Our Homesick Songs

Emma Hooper

• Publisher: S&S/ Marysue Rucci Books
• Year: 2018
• eBook ISBN: 9781501124525
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

From Emma Hooper, acclaimed author of Etta and Otto and Russell and James, a People magazine “Pick of the Week,” comes a “haunting fable about the transformative power of hope” (Booklist, starred review) in a charming and mystical story of a family on the edge of extinction.

The Connor family is one of the few that is still left in their idyllic fishing village, Big Running; after the fish mysteriously disappeared, most families had no choice but to relocate and find work elsewhere. Aidan and Martha Connor now spend alternate months of the year working at an energy site up north to support their children, Cora and Finn. But soon the family fears they’ll have to leave Big Running for good. And as the months go on, plagued by romantic temptations new and old, the emotional distance between the once blissful Aidan and Martha only widens.

Between his accordion lessons and reading up on Big Running’s local flora and fauna, eleven-year-old Finn Connor develops an obsession with solving the mystery of the missing fish. Aided by his reclusive music instructor Mrs. Callaghan, Finn thinks he may have discovered a way to find the fish, and in turn, save the only home he’s ever known. While Finn schemes, his sister Cora spends her days decorating the abandoned houses in Big Running with global flair—the baker’s home becomes Italy; the mailman’s, Britain. But it’s clear she’s desperate for a bigger life beyond the shores of her small town. As the streets of Big Running continue to empty Cora takes matters—and her family’s shared destinies—into her own hands.

In Our Homesick Songs, Emma Hooper paints a gorgeous portrait of the Connor family, brilliantly weaving together four different stories and two generations of Connors, full of wonder and hope. Told in Hooper’s signature ethereal style, “this delicate elegy for a dying way of life crescendos into a love song binding family members across the waters” (Kirkus Reviews).

(1993)

There was a mermaid, said Finn.

Yes, said Cora. She pulled an old towel up over her, a blanket.

Out on the dark green night water, said Finn, there was a mermaid. And, because mermaids need to, it sang. Sad songs, homesick songs. Night after night, over a hundred thousand fish. And the only one who could hear it was a girl.

Lonely, said Cora.

Yes, a lonely girl, said Finn. Orphaned. But tying knots and listening to the mermaid sing made her feel a bit better. All through the night, she’d lie awake and knot and listen to the songs.

And then the storm, said Cora.

Yes, the storm, said Finn. There was a storm one night. And the girl couldn’t think of anything but her parents not being there, and the knots weren’t helping as much as they should, and the mermaid was singing and singing, not high and pretty, like you might think, but low and long, like she felt, so the girl got up, out of bed, and followed the song down to the water.

The sea.

Yes, to the sea. Where the storm was wild and it was probably too dangerous—

Definitely—

And it was definitely too dangerous, but she kept going anyway, the mermaid’s singing washing up to her, calling out to her. She walked all the way to the edge of the sea and then, even though it was freezing cold, she took another step into the water. She should have sunk down, but she didn’t. She stayed on the surface.

She what?

She stayed on the surface.

She did? I don’t remember this part . . .

She did. Because the sea was so thick with cod, brought out by the singing, hundreds of thousands of them, she could walk on them, right across their backs, out and out and out toward the song . . .

Oh . . .

And it got louder and louder until it was louder than the wind, until—

•  •  •

Until she saw it wasn’t a mermaid at all, said Cora.

Yes, said Finn. Until she saw it wasn’t a mermaid. It was Dad. It was our dad. Singing.

Cora and Finn were on the ferry, going west. The sun had set and their parents were asleep, leaning against each other, surrounded by bags and boxes. There was no one else there. It was too foggy to see out the windows, to check for boat lights or anything else. Too quiet and late for music, too much pull of the sea for reading. There was nothing to do but tell stories. Tell this story.

And then? asked Cora.

And then everything, said Finn.

(1992)

The lichen on the rocks were orange and yellow and green. Ten-year-old Finn hopped from one patch to the next. He was wearing his sweater with two jumping fish on it and the zipper pull clicked up and down with every jump. Green, click. Green, click. Yellow, click. Green, click. The wind pushed his hair flat against his forehead.

Up ahead, fourteen-year-old Cora was in the same sweater, only bigger and with caribou instead of fish. They were on their way home from once-a-month school, where all the homeschooled kids in the region met to do some kind of activity or go on some kind of trip. It was funded by the government, as it was cheaper than running a real school for so few of them, and usually involved a trip to the fish plant or step-dancing lessons on someone’s porch. The guides were always just someone’s mom or dad. The government gave them seventy-five dollars to do it, so there were lots of volunteers.

We have to stop at the bakery, Cora called back over her shoulder.

How come?

Mom said.

To get pie?

Yeah.

But it’s nobody’s birthday, is it, or a special occasion?

Don’t think so.

Do we get to choose what kind?

I do.

But I—

I do.

But nobody got to choose, because there was only one. In the whole bakery there was only one pie, with nothing around it and nobody there to sell it. Finn rang the bell and waited. Cora went and sat down at one of the tables in the shop’s café. There was nobody at any of the others.

Eventually, Jack Penney, the baker, came in through the back door with a book under his arm. So sorry, he said. So sorry, so sorry. I’ve been trying to learn big machinery mechanics.

You have big machinery back there? For the bread? asked Finn.

No, it’s a correspondence course, said Jack.

I bet big machinery doesn’t smell as nice as bread, said Cora, from across the room.

No, I don’t think it will, said Jack.

Are you leaving here? asked Finn.

Probably. Probably, yes, said Jack.

They got the only pie, dark berries and dark molasses crust, and continued on toward home.

• • •

Martha, their mother, was outside, fixing bits of board that had blown off the house in the night. Lassie tart, she said. Good choice.

You didn’t give us any money, said Cora. We couldn’t pay for it.

But Penney gave it to you anyway, didn’t he? said Martha, in between hammer strikes.

He said it didn’t matter because he’s going to be rich soon, said Finn.

There you go, said Martha.

Still, said Cora. Still, Mom.

Aidan, their father, was inside, standing by the stove, stirring. Cora put the pie down on the counter beside him. Can I go next door to do my schoolwork? she asked.

Be home by six for dinner, said their father. And careful on the stairs, they might be rotted through by now.

Next door was abandoned. Cora liked to go there and pretend it was hers. What about you, Finn? asked Aidan. You got schoolwork?

No, said Finn.

Accordion practice?

No, said Finn.

You wanna chop carrots?

Sure. Dad?

Yeah?

Why are we having pie and boiled dinner? Is it somebody’s birthday?

We can’t just have nice food sometimes?

We don’t. I mean, we never do, other times.

Well, maybe tonight we just are.

OK, said Finn. And then, It’s nice, Dad. I’m glad we’re doing it. He chopped perfectly round medallions of carrot, like pirate gold.

• • •

It will only be for a month at a time, said Martha.

On and off, said Aidan. One month each, one of us away and one of us back here, here with you.

And we’ll both take some time off for holidays all together, once we’ve saved a bit, said Martha.

And, anyway, it will just be for a little while, said Aidan.

Until things here pick up again.

It’s really no big thing.

No big thing.

Really.

If it’s no big thing, said Cora, then take us with you.

No, said Aidan.

Yes, said Cora.

Not yet, said Martha.

Yes yet, said Cora.

No, said Aidan.

Why are you going? said Finn. He looked up from his plate, where he had arranged his food in piles according to color. Carrots and parsnips here, potatoes, pease pudding and bread pudding there, salt beef in the middle on its own.

Finn, you know why.

But you have jobs, you have jobs here.

We have vocations, said Martha. Not jobs anymore. Nobody needs fishermen when there are no fish to catch, nobody needs nets. You need to be needed to have a job.

To get paid, you mean, said Cora.

Well, said Aidan.

Yes, said Martha.

What will you do? said Finn.

What?

What will you do there that you can’t do here?

We’ll be helping power the whole country, Finn, said Aidan. We’ll—

We’ll be in a tool crib, said Martha. We’ll be handing out tools. And taking them back.

Oil and gas, said Cora, toward the window, away from them. Like everybody else.

To who? said Finn.

To the whole country, the whole world, said Aidan.

To specialists, said Martha. To people who know how to use them.

You’re not specialists?

Not at everything. Not at those things.

Oh, said Finn. He pushed a piece of meat into the carrots pile, into the parsnips. Apart from wind against windows, from forks against plates, it was quiet.

Will you go on a boat? he said.

It’s too far, said Martha. We’ll start on the boat, but then we’ll have to fly.

Finn looked at Cora, then to the window where she was looking. He waited for a bird to pass, but none did. Oh, he said. Wow.

An adventure, right? said Aidan.

Not for us, said Cora.

I guess, said Finn.

• • •

Martha went first.

They drove her to the ferry, all of them in the car, Martha and Aidan in the front, Finn and Cora in the back.

It won’t be for long, said Martha, once they had arrived, taking her bag out of the trunk, after kisses, after good-bye.

Sure, said Cora.

Really, said Aidan.

No big thing, said Martha.

Finn didn’t say anything. Just watched as his mother walked onto the ferry. They’d all been on the ferry hundreds of times. Thousands of times. No Big Thing, he chanted in his head. NoBigThingNoBigThing.

Martha turned around and waved one more time after crossing the heavy steel bridge onto the deck. Finn squinted his eyes and she blended with the boat’s white-paint background, disappeared.

Before driving home, Aidan took a shining silver flask out of the glove box. There was a fish engraved across its front. He took a drink, held it in his mouth, then swallowed and started the car.

Cora stared fixedly out the window, away from her father and away from her brother. Finn tapped his finger against the seat’s vinyl, NoBigThingNoBigThing.

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Table of contents

• Cover
• Dedication
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Acknowledgments
• Author’s Note Regarding Songs
• About the Author
• Copyright