Where The Waters Meet: A Novel

By Stéphanie Boulay

“Readers might see the concept captured in the title of two strands of a river coming together, their waters commingling as a manifestation of puberty itself, that wretched amalgam that is neither childhood nor adulthood.” — Quill & QuireShe lives outside the village, in the woods, near the river, with her sister. Or her mother. She doesn't really know. Her life is simple, but nothing ever stays the same. Her body is changing; life around her is changing, too. And there aren't many people around who can explain to her what's happening.A story with a sombre offbeat mood, guided along by a narrator using unique and colourful language.Originally published by Québec-Amérique as l'abri deshommes et des choses

• Language: English
• Publisher: Enfield & Wizenty
• Release date: Apr 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781773370354

Book preview

At night, I hear them dying

I live in a place where, at night, I hear the mice dying. Clap. Clap. They don’t make a sound, except when they’re caught by the tail and go running, that thing trailing behind them. I’m afraid to see them running or dying. If I have to go pee, I cover my face with my hand and sing one, two, three, the cat is coming, even though that’s not true, we don’t even have a cat. I just want to scare them a little more. I wonder if we can die of fear, or lose our hair over it, or go grey from it. Titi says my bad moods are the reason for all her grey hair. I don’t know how she can be unhappy when I’m the one who’s so miserable. Leave me in peace to suffer.

Our house is not super-super clean. It smells strongly of coffee, dust, incense, and alfalfa. The furniture is dented from the shapes of our backsides. Mine is small—I always take the same spot on the loveseat. Soil from our plants is spilled everywhere, the glasses have fingerprints all over, and there’s always some kind of mess on the plates when we pull them out of the cabinet, some crust from who knows what. But Titi spends a lot of time taking care of the outside of our house because that’s important. After all, a clean river is always far more appealing than a dirty one. I say this knowing that, in the village, the two rivers end by joining together, one side with the other. One half flows clear, the other brown, with a sharp line down the middle. Our house is built right where the waters meet, where the brown gets browner. It’s useless to say which side I prefer.

I love the freshness of nature when it’s beautiful. I swim in it.

At school, they ask: Who is your mother? Who is your father? I have no idea. I have Titi and that’s about all. I’ve never asked her what she is to me. I’m too embarrassed and, anyway, it seems like a strange question to ask. I do know that she’s been there for as long as I can remember. I don’t know if I drank from her breast when I was a baby, but I saw that in a magazine the other day and it made me feel weird to think about doing that with Titi. I don’t know if she made me up or if she wished for me or anything like that. I’ve never called her mom or dad like the other kids call out when they get picked up from school. Anyway, Titi keeps me tame. She argues with me, gives me things, little kisses, she talks to me, cleans. Some nights, she pulls at her hair and yells that she’s going to leave, for good. I suppose that’s what mothers and fathers do all the time.

The thing is, we don’t have a man in our house, not like in traditional homes. Titi says we don’t need a man to do things we can do ourselves, which is everything. But I think—and I don’t want to hurt her feelings—that it has something to do with whether we are pretty or not, because other women in the village have men at home and those women are really gorgeous. Titi can’t know I said that; she would cry and listen to really slow songs that sound like prayers I don’t understand. But if she asks me what I think, I can’t lie—if I do, things will get heated. I’ve never lied, except once or twice. After I did, as punishment, Titi made me chop the heads off the fish she caught (so they won’t struggle too long for air) while they were still wriggling around. Sometimes, though it’s rare, a fish slips through my fingers, and when its heart falls out of the hole accidentally sliced into its neck and lies there beating all alone, it makes me really sick to my stomach, and I’m not very tempted to start again.

That’s why I’ll be honest: I prefer 3.5% milk and I’d like to eat two ripe avocados a day, thank you very much.

Around here, we have dirt roads, like in the old days. Other people spend their days searching for nuggets of gold in the belly of the Earth, trying to get rich. There are almost never avocados at the grocery store (though there’s always a lot of dead animal meat). Titi and I watch the Moon grow and imagine taking a bite out of it when it gets plump and juicy, to help it slim down. It always works. We decorate the windows with tree branches that wither and fall, leaving dry, dead scraps we never sweep up. We look at travel brochures for other countries; that’s how we know that here is not like everywhere else. Over there seems nicer, more pleasant, and I’m certain it’s not as freezing as our hellish winters. But in summer, we’re happy. We don’t wear bathing suits when we go swimming. The adults passing by jeer at us, draft petitions, threaten to call the police. Titi is our defender—she tells them we shouldn’t teach children to be ashamed of their bodies, that humans are beautiful and our parts, private or not, are simply there. They never, ever listen to her, and when Titi is really sick of their spectacle, she makes dolls that she pokes with needles while saying their names out loud (names I can’t remember). I think that’s really something.

If I compare myself to others, I don’t really have a girl’s body (a girl’s body is all about boobs, you know, and mine haven’t really grown much and don’t swing around like they’re supposed to).

When autumn comes, we run around and peel apples, since I’m allergic to the skin, even when there’s no poison on it. My boots, which I nicknamed My Little Canadians because it makes Titi laugh, are covered in flecks of mud and perfect for kicking rocks and exploring in the woods—the boots of an honest person, male or not.

Soon, it will be winter. I find it tough, preparing everything, preserving jars of pickles and tomatoes, these thick soups that Titi likes, and this disgusting pork tongue that I really hate. Soon, a fire will dance in the hearth, it will be Christmas, and I won’t get any presents because Titi is against aggressive capitalism. I’ll wait for the song I like to play on the radio and hope that Titi doesn’t turn down the volume right in the middle of it. It goes siiiigh lint niiiight, holey niiiight, oillll is commme, oillll is sprite, if I’m not mistaken. We’ll walk along the pale brownish-white roads wearing our faux furs like snow-wolf trainers and no one will speak to us. Titi will have a few drinks, and I’ll have to clean her nose, mouth, and hair all night long with a towel.

I’m bad, bad, I’m awful, she’ll say.

No, you’re good, you’re good, Titi, I’ll reply.

Now, the waiting starts, and I am a moron

The other night, the school called the house again. After, Titi said that I was a moron; she was extremely angry and her hair got wet all over her head. Maybe I’m a moron at school, but at least I know what a moron is and I know that it’s sad to die. I also know that moron rhymes with Yukon, and it’s way too cold here for me. I was furious. I threw a tantrum, started running around the table grunting, clapping my hands together, and slapping myself in the face.

Petting my branch made me feel better.

The river is encrusted with ice. I can’t even go for a dip to make myself feel better; I’d have to be a madwoman to do that. So now the waiting starts. Once the water freezes over, the ferry doesn’t cross anymore (it no longer honours its name or its reason for being). I don’t know who’s on the other side of the river, the brown side. I never really catch a glimpse of them and they don’t mingle with our society. The people in our village say they’re bohemians, tramps, barbarians. I saw on the ferry that they wear clothing and walk upright like us, but I don’t know what language they speak. Their skin is pretty much like mine, they have hair, all of that. I don’t know if there are children over there, I’ve never seen any. And anyway, if there are, they don’t go to school and most certainly spend their days hiding up in the trees. Titi says the people on the other side are self-sufficient and removed from civilization. They don’t have a market, so they have to come to our side if they want