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