrote on the edge of the newspaper open in front of him.

Let’s see now. One kill-oh-metre is equal to zero point six of a mile, so I multiply thirty by…no, wait, maybe I should start with miles. One mile is equal to one point six kill-oh-metres. Kind of interesting, eh? Point six one way and one point six the other.

In spite of herself, Netalie laughed. It’s about 50 clicks.

Clicks, you say? So I don’t have to just learn how to convert, I’ve gotta learn the lingo too? He shook his head and shoved his hands into the pockets of his gray-blue coveralls, an embroidered badge saying Thompson above the left breast pocket.

A moment later he leaned conspiratorially close to her. This government, he said, with his elbows on the counter, is making me sell gasoline by the litre now. I have no idea if I’m givin’ it away or makin’ a killin’.

Meddlers, she said. She smiled in spite of herself, unable to remain aloof from him.

Exactly! he said triumphantly. So how were you planning to get there?

Huh? she replied. Oh. She shifted her weight on the stool. His closeness unsettled her. I haven’t quite figured that out yet.

Not only is she adventurous, but spontaneous too.

More like lost and afraid, Netalie thought but didn’t voice. Her throat dried; her palms began to sweat, as if some mysterious internal transfer of fluids had occurred. Next, her heart rate increased and her thigh muscles began to twitch; one by one the familiar symptoms of an adrenaline rush appeared. Rational thought suspended, nothing could quell her rising panic.

White knuckles gripped the stool. With closed eyes, she attempted to slow her breathing. Why can’t I keep this from happening? she questioned herself. The unfounded emotional assault eventually passed, as it always did. The panic attacks still blindsided her, though their frequency lessened with the passing years.

The man winced at her distress. What did I do? he asked himself.

When she opened her eyes the man had turned his back and was busily straightening cigarette cartons on the shelves, as if nothing had happened.

Embarrassment washed over her. She berated herself because she couldn’t even receive casual attention from an old man without feeling threatened. Once again, escape appeared to be her only option. She rose from her place to make her exit.

It might have been her conscience or an awakening desire to overcome her phobias, but most likely it was the man himself who compelled her to stop before she reached the door. Say, Mr. Thompson, you wouldn’t happen to know anyone going to Hand Creek today, would you?

Not Mr. Thompson, just Thompson, Thompson Ford. With three long strides he moved out from behind the counter and shook her hand. He wondered about the impossible as he held her hand. Could he believe his eyes? Pleased to meet you, he said as if she had just entered his shop. As a matter of fact, I do.

So, she found herself in a rusty yellow pickup truck with a sticky clutch, beside a sack of mail and a loquacious postal worker who was willing to bend the rules just this once.

An hour before noon she walked up First Street to the Cold Water Café, as instructed by Thompson. With a deep breath to steel her resolve, she deposited her bag on the sidewalk and opened the door. Four pairs of eyes followed her progress across the linoleum. Small-town curiosity, she told herself. Only her internal coaching kept her moving across the room.

Does that keep hair from growing on your chest?

Startled, Netalie touched the silver medallion that hung by a leather cord around her neck. Is it too late to change my mind?

The earnest dark brown eyes that peered up at her belonged to a small Asian boy perched on a chrome and red vinyl stool bolted to the floor. His bare feet swung in midair, causing the stool to swivel slightly.

The jangle of the café’s door chimes stilled, leaving the snickering of two hefty farmers at the counter as the only sound. Their massive plaid-covered shoulders shook uncontrollably.

In a voice tinged more with embarrassment than disapproval, the woman behind the counter said, Walter Poon McKinnon, where are your manners?

Her pale complexion and insistent freckles provided a striking contrast to the boy’s raven black hair, which she tousled with her hand. Her fingers slid tenderly down his brown cheek.

Don’t mind my son. He’s four years old and says whatever comes into his mind—no matter how bizarre.

Air rushed from Netalie’s lungs. This is what a four year old boy is like, she thought.

Have a seat, honey, the woman continued as she wiped the counter. Do you want some coffee?

The coffee shop had four tables, symmetrically placed, with four chairs at each, as well as six stools at a high counter that was split in the middle. Netalie weighed her options. The tables beckoned to her—safe isolated islands, an opportunity to regain her confidence and find her voice. Yet the knowledge that small town mentality rests heavily on first impressions forced her to choose a place at the counter.

Since the miniature comic and his groupies occupied the three left-hand stools, she slipped onto the middle stool on the right. Coffee would be great, she said. Then without thinking, she heard herself say, Black.

Mystified by her own statement but too self-conscious to contradict herself to request both cream and sugar, the more the better, she glanced to her right, where a calendar hung on the wall. May 1981. The name Massey Ferguson written in bold black letters hovered above a red tractor of some kind. The local realtor? she wondered. She quickly exhausted everything that could be read but kept her eyes fixed on it, as if it could unravel the secrets buried in this town.

The boy jumped off his stool and scrambled up onto the one next to Netalie. My name’s Wally, he said, but you can call me Poon. It’s my other name, and I like it better.

We thought we should give him a Canadian name, so he wouldn’t stand out when he went to school, explained the waitress.

Wouldn’t want his name to make him stand out, quipped one of the farmers, since there isn’t another slant-eye within a hundred miles of here.

Ignoring the jest, she moved a glass of chocolate milk from the other counter to in front of Poon, then poured Netalie’s coffee. The plastic name tag pinned to her apron read Joan. When she returned the coffee pot, she poured a glass of ice water and placed it in front of Netalie as well. I’m Poon’s mom, Joan. He’s my only claim to fame, but that’s all I need. Isn’t that right, Poon?

Yep, because I’m your favouritist boy in the whole world.

So, what brings you to Hand Creek?

Do I stick out that bad?

We’re not exactly on the main drag here. Hey Herb, Joan turned to the men, when was the last time you saw someone in town that you didn’t know?

Just last week, as a matter of fact, said the closest farmer, turning slightly on his stool, someone driving a showy German car with American plates on it.

That was the Reynolds’ boy, said the second farmer, elbowing his buddy. You know, the one who became a dentist and moved to Florida.

Really? What was he doing here?

Oh, you know kids, trying to talk Alma and Harold into retiring in the Keys, no doubt. The two began discussing how kids didn’t have an appreciation of the land these days.

Joan turned to Netalie. I rest my case. Her casual manner reduced the tension that had built up in Netalie.

Actually, I’m looking for a job, she ventured.

Really? Surprise rather than skepticism tinged her voice. Did you hear that, Poon? This young lady might be the answer to our prayers. How long are you planning on staying?

No suspicious questions about why she would look for work in a dinky inconsequential town as opposed to the city; no looking for ulterior motives; no target for Netalie’s cultured defensiveness.

Stunned by the simple trust implied by Joan’s statement, Netalie stammered, At least until the end of the summer. Internally she cringed at her thoughtless pledge to a three-month term. Only minutes ago, before entering the café, she convinced herself that four weeks would be enough time to discover what she needed to know. Her search required not so much a scapegoat to bear the blame, but someone to explain her life. Even during Netalie’s lowest moments, she wouldn’t admit that the emptiness inside her would take more than answers to fill. When Thompson Ford suggested the coffee shop might have a job available, she seized the idea. Fantasy quickly took root, convincing her that the café was the focal point of town life. As far as local gossip was concerned, it would be second only to a barbershop.

You’re hired.

Joan’s acceptance challenged her habitual reticence. Don’t you need to know anything about me? she blurted.

Well, it would be helpful to know your name, Joan conceded.

Oh. Sorry. I’m Netalie—that’s Netalie with an e, not Natalie. I’m kind of particular about my name. What a fool I am, she thought.

Netalie, I’m so pleased to meet you. I hope you’ll soon feel right at home here. With that she disappeared behind a swinging door into the kitchen.

Netalie drank a mouthful of coffee. Bitterness caused the swallowing process to falter. She glanced about for some sugar to rescue herself from her own foolishness.

It’s a hard job, spoke the voice beside her.

Is it? she asked the boy. Do you work here?

Yep and yep, he answered.

Unaccountably drawn to this peculiar boy, she attempted to extend the conversation. Maybe you could help me out. You know, give me a few pointers.

That’s a good idea, he said solemnly. First, the knife goes beside the spoon, not the fork. He hopped off his stool and dashed to the nearest table to grab some cutlery to demonstrate. And if you drop a spoon or fork on the floor, you’re never allowed to just sneak it on the table; it has to go back to the dishwasher even if it doesn’t look dirty.

You sure know a lot. Have you worked here long?

Oh yeah, a long time. My mom’s the boss, you know.

Is she a good boss?

She’s the best. She gives me chocolate milk and cookies for free. Suddenly he gasped and clamped his hand over his mouth. His eyes darted toward the kitchen, then toward the men on the left. Slowly he removed his hand and whispered, You might not get that.

Don’t worry, she said, matching his confidential tone, I won’t expect it.

Netalie watched as Poon returned the silverware to its place. There he discovered his neglected colouring book with a half-finished picture. The book absorbed his attention; their conversation forgotten.

With choreographed precision, the men drained their mugs, swung their legs to the side and heaved their bodies into standing. Joan appeared on cue to take their money. They called their farewell greetings to Poon, who responded with an upraised arm. His eyes, however, remained firmly fixed on his picture. Netalie watched the process with a sense of longing; everyone seemed to know exactly what to do except her.

Can I get you something to eat? Joan asked as she stacked the plates. Beef barley is our soup today, or there’s ham quiche, but you really haven’t lived until you’ve had one of my BLTs.

The sandwich sounds great.

Poon, come wash up for lunch.

The boy followed his mother into the kitchen. What is an Asian boy doing in rural white Alberta? Netalie wondered briefly. The obvious differences between mother and son didn’t seem to be a barrier. Yet, she didn’t dwell on these new acquaintances. Instead, in the quietness, her mind reached toward the one thought that had preoccupied her consciousness for the last twelve years. Who is my mother? Aimless wandering hadn’t brought her to Hand Creek; destiny had.

Like everything being drawn toward the earth’s centre by the irresistible force of gravity, so Netalie was overpoweringly drawn to the source of her being. Compelled to find her origin yet terrified to uncover further rejection, she lived in perpetual tension.

However, it wasn’t the search for her mother that forced her to flee her home. No, it was the boy. On that day in October, fate drew a line in the sand of time. From that moment, her life would always be measured in terms of before and after. The day the victim became the perpetrator of evil, she told herself.

It’s your fault, even now, she railed against her parents. You showed me how to keep a secret. You taught me how to lie.

Voices from her past filled her mind.

What’s wrong?

This isn’t like you, Netalie.

It was an anxiety attack.

I can’t help you unless you talk to me.

Her greatest torment was the missing voice.

And from Rickie there was nothing.

Her parents knew her secret, but no one else could even guess. Unfortunately, she couldn’t bury the shame; it stalked every thought, every deed, every moment.

For the thousandth time, she replayed her last confrontation with her dad. It’s just going to take some time, he had said.

Time? I screamed at him. You think time can fix this?

Okay, he had conceded, maybe getting away isn’t such a bad idea. We have a little money saved up. You could take a trip.

Clearly it hadn’t occurred to him that she would never return, could never return. Frantic to numb the pain or purge the wickedness from within her soul, she raced from continent to continent, from mind-altering drugs to ascetic experience. Yet, nothing could erase the anguish of that Friday night in early October. Nothing could exorcise the demon within her. Instead she discovered that running from her recent past meant running toward her distant past, a pair of dark secrets that moulded her life. Mysteriously, but intimately joined, her suffering and her sin defined her. If only she could discover what it all meant.

Right after lunch, you’ll have to go to the post office to talk to Lois.

Joan’s words yanked Netalie from her thoughts. Disoriented, she asked, I beg your pardon?

Joan placed the toasted sandwich in front of her. What’s the story that carried this girl into town? she wondered. Reluctantly, she stifled the urge to question or make assumptions. Something told her to deal gently with Netalie. If you are looking for a place to stay, Lois would be the one to talk to. She rents out a basement suite in her house. It’s outside of town, but not too far to walk. If she can’t help you, come back here and we’ll work something out. Otherwise I’ll see you at seven tomorrow morning.

Okay, answered Netalie. In her mind, she questioned why anyone would offer to help her. But twice in one day? Highly unusual. After a moment she added, Thanks, but Joan was already attending to the lunch crowd that had started to gather.

Netalie’s first bite sent a stream of juice from the tomato across the counter. Embarrassed, she mopped it up with a napkin. Poon had yet to return to his chocolate milk beside her; those filling up the small café seemed oblivious to her. As she methodically finished the sandwich that had indeed surpassed her expectations, she considered Joan’s cheerful manner. Her simple sincerity and the absence of prying questions awoke in Netalie a long suppressed desire for friendship. No one in the past few years had come close to penetrating the walls of defensiveness with which she surrounded herself, until that morning, when Thompson Ford had offered her his hand. Is it my fragile state of mind that caused the emotional voltage I feel just being in this town, or is it truly the people themselves—the old man, this pretty woman and the peculiar Asian boy—who seem to emanate a type of acceptance I haven’t experienced before?

Unable to answer the question, the need to be alone gripped her. Leaving some money by her plate, she took one last wincing gulp of now cool coffee. Before she could slip out unnoticed, Joan called out, See you tomorrow, Netalie.

Her battered duffle bag waited on the sidewalk where she had left it. Hoisting it