Gull Island

By Margot Griffiths

At thirty-six, Marigold Elliott wakes to the certainty she’s living the wrong life. Her hard-driving husband is scaling Vancouver’s corporate heights, her shrewd and beautiful sister is on her way up the social ladder, and her democratic mother holds all in equal judgment. Can Mari break from a stifling status quo, or are the bonds of family too strong? Either way, she’s about to lose the one thing she wants in life.
Fortysomething Charlie Upton fears his life will never be right again. Following a family tragedy that leads to divorce, he returns to his childhood home on Gull Island searching for a semblance of peace.
Their stories unfold in alternating narratives, woven together by an idyllic island off the coast of Vancouver, British Columbia. But the remote reaches of Gull Island are not remote enough for escape from the weight of the past. Ironic, insightful humour tempers an intimate story of love, loss, and healing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781984582447

Margot Griffiths

Margot Griffiths is the author of Angel Hair, set in Victoria, British Columbia, where she grew up. Her novels are inspired by the beauty of the Pacific Northwest and the vagaries of the human condition. She has a master’s degree in psychology from the University of British Columbia and has taught in Canadian and Tanzanian universities. She lives in Point Roberts, Washington, where she is a freelance journalist.

Book preview

Chapter One

Marigold Elliott had learned restraint. She’d learned long ago that outbursts were not welcome, competing as they did with her sister’s rich displays of passion. Their mother’s moods were nuanced—the deep intake of breath, the long exhale, and the compressed line of her mouth. Marigold could read their moods, and if awareness of her own crept into consciousness, she was good at subduing it, keeping her focus on other lives, lives so full of inalienable rights.

And whose rights were more unassailable than Kyle’s? Yet he too had developed restraint of late, at least as far as their marriage was concerned. His attentions were cursory now, businesslike. If he didn’t care anymore, what was the point of seeing a doctor? Had he ever cared to the depth needed if a marriage was to go the distance? Had she?

There were five of them sitting in the lavishly appointed waiting room. Like a Turkish harem designed to turn the tide in reluctant bodies? The receptionist’s three children smiled from a prominent brass picture frame at childless women awaiting an audience with the fertility god.

In one corner of the room, an ancient Anatolian goddess stood sentinel, large breasts and rotund stomach protruding beyond stunted limbs. Marigold knew this because she’d studied ancient civilizations at the University of British Columbia.

The brilliant silk upholstery, rich carpeting, and subdued light from three brass lamps created an illusion of serenity. Five blank-faced women strained in the gloom, thumbing through Good Housekeeping or Canadian Mother.

The clock was ticking. That exhausted cliché. In four months, Kyle would be forty. For a man whose life progressed with the precision of a Swiss clock, this waiting was unacceptable. Every month, there was the hope, then disappointment, and a steadily creeping note of blame. After six years together, it was past time. They both knew their marriage fell short. They presented a united front for family and his business events. And there were times when it was just the two of them; drinking together could still lead to fun. His dark, heavy-featured face could still hold her hostage. A two-day beard looked devastating after as many bottles of wine. But what did that say about the state of the union? And if they couldn’t have a child…

They hadn’t started trying till a year ago. Kyle had found reasons to stall. She’d read a woman over thirty-five should wait no more than six months before seeking help. Time is of the essence, the article stated grimly. It had been a year, and still Kyle was dithering. They insist on testing the man first, he’d protested in his tightfisted voice. Mobility or count or whatever, they say it’s easiest to check, but I haven’t got time for this.

The word was motility. It makes sense, Kyle. With me, the tests will be so much more involved, she’d said, indicating that like him, she knew it couldn’t be his fault. Whatever, she was going ahead without him and his sperm count.

She picked up a magazine and stared numbly at five remarkably similar children. Quints? We’ve never had this problem in the family before. Her mother’s words surfaced like bubbles in a well. My grandmother had six, my mother three, I had you two girls. Fiona’s got three—and she’s barely two years older than you. I just don’t understand… Joan—she liked to be called by her name, not Mom or Grandma—was mistress of the unfinished sentence. You’ve let down the side, her voice implied, sending forth ripples. Not just for Kyle, but the whole family. Did her mother think she had to be reminded of the family’s fertility? The deep intake of breath. The long exhale.

Last week, Marigold had thrown a baby shower for Vanessa, now a mother of three. The old gang from university had been called on yet again for their sorority sister. Vanessa had arrived exhausted, her newborn strapped in a stroller. Another boy. She sighed. Three boys in six years. We only picked girls’ names this time. I wanted Joanna, so we went with Joe. Marigold had held him to her chest, terrified of his wobbling head, which settled into the impossibly soft folds of his neck. I’d have named you Joshua, she’d whispered in the pink shell ear, walking with him into the soft gray den whose walls were lined with autographed pictures of Kyle’s favourite hockey stars.

One by one, they were summoned by the receptionist. Calmly closing magazines, collecting their purses. How did they hide the longing?

Marigold Elliott? The buxom woman behind the desk sounded accusatory. Is it Ms. or Mrs.?

Call me Mari. She offered a smile to disarm this would-be nurse, in whose mind status was conferred or denied on the basis of the answer to her question. It’s Mrs.

You forgot to circle that. Follow me.

They entered a cool beige room with the requisite exam table with stirrups, a small desk, and two chairs.

Have a seat, Mari. Janet will be in to take your history.

Thirty-six on your last birthday? Janet began.

After ten minutes of questioning, the nurse handed her a gown. Take off everything below the waist. The gown ties at the back. Dr. Wosk will be with you directly.

The exam room was cold. Vanessa’s third boy had begun to fuss, and like the fickle bird in Horton Hatches the Egg, she’d wanted him back. She’d hefted her blouse and offered him her mountainous breast. My boys are barracudas, she’d boasted, grimacing as the tiny mouth latched on. All of them, barracudas, she’d said with a smile.

Thirty minutes later came a soft knock on the door, and an austere man entered the room. His appearance was totally at odds with the opulent waiting room. He was small with wire-rimmed glasses framing hazel eyes. His pale-brown hair was combed over his balding head.

How do you do, Mrs. Elliott? I’m Dr. Wosk.

How do you do, and thank you for seeing me. Her upper lip was slick, and her armpits were clammy despite the icy room. She was just another set of parts that didn’t work, splayed out in front of a stranger. A man. I, ah, I admire your Anatolian figure. A real treasure. She wiped her upper lip. I love ancient history.

He was studying her history. Just relax, Mrs. Elliott. He pressed a button on his phone and said, Janet, come in, please.

She closed her eyes. But how to close her ears to the patter of his voice?

Now lie back and try to relax.

The nurse entered the room again and guided her feet into the stirrups. The doctor swung the lamp into position. The heat of it made her already damp parts hot. She tried to envision what he was seeing. Tried not to. The heat grew even more intense. He was moving the lamp closer. The speculum may feel cold, Mrs. Elliott, he murmured.

The baby fawn on the side of the road. Separated from its mother. She’d found it in a ditch by the side of the road on Gull Island. Taken it back to Vancouver and to the vet, who’d agreed to look at it in the back seat of her car. Shone a flashlight on it, looking for ticks before agreeing to provide shelter until wildlife rescue could take over. She felt his fingers probe. Too large a speculum. She heard the soft clatter of metal. This one should do. He moved deftly, quickly, firmly. It wouldn’t do to linger or show any gentleness. Too suggestive. And he seemed such a gentleman. All the more challenging for him. Now I’ll just introduce two fingers to explore. His other hand came down on her abdomen, pushing to meet the one inside. The sharp twinge distracted her. At least he wasn’t looking at that part anymore. He’d be looking up, wouldn’t he? At her stomach where he was prodding. She thought of the fawn, felt a relief from pain, and heard the sharp snap of the rubber glove coming off.

No obvious indication of anything amiss. Everything is in the right place.

He pulled the white sheet down over her knees. He saw so many women. She wouldn’t be memorable. When she opened her eyes, he wouldn’t be thinking of what he’d seen.

Thank you, Janet.

The nurse left the room.

I suggest the usual round of blood tests to determine hormone levels and if ovulation is occurring. My receptionist will go over all this with you and explain the timing of the blood tests, dependent on your cycle. If the blood work is in the range of normal, I’d like to perform a hysteroscopy. Do you understand what that is?

She nodded mutely. A small tube inserted into her uterus with a light, a camera—see what was going on. She’d done her research.

I’m booking twelve weeks out at Vancouver General. I operate Wednesdays and Thursdays. I’ll want you hospitalized the night before. The procedure, with the possibility of surgery sometime in the morning, home in the afternoon. He scribbled frantically in her chart.

Surgery?

An operative hysteroscopy. Once I see inside, there may be a simple procedure that needs doing. Removal of scar tissue is most common. Endless scribbling. So you’ll be hospitalized with a general. Saves going in twice, on the chance.

A general?

Anesthetic.

I see. I’ve never…

He looked up. Never?

What would cause scarring?

Any number of things, but since you’ve had no pregnancies and therefore no miscarriages, it would most likely be caused by a past infection.

I’ve never had—

It’s likely everything will be in order. Let’s take it one step at a time.

Thank you very much, Dr. Wosk. Her voice wavered.

He continued his examination of her face. Just a moment, young lady. He picked up his phone. Enid? Dependent on Mrs. Elliott’s blood tests, back within the next two weeks most probably. I’d like to get her booked in ASAP. A pause. Yes, that’s what I said. A pause. I am aware of that. Reschedule, please. He hung up without waiting for Enid’s reply.

Enid.

Thank you very much. She turned her flaming face to the wall.

He wrote a prescription and handed it to her. Take this to the lab on the main floor for blood work. Enid will be in to go through the timing of this in more detail. He opened the exam room door, then turned back. Maybe plan a weekend away somewhere special.

Pardon me?

A little getaway.

With my husband?

That’s the idea. It’s not always the mechanics of reproduction.

She managed to meet his eyes. He could tell how uptight she was. Thank you. I—we—will do that. Wait till the fertility doctor met Kyle.

And one more thing. His smile was genuine. Yes, she is beautiful, isn’t she? I love ancient history too. Once, in another lifetime, I was on a dig in Turkey. A treasure indeed.

She fumbled into her clothes, blubbering like a child. A hospital stay. She’d be gone overnight.

The elevator was full, but she got on anyway. It wouldn’t have stopped if it had already reached capacity. A small girl looked up at her. Her eyes had no lashes. Her head was covered with a pink bandanna. Mari looked at the mother, pressed into the corner of the elevator. Her face was creased with sadness. She made an effort to smile and then reached down to her child, her hands cupping the little ashen face.

It was four thirty when she backed out of the parking lot. Traffic was at its worst. The Honda strained at the stoplights like a dog on a leash, desperate to go. The red lights gave her time to think. I’ll be gone a few days. A conference. Too obvious, too easy to check. Why not just tell him the truth? But if she waited for the results, she could surprise him. Maybe with good news. There’s a solution, Kyle. They’ve figured it out. It’s my fault. Maybe she could do this without bothering him, boost him up, not weigh him down.

The car behind her honked. The light was green. The Honda lunged forward. One more light and she’d be on the Granville Bridge. Almost home.

Her father had been in hospital after his heart attack. His face had grown thin, his cheekbones jutting, the taut skin flushed with heart disease. I think I’d like to live a few more years, he had said. Her chest felt tight, like in a vice, an iron lung. But that was impossible; people in iron lungs felt nothing. Her father’s face loomed before her—the hollow eyes, the wild, dark hair lying on the rough hospital pillow. They’d given him a quadruple bypass. He never woke up.

She would tell Kyle her news.

She pulled into their driveway. Exposed aggregate. The best. The copper beech drooped artfully to the left of the double front doors, its purple leaves a fretwork against the slate-gray house. Soon they would wither and fall, moving assuredly through change. She pressed the garage-door opener, and the pristine white door slid neatly up. She parked her Honda well to the left, leaving room for Kyle’s Land Rover on the right, closest to the door leading into the house. The air was stale in the hot garage. She took off her shoes and put them in the closet in the mudroom that had never known mud. The house was stifling, the smell of Lysol tainting the still air.

She went through the house opening windows. In the backyard, she threw a handful of birdseed onto the lawn and tested the water in the birdbath. Hot. Bird feeders were frowned upon. Don’t feed the birds, Kyle always said. You’ll create an artificial food source and upset the balance of nature. Besides, they make a mess and attract rats. Let them fend for themselves. He was also adamant about dogs. Mari’s dog, Mollie, had come with the marriage, but she’d died last winter. No more pets. We’ve just refinished the hardwood floors.

She took a bottle of Chateau Cote De Something out of the wine fridge, opened it, and recorked it. She loaded a plate with olives stuffed with feta and cherry tomatoes dusted with dill and kosher salt. Kyle’s appies. She put the plate and the wine in the subzero fridge, then reached to the back of the crisper and pulled out her private bottle of plonk. Kyle didn’t open the crisper. She liked this insignificant white, but he wouldn’t. Life’s too short to drink crap wine, he maintained. She poured a large glass and took her stash of Cheetos from the back of the pasta cupboard. The last of the sun glared off the granite counters. A spicy blend of salt and pepper with a touch of cumin was how she saw the polished stone. With her wine in one hand, ice bucket in the other, and the Cheetos between her teeth, she headed to the garden, to the softest time of day. The heat was easing. The light faded earlier in late August; the relief of dusk came sooner. She put the ice bucket on the wicker table and plopped a handful of cubes in the birdbath. The garden was silent. She used to hear the bees swarming around the zinnias, planted for that reason. Where were they?

The swallows had begun their twilight flitting when she heard the garage door. She jumped out of the wicker chaise and ran to the kitchen. She shoved the Cheetos back in the cupboard. The plate of olives and cherry tomatoes was on a rattan tray when she heard the back door. His wine was poured when he walked into the kitchen. The years hadn’t changed him. Still bristling with energy.

What a day!

A glass of wine is what you need. Come into the garden where it’s cool.

Thanks. He took a large swallow. Ah, that’s better.

You need a break, Kyle. Next weekend, Labour Day, we’ll have three days on Gull Island. The family reunion.

A family reunion is a break?

The place is big enough to find some peace. You’ll enjoy it. You always enjoy Fiona and Boyd, and their cottage is perfection. She picked up the bottle of wine and plate of appies, such as they were. Since Kyle had pared himself down to the body of an underwear model, he rarely snacked. She ushered him toward the backyard. You enjoy perfection—and Fiona fits the bill. She shoved the wine into the ice bucket.

How old are the kids now?

Boyd Junior is almost sixteen. Can you believe it? The girls are twelve and ten. They’re at a great age. They settled into the chaises. And Fiona says none of their friends are coming. Labour is just for family, she announced. You know that way of hers. It doesn’t invite discussion.

Few would win an argument with your older sister. Well, Boyd would.

Boyd Senior?

Of course, Boyd Senior.

True. Boyd Junior rarely speaks to anyone in the family.

Why did they do that? Name their kid after Boyd. Hopelessly confusing and totally narcissistic.

You know everyone calls him Boy.

Still hopeless.

Tell me about your day.

Incredibly busy. The investors from Japan. They arrived today, looking to develop a golf course. They’re hungry to buy. They can get on a plane to Vancouver for less than it costs for a round of golf in Japan. His glass was empty. He waved it at her. "How was your day?

I have lots to tell. She poured him more wine.

Don’t leave the wine bottle uncorked. It’ll attract flies.

"And that’s all it’ll attract. The bees, Kyle. They aren’t here. The bee-loud glade is no more."

The be what? Look, Mari, next week, the investors’ wives arrive. There’s no chance I’ll get to Gull Island for Labour Day. He drained his glass and stood up.

What? We always go. What do you mean you can’t get away?

Well, you can go. She’s your sister, not mine. When the investors’ wives arrive, they’ll want to see the sights. You know the drill—Whistler Mountain.

But—

I’ve got to get going. A dinner meeting.

But I’ve got news—

He raised both hands, palms out. No help for it. I’m on my way. He leaned down to kiss her. You’ve got orange dust in the corner of your mouth.

She poured herself more wine and sat in the growing dark until the bats replaced the swallows, darting like kamikazes. It didn’t matter that she knew all about bats and their sonar. She ducked. Where had they slept all the long hot day?

Missing Labour Day was a first. They’d always gone. How could Kyle resist Gull Island’s privileged East Beach scene? The whole weekend was spent socializing in the enclave of the wealthy. The kickoff Friday night beach party. The volleyball tournament. All those opportunities to show up in shorts. And the daily cocktail hour. Labour Day wasn’t really just for family, was it, Fiona? It was for rigorous partying. Gull Island was twenty miles from the mainland, from the getting on, getting ahead. A place of unequaled beauty and peace in the waters of the Georgia Strait, except that it wasn’t peaceful at all. In the summer months, there was a tone of getting on and getting ahead there too. Everyone was expected for cocktails; everyone played the game. She knew the rules, so why did she feel so out of her depth? Why did it always feel like a party she wasn’t invited to? And without Kyle, she’d be the odd number. But the sun was fair-minded and shone for her too.

And for the local residents of Gull Island, of course. All 1,500 of them. It was their summer too. How did they feel about the arrival of the summer people—the entitled horde? The wives who set up residence from late June till Labour Day. The husbands, boating in every Friday night. The women flocked to the beach when their men arrived on a hydrofoil from Vancouver Harbour. #lovemylifelovemyman. The women who summered on Gull Island tweeted a lot.

She wandered through the silent house, past Kyle’s den with his hockey stars dueling incongruously with his antique Asian chest filled with the diaries he’d written in every night for years. It was locked, and he kept the key around his neck on a silver chain. In truth, she wouldn’t miss his company next weekend, but what did it mean that for the first time he wasn’t coming? Her man would be at Whistler. The site of Vancouver’s Olympics, years ago now, was still rich with development opportunities.

She lay in bed thinking of the little girl in the elevator. It wasn’t just the sadness of that image. It was the unbearable sweetness of her mother’s touch.

* * *

The intake of his breath was sharp, gasping, like a knife was stuck in his ribs. He liked ice-cold showers, his dramatic inhale proving what a hero he was. Sometimes he even shrieked, a sotto voce shriek, followed by a slow, hissing exhale.

Kyle! For God’s sake, turn on the hot water! He couldn’t hear her, but it felt good yelling at him. Her big chance. She pulled the covers over her head.

The water stopped, and he was brushing his lustrous teeth. He’d be on the road to Whistler Mountain in no time. Most people took it easy the day before Labour Day.

Kyle. She lowered her voice and tried to sound supportive. It’s five fifteen. She sat up in bed. Are you absolutely sure you can’t get away this weekend for Gull Island? Even for Sunday and Monday?

I’ve told you, no chance. You know the Japanese investors will want the full treatment all weekend long. Their wives too. Shopping, lunches, the lower chairlift. All those Whistler shops. I should get a cut. He walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Dale will be invaluable.

She’s going too?

I need my admin assistant, Mari. He dropped the towel. She’s bringing her new boyfriend. I got them the last suite in the hotel. A hot tub, a kitchen.

Dale doesn’t cook.

She needs a fridge for her vodka. There’s twenty-four-hour room service if they get hungry, and Rick makes a great omelet, so I’m told.

The new boyfriend.

I booked them a couple’s massage. A reward for working on Labour Day. Dale has arranged everything for the wives—gourmet catering, helicopter tours, yachts, shopping. She’ll free up the husbands for me. I don’t know how I’d manage without her.

He’d never had to. Dale had been his assistant—my right hand—for fifteen years. She’d helped him claw his way up the commercial real estate heap. His looks had worked in his favour too. Smooth hair and skin—unless he was going for the two-day beard—professionally shaped eyebrows, straight nose, a little thick for distinction, nicely shaped brown eyes. Six feet tall. All the right stuff.

He was gone ten minutes later. She went to her closet stocked with all the right stuff. Arty clothes for her admin job at the university’s Museum of Anthropology, chic outfits—not getting much wear—for nights with his clients, Lycra for the requisite fitness regime of the up-and-comers. She put on white shorts, a sleeveless green T-shirt, and lime-green Adidas and headed for her newly modern kitchen and the morning routine. The asthmatic thump of the cappuccino maker, muesli, fresh fruit. She had more than enough time before picking up her mother for the ten o’clock ferry. Besides, they had a reservation for assured boarding, but still, tension gripped her chest. The tension she always felt when picking up Joan, who, no matter how early Mari was, would be waiting impatiently on the street outside her new condominium, worrying they’d miss the boat.

What went on during a couple’s massage? She would never know.

Gull Island was coming into view, and she headed for the stairs to the ferry’s car deck. An elderly woman supported by a sandy-haired man—her son?—was holding up the line. His face looked kind, his patience limitless. Was he oblivious to the logjam they were creating with their torturous progress? Why had they left it to the last moment? Finally, she reached the car. Her mother hadn’t moved, her neck like a ramrod, a Harlequin in her lap.

How’s your heroine doing, Joan?

Almost ready to succumb.

We’re nearly there.

I’m getting stiff here in the car. Her mother shifted her gaze from rigid vigilance on the car in front of them to the Urban Gourmet sack in her lap. I’ve brought carrots to lure the deer. Her eyes glimmered slightly. The children can make a trail of carrot slices from the woods to the backyard.

The deer won’t come with the horses in the corral.

Of course. You remember everyone’s foibles.

Foibles?

The deer were on the island long before Fiona had to have horses.

Her mother could snap her verbal whip in any direction.

She does it for the girls. They love to ride. And so do I.

I hated that your father allowed you to ride.

I’ll always feel grateful for those riding lessons. And lucky.

You’re lucky you don’t break your necks.

The horses are the most reliable ones in Gull Island’s stable. Fiona makes sure of that.

You girls have done very well for yourselves, but don’t forget where you came from.

Honest, hardworking people, right, Joan?

The cars were filing off the ferry.

We’re just in time to see the farthest sandbar. Low tide is at noon.

Oh, Marigold, the farthest sandbar. Her voice softened. The stretch of sand, uncovered for a few brief minutes, enthralled her otherwise prosaic mother. That and the deer.

We could walk on the beach this afternoon, if you like.

Too much to do. I’m making shepherd’s pie for dinner tonight. And on the subject, at dinner on Sunday, I’d like Jane and Elizabeth to be seated on either side of me. Back to business. It’s time they learned decent table manners. She rolled down her window. When does Kyle arrive?

He’s not coming.

What? Her mother’s voice rose in fake disappointment. She’d tried her feminine wiles on him, but he was always looking past her. He could charm anyone and usually did, but Joan had nothing he needed.

He’s on the trail of a big deal. Whistler.

The thin line of Joan’s mouth was more eloquent than words.

They were off the ferry, inching north through Cousins Cove. Much of the traffic drained off to the left, into Clark’s parking lot. A skinny dog barked from the back of a rusting red pickup truck, throwing his head back with each unfocused howl.

We need to stop at the store, Mari. No one will think to bring the pink wine.

It’s in the cooler.

She turned right on to the East Beach Road. The breeze was blowing steadily from the southeast. Seagulls took flight as the car went by, beating their wings but getting nowhere in the wind. The east side of Gull Island had the vast sandy beaches, and Fiona and Boyd’s cottage was built on the high bluff that overlooked acres of sandbars.

She pulled up in front of the cottage. The noon sun was intense. Her mother walked up the path, glancing left and right, inspecting the state of the place. The first leaves of autumn patterned the front stairs.

She hauled in the cooler and jammed the food into the fridge. Then she changed into jeans and boots.

Fiona will be here with the kids on the four o’clock ferry. I need to check on the horses. Okay, Joan?

Fine, fine.

With Fiona cracking her whip, the huge corral in the back acreage had been built in record time. That was last year, when the girls were considered old enough to ride the trails. By then, they’d had three years of lessons at Southlands Stables in Vancouver. Boyd Fraser could easily afford the lease on three horses, even if the animals were only on the property a few months in the summer and the odd weekend during the year. When not on lease, the horses lived on the ten-acre farm in the middle of the island, where they’d been born. They stood placidly in the morning sun, ears and tails twitching at flies, demanding nothing, unlike humans who stood in your life recording faults, failing to factor in their own. Fiona always said she wanted to ride but never found time. Mari always did and could get in a ride now, before the onslaught of the weekend.

The horse was silent beneath her, his body warm, the sweet sweaty smell of him a balm. They stood at the wild north end of the island, alone except for gulls and a barking seal.