Dive

Brian took a swig of his flat beer and leaned back in his seat to survey the bar. The red vinyl banquettes were gummy and smelled of sweat and old beans. If you ran your hand along the crack where the seat met the back, you would find peanut shells, straw wrappers, wadded up gum and, if you were lucky, the occasional dime or quarter. The music was old but not nostalgic, a steady beat one note above elevator. The bar only stocked draft beer and a few dusty bottles of low quality spirits. The bartender, Stan, a grizzled ex biker, though efficient was surly at best. There was one lone server, Barb, a bottle blonde with mottled tattoos who showcased her deflated breasts and varicose veins in low cut tops and mini skirts and had a voice like tires on gravel that was usually laced with a nasty cough that Bob was pretty sure, thank god, was not contagious. But, Brian loved this place. It was a place of low expectations. It was a place where having all your teeth, hair and limbs made you a king.
Brian knew a lot of people didn’t get the attraction. They thought it was just desperation, a desire to get laid. His best friends, Chuck and Ian, were always trying to set him up with their wives’ friends. “Oh, she’s a gem,” they would say. Or “You have to taste her tuna casserole. One bite and it’s love.” But these women were always so full of hope and expectations and Brian wasn’t willing to work hard enough to sustain any of it. Here, at Kings, all it took was a toothy grin, a hand raked through his hair, a quick stroll around the bar, and the ladies swooned. Not that he hadn’t had a few bad experiences, the broad who had stolen his wallet, the time he found a needle in his bed, the redhead who had stalked him until the pensioner in the scooter had swept her off her feet. But over all, he loved being king, love waking up next to someone to whom nothing was owed and who he would likely never see again. This was his kingdom.
The back door swung open and Brian craned his head to see who it was, an old-timer with whom he could chat, a new face he could convince to leave with him. But it was a whole group of kids, kids who looked too young to drink, dressed in skinny jeans, toques and neckerchiefs. They were chatting with subdued enthusiasm. He caught a sentence from a skinny blond girl in oversized black rimmed glasses who was affecting an awkward walk. “Oh my god this place is so perfect. Check out the old Pilsner sign. I bet it’s an original. No way these guys are digging irony.” A skinny pale guy hampered by jeans so tight and low slung he could hardly walk and a messenger bag weighed down by turntables nodded in agreement.
“I know right. I found this place and knew it was the place. You couldn’t make this shit up. Look under dive bar in the dictionary and I swear there’s a picture of this place.”
Brian looked around to see if anyone else was as confused as he was. A few of the old-timers at the bar were turning around looking perplexed but mostly the crowd was content to stare into their beers. Barb walked by. Brian grabbed her arm. “What’s going on?” he whispered.
“What do you mean?” Barb answered with a shrug.
Brian gestured at the group of kids who were now standing in the middle of the place observing the regulars with a mix of awe and disdain. “Those guys. What are they doing here?”
“Same thing you are Bri I imagine. Looking for fun.”
“Here?”
“What’s wrong with here? You seem to like it enough.”
“Right but…it’s not…they’re young…what do they expect to find here?”
Barb laughed a deep cackling laugh that turned into a phlegmy cough. When the fit subsided she answered. “Actually, they’re starting a new night here. Some kind of dance thing. Some kid Trevor, Travis, something like that, asked Stan for permission and he thought it was a good idea. Drum up a bit more business. Fresh blood, fresh money, all that.”
Brian shook his head and drained the last of his beer. He tipped his glass toward Barb indicating that he wanted another. She grabbed the empty pint. “Just to let you know, that’s going to be five bucks.”
Brian almost spat out his mouthful of beer. “What? Since when? I just had one and it was three fifty same as always.”
“Sorry. Comes with the new night. After nine. Stan figures the new crowd can afford the new price.”
“And the old crowd?”
Barb shrugged. “Sorry hun.”
Brian scowled and raised his shoulders in defeat, turning his attention back to the kids. The skinny boy with the messenger bag was setting up turn tables on a table a few feet away from the bar. He plugged a few things in, touched a few buttons; a few lights glowed on the equipment and suddenly the monotonous elevator music was shattered by the beats of have base and twangy synth. The kids clapped their hands and began to twitch in spastic windmill motions.
Brian searched the room for familiar faces, someone who could share in his incredulity, but everyone was focused on the kids and several of the regulars were now even bopping their heads. He spotted Barb walking towards him with his beer but before she could get to him, a skinny arm tipped with a biker glove grabbed her wrist and dragged her on the dance floor. A skinny boy who could have been a clone for the dj, save for his red hair and purple bandana, bumped hips with Barb and she erupted in a fit of coughing laughter. She stayed in the flailing mass for a few minutes and then, sweaty and smiling, made her way to Brian’s table, beer still intact.
“Whoo that was fun,” she panted as she set the glass down on his table. Brian pulled out his wallet forcing himself not to grimace as he handed over a five dollar bill. “You should give it a try,” Barb urged gesturing towards the impromptu dance floor.
Brian looked over. A few regulars, spurred no doubt by Barb’s inclusion, had tentatively shuffled towards the mob. The kids were welcoming them into the circle, wordlessly indicating their acceptance with exaggerated clapping and an increased frenzy to their movements. Harry, an old timer with a walker, made his way to the middle of the circle and started shaking like he was having a fit. The kids went wild.
Brian tried to look away but his eyes kept going back to the pretty girls in their tight jeans. They were so young but he couldn’t help but imagine what their hair would smell like, the way they might giggle when he kissed their necks, the firmness of their legs. Certainly they would have no expectations from an old man like him.
He took a few swigs of his beer. More people were joining the flailing mass. What was stopping him? He put his beer down and strutted over slowly, trying hard to look neither eager nor tentative. The kids parted and ushered him in. He smiled and bopped timidly. They smiled and clapped. Someone whistled. The music was loud. The floor vibrated under the bass. Brian let his limbs go loose. He let himself enjoy the moment. He turned his head and locked eyes with a stocky kid with a piercing through the bridge of his nose and big stretched out ear lobes. He caught a brief glimpse of his reflection in the kid’s glasses. An old man swaying cluelessly to music he didn’t know. What a joke. Might as well have no arms, no legs, no teeth and no hair. There was a new pecking order.

Taking the Plunge

Jay admired herself in the full-length mirror, pleased with the way her broad shoulders formed an inverted triangle as they tucked into her compact waist, pleased with the closely shorn brown hair that gave her a slightly alien appearance and above all pleased with the ropey muscles that scurried beneath her skin like rodents. She stretched the silvery swim cap between her pale hands and pulled it over her heard, tucking in her ears. She snapped on her goggles, adjusted the band with practiced eased, and tested the suction against her eye sockets, enjoying the pressure in her skull. Last, she tugged on her swimsuit a few times, around the leg holes, across the straps on her shoulders and above her nearly flat chest, testing to make sure every millimeter of fabric was exactly where it belonged. She gave her reflection a winning grin. This was it. This was going to be her race.

Up in the rafters, the noise of the swimmers and spectators woke Leon from the strange dream he was having. He shifted in the small nest he’d made of his belongings, trying to dislodge the images of faceless doctors in an antiseptic hospital. He knew it was the smell of chlorine that did it to him but he didn’t mind too much. It was safe here. He’d stumbled on the haven by accident. While crossing the bridge to the downtown core, he’d paused to admire a tree just turning orange with fall’s bite. Looking at the tree, he’d noticed a gap between the walls and the roof of the adjoining building. Without stopping to consider the height or the traffic at the bottom of the hill, he’d hauled himself and his bag up into the tree and then into the gap. He squeezed through the dark hole and nearly plummeted to his death. Luckily he regained his balance, and, clinging to the wall, lowered himself onto the thin ledge that circled the perimeter of the inside. Once his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that there was no floor here, just the ledge and a series of rafters crossing above the dark expanse of the pool. He experienced a brief moment of panic but it was quickly replaced by joy. Here was a warm, dry place that was too hidden and too frightening to attract other residents.

Below, Jay stretched by the pool. She ignored the other swimmers who stretched in small groups around her. She focused on her breathing, picturing herself slicing through the water, felt the smooth wall underneath her fingertips and then her feet as she pushed off. Her group was ready. She headed to the started block, anxious for that perfect moment when her arms would cleave the water and the sounds of the pool would be replaced by her rhythmic beating of her own heart. The moment furled around her until finally, with an agonizing screech, the starter bell cried. She dove into its echo.

Leon rolled on his stomach and dangled his head over the edger of the rafter to watch the action below him. From here, there was only a hive of dots but Leon enjoyed the almost omniscient vantage point. His eyes were drawn to a silver dot below. It stood apart from the other clumps. Leon immediately felt a kinship with this lone dot. He tried to imagine who this dot was and what it must be like to compete for pleasure. He touched his rib which was sore from an altercation with another binner. At the same moment, they had both spotted a pile of bottles someone had kindly stacked by the curb. The other binner, a young pockmarked man suffering the ravages of crystal meth, had shoved Leon, sending him to the pavement. The dots gathered at the edge of the pool and Leon watched as the silver dot was swallowed by the water. It quickly surfaced and began to pull ahead of the others. Go dot go, Leon thought. You can do it. You don’t need the others. Leave them behind.

Jay couldn’t see the other swimmers but she knew she was ahead of them all, knew it in her bones, knew it in her muscles, knew it in the ringing of her ears, knew it in each beautiful gulp of air that she took.

Leon strained his eyes to follow the silver dot. It was pulling further and further ahead of the pack. This tiny silver dot, this little fleck all on its own, was going to win. Leon let out a whoop of excitement and suddenly, he was falling, falling, falling into the blue sea of swimmers and one tiny silver dot.

Jay felt the water open up around her as something heavy dropped in front of her. She felt the air above the water move in a collective gasp of surprise. She saw a wet, mass of hair and clothes in front of her. She didn’t pause. She swam towards it. Through it. Over it. Pushing the heavy pieces away from her. Ignoring the thrashing below her and in the next lanes where panic was starting to build. She swam hard. She swam fast. She swam well. This was her race.

A 21st Century Prescription for Heartbreak

A 21st Century Prescription for Heartbreak
(Repeat as needed)


Find someone unsuitable
An artist preferably
Photographers are ok
A carpenter will do in a pinch but only
If he dreams of living in a log cabin,
Surrounded by handcrafted, three-legged chairs

But, musicians are best
Especially if they’ve quit their day jobs to tour around in a shitty beater of a van
Or if at least they’re still considering it
If they tell you they love you on the second date
And write a song “just for you”
That you find out later was penned for an ex

If you can’t find any kind of artist,
Not even a carpenter
An off-the-lander type will do
Look for long hair and a scruffy beard
Let him roll you up in dreams of homemade preserves
And apples picked from your own backyard
Escape from the city and believe in the power of a man with
An axe

Forget the business types
If you see a tie or, God forbid, a whole suit
Run
Unless it’s meant to be ironic of course
No matter how fabulous this man is
And he probably is fabulous in the take you out for extravagant dinners and
The theatre sort of way
He won’t be able to instill that particular brand of crazy in you

Speaking of the theatre, forget about actors
They’re not as effective as you might think
On the surface, they have the whole tortured artist thing going for them
But they’re usually unattractively femme
And violently self-centred
And they can never handle real emotions





Once you have him
HIM
Fall
In
Love

Breathe him in
Sleep in his shirts
Talk about the future
Kids named Elektra and Snapdragon
Life on the road, love on the road, togetherness in a van

Fuck ‘til it hurts
Have great sex and terrible sex
Laugh about both

If you have long hair, cut it short like a boy or a sheep
If you have a stylish bob, let it grow long and wild
Stop
Or start
Shaving your legs
Become vegetarian or reintroduce meat
Become an expert on cheap beer or esoteric Portuguese wine

Move in together way too soon
Tell your married friends they just don’t get it
And scoff about how boring they’ve become

Fuck some more
Miss a period
Have an abortion
Have a miscarriage
Or get the damn thing a few weeks later
Cry about it
Laugh about
Gain anywhere between five and fifteen pounds

S L O W L Y
You will notice he has stopped calling you beautiful
Stopped complimenting your laugh
Your smile
Stopped sharing his dreams
Stopped even bothering to tell you the details of his days

Watch his eyes follow other women down the street
Become
Irrationally
Jealous
Accuse him of cheating with
The cute deli girl
The cute barista
The underage groupie
Your mom
His sister

Nag him about
Everything
Realize you are being crazy but
Find yourself
Unable to
Stop

Think of ending it

Think of ending it

Find an old song
An old photo
An old jar of preserved
A smelly old sock

Remember how much you love
Him
Remember the first kiss
Your stomach dropping away
Losing your breath
Drowning in
Love

Vow to make things work
Make him
A pie
A cake
His favourite dinner

Decide to serve it naked

When he comes home, leap into his arms, burning with the passion of
Rekindling


Hear him say

I’ve met someone else

Or

I love you but I’m not in love with you

Or

This wasn’t the life I imagined for us

Or

When did you get so fat?

Agree, cry, throw the pie at him, play the martyr

Whatever
Just know, inside, your heart if breaking into a million
Billion
P


I

E
C


E
S




And you will never, ever, feel the same again



Until the next one

Welcome to the Neighbourhood

Mason hadn’t liked the neighbourhood from the get-go, too close to the rough part of town. If you walked a few blocks, you found yourself surrounded by derelict yards, junked out cars and angry dogs barking on the end of thick chains. But Lorelei had insisted. She’d fallen in love with the house instantly, the bright yellow paint, the flower garden, the window boxes. In the city, they’d have only been able to afford an apartment. Here, there was a whole yard for the kids to lounge in. There was even a basketball hoop over the garage for Carter to practice his lay ups. The previous tenants had started a small vegetable garden and Lorelei fantasized about growing tomatoes, snap peas and carrots there. She pictured the family chowing down on sweet corn from the backyard. In this daydream, Carter and Evie were fresh faced and wholesomely dressed, no holey t-shirts and mini skirts, no heavy makeup, their scowls replaced by smiles. Mason wanted to look around some more, but Lorelei dug in her heels. This was going to be their home. Eventually Mason bought into the fantasy too. He talked about how he could convert the shed into a workshop and put together projects there. Lorelei resisted the urge to tease him about his lack of handyman skills.
The kids were less enthusiastic; a move would mean changing schools. Lorelei promised she would chauffer them in to the city to see their old friends and charmed them with the reminders about the size of their new bedrooms. By the time they piled all their boxes into a noisy U-Haul, even the kids were barely suppressing enthusiasm.
After the first day of school, some of the enthusiasm evaporated. Carter came home wrapped in sulleness, darker and snappier than even his usual teenage moodiness. He looked younger, his freckled arms skinny and pale poking out from his torn black T-shirt. His hair was getting long and it hung down in his eyes, giving him a boyish look. There was an also odor of vulnerability on him that Lorelei had not smelled in a while.
“What’s up peanut?” Lorelei asked, hoping the childhood nickname would make him feel safe. He shrugged. Lorelei poured a tall glass of orange juice and set it in front of Carter. “How was your first day? Did you make any friends?” Carter got up from the table and slammed his chair against it. The glass wobbled violently but didn’t spill.
“I hate this stupid school,” Carter yelled from the doorway. “Friends right, “he continued. “Sure, I’ll just become a wannabe gangster,” Lorelei heard him mutter as he slammed the door to his room. Lorelei stood in the kitchen and traced the snowflakes on the glass of orange juice.
Evie came in a few minutes later. Though she was two years younger than Carter, she looked older with her raccoon eyes and her thigh baring skirt. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a high, tight ponytail making her forehead look abnormally high. “How was your day sweetie?” Lorelei asked, offering her Carter’s untouched orange juice. Lorelei shrugged and plopped into a chair, stretching out her gazelle-like legs and resting her pink toes on the chair across from her. She sipped at the orange juice and fiddled with her the oversized gold hoops in her ear. She flipped them up and over her ears so that her ears stuck out comically. Then, she looked straight at Lorelei and, with a completely straight face, asked “Mom, can I get a tattoo?”
Lorelei felt herself do a cartoon gulp. “You’re 13 for God’s sake!” Evie put down the glass.
“Well, how about a just a belly button ring? Lots of girls at my school have them.”
Lorelei tried to be cool but she could feel herself slipping into a classic mom rage. “Are you kidding me?” she spat.
“I knew you would react like this,” Evie said pushing the chair out from under her feet. “You’re so obvious.”
“Right, cause a belly button ring’s so completely the opposite of obvious,” Lorelei replied, feeling control slip further and further away.
Evie sauntered to her room and closed her door with a reserved click that signaled she was too mature to engage in a petty mother daughter blow out. Lorelei picked up the glass or orange juice and, resisting the urge to hurl it at the wall, poured the contents down the sink and slowly, slowly washed the glass.
That night, after the kids were in bed, more than likely texting and listening to their iPods rather than actually sleeping, Lorei and Mason stayed up late discussing the situation. “It’s just transitions,” Mason insisted. “Remember how terrible they were when we first started dating? Or when I moved in? And now, we’re basically one big happy family. Give it time.” Mason smiled reassuringly but Lorelei could tell he was worried too.
“Maybe I should have checked out the school before moving here.”
“Would the school really have changed your mind when it came to this house? Besides, it was summer.”
Lorelei hunched over her cup of tea and clasped its warmth between her hands. “Maybe I should go check it now.”
“And what? Tell off the little thugs? Move again? Give Evie and Carter some credit. They’re good kids. They’ll figure this out.

The next few days passed uneventfully. Evie and Carter came home no more troubled than usual. Lorelei got busy unpacking and started to fill the space with the small treasures that make a home. Mason, in an effort to add to the homey-ness, got up early to make pancakes for everyone before heading to the garage and in the evenings, he got to work converting the shed into a workspace. The start of the day was drenched in the smell of maple syrup while the end of the day was filled with the distant sounds of sawing and hammering. By the timed the weekend rolled around, Lorelei was beginning to think the fantasy could almost be reality.
On Saturday, Lorelei took Evie to the local mall. Evie promptly fell in love with the abundance of cheap tacky outlets. Carter took off on his bike and came back with tales of super cool bike path down by the river. “Its got jumps and everything!” he enthused that night over a plate of tuna casserole. “That’s great hun,” Lorelei said fighting the urge to be worried for his safety.
On Sunday, Lorelei sewed some whimsical carrot print curtains for the kitchen windows and baked a loaf of banana bread and some oatmeal cookies. In the evening, the whole family watched Law and Order together. Between them, Carter and Evie only picked up their phones a half dozen times.

On Monday, Carter came home reeking of pot and Evie came home with a poorly concealed hickey the size of a baseball. Lorelei decided to tackle Evie first. She felt hypocritical talking to Carter. She and Mason still blazed from time to time, not that Carter knew that, she hoped. She told herself that long as his experimentation stopped there she was ok with it. She tapped quietly on the door to Evie’s room. There was some shuffling and squeaking and the door opened. Evie, already in her pajamas, stood in the doorway blocking the entrance to her room. Her face told Lorelei she already knew what was coming. “Let’s cut to the chase Evie, who’s the new boyfriend?” Lorelei asked, trying to sound curious rather than a nauseating combination of angry and scared. Lorelei rolled her eyes exaggeratedly in a move Lorelei recognized from her own adolescence.
“What boyfriend?” Evie asked innocently.
“The one whose been sucking on your neck.”
“How do you know it’s not a girlfriend?”
Lorelei played along despite her irritation.
“Fine, then who’s the new girlfriend?”
Evie sighed.
“He’s not my boyfriend. Just a boy at school.”
“Well he better damn well be your boyfriend if he’s sucking on your neck.”
Evie tried to back into the room so she could close the door but Lorelei followed her.
“I want to meet him. If I don’t meet him you’re grounded.”
“Great mom, way to show how cool you are,” Evie yelled and hurled herself on the bed covering her head with the pillow. In this childish posture and with her pink pajamas she looked so young. Lorelei felt the anger leak out of her. She sat on the bed besides Evie.
“Honey, I’m not mad at you. I guess I’m just scared. At this age, boys move a lot faster than girls and sometimes you can send them the wrong signals. I just don’t want you to feel pressured into anything you don’t want to do.”
Evie turned her head so that she could be heard from under the pillow.
“What makes you think I don’t want to do stuff? How come everyone always thinks its just boys who are, you know, horny and stuff?”
Lorelei felt her fear turn to terror. She thought about kissing Jay, her first boyfriend in the back of his car. The way his hands felt under her shirt. And things moved faster now.
“Well…those feelings are normal. Your body’s going through a lot of changes but sometimes our bodies are ready sooner than our emotions or our minds so it’s important to wait until all the parts synch up.”
Evie sat up.
“God mom, did you read that in the parents’ manual? You sound like a guidance counselor.”
Lorelei laughed.
“You’re right. I do. These things aren’t always easy to talk about but I want you to know if you ever have any questions you can come to me.”
“Mom, where do babies come from?”
Lorelei paused, trying to think of the best way to answer the question. She didn’t want to get into too many details in case it gave Evie the wrong idea. Evie picked up her pillow and threw it at Lorelei.
“Jeez mom, relax, it was a joke. We had this conversation when I was six.”
Not quite this conversation, Lorelei thought.

Lorelei and Mason stayed up talking again that night. It was still warm, summer just starting to fade from the air, so they sat on the porch and watched the evening slip into night. “I’m just glad I didn’t have to field that one,” Mason said, referring to Evie’s hickey.
“I can’t help but wonder how I would have reacted if Carter had the hickey. I always thought I wouldn’t fall into these, you know, gender stereotypes but ack she’s only thirteen. And we forget, I mean I had forgotten, what it’s like at that age. She was right you know, it’s not just boys who are horny but we give them so much more freedom, permission even, not just like it’s ok but hey this is what you should be doing.”
“Yeah, but so far guys can’t get pregnant.”
“Right, so girls have to be so much more careful and responsible. Well guys should be too. For all we know, Carter could have knocked some girl up but he can just walk away from it all. Should I be having another safe sex talk with them or is that just promoting sex?”
“I think they know that stuff already. Besides, where Carter’s concerned, sounds more like we should be having the just say no to drugs talk.”
“I’d almost rather him be smoking a bit of weed than drinking though. It’s not like he’s smoking crack. At least I don’t think he is. God, maybe I should have the talk. I don’t even know what kind of shit they have out there now. It seems like things were simpler when we were younger. A bit of acid, some mushrooms maybe but nothing like what is it, crystal meth?”
“I’m sure our parents thought the same thing.”
“Yeah and they were right about that too. I’m going to talk to him tomorrow. Let him know I’m not mad, that a bit of pot is ok but it stops there and within reason, you know, he keeps his grades up, goes back to basketball, that kind of thing.”
Mason put his arm around Lorelei. “Do you want me to do it? You know, mano e mano?” he asked. Lorelei sunk into his solid frame.
“It’s tempting, let you do the dirty work, but I feel like he might take it better coming from me. You can be a bit scary,” Lorelei said squeezing his beefy arm.
Mason scratched his beard. “Well, I try.”
They curled into each other in silence for a moment. Mason cleared his throat. “This is probably weird timing,” he said “but I’ve been thinking lately that I would like to be a father. I mean, I know I am, I consider Evie and Carter my own, but,” Mason paused and stroked Lorelei’s wild hair, “I can’t help but think what a beautiful baby we would have together.”
Lorelei laughed. “Yeah a perfect kid, no pot or hickeys.”
Mason pulled away. “Lorelei, I’m serious. I’d like to be there from the beginning for someone. Change the diapers, rock them to sleep. I know you’ve already been there but not with me.”
Lorelei looked at the solid man before her and was overcome with love. She kissed him softly on the lips. He put his hands in her curly hair and pulled her close and for a moment they made out like two horny teenagers. Finally, Lorelei pulled away. “If you promise to change the diapers and rock them to sleep then Mason Bryers, I will have a thousand babies with you,” Lorelei said. They kissed again and then, giggling quietly, they headed to their bedroom.

The next day, Lorelei was on pins and needles waiting for Carter to get home. She had planned exactly what she would say and was confident her talk with him would go better than her talk with Evie. But Carter didn’t come home. Evie came home and then Mason but still Carter was nowhere to be seen. At first, Lorelei assumed he was out having fun with new friends, smoking pot by the river probably, but by the time the pasta sauce was simmering on the stove, she was worried. She called his cell, hating that he was forcing her to be the over concerned parent, but he didn’t answer. “The little shit’s going to be in so much trouble when he gets home,” Lorelei muttered to Mason. Evie overheard and started to laugh. “Set the table,” Lorelei said, swatting Evie with a dish towel.
They ate dinner in near silence, each attempt at conversation fumbled. As Lorelei was clearing the plates off the table, her body tight with frustration, they heard the sound of a bike scrabbling up the path, the whir of wheels and chain and the sounds of voices shouting and grumbling. Then, heavy footsteps up the front stairs and the door burst open and Carter stumbled in. He was bleeding from a cut over his eye and his face was swollen and smeared with tears and snot. Lorelei dropped the plates she was holding and clattered noisily on the table. She ran to Carter and held him against her shoulder as he began to sob.
“What is it baby? What happened?” she asked still holding him. Carter was taller than her and heavier but she managed to support his weight. Buried in her shoulder, Carter answered in a muffled gasp. Lorelei could only make out half the words. “Guys followed … jumped…phone…iPod…hit me… rock … outside…” he gasped. Out of the corner of her eye, Lorelei saw Mason get up from his chair and rifle through a kitchen. He grabbed a rolling pin and headed for the door.
“What are you doing?” Lorelei cried as he smacked the heavy ceramic pin against his open palm. He looked at Lorelei with eyes hardened in cold determination. She had only seen his eyes like that once before, when he’d had to kill a deer he’d hit on the road. But that time, there had been a tinge of sadness in his eyes that time. Now Lorelei only read anger.
“I’m gonna teach those punks a lesson. Let them pick on someone their own size. You don’t mess with my family,” Mason grunted as he slammed the door open. Lorelei had this uncontrollable urge to giggle. He looked like some comic book villain, hulking rolling pin man.
“Mason, don’t,” she called out “we’ll call the police. Let them deal with it.” But he was already out the door and down the steps and a sobbing Carter was in her arms. “Oh baby,” Lorelei said as she brushed Carter’s sticky bangs off his forehead, to get a better look at the cut.
Evie, who had been hovering over the table, sprang into action. “Should I get some ice? Maybe the antiseptic stuff from the bathroom?”
“Yeah, honey. That would be great and if you can pass me the phone, I’ll call somebody.”
Evie passed Lorelie the phone and bustled into the bathroom in search of supplies. She looks so at ease in the role of nurse, Lorelei thought as she dialed 911. An obnoxiously calm voice answered the phone. “Nine one one. What is your emergency?”
“Well, um I’m not sure it’s an emergency but I guess police.”
Outside there was a sound like a car backfiring only tighter, more like a pop, and then a second and a third. Lorei dropped the phone. Carter lifted his head from her shoulder and looked toward the open door. There was the sound of footsteps running away. Lorelei pushed Carter off her and ran outside. She saw three figures dashing down the street and a larger figure crumpled on the front walkway. She ran down the steps and towards the crumpled figure. Even from the porch, she knew it was Mason.
It seemed like she was running forever, as if their walkway was the longest walkway in the world, before she reached Mason. He was on his back, feet sprawled out, rolling pin just out of reach of his right hand. There was blood everywhere. Reddish brown, sticky, blood. Blood like she’d never seen before. Blood that just flowed and spread through his shirt. Blood that looked like paint, like a prop stolen from a B grade slasher flick.
Lorelei knelt in front of Mason, putting her hands on the spots where the blooms started, but the front of his shirt was just a slippery mess. His eyes were open. The cold determination was gone. She looked into them hoping for a flicker of recognition. “Mason, Mason honey, I’m here. It will be alright.” She hoped, with his head looking up at the sky, he couldn’t see all the blood running between her fingers, staining her forearms. She didn’t need to worry. His eyes didn’t even see her.
She looked back at the house. Evie and Carter stood on the porch clutching the phone between them. “Do something. Fucking do something,” Lorelei screamed. They ran back into the house. Maybe to look for towels maybe just scared, Lorelei didn’t know. The door slammed behind them and Lorelei looked back down at the man she loved. “I’m so sorry Mason,” she said “I am so fucking sorry.” She heard the front door open again and she looked back up at the bright yellow house with the whimsical carrot print curtains.

Nice Girls Don't

I held the white box, which was about the size of a record only deeper, with trembling hands. It was covered in gold leaves, hastily stamped on by my mother in an effort to disguise her dislike of the holiday season. I lifted and lowered it, listening for a clink, feeling for the shift of something sharp. The contents remained silent and motionless. It had to be the coveted jeans. I examined the knot in the twine. It was loose. A sharp tug would untie the knot, leaving the box naked, ready to yield its contents. I bit my lip in anticipation.
I had been begging for the jeans ever since I watched my brother fall out of a tree. He had broken his collar bone and scratched himself up pretty badly but his jeans had remained intact. To a girl who was constantly being scolded for catching her dresses on fence posts, for dragging her skirts through the dirt, even when she was only going to the gate to fetch the mail as she had been asked, these jeans looked like freedom. All summer, I watched my brother run through the woods around our house. I wasn’t supposed to join him. Nice girls didn’t run in the woods. Nice girls sat on the porch and worked on their sewing. Nice girls kept their nice dresses nice and neat. But I wasn’t a nice girl and after a few hours I would inevitably throw down my needlework and find my brother amongst the trees. Usually my disobedience, spelled out clearly in the forest debris that clung to my outfits or in the tears in my skirt, was met with a slap or at least an exasperated sigh. These reproaches hurt but they also gave me ammunition in my quest for jeans. “Think mother,” I would say “if I had jeans you would never have to mend them and they don’t show dirt the same way so you would only have to wash them half as often.” My mother’s reply was always the same, some variation on “nice girls don’t wear jeans,” But now, looking at her placid face lit by the candles on the tree, I felt sure I’d worn her down. Either she had accepted the jeans or the fact that no matter what she did, I would never be a nice girl.

My brother Daniel’s voice sliced through my covetous daze. “Open it already” he cried nearly bouncing out of his seat. He checked himself and settled calmly back into the sofa. He was almost as eager to open the rectangular box that lay on his gangly knees but was trying hard to appear as unenthusiastic as the adults. He knew it had to be the rifle. His almost stubbly cheeks, the width of his shoulders and the recently acquired gap between his pant legs and his socks all suggested that he was old enough for one, even if he was still young enough to be excited by it.
I shook my head. I wanted to be the last person to open a gift. Flavoured with anticipation, the cider would taste sweeter, the candles would glow brighter and the carols on the record player would sound cheerier. Even my mothers’ impatience would be momentarily dampened.
My mother sighed, indicating that we’d better hurry up or forget the whole thing. The sooner we opened our gifts, the sooner she could sweep up the pine needles, smooth out the wrapping paper and tuck Christmas safely back in the closet until next year.
I hated to be rushed but I also knew if I pushed too far my mother might just grab the box off my lap and throw the whole thing in the fire. I yanked on the string. The lid slid off with surprising ease, as if the contents were greasing the way to their freedom. The bottom half of the box landed in my lap, sending a denim pant leg onto my lap. A purple denim pant leg. My mother smiled at me expectantly, the veil of her annoyance lifting for one brief second. I forced a smile and pulled the jeans out, praying I would not find any more flaws. Unfolded, the jeans yielded a bouquet of straps, bows and buttons. I willed myself not to cry. There was a scratchy silence. Everyone was waiting for me to say something but I knew that even the shortest word would unleash a choked sob followed by the hot sting of tears.
“Well?” my father asked. I grinned with a clenched jaw, my gritted teeth holding back my disappointment.
My mother sighed. “Go put them on,” she said deflated. I had squashed the tiny bubble of eagerness she had allowed herself to feel. I had a flash of guilt but I was too busy dealing with the crater sized hole in my own dream. I dashed for the bedroom, glad for an excuse to nurse my hurt privately.
Inside the bedroom, I collapsed on the bed, wracked by spasmic sobs. Disappointment burned in my throat and my belly. Through the walls I could hear my parents. “What’s wrong with her?” my mother asked. “She’s bloody impossible to please. So ungrateful.” My father murmured something soothing.
I stayed in the room for a few minutes, trying to force my disappointment into a manageable size so that I could swallow it easily, but it stayed tough and stretchy, choking me at each breath. “If you don’t come out with the jeans on in the next minute, I’m going to throw them in the fire,” my mother yelled from the living room. Good, do it, I thought but then I heard my brother’s voice.
“Please Lucy,” he begged. There was something soft and vulnerable in his tone. He was still holding on to his eagerness. I pictured the box with the rifle on his lap. As hideous as the jeans were, I couldn’t’ ruin his moment. I stilled myself, rolling the anger into pellets, filling my belly with the heavy drops of disappointment. The sobs receded and I was able to sit up. As cold and calm as a statue, I put on the denim restraints.
The jeans were even worse on me. They rode up into my crotch and pinched my waist. The straps were too long and hung awkwardly across my back, making them look like reins. The number of buckles and straps gave the whole thing the appearance of a straight jacket. It didn’t matter.
I walked back into the living room and sat in my purple shroud. My parents barely acknowledged my presence, except to give Daniel the nod that he could now open his gift. His grin was everything I had hoped for.

Christmas day was the first and last time I ever wore the jeans. The next day, I snuck into the shed and buried them behind a moldy box of gardening tools. From time to time, my mother would ask me about the jeans. I got used to telling her what she wanted to hear. “You were right mother, nice girls don’t wear jeans.”

The following 4 stories are old stories that have been edited. Overall, the changes are slight, fleshing out a few areas, cutting unnecessary fluff, fixing poor punctuation. Still, it's interesting to compare the original versions to the updates. Besides, I wanted to show I'm still working on stuff!

Overcoming Morning Version 2

We were sitting in the faded seats of his Chevy pickup overlooking a small tree lined lake. We had come up the back way, overshooting the marked road and flying off into the underbrush. From this side, the lights of the city were hidden and in the morning light everything except the red and orange trees looked like a charcoal drawing. Even the sounds seemed dialed down, as if the forest around us had been drowned. I blew on my black coffee wishing I had asked him to add cream. A blister was forming on the roof of my mouth. The rest of my body was raw too from lack of sleep and the wild tumble under the orange and brown afghan on his creaky mattress.
Scott lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out the thin crack between the window and the frame. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” he asked. I examined the scuffed toes of my Dayton’s which were pressed against his dashboard. With my legs in that position I could smell my own muskiness. I searched for the best worst, something that would make me seem sexy and brave, a Bonnie to his Clyde, rather than boring, vindictive and petty.
-I robbed a bank once.
-Really, which one?
-Ok, you got me.
I put my hand on his thigh. It was warm and slightly damp. With my other hand I rubbed a clear circle in the fogged-up passenger window. I searched for inspiration in the landscape. The orange trees remained silent. I thought of my many sins. Three servings of Thanksgiving dinner: gluttony. Sleeping in until two: sloth. Glaring at the perfect girls in their summer dresses: envy. My sins: uninteresting.
-What about you?
-I asked first.
Against the backdrop of the window his jaw was squarer than I remembered. He hadn’t shaved and his chin was silvery in the soft morning light. Against his pale skin, his lashes looked like black feathers on fresh snow. He reminded me of every boy I’d ever lusted after in high school.
- So, why did you chat me up last night? Just so I know for next time.
- Are you hoping for a compliment? Because you were beautiful. Fierce. Engaging.
I grimaced and touched my coppery hair, feeling where it had matted and snarled. I picked at a knot near my brow line.
- I guess you seemed approachable.
I sensed approachable was a kind synonym for alone. I focused my attention back out the window.
- I guess I’m pretty boring.
- We all have secrets.
I thought about holding Leah’s hand as she left the clinic in tears, but that was her secret, not mine. I thought about teasing Angelo in grade six. He was big for his age. He smelled funny and spoke slowly and we called him Retardo Angelo. I saw him cry once. That night I cried too, soaking my My Little Pony pillow. I never called him Retardo Angelo again but he still refused to dance with me at the Grade Seven graduation party.
- I made fun of this one kid a lot when I was in elementary school. We made him cry. It was pretty awful.
He smiled a shallow smile and touched my chin and then my breast.
-That can’t be the worst thing you’ve ever done.
I poked my tongue into the coffee blister. It caved, filling my mouth with bitter liquid. I thought of his tongue in my mouth and of the dark stain on the stalactite ceiling above his bed.
-I want something recent. We all have stories of petty theft and truancy from our childhoods. Those don’t interest me.
A loon cried outside the truck. I wondered if my roommate was worried about me. We didn’t talk much. Taking the place had been a snap decision made more out of necessity than any mutual affinity but as far as she knew, it wasn’t like me to stay out all night. I pictured her anxiously rifling through my stuff, searching for a contact number. Had I left anything embarrassing out in the open? I doubted it. I hadn’t really even unpacked yet, never mind settled in.
- I should probably get going soon.
-You haven’t properly answered my question, princess.
- Why is it so important to you?
He flicked the cigarette butt out the window and began to clean under his nails with the zipper of his coat. In the darkness of the bar and later his room I hadn’t noticed how dirty his hands were. Now I could see that the ridges were lined with grime. A shower was really starting to sound appealing.
- Intimacy.
- Right.
I thought of the new orange and cinnamon shower gel I had recently bought, of the sea foam green tiles in the bathroom and of the always backwards toilet paper roll. I thought of the almost expired milk in our avocado green fridge and of my favourite misshapen purple mug.
-I’m sorry, I really can’t think of anything. I’m tired. I think I just need a breakfast and a shower.
- We’re not leaving until you can come up with a better answer.
He smiled but his eyes remained flat like dull nickels. He rolled the window up the rest of the way. The smell of trapped smoke chafed the inside of my nostrils. It was too warm in the truck now. I felt like I was sitting under piles of damp wool blankets. I really did want to unearth something horrible about myself, really. And then, in a horrible combination of joy and horror, like winning the lottery but suffering a heart attack from the shock, I thought of Max.
-I killed a dog once.
I had buried Max in my subconscious, which was more than I did for his body. Max was a jovial slobbering golden retriever that lived next to me in the first place I lived after leaving home. The place was a rambling, drafty house shared with a gaggle of students. Max’s owners were a newlywed couple who were busy looking after their new baby, so Max was usually left to his own devices in the front yard. The students in our house kind of adopted Max. We always had pockets full of treats for him, which were always showing up in the most unusual places, once even in the toilet tank, a mystery we never quite solved. We also had an agreement with Max’s owners that we could take him for walks whenever we pleased. I took advantage of this situation quite a bit because I secretly hoped Max would be a good way to meet the man of my dreams.
I was usually the first one up in the morning. I had a job at the local IHOP and had to set up before the breakfast rush. My roommates had no such obligation and were usually still sleeping off hangovers at this hour. Even regular working stiffs were still a few hours away from hitting the snooze button. I liked to complain about the early start but I also relished the quiet time before the rest of the city started waking up. Often, if I was feeling energetic, I would even wake up an extra half hour early to take Max for a walk before hopping in the communal station wagon and driving off.
This particular morning I had a late start. I had allowed myself to stay up late with a few of the other girls the night before. We’d drunk cheap red wine out of mason jars and danced around to a bad ‘80s compilation CD someone had dug out. I had been the first to call it quits but still I half-regretted the night. My head was throbbing and I was running late. I’d only had time to throw on some clothes before running down to the car. I couldn’t wait to help myself to a free cup of coffee no matter how gross it was. I didn’t even bother adjusting the seat or mirrors before throwing the car into reverse and backing down the driveway.
Even before the thump, even before I spotted the open gate to the neighbours’ yard, I knew. My stomach did this weird amusement park jump and it wasn’t the wine. Then, there was a gentle bump and a faint hissing squeal as if I’d run over an inner tube that was now slowly deflating, only before looking I knew the inner tube was Max. I sat holding my head for what seemed like hours before I found the courage to open the car door and slide out. I was sure that at any moments lights would start coming on and people would emerge from their houses. Still blinking from sleep they would stand on their porches and point accusing fingers, but the neighbourhood remained dark and silent. I swallowed my fear, dry heaved and opened the driver’s door.
I couldn’t see Max’s face. He was half under the car between the front and back wheels. If I moved the car I would either forward or back I would crush him again. I crouched down to get a closer look, the cold of the cement biting into my knees, and placed a hand on his rear haunch. He whined softly. I gagged again and considered my options. I could go inside and wake the roommates, wake the newlyweds, call a vet. It was an accident. It could have happened to anyone. But it didn’t. It happened to me. I would always be the girl who killed Max.
I tried to pull Max from under the car. He whined again. It was so faint I almost didn’t hear it but it felt like I’d swallowed shards of glass. Max was heavier than I had imagined. He didn’t just slide out from under the car; he dragged along the ground like a wet bag of flour. I felt the rough concrete scrape against his belly but he wasn’t whining anymore. The only sound was my own half choked sobbing and the litany of sorries I kept whispering. When I finally managed to pull him all the way out, half lying across my lap, body twisted and head lolling below my knee, he was utterly silent and I could no longer see or feel the rise and fall of his breathing. I took his head in my hands and looked into his cloudy eyes. There was a bubble of blood and snot on his muzzle. I wiped it with my sleeve and held him. And held him. We stayed in that embrace for a while. My collar and his were both soaked with my tears. Nobody interrupted our goodbye.
I found an old tarp in the back of the station wagon. It wasn’t mine. I didn’t care. I used it to wrap Max’s body, stopping only to remove his tags and shove them in my pocket. He was cumbersome and I couldn’t handle his body with the grace I would have liked. I rolled him like I was folding an unruly tent and its pegs, trying hard not to picture his head bumping on the ground with each roll of the tarp, and shoved him in the back seat. By the time I closed the rear door I had stopped crying.
I drove. The traffic lights were only decoration. The car was a ride on tracks that I could not change. A few hours later and I would have collided with oncoming traffic but somehow I arrived at an industrial dumpster behind an office complex. If you had asked me about this building any other day I’m not sure I could have told you where it was, but here we were. By now Max the jovial golden retriever and Max the lump in my back seat had become two separate things. They say that in moments of stress humans sometimes develop unnatural strength. I believe it. The dumpster was high and I had to hoist Max’s tarp-wrapped body up and over my head, propping him on my shoulder as I slid him over the bins lip. It should have been far more difficult, if not impossible on my own but soon I heard the soft thump as Max’s body hit whatever was in the bottom of the dumpster. I was only 45 minutes late for work.
-Max’ owners and all my roommates searched for weeks. Of course I had to help. It would have been strange if I didn’t. We put up black and white posters on every pole in a fifty mile radius. Max’s sad puppy eyes stared at me every time I stapled up a poster or walked past a pole but I never told anyone. It’s strange how soon, it stopped feeing like an omission.
I choked on the words and the memory. I turned my head to the foggy window again. I could feel snot and tears mingling on my upper lip. He reached over and stroked my hair slowly turning my head to him.
- See, we all have our secrets, he whispered.
He kissed me with more tenderness than he’d shown me since we’d met.
- Don’t you want to know my secret?
I tried to wipe my face discreetly.
-I guess.
Scot smiled.
-Tell me, how did it feel when you killed Max? It was amazing wasn’t it? The power I mean, the knowing you were responsible.
He leaned even closer, pinning me to my seat with the weight of his body, his forearm across my throat. I felt the cold button on his cuffs digging in to my neck. I tried to push him off but his knees were now on hands. “You’ve guessed my secret, haven’t you?” he whispered into my ear. I tried to scream but all that came out was a strangled hiss. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be quick. It gets easier every time.” He kissed me again. “I’m so glad we could share.”
As my vision dimmed, I saw a tiny reflection of my face in his eyes. I was so very small.

The Smell of Other People's Lives version 2

The bus was crowded. Not face-in-armpit, step-on-foot full, but full enough. Full enough that all the seats were taken and a cluster of people stood at the front. Full enough that you could smell other people’s lives. The greasy windows, jeweled with the oil from a thousand weary heads resting on their panes, were all open a crack, which as far as any bus windows opened, but it was still soggy and warm inside the bus as if its riders were swimming in a sink of lukewarm dishwater.
Moira, her arms stretched with grocery bags, elbowed her way through the cluster of riders at the front. An aggressively thin woman with crooked yellow teeth and acne broken skin glared at Moira as she ploughed into the woman’s oversized backpack, which was conveniently blocking the aisle. Moira hated people who wore backpacks on the bus. Moira hated people who crowded at the front, refusing to shift to the back, despite the relative emptiness of the rear. If the bus driver looked back quickly, he might think there was no more room on the bus, turn on his blinking ‘sorry bus full’ sign and leave other poor saps stranded at the stop. Moira glared back at the skinny woman. I’m not afraid of your hostility or your ugliness. Moira made it to the back and set her bags on the sticky floor, bracing them between her calves to keep them upright. She hoped she didn’t look vulgar standing, legs apart, over her groceries.
There was more room at the back of the bus. Everyone was seated. Moira relaxed a bit, safe from swinging bags and clumsy feet. The seats in front of her were occupied by an elderly woman in a khaki safari outfit, handkerchief elegantly knotted at her neck, silver hair combed in a perfect bob under what Moira could only imagine was an imitation pith helmet; a youth in oversized clothes and shoes who bobbed his shaggy blond head, to the beat that emanated from a pair of oversized headphones and a rough looking man whose unshaven face hung low on his chest in apparent slumber, his limbs heavy and motionless, his dark shirt splattered with colourful chunks that could have been paint or vomit. Drunk, Moira thought. She glanced at the pole behind her. It was free. The groceries shifted between her legs, and an onion slipped out and rolled down the aisle. She gripped her pole more firmly.


Once upon a time, Moira had not been a bus rider. She had lived in a white house with a white fence. She had had a white husband named Harold who, while far from perfect (he insisted on growing and keeping a beard, he laughed like a donkey, he often had little globs of spit in the corner of his mouth, and his feet sometimes smelled like rotting tomatoes) had fulfilled his husbandly duties by providing a stable income from his dental practice and by driving Moira, in his fuel-efficient Toyota Yaris, to the grocery store, to dinner at her sister’s place over the bridge, and to the gardening supply store; in short, wherever she needed to go.
Unfortunately, Harold had gone and ruined the whole arrangement by falling in love with his receptionist and asking, ever so timidly, for a divorce. This had surprised Moira. Not that he’d been screwing around with his receptionist -she had suspected this for some time and it seemed a predictable step in the ascent to middle age- but that he had actually gone and fallen in love and decided it was worth ruining their whole arrangement over. She conceded that she had not been a perfect wife (she had let her thighs become all cottage-cheesy, she often forgot to depilate her upper lip, she was probably boring in the bedroom, especially when compared to the receptionist who probably had all kinds of perverse husband-trapping tricks) but she had kept them running smoothly, remembering important appointments, cooking nutritious meals, vacuuming, even under the couch for God’s sake.
Now, Moira lived in a small apartment on the other side of town. It was clean, of course, and pleasantly bright but it certainly didn’t have the charm of the little white house she and Harold had shared. She had to take the bus twice a week to the library where she had accepted a job. She could have probably lived quite comfortably on the alimony that she received from Harold but she liked how the library made her feel busy and useful, even if it did mean riding the bus. She also had to take the bus to do her grocery shopping. She didn’t trust the produce stands near her place. The vegetables were always unnecessarily dirty and the fruit slightly shriveled.
This evening, though, she wasn’t going home, or at least not to her new home. She was going to Harold’s, to her old home, to her white house with the white fence. Harold had called her out of the blue. “Hello,” he had said. Despite years of marriage, over the telephone she hadn’t recognized his voice. She had thought it was a telemarketer and a rude one at that. “Hello” he repeated. “Is this Moira?” The way he said her name gave it away. “It’s Harold,” he finally thought to add. “Yes I know. I recognized your voice.” He laughed awkwardly. The sound didn’t annoy her as much as it used to. “How are you?” he asked. Moira paused. There was really only one acceptable answer. “I’m fine,” she replied. “And you?” “Good, good. Thanks. Listen I was wondering if you were free some time this week. For dinner. Maybe at that little French place we used to like. If you have time I mean.” Moira paused again, hoping Harold would reveal a bit more. He didn’t. “Well,” she finally said. “This week is pretty busy but Wednesday might work.” A week night was safer. Plus, it implied her weekends were full. “Oh, yes well Wednesday then. That’s alright. The French place at seven?” Harold blustered. Moira heard disappointment in his voice. Maybe he wants to reconcile. She pictured him alone in their white house. It felt empty. “Why don’t I come over and cook instead?” she offered. “Well then. Yes, that would be nice,” Harold answered. She waited for him to offer to pick her up. He didn’t. They chatted a bit more, emphasizing how nice it was to finally talk and exchanged awkward goodbyes. As she hung up the phone, Moira was struck with a terrible thought. Maybe he wants to see me to tell me that he and his hussy secretary are having a baby..

The bus stopped. Three people got on. Nobody got off. Moira spotted her onion. It had rolled even closer to the front. A petulant girl in short jean cut offs kicked the onion. She will be fat when she gets older, Moira thought, observing the way her shorts strained to envelop her thighs. Too bad about the onion. The crowd at the front was slowly being squeezed towards the back. The aggressively thin woman with the backpack glared some more, not really at anyone in particular it seemed, and then reluctantly shuffled a few steps closer to the rear. She will never be fat. She will also never be happy. She looked down at her own muscular calves clenched around her grocery bags. They looked like legs that could support happiness.
A dark- haired man in a faded blue suit grabbed the pole next to Moira. He was handsome in a tortured way. Moira smiled at him but he gazed steadfastly out the windows as if witnessing some private tragedy unfolding before his eyes. She tried to make some more room for his sadness but the drunk, slumbering man’s legs were blocking the aisle. He didn’t appear to have moved once. Moira surreptitiously prodded one of his legs. If he woke she would smile in a way that said oops, sorry, just the motion of the bus. Neither the leg nor its owner budged. The older woman in the safari get up glanced at Moira. Moira tried to smile at her conspiratorially. Hey, her smile said, we’re too classy to be riding the bus. We don’t belong with the drunks. The safari woman refused to play along. Moira stopped smiling at her.
She wondered if Harold had changed much in the house. She doubted it. He didn’t like change. Oh, but then there was the receptionist. Still, she couldn’t picture him rearranging the furniture or paintings. It was probably the same, only dirtier. Would it be weird to start cleaning? Probably, if he announced that he was having a baby.
The safari woman gripped Moira’s pole, plucking Moira from her thoughts of Harold, and hauled herself up with some difficulty. She was now uncomfortably close. Moira caught a whiff of violets that seemed to be masking decay. Up close, the safari woman was less classy. Her face was crepey and bits of foundation clotted in her skin. Her eyebrows were wild and uneven. Her hands were claws and they gripped Moira’s pole for dear life before the woman lurched forward and greedily clasped the next pole. The tragically handsome man continued to ignore everyone around him, even the safari woman who was nearly hugging him. Yet, as soon as the safari woman had cleared his pole, he plopped into her vacant seat. Moira didn’t even have a chance to consider sitting. Really, he was not so handsome. He had thick hair and long lashes but his eyes held tears and his mouth was a caricature of a frown. He looked ridiculous next to the exuberance of the bopping headphoned youth. The absence of the safari woman seemed to have excited the youth as he was now drumming rapidly on his leg as well as bopping. Moira watched his hands fly against his thighs. His nails were bitten short and ink stained. She wondered if he was one of the kids who wrote all over the seats and walls with thick black pens, claiming the worthless territory. Moira wished she had thought to write her name somewhere on the white house. The drunk remained completely motionless even though from time to time the youth’s elbow would connect with his shoulder or bicep.
The bus turned. They were nearing Moira’s old neighbourhood. It looked different seen through the smeared lens of the bus window. Moira began gathering her bags. She knew from experience that there would not be enough time once the bus stopped. The drivers never waited no matter how politely you asked, and she always asked politely even when yelling down the aisle of the bus. It was a balancing act, gripping the pole with one hand while hauling the weighty bags with the other. The bus stopped and she headed towards the door, her bags knocking the drunk in the knee, hard. She felt the impact in her own shoulder but still he didn’t move. As she stepped down and off the bus she was struck by the terrifying certainty that the man was not drunk but dead. She glanced back and up and saw his motionless head in the window. She pictured him riding around and around in the bus, people knocking into him and glaring, until the driver pulled over for the night. It was wrong, even for a man with vomit on his shirt. She should rap on the window or signal to the driver. There would be a long hold up. The bus driver would have to wait for the paramedics and the passengers would probably all have to give statements. Dinner with Harold would be late, if it even happened at all. The bus pulled away. Moira watched it for a moment, feeling her responsibilities shrink with as the bus grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Moira turned, squared her shoulders and strode towards her former gate without looking back at the bus.

The Last trip Version 2

The Last Trip

Roger fumbled with the loose dial, trying to find a station that would tune in fully. Everything was coming in as static but he knew eventually he would find a solid signal. He had never bothered to buy tapes, and now, God knew, they were almost impossible to come by, kept from total obsolescence only by car stereos. With tapes, no matter how good each song was, you always knew what to expect and after one listen you were condemned to live an endless loop. Roger preferred the hopefulness of the radio. It was mostly all terrible but you never knew what was going to come on next and sometimes, if you listened long enough, you were rewarded by that one perfect foot stomping, thigh slapping, stick in your head nostalgia ride song.. It was the same reason he loved his job driving truck. No matter how shitty each town or truck stop was, there was always the possibility that the next one would be better, that the coffee would be hotter, the people friendlier. Without movement, hope died. Finally, the shoo-bop of some ‘50s doo-wop group filled the cab and Roger put both hands back on the wheel.
The rain came down heavily and the sweep of the wipers against the blackness of the night road was starting to hypnotize him. It had been straight highway for a while with little traffic. It was time to pull off before he fell asleep at the wheel and kept driving forever. Roger spotted a green exit sign, blurry in the heavy rain, and cranked the wheel to the right. His shoulder howled in protest, a reminder that as much as he loved driving, his imminent retirement was long overdue. He dreaded the prospect. The cab of his truck was more of a home than the dismal apartment he rented over the hardware store, but the company had forced his hand. This was his last haul for them.
The truck stop was small, not one of the chains, but familiar nonetheless. He had stopped here before on a few runs. Even on the radio it was inevitable that eventually you’d hear the same song twice. He pulled the truck into an empty space and hopped out to stretch. His whole body creaked and groaned. He glanced at the diner. Coffee would be good but then he wouldn’t sleep for hours. Maybe pie. He shook the rain out of his graying hair and pushed open the glass door. “Hey hun,” the woman called perfunctorily as he plopped himself at the counter. “What can I get for you?”
Roger looked at the deflated pie in the case, leaking gelatinous grey filling that he guessed must be apple. “Just coffee,” he sighed. She filled the white cup to the mustard yellow line, a line he had seen a thousand times in a thousand other diners. The coffee was hot but bitter. Even the three spoons of sugar he added didn’t help .
There was a paper on the counter and Roger scanned it idly. He didn’t bother checking the date; the news was much the same every day and in every city. It was always equally irrelevant but comforting, a constant marker on the endless roads. He yawned. He yawned, thinking he might be able to sleep despite the coffee. The sounds of the rain would help. He threw some change down on the counter, figuring it had to be more than enough for one shitty cup of joe, and headed back to his home on the road.
Back in the cab, he stuck the keys back in the ignition and turned them half way so he could listen to the radio. He peeled off his damp faded jeans right in the passenger seat, hoping no one walked past as he wrestled them down his bony hips. His shoulder groaned again. The music cut out and an announcer’s voice filled the air, thanking the listeners for tuning in to some combination of letters and numbers. Roger reached over to change the station when the announcer’s voice was replaced by a staticky silence. There was a hum and then another voice, deep and raspy, filled the airwaves. “Suffering from aches and pains? No longer able to move like you once were? Trust the power of Hathway mineral springs. Come visit us off the I 23.” Roger shook his head. His ex Sheryl had been big on this new age bullshit but he could never take it seriously, part of the reason they’d never been able to make a proper go of it. You’re not willing to believe in anything you can’t see, including feelings, she’d complained. He hadn’t argued. He turned off the radio and climbed into the sleeper.
In the morning, he woke as stiff as the bed slats. It took him a few minutes and several curses just to haul himself out of the narrow bunk. He fried up some eggs and bacon on the electric griddle, filling the cab with the smell of grease. He ate breakfast right off the griddle. It tasted better that way and with the size of the cab it made sense to keep stuff to a minimum. When you got right down to it, there wasn’t too much you needed to get by, but thing always seemed to accumulate. Roger sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to the clutter of stationary life. He wiped his greasy lips with the back of his sleeve, enjoying the lingering taste of eggs and bacon. Thank goodness cholesterol isn’t visible to the naked eye, he thought and then had a momentary twinge of guilt. Sheryl had always been nagging him to take better care of himself and sometimes he still heard her voice.
Back on the road, the station changed from sugary ‘50s hits to a country station without too much distortion in the process. Roger hadn’t been a fan of country music until he’d started driving truck. Somehow there was something so right about flying down the road listening to Johnny Cash or Willie Nelson. He didn’t care too much for the new crop of pop country but fortunately this station didn’t seem to play too much of that.
Roger’s shoulders were sore and he had to piss. Sometimes he just used a bottle he kept especially for that purpose. He’d gotten pretty skilled at holding it while driving one handed, but lately between the stiffness of his body and the temperament of his prostate, it had proven messier than he cared to experience. It wasn’t always to find a place, with 18 wheels under you, you couldn’t just pull off the side of the road and take a leak on the shoulder. The pressure in his bladder was getting worse. With great relief he spotted an exit sign and pulled off, cringing as his shoulder sang out in pain.
The rest area was deserted save for a family who were eating a packed lunch at one of the picnic tables. Roger wondered if this was their final destination or if they were on their way somewhere more exciting. He hoped for the latter. The rest area was a pretty depressing place for a family trip. With a deep sigh he emptied his bladder into the urinal and shook the last few drops free, not caring where they landed.
When he got back to his truck, there was a folded flyer tucked under the wipers. He looked around, wondering who could have left it. The family was still deep in their egg salad and watermelon slices. The parking lot was vacant. He pulled it out, ready to toss it aside, but the bold letters caught his eye. It was an advert for Hathway springs, the same place he’d heard advertised on the radio the night before. He supposed it wasn’t that strange of a coincidence but still he was compelled to unfold the yellow paper. He chuckled, thinking of Sheryl watching over his shoulder. The flyer had a small map of the area with a star indicating the location of the spa. There was a bunch of mumbo jumbo about healing properties but the word FREE in capital letters caught his attention. He thought of his stiff body. Magical healing properties or not, a soak in a hot spring would be nice. He glanced at the log book on the dash. Fuck it. He was on his own time now. After all, this was his last trip, so what were they going to do, fire him?
Having made the decision to go, Roger was strangely gleeful. It wasn’t the thought of the spa, he had no expectations of miracles, but the prospect of shirking his responsibilities, something he had never done in his 35 years as a driver. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed in the direction of the giant star on the map. At the first turn off, he pulled on to a dirt road and realized there was no way his truck was going to make it there. He looked at the map again. It seemed stupid but now that he had decided to go he was unwilling to give up the plan. If the map on the flyer was to scale, the spa might be within walking distance. He contemplated a moment, letting the engine idle. He would walk for thirty minutes, he decided, and if he was not yet at the spa or at least visibly near, he would head back to the truck. With some difficulty, he maneuvered his truck to the side of the dirt road. He would have to back up on to the main road on the way back but he would worry about that later. Besides, he knew how to handle his rig.
The ground was still damp from the night before but the air was warm and smelled of spring. Birds chirped. A squirrel darted across the road, which was becoming narrower by the step. Roger grinned. He had forgotten how peaceful it could be without the soft roar of wheels turning underneath. The way was flat and he was able to relax and take in his surroundings. He paused every few minutes to consult the map and his watch. Thirty minutes passed and still only the forest was visible. The trees were denser here and they blocked out most of the sun’s heat and light. Five more minutes and then I turn around. A minute later Roger almost tripped over a small wooden sign. It was covered in lichen and shaped like an arrow. It pointed to a smaller path and read “Hathway Springs”. Roger chuckled. Looks like it’s meant to be.
It was even darker on the narrower path. The air smelled of rich earth and decaying wood. It was colder here too and Roger shivered under his light jacket. Soon though the trees opened up again and he reached a clearing. In the near distance stood a well-maintained cabin that looked intentionally rustic. He shook his head. Got to play the part I suppose. There didn’t appear to be anyone around. He hadn’t seen any cars at the foot of the path and there didn’t seem to be any access point here. Maybe they’re closed for the season but then why the flyer?
Roger climbed up the steps onto the wrap-around veranda. He was really cold now and was feeling a bit queasy. He had a strong urge to quietly step off the verandah, slip back into the woods unnoticed and return to the comfort of his truck. The muscles in his back clenched in the cold air. Don’t be ridiculous. A soak, a free soak, is just what you need. Without knocking, he opened the front door.
Inside was a high wooden front desk of the sort often found in quaint hotels. He peered around the darkened space. “Hello, anybody here?” he called.
A back door opened and a beautiful raven haired woman carrying a load of towels appeared. “Hello,” she said without any inflection. Even in the dim light Roger was struck by the intensity of her gold-green eyes and the sharpness of her dark cheekbones. “I’m glad you could make it,” she finished as if he were a guest arriving late to a party. Roger shuffled in from where he was hovering in the doorway. “Can I offer you a list of our services?” she asked, adopting a more professional tone.
“I was just mostly hoping to soak in the springs,” Roger answered. “I got this flyer on my windshield. Says the first time’s free.”
She smiled but it was forced. Probably disappointed I’m not going to be a paying customer. “Course I’d be happy to take a look at your other services.”
She smiled again, more warmly this time and handed him a glossy brochure. “I recommend the massage’” she said.
Roger glanced at the price list. Definitely out of his budget. He looked back up. She was staring right at him. Her eyes bore into him. He dropped his gaze. It landed on her breasts. They were phenomenal. “Sure, I’ll take an uhhh half hour…” he looked at her breasts again “uh make that an hour massage.” Her smile became almost genuine and she clapped her hands. “Wonderful. I just need to set up the room. Go ahead and take a soak in the springs, they’re just out the back, and I’ll come find you when everything is ready.”
Roger cleared his throat. “I uh…didn’t pack any swimming trunks.”
“Well, seeing as you’re our only guest at the moment, feel free to wear as little as you like. There are robes available to cover yourself as you get in and out.” Roger nodded his head, hoping the water would be cloudy enough to mask his wrinkled body. He was aroused but also nervous at the thought of this intimidating woman manipulating his body.
The view from the springs was astonishing. Mountains in one direction, forest in the other and everything bathed in an eerie green light and silence. As he eased himself into the hot water, Roger imagined that perhaps he had fallen asleep at the wheel and this whole place was a nothing but a dream that would end when he slammed into the highway median. Leaning back on the smooth rock walls, Roger was amazed by how weightless he felt. He rotated his shoulders. There was a dull ache, but it was far away and impotent. He sighed with pleasure and slid down even further into the water.
He must have really fallen asleep because he was awoken by the sounds of footsteps. “The room’s ready,” a voice called and he turned to see the beauty from the front desk standing behind him, holding a robe open. “I promise I won’t look” she said turning her head.
“Nothing but old man to see anyway” he replied a bit wistfully as he stepped out of the spring. She led him to a hut behind the main cabin. Inside, a massage table was set up. On the walls and counters around the table were an assortment of incense holders, crystals, candles, and stones. Just the sort of stuff Sheryl would have liked, he thought with more tenderness than he had felt in a while. “I’m going to leave the room for a moment,” the woman said, “and you’re going to arrange yourself face down under the sheets. Make yourself nice and comfortable.” He nodded. “But before you do that,” she continued “You need to do something really important.” She handed him a small dark blue bottle with a stopper on top. “You need to put a few drops of this under your nose and inhale deeply” she said very seriously. “This part is really important. It’s a powerful essential oil. Really helps you relax so please promise you’ll do that first.”
“I promise,” he said. He didn’t believe in that aromatherapy garbage but he couldn’t imagine disobeying this woman.
Alone in the room, Roger dropped his robe and hauled himself onto the table still clutching the bottle. He eased the rubber stopper out with. It made a satisfying popping sound. He raised the small bottle to his nose and inhaled. It smelled like rust and old ice with a hint of something acrid. He heard Sheryl’s voice in his head. What, a girl with nice breasts smiles at you and suddenly you’re buying into this stuff? And then everything dimmed and Roger felt himself falling forward into a hole of silence and darkness.
* * *
The police found Roger naked and incoherent in the cab of his truck. They had been alerted by the trucking company when Roger failed to make his last delivery and had been able to retrace his route with then help of the company’s records, though it had taken a long time because of the detour. By the time they found Roger, he was dehydrated and delusional. He didn’t know who he was or where he was. He kept muttering about natural springs and a beautiful woman. The cops searched the area, hoping to find some clue as to what had happened but they found nothing, not even Roger’s clothes. They closed the case quickly. After talking to Roger’s ex-wife, they figured the poor guy just couldn’t face retirement and had had some sort of a breakdown. It was strange, but they’d seen stranger.
* * *
White. Everything was white. His hands were white. They were amazing. The walls too. How were they so clean? The voices sounded white too. He looked to his right. They were white. The two women all in white. What were they saying?
“Poor soul can’t remember a thing. But he seems happy enough. Everything surprises him. He’ll marvel at a pencil all day long if you let him.”
Poor guy, he thought. He looked at the wall again. Really it was so very white. You could put anything you wanted on that wall; it was so very full of hope.

What we have found version 2

Dearest Ryan:
How do we stop from strangling ourselves in our loose ends? I’ve begun this letter a thousand times but even the very first word trips me up. Dear sounds too formal and my love just seems painful now, even though it’s true. But however hard this is to write, however wrong everything sounds, I know I have to try because you deserve more than the cold silence of an empty room and a bed left in the middle of the night. I wasn’t lying when I told you I loved you. I still love you. But, I am bound to someone else. Pulled in two directions too long we risk tearing in half. I was the only one who could choose to walk away and so I did. Just know this, in our losses we always find something. In my loss, I found Mackay and later you too I suppose, but let me start with Mackay, let me start at the beginning of the thread and see if I can find the end.
I’ve known Mackay since I was born, or probably before. Our mom’s were pregnant at roughly the same time and there are pictures of the two of them sitting side by side, comparing the swells of their pregnant bellies. I imagine Mackay and I may have tapped Morse Code messages back and forth to each other from our womb homes.
We were born two weeks apart in the same local hospital. It was inevitable that we would be friends, so we were. When I think back all of my childhood memories are of Mackay but sometimes I wonder if I have any specific memories of those years or if the images I see are a composite of all the time we spent together. These are some of the things I remember:
1) Sitting in the back yard drinking imaginary tea from my miniature porcelain tea set. Mackay was always a king and I was a very bossy queen who told him to do things like wipe his nose and pull up his socks. In my mind we are anywhere between four and six. By six, the neighbourhood boys had made it clear to Mackay that boys did not drink tea, not even imaginary tea, from porcelain tea cups.
2) Kissing Mackay, my first kiss, in a game of boy chase girl on the playground. I caught up with him next to the swings and went to kiss him on the cheek, the usual punishment. He looked so disgusted that I decided to tease him by leaning in for a big smooch on the lips. The disgusted face must have been an act because suddenly his tongue was in my mouth. See, that sounds like a concrete memory but he claims we kissed earlier than that, at a sleep out in his back yard. I don’t know whose memory to trust.
3) Playing never ending games of crazy eights, on the porch with lemonade if it was sunny, in a blanket fort in either of our living rooms with hot chocolate if it was cold.
4) Auditioning for the school play in grade nine, when my memories become a bit more distinct, and, somewhat to our dismay, being cast as Romeo and Juliet which only added to the litany of “are you guys dating?” we were forced to field on a regular basis. We weren’t.
We didn’t date until university. That is, we didn’t date each other until university. We dated as much as anyone else in high school. Nothing serious for either of us. Nobody ever passed muster when compared to Mackay. His girlfriends were always jealous of me and most of my boyfriends felt the same about him. Almost everybody thought our friendship was weird but for us it was what it had always been. I do think it’s kind of strange that neither of us considered the romantic possibilities at the time but it’s hard to shake the image of a snotty nose kid you grew up with even when an almost full grown man is standing before you. So, Mackay was always just there. For everything. Like an arm. You don’t notice it all that much until you really need it. Or it’s gone.
I guess we didn’t happen until my dad died so in a sense we were always tied together in death. It was my first year in university. I had moved away. Not far, only a four hour drive, but far away enough to feel like it was a whole new world. I was just trying to get my footing, figure out who I was in this new landscape, when my dad had a stroke. As soon as Mackay heard, he drove out to get me. He talked to all my profs and made sure I got extensions. He cleaned my dorm room so I could go back to a nice space. He sorted through my dad’s stuff, keeping the holey red cardigan I had given him as a Christmas gift when I was five, tossing the ridiculous collection of ties. He dealt with transferring bills to my mom’s name and all the details we were too upset to consider. Basically, he said and did all the right things. When I lost my dad, I found my husband.
I’m glad we didn’t get married right away or anything. Neither of us were the impetuous types. It wasn’t a whirlwind romance but a slow natural progression from friends to friends and more. It wasn’t entirely without its weirdness. The first time we slept together was a disaster. I kept freaking out about the fact that I was seeing Mackay naked and when he started kissing my neck I laughed. He tried not to be offended but then, mid deed, I had a full blown laugh attack and we were forced to stop. Luckily, we got better at that stuff. The rest was easy. Some times I wondered if I lost out on the thrill getting to know someone for the first time but what was that thrill compared to the comfort we had?
Mackay proposed two years after my dad died. There was no hot air balloon ride or candle filled bedroom, just a sensible discussion about the possibility, a discussion that ended in the decision to go ahead and get married. Our parents were thrilled but not surprised. No one was.
Like any newly wed couple, especially a young one still struggling through school, we fought. I was a yeller and a thrower, books, cloths, pillows, anything unbreakable I could get my hands on, while he was a quiet sulker, prone to walking out and wandering for hours. But, we were always able to laugh about it all later. I was happy. Mackay had always been there for me and I imagined he always would.
One night we argued. It was common argument. He had a bad habit of leaving wet dish cloths in the sink. If I didn’t notice, they’d sit there and start to smell and it drove me nuts. I found one in the sink, got irrationally mad, and ended up throwing the dripping, stinky thing at his face. Understandably, he was pissed and stormed out. That was the last time I saw Mackay, at least in that form.
Mackay was walking on the shoulder of the road and a drunk driver came flying around the bend and struck him. He died instantly, or at least that’s what the police officer who knocked on my door said. I don’t imagine that they ever tell you that your loved one suffered a slow agonizing death. In one moment, I lost my husband and my closest friend. I could try to tell you what this feels like. How at first you think it’s a cruel joke, even though you know it’s too terrible to be fake, how even when your brain understands your heart doesn’t, how there’s numbness until the knife of your grief splits you open and spills your pain in hot tears, in shrieks, how your body stops working and you find yourself falling to the floor, breath gone, how the words don’t matter, how you want to be held but can’t stand to be near anyone, how you are deaf but every noise puts you on edege, how you are a shell that keeps breaking, a seam that keeps splitting, a blackness that swallows the world whole. But, unless you’ve been there, my words are just words.
I don’t remember thinking “I’m not going to make it” but everyone around me seemed to think I might break irreparably. People were around me day and night. Sharp objects and pain killers were removed. I was brought hot teas and cold cloths, sung songs and stroked, left alone in dark rooms and surrounded by hugging arms. Nothing cut through my raw pain. My only thought was “Mackay, Mackay, Mackay” a chant that filled my head, some times a lullaby, some times a war cry, some times a prayer.
I hardly moved from my childhood room for months. Food was brought to me on trays. Some times I ate it, mostly I didn’t. At first, I was left in peace but after a while my mother and other well intentioned guests started trying to pique my interest in the outside world. I was brought gossip magazines and blockbuster movies. I was cajoled and bribed and then sternly admonished to get out of bed. I couldn’t. But then one day, I heard Mackay call my name and I felt him standing over me. “Rose,” he said “I’m here. You called me loud enough and long enough and I found you.” I felt the pain lift, like a dark velvet curtain rising to reveal a bare stage. There is nothing there yet but the audience is full of anticipation. With Mackay as my audience, for the first time in months, I left the bedroom.
I remember standing over the sink and brushing my teeth. The face in the mirror seemed not to be mine. The eyes and cheeks were sunken. The teeth appeared enlarged against the thinness of my face. I was shades paler. My hair had grown but was matted, unwashed and unbrushed. Mackay stood over my shoulder and watched me, encouraging me in this simple task. I thought I might have lost my mind but it was a relief. I sat at the kitchen table and ate breakfast -poached eggs on English muffins and orange juice- with my mother. She watched me with such attention and shock that I thought she must seeing Mackay behind my shoulder but I was the only unnatural apparition.
It didn’t take long to settle back into our place. Many of the pieces of my husband, photographs of us together, books he had enjoyed and underlined, his favourite mug, had been tucked into boxes by well-meaning friends and relatives. I pulled them all out, feeling that they would weigh him down, stop him from simply drifting away again to wherever he had come from. It’s a grey space, he told me. He didn’t know how long he had been there, only moments it seemed, but had torn through the fog, following my voice. I missed our conversations. In your ephemeral state it was hard to pin him down to anything concrete - no more arguments about communism versus socialism or the merits of carbon trading- but we gained an intimacy even thicker than when we were both solid. I felt him slip inside my skin at times. I breathed him in. He guided my hands as I chopped onions on the wooden cutting board. He twirled me as we listened to Cuban salsa on our old record player. He slept in my hollows, never rolling over to the edge of the bed. When I finally went back to work at the school, he followed me. I would feel him blanketing the children when they got too rowdy, touching my neck when I was tense, always calming the air.
People were constantly checking up on me. Though they wanted to see me doing well, I suspect they were unnerved by my sudden recovery. I told them I felt Mackay around me, knowing they would nod and agree without understanding a thing. Slowly though, they got used to my strength, used to my new habit of talking aloud to myself, the way I would suddenly smile as if I had witnessed something funny or touching that the couldn’t see. I too grew used to these habits. Again, in loss, I found my husband.
I could have continued like this forever. I believe Mackay could have too though I often feared he would eventually be called back to the grey space. Or that I would and we wouldn’t be able to find each other. Sure people thought I was a bit strange, felt I spent a bit too much time alone, but they didn’t matter. Only Mackay. And then you, Ryan.
I think Mackay noticed you before I did. He was always more in tune to other people and that only intensified with death. H had that ability to be over everything and I tended to ignore others. He didn’t say anything but, in retrospect, I felt a shift. He was afraid. You approached so slowly, I never thought of putting up my guard. Hellos in the corridor, a cup of coffee in the staff lounge, just another co-worker, but Mackay knew before I did that I looked forward to seeing you, made excuses to linger. When you first started walking me home, it was awkward. I felt Mackay around me always. I imagined I was betraying him as I laughed at your jokes. Once, you touched my arm gently mid sentence and I felt Mackay try to seep into the space between us. You looked at me strangely feeling the air grow suddenly cold. I grew momentarily cold too. I realized that while Mackay had been the love of my life, he was no longer of my life. You were flesh and blood and love that I could touch; he was a memory I was trying to breath life into.
I hadn’t planned to you in. Or maybe I did. Some times we forget to lock the door on purpose, tempting fate, and how tempting you were Ryan. All handsome and solid, all patient and soft. Mackay was angry with me. He didn’t say it of course, conversation being limited as it was and directness not being his style even in life, but I felt him pull away. He stopped coming to work with me and at home he often stayed in other rooms. I felt the pain lurking just beneath the surface and afraid to let it out I would call to him again and he would join me, plugging the leaks for a while.
But I couldn’t ignore you Ryan. You were persistent. You made me feel like letting the pain leak out. The first time we kissed, I sobbed for hours and you held me on the stoop, refusing to let go even when it grew dark and cold. I knew that if I let you in completely, eventually I would heal but I wasn’t sure I was ready to let go of the hurt. Mackay was watching from just over my left shoulder. I felt his pain find mine.
After that, cracks started appearing between Mackay and me. I would call and he would not come. I would enter a room where he was but not be able to feel him. I would find the photos of us face down on the mantle or knocked to the floor. I would cut myself while chopping onions. The records would skip incessantly. Through all of this you seemed to have infinite patience for my halting steps towards you. Eventually my steps became strides and leaps and I found myself in your arms despite the resistance. I wanted to stay in them but there was always the feeling I was tearing in two. Sometimes when we were making love, I would feel Mackay there watching us. It was impossible to continue. You thought the only battle was with his memory. I often wished it were and then felt so guilty. Every time I said “I love you,” I meant it but my heart also tore a little each time, knowing Mackay was listening to my words. But Ryan, you were also my salve. You made me happy. You made me believe a life without Mackay was still a life worth living. And so, I stopped calling Mackay, I swear I did; it was torturous but I needed to let go, to move forward with you. But Mackay stayed. And I realized he couldn’t leave. He’s not a selfish man. He is kind and giving. If he could have helped me find happiness, if he could have helped me let go, he would have. But he can’t find the way back. I called him and he came. He overcame death to find me, slipped through the grey into this world, and now he’s weighed down here forever. I can’t tear myself in two. I can’t love both of you at once. If it were just his memory, I would let it go, I swear, but I called him and now I responsible for him. You can walk away. You can make yourself whole again and find something in your loss. I can resign myself to private looks and the intimacy of the formless. I will mourn you loss Ryan but in all my losses I have always found myself bound to Mackay. I hope you find a way to cut yourself loose from my threads and there’s still enough of you left to tie yourself to someone new.

Rose

The Smell of Other People's Lives

The bus was crowded. Not face in armpit, step on foot full, but full enough. Full enough that all the seats were taken and a cluster of people stood in the front. Full enough that you could smell other people’s lives. The greasy windows, veined with the oil from a thousand weary heads resting on their panes, were all open a crack, which as far as any bus windows opened, but it was still soggy and warm inside the bus as if its riders were swimming in a lukewarm sink of dishwater.
Moira, her arms stretched with grocery bags, elbowed her way through the cluster of riders in the front. An aggressively thin woman with crooked yellow teeth and skin that was broken by acne glared at her as she ploughed into the woman’s oversized backpack, which was conveniently blocking that aisle. Moira hated people who wore backpacks on the bus. Moira hated people who crowded in the front, refusing to shift to the back, despite the relative emptiness of the rear. If the bus driver looked back quickly, he might think there was no more room on the bus, turn on his blinking ‘sorry bus full’ sign and leave other poor saps stranded at the stop. Moira glared back at the skinny woman. I’m not afraid of your hostility or your ugliness she thought. Moira made it to the back and set her bags on the sticky floor, bracing them between her calves to keep them upright. She hoped she didn’t look vulgar standing, legs apart, over her groceries.
There were no other standees in the back of the bus. Moira relaxed a bit safe from swinging bags and clumsy feet. The seats in front of her were occupied by an elderly woman in a khaki safari outfit, handkerchief elegantly knotted at her neck, silver hair combed in a perfect bob under her pith helmet; a youth in oversized clothes and shoes who bobbed his head, covered in shaggy blond hair, to the beat that emanated from a pair of oversized headphones and; a rough looking man whose unshaven head hung low on his chest in apparent slumber, his limbs heavy and motionless, his dark shirt splattered with colourful chunks that could have been paint or vomit. Drunk, Moira thought. She glanced at the pole behind her. It was free. The groceries shifted between her legs, and an onion slipped out and rolled down the aisle. She gripped her pole more firmly.

Once upon a time, Moira had not been a bus rider. She had lived in a white house with a white fence. She had had a white husband who, while far from perfect (he insisted on growing and keeping a beard, he laughed like a donkey, he often had little globs of spit in the corner of his mouth and his feet sometimes smelled like rotting tomatoes) fulfilled his husbandly duties by providing a stable income from his dental practice and by driving Moira, in his fuel efficient Toyota Yaris, to the grocery store, to dinner at her sisters place over the bridge, and to the gardening supply store; in short, wherever she needed to go.
Unfortunately Harold, for that was her ex husband’s name, had gone and ruined the whole arrangement by falling in love with his receptionist and asking, ever so timidly, for a divorce. This had surprised Moira. Not that he’d been screwing around with his receptionist, she had suspected this for some time and it seemed a predictable step in the ascent to middle age, but that he had actually gone and fallen in love and decided it was worth ruining their whole arrangement over. She conceded that she had not been a perfect wife (she had let her thighs become all cottage cheesy, she often forgot to depilate her upper lip, she was probably boring in the bedroom, especially when compared to the receptionist who probably had all kinds of perverse husband trapping tricks) but she had kept them running smoothly, remembering important appointments, cooking nutritious meals, vacuuming, even under the couch for God’s sake.
Now, Moira lived in a small apartment on the other side of town. It was clean, of course, and pleasantly bright but it certainly didn’t have the charm of the little white house she and Harold had shared. She had to take the bus twice a week to the library where she had accepted a job. She could have probably lived quite comfortably on the alimony that she received from Harold but she liked how the library made her feel busy and useful, even if it did mean riding the bus. She also had to take the bus to do her grocery shopping. She didn’t trust the produce stands near her place. The vegetables were always unnecessarily dirty and the fruit slightly shriveled.
This evening, though, she wasn’t going home, or at least not to her new home. She was going to Harold’s, to her old home, to her white house with the white fence. Harold had called her out of the blue and suggested they do dinner. He had some nice restaurant in mind but Moira had insisted on cooking. She wanted to feed him. And to see the house. She had hoped he would zip over in his Toyota and pick her up like he used to. But he was working until late. And hadn’t even offered. So she was forced to ride the bus with all the ingredients, plus a few extra treats to leave around, just in case. She wasn’t sure what the dinner was all about. Maybe he was having a baby with the receptionist. That was a cruel thought. Maybe he wanted to patch things up with her. She wasn’t past hoping.

The bus stopped. Three people got on. Nobody got off. Moira spotted her onion. It had rolled even closer to the front. A petulant girl in short jean cut offs kicked the onion. She will be fat when she gets older, Moira thought, observing the way her shorts strained to envelop her thighs. Too bad about the onion. The crowd at the front was slowly being squeezed towards the back. The aggressively thin woman with the backpack glared some more, not really at anyone in particular it seemed, and then reluctantly shuffled a few steps closer to the rear. She will never be fat, Moira thought. She will also never be happy. She looked down at her own muscular calves clenched around her grocery bags. They looked like legs that could support happiness.
A dark haired man in a faded blue suit grabbed the pole next to Moira. He was handsome in a tortured way. Moira smiled at him but he gazed steadfastly out the windows as if witnessing some private tragedy unfolding before his eyes. She tried to make some more room for his sadness but the drunk, slumbering man’s legs were blocking the aisle. He didn’t appear to have moved once. Moira surreptiously prodded one of his legs. If he woke she would smile in a way that said oops, sorry, just the motion of the bus. Neither the leg nor its owner budged. The older woman in the safari get up glanced at Moira. Moira tried to smile at her conspiratorially. Hey, her smile said, we’re too classy to be riding the bus. We don’t belong with the drunks. The safari woman refused to play along. Moira tuned her out.
She wondered if Harold had changed much in the house. She doubted it. He didn’t like change. Oh, but then there was the receptionist. Still, she couldn’t picture him rearranging the furniture or painting. It was probably the same, only dirtier. Would it be weird to start cleaning? Probably, if he announced that he was having a baby.
The safari woman gripped Moira’s pole, plucking Moira from her thoughts of Harold, and hauled herself up with some difficulty. She was now uncomfortably close. Moira caught a whiff of violets that seemed to be masking decay. Up close, the safari woman was less classy. Her face was crepey and bits of foundation clotted in her skin. Her eyebrows were wild and uneven. Her hands were claws and they gripped Moira’s pole for dear life before the woman lurched forward and greedily clasped the next pole. The tragically handsome man continued to ignore everyone around him despite the fact that safari woman was nearly hugging him. Yet, as soon as the safari woman had cleared his pole, he plopped into her vacant seat. Moira didn’t even have a chance to consider sitting. Really, he was not so handsome. He had thick hair and long lashes but his eyes held tears and his mouth was a caricature of a frown. He looked ridiculous next to the exuberance of the bopping headphoned youth. The absence of the safari woman seemed to have excited the youth as he was now drumming rapidly on his leg as well as bopping. Moira watched his hands fly against his thighs. His nails were bitten short and ink stained. She wondered if he was one of the kids who wrote all over the seats and walls with thick black pens, claiming the worthless territory. Moira wished she had thought to write her name somewhere on the white house. The drunk remained completely motionless despite the fact that from time to time the youth’s elbow would connect with his shoulder or bicep.
The bus turned. They were nearing Moira’s old neighbourhood. It looked different seen through the smeared lens of the bus window. Moira began gathering her bags. She knew from experience that there would not be enough time once the bus stopped. The drivers never waited no matter how politely you asked, and she always asked politely even when yelling down the aisle of the bus. It was a balancing act, gripping the pole with one hand while hauling the weighty bags with the other. The bus stopped and she headed towards the door, knocking the drunk in the knee, hard. She felt the impact in her own shoulder but still he didn’t move. As she stepped down and off the bus she was struck by the terrifying certainty that the man was not drunk but dead. She glanced back and up and saw his motionless head in the window. She pictured him riding around and around in the bus, people knocking into him and glaring, until the driver pulled over for the night. It was wrong, even for a man with vomit on his shirt. She should rap on the window or signal to the driver. There would be a long hold up. The bus driver would have to wait for the paramedics and the passengers would probably all have to give statements. Dinner with Harold would be late, if it even happened at all. The bus pulled away. Moira turned, squared her shoulders and strode towards her former gate without glancing back at the bus. After all, she wasn’t responsible for the people on it. And Harold might be having a baby.