Hungry Ghosts Read Online Free

sign in his lap: I DIDN’T FIGHT IN WORLD WAR II TO PROTECT YOUR LAND .
    Ontario Provincial Police cars lined the gravel road, their motors idling. Exhaust was carried upward by the wind. A dozen or more protestors stood warily across from them, stamping their feet to stay warm.
    â€œIf you can hear that drumming behind me, Peter,” said the reporter, “the natives have built a sweat lodge behind the barricades.” She pulled a grim face and pointed to a structure behind the overturned buses. “It looks like they’re here to stay. I had a moment to speak with the CEO of the pulp company, Malcolm Byers, for his reaction to the occupation.”
    The camera cut to an executive in a white shirt and striped tie.He looked relaxed, tanned. He sat behind an expensive-looking wooden desk.
    â€œWe have a provincial permit to proceed with our mill and we’re going to do what the law says we can. These are Crown lands. What we’re doing is legal, and believe me, the residents up here need the work. You remember the scene in The Graduate —the future’s in plastic? Well, wood fibre, that’s the real future. Recycled paper. Every time you see a picture of a dead bird strangled by a plastic bag, we have a marketing opportunity.”

    When Celia Jones arrived in Manomin Bay, her father took her aside, out of her mother’s earshot. It was her first time home in a year. She saw the lines in her father’s brow, the grey tinge of fatigue. Eric Jones was frightened too. But not of native protestors disguised with bandanas.
    â€œShe let herself out about an hour before you got here. I found her wandering down the gravel road towards the reserve. She said she saw a broken down truck from the upstairs window and wanted to go over to see if she could help. But there was nothing there when I found her, just some old red plastic pylons.”
    â€œCripes, Dad,” Celia said. “She could have been hit by a car. There are no lights on that road.”
    â€œShe’s losing us,” her father said, his voice catching. “It’s getting worse all the time. We try our best. She takes notes, keeps lists. We walk a lot, down to the bay. And the old photographs,” he smiled sadly. “Those help.”
    â€œHow long has she been like this?”
    Celia’s mother had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s years before, but her parents had coped so well that her condition seemed barely noticeable. Until this visit, when her shakiness and disorientation were obvious.
    â€œA couple of months, I guess. There was a doctor up here a fewweeks ago running a clinic. I took her in for tests: blood, urine, the whole nine yards. Dr. Kesler was supposed to call back with results. Nothing yet.” His forehead creased as he fought to hold back tears.
    â€œWhat did she say about Mom’s symptoms?”
    â€œShe said she wanted to see her results first. She should have called by now. It worries me that she hasn’t.”
    â€œNow, Dad, no news is usually good news,” said Celia. But as it turned out, she was wrong.

    â€œWould you like some tea, dear?” Emma Jones said kindly. She held the kettle in the air. It was the third time she’d asked. Each time the kettle boiled empty when she forgot to unplug it.
    â€œThanks, Mom.” Celia followed her mother into the kitchen.
    A burning pot, a frying pan left unattended, could burn down the entire house. Celia was starting to understand what her father had been dealing with.
    She felt guilty; she hadn’t known. She and Alex had been caught up in their own affairs, getting Beatriz ready for surgery, trying to navigate a tangled bureaucratic maze.
    Emma looked puzzled. “I don’t understand why you’re home so early this year, Celia. Have you finished school already?”
    Celia sighed. She gave her mother a hug. She’d got her law degree over a decade before. She’d been a lawyer with