KYRSTIN AVIS BAIN

Refraction

PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2024: VOL. 39.

Refraction, definition: the redirection of a wave as it passes from one medium to another.

Along with our tickets, the man at the counter hands us two cherry-red ponchos, their plastic so thin as to be see-through. I pull mine on and we giggle as I spread my arms wide to demonstrate the corpulence of the thin plastic sheeting, a silly sight rendered hilarious by the mezcal margaritas we downed at lunch. It hangs even looser on Liz, who is rapidly losing weight. The implosion of her marriage has done more for her waistline in two weeks than any six-month gym membership has for my own.

On the deck of the boat, she pushes back the poncho’s hood to listen to the smooth recorded voice of the tour operator, eyes fixed on the loudspeaker while the other tourists watch the approaching falls. I blink against the light. Post-margarita, the world feels bright and jagged. The voices of the crowd, three hundred strong, reverberate against the water, nearly drowning out the sound of Liz’s cellphone chime. She checks the message, frowns, and puts it away, returning her focus resolutely to the speaker on the wall.

I poke her in the ribs—skinny—to direct her attention forward. As the boat slips toward the cathedral-like Horseshoe Falls, the sound begins to drown out the cacophony of the crowd and the continued chiming of Liz’s cell. The next time she checks, she flicks the ringer to silent. 

Two weeks ago, when she called to tell me what he’d done, she cried silently on the line, unable to form the words.

“The bastard dumped me,” she finally managed. It didn’t seem like the right word to end a fourteen-year relationship—a marriage—but it’s what she felt: thrown away. After fourteen years you don’t expect to hear, “I never loved you.”

In the movies, women are always using the rain to hide their tears, but as we turn our faces into the spray and let the river wet our cheeks, Liz is smiling. The water is only water, saltless and cool, smelling vaguely of gasoline fumes and a cliffside after a storm.

Above us the horseshoe devolves into a cloud of mist. The boat hits a swell, and we yelp and grab for the rail. It’s as slippery under our hands as the moment is in time. 

Next week she will come home to the West Coast, leaving behind the life she’s built in Toronto. She will drive across the prairies singing Thank U, Next to the bison on the sides of the highway. We will laugh about him over many margaritas for many years. I used to joke that they were the only people I knew who made me believe in love and marriage. I still believe in love, but only because my best friend still loves me.

She laughs now. “Let’s take a picture,” she shouts over the roar of the water. In the photograph we are smiling with all our teeth.

As the boat pulls away from the falls, sunlight cuts down through the mist. Golden light spills over the edge of the cliff in a flood. It refracts, splits, doubles, and disperses. As we pull away, distance reveals the rainbow.

Kyrstin Bain is an undergraduate student at the University of British Columbia, on the traditional and unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy ̓ əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx ̱ wúmesh Úxwumixw (Squamish), səl ̓ ilw̓ ətaʔɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations. She is a professional film costumer and a long-distance hiker. Her work explores themes of queerness, nature, and authenticity of experience.