Reading the Bones. Gina McMurchy-Barber

      Officer Pratt turned to Aunt Margaret and Uncle Stuart. “I’m surprised your new neighbour didn’t tell you that Crescent Beach was a prehistoric village and burial ground.”

      “It’s because we haven’t met yet,” Aunt Margaret said, holding out her hand. “I’m Margaret Randall and this is my husband, Stuart, and our niece, Peggy. We intended to get out and meet our neighbours, just not like this.”

      “Sure, I know how it is. I’m Walter Grimbal. I live around the corner on Agar.” When he smiled, he revealed yellowed teeth. “I run the Real Treasures and Gifts store over on Beecher Street.” Then he glanced at me. “I’ll bet all this seems pretty exciting to a young lady like you.”

      I’d seen Mr. Grimbal’s store but had the impression it was actually a junk shop. I smiled weakly as he put his cigarette-stained fingers on my shoulder. He smelled stale, like my room when it was filled with dirty old socks. Then I noticed a small hand-carved totem pole hanging around his neck.

      “Walter here considers himself Crescent Beach’s local expert on prehistoric Native people,” Officer Pratt said.

      “That’s right,” Mr. Grimbal said. “If there’s anything you want to know about the ancient folks, just ask me.” He raised his bushy eyebrows and gave another rotten smile.

      “Well, I’ve got to get busy and write my report,” Officer Pratt said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to put your plans for a pond on hold for now, Mr. and Mrs. Randall.”

      “I hope it’s not going to be too long. It’s not our fault that our property’s on top of an old burial.” Aunt Margaret’s voice cut to the point sharp as an X-ACTO Knife.

      “We’ll do what we can, Mrs. Randall,” Eddy said politely. “In the meantime I’d better run along, too. I have a lot to prepare for our excavation.” She shook my aunt’s and uncle’s hands and nodded cautiously at Mr. Grimbal. “I’ll see you soon, Peggy.”

      After they left, Mr. Grimbal turned to Aunt Margaret. “Ah, too bad you got those sons of guns from the Archaeology Branch involved. You’ll have old snooty-pants there prodding around for days, then someone from the band will want to come by ... You’ll be lucky if things are back to normal by the end of the summer. No pond, no backyard, no privacy!”

      “Well, it would be safe to say I do have regrets — mostly that I ever got the idea of putting in a pond in the first place,” Aunt Margaret said. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Grimbal, I’m feeling a bit weary right now. I’m going to have a rest. Nice meeting you and I hope to see you again.”

      “Oh, you’ll see me again,” Mr. Grimbal growled in his raspy voice.

      Uncle Stuart followed my aunt into the house, and I wandered into the backyard. I was glad to get away from Mr. Grimbal’s awkward stare. I knelt by the gaping pond hole with its dark earth and partially exposed skull. Officer Pratt had said it could be as much as five thousand years old — and right here in our yard!

      Gently, I rubbed my fingers over the smooth, sun-warmed skull. It reminded me of the time when my class was studying water mammals at the aquarium. We were each given a box of seal and otter bones that smelled rancid and felt gritty and greasy. But this skull was different. It felt more like the weathered driftwood scattered along the beach and smelled earthy.

      I was scanning the yard for more signs of prehistoric treasures hidden under the thin blanket of earth when a sudden blustering wind caused the branches and leaves to wave and rustle frantically. For some reason I suddenly felt self-conscious, as if someone were watching me. I glanced around the yard and up to the windows, but there was no one. Gingerly, I walked up the stairs and resisted the urge to look back over my shoulder.

      That night my mom called. Before I could talk to her, Aunt Margaret said she wanted some private time on the phone and then closed the door to her bedroom. I waited out in the hall, trying not to listen, but now and then my aunt’s voice would go all shrill.

      “Really, Liz, it’s bad enough having this creepy thing in our backyard. I really don’t think Peggy should ...” Then there was silence. I was dying to know what Mom was saying. I went into my room and quietly pushed the talk button on my telephone.

      “And if anyone’s the type to enjoy getting into a dirt hole to excavate ancient bones, it would be Peggy,” came Mom’s voice from the other end. “She loves that kind of stuff. I know it’s not your kind of thing, Margie, but it would really be good for Peggy. It’s been tough for her this last while, and this is the kind of distraction she really needs.”

      I felt a flood of affection for my mom at that moment.

      Aunt Margaret sighed. “Okay, Liz, I’ll try it your way. I’ll get Peggy now. I’m sure she’ll want to hear what you have to say.”

      “Ah, I have the feeling she already has. Hello, Peggy, sweetheart, is that you on the other line?”

      Moms — they know everything!

      After I talked with my mother for a while, it was impossible to go to sleep. I was excited about helping Eddy with the excavation. The only thing I wasn’t happy about was that Mom wouldn’t be around to share the experience.

      Moving to Crescent Beach with my aunt and uncle at the beginning of summer was part of my mom’s plan to get me back to nature. She’d just finished reading Unplugging Our Children from the Electronic Magicians when Aunt Margaret and Uncle Stuart announced they’d bought a house near the beach.

      “All the jobs are out east, Peggy,” Mom had told me. “Given our circumstances, I think the best thing for you would be to stay here and live with Margie and Stu for a while. It will be the perfect opportunity for you to learn to appreciate the outdoors.”

      The part about learning to appreciate the outdoors was fine, because I really enjoyed nature. In the city, being “outdoors” meant busy streets, tall buildings, apartment blocks, and stores. In Crescent Beach it meant seeing the whole sky, smelling the salt and the seaweed from the ocean, hearing birds, the breaking of waves, and faraway voices. I loved everything about living in Crescent Beach — except it wasn’t with Mom.

      After about two weeks with Aunt Margaret, I pleaded with Mom to let me stay with Aunt Stella and Uncle Ron in Vancouver. They had four kids, and Nicky, their oldest, was my favourite cousin. But Mom figured it would be too much to ask them to take on another kid. So then I tried to get her to let me go to Golden to stay with Aunt Norma, who didn’t have a husband or kids.

      “Norma is far too busy with her work at the newspaper,” Mom said. “She’d never be around to watch you.”

      Exactly! That was what would have made it so perfect.

      At least the new house had given Aunt Margaret something to focus on besides me. She spent most of her time painting walls or picking out flooring or window covers. If it wasn’t for that, I’d be her project. And since I started living with her, I’d discovered we hardly ever agreed on anything. Aunt Margaret thought I should be reading the classics, while I preferred mystery novels. She kept buying me icky pink and mauve outfits made of spandex to replace my comfy old hockey jerseys and skateboard T-shirts. And then she started talking about signing me up for pottery classes or guitar lessons so I could make new friends.

      “Why can’t she just let me decide what to wear or what to read or who to be friends with?” I complained to my mom on the phone one day.

      “I guess she’s forgotten what it’s like being young. Give her time, pet. She’ll come round.”

      Aunt Margaret’s latest kick was making me do my own laundry. She said I needed to learn to look after myself. That was fine with me, because it meant she stopped coming into my room five times a day — even when there was a mountain of dirty clothes on the floor. I think she figured I’d give in when I had nothing clean to wear. But she didn’t really know me that well. Every time I left the house wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and socks that didn’t match, I could see her almost pinch her lips shut. I