What We Hold In Our Hands by Kim Aubrey Page A

pulls in the bumpers, releases the boat from its mooring, and starts off with a burst of speed, which lifts the bow so that he can’t see what’s ahead. Slowing it a little to reach a plane, he heads towards the islands where they used to anchor for a swim and a picnic. Luke wishes he had one of his mother’s tuna sandwiches now, along with a thermos of lemonade, but he forgets about food as the cool air rushes at his face, the salt spray splashes his arms, and the sun warms the top of his head. He has driven the boat plenty of times, but always with his parents and sisters along. Now he feels different—older, freer, more excited, and more afraid. The hairs on his arms and legs rise. His scalp tingles.
    Liv’s foot twitches as if she would like to kick someone. She’s reliving one of the fights she and Larry had before they were married. They’d been snorkelling amongst the coral reefs. Liv’s head was still full of the brightly coloured fishes she’d seen—red squirrel fish, blue and yellow angelfish, a milky purple man-o-war, the pale green body of a moray eel whose head was hidden inside the reef. Larry was trying to start the engine, which sputtered as it ran out of gas.
    â€œI asked you if the tank was full,” Liv said.
    â€œNo, you didn’t,” Larry argued. “I assumed your father had filled it up after the weekend.”
    â€œWhy should my father keep the tank full for us?”
    â€œHe usually does.”
    â€œNot after the weekend.”
    â€œAre you trying to make me look like a fool? You and your father…”
    â€œWhat? Do you think we planned this?”
    Larry grabbed an oar and started to paddle on one side of the boat. Liv took the other oar, trying to help.
    â€œNo! Sit down.”
    Liv sat. The afternoon sun scorched her skin. Larry had a thing about her father, maybe because he’d grown up without one. She watched him attack the waves with the wooden oar. It would take hours to get anywhere. A cloud crept across the sun, cooling the breeze. Larry looked like a little boy playing ship’s captain, or pirate. She couldn’t decide which. Luckily, another boat came along and lent them a tank of gas. Larry helped Liv out of the boat without looking at her, his lips pressed tight, eyes glistening.
    She touched his face. “Marry me,” she said.
    A white boat approaches from the west. The driver waves to Luke, who slides down in his seat, slowing the engine. POLICE, the side of the boat reads. Shit and damn, as Lucy would say. He considers racing away. He’d keep going, out of the harbour, past the breakers, out to the open ocean, until he ran out of gas. And then what? He’d be fish food, that’s what. Like his father always said, “Respect the ocean, sport, or you might end up food for the fishes.”
    Liv sees the infant arms and legs of her children. Lucy’s are pudgy and pink. She learned to walk early, making a point of running away whenever she could. Liv watched her toddle down the garden path, yellow curls bobbing, hurling herself at the trunk of the white cedar, arms stretched around it, face looking up into its long limbs, where Larry stood balanced on one fat branch, hammering nails into a board. Luke was there too—four years old, playing on the gravel path, sifting pebbles through his fingers. When he saw Liv, he ran to her and grabbed at her cotton skirt, wiping his constantly running nose on the hem. Liv could not lift him because her arms were full of ripe lemons. She called to Laina, jumping rope with a friend, “Bring me a basket for these lemons, sweetie.” Laina dropped the rope and skipped to the house without a word to fetch the basket.
    Laina puts away the vacuum cleaner, the dusting rags, the Lemon Pledge, the Windex. The house looks clean and neat. Windows gleam. She has even cleaned the piano keys. In ten days, her grandparents will be here, returned for the