Meet Me at the Lake

TitlesbyCarleyFortune
EverySummerAfter
MeetMeattheLakeBERKLEYROMANCE
PublishedbyBerkley
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Copyright?2023byCarleyFortune
ReadersGuidecopyright?2023byCarleyFortune
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LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationData
Names:Fortune,Carley,author.
Title:Meetmeatthelake/CarleyFortune.
Description:FirstEdition.|NewYork:BerkleyRomance,2023.
Identifiers:LCCN2022041943(print)|LCCN2022041944(ebook)|ISBN9780593438558(tradepaperback)|ISBN9780593438565(ebook)
Subjects:LCGFT:Novels.
Classification:LCCPR9199.4.F678M442023(print)|LCCPR9199.4.F678(ebook)|DDC813/.6—dc23/eng/20220902
LCrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2022041943
LCebookrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2022041944
FirstEdition:May2023
CoverartbyElizabethLennie
CoverdesignbyVi-AnNguyen
BookdesignbyAshleyTucker,adaptedforebookbyMollyJeszke
Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously,andanyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,businessestablishments,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.
pid_prh_6.0_143319814_c0_r0Contents
Cover
TitlesbyCarleyFortune
TitlePage
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
June2,1990
Chapter11
Chapter12
June14,1990
Chapter13
Chapter14
July5,1990
Chapter15
Chapter16
August3,1990
Chapter17
Chapter18
August13,1990
Chapter19
Chapter20
August18,1990
Chapter21
Chapter22
August21,1990
Chapter23
September8,1990
Chapter24
Chapter25
Chapter26
Chapter27
Chapter28
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
ReadersGuide
BehindtheBook
DiscussionQuestions
BookRecommendations
AbouttheAuthor
_143319814_ToMarco
ForthatfirstmixCDandalltheonesthatfollowed,
butespeciallyforturningthevolumedown1
Now
Imakeitasfarasthefrontdeskwithoutanyonenoticingme.It’sastrikingpiece,carvedfromalargetreetrunk—rusticbutnotshabby,theepitomeofMom’saesthetic—andthere’snoonebehindit.Ihurrypast,totheoffice,thenshutmyselfinsideandlockthedoor.
Theroomismorefishinghutthanworkspace.Pinewalls,twoancientdesks,asmallwindowtrimmedwithaflimsyplaidcurtain.Idoubtit’schangedmuchsincethelodgewasbuiltinthe1800s.There’snothingtosuggesthowmuchtimeMomspenthere,exceptforaphotoofmeasababypinnedtothetimberandafaintwhiffofCliniqueperfume.
Droppingintooneofthewornleatherchairs,Iswitchontheplastictabletopfan.I’malreadysticky,butit’sstiflinginhere,oneofthefewspotsinthebuildingwithoutair-conditioning.Iraisemyelbowslikeascarecrowandswingmyhandsbackandforth.PitstainsarethelastthingIneed.
WhileIwaittocooloffbeforechangingintoheels,Istareatastackofourbrochures.BrookbanksResort—YourMuskokaGetawayAwaits,declaresachipperfontaboveaphotoofthebeachatsunset,thelodgeloominginthebackgroundlikeacountrycottagecastle.Italmostmakesmelaugh—it’sBrookbanksResortI’vefailedtogetawayfrom
MaybeJamiewillforgetIagreedtodothistonight,andIcansneakbacktothehouse,slitherintostretchypants,anddousemyselfwithabucketofcoldwhitewine.
Thedoorhandlerattles.
Nosuchluck.
“Fernie?”Jamiecalls.“What’swiththelock?Youdecentinthere?”
“Ineedfiveminutes,”Ireply,voicepinched.
“You’renotgonnabail,right?Yousworeyou’ddothis,”hesays.Butthereminderisunnecessary.I’vebeendreadingitallday.Allmylifemaybe.
“Iknow,Iknow.I’mfinishingupsomepaperwork.”Iclampmyeyesshutatthemistake.“I’malmostdone.”
“Whatpaperwork?Isitthelinenorder?Wehaveasystemforthat.”
Mymomhadasystemforeverything,andJamiedoesn’twantmemessingwithanyofthem.
He’sworried.It’speakseason,butmanyoftheguestroomsarevacant.I’vebeenbackforsixweeks,andJamiethinksit’sonlyamatteroftimebeforeIshakethingsup.I’mnotsureifhe’sright.I’mnotevensureifI’mstaying.
“Youcan’tshutmeoutofmyownoffice.Ihaveakey.”
Icurseundermybreath.Ofcoursehedoes.
It’sgoingtobeembarrassingifhehastodragmeoutofhere,andI’mprettysurehe’lldoit.Ihaven’tmadeasceneattheresortsincemysenioryearofhighschool,andI’mnotabouttostart.BeingheresometimesmakesmefeellikeI’veregressed,butI’mnotarecklessseventeen-year-oldanymore.
Takingadeepbreath,Istandandsmoothmypalmsoverthefrontofthedress.It’stootight,buttherippedjeansI’vebeenlivinginaren’tappropriateforthediningroom.IcouldalmosthearMomwhenIchangedearlier.
Iknowyou’dratherwearpj’sallday,butwehavetosetthetone,sweetpea.
Iopenthedoor.
Jamie’sflaxencurlsarecroppedshortandstyledintoobedience,buthehasthesamebabyfacefromwhenwewereyoungandhethoughtdeodorantwasoptional.
“Isitthelinenorder?”heasks.
“Absolutelynot,”Isay.“Youhaveasystem.”
Jamieblinks,notsureifI’mteasing.He’sbeentheresort’sgeneralmanagerforthreeyears,andIcan’tgetmyheadaroundit.Inpressedpantsandatie,helookslikehe’splayingdress-up.Inmymind,he’sstillalakeratinswimtrunksandabandanna.
Hedoesn’tknowwhattomakeofmeanymore,either—he’stornbetweentryingtopleaseme,hisnewboss,andtryingtopreventmefromwreakinghavoc.Thereshouldbeacosmiclawagainstexesworkingtogether.
“Youusedtobefun,”Itellhim,andhegrins.Andthere,withhisdeepsmilelinesandskyblueeyes,istheJamiewhooncesangtheentiretyofAlanisMorissette’sJaggedLittlePillstonedandwearingapurplecaftanhe’dnickedfromMrs.Rose’scabin.
ThefactthatJamielovedattentionasmuchashelovedgoingcommandowasoneofmyfavoritethingsabouthim—noonelookedatmewhenJamiewasaround.Hewasagoodboyfriend,buthewasalsotheperfectdiversion.
“Sodidyou,”hesays,andthensquints.“Isthatyourmom’sdress?”
Inod.“Itdoesn’tfit.”Ipulleditfromherclosetearlierthisevening.Canaryyellow.Oneofatleasttwodozenbrightlycoloredsleevelessshifts.Hereveninguniform.
There’sabeatofsilence,andit’sallittakesformetolosemycourage.“Listen,I’mnotfeeling—”
Jamiecutsmeoff.“Nuh-uh.You’renotdoingthistome,Fernie.You’vebeendodgingtheHannoversallweek,andtheycheckouttomorrow.”
AccordingtoJamie,theHannovershavestayedatBrookbanksforsevensummers,tiplikethey’vegotsomethingtoprove,andreferatonofguests.FromthewayI’vecaughthimfrowningintohiscomputerscreen,IthinktheresortneedsgoodwordofmouthmoredesperatelythanJamie’sleton.Ouraccountantleftanothermessagetodayaskingmetocallhim.
“They’vealreadyfinisheddessert,”Jamiesays.“Itoldthemyou’dberightout.Theywanttogiveyoutheircondolencesinperson.”
IscrapemynailsacrossmyrightarmafewtimesbeforeIcatchmyself.Thisshouldn’tbesohard.Inmyreallife,ImanageatrioofindiecoffeeshopsinToronto’swestendcalledFiltr.I’moverseeingtheopeningofourfourthandlargestlocationthisfall,thefirstwithanon-siteroastery.Talkingtocustomersissecondnature.
“Okay,”Itellhim.“I’msorry.Icandothis.”
Jamieletsoutabreath.“Awesome.”Hegivesmeanapologeticlookandthenadds,“Itwouldbeextraawesomeifyoustoppedbyafewtablestosayhellowhileyou’rethere.Youknow,carriedonthetradition.”
Idoknow.Momvisitedtherestauranteverysingleevening,makingsurethispersonlikedtherainbowtroutandthatpersonhadarestfulfirstnight.Itwasbonkershowmanydetailsshecouldrecallabouttheguests,andtheylovedherforit.Shesaidbeingafamily-runbusinessdidn’tmeananythingunlessyouputafacetotheBrookbanksResortname.Andforthreedecadesthatfacewashers.MargaretBrookbanks.
Jamiehasbeennot-so-subtlyhintingthatIcometothediningroomtogreettheguests,butI’veshruggedhimoff.BecauseassoonasIgooutthere,it’sofficial.
Momisgone.
AndIamhere.
Backhomeattheresort—thelastplaceIplannedtoendup.
—
JamieandImakeourwaytothefrontdesk.There’sstillnoonebehindit.JamiepausesatthesametimeIdo.
“Notagain,”hemutters.
Thedeskclerkwho’sontonightstartedafewweeksagoandtendstodisappear.Momwouldhavefiredheralready.
“Maybeweshouldcoverthedeskuntilshe’sback,”Isay.“Justincaseanyonecomes.”
Jamieraiseshiseyestotheceiling,considering.Thenhenarrowsthemonme.“Nicetry,buttheHannoversaremoreimportant.”
WecontinuetowardtheFrenchdoorsthatleadtotherestaurant.They’reproppedopen,andtheclinkingofcutleryandhappyhumofconversationdriftintothelobbyalongwiththesmelloffreshlybakedsourdough.Therearesoaringbeamedceilingsbeyondtheentranceandwindowsthatlookoverthelakeinanimpressivesemicircle.It’sarenovationmymomchoreographedaftershetookoverfrommygrandparents.Thediningroomwasherstage.Ican’tpictureitwithoutherwalkingamongthetables.
Takingaquietbreath,Ituckmywhite-blondbobbehindmyears,hervoiceinmyhead.
Don’thidebehindyourhair,pea.
Aswe’reabouttopassthroughthedoorway,acoupleexitsarminarm.They’reintheirsixtiesandswathedalmostentirelyinbeigelinen.
“Mr.andMrs.Hannover,”Jamiesays,handsspreadbyhissides.“Wewerejustcomingtofindyou.LetmeintroduceyoutoFernBrookbanks.”
TheHannoversgivemetheirkindestsmiles,thefacialequivalentofathere,therepatontheshoulder.
“Weweresosorrytohearaboutyourmother’spassing,”saysMrs.Hannover.
Passing.
It’sastrangewordtodescribewhathappened.
Adarknight.Adeerthroughthewindshield.Steelcrushedagainstgranite.Icecubesscatteredacrossthehighway.
I’vebeentryingnottothinkaboutMom’slastmoments.I’vebeentryingnottothinkofheratall.Thedailybarrageofgrief,shock,andangercanmakeithardtoputweightonmyfeetinthemorning.Ifeelabitwobblynow,butItrynottoletitshow.It’sbeenmorethanamonthsincetheaccident,andwhilepeoplewanttoexpresstheirsympathy,there’salimitonhowmuchsufferingotherscantolerate.
“HardtoimaginethisplacewithoutMaggie,”Mr.Hannoversays.“Alwayshadthatbigsmileonherface.Welovedcatchingupwithher.Weeventalkedherintohavingadrinkwithuslastsummer,didn’twe?”Hiswifenodsenthusiastically,asifImightnotbelievethem.“Itoldherwatchingherrunaroundwasmakingmedizzy,andboy,didshelaugh.”
Mymother’sdeathandthefutureoftheresortaretwotopicsI’mnotpreparedtodiscuss,whichistheotherreasonI’veavoidedtherestaurant.Theregularswillhavesomethingtosayaboutboth.
IthanktheHannoversandchangethesubjecttotheirholiday—thetennis,thebeautifulweather,thenewbeaverdam.Thesmalltalkiseasy.I’mthirty-two—toooldtoresenttheguestsorworryabouttheirjudgment.It’sherI’mfuriouswith.Ithoughtshe’dacceptedthatmylifewasinToronto.Whatwasshethinkingbyleavingtheresorttome?Whatwasshethinkingbydying?
“We’reterriblysorryforyourloss,”Mrs.Hannoversaysagain.“Youlooksomuchlikeher.”
“Ido,”Iagree.Samesmallstature.Samepalehair.Samegrayeyes.
“Well,I’msureyouwanttoheaduptoyourroomtoenjoyyourlastnight.You’llhaveagreatviewofthefireworksfromyourbalcony,”saysJamie,rescuingme.Igivehimagratefulsmile,andhesneaksmebackawink.
Wewereagoodteamwhenweworkedtogetheraskids,too.Atfirst,weusedacodewordwhenoneofusneededrescuingfromanannoyingoroverlyneedyguest:Watermelon.Theelderlywidowerwhowouldn’tstoptellingmehowmuchIremindedhimofhisfirstlove:Watermelon.Thebird-watcherwhogaveJamieadetaileddescriptionofeveryspecieshe’dseeninthearea:Watermelon.Butafterasummerspendingeverydaytogetherdownattheoutfittinghut,haulingcanoesandkayaksoutofthelake,webegancommunicatingsilently—aslightwideningoftheeyesoracurlofthelip.
“Notsobad,wasit?”hesaysoncetheymovetowardtheelevatorbank,butIdon’treply.
Jamieextendshisarmtothediningroomentrance.Manyofthepeopleinsidewillbeguestsoftheresort,butthere’llbeplentyoflocals.Withmyluck,someoneIwenttohighschoolwithwillspotmeassoonasIstepinside.Bloodroarsinmyeardrumslikeatransporttruckonthefreeway.
“Idon’tthinkIcandothis,”Isay.“I’mgoingtogobacktothehouse.I’mexhausted.”
It’snotalie.TheinsomniabeganassoonasIgotback.Everyday,Iwakeinmychildhoodbedroomundersleptandabitdisoriented.Ilookatthedensetangleoftreebranchesoutthewindow,remindingmyselfwhereIamandwhyI’mhere.Inthebeginning,I’dputapillowovermyheadandgobacktosleep.I’drisearoundnoonandstumbledownstairs,fillingtherestofthedaywithcarbohydratesandepisodesofTheGoodWife
ButthenJamiestartedcallingwithquestions,andWhitneypoppedbywithoutwarningoftenenoughtogivemeatalkabouthowmuchtimeIwasspendinginmypajamas—thetypeoftoughloveonlyabestfriendcanprovide—andsoIbegangettingdressed.Ibeganleavingthehouse,visitingthelodge,wanderingdowntothefamilydockforaswimortodrinkmymorningcoffee,thewayMomusedto.I’veevengoneoutinakayakafewtimes.Itfeelsgoodtobeonthewater,likeIhaveashredofcontrol,evenifit’sjuststeeringasmallboat.
I’mstillgreetedbyaprocessionofgrief,anger,andpanicwhenIopenmyeyelids,onlynowitpassesquietlyinsteadofclanginglikeamarchingband.
Overthelastcoupleofweeks,Jamiehaspatientlyupdatedmeoneverythingthat’schangedinthemanyyearssinceI’veworkedhere,butwhat’swilderisallthestuffthathasn’t.Thesourdough.Theguests.ThefactthathestillcallsmeFernie.
Wekneweachotherlongbeforewestarteddating.ThePringlecottageisacouplebaysdownthelake.Hisgrandparentsknewmygrandparents,andhisparentsstillcometotherestaurantforfishandchipseveryFriday.TheyspendmostofthesummerinMuskokanowthatthey’veretired,venturingbacktoGuelphinSeptember.Jamierentsaplaceintown,butheboughtthevacantlotnexttohisfamily’stobuildayear-roundhome.Helovesthelakemorethananything.
“It’sCanadaDay,”Jamiesays.“Itwouldmeansomethingtotheguestsandthestafftoseeyou.It’sthestartofsummer.I’mnotaskingyoutogetuponthestageandmakeaspeechbeforethefireworksbegin.”Hedoesn’tneedtoadd,Thewayyourmomdid.“Justgosayhello.”
Iswallow,andJamieholdsmyshoulders,lookingmeintheeyes.“Youcandothis.You’resoclose.You’realreadydressed.You’vebeeninthereamilliontimes.”Helowershisvoice.“We’vedoneitinthere,remember?Booth3.”
Iletoutahuff.“Ofcourseyouknowwhatboothitwas.”
“Icoulddrawyouamapofallthespotswedesecrated.Theoutfittinghutalone…”
“Stop.”I’mlaughingnow,butit’sslightlyfrantic.HereIamwithmyex-boyfriend,talkingabouttheplaceswe’vehadsexatmyrecentlydeceasedmother’sresort.I’vebeenpunkedbytheuniverse.
“Fernie,it’snobigdeal.That’sallI’msaying.”
I’mabouttotellJamiethathe’swrong,thatit’saverybigdeal,butthenIseeanexcuseinthecornerofmyeye.Averytallmaniswheelingasilversuitcaseuptothefrontdesk,andthere’sstillnoonebehindit.
Theskyscraper’sbackisfacingus,butyoucantellhissuitisexpensive.Custommade,probably.Theblackfabriciscuttohisframeinthekindofimpeccablemannerthatrequiresprecisemeasurementsandgenerousroomonacreditcard.Idoubtanoff-the-racknumberwouldbelongenoughforthisguy’sarms,andthecuffofhissleeveisperfect.Soishisslicked-backhair.Inkyandglossyandasmeticulouslystyledashisjacketistailored.He’soverdressed,tobehonest.Thisisabeautifulresort,oneofthenicestineasternMuskoka,andthestaffisalwayswellputtogether,butthegueststendtokeepthingscasual,especiallyinthesummer.
“I’mgoingtogohelphim,”ItellJamie.“Ineedpracticewithcheck-ins.ComemakesureIdoitright.”
There’snoarguing.Wecan’tjustletthefancymanstandthere.
Asweroundthedesk,Iapologizeformakinghimwait.
“WelcometoBrookbanksResort,”Isay,glancingupquickly—evenwithmeinmyheels,he’sgotalmostafootonme
“Didyouhaveanytroublefindingus?”Iask,punchingakeytowakeupthecomputer.Talldudestillhasn’tsaidanything.Thelaststretchofroadisunpaved,unlit,andhassomewickedturnsthroughthebush.Sometimescitypeoplefinditstressful,especiallywhentheyarriveaftersundown.I’mpeggingthisguyasaTorontonian,thoughhecouldbefromMontreal.There’samedicalconferencestartingnextweek—someofthedoctorsarearrivingearly,makingaholidayofthelongweekend.
“No.”Herunsahanddownhistie.Saysnothingmore.
“Good.”Itypeinmypasscode.“Areyouwiththedermatologists?”Inavigatetothemainmenu,andwhenhedoesn’tanswer,Iclearmythroatandtryagain.“Doyouhaveareservationwithus?”
“Ido.”Hesaysthewordsslowly,likehe’sscanningthemforerrors.
Ihavenoideawhathisproblemis.Menwhowearsuitslikehisusuallysoundalotmoreconfident.ButthenIlookup,andI’mmetwithaveryhandsome,verychiseled,verytense-lookingface.He’saboutmyage,andhe’sstrangelyfamiliar.I’msureI’veseenthisfacebefore.It’ssomethingaboutthenose.Maybehe’sanactor,althoughcelebritytypesdon’tusuallyshowupinsuitsandafreshshave—oratleasttheydidn’tusedto.
“Thename?”
Hiseyebrowsriseatmyquestion,likehe’ssurprisedI’veasked.ThenInoticehowdarkhiseyesare,blackasacrow’swing,andmystomachtwists.Hispostureisflawless.Myheartraces,poundinginthepadsofmyfingersandballsofmyfeet.Isearchforthescarimmediately.Andthereitis:belowhislipontheleftsideofhischin,barelyvisibleunlessyouknowtolookforit.Ican’tbelieveIstillknowtolookforit.
ButIdo.
Iknowthisface.
Iknowhisirisesaren’tactuallyblack—inthesunlight,they’reespressobrown.
Iknowhowhegotthatscar.
BecauseeventhoughI’vetriedtoforgethim,Iknowexactlywhothismanis.2
June14,TenYearsAgo
Weonlyhadfiveminutestogettothestation,andthestreetcarwasstalled.WhitneyandIshovedourwayfromthebackofthevehiclethroughthedensemassofbodies,mumblinghalf-heartedapologiesbeforewestumbledoutontothesidewalkandtookoff.
“Hurryup,Whit,”Iyelledovermyshoulder.
Beinglatewasnotanoption.Therewasonebusnorththatday,andwhileneitherofushadsaidso,Whitneyandheroversizedsuitcaseneededtobeonit.We’dspentthreedaystogetherinmyteensyapartment,andourfriendshipmightnotsurviveafourth.
Thesuncrouchedlowinthesky,winkingbetweenbuildingsandglitteringoffglasstowers,asweranalongDundasStreet,oursneakerspoundingonthegum-pockedpavement.Ifyoulookedup,theglarewasblinding,butatgroundlevel,Toronto’sdowntowncorewascastinblue-graymorningshadow.Thecontrastwasbeautiful.Thewaythelightbouncedoffthewindowsremindedmeofhome,asunsetshimmeringonthelake.
IwantedtostopandpointitouttoWhitney.Butwedidn’thaveasecondtospare,andevenifwehad,Idoubtedshe’dfindanythingmagicalaboutthesparklingskyline.I’dbeentryingtogethertoseeTorontothroughmyeyesforherentiretrip,andIhadn’tsucceededyet.
Wearrivedatthecoachterminaloneminutelate,butalonglineoftravelersstoodbesidethebusparkedatBay9,lookingvariousdegreesofirritated.Thedriverwasnowhereinsight.
“Thankgod,”Ibreathed.
Whitneydoubledover,handsonherknees.Strandsofherthickchestnuthairhadfallenfromherponytailandwerestucktohercrimsoncheeks.“I.Hate.Running.”
Whenshe’dcaughtherbreath,wecheckedthatwehadtherightdepartureinformationandattachedourselvestothebackofthequeue.Thestationwasessentiallyanoversizedgarage—adark,dankarmpitofToronto.Theairtastedofvendingmachinesandwiches,dieselfumes,andmisery.
Icheckedthetimeonmyphone.Itwasalreadyafterten.Iwasgoingtobelateformyshiftatthecoffeeshop.
“Youdon’thavetowait,”Whitneysaid.“Icantakeitfromhere.”
WhitneyandIhadbeenbestfriendssincegradeschool.Shehadaroundfacewithhazeldoeeyesandatinycherryofanosethatundermostcircumstancesmadeherseemdeceptivelyinnocent.ItwassweetthatWhitneywastryingtosoundbrave,butshewasclutchinghernylonpursetohermiddleasifitwouldbesnatchedawaywithanylessvigilance.
Attwenty-two,WhitneyhadneverbeenaloneinToronto,notevenfortenminutes,andwhileIknewshe’dbesafe,Iwasn’tabouttoditchherinoneofthecity’sdingiestcrannies.
“It’sfine.Iwanttoseeyouoff,”Itoldher.
“Justthink,”shesaid,bouncingonhertoes.“SoonIwon’thavetocomeallthiswayforustoseeeachother.”
Itwasn’talongdrive—twoandahalfpicturesquehours—butwhatever.
Istuckonasmile.“Ican’twait.”
“Iknowyoulikeithere.”Shepeeredoverhershoulder.“ButsometimesIdon’tgetit.”
Asarcasticreplystoodwaitingonmytongue.
HowseldomWhitneyvisitedmeduringuniversitywasasorespot.Iwasn’tsurewhetheritwasbecauseourrelationshiphadn’tfoundsolidfootingsinceourbigfightovermy“self-destructivebehavior”insenioryear,orsimplybecauseshedidn’tlikethecity.Buteachtrip,itwasclearshe’dratherbeinHuntsville.Shedidn’tsaynotomysuggestions,butshewasn’toverlyenthusiastic,either.Itwasn’tlikeher.Whitneywastheultimateyesandperson—forher,anypossibilityforanticsandadventurewasgoodnews.
“Honestly,I’dbehappyeatingbreadandhangingoutinyourapartmentforthenexttwodays,”she’dsaidwhenshearrivedthisweek.
Frankly,itpissedmeoff.MytimeinTorontowasrunningout,andthereweresomanythingsIstillwantedtodo.Whitneywassupposedtobemywingwoman.Instead,IfeltlikeIwasdraggingheraround.
“What’snottoget?”Isaidnow,gesturingaroundthestationwithmockgrandeurasamanhorkedontheconcretethenextbayover.
Whitneycringed,thenglanceddownatherphone.“Jamie’stextingme.Hewantsmetogiveyouakissforhim.”Hernosewrinkledasshereadhismessages.“KissFerniegoodbyeforme.Tongueallowed.Encouraged.Sendphoto.Winkyface.”
Ishookmyhead,fightingtheupwardcurveofmymouth.JamiewaslikeahumanLabradoodle—ahappy-go-lucky,pleasure-seekingmopofgoldencurls.Hearinghisnamemademefeelalittlelighter.“Myboyfriendsaidthat?I’mshocked.”
“He’sdyingtogetyouupthere.Weallare.”
Iswallowed,thenwithreliefspottedamaninatelltalenavyuniformamblingtowardthebus.
“Takeyourtime,”oneofthepassengersyelledathim.“It’snotlikewe’rebehindschedule.”
“I’msoexcitedwe’llbeinthesameplaceagain,”Whitneywenton.
Inodded,pushingthewordsout.“Metoo.”
Fouryearsoflivingapartfrommybestfriendandmyboyfriend:Ishouldhavebeencountingthesecondsuntilwewerereunited.Ihadn’tseenJamiesincehissurprisetriponValentine’sDay.Duringthewinter,heworkedasasnowboardinginstructorinBanff,buthe’dbeenbackattheresortsincetheMaylongweekend.I’dfinishedmyfinalyearofuniversity—Ishouldhavebeentherewithhim.IshouldhavepackedmybagsaftermylastexaminApril.Instead,ItalkedMomintolettingmestayuntiltheendofJunesoIcouldbumaroundthecityuntilconvocation,whichwasnowaweekaway.Iplayedonhersympathiesasabusinessowner,tellinghermybosswashavingtroublefindingabaristatoreplaceme.
Thebusrumbledtolife,andthenthedriverbegantossingluggageintoitsunderbelly.Aspassengersshuffledforwardandthelinedwindled,WhitneyandIgaveeachotheralongsqueeze.
“Loveyou,Baby,”shesaid.
GrowingupataDirtyDancing–styleresortcamewithaDirtyDancing–stylenickname.“Baby.”Ihatedit.Itdidn’tevenmakesense—Babywasaguest.
Istoodonmytiptoesandpulledherhoodup,yankingonthestringstocinchitaroundherface.“Loveyou,too,”Itoldher.Atleastthatwasn’talie.
OnceWhitneyhadfoundaseat,Iblewherakissandtookmyheadphonesfrommycanvastotebag.Ipressedplay,lettingTalkingHeadsdrownoutthebusengineandthetickingcountdownthatgrewlouderwitheachpassingmoment.
NinemoredaysuntilIhadtogohome.
—
Myheadphoneswerebothmytherapistandmyinvisibilitycloak.TwoSugarswasonlyafewblocksfromthestation—notfarenoughforthemusictowashawaymyguiltormakemeforgetabouttheresortandtheresponsibilitieswaitingformethere.Mypastwaitedformebackhome,too.TheHuntsvilleHighrumormillwasoncepoweredbyFernBrookbanksgossip.Yearshadgoneby,butIknewpeoplestillthoughtofmeasThatGirl—theonewho’dgoneofftherails.Withanyluck,thecoffeeshopwouldbebusyenoughthatmymindwouldswitchtoautopilotbythetimeIpulledmytenthshotofespresso.
Iwalkedeast,jostlingthroughthehordeoftouristsatYongeandDundas.Ilikeditstackiness—theconcrete,flashingbillboardsandthedouble-deckertourbuses—butIlovedhowtherewerepeopleeverywhere,andnotasingleonewaslookingatme.Everyday,onehundredthousandpeoplecrossedtheintersection,andinthatmadness,Iwasaperfectnobody.
ItoldpeopleIwasfromHuntsville,butitwasn’ttotallyaccurate.Theresortwasfaroutsidetown,ontherockyshoresofSmokeLake.ComingtoTorontoforuniversityfeltlikemovingtothemoon.IwishedIcouldplayspaceexplorerforever.
Iturnedupmymusic,rollingmyshouldersforwardthenbackasthesunfoundmyneck.Thetemperaturewassupposedtosetarecordhigh.TorontowasatitsbestinJune.Thepatiosandparksspilledoverwithunbridledearlysummergiddiness.InJune,ahotdaywasagift.ByAugust,itwouldbeaburden,andthecitywouldreekofstewedgarbage.
I’ddressedfortheheatinapairoffrayedjeanshorts,andatanktopunderashort-sleevedblouseI’dfoundatValueVillage.ItwasflowyandsheerandhadatinybrownfloralpatternIthoughtwasstylishinaninetiesway—youcouldhardlyseetheyellowstainnearthehem.
ArowofmetalnewspaperboxesstoodguardoutsideTwoSugars,andIgrabbedanissueofTheGrid,thefreealt-weeklyIlikedbest,beforepullingonthedoor.Itwaslocked.Confused,Iyankedonthehandleagain,thenpressedmynosetotheglass.Thecoffeeshopwasmyfavoriteplaceintheworld,anditwasemptyexceptforLuis.Thesmellofwetpaintlickedmynoseassoonasheopenedthedoor.
“Whyareweclosed?”Iasked,takingmyheadphonesoffandsteppinginside.Istoppedatthesightofablack-and-whitepaintingcoveringonewall.“What’sthis?”
“What’sthis?”Luispointedatmyhead.
“Atrim.”
Hesnorted.“That’snotatrim.Youcutoffallyourhair.”Hesmiled.“Ilikeit.”
Ituggedatoneoftheshortstrandsattheback—itwasbarelylongenoughtoholdbetweenmyfingers.I’dhaditdoneaftermylastshift,beforeWhitneyarrived.Consideringmyhairhadbeenwellpastmyshoulders,itwasabigchange.
“Idon’trememberaskingyouropinion,butthanks,”Isaid.“Sowhat’sgoingoninhere?”
“Youdidn’tknowaboutthemural?”Luisfoldedhisarmsacrosshisimpressivechest.OtherstaffmembershadcomeandgoneatTwoSugars,butthetwoofushadworkedtogetherforthreeyears.
“Nope.”
“Well,wehaveamuralnow.Orwealmostdo.”
Ilookedaround.Theartistappearedtobemissing.“AndyouandIareplayingbabysitter?”Iguessed.
“Oneofusis.I’vebeenherethelastcoupleofdays.”Hepulledasmallkeyringoutofhispocket.“It’syourturn.”
IstaredatLuis.Spendinghoursalonewithsomerandomstranger,havingtomakeconversation—theideawasalmostmorerepellantthanpublicspeaking.“No,”Isaid.
“Yes,”Luisrepliedinsingsong.“I’mgoingtotheisland.I’mmeetingfriendsattheferryinhalfanhour.”
Igrowledouta“Fine”andtookthekey,thenthrewmystuffontoatableandwanderedclosertothemural.“Sowhere’sourMichelangelo?”
“Hewenttograbsomethingtoeat,”Luissaid.“Heshouldbedonebyearlyafternoon,andthenyoucantakeoff.We’recloseduntiltomorrow.”
Icouldsurviveafewhours.IhadajointinmybagandplanstosmokeitinthealleyafterIwasdone.IwantedtowalkthroughmycityandbacktomyplaceinLittleItaly.
“Doyoulikeit?”Luisasked.
Istudiedthemural.Theartisthadmadeafun-houseversionofToronto’sskylineandwaterfront.Everythingwasabitdistorted—theCNTowerwastiny,clutchedintheclawsofaraccoon.Torontowasgettingoffonitselflately,andthistypeoftrendycitypridewaseverywhere:onT-shirts;onposters;evenonmytotebag,whichwasdesignedwithamapofLittleItaly,itsstreetnamesformingtheneighborhoodgrid.
“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“Itseemskindof…basic?”
“Ouch,”adeepvoicesaidbehindus.
Iturnedaroundslowly.
Dressedinloosebluecottoncoverallswasaguyaroundmyage,holdingapapertake-outbag.Hewasextraordinarilytallandheldhimselfeventaller.Hismussedblackhairfelljustpasthisears.Hisnosewasatouchonthelongside,butitsuitedhim.
“ThisisourMichelangelo,”Luissaid
Theguy’sjawandcheekboneswereangular,almostsharp.Ididn’tknowwheretolook,therewassomuchofhim,anditwasallvery…nice.
“YourbasicMichelangelo,”theguycorrected.Idroppedmygaze.Hewastooprettytolookatdirectly.Heworeapairoftanworkbootswithneonpinklaces.
“IusuallygobyWill.”Hestuckouthispalm.“WillBaxter.”
Istaredathislargehandandthenmethiseyes.Theywereasdarkasanoilspill.
“Andyouare?”Willaskedafteramoment,droppinghisarmtohisside.
IglaredatLuis,irritated.Guysthishotweretheworst.Cocky,self-absorbed,dull.Plus,hewastall.Hotplustallmeanthe’dbecompletelyinsufferable.Ibettheonlythingthisguystruggledwithwasfindingpantsthatfitproperly.Luismadealittlewaveasiftosay,He’sfine.
“Fern.”
Willraisedhiseyebrows,askingformore.
“Brookbanks,”Itoldhim,runningmyfingersbehindmyeartotuckmyhairinplace,onlytherewasn’tenoughhairtorearrange.
“Sorrytohearyouthinkmywork’sbasic,FernBrookbanks,”Willsaidwithexaggeratedcheer,“becauseIbelieveyou’restuckwithmefortherestoftheday.”
Igavehimatightsmile.
“Well,kids,I’mgonnasplit,”Luissaid.“Will,despitefirstimpressions,Fernwon’tbite.”
“Hey,”Isaid.
“I’llseeyouMonday.”Luiskissedmycheek,thenwhisperedinmyear,“He’sadoll.Benice.”
IlockedthedoorbehindLuis,feelingWill’seyesonthesideofmyface.
“What?”
“Tellmewhyyoudon’tlikeit.”
Hetookamuffinoutofthepaperbag,peelingofftheparchment.Mystomachgurgled.I’dmadeMom’spancakesasaspecialgoodbyebreakfastforWhitney,butthatwashoursago.Willbrokethemuffininhalfandheldoutahunk.
“Thanks,”Isaid,shovingitintomymouth.Lemon-cranberry.
Weturnedtofacethewall.Everythingbuttheright-handcornerlookedfinished.
“Theraccoon’sfine,”Isaid.Whenhedidn’trespond,Ipeeredupathim.Hewasbetterlookingatcloseproximity.Hisbottomlasheswereanexaggeratedcurve,asblackasthelakeatmidnight.Theywerelonganddelicate,kissingtheskinbelowhiseyes,andthecontrastwithhissplattered,saggyworkgearwasweirdlythrilling.Istudiedthemuralagain.“It’snotterrible.”
Hislaughcameoutofnowhere,poppinglikeafirework.Itwasdelightmadeacoustic.“Tellmewhatyoureallythink.”
“It’sjustnotwhatIwouldhavechosen.It’ssodifferentinherethanitwassixmonthsago.”Mybosshaddecidedthespaceneeded“modernizing.”Thebeat-upcherrywoodchairswerenowmoldedblackplastic.Theturquoisewallshadbeenpaintedwhite.TherewerenomoreRenoirposters.
ImadethemistakeoflookingatWillagain.Thewayhewatchedmewithfascinationmademeuneasy.“Notabigfanofchange?”
“Ilikedthewayitwasbefore.”Ipointedtoacornerbythewindow.“Wehadthisoldorangevelvetarmchairthere,andalltheseNigellaLawsoncookbooks.”Hardlyanyonelookedthroughthem,butNigellawasourthing.“Therewerewoodenbeadshangingoverthere.”Igesturedtothedoorwaythatledtotheprepkitchen.
ThewallWillwaspaintingoncehadalargecorkboardoverthemilkandsugarstation,wherepeopletackedflyersforpianolessons,missedconnections,knittingcircles—anything,really.Lastyear,oneofourregularsproposedtohisboyfriendbypinningupasignthatread,Iloveyou,Sean.Willyoumarryme?He’dcutverticalstripsintothebottom,eachwiththesameanswer:Yes.
“Itusedtobecozyinhere.It’slikeatotallydifferentplacenow,”Isaid.“It’sso…stark.”
“Iknowwhatyoumean,”Willsaid,brushingmuffinfromhischestpockets.Therewasaplaingoldsignetringonhispinkie.“EverytimeIcomebacktoToronto,it’schangedalittle.Sometimesmorethanalittle.”
“Youdon’tlivehere?”
“Vancouver,”hesaid.“ButIgrewuphere.Andyeah,it’salwaysevolving.Idon’tmindit,though.”Hepushedasliceofhairoffhisface.“WheneverI’mhome,Ihavethechancetogettoknowthecityalloveragain.”
“Howromantic,”Isaid,deadpan.Buthiswordshitmybloodstreamlikeanespressoshot.3
Now
IstareatWillacrossthefrontdesk,fingershoveringoverthekeyboard,throatdry.Hiseyesarefixedonmine.Hestillhasn’tgivenmehisname,andJamieislookingbetweenus,hisheadwhippingaroundlikeapuppychoosingbetweenchewtoys.
WillandIweretwenty-twothelasttimewesaweachother,andhe’snotatalllikehowIthoughthe’dturnout.Iwonderifhe’sthinkingthesameaboutme.BecausehemustknowwhoIam.HemustknowthisBrookbanksResortismyBrookbanksResort.
“IjustneedyournamesoIcanlookupthereservation,”Jamiesays,nudgingmeoutofthewaywhileWillandIwatcheachother.Hiseyestightenatthecorners.He’snotsureI’verecognizedhim.
ButofcourseIhave,eventhoughthisWillBaxterisverydifferentfromtheWillBaxterIonceknew.He’sstillalllonglinesandkeenedges,thoughthesuitisthrowingme.Soisthehair,combedbackfromhisforeheadandcementedwithproduct.He’sstilltrim,butthere’sasturdinesstohim.It’sthesuitandthehairandthebody,plusthetenyearssinceIlastsawhim.
Asunexpectedastheyare,thebespokeclothingandthetwo-hundred-dollarhaircutsuithim.Thatgracehehas.
“WillBaxter,”hesays,eyeslockedonmeasheslideshiscreditcardandIDontothecounter.
IspentjustonedaywithWill,anditchangedmylife.Ioncethoughthemightbemysoulmate.IoncethoughtheandIwouldbeheretogetherunderverydifferentcircumstances.IoncethoughtalotofthingsaboutWill.
AndIhavewastedfartoomuchofmyadultlifewonderingwhathappenedtohim
Imighthavebeenabletostopmyjawfromhittingtheburgundycarpeting,butIcan’tgetahandleonmybreathing.Thisgoddamndressofmymother’sissotight,Icanseemychestrisingandfalling.Willalsonotices.Hiseyesdropforasecond,andwhentheycomebacktomine,hesucksinajaggedbreath
“Mr.Baxter,Iseeyou’rebookedinoneofthecabinsthisyear,”Jamiesays.
Ibarelyhearhim.
Willmustnot,either,becausehedoesn’tanswer.Instead,hedipshishead.
“Fern.”Will’svoiceisdeep,andmynamecomesoutthick,asifitgotcaughtintar.
I’mnotsurewhattherightmoveishere.Whatthesafestmoveis.PretendingIdon’trememberhimoffersmethemostprotection,butI’mnotaverygoodactor.I’veneverbeensurewhetherit’sunreasonablethatIcanrecallthetwenty-fourhoursIspentwithWillsoclearlyorwhetheritwouldbeabsurdifIdidn’t.
Itearattheskinonmyforearm,andWilltracksthescratching.Ipressmyhandsflatagainstthedesk,annoyedhehasthiseffectonme.
“You’rehere.”Hesaysitasifhedidn’tjuststringtogetherthetwomostironicwordsintheEnglishlanguage.
I’mhere?I’mhere?Iwanttoscreambackathim.Iwanttoaskhimwherethehellhe’sbeen.Itwashisideatomeetattheresort.Ishowedup.He’snineyearslate.
Iopenmylips,thenclosethem.Iopenthemagain,butnothingcomesout.
“Areyouokay?”Jamiewhispersnexttomyear,andIshakemyhead.
Watermelon,Imouth,hopingheremembers.
“Mr.Baxter,”Jamiesays,rubbinghishandstogether.“Ms.Brookbankshastodepartfortheevening,I’mafraid.ButI’dbepleasedtogetyousettled.”
NotmeetingWill’seyes,Igivehisshoulderanodandedgearoundthedesk.
“Iseeyou’restayinginCabin20,”Jamiesays.
Shit.Shit.Shit.Shit.
Ichargetowardthemaindoors,keepingmyheaddown.JustbeforeIslipoutside,IhearWillcallmyname,andthenIbreakintoarun.
—
RunningfromWillBaxterisexhausting.Iknow,becauseI’vespentnineyearsbarrelingdownthistrail.Itwassupposedtoleadfarawayfromhim,throughsomekindofmagicalmistandenchantedforest,toalandofforgetting.I’vefledfromthefeelingofhisfingerlinkedwithmine,fromthehurt.Itusedtoburnhotandsharp,likealancethroughthesternum.Overtimeitfadedtoadullache.Buttonight,thereisnoescape.
Idartdowntheflagstonestepsinfrontofthelodge.AssoonasIlandonthepath,myhighheelssinkintothegravel,andIstumble.Ishiftmyweightontotheballsofmyfeet,butIcanonlyshuffleafewinchesatatime.IleftmyBirkenstocksintheoffice.Swearing,Ipullofftheshoesandgritmyteethagainstthebiteofpebbles.I’vebeenlivinginthecitytoolong.WhitneyandIusedtoscamperaroundthepropertyinbarefeetallsummer.
IgetthreestridesfartherwhenIhearfootstepshurryingdownthestairsbehindme.
“Fern.Wait.”
ButIdon’twait.Ipickupmypace,trip,andgosoaringforward.Thehumiliationhitsbeforethestinginginmypalmsandknees.
“Areyouokay?”Willasksaboveme.
Iruethedayhewasborn.Iruethepeoplewhoheldeachothercloseninemonthsbeforethat.Idoalotofrue-ingasIliethere.Ipressmyforeheadagainstthegroundanddigmyfingersintothestones.MaybeIcanburrowmywayoutofthis.
“I’mgoingtohelpyouup,allright?”
BeforeIcansayno,thatitisnotallright,thatnothingaboutthisisallright,Willtakesmyarmsandpullsmetomyfeet.
Istall,brushingawaybitsofdirtandrock,andWillcurlsdowntoinspectthedamage.Hisheadisafewinchesfrommyown—soclose,Icansmellhiscologne,smokeandleatherandsomethingsweet,likeburntcaramel.Ikeepmyattentionsquarelyonmylegs.
“Thatlooksbad,”hesays,thenrunshisfingerbesideabloodypatchthat’salreadystartingtoswell.I’mtoostunnedtodoanythingbutwatch.
“It’sfine,”Isnap.WhenIchancealookathim,he’speeringbackthroughthedarkhedgeofhislashes.
“It’syou,”hesays.Hedoesn’tlooksurprisedtoseeme.
Istraighten,andWilldoesthesame,unfoldinghimselftohisfullheight.
Istareathistie.Heoncesaidhe’dneverwearone.Iwonderwhatotherpartsoftheplanhedidn’tfollowthroughon.
“Areyouokay?”hesays.“Doyouwanttosit?”Hemotionstoalogbenchthatlooksoverthelake,thoughit’stoodarktomakeoutthefarshore.Theairsmellsoffreshlycutgrass,petunias,andpine—themanicuredlawnsandgardensaroundthelodgecollidingwiththenearbybush.Myeyesdrifttothedocks,whereafewlocalfirefightersaresettingupfortonight’sfireworksdisplay,andIswallow.
Ishakemyhead,mymindspinning.ThereareathousandthingsI’vewantedtosaytoWill,andIcan’tseemtopickasingleoneofthem.
Willrubshisneck.“Youdorememberme,right?”Hiswordscomeoutlikethey’retiptoeingacrossatightrope.Fivecautioussteps.
Rememberhim?Thequestionissoridiculous,it’salmostfunny.Itwasmymomwhosavedmylife,butitwasWillwhohelpedmefigureouthowtomakeitmyown.
Willpicksmyshoesupoffthegroundandtakesastepclosertopassthemtome,hisexpressionguarded,andthemovementjoltsme.Thereareguestseverywhere,lyingonblanketsonthelawn,stretchedoutonloungersbythebeach,waitingforthefireworkstobegin,butIdon’tcare.
“Oh,Irememberyou,”Isay.Thelamplightcaressesthehighplanesofhischeeks,andanimageofhimfromthatnight,candlelightflickeringacrosshisface,flashesinmymind.“AndwhatI’dliketoknowiswhatyou’redoinghere.”
Heblinksatmytone,holdingtheshoesoutbetweenus.
“Atmyresort,”Iadd,snatchingtheheels.“Didyougetthedatewrong?”
“No.I—”
“Don’ttrytotellmethisissomekindofcoincidence,”Isay.
“Youdon’tknow?”Hesoundsconfused.“I’mheretohelp,”hesays,loweringhisvoice.
“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
“Yourmotherdidn’ttellyou?Shehiredmeasabusinessconsultant.”
Myneckpullsbacklikeaslingshot.“Mymother?Howdoyouknowmymother?”Ihiss,andthenIclosemyeyes.Foramoment,Iforgotthatshe’sgone.
“Imetherherelastsummer,”Willsays.“Ithoughtshemighthavetoldyou.Ithoughtthatmightbewhyyou’rehere.Sheaskedformyhelpwithstrategicplanningandideasfor—”
Iwavemyshoestostophim.I’moverwhelmed.Ican’tfocusontheunlikelihoodofmymomhiringaconsultant,ortheevenweirdertwistofthatpersonbeingWill.Will,whoishere.Will,whocameherelastsummer.Will,whoknewmymom.Will,whothoughtIknewhewascoming.Will,whodespiteallthis,stillnevercontactedme.Thisisalltoomuch.
ItakeadeepbreathsoIcanaddressthemostimportantfact.“Will,”Isay,andhisnamefeelsstrangeonmytongue.“Mymother’sdead.”
“What?No.Ijustspoketoher…itwasn’tthatlongago,”hemutters,moretohimselfthantome.
“Itwasacaraccident.BackinMay.”IlistthefactslikepullingoffaBand-Aid,cleanlyandwithaslittleattentiontotheirmeaningaspossible.Iexplainhowtherestaurant’sicemachinebrokeduringthemiddleofdinnerservice,howthebartendersweremakingdowithadispenserononeoftheguestroomfloors.Whensomeonecomplainedabouttheconstantnoise,mymomdecidedtodriveintotownherselftobringbackatrunkfullofice.Itwasdark,andIdoubtshesawthedeeruntilitcrashedthroughherwindshield.
Itmakesmeirrationallyangry,howsheinsistedondoingtasksshecouldhaveeasilyassignedtosomeoneelse.Intheend,herdedicationkilledher.
Willrunsapalmdownhisface.He’sgoneashadepaler.“Areyouokay?Ofcourseyou’renotokay,”hesays,answeringhisownquestion.“Youreallydidn’tknowIwascoming.You’reherebecauseyou’velostyourmom.”
Iholdoutmyhands,palmsup—it’sagestureofbewilderment,notshowmanship.“Iownthisplacenow.Sheleftittome.”
Willstaresdownatme,andIlookaway.Theweeksofwakinginthemiddleofthenightandtossingandturningforhoursarecatchingupwithme,theexhaustionthat’sdeepinmybonesseepingtothesurface.
“Fern,”hesaysquietly,gently.Hetwiststheringonhispinkie.Iforgotaboutthering-twisting.“I’msosorry.”
Theapologyslamsintomychestlikethebluntendofanax.It’snotwhatIwanthimtobesorryfor.Mybottomliptrembles.
Hereachesformyarm,andIjerkitback.“Don’t.”
“Fernie?”Jamiecallsfromthetopofthestaircase.“Youallright?”
“I’mfine,”Isay,movingasidetomakeroomforagroupheadingtowardthelodge.
Jamiewishestheguestsagoodeveningandremarksontheexcellenceofthecrabcakesbeforedescendingthestepstwoatatimetojoinus.Heisn’tastallasWill,butJamiehasalwaysbeenextremelycomfortableinhisbody.Hewieldsitlikehe’sagiant.
“Youleftyourkeybehind,Mr.Baxter,”hesays,eyesnarrowed,passingittoWill.“Andyoursuitcase,butI’llhaveitdeliveredtoyourcabin.”
Willpuffsuptallerashetakesthekeycard.“Iappreciatethat.”
“Soyoutwoknoweachother?”Jamieasks,lookingbetweenus.
“No,”IsayatthesametimeWillanswers,“Yes.”
Jamie’seyesdroptomylegs.“There’safirstaidkitbackintheoffice.Letmecleanthatup.”
“Don’tworryaboutit,”Isay.“Really,Jamie,I’mfine.”
IseetheprecisemomentwhenthenameregisterswithWill.Heblinkstwice,andshockwashesoverhisfacelikeatidecomingin.
Jamiecrouchesinfrontofme,examiningtheinjury.MyeyesdarttoWill’s.Areflex.Buthe’swatchingJamie,hishandsclenchedathissides.
“Yousureyou’regood,Fernie?”Jamieasks,thenpeersupatme.“Idon’tlikethelookofthis.”
I’mstandingbetweenJamiePringleandWillBaxter,withbarefeetandbanged-upknees,lessthantwomonthsaftermymother’sdeath.“Uh-huh,”Itellhim.
“Notbuyingit.You’recomingwithme,”Jamiesays,standingagain.“Youcan’tgetanythingbyme,Fernie,”hesaysintomyear,butI’msureWillcanhear.
Ishouldn’tfeelguilty,butIdo.IhatethatIdo.
Willclearshisthroat.“I’llleaveyoutwotoit,then,”hesays.“I’msorry,Fern.”Hegivesmealonglook.Ithinkhemightsaysomethingmore,butthenheturnsdownthepath.
Thefirstfireworkexplodesoverheadwithabangandafizzle,lightingthetreetops.ButIdon’tlookup.IstareatWill,walkingawayfrommelikehedidtenyearsago.
Youandmeinoneyear,FernBrookbanks.Don’tletmedown.
Thatwasthelastthinghesaid.4
June14,TenYearsAgo
Guyswerealwayssoslumpy.Theyleanedindoorwaysandslouchedovercafeteriatables.Jamieoftenusedmeasarestingpost,hiselbowproppedonmyshoulder.Willwasmuchmorevertical.
HewasoutliningthewingofaplanesoaringabovetheskylinewhileIpretendedtoreadTheGrid.Ihadmynotebookonthetable,opentothelistofthingsIwantedtodo,see,eat,anddrinkbeforeIwenthomeinlittlemorethanaweek.Betweenclasses,homework,andshifts,Ihadn’tmadethemostoflivinginCanada’slargestcity.Iwashopingtofindacoupleofcheapideasinthisweek’sissuetoaddtomybucketlist,butI’dbeenstaringatthelonglineofWill’sbackandthesteadygripofhishandaroundthebrush.MostlyIwasstruckbytheuprightwayheheldhimself.Definitivelyunslumpy.
“Icanfeelyourjudgment,”Willsaid.“It’sextremelyloud.”Helookedoverhisshoulder,hairfallingintohiseyes,lipsslantedup.“Wanttoputonsomemusictodrownitout?”
Sohewasfunnyandhot.Iglared,butWill’ssmileonlywidened.I’dneverseenoneasbeautifulashis.
“Areyoualwaysthistoothy?”Iasked
“Areyoualwaysthisfriendly?”
“Prettymuch.”
Hechuckled,andIcouldfeelthesoundinmybelly,warmandsweet.“Iwon’ttakeoffense,then.”HenoddedtomyiPodonthetable.“Music?”
“Sure.”He’dfoundmyweakspotinrecordtime.Irubbedthenewsprintoffmyfingersontomyshortsandthumbedthroughmyalbumswithchippedbluenails,takingaguessatwhathe’dlike.“I’vegotthenewVampireWeekend.Haveyouheardit?”
“Isthatwhatyouwerelisteningtowhenyoucamein?Isawyououtonthestreetearlier.”
Iclearedmythroat,surprised.“Oh,no.ThatwasoneofPeter’splaylists.”
“Yourboyfriend?”
Isnorted.“Peter’smymom’sbestfriend.Playlistsarekindofourthing.”
Understatement.PeterandIcommunicatedthroughmusic.Momcalleditoursecretlanguage.
Accordingtoher,Peterdidn’tletalotofpeopleintohislife—wehadthatincommon.Fromhowshetoldit(andshelovedtellingit),MomhadelbowedherwayinlongbeforeIwasborn.
Hedidn’tknowwhattomakeofallmytalking,andhedidn’tknowhowtoaskmetoshutup,soafterawinteroflivingatthehouse,hewasstuckwithmeforlife.Confinement—it’showIforcedhimtobemyfriend.
Iwasgladshehad.WithoutPeter,itwasjustMomandme.He’dboughtmemyfirstsetofheadphones,andeverypairsince.WesenteachothermixCDsinthemail,andIputthemonmyiPod.
“What’sonit?”Willasked,wanderingcloser.Therewasatinypinfixedtohiscollar,thewordsurrealistwrittenonit.Iheldmyscreenoutandheleanedover,hisbrushsuspendedinmidair,readingoutsongtitles.
“?‘StopYourCrying.’‘I’mOnlyHappyWhenItRains.’‘RoadtoNowhere.’?”Helookeddownatme,eyessparkling.“Ithinkhe’stryingtotellyousomething.”
“Peterlikesatheme.”IwasimpressedWillpickeduponit.“HesaidIsoundedcrankythelasttimewespoke,andthisiswhathesentme.”
“Whatwereyoucrankyabout?”
Ishrugged.
“Topsecretbusiness?”
“Noneofyourbusiness.”
Willstudiedmeforasecond,hissmileunsure.“Let’sputiton.”
IduckedbehindthecounterandconnectedmyiPodtothespeakersystem.FionaApplefilledthecoffeeshop.IlookeduptofindWillwatchingme.Mystomachdipped.
“Ilovethissong,”hesaid.“It’scalled‘EverySingleNight,’right?”
“Mm-hmm.”Sohewasfunnyandhotandhadgoodtasteinmusic.Whatever.
Willreturnedtothemural,andIwentbacktomypaper.
“What’sinthatnotebook?”heaskedafterafewminutes.“Areyouawriter?”
Icrossedmyarmsovermychest,butIdidn’tanswer.
“Poems?Diaryentries?Topsecretworlddominationbusiness?”
“You’reasmidgenosy,youknowthat?”
Abrightclapoflaughtereruptedfromhim.“Asmidge!”Heglancedoverhisshoulder,andItriedtoglower,butIwassmilingharderthanIhadinmonths.Thereweren’tmanypeoplewhocouldmakemesmilethatJune.
WhenWillhadfinishedtheplane,Ijumpedoutofmyseat,announcingthatIneededcoffee.“Doyouwantone?”
“Yeah,please.That’dbegreat.”
“What’syourorder?”
“Alatte.Withadoubleshot?”
“Noproblem.”Iwashopinghe’dwantsomethingwithfoam.
IpouredhotmilkoverWill’scoffee,anglingthecupandwigglingthepitcherinonedirectionacrossthesurfacethendraggingitbackintheother.Spiritualizedplayedonthespeakers.Ifthecaféhadbeenfull,itwouldhavebeenperfection.Iwasinmyzonebehindthebar—noonepaidattentiontomethere;itwasalmostasgoodaswalkingthroughthecity.
“I’mbasicallydone,”Willsaid,wipinghishands.“I’llletthisdryforabitandthendoavarnishcoat.Itwon’ttakelongtoapply.”
Isetthemugsdownonatable.“Thisone’syours.Doyoutakesugar?”
“Three?”Willgrinned.“Ihaveasweettooth.It’saproblem.”Will’scoverallsweresobaggy,itwasn’tobviouswhathekeptunderneaththem,butIwascertainitwasnoproblem.
HetookaseatwhileIpulledbacktheclothcoveringthemilkandsugarstation.
“Yousaidthreelikeyouwantedfour,”Isaid,droppinganextrapacketofsugarandastirstickonthetableasIsatdown.Willlookedupfromhisdrinkwithanoddexpressiononhisface.
Ihadalatteartcode.Igavemostofmycustomershearts.Fathearts.Littleheartssittingatopbighearts.Ringsofhearts.Heartsmadethemfeelspecial.Butmyfavoritecustomersdidn’tgethearts.
“AfernfromFern,”Willsaid,hisvoicelow.
Imadefernswhensomeonerippledwithjoy,oriftheyseemedsad,orwhentheycomplimentedthemusicwhenIwasinchargeofthestereo.ThedayJoshproposedtoSeanwithhisposter,Itoppedhisdrinkwithtwofernfronds,theirstemsjoinedatthecenter.Imadefernsformyfavoritepeople.Ihadn’trealizedIwasmakingoneforWilluntilI’dfinishedpouringthemilk.
IpushedthesugarclosertoWill.“Yourcoffee’sgettingcold.”
Heblinked,thenpickedupallfourpackets.
—
“I’mmovingbackhomerightafterconvocation,”ItoldWillafterhe’dtakenhisfirstsip.Iranmyfingersoverthesoftblackleathercoverofmynotebook.ItwasagiftfromMombeforeIwentawayforschool—ithadrefillablepagesandasnapclosure.Agrown-upjournalformygrown-updaughter.I’msoproudofhowyou’veturnedthingsaround,pea.“I’vegotabunchofstuffIwanttodobeforeIleave,soI’vebeenkeepingtrack.Nothingtooexciting.”
“Thatdependsonwhat’sonyourlist,”Willsaid.Myeyesfollowedtheslowspreadofhissmile,catchingonatinyscarbelowhislip.
“It’sabitofajumble,”Isaid.“Abunchofitisfood.There’sarestaurantinthefinancialdistrictmakingatwenty-dollarchocolatebar.Itsoundsdouchey,andI’mdefinitelytoobroketoblowtwentybucksoncandy,butlike,whatdoesatwenty-dollarchocolatebartastelike?”
“Ihavenoidea.”
Iopenedthebook,scanningthelist.“Therearesomeneighborhoods:theDistilleryDistrict,theJunction.Ihaven’tbeentoHighPark.Canyoubelievethat?I’velivedhereforfouryears.”Ipaused.“Whichpartofthecitydidyougrowupin?”
Willhalfcringed.“RightaroundHighPark.”
“Shutup.”
Heheldhishandsup,laughing.“It’sstunning,especiallywhenthecherryblossomsareoutinthespring.Youshouldreallygo.”
Ithrewmypenathim.“Imissedblossomseason.”
“IalwaysthoughtTorontowouldbeaboringdestinationunlessyouhadalocalshowingyouaround.Allthecoolstuffiskindofhidden,”Willsaid,turninganemptysugarpacketinhisfingers.“Where’shome?”
“Muskoka—justoutsideHuntsville.”Muskokawasalargelakedistrictnorthofthecity,andprimecottagecountry.
“Mustbegorgeousthere.”
Istaredatthemilkybrownpuddleinmycup.“Itis.”
“But…”
Myeyesrosetohis.
“There’snobut,”Ilied.
Will’sgazeflickeredovermyface,thendowntomyfingersscratchingatmyleftwrist.
“Sooverpricedcandy,urbanparks…whatelse?”
Irecitedafewofthebiggerattractions.
“TheCNTower?”Willasked.“Isn’tthatkindof…”Hesmirked,eyesdancing.“Basic?”
“Oh,Isee,”Isaid.“You’reasnob.”
IwasabouttoaskWillwhathethoughtwasworthseeing,butIstoppedmyself.Ididn’tusuallygetalongwithpeoplesoquickly,butIwasenjoyingtalkingtoWill.Iwasreallyenjoyinghissmile.Abittoomuchforsomeonewhohadaboyfriend.Ipushedmychairout,collectingourcupsandutensilsandtakingthemovertothesink.
JamiehadbeenafixtureofmysummersforaslongasIcouldremember.ButthesummerIwaseighteen,Ihadn’tseenhimcoming.Storiesofmyteenageanticswerespreadonwhisperinglipsthroughtheresort,andI’dcometodreadworkingthefrontdeskandwaitingtablesattherestaurant,wheretoomanypeopleknewwhoIwasandwhathadhappened.Momagreedtoassignmetotheoutfittinghutfortheseason.SoitwasmeandJamiedownatthedocks,schleppingboatsandsizingguestsforlifejacketsandpaddles.
Jamiewasthreeyearsolderthanme,andarelentlessflirt.Hewasn’taskilledflirt,buthewaspersistent.Withhistanandhismattedcurls,hehadthisgrimy-surferthinggoingonthatIdidn’thateandanunhurriedwayofspeakingthatmadehimseemeitherwiseordense,dependingonthesituation.UnlikesomeoftheotherBrookbanksemployees,Jamiedidn’ttreatmedifferentlybecauseofmylastnameoranyofthestupidstuffI’ddone.WhenIkissedhimatastaffbonfireontheAugustlongweekend,Iwasassurprisedashewas.Thatwasfouryearsearlier,andwe’dbeentogethersince.
“Wanttogivemeahandvarnishing?”WillsaidasIwashedourmugs.“Ifwedoittogether,wecangetoutofherefaster.”Hetwistedhispinkiering.
“Youwantmetodoyourjobforyou?”Iwasn’tsureworkingalongsideWillwasagoodidea.
Hewalkedbehindthecounterandpickedupateatowel,thenbegandryingoneofthecups.“Withme,”Willsaid,andmyinsidesswooped.
—
Willdemonstratedhowtoapplytheclearcoatinginacrosshatchpatternwithawidebrush,startingatthetopofthewallandworkingdown.“It’skindofhardtomessup,”heassuredme.
“WhyareyoulivinginVancouver?”IaskedasIcoveredthemuralwithgloss
“Imovedoutthereforschool.IjustgraduatedfromEmilyCarr.”
“That’sanartsuniversity,right?”
“Yeah,anddesign.”
Ipointedmybrushathislapelpin.“Surrealist—isthatthestyleofpaintingyoudo?”
“No.”Hepulledouthiscollarasthoughhe’dforgottenitwasthere.“Iguessit’skindofaninsidejokesincemyworkisfairlyliteral.Mygirlfriendgaveittome.”
Thewordgirlfriendwaslikeafingerproddingbetweentheribs.Iflinched.Icouldn’thelpit.
“Literalhow?”Iasked,tryingtoloosenthetightsqueezeofenvy.Ihadnobusinessbeingjealous.IhadJamie.
“I’manillustrator.Comics,mostly.Idabblewithportraiture,but—”
“Dabble!I’mprettysuredabbleandsmidgearerelated.”
Willlaughed.“Definitelyfromthesamegenepool.”
“Okay,soyoudabblewithportraiture,”IsaidinmyhaughtiestEnglishaccent.
“Cute,”Willsaid.“Ihadacomicstripinacampusnewsletterlastsemester.Mydreamistoturnitintoagraphicnovel.”
“Youhaveyourowncomic?”
Heraisedoneshoulderasifitwasnobigthing.“Fredwastheartdirectorofthenewsletter.Ihadanin.”
“Fred?”
“Mygirlfriend.”
Ofcoursehisgirlfriendwastheartdirectorofanartschoolnewsletter,andhadanawesome,non-plant-basednamelikeFred.
Wefinishedoursectionsandshiftedfartherdownthewall.
“Yousaidplaylistsareyourthing—youandthisfriendofyourmom’s,”Willcommentedafterawhile.
“Peter.Yeah,we’vebeenlisteningtomusictogethersinceIwaslittle.”
Momgotsnippywheneverwegeekedoutinfrontofher.IfIhearthewordsdistortionortonalityonemoretimetonight,youtwocanfindsomeoneelsetoplaycardswith.ButIcouldtellshenevermeantit.
“That’sdifferent.Imean,it’scool,”headded.“Idon’tknowmyparents’friendswell.Youandyourmommustbesupertight.”
“MymomandIare…”IlistenedtotheswishofWill’sbrushstrokes,tryingtofigureoutwhatMomandIwere.Ourrelationshiphadbeenstrainedthroughoutmyteenageyears—IwasannoyedbyhowmuchsheworkedandhowoftenIhadtocookdinnerformyself.ThenIreadherdiary,andIbecameahumanwreckingball.ButI’dspentthelastfouryearsatuniversityshowingherIwasresponsible—earningabusinessdegree,sameasshedid.WespokeeverySunday.WewatchedTheGoodWifetogether,ourphonesonspeaker,whileIfoldedlaundryandshedidhernails.AliciaFlorrickwasourhero.“Iwouldn’tsaywe’resupertight,butwe’regettingthere.”
Istartedpaintingagain.Willhadn’tpausedtolookmyway,andIwonderedifheknewthatmadeiteasierformetotalk.“Peterhelpedraiseme.Hesaysheoversawmymusicaleducation.Momsaysitwasmorelikeindoctrination.”
Peterwastheheadpatissierattheresort.WhenIwasakid,Iwashisresidenttaster.HekeptawhiteplasticstoolinthepastrykitchensoIcouldstandbesidehim,dippingmyforkintovarioustartsandpies,musicblaring.WheneverMomcamein,shenaggedhimtoturnitdown.Orbetteryet,Peter,turnthatcrapoff.Momhatedourmusic.
“Youmakehimplaylists,too?”
“Wegobackandforth.Ouronlyruleistherehastobeatheme.”
“Areyouputtingonetogethernow?”
“Iam.”Ipressedthebrushagainstthewallwithundueforce.“TheEndingsplaylist.”
Willwasquietforamoment,thensaid,“Somepeoplemightthinkofthistimeintheirlifeasthebeginning.”
“Somemight,”Isaid.
“Butnotyou.”
Iblinkedatthemural,andthenlookedoveratWill.Heturnedmyway.
“WhatIwanttoknow,”Isaid,deflecting,“ishowyouendeduphereofallplaces.”
“Oh,that’sjustnepotism,”Willsaid.“Mymomisfriendswiththeowner.WhenImentionedIwascomingouthereforavisit,shesuggestedIdoapiece.”
Iimaginedhavingapassion,aparentwhosupportedit,andthefreedomtofollowitthrough.“That’ssoamazing.Sheobviouslyreallybelievesinyou.”
Helookedatme,andsomethingaboutit—thewayhiseyesheldontomineforthreelongseconds—snaggedinmychest.ItwasthefirsttimeI’dseenhimwithoutanytraceofmerriment.Heseemedolder.Maybeevenabittired.Theurgetotellajoke,toseeasmilebloomonhisface,wasstrangeinitsintensity.
“Shesaysmydesiretodrawinboxesandpaintonwallslaysbaremyinnerrigidity,andthatIhavearuinouscaseofperfectionismthathasnoplaceintheheartofanartist.”
Myjawhungopen.“Yourmothersaidthat?Like,toyourface?”
“Morethanonce.”
MomandIhadbeenthroughalot.ButIcouldn’timaginehersayingsomethingsocold.
“Mymotherisanartist,”Willsaid,asifthatwasanexplanation.“Asculptor.”
Ifrowned.“Areallartistsmean?”
“Someofthem,”hesaidquietly,thenclearedhisthroat.“ButIlikeworkingwithinabox.Igetoffonthelimitation.”
Iheatedimmediately,palmsburningasifI’dpulledbakedpotatoesfromtheoven.
“Whataboutyou?”heasked.“Whatgetsyougoing?”
“Me?”Iturnedtothewall,andthenWillleanedoverandspokeintomyear,makingthehaironmyarmsstand.“Relax,FernBrookbanks.”
Unlikely.
“Likes:coffee,music,walking.”IglancedatWill.“Thebasics.”
“Thefundamentals,”hecorrected.“Whatwasyourmajor?”
“Businessmanagement?”Isoundedunsure.Ifeltunsure,eventhoughI’dallbutdonnedmycapandgown.
Hiseyesskatedoverme.“That’snotwhatIwouldhaveguessed.”
Iwantedtoaskhimwhathewouldhaveguessed,butwe’dreachedtheendofthewall.
“Well,that’sit,”heannounced.“I’llcleanupandputeverythingaway,thenwecantakeoff.”Heputhishandoutformybrush.
“Doyouwanthelp?”Ioffered.
“Nah,that’sokay.Ialreadyropedyouintovarnishing.”
Inodded,disappointed.IpackedupmythingsandunhookedmyiPod,leavingthecafésilentexceptforthesoundofWillwashinghisbrushesintheback.
Iwanderedovertothemural,studyingthepaintingwhileIwaited,myeyesmovingthedirectionwehadworked,finallylandingontheplane.Mybreathcaught,andIsteppedcloser.Willhadvarnishedthissection,soI’dmissedit.He’dputatinyfernfrondontheplane’srudder.
“Yougavemeafernonacoffee,soIgaveyouoneonaplane.”
IturnedatWill’svoice.Hewasdryinghishandsonatowel.“Youpaintedafernonawallforme.”
“Averysmallportionofthewall.Doyoulikeit?”
ItwasthebestfernI’deverseen.Iwantedtochiselitoutoftheplasterandtakeithome.“Yeah,”Imurmured.Ilovedit.
“SoIhaveanidea,”Willsaid,throwingthetoweloverhisshoulder.“IthoughtIcouldshowyousomeofmyfavoritespots,ifyou’refree.Nothingbasic,Ipromise.”
Iwastemporarilyspeechless.
“I’mgoingbacktoVancouvertomorrow,”hesaidwhenIdidn’treply.“I’vegotamuralcommissionstartingMonday—anothercoffeeshop.I’dbeintospendingtheafternoonwalkingaroundthecity.”
Hoursago,allIwantedwastogethigh,makemywayhome,andstarfishacrossmybed,buttheideaofseeingWill’sTorontowasexciting.SpendingmoretimewithWillwasexciting.Andthatwasaproblem.JamiewastheonlyguyIshouldwanttospendtimewith.
“So?”Willasked.“Whatdoyouthink?”
Icouldfeelmyheartbeateverywhere—inmylips,mythroat—aheavythudofwarningthroughoutmybody.IlookedovermyshoulderattheplaneandthenbackatWill.Hewasfidgetingwithhisring.
“I’dloveto,”Itoldhim.Becausemorethananything,Ididn’twanttowasteonemoremomentofmytimeleftinthecity.5
Now
Iwakeupat2:02a.m.It’salwaysjustaftertwo—myinsomniaarriveswithSwissprecision.SometimesIopenthewindowandlistentothebreezeinthetreeboughsandthelakelappingagainstrock,willingmyselftodozeoff.SometimesIputonameditationappandattempttomindfulnessmywaybacktosleep.Mostoften,Iliehereinmychildhoodbedroom,tryingtofigureoutwhatthehellI’mgoingtodowithmylife.
Tonight,Ishiftontomyside,thenmyback,thenmystomach,butIcan’tgetcomfortable,notwhenmymindiscirclingonthefactthatWillBaxterishere,andthatmymommethim.MymomhiredWill.
Iknowtheresortisn’tasbusyasitshouldbe,buttheideaofmymothercedinganounceofpowertoaconsultantdoesn’ttrackunlessthingsarefarworsethanIguessed.WhydidMomseekWill’shelpinsteadofmine?Thepossibilitythatshedidn’tbelieveIwascapablebothersme.
Eventually,ItextWhitney.
Youup?
Unfortunately.EverythingOK?
It’soneoftheperksofmybestfriendhavingafive-month-old.Owenisthesweetestlittleguy,buthe’saterrorwhenitcomestosleep.
DoyourememberWillBaxter?
Whitneynevermethim,andatfirst,Ididn’ttellhermuch.SheandJamiewereclose,andIwasafraidshewouldn’tapprove.ButIcouldn’tnottalkaboutWill.
TheWillBaxterfromamillionyearsago?Theoneyouwereobsessedwith?
Haha,Iwriteback.
Whatabouthim?
Hecheckedinheretoday.
Inseconds,myphoneisvibrating.
“Tellmeeverything,”WhitneysaysinanexcitedwhisperwhenIanswer,andIcan’thelpbutlaugh.Ifeellessstressedalready.
IfillWhitneyinonthelittleIknow.
“Whatdoeshelooklike?”
“Tall.Dark,”Isay.
“Andhandsome?”Herabilitytosoundsogleefulwhilewhisperingisaskill.
“Extremely,”Igrumble.“Andhe’sstayinginCabin20.”
Therearetworowsofcabinsonthelakeshore.Mygrandparentsbuiltourhouse,asmallboard-and-battenhomewithagabledroof,attheendofthenorthpath.It’stuckedintothewoodsanddirectlyacrossfromCabin20.
“Thisjustgetsbetter.”Whitneyletsoutasqueal.“MysteryGuest!”
Igroan.
MysteryGuestisthespygameweinventedthesummerbetweensixthandseventhgrades.Itessentiallyinvolveduslow-keystalkingoneoftheresortguests,collectingasmuchinformationaboutthemaspossible.Wetrackedourfindingsinaspiral-boundnotebook,thewordstopsecretscrawledonitscoverinblackmarker.Becausetheyweresoclosetothehouse,theluckyresidentsofCabin20wereoftenourunwittingsubjects.IfWhitneyshowsuponmydoorstepinthemorningdressedinatrenchcoatandholdingapairofbinoculars,Iwon’tbesurprised.
“Anyway,”Isay,“I’msupposedtobebacktoworkatFiltrnextweek,but…”
“Youcan’tleaveyet.Youshouldn’tleaveatall.”Whitneyisn’tsubtleaboutwantingmetomovehomeforgood.ShewentawaytoschoolforherdentalhygienediplomaandhasbeenbackinHuntsvilleeversince.“Besides,I’msurethey’llsurvivewithoutyoualittlelonger.Nooffense.”
Normally,I’dprotest—we’vehadversionsofthisconversationbefore—buttonightIknowshe’sright.I’vebeenbacktomyapartmentinTorontoonce,justtomakesuretherewerenoscienceexperimentsgrowinginthefridgeandtoaskmyneighbortocollectmymail.Imissmythings.ButIhavetostickaroundatleastuntilIfindoutwhat’shappeningattheresort.I’llcalltheaccountantfirstthingtomorrow,andafterthat,IneedtotalktoWill.
“IspoketoPhilippeyesterday,”ItellWhitney.“HesaidtotakeallthetimeIneed.”
Philippewasmyboyfriend—thatis,untilIfoundhimbentoverthehatdesignerfromtheshopnexttoouroriginallocation.Ishouldhaveknownsomethingwasupwhenhestartedwearingfedoras.Lessonlearned:Datingyourbossisalwaysabadidea.
Webrokeuptwoyearsago,andI’vebeenonahiatusfrommeneversince.Scratchthat,Iaddedsexbackintotheequationafterfiveverylongmonths—it’srelationshipsIhavenointerestin.Allthattimeandenergyandcompromise,forwhat?Dirtymansockslyingaroundmyapartmentfollowedbythedisappointmentofthingsnotworkingout.Nothanks.
“Iwouldhavetoldhimtotakeabiscottiandshoveit,”Whitneysays.
“Wedon’tservebiscotti.”
“Thenwhatevergrossveganhempenergyballyoudoserve.Youshouldhaveleftthatjobalongtimeago.”
I’mnotgoingintothiswithheragain.Philippeaside,IlikewhatIdo.IstartedworkingatFiltrwhentherewasonlyonelocation.Nowwe’realittlewestendespressoempire,andIhelpedgetusthere.Ihaveanofficeonthesecondfloorofouroriginalcoffeeshop,andwhenthey’reslammed,I’llpopdownandhelpbehindthecounter.Thecrunchofthegrinder,pressingthecoffeeintotheportafilter,thewhirofthesteamer—Ifinditsoothing.Crunch.Press.Whir.Repeat.There’sasingularsatisfactioninwatchingthelinedwindle.Ataskconquered,disordercontrolled.It’sperfect,exceptforthefactthatIsharetheofficewithPhilippe.Andthatit’shisempire,notmine.
I’vewantedmyownplaceforages.Thefantasygoeslikethis:Irenovatethelittlemom-and-popconveniencestoreinmyneighborhood,theonetheownerswillneversell.Butthisismyfantasy,andtheydo.It’sared-brickbuildingwithbigwindowsonthecornerofaleafyresidentialstreet.Ipaintthewallsthedeepestshadeofblueandoutfitthespacewithoverstuffedfurniturefromantiquesmarkets.Theorangevelvetchairgoesinthecornerbythewindow.Ihangacommunitybulletinboardandfindagorgeousoldbookshelf.Ifillitwithcookbooks.InsteadofNigellaLawson,Icollectoneswithrecipesforpastriesandtartsandpies—TheVioletBakeryCookbook,MaidaHeatter’sBookofGreatCookies,NewWorldSourdough,TheCompleteCanadianLivingBakingBook.TheyareanodtoPeter.TheshelfofAgathaChristiesisanodtoMom.Ispendweeksselectingthemusicforopeningday—songsthatarealltriumphandjoy.ThefirstoneIplayisNinaSimone’s“FeelingGood.”MycoffeeshopiscozyandwarmandnotatalllikeFiltr’sScandinaviancool.Inameitaftermyself.IcallitFern’s.
IhadatleastanotheryearofsavingbeforeIcouldcoverstart-upcostsandlookforaspacetorent,butnoweverything’schanged.IfIselltheresort,I’dbeabletobuyacommercialpropertyoutright.IcouldturnFern’sintoareality,minusmyfantasylocation.ButgivingupBrookbankstobankrollmydreamdoesn’tsiteasilywithme.Theresorthasbeeninthefamilyformorethanfiftyyears.Itwasmymother’slife’swork.It’shome.
OwenstartscryingandWhitneyswears.“Ithoughthe’dnoddedoff,”shesays.“Ishouldgo,Baby.”
Igrowl.
“Sorry,sorry.Itslippedout.I’llcallyoutomorrow.”
Realizinghowone-sidedourconversationhasbeen,Iask,“Whataboutyou?Areyouokay?”
“Yeah?Imean,asokayasyoucanbewhenyou’reacertifieddairycowfunctioningonlittletonosleep.”
“I’msorry.Igetthenosleeppart,butnotthemilkthing.You’reahero.”
“Youknowwhat’sweird?ImissCam.IseehimevenmorethanwhenIwasworking,butit’sallinserviceofthebaby,youknow?”
“HowaboutIbabysitforyouoneevening?IcanwatchOwenandyoutwocangoout.”
“Maybe,”shesays.“IleftOwenwithmymomforanafternoon,anditdidn’tgowell.”
“Justthinkaboutit.I’lltakehimanytime.”
“Doesthatmeanyou’restaying?”
“Nicetry.Goodnight,Whit.”
“?’Night,Baby.”
ShehangsupbeforeIcanscoldher.
Idragmyselfoutofbedandslumpdowntothekitchenforaglassofwater.AsIreachfortheswitch,Inoticeawarmyellowglowthroughthetrees—alightisoninCabin20.
Icreepovertothewindow.Will’scurtainsaren’tdrawnandIcanseeclearintothelivingroom,butonlyenoughtoglimpsethefireplaceandcoffeetable.Ileanoverthesinktogetabetterlookandlaughatmyself—thisusedtobeoneofthespotsWhitneyandIwouldspyfrom.Ihaveregressed
Whenafiguresuddenlyappears,ittakesmebysuchsurprise,Iletoutayelp
Willraiseshishand,butIdon’tmimicthegesture.Heknowsthisismyhouse,Irealize.Heknowsit’smeinthewindow.Westandthere,lookingattheshapeofeachother.
Mybreathscomefastandshallow.I’mtryingtodecidewhetherIshouldmarchoveranddemandanswers,butthenhemovesoutofviewandhiscabingoesdark.
Ireturntobed,heartpoundingasthoughIsprintedupthestairs.
It’sbeenalongtimesincethequestionofwhathappenedtoWillBaxterkeptmeupatnight.
Whydidn’themeetmenineyearsagolikeweplanned?Whyleavemewaiting,wondering?
Iturnthepillowover,pressingmycheekagainstthecoolside,awholenewsetofquestionsswirling.
Why,afterallthistime,didhecomeherelastsummer?Howdidheenduptalkingwithmymother?Washehopingtoseeme?
It’sthatfinalthoughtthathasmelyingawakeuntilthechickadeesbegintochatteroutsidemywindow.
—
Imustfallbacktosleepintheearlymorning,becauseIdreamofdrivingdownthehighwayinmymother’scar.It’snightandIdon’tseethedeeruntilit’sleapinginfrontofme.Ahuge,gracefulwhitetail.Ihavenotimetoswerve,yetI’mnothurt.Itoppleoutofthefrontseattoseeiftheanimalisinjured,butit’snotadeerlyingbloodyontheroad—it’sWill.
Iwakewithajolt.It’slightoutnow,andthechickadeeshavebeenjoinedintheirdawnbirdsongbyfinches,vireos,andacawingcrow.
BythetimeI’vescrubbed,shaved,andshampooed,I’mstillrattled.Ihaven’tdreamedabouttheaccidentbefore.MostofmydreamsaboutMomarethesamewarpedflashback.Iwalkintothekitchenandfindherwearinganapron—theonewiththeredapplesonit.She’smixingpancakebatter,whichmeansitmustbeSunday.SundaysareMom’sdayoff,andsometimeswestayinourpajamasuntilnoon.Momletsmefinishstirringthebatterwhileshemeltsbutterinthecast-ironpan.Shetriestomakeapancakeintheshapeofafern,butitlookslikearegularpancake.Shetellsmetosetthetable,soIlayoutthecutleryandabottleofmaplesyrup,thentakeaseattowaitforhertofinish.ButMomdoesn’tstopcooking.Shemakespancakeafterpancake,andInevergettothepartofthedreamwhereshesitsdownandweeattogether.
Ithrowonarobeandtrudgedownstairs.Momisn’tinthekitchenwearingherapronwiththeredapplesonit.
BeforeImakecoffee,IcallReggie,theresort’slongtimeaccountant.Hebeganleavingmessagesaboutaweekafterthefuneral,gentleprodsthathewasavailableandthatweshouldmeetsoonerratherthanlater.Hepicksuponthesecondringandagreestomeet,eventhoughit’sSunday.
Ipopagreendiscintothecoffeemachine.It’soneofthosepodcontraptions,sameastheguestroomshave.Iwatchasthebrownliquidcomesout,toohotandtooweak,thinkingabouthowit’stypicalofmymothernottogetherselfadecentcoffeemaker.Shedidn’tbotherredecoratingthehouse,either.Shetreatedthisplaceaslittlemorethanalandingpad—it’sprettymuchthesameaswhenmygrandparentslivedherewithus.Onlythesunroomhasbeengivenaface-lift.Idon’tspendanytimeinit,though.I’mstillnotatpeacewiththememoriesitstirsup.
Despiteherdisinterestinhomedecor,Mom’simprintiseverywhere,littlehintsofthepersonshewasbeyondherjob.Theframedblack-and-whitephotosfromthetripshetooktoEuropejustbeforeIwasborn.Thebookshelves,stuffedwithLouisePennynovelsandpaperbackmysteriesandnineteenth-centuryBritishclassics.
I’mabouttotakemyfirst,unsatisfyingsipofcoffeewhenIhearaknock.Icantellwhoitisfromtherhythmofthetap,tap,tap.Peter’shadthesameknockforever.
Istepontotheporch,notworriedthatI’mstillinmyrobe.I’veknownPetermyentirelife.Mygrandparentshiredhimrightoutofculinaryschool—lethimstayatthehousehisfirstyearworkinghere.Mybedroomwashis.Momwasstillinhighschoolthen.
NothingaboutPetersaysbakerexceptperhapsforthesoftnessthat’screptinovertime.Everythingelse—thethickfingers,thesalt-and-pepperbeard,hispropensityforplaidandaversiontoovertdisplaysofemotion—saysretiredlumberjack,notcreatorofsugaredpansiesandmasterofsourdough.
“Jamiegetyouintothediningroomlastnight?”heasksbywayofgreeting.Hisvoiceisgentle,thekindthatmakesyouleaninandlisten,butrightnowmyattentionissetonthethreeshoeboxeshe’sholding.Oneorange,onered,oneblack.Ihaven’tseenthemforyears,butIknowexactlywhat’sinside.IlookupatPeter,unsteady.
“Wheredidyougetthose?Ithoughtshethrewthemout,”Isay.It’ssomethingI’vealwaysfeltguiltyabout.Thefirewasmyfault,nothers.
“Shegavethemtomeforsafekeeping,”hesays.“Figuredshe’dwantyoutohavethem.”
“I’mnotsureaboutthat.”
Petersetstheboxesontherattanloveseat.“Theybelongwithyou.Andyoumightwanttoreadthemagainoneday.You’reoldernow—olderthanMaggiewaswhenshewrotethem.”
Icouldargue,butIlearnedalongtimeagothatPeterisalwaysright.“Haveyoureadthem?”
“No.Ifiguredtheywereprivateandthatthere’dbestuffinthereIdidn’twanttoknow.”
Inod.IusedtowishI’dneverreadthem.
“Ithoughtaboutit,”hecontinues.“Ithoughtitmightbelikehearingheragain.”
“Whydidn’tyou?”
“BecauseMaggiewouldkillme.Shewouldn’twantmeknowingwhatwasgoingthroughhermindbackthen.”
“Butyouwerebestfriends,”Isay,thoughIknowsecretsareakeyingredientinclosefriendships.
“Sometimes.”WhatdoeshemeanheandMomweresometimesbestfriends?He’sabouttosaysomethingelse,butthenheshakeshishead.
“Ishouldgetgoing,”hesays.
Overhisshoulder,IseeagolfcartpulluptothecabinbesideWill’s.Theresorthasasmallfleetofcartsthatdeliverluggageandroomservice.Yearsago,Momhadthemre-coveredinpeppygreenandwhitestripedtops.There’saripinthisone.It’ssomethingInoticedlastweek—allthegolfcartcoversshouldhavebeenreplacedafewseasonsago.IwatchayoungwomaninahuntergreenBrookbankspoloandkhakistakeasilverdomedtrayfromtheback.
“DidMomsayanythingtoyouabouthiringaconsultant?”IaskPeterbeforeheleaves.
“Shementionedbringingsomeoneinawhileback,yeah.I’dforgottenwitheverything.”Peter’smemoryisusuallyinfallible,buthe’snothimselfthesedays.He’ssoquiet,I’mnotsureanyoneelsewouldnotice,buthe’sslightlyoff.WheneverI’vevisitedhiminthepastrykitchen,there’sbeennomusicplaying—onlyeeriesilence.Hissarcasticsenseofhumor—it’slikeitleftwithher.
“Maggiesaidhewasoverqualified,”Petersays.“Thinkshewasprettypleasedaboutthedealtheystruckup.”
Beforehegoes,Petergivesmyshoulderapat.Iwatchhimsetoffbackdownthewalkway,thenIturnmygazetoCabin20.
—
IrapmyknucklesagainstWill’sdoor,takingsteadybreathstoeasemyheartrate.Willcaughtmeoffguardlastnight,buttodayI’mchannelingMom.Iwillsetthetone.
It’safternine,butit’shardtotellifthere’sanymovementinsideWill’scabin.Liketheothers,Number20ispostcardcute—woodsidedwithdarkgreenawnings.I’mstandingattheback,wherethere’sascreenedporchfacingthebushandthegravelpaththatleadstothelodgeandthebeach.Ipressmynosetothescreen,butIcan’tseewhetherthere’salightoninside.
Iknockagain,waitafewseconds.Nothing.I’mwalkingdownthesetofwoodenstepswhenIhearhim.
“Fern?”Hisvoicebrushesovermynameinaroughrasp.
AfterPeterleftthismorning,IblastedmyYou’veGotThisplaylistwhileIcoaxedmybobintosubmissionandformedaplan.InviteWilloverforcoffee.Askhimaboutthescopeoftheworkheagreedtodoformymother.Actprofessionally.Donotbringupnineyearsago.Ortenyearsago.ButasIstareupathim,theplangetsrippedtopiecesandscatteredtothewind.
Williswearingsweatsandhishairismussed,likehejustpulledonhisT-shirt.Hisfaceisshadowedwithstubble,andhe’ssquintingasifhiseyesareadjustingtodaylight.Becausetheyare.Willwasclearlysleeping.
Herunshisfingersthroughhishair,andIseeaflashofthetattooonhisarm.MyheartdoesaRockettekick.Ifollowhishandasitmovesfromhisheadtohisside,whereheshovesitdeepintoapocket,andmymouthgoesdry.
“I’msorry,”Isaywithawince.“Ithoughtyou’dbeupalready.”
“Ididn’tgetmuchsleeplastnight.”Hisexpressionisindecipherable.
“Oh,”IsayasifIhadn’tbeenstandinginthewindowacrossfromhimattwoa.m.“Wasitthebed?Themattressesaresupposedtobegood.”
“Itwasn’tthebed,”Willsays.
Abeatofsilencepassesbetweenus.Asparkflarestolifeinmychest,acandleinadarkapartment.Iquicklysnuffitout,thenscrambletogetbackontrack.
“Weshouldtalk.”Igestureovermyshoulder.“I’llmakecoffee.Meetmeonmyporchwhenyou’reready?”
Will’seyesdrifttothehomewhereIgrewup.“I’llbethereinten.”
—
“It’sterrible,you’rewelcome,”Isay,handingWillamugandsittingacrossfromhimontherattanloveseat.Hisframefillsthetinywickerchair.He’scombedhishairandchangedintoproperpantsandawhiteshirt,sleevesrolled,topbuttonundone.
Hetakesasipandwinces.
“Toldyou.”
“No,it’sgreat,”Willsays.“Subtle,butgreat.Thankyou.”
Itakeadrinkofmyown.It’sawful.“Idon’tknowwhatthisis,butIdon’tthinkyoucancallitcoffee.It’slikethesuggestionofcoffee.”
“Mmm,”hesays.“Verywater-forward.”
Ismiledespitemyself.Idon’twanttofeeltoowarmlytowardWill.Preferably,Iwouldn’tfeelmuchofanythingatall.
“Youputsugarinit,”Willsays,takinganothersip.
Itookachance.Somepeoplechangehowtheydoctortheircoffee,butafour-packetsugarfiend?ImadeWill’ssosweet,it’sessentiallyblackenedsimplesyrup.Ican’ttellifhe’spleasedorsurprisedorsimplymakingastatement.Hisfaceisasblankasanuntouchedcanvas.
Ilethiscommentpass.“Sohowdidmymothercometohireyou?”Ofallpeople,Idon’tneedtoadd.
Willsmoothshishanddownthefrontofhisshirt.“Afriendofminegotmarriedherelastsummer.Iconsiderednotcoming,but…Istayedinthelodgeforaweek,ateattherestauranteverynight,andIspokewithyourmomafewtimes.Shewasalloverthisplace—itwaslikethereweretwoofher.”
Iclosemyeyesfortwoseconds,rubbingmychest.Ithurts.Thatshe’snothere,thathecandescribehersoperfectly.
“I’msorry,”hesaysquietly.
Inodandtakeabeattocollectmyself.“Youweresaying?”
Willsearchesmyfacebeforespeaking.“Myfirmspecializesinmarketingandrebranding,butIhaveasoftspotforturningaroundstrugglingbusinesses.Helpingthemmodernize,cutcosts,reengineertheirgrowthstrategies—whatevertheyneed,really.”
Idon’tknowwhatismoreunlikely:thattheresortmightbeinrealtroubleorthatWillisthekindofpersonwhotalksaboutreengineeringgrowthstrategies.Hisvoiceisformal,likehe’smakingapracticedpitch.
Hetakesasipofcoffee,andItrynottostareathismouthandthescarbeneathit.
“WhenyourmotherfoundoutwhatIdo,shehadalotofquestions.Iofferedtohavecoffeewithher,andshetoldmeaboutsomeofthechallengesshewasfacing.Imadeafewsuggestions.WeemailedacoupleoftimesafterIleft,andthenafewmonthsagosheproposedadeal,”Willsays.“Afour-weekstaythissummerinoneofthecabinsformyhelp.”
“Fourweeks?”Mysurpriseisaudible.
“Right.Yourmomwantedtokeepmyworkprivate,andCabin20isclosesttothehouse.”
Idothemathonthis.Amonthlongvisitisn’tcheap,butI’mguessingfromthesuitWillrolledupinyesterday,hisfeewouldbeexponentiallyhigher.
Willmustseetheconfusiononmyface,becauseheadds,“Thedealwasbasedonasignificantdiscountformyservices.”
“Butwhy?Ifyou’resosuccessful,youmustnotbeshortonclients.What’sinitforyou?”
Willshrugs,lookingoutathiscabin.Thelakeliesbeyond,glitteringthroughthetrees.“Ilikeithere.”
Itcan’tjustbethat,canit?EvenifIweren’tbackattheresort,hemusthaveknownI’dfindouthewasworkingwithmymomandstayinghereforamonth.
“Howareyouholdingup?”Willasks,turningbacktome,hisvoicesofter.“Itmustbedifficult.Youneverwantedthis.”
WhenIlayawakelastnight,ItoldmyselfthatI’mnotthesamepersonIwasinmyearlytwenties,andthatWillalmostcertainlyisn’t,either.Butwhenmyeyesshifttohis,it’slikebeingpulledintoablackhole.
“No,”Itellhim.“Ididn’t.Buthereweare.”WillBaxterandme,atBrookbanksResort.
“Hereweare,”hemurmurs.
Forafleetingmoment,Ipictureleaningmyheadagainsthisshoulderandfeelinghisvoicevibrateagainstmycheekwhenhetellsmethateverythingisgoingtobeokay.It’stheexactkindofthinkingIneedtoavoid.IwillnotfalldowntheWillBaxtervortexagain.There’sstillafaintpurplebruiseonmyheartfromlasttime.
Andrightnow,itfeelsasfreshasitdidnineyearsago.Idon’tknowifit’sthekindnessinWill’svoice,orthefactthathe’shereandmymother’snot,oriftheweeksofsleeplessnesshavefinallycaughtupwithme,butIfeelraw.Ravaged.
“Weweresupposedtobeherealongtimeago,”Imanagetobiteout.Will’seyesreturntomine,whichstingwithtearsIrefusetoshed.“Youcouldhaveseenallthisbeforelastsummer.”
“Iknow.”
Wewatcheachother,andIholdmymugwithtwohandstokeepitfromshaking.
“Whydidn’tyou?”
Helooksaway,jawclenched.
“Didyouforget?”Iask.It’snotthefirsttimeI’vewonderedifIbecameadistantmemoryassoonasWillleftme.
Heliftshiseyestomineagain.“Ididn’tforget,Fern.”MynamesoundsroughonWill’stongue.Whenhespeaksagain,hisvoiceislowandragged,itscorporatesheenabandoned.“Youwouldn’thavelikedwhoIwasbackthenanyway.”
Iblinkinsurprise.WhateverIthoughthe’dsay,thatwasn’tit.
Will’sgazeisdarkwithanunspokenapologyandI’mabouttoaskhimmorewhenmyphonebuzzes.Jamie’snamelightsthescreen,andIsendhimtovoicemail,butnotbeforeWillsees.
Oureyesmeet.AndthenWill’supandoutofhisseat,runningahandthroughhishair.“I’vetakenupenoughofyourSunday,”hesays,theformaltoneslammedbackintoplace.
HesetsoffdownthestairsbeforeIhaveachancetoreply,toaskhimoneofthemanyquestionsswimmingthroughmymind.
Youwouldn’thavelikedwhoIwasbackthen.
ButthenWillturnsaroundandsays,“Iwouldliketohelp.Thinkaboutit.Youknowwheretofindmeifyouneedme.”
Iwatchhimwalktowardhiscabin,hopingIdon’tneedhimatall.6
June14,TenYearsAgo
WillwasinthebathroomchangingoutofhiscoverallswhenmyphonelitupwithatextfromJamie.
Let’ssmokeajtonightandtalk??
Can’t,Ireplied.I’mfreshout.
??
NinemoredaysandI’llbeback.Ierasedtheperiodandaddedthreeexclamationpointsbeforepressingsend.
HowwasyourvisitwithWhit?
Isighed.Good?Idunno…Abitweird.I’llfillyouinlater.
Ihadn’ttoldJamiehowIwasdreadingmovingback,buthekneweverythingaboutmyfalling-outwithWhitneyandhowprecariousourfriendshipstillfelt.Itwasaswobblyasasuspensionbridge,oneofthoseonesfromachildren’sbookwithmissingslatsandfrayingrope,hangingacrossagorge.AtleastIcouldrepairitwhenIwenthome.
“Thatlooksintense,”Willsaid,emergingfromthehallway.
ThiswasthemomenttotellhimIwastextingwithmyboyfriend.Instead,Islippedthephoneintomybagandsaid,“It’snothing.”
Iwasn’tacheater,andIneverquestionedJamie’sloyaltyduringourfouryearsoflong-distancecoupledom.Wewereoneunitinthesummer,butotherwiseitwasmostlyphonecallsandtextsandSkypesessions.Butonthatday,partofme—andnotasmallpart—wantedtopretendlikeIwasn’tgoinghome.ThatJamieandWhitneyandmymomweren’twaitingformetosaygoodbyetothislife.IwantedtoenjoymyselfwithoutdraggingMuskokaallthewaydowntoToronto.I’dbetheresoonenough.
Will’sjeanswerescrunchedintothetopofhisboots,andhehadonablackT-shirtwithalightweightcardiganovertopthathe’dleftundone.Outofhiscoveralls,hisbodyhadtakenshape.Heseemedtallersomehow.Hewaslean,butnotskinny.Broadshoulderedwithalongtorso.Ipicturedhimsowrappedupinhisartthatmealswereforgottenorpoorlyplanned—aslapdashPBandJoverakitchensinkfilledwithdirtydishesatmidnight,ashawarmawrapscarfedonthesidewalkinthelateafternoon.
“Clever,”Isaid,pointingtoWill’sT-shirt.Thewordsketchywaswrittenacrosshischestinafinewhitecursive
“Itrynottotakemyselftooseriously.”
Withtheneonpinklacesandtheworkboots,thecardiganandthemessofhair,Will’sstylewashardtodefine.Itdefinitelywasn’twhatIsawontheguysinmylecturehalls—whoIwascertaindressedbyasnifftestofwhateverlayatoptheclosestfloorheap.OronJamie,either.
Jamiewasboardshortsslunglow,flip-flopsslappingontheplywoodflooroftheoutfittinghut,curlswrestlingwithahuntergreenbandanna.Barebronzedskinandmuscleandsweat.ThefirsttimeJamievisitedmeinToronto,heleanedagainstthePitmanHallresidencesecuritycounterindresspantsandanavywoolcoat,hishairtuckedinsideitsupturnedcollar,abouquetofdahliasinhishand.Iwalkedrightbyhim.
“So,FernBrookbanks,”Willsaid,hitchinganarmygreenbackpackontohisshoulders.“Areyoureadyfortheworld’sgreatesttourofToronto?”
Willwouldn’tsaywherehewastakingme,onlythatweneededtohopontheQueenstreetcarforashortride.Fifteenminutesofstandingatthestop,andwewerestillwaiting.
“Idon’tthinktheworld’sgreatestanythingbeginswiththeTorontoTransitCommission,”Isaid,steppingoutintothestreettoseeifIcouldspotacarinthedistance.Gripingaboutpublictransportationwaspracticallyasportinthiscity.“Ithinkthere’sonebehindthattruck.”
Willpulledoutatinoflemonhardcandiesfromhisbackpack,offeringthemtome.
“Nothanks.Fortherecord,I’mtwenty-two,noteighty-two.”
WillputoneinhismouthandIwatchedhischeekshollowaroundit.“Fortherecord,Iameighty-two,”hesaid.“Imaylooktwenty-two,butthat’sjustdietandexercise.”
Ahandfulofpeoplewaitedwithus.Anelderlycouplesatonthesolebench,handstightlyclasped,atrumpetcasebyhisfeetandacanebyhers.Asthestreetcarpulledup,themanhelpedthewomantoherfeet.Wefollowedbehind,andwhentheybegantoslowlyclimbthestairs,hishandonherlowerback,Willofferedtoholdthecase.
“World’sgreatestlovestory,”Willsaidinmyearafterhe’dhandedtheinstrumentback,hisbreathlemonysweet
Theseatswerefull,sowemovedtotheendofthevehicle,stumblingasitlurchedforward.Willsteadiedmebythewaist,lettinghishandfallalmostassoonashetouchedme.
“World’sgreateststaphinfection,”Isaid,grabbingametalpole,andhechuckled.
Weswayedagainsteachother,andwhenwegottoYongeStreet,thecarhalfemptied.Ipointedtoapairoffreeseats,takingtheonebythewindow.Iwasalittleoverfivefeettall—therewasplentyoflegroomIdidn’tneed—butWillsoaredpastsixfeet,andthegeometryproblemmeanthiskneewaspressedagainstmine.TherewasasmallripinhisjeansthatIhadabizarreurgetostickafingerinto.Disturbed,Icombedmyhandthroughmyhair,lookinguptofindWillwatchingme.
“Whatarealltheseabout?”Iasked,pullingatthefrontflapofhisbackpack,whichwasdecoratedinpinsandpatches,aCanadianflagatitscenter.
“MostofthemarefromplacesI’vebeen.”Hepinchedaminiatureelectricblueguitarbetweenhisthumbandindexfinger.“Seattle.”Hetuggedonamushroom.“Amsterdam.”
Somewerefood—atacofromL.A.,aplateofpoutinefromMontreal.
“Thatonewashardtofind.MyfriendMattyditchedmeafteracoupleofhoursofsearching.Nostamina.”Mybrainsizzled.
Thelargestwasanovalbrooch,moreold-fashionedthantherest,alemonembroideredonitsface.“What’swiththisone?”
“Fredmadeitforme.She’sreallyintoneedleworkandtextiles—tapestriesmostly.AndIlikeanythinglemonflavored.”
ThesummerJamieandIfirsthookedup,he’dlobtheserandomquestionsatmetopassthetimeattheoutfittinghut.I’dbesweepingpineneedlesoffthedocks,andhe’dbeliftingacanoeoutofthelakeandcallout,“What’syourfavoritewater-dwellinganimal,Fernie?”
Or,“Fernie:ocean,lake,orpool?”
Or,“IfyouwereoneofPeter’sdesserts,Fernie,whichonewouldyoube?”
“Idon’tknow,”I’dtoldhim.“Iloveallthedesserts.”
Hemulleditoverallafternoon,thenpronounced,“You’realemontart.You’reabitsour,Fernie.Butinagoodway—inthewaythatmakesthesweettastebetter.”
IstaredatWill.“Really?”
“Really,”hesaid.“Icecream,cake,pie—lemon’salwaysthebest.”
Iclearedmythroatandtouchedalittlesilverboxwitharoundedtop.“Andwhat’sthis?”
“That’salobstertrap.It’sfromafamilyvacationtoPrinceEdwardIslandthesummerbeforemyparentssplit.”
“Oh,”Isaid.“I’msorry.”
“Don’tbe.Itwasactuallyagreattrip,”Willsaid,thoughhisvoicehadgonesad.
“Andwheredidyougetthisone?”Itappedthei?nybutton.“It’salittlebasic,don’tyouthink?”
“Thisismyfirstone,andit’sclassic.”Hetracedtheouteredge.“Anotherfamilytrip,beforethingsgotreallybadbetweenmyparents.Iwasprobablyten.”
Willwasquietforasecond,butthenheturnedhishead.“Gotanymoresaltinthatbagofyourstorubintomyfamilialwounds?”
Idugaroundmytote,pullingoutapackofDoublemint.“Ihavegum?”
Willlaughed.“Myparentsarebetterapartanyway.Ican’timaginetheyevermadesenseasacouple.Mydad’sthisuptightrealestatelawyerwhodoesn’tevenpretendtocareaboutart.Andmymomlivesandbreathesherwork.Theyfoughtalot.MomlivesinRomenow.”
IlookedatthetinyColosseumonWill’sbackpack.“Italy.That’sitsofar.”
Hedidn’tsayanythingforalongmoment.“Iusedtovisitacoupletimesayear,forholidaysandstuff,”hesaid,squintingintothesunbeforelookingbacktome.“Butnowwithvisitingmydadandmysisterhere,it’shardertogetoverthere.”
“Areyouclosewithyoursister?”
“Yeah.Annabel’sthreeyearsyoungerthanme,soshewaselevenwhenMomleft.Wegotalongbefore,butafter,itwasusagainstourdad.We’retight.”
IstraightenedtheColosseum.“Doyouthinkshe’devermoveback?”
“Mymom?Noway.ShesaysToronto’sthebirthplaceofmediocrity,andsheneedstobesomewherethatinspiresher.Herartcomesfirst.”
“Thatmusthavebeenhard.”
Heshruggedandlookedathishands.“IsometimesfeellikeaselfishassholeformovingawayandleavingmysistertodealwithDadbyherself.”
“Hey,”Isaid,nudginghimwithmyelbowuntilhiseyesfoundmine.Inthesun,Icouldseetheyweren’tblack.Theywereadeepcoffeebrownwithanebonyringaroundtheperimeter.“Idon’tthinklivingyourlifeinVancouvermakesyouanasshole.ButIonlymetyoutoday,soI’msurethere’sawholebunchofotherstuffthatdoes.Justnotthat.”
Will’sgazedartedaroundmyface.“You’resweet.”
“Ihaven’treallybeenanywhere,”Isaidafteramoment.
Hecockedhishead.“Ifindthatsurprising.”
Icopiedthegesture.“I’lltakethatasacompliment.IvisitedmygrandparentsinBritishColumbiaonce.Ididn’tmakeittoVancouver,though.They’reinVictoria.”
ThefourofuslivedinthehousetogetheruntilIwasaboutseven,whenGrandmaandGrandpamovedintoaretrofittedapartmentintheresort’slodge.Afterschool,I’dfindthemplayingcardsinthelibraryamongacrowdofwhite-hairedguests,andI’dsettledownonthecouchinfrontofthefireplacewithmyhomework.OnFridays,PeterandIwouldfailtobeatthemineuchre,andMomwouldsendoverfishandchipsfromtherestaurant.Whenshefinishedherroundsinthediningroom,she’djoinus,atraywiththreefrostybeerglassesandaSpritebalancedononehand.We’dallcheeratherarrival,andiftherewasnooneelseinthelibrary,she’dlockthedoorsandkickoffherheels,rollingheranklesandcrackingherstocking-coveredtoes.
“WhatdidyouthinkofVictoria?”Willasked.“I’vebeenouttoVancouverIslandafewtimes.DroveuptoTofinowithacouplefriendslastsummer.Fortherecord,Ican’tsurfforshit.”
“Ididn’tgetoutsidethecity,butIlikedit.BeaconHillPark,ButchartGardens,theharbor.I’mgoingouttoBanffinNovemberfortheskiseasontoworkatoneoftheresorts.”
JamieandIwerelookingforashort-termfurnishedrental,butIwasnervous.Hewasagoodlong-distanceboyfriend,butIdidn’tknowaboutsharinganapartmentwithhim.I’dseenthestateofhisbunkinthestaffcabins,andthewayhishairbecameablondnestbythesecondweekofsummer.
“WhyBanff?”
Ipulledatthefrayededgeofmyshorts.“MymomownsaresortupinMuskoka—it’skindofourfamilybusiness.SoBanffispartlyatravelopportunity,butit’salsogoodworkexperience.”WhenIfloatedtheideatoMom,hopingtobuyafewmoremonthsoutintheworld,Iexpectedhertoshootitdown.Butshethoughtsometimeatoneofthebiggerhotelswouldbevaluable.
“Yougrewupataresort?”
“Uh-huh.”Iloopedathreadaroundmyfinger,pullingittightuntilthetipturnedwhite.“I’mmovingbackthereinninedays.”
Willputhishandsovermine,thenunraveledthethread.Bloodfilledmyfinger.Myeyesskiddedtohis,andheletgo.
“Whenyousayit’sthefamilybusiness,doesthatmeanyou’regoingtorunitoneday?”
“That’stheidea.”
“Butyoudon’twantto.”
“No,Ido.”Myvoicehadgoneupanoctave,andmylungsfeltpinched,liketherewasn’tenoughspacefortheminmyribcage.
Willleanedalittlecloser,stealingalltheoxygenbetweenus,hisgazehookedonmine.“Onegreatthingaboutmeetingsomeoneyou’lllikelyneverseeagainisthatyoucantellthemanythingaboutyourselfwithoutanyconsequences.”
Ishookmyhead.“Everythinghasaconsequence.”IlearnedthatwhenIwasseventeen.7
Now
DowntownHuntsvilleischokedwithcottagersandtouristsfromMayuntilthetreesgiveupthelastoftheirfallcolor.Luckily,IfindaparkingspotlargeenoughtomaneuvertheCadillacthatWhitney’sunclehasloanedme.Thethinghandleslikeacruiseshipandsmellslikedustypotpourri,butIneedacar—theresortistwentyminutesoutside
WhenMomdiedsixweeksago,Whitneybroughtmeback.BythetimePetercalledtotellmeabouttheaccident,shewasalreadyonherwaysouth,babyOwenintow.InalltheyearsI’velivedinToronto,it’stheonlytimeshe’sbraveddrivingthere.Shepackedmysuitcaseandtookmehome,white-knucklingthesteeringwheeluntilwewereanhournorthofthecity.
Iringthedoorbellofapowderbluehouse,andReginaldOswaldgreetsme.He’swellpastretirementage,wearingsuspenders,asalways,andawrinkledcheckedshirt.Reggie’sbeentheresort’saccountantsincemygrandparentsboughttheplaceinthelatesixties.
“Rosemary’satchurch,butshesaidtogiveyouabighug.”Reggiedoesnotsharehiswife’scommitmenttoSundayservice.“Howareyourgrandparentsfaring?I’vebeenmeaningtocheckinwiththem.”
TheflightfromVictoriawastoomuchforGrandmaIzzy,soGrandpaGerrycameonhisownforthefuneral.He’dseemedsomucholder.SmallandfrailandsounlikethebombasticmanI’dknowngrowingup.
“Theysaythey’reholdingup,butIthinkthey’retryingtomakemefeelbetter.”
ThelastIspokewithGrandmaIzzy,shebrokedownmidwaythroughourconversation.“Youjustsoundsomuchlikeher,”she’dsaid.
Mygrandparentslivedontheothersideofthecountry,butMomwasonafirst-namebasiswiththestaffmembersattheirretirementcommunity.Sheknewtheireventscalendarbetterthantheydid.Shebefriendedtheirneighbors’adultchildrenwholivednearbysoshehadsomeonewitheyesonthegroundtocheckin.ShegaveGrandmaandGrandparegularreportsoneverythinghappeningattheresort.
“IexpectyoutodothesameformewhenIretire,”sheusedtotellme,andI’drollmyeyes.“Mom,webothknowthatwillneverhappen.”
“I’llcallthemthisafternoon,”Reggiesaysasheleadsmedownthehallwaytohisoffice,thesmellofabaconandeggsbreakfastlingeringintheair.
Reggieextendshishandatoneoftheguestchairs.“Youacoffeedrinker?Youmightneedsomeforthis.”
Reggiefixesmeacupandthendeliversthenews.Itisn’tgood.
“I’llbehonestwithyou,Fern,”hesays,peeringoutatmeoverhiswireframes.I’mplayingwiththeholeinmyjeans,butmyfingersstillatReggie’sexpression.“Maggiewasasmartbusinesswoman,reallyturnedthingsaroundwhenshetookoverfromyourgrandparents.Butwiththetourismbusinessbeingwhatithasoverthelastcoupleofyears,financesarebreak-even.Yourmotherstoppedtakingasalary.”
Irubatthespotbetweenmyeyebrows.ThisissomuchworsethanIcouldhaveguessed.
Reggieblowshisgin-blossomednoseintoapolka-dottedhankyandcontinues.“Hopefully,thisyearwillbestrongerthanthelasttwo.Doyouknowhowbookingsareheadingintofallandwinter?”
Ishakemyhead.JamiesaidroomreservationsareflatforJulyandAugust,butIdon’tknowwhattherestoftheyearlookslike.Idon’tevenknowourcurrentpercentoccupancy.Theresorthastwoconferencespaces—thedermatologistsareusingoneofthemthisweek,buthavewehadanyothergroupssinceI’vebeenhome?I’vebeenbackformorethanamonth.Ishouldknowthesethings.EvenifIendupsellingtheresort,Ineedtoknowthenumbers.
Myalarmmustbeclearacrossmyface,becauseReggie’sexpressionsoftens.“Don’tbehardonyourself,”hesays.“You’vesufferedaterribleloss,andthosearesomebigshoesMaggieleftyoutofill.I’mheretohelpinanywayIcan,whenyou’reready.”
WhenIfinallytoldMomIdidn’twanttoworkattheresortallthoseyearsago,shestoppedtalkingtomeaboutthebusinessaltogether.ButBrookbankswasherfirstlove,andovertime,sheletmebackin—askingmyopinionaboutthebandshewasthinkingofhiringfortheend-of-summerdance,oradishshewantedtotakeoffthemenu.Wouldtheguestsrevoltifwelostthefishandchips?(Yes.)KnowingMomkepttheresort’sproblemsfrommeissobering.Ithoughtwewerecloser.
IusedtoresenthowmuchsheworkedwhenIwasakid.IhatedeverydinnerIatealone,everyemergencyphonecallthatpulledherawaywhenweweresupposedtohaveagirls’night.Ineverwantedtotiemyselftoworkthewayshedid,butI’vebeenputtinginfifty-hourweeksatFiltr.Iknowwhatittakestorunabusiness.IknowhowmuchMomcaredaboutthisbusiness.Stressedwouldn’tbegintodescribehowshemusthavefelt.Theworrywouldhavebeenconstant,gnawingatherfromtheinsideout.Myguiltisaleadjacket.WhileI’vehelpedPhilippemakeFiltrasuccess,Brookbankshasfloundered.Forthefirsttimesincemymomdied,itreallyhitsme—Brookbanksismine.Actuallymine.Notmymother’s.
“I’mready,”ItellReggie.“Doyouhavetimetogetmeuptospeednow?”
Iaskhimforapenandpaper,andhedigsoutafreshyellowlegalpadfromhisdesk.HepointsoutareaswherewecouldcutbackandsomecostlyupdatesMomdelayedtohelpoffsettheslowdown.Ithinkofthegolfcartcovers,andtheicemachinethatbrokedownthenightoftheaccident.Jamiesaidithadbeenonthefritzforawhile.
Whenwefinishhourslater,myheadisspinningandmyhandiscrampedfromtakingpagesofnotes.I’msupposedtomeetMr.andMrs.Roseforcocktailsattheircabinthisevening,butIcoulduseamartininow.
It’scleartherestaurant’sfoodcostsaretoohigh,butotherwiseMomkeptexpenditureslowandstaffhoursmodest.I’llhavetodigintoschedulingandoursupplyorderstoseeifwecantightenanymore.Butit’sobviouswhatwereallyneedaremorebodiesthroughthedoor.I’moverwhelmed,butunderneaththere’sasparkofexcitement.
I’vealwaysbeencompetitive.BeforeIgotkickedoffmyhighschoolsoccerteam,Ilivedfortherushofwinning.Brookbanks,Irealize,issomethingIwanttowinat.Mommaynothaveaskedmeforhelp,butIwanttoprovetoherIcandoit.
“DidMomevermentionhiringaconsultant?”IaskReggiebeforeIduckouttothegardentosayhellotoRosemary.Shereturnedfromchurchawhileago.
Reggietakeshisglassesoff,rubbingthelensesonhisshirt.“Shedid.Couldn’tbelievethedealhegaveher,butMaggiecouldcharmtheknickersoffanun.”It’strue.Momhadavibrantenergyandsenseofshowmanshipthatdrewpeopletoher.Shewasnaturallychatty,butathome,whenshedidn’thavetobe“on,”shesoftenedalittle.
Reggiechucklestohimself.“Whydoyouask?Didhegetintouch?”
“Heshowedupyesterday.”
“Well,that’sapieceofgoodluck.Ihopeyoudon’ttakeoffensetomesayingyouneedreinforcements,”Reggiesays.“Iknowyou’vegotabusinessdegree,andMaggiesaidyouwererunninganimpressiveoperationdownthereinToronto.”
“Really?”
“Don’tlooksosurprised.Shewasproudofyou.Maggiewouldn’thavelefttheresortinyourcareunlessshebelievedyoucoulddoit.”
Mythroatgoestight.IthankReggieforhishelp,blinkingawaythestinginginmyeyes,andescapetothebackyard.
IfindRosemarytyingtomatovines.She’swearingayellowsundressandastrawhat,andasshetakesmearoundhervegetablepatch,explaininghertrickforkeepingtheslugsofftheleaflettuce,InoticeI’mmorecasuallydressedthansheisformuckingaroundinthedirt.TornjeansandBirkenstockswereprobablynotappropriateforabusiness
IfI’mgoingtogetmoreinvolvedinBrookbanks,thenI’mgoingtoneedsomethingtowear.Mymother’sbrightshiftdressesaren’tme,andwhilerippeddenimandcottonteesfitFiltr’sminimalistsensibility,they’renotrightforworkingattheresort.AsIwalktotheboutiquesonMainStreet,Irealizethat’swhatIwanttodo.Work.NotfollowJamiearoundaimlesslylikeIhavebeen,butactuallywork.Itdoesn’tmeanI’mnotgoingtosell,Itellmyself.Itdoesn’tmeanI’mstaying
ImanagetofindmorethanafewthingsIdon’thate—simplepiecesthatdon’tmakemefeelsquirmyabouttheweightI’vecollectedonmymom’scouch.I’veneverbeenaclotheshorse.Jeans,I’mgoodwith.IknowIcanrockacamisole.Pushingtoofarbeyondthattendstostretchmyalreadylimitedfashionpatience.Iusedtodigfortreasuresinsecondhandstores,butIhavenotimeforthatanymore.
AsI’mheadingbacktothecar,Inoticethere’saslickrecordshopthatneverusedtobehereandaguitarstorethatalsoservesfood.I’vealwayswantedtolearnhowtoplay.IpauseinfrontoftheSplatteredApron,acutekitchenwareshop,andduckinside.Ileavethirty-fivebuckspoorer.Mommayhavebeencontenttosipwatered-downsludgeeverymorning,butI’mnot.
OnceIgetbacktothehouse,IpackupthepodcoffeemakerandputmynewFrenchpressonthecounter.Itfeelsmonumental.EvenifI’monlyhereforashorttime,Idon’thavetodrinkmycoffeelikeMomdid,andIdon’thavetoruntheresortlikeher,either.
ThenIpickupmyphoneandcallPhilippe.
—
IarriveatCabin15alreadybuzzed.Itfeltgoodtoquit.Philippedidn’tthinkI’deverdoit,eventhoughheknewIwantedtoopenmyownplace.ButPhilippehasalwaysbeenarrogantintheextreme.FromthecottonofhisT-shirts(exclusivelypima,alwayswhite)tothetemperatureoftheoatmilkinhisflatwhite(135degrees),he’salsopickyintheextreme.Foralongtime,that’swhatIlikedabouthim.Thatsomeonesoparticularwasattractedtomewasanegoboost,andminewasdentedforyearsafterWill.
“Youlookgood,girlie.You’vegotabitmorecolorthanyoudidlastweek,”Mrs.Rosesays,holdingmeatarm’slengthforinspection.
Mr.andMrs.RosehavehostedSundaycocktailhouratCabin15sincebeforeIwasborn.First,itwasmygrandparentswhojoinedthem,thenmymother,andnowme.Sometimesthere’salargercrowd,anassortmentoflongtimeBrookbanksvisitorsandnewbiesthey’vebefriendedatthehorseshoespit,butotherwise,theritualisthesame:ice-coldginmartinisandplainRuffleschipsontheporchatfivep.m.
Theyneverhadchildren,andI’mnotsurewhetherthatwasbydesignorjusthowthingsworkedout,buteitherway,theygiveoffmajorkookygrandparentvibes.Mrs.Rose’sneckisalwaysdrapedwithsomanystrandsofwoodenbeads,you’dsuspectthemofcausingherhunchedback.Mr.Rosewasatheatercritic“backwhenthetheaterwasworthcritiquing.”Idon’tthinkeitherhaseatenavegetableintheirlives,saveforthepickledonionsintheircocktails
IwasbitterabouttheguestswhenIwasyoung,howtheirneedscamebeforemyown,buttheRoseswereasgoodasfamily.BeforeIleftforuniversity,theythrewarowdywineandcheesepartythatspilledfromtheircabinintoseveralothers,Mrs.Roseslippingmeplasticglassesofchardonnaywhenmymomwasn’tlooking.SinceI’vebeenhome,they’veinsistedonhostingmeforcocktailseveryweek.Ithinkthey’recheckinguponme.
“I’vebeenswimmingdownatthefamilydockandtakingthekayakoutinthemorningbeforethelakegetsbusy,”Itellthem.“Ididafewhikes.Iwasbecominginert.”InitiallyIneededtoleavethehouseandgetmybloodmoving,butI’menjoyingmytreksaroundthepropertyandtimeatthelake.Ididn’tappreciatehowstunningitisherewhenIwasgrowingup.
“Gladtohearit,”Mr.Rosesays.He’sstandingbehindthebarcart,stirringanawfullylargepitcherofgin.GrandmaIzzyhadthecartdeliveredbackintheeightiesbeforetheRosesarrivedfortheirannualsummervacation.It’sbrasswithlargeswoopinghandlesandinnowaymatchesthequaintcottagedecor.WeallknowitasIzzy’sCart,eventhoughMr.Rosedoesn’tsharebartenderprivileges.
“I’mrelievedtoseethatyou’renolongerdressingasastreeturchin,”saysMrs.Rose.
I’veputonapairofcaprisandanewcreamsilkblouse—it’ssleevelesswithahighhalternecklineandopenintheback.CocktailhourissomethingtheRosesdressfor,althoughI’veneverseentheminanythingremotelyshabby.It’salwaysnattysuitsforMr.Roseandswathsofloose-fittingsilkforMrs.Rose.Tonighthe’sinbutteryellowandshe’sinaturquoisecaftanwithgoldembroideryonthebustandsleeves.I’vebeenshowingupinshortsandtanks,andneitherhassaidawordaboutituntilnow.
“Iwentshoppingintowntoday,”Itellher,takingmyplaceonthewickerloveseat,sameastheoneatthehouse,whileMrs.Rosesettlesintoabamboorocker.Onthecoffeetable,inadditiontotheregularpaper-towel-linedbowlofchips,isacheeseball—anhonest-to-god,rolled-in-parsley-and-walnuts,old-fashionedcheeseball—surroundedbyaringofRitzcrackers.
Igestureatit.“What’stheoccasion?”
“We’vegotcompany,dear,”Mrs.RosesaysasMr.Rosefillsafourthmartiniglass.Hegarnishestwoofthecocktailswithpickledonionsandminewithatrioofplumpgreenolives.
“Wethoughtwe’dinviteyourfriend,”Mr.Roseadds.
“Myfriend?”Ilookaroundtheporch.There’snooneelsehere.
“IsenthiminsidetoseeifhecouldrepairourTV,”saysMrs.Rose.“Idon’tknowwhatwe’vedone—can’tseemtogetanypictureonthething.”
“Hoy,thereheis,”Mr.RosecallsasWillappearsinthedoorway,remoteinhand.He’sdressedinanavysuitwithacrispwhiteshirt,thetopbuttonundone,hishairslickedbacklikeitwaslastnight.Mylungscompress.
“Hello,”hesayswithanunreadableglancemyway.Actually,it’smorethanaglance.Hiseyescatchonmineandthentheygrowdarker,butthenheblinksandbringstheremotetoMrs.Rose.“Allfixed.Youjusthavetopresstheinputbuttonafewtimes.”Heshowsherontheremote.
“HowdoyouknowtheRoses?”
“Wemetlastsummer,andIbumpedintothemagainthisafternoon.”
“Takeaseat,William.”Mr.Rosepointsatthesmallsliceofcushionnexttome,thenbringsMrs.Roseandmeourdrinks.Theyarefulltothebrim.“Remindmehowyoutakeyourmartini,”hesaystoWill.“Letmeguess.Areyouatwistman?”
“Iam,”hesays,sittingbesideme.
IwatchasMr.Rosetakesaparingknifetothecitrusrind,andIcansuddenlytastethelemondropcandyinmymouthandfeelWill’sbody,hardmuscleanddampskin,pressedtome.
“Ihopeit’sokayI’mhere,”WillsaysquietlyasMr.Rosesettlesintohisrocker.
“Ofcourse,”Isay,tryingnottothinkaboutthesmoky-sweetsmellofhimandhisthighwedgedagainstmineorthefactthatgoosebumpshaverisenonmyarms.
Will’seyesexpandatthesizeofthedrinkMr.Rosepassesover,spillingalittleonthetable.Hedoesn’tnotice,andWilldabsitupwithapapernapkinwhileMr.Roseisn’tlooking.
AftereverythingthatReggietoldme,I’malmostcertainIneedWill’shelp,butcouldIreallyworkwithhim?I’vebeenturningtheideaoverinmymindlikepuzzlepiecesdumpedfromthebox
Weclinkourglassestogether,andItakeabigsip.Fromthecornerofmyeye,IseeWillinspectingme,hisgazelingeringonmyshoulder.
“Youlooknice,”hesays.
Ituckmyhairbehindmyears,sayingaquietthanks.
“Iwasgivenastrictdresscode,too,”Willsays.“Noshortsorsandalsallowed.”
“There’snothinglessappetizingthanaman’sbarefoot,”Mrs.Rosepipesup.
“Sotellushowyoutwoknoweachother,”Mr.Rosesays.Mystomachflops,andIraisemyglasstomylips.
“FernandImettenyearsago.Ipaintedamuralatthecoffeeshopwheresheworked.”IfeelWilllookingatme,butIkeepmysightsonthecheeseballashetellstheRosesaboutourday.
Whathedoesn’tknowishowourtimetogetheralteredthecityforme.It’slikeweleftbehindanimprintontheplaceswevisited,andnowtwenty-two-year-oldWillandFernwanderarounddowntownTorontoonapermanentloopinmymemory.
“Hownicethatyoukeptintouchallthistime,”Mrs.Rosesays,andneitherofuscorrectsher.
“Amural,eh?Youdon’tstrikemeasanartist,”saysMr.Rose,andmyeyesdarttoWill,anoddprotectivefeelingwhirringinmychest.
“I’mnotoneanymore,”hesays,hisvoiceflat.“Iwasneververygood.Ferncanattesttothat.”
TheRoseslookatme.Ihavesomanyconflictingemotionsaboutthemansittingbesideme,butthemostconfusingismyneedtodefendtheWillIonceknew.HefeelsseparatefromthisWill.ThisWillistheonewhohurtme;thatWillistheonewhosedrawingstillhangsinaframeinmybedroom.ThatWillistheoneIstandupfor.
“IthoughtWillwouldbeafamousillustratoroneday.Hewasverygood.”
IignoreWill’sgaze,boringintothesideofmyface.Isupplymyselfwithanotherdoseofgin.Histhighpressesagainstmine,apurposefulnudge,andIsplutterintomydrink,mycheeksheating.
“Atmyage,Ishouldknowpeoplearen’talwayswhotheyseemonthesurface,”saysMr.Rose.“LookatFern.Youwouldn’tguessitnow,butshegavehermotherquiteabitoftroublewhenshewasateenager.Arealmutineer.Gotbroughthomebythepoliceonce.Maggiewasbesideherself—alltheguestsaroundtosee.”
Itense,andWillshiftsbesideme.
“Thatwasn’teventheworstofit,”Mrs.Rosesays,oblivioustomydiscomfort.Justasshe’sabouttogoon,Willclapshishandsloudlyandwealllookathim.
“I’vealreadyheardthisone,”hesaysinatonethatmakesitclearhedoesn’twanttohearitagain.
Istareathim,andforasecondtime,hebumpshislegagainstmine.
“Whataboutyou,William?Getuptoanymischiefwhenyouwerealad?”Mr.Roseasks.
“Theregular—parties,beer,maybeabitofpot,”hesays.“Iwasaprettyboringkid.”
“Youwerenot,”Icontradict.Apparently,I’mYoungWillBaxter’smostvocaladvocate.Idon’tappreciatethisstoic,self-deprecatingversion,eventhoughhelookslikeasexdream.Ispreadacrackerwithanorangeywedgeofcheeseball,hopingtheconversationmoveson,butnope.Therearethreesetsofeyesonme.“Youwere…unique.”Ablushsettlesonmycheeks.
Willstudiesmeforasecond,theskinaroundhiseyescrinkling.There’ssomethingreassuringaboutthishintofagrin.Ifindmyselfsmilingback.
“IthinkthatdaywithFernwasthemostexcitingthingthathappenedtome.”Willlooksrightatmewhenhesaysthis,andmymouthfallsopen.
“Well,iftraipsingaroundTorontoisthemostrivetingexperienceofyouryouth,Ihopeyou’vegottenuptomoretroubleasanadult,”Mrs.Rosesays,breakingthesilence.
“Farless,I’mafraid,”Willsays,takingasipofhismartini,hisexpressionturnedimpenetrable.Hedoesn’tsoundsadexactly.Maybeabitwistful?Iwanttoknowwhy.IwanttoknowwhythisWillBaxterissodifferentfrommyWillBaxter.He’sstillthemostfascinatingpersonI’veevermet,onlynowhe’sacompletemystery.
Mrs.Roseclucks.“Youngpeopledon’tknowhowtohaveagoodtimeanymore,”shesays,thenlaunchesintoastoryaboutChristopherPlummer,acastparty,andamarriageproposalI’malmostpositiveneverhappened.
SoontalkturnstoWill’svacation.“Whatareyougoingtodotokeepyourselfbusyforfourwholeweeks?”Mr.Rosewantstoknow.
“I’llbeworkingmostofthetime.It’seasytodomyjobremotely.”Helooksatmeasiftoaskpermission,andInod.Idon’tmindiftheRosesknowwhyhe’shere.
“IwasgoingtodoabitofworkwithMaggie,helpherwithsomeideasfortheresort,”Willsays.HearinghimcallmymomMaggieisjarring.“Ihadn’theardthenewsbeforeIarrived.”
“Whatdoyoumean,youwere‘goingto’?”Mrs.Roseasks.Nothinggetsbythiswoman.Shelasershereyesonme.“Youneedallthehelpyoucanget,mydear.Andthat’snotaslightagainstyou.”
Iknowshe’sright.OnlyI’mnotsureIcankeepittogetherforanentiremonth.Justsittingbesidehimmakesmewanttocrawloutofmyskin.Orontohislap.
“Andwhataboutthatyoungwomanyouhadwithyoulastsummer?”Mr.Roseasksashetopsupourglasses.Willhasagirlfriend?Afamiliarsqueezeofenvycinchesaroundmyribs.“Whatwashername?”
“Jessica,”Willtellshimwithaquicklookinmydirection.
Thisisgood.Thismeansanypossibilityofcrawlingontohislaphasbeenremovedfromtheequationonceandforall.Thisisgreat,Itellmyself,eventhoughitfeelsalmostcruelthat,whenWillfinallycamehere,itwaswithanotherwoman.Itakealongsipofmycocktail.
“Jessica,that’sright.Areallooker,thatone.”IcanfeelWillwatchingmeasMr.Rosemakesalittlewhistlingsoundthroughhisteeth.“Wetaughtthemhowtoplaycribbage,”hetellsme.Ismileinreply,butitmustlookasfalseasitfeels.
“AndwhereisJessica?Isshejoiningyoulater?”Mrs.RoseasksWill.
“No,”hesays,andI’msureIfeelhiselbowpressintomyarm,justalittle.“Webrokeup.”
—
DuskhasfallenwhentheRoseskickusout.WillandIamblealongthegravelwalkway,andeachcabinwepasshasitsownsoundtrack—theslapofscreendoors,theclatterofdinnerdishes,atumbleofdiceandacheerofvictory.ThehouseandCabin20arethefarthestfromthelodge,andaswewalk,thewoodsgrowdenser.Thepathislinedwithfernsandbegoniasplantedinoldlogs.It’shardtotell,butIthinkWill’stipsy.IknowIam.
“Ithinkmybloodistwopartsgin,”hesays,eyesglimmeringinawaytheyhaven’tsincehearrived.
“That’sprobablyaconservativeestimate.”Ifeelbuoyant.It’sthebooze,absolutely.Butit’smorethanthat.It’squittingmyjobandthebeautifulsummernightandthefeelingoftakingbacksomecontrolforthefirsttimesinceMomdied.
Iblamethemartinisforallowingmetoreachoutandtouchhisarm.“Hey,Will?”
Hestopswalking.
“ThanksforredirectingMrs.Roseearlier.It’snotmyfavoritestory.”
“Iknowit’snot.”Wewatcheachother,thelamplightcastingWill’sfaceinshadow.
“Didyoumeanwhatyousaid—aboutthatdaybeingthemostexcitingthingthathappenedtoyou?”
“Idid,”hesays.“Idon’tspendmuchtimeinthatpartofthecity,butwhenI’mdowntown,Ialwaysthinkofit.”
Iblink.“YouliveinToronto?”Idon’tknowwhyIhadn’tguessedthatbefore.
“Ido,”hesaysslowly.
“Forhowlong?”Iask,mypulsequickening.
Will’seyesdarttothetrees.Hedoesn’twanttoanswer.
“Justtellme.”
“Alongtime.”
Istarehimdown.That’snotgoodenough.
“Almosttenyears,”hesaysquietly.
Inodonce,butit’smostlyforthepurposeofmakingsuremyheadisstillattachedtomyneck.Ididn’tthinkthegreatghostingofFernBrookbankscouldgetanyworse.
“Wow.”
“Fern,”hesays,andIwavemyhands,hurtanddisappointmentrisingupmythroat.
“Don’t.”
“Fern.”
“Listen,Igottago.I’mdrunk.Andyou’re”—Istudyhim—“tootall.”
IleaveWillthere,onthepath,standingamongthepinesandpoplars.
—
Thatnight,thedreamstartsthesameway.IcansmellthepancakesbeforeIgodownstairs,butwhenIgettothekitchen,Willisatthestoveinsteadofmymother.He’swearingadarkbluesuit,hisbackturnedtome.Hishairispasthisears,likeitwaswhenhewastwenty-two,andwhenhelooksoverhisshoulder,hisfacebreaksintothemostgorgeoussmileI’veeverseen.Ipullhimtothetableandpeelhisjacketoffslowly.Hisgrinturnswolfish,hiseyeshungry.IreducemyspeedasIunbuttonhisshirt,watchinghimstarve,thenIpressmyteethtotheskinoverhisheartwhilethepancakesburn.8
June14,TenYearsAgo
WillandIstoodinthenarrowmouthofalane,rainbowbrickwallsstretchingbeforeus.GraffitiAlleywasthecity’smostfamousdisplayoflegallysanctionedstreetart.
“Haveyoueverbeenhere?”heasked.
“No.”I’dheardaboutit,butIdidn’tknowtheexactlocation.“It’sbasicallyFroshWeek101:Don’tleaveyourdrinkunattended;don’tpettheraccoons;don’ttraipsethroughalleys,evenbeautifulgraffiti-coveredones.”
“Youthinkit’sbeautiful?”
InoddedasIlookedatthebrightorangeletteringnexttous.IreachedintomytoteandpulledoutmyZiggyStardustcoinpurse,jigglingitintheair.“Iknowwhatwouldmakeitevenmorebeautiful.”
Willgrinned.“Ohyeah?”
Wewalkeddeeperintothelanetowherewewerewedgedbetweentwobuildings.Evenintheshade,itwashot.Everythingarounduswascoatedinspraypaint—walls,grates,garagedoors,dumpsters.TherewasaricketywoodenbenchthatlookedasthoughitwerefashionedoutofoversizedPopsiclestickscoveredinswirlsofblueandyellow.Itwasalsocoveredinacrustofdriedbirddroppings,sowetuckedintoacornerbesideadumpster,andIlitthejoint,inhalingdeeplybeforepassingittoWill.Hetookalongpull,eyeshalf-closed,handwrappedoverthetopofthejoint,andIthoughtitwasprobablythesexiestthingI’dwitnessed.
“Sowhat’ssogreataboutToronto?”heaskedwhenhecameupforair.
“Whatdoyoumean?”Itookahitbeforepassingitback.
“Igettheimpressionyou’renotexactlypleasedtobeleaving.”
Ileanedmyheadagainstthewallandstaredupattherunwayofclearskyabovethealley.Icouldalreadyfeelthepotmoseyingthroughmybloodstream,alooseninglull.Iwasaneasyhigh.IsnuckapeekatWillasheinhaled,thenIgazedbackatthesky,thinkingabouthisquestion.TherewassomuchIlikedaboutlivinghere,buttherewasonebigreason.
“Backhome,everyoneknowseverythingaboutme,”Isaid,tiltingmyheadtowardWill.“Inthecity,Icandisappear.”
Will’seyesflickeredoverme,andmyskinwenttight.“Ifindthathardtobelieve.”
Itookonelastpuffandstubbedthejointoutonthewall.“There’safreedomthatcomeswithbeinginthecity.I’mnoonehere.”
“Andthat’sagoodthing?”
Westartedwalkingslowly,thesuninoureyes.
“Yeah.Athome,I’mFernBrookbanks.”
Willsmirked.“Aren’tyouFernBrookbankshere,too?”
“Iam,butitdoesn’tmeananything.Backhome,I’mMargaretBrookbanks’sdaughter.”Resortbrat.Screwup.Reformedbusinessgrad.“I’mmakingitsoundlikeI’mimportant,andI’mnot.It’smorelikewhoIamisalreadydetermined—smallcommunitiesarekindoflikethat,andtheresortisitsowntinyempire.”
“Gotit.You’rePrincessFern.”
“Ha.”Icuppedmyhandaroundmyforehead,blockingouttheglare.“Iwentthroughabitofa…”Ifaltered.Ihadn’ttalkedaboutwhathappenedwhenIwasinhighschoolwithanyoneotherthanJamieinyears,notevenWhitney.
WhenI’dreadMom’sdiary,I’dcalledhertheworstnamesimaginable.Ithrewthebookacrosstheroomather.IlashedoutinthemostirresponsiblewaysformonthsuntilIfinallyendedupinthehospital.AnimageofMomsittingbesidemycot,herfaceredfromcrying,sprangintomymind.Isqueezedmyeyesshut,willingitaway.Thingsweremuchbetternow.
“Youallright?”Willasked.
“Yeah.Justlostmytrainofthought.”
“Youweresayingyouwentthroughsomething.”
“IwentthroughabitofarebelliousphasewhenIwasyounger,andnoneofthatstayedsecret.There’snoprivacyupthere.Iknowlivingataresortseemslikeitwouldbeamazing,andsometimesitwas.Butyoutrybeingflaggeddowntounclogatoiletorgivedirectionstothetenniscourtseverytimeyoustepoutsideyourfrontdoor.Thereare
Iwasonarollnow,myhandsconductingmylistofgrievances.“Whenyou’retheowner’sdaughter,you’realsostaff,whetheryoulikeitornot.I’veworkedthereeverysummersinceIwasfourteen,plusshiftsduringtheschoolyear.Iwascookingdinnerformyselfbyagetenbecausemymomwashardlyeverhome.Imean,Iguesstechnicallytheresortishome,butsheworkedsomuch,shewasneveratthehouse.”
IheardthetoneofmyvoiceandgrabbedthehemofWill’ssweater.“I’msorry.I’mbeingawhinyteenagerrightnow.IthoughtIwasovermyangstystage.”
“Angstaway,”Willsaid.“Ithinkthat’sthemostyou’vespokenallday.”Hespunsohewasfacingmeandstartedwalkingbackward,openinghisarms.“PaintmeapictureoftorturedteenageFern.”
Ishovedhisshoulder.“Itwasn’tallbad.Thelakeisstunning.Ifyou’reoutdoorsy,there’stonsofstufftodo—canoes,kayaks,hikingtrails.Thelodgewasbuiltmorethanahundredyearsago,sothewholeplacefeelslikeit’sfromanotherera,whichisprettycool.”
“I’dlovetoseeit,”Willsaid.“I’veneverbeenanywherelikethat.I’vegonetofriends’cottages,butwhenmyfamilytraveled,itwasusuallyoutsideofOntario.”
Imadeaface.IusedtofinditannoyingwhenMomcomplainedthatpeopledidn’tappreciateourownprovince.ButthenImovedtoTorontoandmetsomanypeoplelikeWill,whohadtheopportunitytotravelbutwentfartherafieldwithoutexploringhome.
Thealleyhadopenedtoasmallparkinglotinfullsun.Heatwaftedoffthepavement.Willdroppedhisbackpackonthegroundandshruggedoffhiscardigan
“Ididn’treallygetthewholeoutdoorsthinguntilImovedoutWest.ThelevelofnaturalbeautyinBritishColumbiaissoabsurd,”hesaid,foldinghissweaterandputtingitintohisbackpack.Iwipedsweatfromthebackofmyneck,unabletolookaway.“ThefirsttimeItookmybiketoStanleyPark,Irodearoundtheseawallliterallylaughingoutloud.Icouldn’tgetoverallthedifferentshadesofgreen.I’mstillnotusedtoit.”
ImurmuredsomethingtoshowIwaspayingattention,butthethingIwaspayingattentiontowasWill’sbody.Hehadbeencompletelycovered,andnowtherewasskin.SkinthatstretchedoverleanmuscleandranunderthesleeveofhisT-shirt.Thereweremolesandveinsandelbowsandcreases.
Willclosedhisbackpackandslungitoveroneshoulder.Itcaughtonthehemofhisshirt,flashingasmalltriangleoffleshathiship.
Thejointhadbeenabadidea.Ishouldhaveknownthat.Potmademefeellikeliquefiedcandlewax,hotandrunny.Myfingershadalreadystartedtingling.
BeforeJamie,I’dhadsextwotimeswithtwodifferentguys.Neitherexperiencehadbeengood.ItoldJamieIwantedtotakethingsslow,sowewaiteduntiloursecondsummertogether,andthenspentMaytoAugustwithourhandsallovereachother,sneakingquickiesbetweenshifts—foolingaroundinhisbunk,dartingbehindtrees,racinguptomybedroom.Morethanonce,wehungabackinfiveminutessignontheoutfittinghutdoor.SexwithJamiewasfunandsilly,andafterwefiguredeachotherout,itfeltsomuchbetterthanIthoughtpossible.
LeavingforuniversityinSeptemberafterfourmonthsofnonstopscrewingwaslikebeingdeniedfreshwaterafterlivingbesideanAlpinespring.Phonesexwashissuggestion.Thefirsttime,Ilayonmybed,staringatthecrackinmyapartmentceiling,tryingnottolaugh.Notsurprisingly,Jamietooktodirtytalkwithgusto.Ikeptapologizingandhekepttellingmetorelax.EventuallyIdid,butnotenoughtocome.“I’vegotanidea,”Jamiesaidoncehe’dfinished.
EventhoughjointswereascommonascigarettesonanygivennightoutinToronto,I’dbeenwary.IwasanewFern—onewhomadesmartchoices.ButJamieassuredmealittleweedwouldn’tcausemetolosecontrolandhookedmeupwithabuddywhodealtdowntown.Thenexttimewetried,Igothighfirst.PotmadeitsoIcouldsaywordslikelickandwetandmeanthem,butitalsoturnedmyinsidestowarmhoney.Phonesexbecameourthing.
Willranhishandthroughhishair,andIfollowedthemovementasifitwerehappeninginslowmotion.Therewasasmudgeofpaintontheinsideofhisrightarm,andbesidethatalineofblackink.Desirehitmeinarush.Jamiemademefeelgood,butI’dneverfeltsuchasingularboltofwant.
Willgavemeafunnylook.“What’sup?”
Iswallowed.Mytonguehadturnedvelvet.“There’sasmudgeofpaintonyourarm.”
Hetwistedhiselbow,revealingmoreofthetattoo.“Sothereis.Itmusthavecomeoffmycoveralls.”Thetinglewasspreading,transformingintoalowpulse.Willglancedatme,catchingmystare.
“Isthatatree?”Iasked,pointingtohistattoo.(Itwasobviouslyatree.)
“Yeah.”Hehikeduphissleeve.Aspindlyevergreengrewfromelbowtoarmpitontheundersideofhisarm.“Igotitacoupleyearsago.Iguessit’skindofacliché.”
“Howso?”
Willgavemealazysmile.Will,Irealized,washigh.“Well,IwenttoEmilyCarr.”
“I’veheard.”
“EmilyCarrisanartsschool,”hesaid.“Andshewasalsooneofthiscountry’smostimportantpainters,maysherest.”
Ilaughed.“Tellmemore,Dalí.”
“ThelonetreewasacommonmotifinCarr’swork,soit’salmostlikegettingatattoooftheschoollogo.Butthere’ssomethingsomajesticaboutfirs.It’swhatIlovemostaboutVancouver—hownatureandthecitycollide.”
Ileanedintogetacloserlook.MostofthetattoosI’dseenwerethekindpickedoutofabinder,butWill’swasunique.Itwasobviouslyacustompiece—theshadingwassodelicate.
“Well,it’saverynicecliché,”Isaid,peeringupatWilltofindhimpeeringdownatme.Westaredateachotherforwhatwasprobablyasecond,butitfeltlikeminutes,untilasiren’swailstartledus.
“Iguessthatmeansyouprefermyillustrationstomymurals,”Willsaid,tugginghissleevedown.
“Youdrewthat?”Idugabottleofwaterfrommytotebag,draininghalf,thenofferedtheresttoWill.Hetippedhisheadbackandclosedhiseyestothesun,histhroatmovingasheswallowed.Adropofwaterranfromthecornerofhismouth.IwasstalkingitspathdownhischinlikealeopardwhenIfeltmyphonevibrate.
Ifrownedatthescreen.Jamiedidn’tcallunlesswe’dplannedto“talk”aheadoftime.
“Sorry,I’mgoingtotakethis,”ItoldWill,movingafewstepsaway.
“Hey,”IsaidtoJamie.“Iseverythingokay?”
Achucklefilledtheotherendoftheline.
“Ofcourseitis.I’mabouttotakeacouplekidsonacanoetourofSmoke.”Jamiedroppedhisvoice.“Imissedyou,Fernie.Iwantedtohearyourvoiceforasec.It’sbeenawhile.”
Mystomachsank.“Iknow.ItwastrickywithWhitneyhere,”Isaid,thoughwebothknewithadbeenlongerthanthat.We’dspokenahandfuloftimessinceschoolfinished—callsthatwerelittlemorethansex.Icouldn’tletJamieknowhowmiserableIwasaboutcominghome,whichmademeevenmoremiserable.NomatterhowIspunit,theunderlyingmessagewouldalwaysbe:Hey,babe,Idon’twanttocomehome,evenifitmeansspendingthesummerwithyou.Nooffense!It’sjustthattheideaofworkingattheresortfortherestofmylifemakesmewanttoteartheskinoffmyarms.Don’ttakeitpersonally,butit’salittleawkwardthatyoulovemyfamilybusinessmorethanIdo.
IknewwhatIreallywantedwouldbeastickofdynamiteinourrelationship.IhatedkeepingthingsfromJamie,soI’dstartedavoidinghiminstead.
“Whittoldmeyouseemedoff,”Jamiesaid.
Thatstung.IthoughtI’ddoneaverygoodjobofseemingon.“Shedid?”
“Inatext.Yousaidyourvisitwasweird?”
IwatchedWill.Hewastypingsomethingonhisphone.
“Yeah,itwasweird.Ifeellikeshedoesn’tgetmesometimes,youknow?ShethinksI’mgoingtocomehome,andeverythingwillbelikeitwaswhenweweretwelve,butwe’redifferentpeoplenow.”Whitneyneverwantedtotalkaboutwhathappenedinhighschool.Shepretendedthatweneverhadthatmassivefight,thatwehadn’tbegundriftingapartyearsbeforethatwhenshestarteddatingCam.“Ifeellikeshedoesn’ttrustme.”IsawthewaysheeyedmydrinkwhenIorderedasecondatthebarlastnight,butshedidn’thavetoworry.Irarelyhadmorethantwothesedays.
“You’reoverthinkingit,Fernie.Givethatbrainofyoursarest.Onceyougetbackhere,you’llsee—there’snothingtoworryabout.YouandWhitaregoingtobebudsyourwholelives.”
Isighed.“Ihopeso.”
Willputhisphoneawayandwanderedovertoaschooloffishpaintedonthesideofathree-storybuilding.
“I’vegottago,”Jamiesaid.“Loveyou.”
“Loveyou,too.”
IwatchedWillfromasafedistance.Hisbackwasturnedtome,hishandsrestingonhishead.
FouryearshadpassedwithoutmebeinginterestedinanyonebutJamie.I’dflirtedalittle.I’ddancedwithguys,butIdrewthelineatlettingthembuymeadrink.AndI’dwithstoodconstantteasingaboutbeinginalong-distancerelationshipwithsomeoneI’dknownsincechildhood.
“Youarenevergoingtobehotter,”Aylalecturedmeonce.We’dmetinourfirst-yearmacroeconomicsclass,andshewasmyclosestfriendinthecity.“Youarewastingyourprimeyears.”ThenshemetJamie.Hewonheroverwithinthirtyminutesafterhesuggestedakaraokebarastheevening’sentertainment.WhenhepulledouthisAlanis(abanging“YouOughtaKnow”),shewasagoner.ThenightendedwithAyladraggingusbacktoherapartmentandthetwoofthemsingingNellyFurtadosongsneithercouldrememberthelyricsto.
Jamiewastwinedaroundeverypartofmylife.IthoughtIwantedhimtostaythatwayforever.
“Everythingallright?”WillaskedwhenIwalkedover.
“Fine.Itwasjustafriend.”
IlookedatWill’sprofileforalongtime.Iwasstoned,Ihadzeroshame,andIhadatheory.Iletmyeyesrunacrossthehardlineofhischeekandjaw.Iperusedhisarmsanddownhistorso.WhenIgotbackuptohisneck,itwaspink.ThistinglythingIfeltforWill,itwaspurelyphysical.Iwassureofit.
“What’sFredlike?”Iasked.
Will’snosescrunched.“Fred?”
“Yeah.”Imovedtowardthealley.Therewasmoregroundtocover.“Sensitivetopic?”
“No,”Willsaid,following.“Ofcoursenot.Fred…”Hepaused.“Fred’sspecific.There’snoonelikeher.”Helaughed.“Shemakessureofit.Ifeveryonewasgoingthroughthefrontdoor,Fredwouldbesearchingforasideentrance.Shecomesateverythingherownway.”
ItippedmyheaddownsoIcouldrollmyeyes.
WilltoldmeallaboutFred.FredhadatapestryhanginginagalleryinGastown.ThetapestrywascalledCurseandwovetogetherthepain,power,andfecundityofmenstruation.Fredhadcommittedtoanall-redwardrobewhileworkingonthetapestrysenioryear.Fred’sideaswerebottomless.Forexample,Fredcameupwiththethemeof“failure”fortheirnewsletter’sgraduationissueandhelpedtrackdownEmilyCarralumnitosharetheirbiggestflops.
Fredsoundslikeshetakesherselfprettyseriously,Ithought.“Shesoundsfun,”Isaid.“Howlonghaveyoubeentogether?”
“Aboutfivemonths.”
That’sit?Thewordsalmostleftmylips.
“What?”Willsaid.
“Nothing.”
“No,comeon.You’vegotalookonyourface.”
“Idon’t.”
“Youdo.”Hepointedtomymouth,andwebothstoppedwalking.“Youhaveasmidgeofalook.”
“Well,nowIdo.Butonlybecauseyousaidsmidge.”
“Youweren’tjudgingthelengthofmyrelationship?”
Iputmyhandonmychest.“Nope,notatall.”
Ididn’tlovethatIwasjealousofFred,butsowhatifIwas?Willwasstupidhot.Thatwasit.Therewasn’tanythingelsegoingonhere.
Willarcheddowntomeetmygaze,hiseyesshimmering.“Liar.”9
Now
“Whatdoyoumean,youhaven’tgoogledhim?”Whitneywavesadiaperintheair.
I’veconvincedhertoletmebabysitOwenwhilesheandCamhaveadatenight.It’sonlydinnerattheBrookbanksrestaurant,andtheplanisforthemtoleavethebabywithmeatthehousewhiletheyenjoysomealonetime,butIstillhaven’tmanagedtogetthemoutthedoor.
They’vesetupOwen’stravelcrib,explainedtheinsandoutsofbottlefeeding,givenmeadetaileddescriptionofhisdiaperrash,andhandedmeaprintoutofOwenFAQs.She’striedtomakeitfunny—withheadingslike,Ohshit,hepooped!Nowwhat?—butitstillbordersonobnoxious.It’salsocompletelyunlikeWhitney.
Ilookather,kneelingoverOwen,who’swrigglingonthecouchsansdiaper.She’swearingamagentawrapdressthathasadiscreetpanelinthefrontforbreastfeeding.Herboobsarehuge.There’sathinbandofsweataroundherhairline—thestrandsbyhertempleareshort,wispybitsthatshe’sbeencomplainingabout.Apparentlyyoulosehairafterhavingababyandthat’swhatgrowsback.ParenthoodischangingherinwaysIhadn’tnoticed,probablyinwaysshehasn’t,either.
“YouknowhowIfeelaboutcreepingonpeopleonline,”Isay,rummaginginthediaperbagforwipes.Ihaven’tdiaperedababybefore,buthowhardcanitbe?“Letmedothat,Whit.You’regoingtobelateforyourreservation.”
“Quitchangingthesubject,”Whitneysays,lookingatthepackageinmyhand.“Youdon’tneedwipeswhenit’sjustalittlepee.”
ShefinisheswrappingOwen’sbottomandgetsoffthefloor,pickinghimupwiththeswiftcompetenceofsomeonewho’sdoneithundredsoftimes,whichshehas—Whitneyisamom.Iknewitbefore,butnotthewayIknowitnow,inthismoment.Wehaven’tlivedinthesameplacesincehighschool.There’ssomuchwe’vemissedalongthewaytobecomingadults.
“Soyou’veneverlookedhimup?”Whitneysays.“Notevenbackthen?”
“Notreally.”Thisiscompletelyfalse.
“You’regoingtohandoverthefutureoftheresorttohim,andyouhaven’tsomuchassearchedtoseeifhisbusinessislegit?”ShelookstoCamforbackup,butheshrugsoneblockyshoulder.He’safewinchestallerthanWhitneyandhasarmsthatbelonginafirefightercalendar.
Thetwoofthemhavebeeninseparablesincewewerefifteen.Camhadbeenatwerpinelementaryschool,butthesummerbetweenninthandtenthgradeswaskindtohim,anditwasimpossiblenottonoticeWhitneynoticinghimwhenschoolstartedupinthefall.Camhadhisyearslongcrushrightwherehewanted,andIrememberhowheaskedhertothewinterformalasifitwasadare,hischinliftedinchallenge.Whitneycouldn’tresistadare.
Nowhe’sacounseloratouroldhighschool,andhe’ssuchasteady,kindheartedpersonthatIbethe’sgreatathisjob.IknowWhitney’sgoodathers.She’sthemostpassionatedentalhygienistanywhere,withoutquestion.
“Ididn’tagreetoanything,andImayhavedoneaquicksearchyearsago.Butthat’sit.”
ImadethemistakeofgooglingWillyesterday,butIhaven’tseenhiminthefleshsinceSundaycocktailswiththeRoses.Thatwasthreedaysago,andI’vebeendodginghimeversince.I’malittlesurprisedhehasn’tjustpackedhisthingsandleft.
I’vespentmostofmytimewithJamie,gettinguptospeed.Ievenmadeitintothediningroom.IcouldfeeleyesonmeassoonasIentered,andIwantedtovaporize,butIdidit.It’sbecomeapparenthowmuchJamiehasprotectedmefromwhileI’vemademywaythroughthemurkyhazeofgrief.
NowwhenI’mawakeinthemiddleofthenight,ItiptoetomybedroomwindowandlookatthesoftglowcomingfromCabin20.I’mnottheonlyinsomniacaroundhere.IstareatthatsquareoflightthroughthetreesandwonderifIcouldsurviveevenanhourworkingalongsideWill.BecausethemoreIlearnabouttheresort,themoreIcan’tdenyweneedhishelp.
WhitneypassesthebabytoCam,whoimmediatelystartsshiftinghisweightfromsidetoside,makingfunnyfacesashesways.EversinceOwenstartedlaughing,hisparentshavebecomeobsessedwithgettinggigglesfromhim.He’sagorgeousbaby,withCam’sdarkbrownskinandWhitney’swideeyes.
Whitneyrootsaroundherpurseandpullsoutherphone,tappingthescreen.
“Thishim?”Sheholdsituptomyface.It’saheadshotofWill—hishairissmoothedbackandhe’swearingajacketandtie.I’vestudiedeverypixeloftheimagealready.Thethicklashes,theblack-browneyes,thebowofhistoplip,thestronglineofhisjaw,andthelongoneofhisnose.Heisridiculouslyattractive.
“I’lltakeitfromthewayyourpupilsswelledthatitis,”Whitneysays.
ShepointsthephotoatCam,whogivesitaquickglanceandthendoesadoubletake,pressinghisglassesalmostrighttothescreen.
“Shit,”hesays.“Nicework,Baby.”
“Cam,fortheloveofgod,donotcallmethat,”Isay.“Andwhatdoyoumean,nicework?”
“Youhookedupwithhim,right?”
“No,”WhitneyandIreplyinstereo.
Camfrowns.“Wait,you’renotsleepingwithhim?Whydowecareaboutthisguyagain?”
“BecausehemadeBabyfallinlovewithhim,andthenheleftherbrokenhearted.Keepup,Camden.”
“Oh,thisistheguyyoudumpedJamiefor?”Camasks.
“Ididn’tdumpJamie,”Isnap.Ihatethatthesetwothinkthebreakupwasmydoing.ThefourofushungoutduringthesummerwhenJamieandIdated,butCamandJamiekeptintouch.They’reclosefriendsnow.
“Technically,”hesays.“Butyouforcedhishand.”
IgloweratCamasWhitneybeginsreadingfromthewebsite.
“?‘WilliamBaxterisapartneratBaxter-Lee.’Blah,blah,boring,boring.‘Hespecializesinstrategicbrandingandmarketingandwasnamedoneof2019’s“MostExcitingNewVisionaries”byCanadianBusiness.WilliamholdsaBachelorofFineArtsfromEmilyCarrUniversityandanMBAfromtheRotmanSchoolofManagement.’?”
Whitney’seyespopasshescrolls.ThisiswhatIwasafraidof.
“IthinkWillmightbesomekindofsocialite,”shesays.“Therearephotosofhimatpartiesandonredcarpets.”
ShereturnstothescreenwiththesamedeterminedlookshehadwhenweusedtoplayMysteryGuest.
“Givemethat,”Isay,grabbingthephone.IintendtoturnitoffandpassittoCamforsafekeeping,butmyeyesgetstuckonthephotothatfillsthescreen.I’veseenthisone,too.It’sofWill,dressedinatux,hisarmwrappedaroundawomanwho’swearinganemeraldgreengown.She’shorriblypretty.Shehashairasdarkashis,buthersfallsinsoft,hot-tool-aidedwavespasthershoulders.Hebroodsatthecamera;shebeamsatitwithwhite-white,straight-straightteethandthekindofplushpinklipsthewordpillowywasinventedtodescribe.
“She’sinalotofthem,”Whitneysays.“JessicaRashad.Oneofthecaptionssaidshe’sanartcollectorandphilanthropist.Doesn’tthatjustmeanshe’srich?”Hereyesgoevenbigger,brighteninglikefoglights.“Let’slookherup!”
“Nope.Youareofficiallycutoff,”Isay,tryingtoactlikeitdoesn’tbothermethatWill’sexisashotasaJonasBrotherswife.“It’stimeforyoutwotohandmethatbabyandgetoutofhere.”
IgivethephonetoCamtobesafeandextractOwenfromhisarms.Myfriendslookateachother,facesscrewedupwithconcern.
“Seriously,we’llbefine.”ItapOwenonthenoseandhegivesmeagummygrin.IraisemyeyebrowsatWhitney,asilentItoldyouso.“Anddon’trushback.Haveacocktail.Orderdessert,”Isay,thoughIgivethemanhourbeforetheyreturn.
TheyapplyasmatteringofkissestoOwen’sheadandthen,finally,saygoodbye.Iwatchthemleavefromtheporch,holdingupthebaby’schubbyarm,wavingastheygo.
IttakesalloffifteenminutesbeforeOwenstartstoscream.
—
Ihavedoneeverything.IchangedOwen’sdirtydiaper.Triedgivinghimabottle.Bouncedhimonmyknee.Imadefunnyfaces.Isanganelectricrenditionof“There’saHoleinMyBucket.”Butthekidwon’tstopwailing.I’mworriedhe’sgoingtomakehimselfsick.AndI’mnolongerwearingpants,havingspilledmilkalloverbothOwenandme.
“Owen,honey.Please,please,pleasestopcrying,”IbegasIwalkhimaroundthelivingroomonthevergeofsobbingmyself.
I’mnotusuallyacrier,butafterMomdied,itwaslikesomeoneinstalledaleakyfaucetbehindmyeyelids.
SomethingfundamentalshiftedbetweenuswhenItoldMomIdidn’twanttogointothefamilybusiness.Ifeltguilty,butIalsofeltfree.Momcouldn’tunderstandwhyI’dwanttolivepaychecktopaycheckinTorontowhenIcouldcomehomeandearnarealsalary.WehadourweeklycalleverySunday,butweoftenspentitarguing.BythetimeIbecameamanageratFiltrsixyearsago,Ithoughtshe’dresignedherselftomylivinginthecity.We’dstoppedfighting.Shevisitedtotakemetolunchandwasimpressedbyhowbusyourflagshiplocationwas.
WhenPhilippeandIstarteddating,Icouldtellshewassuspicious.“Heseemsverypleasedwithhimself,”she’dsaid.Itwasanaptdescription,butIfiguredhehadalottobepleasedabout:asuccessfulbusiness,visibleabdominalmuscles,afantasticcondoinaconvertedchurch.Shetoldmetobecareful.
ItwasaSundaywhenIfoundhimwiththehatdesigner.HeandIhadspenttheafternoonintheoffice,reviewingrenovationplansforourthirdlocation,andwhileIoftenstayedathisplace,hesaidheneededSundayeveningstohimselffor“restorativecare.”Thatworkedforme.Ihadmyownroutine.Firstgroceries,thenmycallwithMom.IhadjuststeppedontothestreetcarwhenIrealizedI’dforgottenmyphone.TosayIwassurprisedtofindPhilippefoldingsomeoneovermydeskisanunderstatement.IwasstillinshockwhenMomcalled,andIspilledthewholestory—themostI’deverdivulgedtoheraboutmylovelife.
SheshowedupatmyapartmentthenextdaywithasmallsuitcaseIdidn’tknowsheownedandaloafofPeter’ssourdough.Shestayedthreenights,thelongesttimewe’dspenttogetherinyearsoutsideofChristmas.Shedidn’taskquestions.Didn’tpressmeonwhetherIhadaninklinghe’dbeencheating.Isuspectedshewasworkinguptotellingmetocomehome,tocomeworkatBrookbanks.Butshedidn’tdothat,either.WewatchedalotofNetflixandatealotofbread.Whenshehuggedmegoodbye,Ididn’twanthertogo.AndwhenItoldherIwasgoingtomissher,Ifeltsomethingshiftagain,aneasingoftension.Wewerecloserinthatmomentthanwehadbeenintheonebeforeit.
Shediedtwoyearslater.
ItfeelslikeIlostherjustaswe’dbeguntofindeachother.I’vemournedmymemoriesofMom.Thewayshewouldsneakintomyroomandkissmegoodnightafterreturningfromthelodge,thinkingIwasasleepwhenallthewhileI’dbeenwaitingforher.Thecrispfallmorningswhenthingsgotatinybitslowerandshe’dwakemeearlytositwithherbythewaterwhileshedrankhercoffee.ThewaysheintroducedmeasMyFern.Herpancakes.Shewasadamantaboutmakingthemwithbuttermilk,thoughweneverhadanyinthehouse.She’dmixlemonjuiceintomilksoitsouredinstead.ButI’vealsomournedthefuturewe’llneverhave,therelationshipwewereonlystartingtomakesolid.
Igotsosickofcrying—thestingingeyes,thestuffynose,thefeelingthatI’dneverbeabletostop—thatItriedcuttingmyselfoffacoupleweeksafterthefuneral.I’veslippedafewtimes,butnow,tryingtosootheaninconsolablefive-month-old,Ifalloffthewagon.Hard.
TheknockisalmostimperceptiblethroughthecacophonythatisOwen.Istopshushing,andthereitisagain.WhitneyandCammusthavecuttheireveningshort.I’msorelieved,Idon’tcareifI’vecompletelyfailedasababysitter.
Butit’snotWhitneyandCamIseewhenIopenthedoor.
It’sWill.
Icouldn’tsaywhatitisabouthimthatmuddlesmybrain.ThebluejeansandfadedgrayT-shirt.Thesheerlengthofhim.Thefactthathe’shereatall.ButifIhadtopick,itmightbethehair.It’sshorterthanitwasbackthen,butseeingitlikethis,messyandunstyled,lyinginablackstripeacrosshisforehead,makesmefeellikeI’mtwenty-twoagain.
“I’mherefortheritualisticinfantsacrifice.Eightp.m.,right?”WillsayswhileIblinkathim,Owenwigglinghotlyinthecrookofmyarm.
IpicturehowwemustlooktoWill:bothpuffy-eyedandtearstained.Thebabyisnakedexceptforhisdiaper.Mynoseisrunning.I’mnotwearingabraorpants,andmygraytanktopisspeckledwithmybestfriend’sbreastmilk.
“Youheardthecrying?”Iask,tryingtosoundasifIwere,infact,wearingpantsandnotinthemidstofspectacularlylosingmyshit.I’mgratefulWillkeepshiseyesonmyface.
“IthinktheycanhearthecryinginAlaska.”
“I’msorry.”IraisemyvoiceoverOwen’svocalpyrotechnics.“I’llclosethewindows.”
“Actually,”Willsays,“IwascomingtoseeifIcouldhelp.”
“Withthebaby?”Fromthedisbeliefinmyvoice,Imightaswellhaveasked,Withtheinfantsacrifice?
“Yeah.Iknowathingortwo.”
Thesmartthingtodointhissituationislie,totellWillI’vegotthingsundercontrol,thenpolitelyaskhimtoleave.
“So,”Willsays,“canIcomein?”
ButtherealityisthatOwenhasbeenoutofhismindforatleasttwentyminutes,andI’mdesperate.Iholdthedooropenwithmyhip.
AssoonasWill’sinside,IknowI’vemadeamistake.Hestandsacrossfrommeinthehallway,andthereisjustsomuchofhimsoclosetome.He’sbroughthisburntsugarsmellinwithhim,andwhenheleansdowntoOwen,Iseethesprayoffrecklesacrossthetopsofhischeeks.I’veimaginedalternateendingsofthedaywespenttogethersomanytimes,it’sshameful,butnothinghastakenmebacktheresoquicklyashavingWillBaxterinmyhome.Humiliationanddesirehitmeinequalmeasure.
Willputshishandonmyelbow.
“Whydon’tyouletmetake…”Hepauses.
“Owen.”
HesqueezesOwen’sfoot.“Whydon’tyouletmetakeOwen,andyoucangetdressed?”Helooksupatme,andthemischiefinhiseyesalmostmakesmegasp.It’sthefirstglimpseI’vehadoftheoldWill.“Unlessyoutwohavesomekindofpants-freepolicygoingonhere.”
“Ispilledthemilk,”Iwhisper.“Onbothofus.”
“Iwon’ttell,”hesays.IshiftOwenintohisarms,andhelayshimonhisshoulderinoneeasymovement.
“Thelivingroomistotheleft,”Isay.There’snowayI’mleadinghimthere.MyunderwearhasmondaywrittenacrossthebacksideunderapictureofLittleMissGrumpy.Plus,it’sWednesday.
Upstairs,Isplashcoldwateronmyface,thankfulI’mnotwearingmakeupandthatmycheeksdon’thavemascaratracksonthem.Irunabrushthroughmyhair,swipeondeodorant,andthrowonabra,acleantanktop,andapairofdenimshorts.Igivemyselfaonce-overinthemirror.
WhenIcomedownstairs,Owen’scradledinWill’sarms,lookingupathimquietlywhileWillsings.Iwatchfromthelanding.Owenisnowdressedinaturquoisesleeper,andWill,Irealize,isserenadinghimwith“ClosingTime,”thesongthatendedeverysingleelementaryschooldanceIattended.Whenhe’sdone,heliftsthebabytohisface,andOwen,thelittlemenace,laughs.
“TheundeniablepowerofSemisonic—worksongrade-sevengirlsandbabies,”Isay,movingcloser,andWillturnsaround.Hetakesmein,clockingmyoutfit.
“What?”
Willshakeshishead.“IkissedCatherineReyesdancingtothissong.”
Ilaughdespitemyself.“IkissedJustinTremblay.”IgiveOwenarubonhishead.“Howdidyoutamethisdragon?NothingIdidworked.”IglanceupatWill,andthere’ssomuchwarmthinhiseyes,Itakeastepback.Andthenitdawnsonme.“Oh.Doyouhaveone?”
“Akid?No.”Hesoundsstartled.
“Youdon’twantthem?”
“No.”Hepauses.“Idon’tknow.Whataboutyou?”
“I’vegotfive,”Ideadpan.“Owen’stheyoungest.”
I’mrewardedwithaminiaturesmileforthat.Willpeersdownatthebaby.“IsawyouwavinggoodbyetoacouplewhoI’mguessingarehisparents.”
“Mybestfriend,Whitney,andherhusband.”IscanWill’sfaceforasignthatherecallsthename,butIgetnothing.“It’sthefirsttimeI’vebabysat.Clearly.”
Owenletsoutawell-timedsquawkandshovesafistintohismouth.
“Didyoumanagetofeedhim?”Willasks,twistinghisupperbodyaroundtosootheOwen.“Ithinkhe’shungry.”
“Itried,buthedidn’tstopcrying.Icouldn’treallygethimtodrink.Wecangiveitanothergo.”
Iwarmupthemilkinthekitchen,andwhenIreturn,WillandOwenaresnuggledinthearmchair,aclothbibaroundOwen’sneck.Ihadn’tthoughtofabibearlier.Willreachesforthebottle.
“Icandoit,”hesays.“Unlessyouwantto.”
“Bemyguest.”Ifoldmyselfontothesofa.
“Hungryguy,”WillsaysasOwenbeginsgluggingawayhappily.
Iwatch,astonished.Willlooksupatme,andthere’snowayhedoesn’tseemyshock,butheoffersnoexplanationforhisexpertbabyhandling.
OwenstartstosquirmandWillsitshimup,pattinghimgentlyonthebackuntilhemakesanoutrageouslyloudHomerSimpsonburp,thenslumpsinWill’shands.
Whenthebottleisdrained,Willburpsthebabyagain,wipeshischin,andtakeshimtothetravelcribinthecorneroftheroom,settinghimdowngently.Owendoesn’tmakeapeep.
“Isthereanotherroomwecansitin?”Willwhispers,surprisingme.Iassumedhe’dleave.“Unlessyou’dpreferformetogo?”
“Stay,”Itellhim.“Ifhewakes,I’llneedbackup.”
—
IleadWillintothekitchen.TheshoeboxesofMom’sdiariesarestillonthetable,exactlywheretheyhavesat,unopened,sincePetergavethemtome.Itakeabottleofwhitewineoutofthefridge,holdingituptohiminquestion.HenodsandtapsafingeragainstWhitney’sbabysittingFAQs,whichlieonthecounter.
“What’sthis?”
“Proofmyfrienddoesn’ttrustmewithherinfantson?”Ipourthewine.“Noideawhyshe’dfeelthatway.”
Willreadsfromthesheetofpaper.“Owen’sfavoritelullabiesare‘Edelweiss’and‘WhataWonderfulWorld.’?”Heglancesatme.“Advanced.”
“I’mconvincedthedoctorsgaveWhitneyapersonalitytransplantwhenthebabycameoutofher.”
Hestudiesthepage,thelinesonhisforeheaddeepening.“Parenthoodcanreallyfuckwithyou.”It’saforcefulstatementcomingfromsomeonewho’sreportedlynotaparent.
“Thisisnice,”hesaysaswepassthroughthesunroomthatMomusedasheroffice.Idon’tlikecominginhere,butthere’snowaytogettothebackwithoutgoingthroughit.“It’ssomodern,”hesaysasIslideopentheglassdoortothedeck.
“Yeah,”Isayquietly.“Thispartwasrebuilt.”
Will’sgazefindsmine,andIcanseehimconnectingdots.Idon’twanttothinkaboutthatnight,oralltheextrashiftsItooksoIcouldhelpcovertherepaircosts.
RecognitionripplesinWill’seyes,butallhesaysis,“Oh.”Itiltmyhead,gesturingforhimtostepoutside.
Thedeckfacesthebushsothere’snolakeview,butI’vealwayslikedhowprivateitfeels,howyoucan’tseeanyoftheguestcabins.IleavethedooropensowecanhearOwenandsettleintooneofthechairs.
“Youreallyseemtoknowyourwayaroundadiaperbag,”Isay.“Yousureyoudon’thaveababyathome?”
Willfreezes,holdinghisglasshalfwaytohismouth.Hestaresintohiswine,andthenslowlysetshisglassdown.
“Ihaveaniece.Mysisterhasadaughter,”hesaysafterasecond.Hisvoiceisclipped,likeitcostshimsomethingtosharethisinformation.
“Didshehaveherrecently?”
“No.”
Willdropshisgazetohiswine,hisjawtight.Icanalmostseethewallhe’serected.
Iwanttoshakehim.Iwanttoyell,WhoareyouandwhathaveyoudonewithmyWill?Iwanttosharpenmyclawsandteareverybrickfromthatwall.“Caretoelaborate?”
Willtakesadrink,thenmeetsmyeyes.“Mysisterwasyoungwhenshebecameamom.Ihelpedout.”
“Prouduncle?”
“Somethinglikethat.”
“Idon’tknowhowmymomdiditallbyherself.”It’sanafterthought,oneIdidn’treallyintendtovocalize.
“Singlemomsaresuperhuman,”Willsays.“Yoursseemedlikeaverydeterminedwoman.”
“Shewasaforce,”Isay.
Wefallquiet.Willsitsbackinhischair,legsstretchedinfrontofhim,gazingatthetrees.
“It’snicehere,”hesays.“Thiswholeplaceisgorgeous,butit’speacefulbackhere.”
“Yeah,IusedtocomeoutherealotwhenIwasgrowingup,”Isay.“Andgodowntothefamilydock.”
“Tohidefromalltheguests?”
“Somethinglikethat,”Isay,lookingintothebush.
“Youmustbeconsideringselling,”hesays.
“MustI?”
“Youweren’tinterestedinrunningaresort—Iassumesellingisonthetable.”
Ipullagustofairintomylungsandletitoutslowly.“It’sonthetable.”
“It’snotaneasydecisiontomake.”
“No,it’snot,”Iagree.“Itfeelsimpossible.”
Hewatchesmeclosely.“DoesJamiehavesomethingtodowiththat?”
I’mnottouchingthatonerightnow.“Iguessthere’snotmuchpointinhavingaconsultantifI’mgoingtooff-loadtheplace,isthere?”Isay.
Willslantshishead.“Howseriousareyouaboutlistingit?”
Itakeadrink.“Themillion-dollarquestion.”
“Idon’tmeantopressureyou.”
“MinusthefactthatyouneedtoknowwhetherIwanttoworkwithyou.”
“True.”Hecrossesoneankleovertheother.“ButI’mnotaskingasyourpotentialconsultant,I’maskingasyour…”Hedriftsoff.
Iraisemyeyebrows,waitingtoseehowhecouldpossiblyendthatsentence.There’snolabelthatdescribeswhatheistome.
“I’mjustasking,”hefinishes.Butthenhepinsmewithahardstare.“AndIguessI’msurprisedthatit’sevenaquestion.Thatyouwouldn’tjustsell.”
“Becauseoftheplan?”Isay,voicehoarse.It’sbeenyearssinceIlookedatthelistWillandImade.IfIshutmyeyes,Icanstillpicturehishandwriting.fern’sone-yearplan.Ihavethefouritemsonitmemorized.
“Becauseyoudidn’twanttoenduphere.”
Myfingerswrigglewiththeurgetoscratch.“Foralongtime,myplanhasbeentoopenacoffeeshopinthecity.”
“OnewithoutamuralofTorontoonitswall,Iimagine.”Will’slipstwitch.“Toobasicforyou.”
Myinsidesfizzwithpleasure.“Imightletyoupaintafernonthewall,”Isay.“Asmallone.”
“That’stheonlywayIdothem,”hesays.“I’mveryfondofsmallferns.”
Igostill,thoughbeneathmyskinI’mfullycarbonated.Thatfsoundedcapitalized.Welookateachotherforafullminute.Ormaybeit’sfiveseconds.Howeverlong,it’sdangerous.
“Doyoustilldomurals?Forfun,Imean.”
“No,”Willsaysquietly.Hegazesintothedarkness.“Ihaven’tpickedupabrushinaverylongtime.”
“Whataboutapencil?”
Heshakeshishead.
“Youshould,”Itellhim.“It’swastefulnottousetalentlikeyours.”
Hiseyessnaptomineandhangontight.“Careful,”hesays.“Thatsoundedlikeacompliment.”
“Itwasn’t—Iwaspointingouthowyou’resquanderingagift.”
Hemakesahummingnoise,lowinhisthroat.Itfeelslikehavingmybackscratched.
“Anyway,”Isay,bringingusbacktoouroriginaltopic.“Brookbankswasmymom’sentirelife—it’snoteasytosaygoodbyetothat.Ihavenoideawhattodo.”
Willsetshisglassdown,stillwatchingme,andtwistshisring.Istareathishands,fallingthroughtime.Icanalmostfeelhispinkiewrappedinmine.“Ifyoureallydon’tknow,Icouldworkontwoscenarios.Oneforselling,anotherifyoudecidetorunthisplaceyourself.”
“Thatsoundslikealotmorework.”
“Lookingatbothoptionsmighthelpyoumakeadecision.”
Imovemyheadfromsidetoside.
“You’renotsureyouwanttoworkwithme,areyou?”heasks.“I’mgoodatwhatIdo,butthat’snottheissue,isit?”
HisquestiontugsatsomethinginsidemethatIdon’twanttoexplore.
Ican’tholdontomyhurtsotightlythatI’munabletodowhat’sbestfortheresort.I’magoodmanager,butI’veneveroverhauledabusiness.Imightbeabletofigureitoutwithtime,butBrookbanksneedshelpyesterday.“Actually,”ItellWill,“I’vebeenthinkingI’dliketoacceptyourhelp.”
ThesmilethattakesoverWill’sfacecouldguideashiphome.Helooksadecadeyounger.HelooksliketheWillIremember.
“Areweinterrupting?”Whitneysticksherheadoutthebackdoor.
“Hey!”Ijumpoutofmyseat.“You’reback.Howwasit?”
“Great,”shesays,eyestrainedonWill,who’sgettingtohisfeet.“Butenoughaboutthat.”Sheflicksherwrist.
Whitneyishighlyexcitable,andwhenshe’sreadytoplay,herbigeyesgoevenwiderandherlipssmacktogetherasifshe’sstrugglingtocontainherself.IcallitherEvilVillainFace.Andrightnow,sheiswearingherEvilVillainFace.
“Iseeyou’vebrokenyourmanhiatus,”shesays.
IglanceatWill,whoseeyebrowsareagoodinchhigherfromwherehelastleftthem.
“There’sahiatus?”
BeforeIcanconfirm,deny,orimplodefrommortification,Camstepsontothedeck.
“Owen’sfastasleep,”hesays,butnoonepayshimanyattentionbecauseWhitneyisstickingherhandout,saying,“YoumustbeWill.It’ssonicetomeetyou.”
Heclaspsherpalm,clearlytakenaback
“Wegoogledyouearlier,”Whitneysays.Traitor.
Will’seyesflareatthis,andheshootsmeasmuglook,anotherflashoftheyoungerWill.
“Justtocheckyourcredentials,”Camsays,offeringhishand.I’llthankhimlater.“I’mCamden,andthistroublemakerismywife,Whitney.”
“Nicetomeetyouboth,”Willsays.“IalsometOwenearlier.He’sabeautifulbaby.”
“Wedidn’trealizeFernwashavingaboyoverthisevening,”Whitneysays.“Notsureweleftenoughpizzamoneytofeedtwopeople.”She’smakingajoke,buttheunderlyingquestionisobvious:Whatexactlyareyoudoinghere,WillBaxter?
I’mabouttoexplainhowWillhelpedwithOwen,buthespeaksfirst.“IsawFernandOwenwavinggoodbyeearlier,andIstoppedintomeetthebaby.Wegottotalkingand…”Willgesturestothewineandtheporch.“It’ssuchaniceevening.”
“Doyoutwowantaglass?”Iask.
Whitneyglancesbetweenus,alookofpureagonyonherface.Iknowthecalculationshe’stryingtomake:StayandgetareadonWill,orleaveandletuscontinuewhateveritistheyinterrupted.Anexcruciatingchoice.
“We’dloveto,butweshouldgetOwenhome,”shesays.Herwordsaresosaturatedwithdisappointment,it’scomical.
WillstaysinthebackwhileIseethemoff,WhitneycarryingthesleepingbabyinherarmsandCamluggingthediaperbagandtravelcrib.
“Whitneyseemsfun,”WillsayswhenIreturntothedeck.
“She’samaniac.”
“Ishouldheadout,too,”hesays.Ialmosttellhimtostay,tohaveanotherdrink.“Thankyouforthewine,”Willsays.
“Ioweyouanentirebottleforhelpingmeouttonight.I’mnotsurewhatIwouldhavedoneifyouhadn’tshownup.”
“Anytime.”Hepausesandhiseyesziparoundmyfacelikeasearchlight.“Youwereseriousearlier,right?Aboutusworkingtogether?”
“Iwas.”ThoughtheideaofspendingmoretimewithWillmakesmefeellight-headed.“Ihavearealestateagentcomingnextweek.Couldyoucometothemeeting?”
“Icandothat,”hesays.“ButcanyouandImeetbeforethen?There’salotI’dliketogoover.Tomorrowwouldbegreat,ifyou’reable?”
Weagreetomeethereintheafternoon,andIleadWilltothefrontdoor,holdingitopen.
“Goodnight,Fern,”hesays.“Ihopeyousleepwell.”
—
AfterWillleaves,Istandatthekitchentableinfrontofthestackofshoeboxes.IthinkaboutWillandthepast,andhowdifferentthingslookaftersomuchtime,andIcarrytheboxestomyroom.ThebedspringssqueakwhenIsetthemdown.
Therearemorethanadozenjournals,startingfromwhenmymomwaseightuntiljustbeforeIwasborn.IreadthemallduringthesummerIwasseventeen.ButIneverfinishedthelastone.IgotuptothepointwhereMomfoundoutshewaspregnantbeforeIconfrontedher.
IstopbreathingwhenIfindit,itsfabriccoverpatternedwithcheerfulsunflowers,itspagesonlyhalf-full.Mymother’shandwritingissofamiliar,slantingtotherightwithelongatedy’s,j’s,g’s,andf’s.ThefirstentryisdatedMay6,1990.Momwouldhavebeentwenty-two—itwasrightaftershegraduatedfromtheUniversityofOttawa.
Onehundredandtwenty-sevensleepsuntilEurope!shewroteatthetop.Alotoftheentriesbeginthisway,withacountdowntoherbigtrip.
PeterbroughtmeacalendartodayandsaidIneedtostartcrossingoffthedaysuntilIleave.I’veonlybeenhomeforaweek,butIthinkhe’ssickofhearingmetalkabouttravelingsomuch.SonowIgointothepastrykitcheneverymorningandxoffthedate.
HaveImentionedthatthemusicPeter’splayingisevenmoredepressingthanthemixtapehemailedmelastwinter?Hispoorstaff!TomorrowI’mgoingtosneakanAnneMurraycassetteintothestereowhenhe’snotlooking.
Ismiletomyself—Peterstillhasthatoldtapedeck.Iflipthroughthepages,lookingforhisname.He’sinherealot.
Tonight,afterIgetreadyforbed,Icurlupwiththediary,laughingoutloudatMom’sdescriptionoftheRosesandmygrandparents.
It’sthelastdayofthelongweekend,andit’sfinallystartingtofeellikesummer.Lotsoftheregularsgothereyesterday.TheRosesbroughtanentirecaseofgin.Almostalltheseasonalworkershavestarted(thenewlifeguardisthecutestbyfar),andthestaffcabinsarefull.There’llbefireworksoffthedockstonight.I’llhavetowatchDad.LastVictoriaDayhehadonetoomanyofMr.Rose’smartinisandalmostlosthisnoselightingaRomanCandle.
Momwritesabouthowbadlyshewantedtogetinvolvedinthebusinessina“meaningfulway.”ShereferencesPetervisitingheratschoolinOttawaforherbirthdayafewtimes.Nothinghappenedbetweenthem,butit’splaintomenowthatdeeperfeelingswereatplay.
Asmyeyesgrowheavy,Iputthediarydownandshutoffthelight.MyminddriftstoWill,replayingoureveningtogether,fixingonthesmilethattransformedhisfacewhenItoldhimIwantedtoworktogether.
Forthesecondtimeinmylife,WillBaxterisgoingtohelpmemakeaplan.10
June14,TenYearsAgo
“Ihaveaconfessiontomake,”Isaidwhenwereachedtheendofthealley.
Willhadstoppedafewtimestopointoutgraffitihefoundhonestorvividorraw,butmostlywetalkedandmeandered.HetoldmeaboutRoommates,hiscomicbasedon“livinginsqualorwiththreeotherguysinatwo-bedroomapartment,”andhowmuralsbeganasahobby,buthequicklyfiguredouttherewasenoughdemandtohelppayrent.Whilehespoke,Itriednottoletmyeyesgetstuckonhistattooorhishandsorthebulkofhisshoulderforanindecentlengthoftime.
“Iwasn’treallypayingattentiontotheart,”Isaidinanexaggeratedwhisper.
“Ialsohaveaconfessiontomake.”Hesoundedserious.
Heleanedtowardmyear,andtheshockofhisbreathonmynecksentgoosebumpsdownmyarms.“I’mstarving.”
“Oh.Doyouwanttotakeoff?”Ismiledtoshowthatthiswouldnotbeadisappointingturnofeventswhatsoever.
“Actually,Iwasthinkingwecouldgrababitebeforethenextstop.Imean,unlessyouhadsomewhereelsetobe.”
“Therestofmyplansfortodaywerewalkingaround,”Isaid.“Andhangingoutinmyapartment.SoI’mallyours.”Isquintedatmychoiceofwords.
Hissmilewidened.“Perfect.”Hepulledhisphoneoutofhispocket.“DoyoumindifIcallmysister?Sheandmydadhadabigfightyesterday.IthinkIshouldprobablycheckin.”
“Ofcoursenot.I’lljust…”Ihookedmythumbovermyshoulder.
Hewavedhishand,motioningformetostayputasheheldhisphonetohisear.
“Hey,Bells,”hesaid,watchingme.Iglancedaround,listeningtoWillaskhissisterhowshewasdoing,whereshewas,ifshewascominghometonight.Icouldheartheanswertothelastone:anemphaticno
“Ididtellhim,believeme,”Willsaidafterafewseconds,rubbingtheheelofhishandagainsthisbrow.“Wegotintoitafteryouleft.IspentthenightatMatty’s.ButyouandIarestilldoingbreakfasttomorrow,right?”heaskedafteraminute.
Oncehe’dsettledonatimeandaplacewithhissister,Willlaughed,thencaughtmyeye.“Hername’sFern.”
Inarrowedmygazewhenheslidhisphonebackintohisjeans.“Youtoldyoursisteraboutme?”
“Mm-hmm.ShesaidtotellyoutheAnnabelBaxtertourofTorontoisninety-eightpercentlesspretentious.”
“Isthatafact?”
“Allegedly.”
“Issheokay?”
“Shewillbe.She’sstillcoolingoff.Mydadwaswayoutofline,butshereallylostit,andthewholethingescalated.Itwasmoreviciousthanusual.Ifeellikesomething’sgoingon.”
Itouchedhisarm.“Listen,ArtSchool.Iknowthisisyourtour,butthisismycity,too.I’mpickinglunch.”
WewereclosetoapopularVietnamesesandwichspotthathadopenedacoupleyearsago,andIwasthrilledWillhadn’theardofit.Loudmusicandair-conditioningblasteduswhenIopenedthedoor.Itwaswellpastthemiddayrush,sothelinethatoftensnakedontothestreetwasonlythreepeopledeep.IcheckedtomakesureWillwasn’tavegetarian(agoodchance,Ifigured)andthatheatepork,thensenthimtosnagtheonlyemptytable.
Iorderedtwotypesofporkbanhmisandwiches(bellyandpulled)andamassivecardboardcontainerofkimchifries,toppedwithmayoandgreenonionsandmorepulledpork,aswellasfancylemonsodas.
“It’ssogood,”Willsaid,takinghisfirstbiteofhissandwich.
WeateingluttonoussilenceuntilWillsethissodadown.“Iheardyouonthephoneearlier.Who’sWhitney?”
Ihesitated.
“DoyouwantmetopretendIdidn’t?”Willsuckedadabofmayooffhisthumb,andIwasmomentarilysilenced.
“Maybe?”Isaidashewipedhishandswithanapkin.
Icouldn’tpinpointwhyIfeltsocomfortablearoundWill,butIknewitwasn’tthepot.Ineededtotalktosomeone—I’dbeendrowningundertheweightofmysecrecy.ButIdidn’twanttounloadaboutWhitneyinthemiddleofacrowdedrestaurant,either.“Shallwecontinuewiththetour?”
Wespilledoutontothesidewalk,andWillfishedhistinoflemondropsfromhisbackpack,holdingthemoutforme.ThistimeItookone.
WesuckedonourcandiesasWillledusthroughChinatowntohisnextdestination.Hekeptpositioninghimselfsothathewasonthestreetsideofthesidewalk.
“Youdon’thavetodothat,”Itoldhim.“It’sweird.”
“It’sgoodmanners,”hesaid.
“In1954.”IyankedhisarmandpulledhimsothatIwasbesidethecurb.
“Whitneyismybestfriend,”Isaidafterawhile.“Shehasbeensincethefifthgrade.”ItoldWillouroriginstory,howIsluggedCaminthestomachforspreadingarumorthatWhitneystuffedherbra.ThetalehadWillgrinningwidely—thewayCam,whowastwicemysize,doubledoverintears,howPetercametopickmeupfromschoolandtoldtheviceprincipalCamgotwhathedeservedandthatIwouldnotbeapologizing.
“They’redatingnow,”ItoldWill.
“No.”Hislaughsliddownmythroatlikechocolatesauce.
“Sincetenthgrade.ItturnedoutCamhadahugecrushonher.Anyway,we’vebeenbestfriendssince.I’manonlychild,butWhitneyisbasicallymysister.”Wedodgedaroundasidewalkrackoften-dollarT-shirts.“Shewasherevisitingmeforafewdays.Thewholetripwaskindofawkward.”
“Youdidn’tinsultherartwork,didyou?”
Iletoutanamusedhuff,thengaspedasabikemessengerzoomedpast,givingmytoteasmack.Suddenly,Will’sarmbandedaroundmymiddle,pullingmetohisside.
“Areyouokay?”
Ilookeddownathishandtightonmywaist,andheimmediatelydroppedit,aflushspreadingfromhisnecktohischeekslikegrenadineintoaShirleyTemple.
“Assumingyoudidn’tcallWhitneybasic,whywashervisitsoawkward?”heaskedafterwe’dstartedwalkingagain,slowenoughthatpeoplepushedbyus.
“IthinkIwantedittobesomethingitwasn’t,”Isaid.“IthoughtIcouldmakeherfallinlovewithToronto,butsheneverwill.”
“Doesthatmatter?You’renotgoingtobeacitypersonsoon.”
Myheadjerkedback.“I’llalwaysbeacityperson.It’snotoneortheother—ruralorurban.”
Willraisedhishands.“Yeah,you’reright.ButwhyisitsoimportanttoyouthatWhitneylikesithere?”
Iscratchedtheinsideofmywrist.“IguessIthoughtifshesawTorontothewaythatIdo,thenmaybeshe’dunderstand…”
Willlookedatmeandthenatmyscratching.
“It’sastressreaction,”Isaid,schoolingmyfingers.Rippingatmyownfleshwasarevoltinghabit,butWilldidn’tlookgrossedout.
Heshuffledmetothesideofalargebuilding.Ihadthevaguesenseofgroupsofpeoplemillingaround,butmyfocushadnarrowedtoWill,whostoodinfrontofme,watchingandwaiting.“She’dunderstandwhat,Fern?”
Ididn’twanttotellWillthefull,horriblestory.ButIcouldtellhimthispart.Iletitoutinarush.“Idon’twanttomovebackhome.Ihaven’ttoldanyone,butIdon’twanttoworkatmyfamily’sresort.EveryoneexpectsthatI’llrunitoneday,butIdefinitelydon’twanttodothat,either.Ididn’tevenwanttogotobusinessschool—itwasmymom’sidea.”
Willlistenedsilently.Iwaitedforjudgmenttomarhisexpression,butitdidn’t,soIkeptgoing.“IthinkIfeltlikeifWhitneygotwhyIlovedlivinghere,thenmaybeIcouldhavetoldherabouttheotherstuff.ButshehatesToronto.Shewouldn’tunderstandwhyI’dwanttostay.I’vesortofbeenlyingtoher,toeveryone.”
“Hasn’titbeenhard,keepingallthistoyourself?”Will’seyesdartedaroundmyfacelikehewaslookingforsomething.
Inodded.“YouthinkI’mpathetic,right?”
“No.”Hisgazelockedonmine,andforasecond,Ithoughthemightsaysomethingelse.Forasecond,Ithoughthemightkissme.Butthenheglancedaroundandannounced,“We’rehere.”
—
“TheAGO?Really?”Iasked,lookingatthebuildingwestoodbeside—theArtGalleryofOntario.IfeltlighterhavingconfessedtoWill.“It’salittle—”
“Don’tsayit,”heinterrupted.“Icanhearwhat’shappeninginsideyourheadrightnow.You’reastransparentasawindow.”
Iraisedmyvoice.“It’salittlebasic,don’tyouthink?”
Hislaughwasbrightandmerryandburstinglikeaballoononapin.Apitch-perfectchordhummedthroughme.
“It’soneofmyfavoriteplacesintheentirecity.Itwasrenovatedafewyearsago.FrankGehrydidthedesign—it’sanarchitecturalmasterpieceinsideandout.”Willmovedhishandsthroughtheairashespoke,motioningtothecurvedglassfacadethatsoaredabovethestreetandstretchedthelengthoftheblock.“Andthenthere’stheart,ofcourse.”
“Ofcourse.”Iclampedmylipstogethertokeepalaughbehindthem.
“Nowwhat?”
“IwasjustthinkingIshouldseeifyoursister’sfree.MaybeIcanstillgetinonhertour.”
“Comeon.There’sanexhibitonthatI’mprettysureyou’lllike.”
“Really?”Mostofmycourseswererequiredformymajor:businesslaw,calculus,gametheory—andItookasmanymusicelectivesaspossible—musicandfilm,globalguitar,ahistoryofmusicincities.Icouldn’timaginewhatartWillwouldthinkI’dlike—Ididn’tknowwhatartIthoughtI’dlike.ButthenIcaughtaglimpseofalargeposterhanginginthewindow.
“PattiSmith?”IlookedatWill,confused.
“There’sashowcaseofherphotographyon.Ithoughtyoumightbeintothat.”
“I’mextremelyintothat.”
WillpaidforourticketsandwewentstraighttoPatti’sshow.Ihadexpectedlarger-than-lifeimagesofgritandgrime.I’dexpectedpunk.Buttheexhibitwassosubdued,austere.Thewallswerewhitewashed,andthephotosweresmallblack-and-whitePolaroidsofinanimateobjects.Astonecherub,WaltWhitman’stomb,apope’sprisonbedroom,aforkandspoon.AhandfulofPatti’spersonalitemsweredisplayedunderglass.
“It’snotveryrockandroll,isit?”IwhisperedtoWilloncewe’dworkedourwaythrough.
“Idunno.Deathisarecurringthemeinherwork,”Willsaid,gesturingtoaphotographofawitheringflower.“What?You’remakingaweirdface.”
“Nothing,”Ihissed.“Deathisarecurringtheme.Goon.”IlikedWill’sartytalk.
“AsIwassaying,there’salotofdeathgoingon.Death’sprettyrockandroll.”
Ileanedclosertohim.“AmIanassholeifIsayIpreferhermusic?”
Willcackled,andthesoundracedupmyspine.AmanwithafannypackstrappedaroundhiswaistandaDSLRcameraslungoverhisneckglaredatus.
“He’snotveryrockandroll,”Willsaidintomyear.
“Disagree,”Isaid,pointingtotheman’sfeet.Hewaswearingcannabis-leaf-patternedsocks.“ButthisisaPattiSmithexhibit.It’ssillythatwecan’tlaughorspeakatanormalvolume.”
“Wecan,”Willsaidinhisregularspeakingvoice,andthemanscowledagain.“Butshouldwemoveon?”
“Sure.You’vebeenhereabunchoftimes,right?Doyouhaveafavoritepiece?”
“Idon’thaveafavoritepiece,”hesaid.“ButIdohaveafavoritepart.”
Willledmetoamassiveglass-and-woodatriumthatspannedtheentirelengthofthebuilding.Onesidewasfloor-to-ceilingwindows,lookingoutontothecity.ItwascalledtheGalleriaItalia,andthereweregiantcurvingbeamsthatmadeitseemlikewewereintheupside-downhullofaship,excepttherewassomuchlight.Massivetreetrunksculpturesgrewthroughoutthehall,andaswemadeourwaythrough,Idecideditwasn’tlikebeinginanupside-downship.
“It’slikebeinginthewoods,”ItoldWill.EventhoughitwasclearlyTorontoontheothersideofthewindows,itremindedmeofhome.Itwasboth—cityandbush.“Thisisyourfavoritepart?”
“Yeah.Ilikehowthespaceissooverwhelming,itmakesyoufeelinsignificantandaliveatthesametime.Itbasicallyforcesyoutotakeadeepbreath.It’sthesamewayIfeelwhenIlookatthemountainsoutWest.”
IthoughtitwastheloveliestthingI’deverheard.“Seriously?”
“Yeah,what?Why?”Herubbedthebackofhisripeningneck.
Ishookmyhead.“Nothing.”
AfterwelefttheGalleria,wefoundourwaytothepermanentcollectionofCanadianart.
“There’syourgirl,”Isaid,pointingtoadisplayofEmilyCarrpaintings.Willlookedatme,impressed.
“Hey,Imaynothavegonetoartschool,butIcanspotanEmilyCarr.”Wemovedtowardoneofasinglemassiveevergreen.“SomeoneoncetoldmeEmilyCarrpaintedashittonoflonelytrees,”Isaid.
“Asnottyartschoolgrad,Ibet.”
IvaguelyrecognizedahandfulofthepiecesintheGroupofSevenarea.Theyweresomeofthemostcelebratedpaintingsofthenation’swilderness,alldonebyatroupeofsevenmen.Itwaswall-to-walllakesandsnowandmountainsandohsomanytrees.Butothersfeltfamiliarbecausetheylookedlikehome.
“IguessEmilywasn’tallowedintheGroup,”Isaid.
“Oh,definitelynot,”Willreplied.“Shewaspaintingatthesametime.LawrenHarriseventoldhershewasoneofthem.”HegesturedtooneofHarris’sicypeaks.“Butshewasn’t,really.Nowomenwere.”
Ifellsilentaswewalkedaround.Therewasacanvasofalakeononeofthelastdaysofwinter—skygray,treesbare,snowmeltingintosmudgesofbrown.Icouldsmellthewetpineneedles,thepromiseofmuddyearth,andspringbudsformingonbranches.Iblinkedupatthelights,mythroattightening.
IcouldfeelWill’seyesswingtome.He’dbeenwatchingmelikethisassoonaswesteppedinsidetheAGO.ItremindedmeofhowI’dbeenwithWhitneyduringhervisit.HewascheckingtoseewhatIthought.
WecametoaTomThomson—astorm-darklakeinthebackground,arockyshoreandsaplingsinthefore.Lookingatitwaslikestandingonthebanksbythefamilydock.Thetreeswerebareinthispainting,too,butitwasn’twinter.Latefallorearlyspring—shoulderseason,whentheresortwasn’tbusy.WhenMomandIwouldheaddowntothewaterinthemorningandshe’ddrinkhercoffeeslowly.Whenshecamehomeearlierintheevening.Whenlifedidn’tseemtorevolveentirelyaroundBrookbanksanditsguests.
Thestingingstartedinmynose.Ilookedupatthelightsagain,butatearescaped,thenanother.
Willstoodbesideme.“Areyouokay?”
Inodded.Ittookmealittlewhiletospeak.“It’sbeautifulupthere,youknow?”
“I’dliketoknow.”
“Imissitsometimes.”Imissedmymom,too.Somuch.TheolderIgot,themoreIseemedtomissher.
“Yousoundsurprised.”
“IguessIam.”Ilookedathimthen,andheturnedfromthepainting.“I’msorry.Sometimespotmakesme…tender.”
“Tender’sokay.”
Itookashakybreath.“I’mnotsureaboutthat.”
“Didyouknow,”Willsaidafteramoment,“thatTomThomsonwasn’tactuallypartoftheGroupofSeven?HediedinAlgonquinParkjustbeforeitwasfounded.Somesayhewasmurdered.Verymysterious.”
Isniffed.“IthinkIdidknowthat,yeah.”
Willleanedcloser.“DidyouknowtreeswerearecurringthemeinThomson’swork?”
Isputteredoutalaugh.
“Ilearnedthatinartschool,”hesaid.
Ilookedupathim,wipingmycheeks.“Oh,I’msorry.Didyousayyouwenttoartschool?”
Hesmiled.“Yeah,IthinkImighthavementionedthatearlier?”
“EmilyCarr,wasit?”
“EmilyCarr,”hesaid.“Comeon,let’sgetoutofhere.IthinkIknowwhatyouneed.”June2,1990
IspentmymorninginthepastrykitchenwithPeter,fillingprofiterolesandtellinghimabouttheimprovementsI’mgoingtomakeifMomandDadletmetakeoverasgeneralmanager.IwasworriedthingswouldbedifferentwhenIcamebackthissummer,thatPeterwouldn’thavetimeformenowthathe’sheadpatissier.IsupposeI’vealwaysworriedthathe’llgetsickofme.Buthe’sthesameoldPeter.Onlythissummerhe’sexperimentingwithsourdoughstarters,andhegetstocontrolwhatmusicgetsplayedinthekitchen.IfIneverhearSonicYouthagaininmylife,I’dbeperfectlyhappy.He’salsogrowingabeard,whichmakeshimlookevenmorehandsome,notthathecaresaboutthattypeofthing.AndnotthatIcareanymore,either.IgotovermycrushonPeteryearsago—he’llneverthinkofmethatway.
Hedoesn’tlikeEric,butPeterneverlikesthelifeguards.Hesaysallthesunmusthavefriedhisbraincells.That’sokay.Peterwouldn’tbePeterifheapprovedoftheguysIdate.Anyway,IknowEric’ssmart—engineeringdegreesarenocakewalk.Andyoushouldseehiminabathingsuit.11
Now
Islidethekayakofftheedgeofthefamilydockintothewater,theneasemyselfintotheboatlikeIdoeverymorningbeforeIheadovertothelodge.It’saflat-waterkayak,noskirtortopcoveringmylegs,andasIheadsouth,Istaredownatmygolden-brownshins.Iwasateenagerthelasttimetheywerethistanned.
It’sgraytodayandthelakeisalmostempty.AsIpassthePringlecottage,IhoistmypaddleintheairtowavetoJamie’smom,who’sonthedeck.There’sasmallexcavatorworkingontheslopeofthenextlot,disturbingthequiet,clearingrockstomakewayforJamie’sdreamhome.Heusedtoimagineitwhenweweredating—thetwoofuslivingtheretogether,workingattheresort.SmokeLakewasalwayshishappyplace.
Thissummer,itseemstobemine,too.Mypost-coffeepaddleshavebecomearitual.SomedaysIinspectareedybitofmarshwhereagreatblueheronhasmadeitsnestinatree.Ialwayslookformoose—they’vebeenspottedherebefore—butIneverseeone.OtherdaysIstayclosetoshore,snoopingonthecottagesandsayinghellotoanyonealreadyawakeonthedock.Theselittlevoyagesgivemeabreakfromeverythingthat’shappeningbackatBrookbanks,abreakfromWill,thoughInevermanagetogethimoutofmyheadcompletely.
It’sbeenaweeksinceweagreedtoteamup,andwe’vealsofallenintoarhythm.Ourdaysaresplitintwo.Inthemornings,I’matthelodgewhileWillworksinhiscabin.Frommidafternoonon,we’retogetheratthehouse.Icantellwhenhe’shadvideoconferences,becauseheshowsupinwhitedressshirts,andthedayswhenhisscheduleislighter,becausehe’satthehouseassoonasheseesmewalkingupthepath.Todayisdifferent.Todaywe’reshowingarealestateagentaroundtheproperty.
IfindWillinthelobby,andforamomentIwatchfromadistance,struckbyhowfamiliarthesightofhimhasbecome.He’sinspectingarowofphotosthatcapturethreegenerationsofBrookbanksaswellasthedecadesbeforeourtime.
There’soneofClarkGableduringafamedstayinthefortiesandaclassicofmygrandparentswhentheyboughttheplace.GrandmaIzzy’sdressistie-dyed,andGrandpaGerryissportingafringedvestandanepicbeard.You’dneverknowhecamefrommoney,thoughhowelsewouldtwotwentysomethingdreamersbuyasprawling,ifsomewhatrun-down,resort?Itwasalwayssomethingofalarkforthem.
Thereareothers,too.Mymotherasaflossy-hairedtoddler,playinginagalvanizedbucketofwaterbytheshore.MomandIinmatchingtartandressesinfrontofagigantictinsel-coveredScotchpineinthelobby.
ThephotoWillislookingatisfromtheend-of-summerdance.I’maboutfiveyearsoldandwearingaruffledwhitedresswithapalebluesatinbowaroundthewaist.IholdMom’shandsandgazeupatherwithanadoringexpression,andshewearsacocktaildressthesameshadeofblueasmybow.We’reinthemiddleofthediningroom’sdancefloor;thephotographerhascapturedusinsomekindofsillywaltz.Iusedtolovedancingwithher,howitmeanthavingherundividedattention.Itwasararething,evenatthatyoungage
“ShouldIbeoffendedthattherealestateagentgetsthesuittreatment?”Isay.Will’salwaysclean-shavenandwelldressed,butajacketandtierarelymakeanappearance.
Helooksdownathisoutfit.“Isittoomuch?Mycoverallswereinthewash.”
WorkingalongsideWillrequiresthatInotthinkaboutthepast.Therehavebeennomorebasicreferences,nodiscussionsofsmall-orbig-fferns.Wedon’ttalkaboutthatday.Ithoughtwehadanunspokenagreementnotto.
HetapsthephotoofMomandme.“Youwereanexceptionallycutekid.”
Idon’thavetimetoreplybecausebellsbegintollingfromhisphone.Ialreadyrecognizetheringtone—whoeveritbelongstohascalledseveraltimeswhenwe’vebeentogether.
“Ihavetotakethis,”Willsays.“Excuseme.”
Hetalkstohisbusinesspartnerinfrontofme—colleagues,too—buthealwaystakesthesecallselsewhere.Ifwe’reonthebackdeck,he’llstepinside.Ifwe’reinthekitchen,he’llgotothefrontporch.Nowheexitsthemaindoorstospeaktowhoever’sontheotherend.
It’snotjustthecalls.Atthirty-two,WillBaxterisaveryprivateperson,andIamanundercoveragent.IcollecteveryscrapofintelIcan,sneakingcovertlookswhilehetypes,andrecordingitallinmymentalspyjournal.AlthoughifthiswereagameofMysteryGuest,Iwouldn’thavemuchtoreport.Notonlydowenotdiscussthatday,butwehardlytalkaboutanythingotherthantheresort.IknowheownsahouseinMidtownclosetohisoffice.Iknowhehasagymmembershipandthathemeetshistraineronhislunchhour.Iknowhisofficehasashower.Afterhetellsmethis,Iimaginehimsweatyandglisteningandthensoapyandglistening,andIgivemyselfasternlecture.
ThentherearethethingsI’velearnedjustfrombeingaroundhim.Hisworkdaybeverageofchoiceissparklingwaterwithtwolemonwedges.Hefiddleswithhisringwhenhe’slostinthought.Hehasaparticulartoneofvoiceforbusinesscallsthat’spleasantandalsovery…firm.WhenIhearit,itmakesmefeelthingsIshouldnot,andIgivemyselfmoretalking-tos.
Noneofitisenough.Willisalockboxwithnokey,andthemoretimeIspendwithhim,themoreIwanttojimmyhimopen.SometimesIseeaglimmeroftheoldWill,buthedisappearsasquicklyashecame.I’mdesperatetohearhislaugh.
Ihavemoreimportantthingstothinkabout,butwhenIlieawakeattwoa.m.,Iworkshopzippyone-linerstosidesplittingperfection.IwonderwhathappenedtomakeWillsoreservedandwhyhegaveuponhisartandwhohe’sspeakingtowhenthebellschimeonhisphone.SometimesIpeekoutthewindowinthemiddleofthenight,andIfindthathislightisalmostalwayson.ButIdon’taskhimwhyhe’snotsleeping,andhedoesn’tmentionit,either.
Willreturnstothelobby,runningahanddownhistie.It’sanothertellI’vepickedupon.He’sstressed.
“Everythingokay?”Iask,noticingthehintofablushunderhiscollar.
Hegrunts.“Fine.”
“Gotit.”Icantakeahint.
ThehardlineofWill’smouthsoftens,andhelookslikehe’sgoingtosaysomethingelse,butIspotawomaninaredskirtsuitstridingthroughthelobby.IrecognizeMiraKhanfromherheadshot,forsalesigns,andprolificInstagramupdates.
ItakeMiraaroundtheresort,Willaccompanyingusmostlyinsilence.There’ssomethingaboutherthatremindsmeofMom.ItmightbethespeedatwhichshewalksorthewayIfeellikeshe’sassessingmefrombehindhersunglasses,ormaybeit’sthatIcan’tstopseeingMomeverywhere.It’sgottenworsesinceIstartedreadingherdiary.Whateveritis,I’manxioustoimpressuponMirahowcapableIam.ItellherabouthowIseealteringthedecorandaddingnewamenities.
“OneofthethingsWillandIhavebeentalkingaboutishowtogeneraterevenuefrompartsofthepropertythataren’tcurrentlymonetized,”Isaywhenwegettothelibrary.
MomreplacedthecolonialfurniturewhenmygrandparentsmovedoutWest,andnowtanleatherarmchairsarearrangedingroupsoftwo,givingonetheimpressionofbeinginaskilodgeratherthanaVictorianstudy.There’sastonefireplaceframedbytallwindowsthatlookoverthelake.Thewallsarelinedwithdarkwoodshelves,thickandraw-edged,thatarefilledwithbooks,someofwhichwereherewhenmygrandparentstookover.OthersMomcollectedovertheyears.Somehavebeenleftbehindbyguests.Once,MomspiedacopyoftheKamaSutratuckedbetweenSummerSistersandTheStoneAngelandwashorrifiedbyhowlongitmayhavebeenthere.Peterthoughtitwashilariousandtoldhertoputthepaperbackonahighshelf.“Givetheguestssomebangfortheirbuck,Maggie.”Momwhackedhimonthechestwiththebook,butIfounditinherbedsidetableafewmonthslater,andreaditcovertocoverwhileshewasworking.
ItellMiraaboutmyideatoaddanespressobarandacommunaltablesopeoplecanworkattheirlaptops.“We’dgetmorepeopleinhereandaddvalue.”
Iwaitforhertorespondwithenthusiasm,butsheonlygivesmeapolitesmile.
Ikeepmythoughtstomyselffortherestofthewalk-through.
Areyouokay?WillmouthstomeasweescortMiratoherMercedes.
Inod,butIfeeldeflated.
“It’sabeautifulproperty,Fern,”Mirasays.“Totallyadorable.I’llhavetodofurtherresearchtocomeupwithasuggestedlistprice.We’relookingatsevenfigures,atleast,foranoperationofthissizewithsuchasubstantialamountofwaterfrontfootage.”Shegivesusaballparkestimate,andImanagenottogasp.
IglanceatWill,buthedoesn’tlookfazed.
“I’llsendyouanemailinafewdayswithwhatI’mthinking.Obviouslybig-ticketresortsandhotelslikethishavealimitednumberofprospectivebuyers—therearetheluxurychainsandmaybeahandfulofindependents.Developersareastrongpossibility,too.”
“Developers?”Irepeat.
“Yes,”Mirasays.“You’realittlefarfromtown,butthecabinsandlodgecouldberazedforacondominiumdevelopment.Townhouses,low-riseapartments,thatsortofthing,ifzoningisn’tanissue.Itcouldbequiteadorable.”
“No.”Idon’teventhinkbeforeIsayit.Sellingtheresortisonething.Flatteningitisanother.“Nodevelopers.”
Mirafrowns,pursesherlips,andnods.“Understood.”SheliftsherchintoaddressWill,whichisannoying—Iintroducedhimasmyconsultant,butI’mthepotentialclient.“I’msureIdon’thavetotellyouhowimportantitistokeepthepriceasreasonableaspossiblesowecanremaincompetitive.”
“Ofcourse,”Willsays.
Miramakesadubiousmmmkaysound.“Well,let’smakesureeveryoneisawareofthat,yes?”
It’sclearthatI’mtheeveryoneandthatI’mmissingsomething.
Assoonashercarpullsoutofthelot,Willsays,“I’llfillyouinwhenwe’resomewhereprivate.”
Iopenmymouthtoprotest,butWillcutsmeoff.“Trustme,thisisn’taconversationyouwantanyonelisteninginon.”
Tounderscorehispoint,awomanintenniswhitesinterruptsus,askingwherethecourtsare.
“House?”IaskWillonceI’vepointedherintherightdirection.
“Actually,”hesays,“Ihaveabetteridea.”
—
Iwalkdownthehilltothewater.WillhadafewcallstomakeafterourappointmentwithMira,butnowhereheis,standingnexttotheoutfittinghutinswimtrunksandT-shirt,apaddleineachhand.MystomachdipsassoonasIseehim,whichisfunnybecauseit’sbeenatmyankleseversinceheaskedmetomeethimatthedocks.Hedidn’tgiveareason,butIchangedintoabathingsuitandshorts.Ihadafeeling.
“Iwaswonderingiftheofferstillstands,”WillsaysasIwalktowardhim.There’salreadyacanoeinthewater.
Idon’tknowwhethertolaughorpushhiminthelake.Firstthecoverallscommentandnowthis.
“Whatdoyouthink?”hesays.
“Ithinkyou’renineyearslateforyourlesson.”
“Iknow,”hesays,wincing.“I’msorry.”Henodshisheadatthecanoe.“Iwashopingyou’dteachmeanyway.Yousaidyou’dmakesureIdon’tembarrassmyself.”
“Yourememberthat?”
Will’seyessearchmyface.Outhere,theespressobrownismorelikeaglassofCokehelduptothelight.“Iremembereverything.”Hesaysitslowly,holdingmygaze,andmystomachdivesintothewater.
Itaketheshortpaddle,willingmyhandstoremainsteady.“Fine.”Isquaremyshoulders.“Getintheboat.”
It’sovercast,andforaJulyafternoon,there’shardlyanyoneoutonthewater.Ilikegloomydaysforthisveryreason.Wepaddleforawhile,nottalking,justglidingacrossthewater,pastthecottagesthatdotthebanks—classiclogcabinswithred-paintedwindowframes,ostentatioussummerhomeswithoversizedboathouses.Willsitsinthefront,andIwatchthemusclesmoveacrosshisback.Iloseminutesstaringattheevergreentattooedonhisarm.
It’ssurreal,beingoutherewithhim,amomentIthoughtaboutforanentireyearafterwemet.WhileIwalkedtowork,asIfixedlattes,beforeIwenttobed,I’dimaginegivingWillBaxtertheworld’sgreatesttourofSmokeLake.
“So,”Willsays,glancingoverhisshoulder,“howdoIlook?”HeflashesmeanOldWillsmile,andsuddenlyI’mconfusedaboutwhat’shappening.He’sdifferenttoday.
“Tootallforacanoe,”Itellhim.
Ipointoutasandyribbonofcrownlandandwepulltheboatupontheshore.Wesitonthesmallstripofbeach,ourtoesinthewater,justlikeIthoughtwewouldnineyearsago.
“Wehaven’tgoneintodetailaboutwhatasalemightinvolveyet,andatthispointit’sallspeculative,”Willsays,pullingmebacktothepresent.“Butessentially,there’salimitedpoolofbuyersforanoperationthislarge.Andwhilethebusinessisn’tasstrongaswe’dlike,thepriceforthepropertyandbuildingsalonewillbehefty.”
“MirasaidI’dneedtokeepitcompetitive.”
“Right.Todothat,alotofbusinessesinsimilarsituationswouldmakesurethey’rerunningthingsasleanaspossible.”Hepauses.“Itusuallyinvolvesdoinganauditoftheentirestaffand…layingpeopleoff.”
Mystomachroils.“Howmany?”Iwhisperafteraminute.
“I’mnotsure,”Willsays.“Itcouldbeafewroleshereandthere,orwemightwanttolookatamoresubstantialcut.Icanfigurethatoutwithmoretime.”
Willstudiesmyface.“We’llgetanotheragent’sopinion,buthere’sthething:Ifyoudecidetosell,youcandoitwithoutswitchingsomuchasalightbulb,butnobuyerisgoingtocomeinwithoutmakingchanges,significantones,likelyincludingcuts.Chainswilldothingstheirownway.They’llstandardizeeverything,bringintheirownpeopletofillsomeoftheseniorroles.”
IthinkofJamieandhowchuffedheiswithourlocallymadeshampoosandsoaps,andthecommentPetermaderecentlyabouthowfewhotelsemployon-sitebakersanymore.Everythingcomesinpremadeandfrozen.
“Idon’twanttoalarmyou,butIdon’twanttosugarcoatit,either,”Willsays.
Istareoutoverthewater,tryingtoquellmynausea.
Momisgoingtobeheartbroken.Thethoughtcomesandgoesinonebrief,painfulsecond,andIhavetoshutmyeyes.
“Fern?”
“Istartedreadingmymom’sdiary,theonefromthesummerbeforeIwasborn.”Myvoicewavers,andIpause.Idon’tknowwhyI’mtellinghimthis.Will’sarmcomesaroundmyshoulder.It’snothingmorethanacomfortingembrace,butbeingtouchedbyhimissucharelief,likeopeningapressurevalveinmyheart.Hesmellssogood,andittakeseveryparticleofrestraintIpossessnottorestmyheadonhisshoulderandcurlintohim.
“Shealwaysknew,”IsaywhenIcanspeaksteadily.“Shealwaysknewshewantedtoruntheresort.Sellingwouldhavekilledher.”
“CanImakeanobservation?”Willasksafteraminute.
“Sure.”ItwistsoIcanlookathim.Hisarmfallsandhishandcomestorestonthesandbetweenus.
“Youlightupwhenyoutalkabouttheresortandthepossibilitiesforthefuture.You’repassionateaboutthisplaceandyourideasaresolid.And,Ihopeyoudon’tmind,butIsatinononeofyourstaffmeetings.”
“Youwhat?”
AfterJamietoldmethatmypresencewas“freakingpeopleout,”Iheldtwomeetingstointroducemyselfproperly,applaudeveryoneforholdingthingstogetherfollowingMom’sdeath,andtakequestions—manyofwhichIcouldn’tanswer,includingwhetherornotIwassellingthebusiness.Iwantedtopuketheentiretime.Momlovedbeingthecenterofattention,butI’mstilluncomfortablewheneyesareonme.I’mterrifiedpeoplewillbeabletotellthatI’mmakinghalfofitupasIgoalong.
“Iwantedtoseeyouinaction.”Heleanstowardme.“Youwereawesome.Confident,astransparentaspossible,strongbutempathetic.It’shardtogetinfrontofalargegroupandtellthemyoudon’thavealltheanswers—alotofleaderswon’tdothat.”
I’msurprisedbyhispraise.Iwassureeveryonecouldseemyhandstremble,hearthewobbleinmyvoice.Icouldsensetheirskepticism.Theexecutivechefgloweredatmethewholetime,armsfoldedinfrontofhischest.“Idon’tthinkIwonthemover.”
“Wouldyouhavebeenwonoverifyouwereintheirposition?Yougrewupattheresort,buttomostofthem,you’veswoopedinfromnowhere.”
“Ijustdidn’teverpicturemyselfhere,”Imurmur.Eventomyownears,theargumentisstartingtosoundthin,afavoriteshirtworntillit’sthreadbare—comfortablebutprobablyreadyforthetrash.“I’mactuallystartingtoenjoybeingback.Partsofitfeelright.”It’sscarytoadmitit,butit’strue.Outsideofstaffmeetings,Imostlylikethework.IlovebeingnearWhitney.Ihardlymissthecity.“Shocking,right?”
GiveneverythingWillknowsaboutme,Iexpecthimtoagree.“Iwouldn’tsaythat.Sometimesplanschange.”
Thestatementfeelsloaded.Wewatchaboatputterby,amancastingafishinglineofftheend.Afteramoment,Willadds,“We’renotthesamepeoplewewereattwenty-two.It’sokaytowantdifferentthings.”
Ilookdownatourfingers,inchesawayfromeachotherinthesand,worriedthatIwantsomeofthesamethingsIdidthen.
“Sotellmeaboutthismanhiatusofyours,”Willsays,andmygazeflicksuptohis.ApparentlymythoughtsarebeingbroadcastonafrequencyonlyWillcanhear.
“There’snotmuchtotell,”Isaywithcaution.Lovelivesarefirmlyinthecategoryofthingswedon’ttalkabout.“Badbreakup,vowofcelibacy,etcetera.”
“Vowofcelibacy,huh?How’sthatgoing?”
“Ilastedfivemonths.”Idon’tgetthelaughIcrave.Instead,Willgoesstill.
“Soyouareseeingsomeone.Jamie?”
Idigmytoesintothesandandpressmychintomyknees.“HeandIbrokeupalong,longtimeago.”
“He’sstillinlovewithyou.”
MyeyessnaptoWill’s.“No,he’snot.”
“Trustme.I’veseenthewayhelooksatyou.”
“Trustme.You’rewrong.Jamielovestheresort,”Isay,tryingtoconvincemyselfasmuchasWill.“Anyway,thehiatushasmoretodowithtakingapausefromrelationships.”
“Ah,”hesays.“Howmuchofapausehaveyoutaken?”
“Abouttwoyears.”
“Twoyears,”herepeats.“Wasitserious—therelationshipbeforethehiatus?”
Ichewonmycheek.Ihavetothinkaboutthis.PhilippeandIexchangedIloveyous.Meteachother’sfamilies.Ithoughtofhispugasmyown—IstilltakecareofMochawhenPhilippe’soutoftown.ButIneverpicturedusasacoupleforever.
“Weweretogetherforayearandahalfandworkedtogetherforalongtimebeforethat.”
“Sowhythebreakup?”
Iletoutabreath.
Ididn’tusetothinkIhadatype,thoughWhitneymaintainsthatIhavetwo:Thepersonwhoisperfectlyfine,butnotevenclosetoperfectforme(almosteveryoneI’vedated).Anddickheads(Philippe).
I’veneverbeenreadyforthesharingofkeysandconsolidatingoffurniture,butitwasn’tuntilPhilippethatIstartedthinkingWhitneymightberight,thatmaybeapartofmewaspickingthewrongpeopleonpurpose.Iguessthere’snothinglikeseeingyourboyfriendwithhispantsaroundhisanklesbehindanotherwomantomakeyouquestionyourchoices.
“Sorry,”Willsays.“Ididn’tmeantopry.”
“No?”Iaskwithalittlelaugh.It’ssostrange,talkinglikethistohimagain,butIfindmyselfwantingtoshare.ItwasalwayslikethatwithWill.“It’sokay.Iguessit’sabitembarrassing.Hecheated.Ifoundthemtogether.Webrokeup.”
“Whywouldthatbeembarrassing?”Willasks,hisvoicecoldenoughthatIpeeroverathim.He’sstaringoutatthelake,jawtight.
Ishrug.Idon’twanttotellhimwhataknocktomypridePhilippe’sinfidelitywas.Ireachforasubjectchange.“Sowhat’syourstory?”
Will’sforeheadwrinkles.
“Thisisn’texactlyhowyouimaginedyourself.”IthinkofwhatIwroteonhisplan.
“No,it’snot,”heagrees.Isuspectthiswillbeallhesaysonthesubject,butheadds,“It’snotashortstory.”
“I’vegottime.”
Heleansforward,twistinghisring.
“Youdothatalot,”Isay.
Willassessesmefromthecornerofhiseye.
“Whogaveittoyou?”
“Mygrandmother,”hesaysafteramoment.“Itwasmygrandfather’s.”
“Youwereclose.”
“Withmygrandmother,yeah.Youremember?”Ahintofasmilegraceshislips,andIwanttohookmythumbsonthecornersofhismouthandpulltheedgesuphigher.
“Ofcourse,”Isayquietly.“Iremembereverything.”
Hehumsandlooksatthewater.“MygrandfatherdiedwhenIwasfour.Idon’tremembermuchabouthim,butmygrandmotherwasaroundalot.Shewasatoughlady.Dottie.Youwouldhavelikedher,Ithink.”
Ifindthisoddlypleasing.“Ohyeah?”
“Yeah.Shewasarealstraightshooter.Veryindependent.MysisterandIusedtosleepoveratherhousealmosteveryweekendwhenwewerelittle.Wehadourownbedroomsthere.Shetaughtmehowtouseascrewdriverandchangetheoilinacar.Whenmymotherleft,shegavemethisringandalongtalkaboutresponsibilityandlookingoutformysister.”Helooksovertome.Inod.Irememberthatpart,too.Ithinkabouttracingmyfingeroverthescaronhischin,butIstaystill.
“Shewasfunny,buthersenseofhumorwasbone-dry.Icouldnevertellifshewasbeingseriousornot.WhenIgotolder,Irealizedshewasalmostalwaysjoking.Shediedaboutayearago.”
“I’msorry.”
“Shewasninety-three.Shehadagoodrun.”
“Itstillsucks—goodrunornot.”
“Itdidsuck.Itsuckedalot.”
Alightrainbeginstofall.It’sonlyamistydrizzle,butwefoldourselvesintothecanoeandpaddlebackatabriskclip,whichisjustaswellbecausethedropscomedownwithmorevigorasweapproachtheresort.
Welifttheboatoutofthewaterandcarryittoitsrack.Bythetimewebringthepaddlesandlifejacketstothestorageshed,we’rebothsoaked.Ifinishhangingthejackets,andwhenIturnaround,Williswatchingmeafewstepsaway.
Rainfallsoutsidethedoorbehindhim,drummingonthemetalroof.Hisshirtissopping,huggingtheridgesofhischest.Westareateachotherforthreelongbreathsandthenhetakesastepforward,hiseyesdroppingtomymouth.
“Don’t,”Itellhim.
“Don’twhat?”heasks,voicerough.
Isuckinabreath.“Don’tlookatmelikethat.”Idon’tknowhowtohandlethisWill,theonewhoisstudyingmyfacelikeatreasuremap.
“Likewhat?”
“Likeyougiveashitaboutme,”Isay,pressingmynailsintomypalms.
Hetakesanotherstep.“WhatifIdogiveashit?”
“Well,you’renotallowedto.”Itakeastepback.
“Whynot?”
I’vebeenpushingdownthehurtallafternoon,butitpopstothesurfacelikeabuoy.“Becauseyouleftmewaitingforyouonthatdocknineyearsago.”
“Ididn’twantto,”hesaysquietly.
“Thenwhydidyou?YouknewIwouldbehere.YouknewhowIfeltaboutyou.”Myvoicesoundsstrangled.
Heswallows.“Yeah,Iknew.”
Icanfeelmybottomlipquake,andIbitedownonit.Hard.Ihavetoleave.ImovepastWill,buthecatchesmyarmandturnsmearound.Heducksdown,hiseyesmovingbetweenmine.
“IwasworriedthatIwasdifferentfromhowyouremembered,andthatyou’dbedisappointed.”
“Butyoudiddisappointme,”Iwhisper.“Youmademethinkitwasallinmyhead.”
“Itwasn’t,”hesays.“Believeme,itwasn’tyourheadthatwastheproblem.”Iwanttoaskwhathemeans,buthecatchesatearonmycheekandtucksmyhairbehindmyearsbeforepullingmetowardhim.
Iwrapmyfistinthehemofhisshirt,tugginghimcloser.IwanttorunmyfingersoverhisshouldersandpressmytonguetohisscaranddoallthethingsIwantedtodowhenIdidn’thateWillBaxter.
Heleansdownandholdsmyfacebetweenhishands.Hisnosebrushesmine.Islipmyhandsunderhisdampshirt,flatteningthemagainsthisstomach,andhecloseshiseyes.Hisskinishot,hisfleshhard.Ipressagainsthim.
Willtracesapathdownthebridgeofmynosetoitstipwithhisfinger.“Perfect.”
Ashebringshislipstomine,hewhispersmyname,anditsnapsmeoutofwhateverhazeofnostalgiaIgotlostin.
“I’msorry,”Isay,steppingback.“Ishouldn’thavedonethat.Wecan’tdothat.”
“Okay.”He’sbreathingasheavilyasIam.
“I’minovermyhead,”Isay,myvoicehitching.“Ineedyourhelp.Ineedustobeokay,tobeabletoworktogether.”
Hestaresatme.“Iwouldneverdoanythingtojeopardizeyourbusiness,nomatterwhathappenedbetweenus,”hesays.“Iwantyoutoknowthat.Youcantrustme.”
Ishakemyhead.TrustingWillwouldbeliketrustingamirage.“Ican’t.Idon’tknowwhoyouare.Andyoudon’tknowme.”ThenIwalkoutoftheshedandintotherain.
—
Theknockcomeswellaftertwoa.m.It’sasoftthud.NotPeter’stap,tap,tap,orthefranticrappingofaguestwho’sspottedapairofyelloweyesinthebush.
I’malreadyawake.Igaveupsleepingafewminutesago.
NooneisatthedoorwhenIgetdownstairs,butthere’sathin,squareparcelonthewelcomemat.It’swrappedinbrightstripedpaperandthere’sanenvelopeontopwithmynameonit.IrecognizeWill’spenmanshipimmediately.Ithasn’tchanged.
Itakethegifttothekitchentableandopenthecard.Inside,there’sasketchofawomanholdingapaddleintheairlikeasword,andashortnote.
Youdoknowme.AndIknowyou,too.
Iripoffthepaperandstareatthealbumcover,smilingintothedark.12
June14,TenYearsAgo
WilltookmetoSonicBoom.Itwasoneofthebiggestrecordstoresinthecity,andI’dbeentheremanytimes,butIwasn’tgoingtotellhimthat.Hewasright—itwasexactlywhatIneededaftermyminormeltdownatthegallery.I’dbeenhomesickbefore,butthepaintingsstirredadeeperkindoflonging.
Ifeltbetterflippingthroughthevinyl,showingWillwhichalbumsI’dgetifIcouldaffordthem.NotthatIownedarecordplayer—therewasnoroominmyapartment.
“Ifyoucouldbuyonetoday,whichwouldyouchoose?”heasked.
“Onlyone?”
Henodded.
Istaredattherafters,thinking,thenledhimtoanothersectiontodigformyprize.IpluckedoutanLPofPattiSmith’sHorses,displayingittohimbetweenbothmyhands.“Incommemoration.”
“I’vegotanidea,”Willsaid.
Buthedidn’telaborate.
WespentwhatwasleftoftheafternoonstrollingaroundKensingtonMarket,asmallneighborhoodofvintagestores,trinketshops,andfoodvendorsthatremainedsteadfastlyramshackledespitetheinfluxofspecialtybutchersandboutiques.Wepannedforgoldineveryknickknackstore.Iwentstraightforthesunglassesrack,lookingforcheapframestosuitmynewhaircut,whileWilldidhisownhunting,thoughhewouldn’tsaywhathewassearchingfor.
“Whataboutthese?”Icalledovertohimatourlaststop.Hewaseyeingsomethingneartheregister.TheglassesIworewereoversizedwithplasticarmsandyellow-brownlenses.Theywerealso$7.99.
“Youlooklikeafilmstarfromthesixties.”
Icheckedmyselfoutinthemirroragain.“Sold.”
Bythetimeeveningfell,theairhadturnedhumid,andtheskywascoveredinathickbedofgrayclouds.Weneededdrinks,weagreed.
“Thisisanexcellentginandtonic,”Isaidafterwe’dsatdownatatinymetaltableonthetinyfrontpatioofatinybar.Itwaswhatmymomalwaysdrankonthefirstwarmdayoftheyear.
“Ididn’trealizethereweredegreesofexcellenceinaginandtonic.”
“Oh,thereare.I’vehadsometrulyheinousGandT’sinthiscity.Flattonic.Dried-uplimes.Crappygin.”
Willlaughed.“I’mveryexcitedwe’vearrivedattheportionoftheeveningwhereyourpreppysidehasdecidedtomakeanappearance.”
“Tasteit.It’ssogood.”Ipushedtheglassacrossthetable.
Hetookasip.Andthenanother,longerone.“That’srefreshing,”hesaid.“Butit’sstrange.”
“Whatis?”
“Forsomereason,Ihaveaverystrongurgetoplaysquashandlearnhowtosail.”
“Ha.Ha.”
Hesmiled.“Butitisgood.Waybetterthanmybeer,actually.”Willhadorderedsomekindofcraftale.“I’llberightback.”
Iwatchedhimheadintothebar,thentookoutmyphone.TherewasatextfromWhitney.
Thanksforhavingme!CamandIwanttotakeyouandJamieouttocelebrateassoonasyou’reback.COUNTDOWNISON!!!
TherewasalsoonefromJamie,sayinghewasthrowingabonfireatthestaffcabinslaterthatnight.
Don’toverdoit,Itextedback.Hewoulddefinitelyoverdoit.
Therewouldbetoomuchbeerandtoomanyjoints.No-namechipsandhotdogscookedonsticksoverthecoals—morelosttothefirethantohungrymouths.Someonewouldinevitablybringoutanacousticguitar,whichwasusuallymycuetoleave,butI’dhangaroundifJamieplayed.Hehadathree-songrepertoire(strictlyNeilYoung),andifhewasn’thammingitup,hehadabeautifulvoice.ThenightIfirstkissedhim,infrontofadozenotherstaffersbythecampfire,he’dsung“HeartofGold.”Whenhewrappedhisfingersaroundmine,theywerestickywithmarshmallow.Still,Iheldontightlyfortherestofthenight.
Willreturnedwithtwoginandtonicsandorigami’dhimselfintohischair.“SinceIdrankhalfofyours,”hesaid.
“Muchappreciated.”Ireachedforthetumbler,myfootbumpinghisunderthetable.“Sorry.Ihavemassivefeet.”
Will’seyebrowsrose.“Really?”
“Yeah,I’maveryshortpersonwithdisproportionatelylargefeet.”
“That’snotathing.”
“Itisso.”IkickeduponeofmysizenineConversehigh-tops.“See.”
“Idon’tknow.Theyseemokay.”Hetiltedhishead.“MaybestandupsoIcanseeeverythingalltogether.”
Ijumpedoutofmyseat,handsonmyhips.
Heeyedmeupanddownandthenstartedlaughing.“Actually,you’reright.They’regigantic.It’sawonderyoudon’ttripoverthemmore.”
“Thankyou,”Isaid.“I’msureyouhaveverynormal-sizedfeet.”Iglanceddownathisboots,whichweregargantuan.WhenIlookedbackup,Willwassmirking.
Islunkintomychair,red-faced.
“Youweresaying?”Willsaid.
Ithrewmylimeathischest.“Don’tbecocky.”
MyeyespoppedatthesametimeWill’sdid,thenwebothexplodedwithlaughter.I’djustcaughtmybreathwhenWillgavemyfootakickunderthetable,andwecrackedupalloveragain.
Theskywasdarkeningbythetimewefinishedoursecondround.Iranmyfingeraroundtherimofmyglass.Ididn’twanttosaygoodbye,butIcouldalmostseethecreditsrollingonourday.
“Ihadfun.”Ididn’tknowwhatelsetosay.
“SodidI,”Willsaid.“Whichremindsme.”Hedugaroundinhisjeanspocketandsettwominiatureplasticbaggiesdownonthetable.Insideeachwasashinyredstreetcarpin.“Oneforyouandoneforme,”hesaid.“Incommemoration.”
IfastenedminetothecornerofmytotebagasWillfixedhistohisbackpack.Imethiseyeswhenhewasfinished.“Iloveit.Thankyou.”
Aswetookourfinalsips,Ihadthesudden,terrifyingnotionthatWillwasquitepossiblythebestpersonI’devermet.Hewasmorethanmettheeye—morethanabeautifulface.
Peteroncemadeaflourlesschocolatetorte.Itlookedperfect—darkandglossy,itssurfacesprinkledwithcrystallizedsugar.ButwhenI’dtakenabite,Irealizeditwasn’tsugarontop,itwasflakedsalt,andPeterhadaddedchilitothecocoa.ItwasthemostincrediblethingI’devertasted,asdecadentasitwasunexpected.Willwaslikethat.
“Afriendofminehasashowtonight,”hesaid.Ilookedupathimfrommydrink.“AtSneakyDee’s,”hecontinued.“I’veneverorderedaginandtonicthere—I’msurethey’reshit.Butwouldyouwanttocome?”
“I’vebeentoSneakyDee’sbefore,”Isaidslowly.ItwasaTorontoinstitution—bardownstairs,smallconcertvenueupstairs,graffitionallavailablesurfaces,themostfamousnachosinthecity.
Willplayedwithhisring.“Idon’tthinkthere’sanundergradinthisentirecitywhohasn’t.”
“Thiswouldn’tbepartoftheofficialWillBaxtertour?”Isatperfectlystill,butbloodbubbledunderthesurfaceofmyskin.
“Tour’sover.I’moffduty.Iwouldn’tdrinkonthejob.”
“Ofcoursenot.Ididn’tmeantoinsultyourprofessionalism.”
“They’reonatnine.Wecouldgrababitetherefirst?”
Irestedmychininmyhand,observinghimlongerthanIshouldhave.“You’rereallyleavingtomorrow,huh?”
“Yeah.Ireallyam.”
“Andthenyou’renevercomingback?”
Hetippedhisheadtotheside,notsurewhereIwasgoingwiththis.“I’llcomeback,butmaybenotuntiltheholidays.”AndI’dbelonggone.
“Sowhatyou’resayingisthatthisisaonce-in-a-lifetimeopportunity?”
Will’slipscurved.“Precisely,”hesaid.“Takeitorleaveit.”
—
“Ifeelkindofgross,”Isaidwhenwe’dalmostreachedthebar.We’dbeenspelunkingourwaythroughthecityallday,andIwascoveredinadistinctlayerofurbangrime.Ineededashower.“Myplaceisnearby.IwasthinkingI’dgowashup,getchanged,andmeetyouthereinalittlebit?”Icouldmakeittomyapartmentandbackbeforetheband’sset.
“What?Comeon.Ithoughtweweregoingtohavenachosfirst.Plus,onceyougethome,there’snowayyou’regoingtowanttocomeoutagain.”
“Ismelllikeoldbongwater.”
Willleaneddown,bringinghisfaceaninchfrommyneck,andinhaleddeeply.“Yousmelllikesunshine,”hesaidintomyear.
Myheadsnappedtowardhisasifithadbeenyankedbyastring,andournosesalmostbashedtogether.
“Sorry,thatgotweird,”hesaid,pullingbackwithanervouslaugh.
“Yeah.”Iclearedmythroat.“Anyway,I’mnotexactlydressedforgoingout.”IwasclosetosuggestingthatWillcomewithme,buttheideaofshoweringwithhiminthenextroomseemedlikeanexceptionallybadone.
“Youlookgreat,”hesaid.“Youdon’tneedtochange.It’sSneakyDee’s—noonewillbedressedup.”
“You’rejustworriedI’mgoingtoditchyou,andyou’llbestucklisteningtosomeweirdNirvanacoverbandallbyyourself.”Willhadneglectedtomentionitwasaskacoverbanduntilaboutablockago.
“Petrified,”Willsaid.“Don’tmakemegoalone.”
IcouldseetheiconicskullsontheSneakyDee’ssignahead.“Fine.Butyouoweme.”
Oncewe’darrived,WillscoredoneofthewoodenboothswhileImadeaquickgetawaytothebasementbathroom.Iransackedmytote,hopingatubeofmascaraoracombhadmagicallyappearedinsideit,butallIcameupwithwasgumandatinofSmith’sRosebudSalve.Iwasn’tthekindofgirltocarryaroundakitofmakeoversupplies.Ihadn’tevenbotheredwithmakeupinthemorning.Iscrubbedatmyarmpitswithasoapysquareofwetpapertowel,splashedwateronmyface,andsmoothedathick,shinycoatofglossonmylips.Iwouldhavekissedthefloorforastickofdeodorant.
TherewasaguysittingnexttoWillwhenIgotbackupstairs.EvenfromacrosstheroomIcouldseehewasmeticulouslytended.Hehadoliveskinandadarkbeardthatwastrimmedlikeatopiary,tidyandperfectlyedged.
“Fern,thisisEli,”Willsaid.
“Apleasuretomeetyou.”Elistood,takingmyhandbetweenbothofhis.Heworeredjeans,ablackskinnytie,andawhitebutton-downIwascertainhadseenanironearlierintheevening.Ibettherestofhimhadseenagymbeforethat.
“Same,”Isaid,takingaseatonthesideoftheboothoppositethem.“Howdoyoutwoknoweachother?”
“Wewenttogradeschooltogether,thenhighschool,”Elisaid.“Butit’sbeenawhile.Can’tbelieveIfinallygotthisguyouttoashow.”
IthrewWillalook,whichhedeclinedtocatch.Iassumedhe’dseenthebandperformbeforeandthatweweren’tinforanightofterribleskaNirvanacovers.
“Wewereinthearea,andFernisabitofamusicnerd,sowethoughtwe’dcheckitout,”Willsaid.
“That’scool.Ithinkweputonaprettydecentshow,”saidEli.Heflaggeddownaserversowecouldputinourorders,thenturnedtome.“DoyouliveinToronto,Fern,orareyouinfromVancouver,too?”
“Oh,no.I’mfromhere.Myplaceisacouplestreetsover.”
HetippedhisheadatWill.“How’sthelong-distancethingworkingout?IliveinLibertyVillage,ifyou’refindingittoomuchofadrag.”Hewinked.
“Oh,no,”Isaid,pointingbetweenWillandme.“We’renotathing.Atall.”
Willlaughed.“ShouldIbeoffendedbyhowrepulsedyousoundrightnow?”
“Idefinitelywouldbe,”Elisaid.“Shelookslikeshe’seatenbadshellfish.”
Ourserverdroppedoffapitcherofbeerandthreeglasses,andIpoured,thentookabiggulpofmine.
AsEliandWillchatted,ithitmethatwewereinunchartedterritory.MydaywithWillhadbeenspontaneousandunusual,butwe’dunwittinglygivenourselvesaroadmap,arulebook,andanendpoint.Now,notonlyhadwegoneoffcourse,butwe’dopenedouroddpartnershipuptospectators.
Someonekickedmeunderthetable,andIlookedupfrommybeer.
Areyouokay?WillmouthedasElirefilledourdrinks
Inodded.
Ourserverplacedaplatteronthecenterofthetable.Itwasheapedwithadisgusting,magnificentmoundofnachos.Therehadtobetwopoundsoftoppingsasidefromcheeseandsalsa—groundbeef,refriedbeans,veggies,guacamole,sourcream.Wemoanedinapproval.
“Sowhatwasthisonelikeasakid?”IaskedEliasIdislodgedachip.
“WildBill?Hewasprettymuchthesame,”Elisaid.
WildBill?ImouthedtoWill,andherolledhiseyes.IthoughtIcouldseehisneckpinking.
“Skinny.Drawingallthetime.Hewasabitemo.”
Iraisedmyeyebrows.“Really?”
EliglancedatWill,whogavehimthetiniestshakeofthehead.Eliturnedbacktome,ignoringmyquestion.“Andhehadzeroathleticcapabilities.”
“Ididthesports,”Willsaid.“Ialwayskickedaballaroundduringrecess.”
“Andthatsportiscalled?”Eligavemeanotherwink.
Willscratchedhisforehead.“Badminton?”
“Badminton,”Elisaid.“Yes.Aclassicschoolyardgame.”
Whenwehadalmostdecimatedthenachos,Elitookatwentyoutofhiswallet.“Ishouldprobablyheadupsoon.Ourdrummergetsgrumpyifwe’renotallpresentandaccountedforatleastfifteenminutesbeforeourset.”
“Whatareyouguyscalled?”Iasked.
Will’seyeswidenedacrossthetable.Underneath,hebumpedmyfoot.
“TheMightyMightyKurtTones,”Elisaid,straight-faced.
Ishovedasoggychipintomymouth.IneededasubjectchangeorelseIwasgoingtolaughoutloud.“Youguyswanttoknowhowtomakethesenachosevenbetter?”
“Yeah,”theyrepliedinunison.
Iexplainedmytheory,whichinvolveddivvyingupthetoppingsandcookingthenachosinlayerssothechipsstayedcrisper.WillandElistaredatmeblankly.
“Youdisagree?”Ishovedaflaccidchipintomygob.Itwasstillexcellent.
Elispokefirst.“Fern?”Heputonehandtohischest.“Iknowwe’vejustmet,butIbelieveyou’remysoulmate.Willyoumarryme?”
Ilaughed.
“Adate,then.”
Ishookmyhead.
“Hearmeout.Weliveonthesamesideofthecity.You’reincrediblyhot,andI’mmoderatelygiftedinbed.”HepointedatWill.“Ihaveagoodjob,myownplace,andI’masicksaxplayer.Wehaveonemutualfriend,whowillvouchforme.There’sreallynoreasonnotto.”
“It’snotyou,honestly,”Isaid.IlookedatWillforbackup,buthewasstaringatEli.
“What’sitgoingtotake?I’llmakeareservationsomewherenice.”
Ishookmyheadagain.Myhandshadstartedsweating.Iknewwherethiswasgoing.
“Fern,you’rekillingme.Howaboutacoffee?”
Iswallowed.“I’msorry,”Isaidquietly.“Ihaveaboyfriend.”
Assoonasthewordshadleftmymouth,Will’sheadtwistedtowardme.
“Thatsoundslikealine,”Elisaid,thenturnedtoWill.“Isshereallyoffthemarket?”
Will’seyeslockedonmine,andmystomachpinched.
“Ireallyam,”Isaid,stilllookingatWill.“HisnameisJamie,andwe’vebeentogetherforfouryears.”June14,1990
Peter’shelpingmewithmygardeningproject.DadsaidIcouldplantfernsandbegoniasalongthepathtothecabinsifItookcareofthem.WetookagolfcartouttodaysoIcouldshowPeterwhereIwanteverythingtogo.ItoldhimEricandIagreedtobeexclusive,andhealmostdroveusintoatree.HesaysEricisconceited,shallow,andhasnothinginterestingtosay.Hesayshe’snotgoodenoughforme.ButconsideringPeterhassaidsomethingsimilarabouteveryoneofmyboyfriendssinceIwasseventeen,it’snotexactlyasurprise.Iusedtothinkitwasbecausehe’sfiveyearsolderandseesmeasalittlesister.Thesedays,I’mnotsure.
Earlierthisyear,whenPeterstayedtheweekendwithmeinOttawa,therewasthismoment.Itwasthenightofmytwenty-secondbirthday,andaftereveryoneleft,hestartedpickingupemptyplasticcupsandtoldmetogotobedwhilehefinishedcleaning.Igavehimahug,andwhenIpulledback,hekepthisarmsaroundme.Iswearhewasgoingtokissme.IfI’mbeinghonest,Iwasdisappointedhedidn’t.IthoughtImusthavebeenimaginingthings.ButnowIdon’tknow.13
Now
WillandIareworkingonthebackdeck,awoodpecker’shollowknockreverberatinginthetrees.Hesitswithhislegsstretchedinfrontofhim,asliverofskinpeekingoutbelowthehemofhispants.Idon’tknowwhyIfindhisanklessocompelling.I’mlikeaRegencyeraviscounthopingforaflashofflesh.
It’swellpastsixwhenhisphonesounds—it’stheringtonewiththebells,andherisestotakethecall.
AweekhasgonebysincewetookthecanoeoutonSmokeLake.Sincewealmostkissed.Neitherofushasmentionedit,butwhenIthankedhimforthePattiSmithrecord,Icouldfeeltheairpulltautbetweenus.Otherwise,it’slikeIdreamedthatmoment.ExceptsometimesIcatchhimwatchingme,hearhimwhisperPerfect,andittakesmeagestorefocus.
I’mtextingwithJamieabouttheAugustdanceandtalentshow.ItwasatraditionevenbeforeanyBrookbanksownedtheresort,anannualend-of-summersend-offwithdinnerandlivemusic.Mr.andMrs.Rosehaveperformed“TheSurreywiththeFringeonTop”fromOklahoma!everyyearsincemymomrecoveredthegolfcartsinthestripedcovers.Thereusedtobeastaffkickline,butMomdidawaywithitinthenineties.It’samajorproduction,andIthinkit’stoomuchforustotakeonthisyear.JamieandIhavebeendebatingforfifteenminutes.WhenWillstepsinsidewithhisphoneandclosestheslidingdoorbehindhim,Ipressthecallbutton.
“Youhatespeakingonthephone,”Jamiesaysinsteadofahello.Hedropshisvoice.“Didyousmokealittlesomething,Fernie?”
“Veryfunny.Ithoughtitwouldbeeasiertotalkyououtofthis.”
I’vegivenWillfullaccesstoourbooks,andhehasalmostasmanyquestionsforJamieashedoesforme.IcantellJamieissuspicious.He’spressedmefordetailsabouthowIknowWill,andallI’vesaidisthatwemetoncealongtimeago.Buthehasn’tbeendefensiveabouthavingaconsultantpokearound.ThedanceistheonethingJamie’sstubbornabout.
“You’renottalkingmeoutofit,”hesaysnow.
“Theideaofthrowingsuchabigeventwitheverythingelsethat’sgoingon—Idon’tthinkit’sagoodidea.”It’shardtoimaginethedancewithoutMomthere—I’mnotsureI’mreadyforthat.We’lldoitnextsummer,Ithink,catchingmyselfbeforeIsayso.
“Fern.”Hesaysmynamelikeasigh,andIknowwhatevercomesnextwillbeserious.Idon’tthinkhe’scalledmeFern(noie)morethanthreetimesinmylife.“WealllovedMaggie,butitfeelsliketheresortisstillinmourning.Idon’twanttosuggestthatit’stimetomoveon,butweneedacelebration—thestaffaswellastheguests.”
Iclosemyeyes.Inthebackground,Will’sraisedvoicerumblesthroughtheglassdoor.He’snotyelling,buthesoundsfrustrated.
“You’reprobablyright,”IsaytoJamie.
“Iam.Plus,I’vealreadybookedtheband.”
Ihuffoutalaugh.
“I’lltakecareofeverything,”Jamiesays.“I’vegotyou.”
WhenWillreturnstenminuteslater,he’sholdingtwocansofthelemonPerrierI’vestartedstockingforhim,thesleevesofhiswhiteshirtrolledtohiselbows.Idon’tknowwhyIfindhisforearmssocompelling,either.
Ilookupfrommylaptop.Therestaurant’sexecutivechefhassentmeacondescendingemailmansplainingthemanyreasonsIshouldstayoutofmenuplanning.
“Sorryaboutthat,”Willsays,handingmeamineralwater.
“Aboutwhat?”
“I’msureyoucouldhearme.”
“It’sprivate.Noneofmybusiness.”Igobacktomycomputer,tryingtofigureoutthemostprofessionalwaytotellthecheftoscrewoff.
Will’squietforafewminutes.“IfIweretostayanothertwoweeks,wouldthatbeokaywithyou?”Myeyesspringtohis.“Thesecondrealestateagentisn’tcominguntilnextweek,andafterthat,Icanreviewbothscenarioswithyou:sellingorstayingon.”
WillissupposedtoleavenextSunday,somethingI’vebeenquietlydreading.
“Stayaslongasyouwant,”Isay,mytoneneutral.“I’llmakesurewecankeepCabin20openforyou.”
Ifireoffanemailtoourheadofreservations.IfWillstaysfortwomoreweeks,he’llbehereforthedance.Itmightnotbesobad,ifheweretherewithme.Istareatthescreen,butmymindhasdriftedbackintimetoushotandsweatyandpressedtogetheronadifferentdancefloor.
“Whenyougoovereverything,areyougoingtotellmewhatyou’ddoifyouwereinmyplace?”Iask,collectingmyself.
Willhasn’tsaidifhethinksIshouldsellornot.Iappreciateit,butI’malsodyingtoknowhistake.I’vetoldhimaboutmycoffeeshopfantasyandthelittlecornerstoreI’vewanderedintosomanytimes,theownerssuspectmeofshoplifting.
“I’lllayeverythingoutforyou,butthisisyourdecision.Andevenifyouwantedmeto,”Willsays,seeingthatI’mabouttodisagree,“Idon’tknowwhat’sbestforyou.Onlyyouknowthat.”
Inarrowmyeyes.“WillBaxter,youtoo-tallcoward.”
Heletsoutalaugh,bigandboomingandsunnyasaneggyolk.Ihaven’theardthatlaughintenyears.Ablazeofvictoryradiatesfrommychest.
Willleansforward,hiselbowsrestingonhisthighs.“Havedinnerwithme.”
“Dinner?”We’vehadbeersafterworkacoupletimes,butdinnerwouldmeancrossingthekeeping-things-professionallinewe’vedrawn.“Withfood?”
Willsmiles,thecornersofhiseyescrinkling.“Foodisusuallyinvolved.”
Iblinkathim.
“Tonight,”hesays.“Atmyplace.”
Thebreathylaughthatleavesmymouthisostentatiouslynervous.“Technicallyit’smyplace.Idon’tknowifyou’veheard,butIownthisjoint.”
“Imayhaveheardsomethinglikethat.”Heholdsmyeyes.“Isthatayes?”
“Idon’tthinkyou’veaskedmeaquestion.”It’ssupposedtocomeoffassassy,butIsoundlikeamousenegotiatingwithalion.
Hegrins,andanticipationtightensmyskin.“Fern,wouldyouliketocomeoverfordinner?”
“Yes,”Isay.Ireallywould.
—
Willaskedforthirtyminutestogethimselforganized.Inthattime,Ihave:
Stoodinfrontofmybedroommirror,tryingtodeterminewhetherIshouldwearsomethingnicerthanshortsandatanktoporifthatwouldseemlikeIwastryingtoimpresshim.(WhichIam.Maybe.)
TriedonabluesilkdressIboughtlastweek.
Consideredwhetherbluesilkwastoofaroutofmyblack,white,andgrayfashioncomfortzone.
Debatedchangingoutofgrannypanties.
Dry-shavedmylegs.
Putonanitsy-bitsypairofunderwear.
Takenoffthesexyunderwearandputthegrannypantiesbackon.(Justfriends.Justfriends.Notevenfriends!Colleagues!)
DecidedIwasneurotic,borderingongross,forputtingondirtyunderwearandchangedintoclean,unsexybriefs.
Sweatedthroughmydressandchangedbackintoshortsandatanktop.Notetoself:Coloredsilkistheenemy.
Questionedwhethertobringredorwhitewine.
Downedaglassofwhite.I’llbringthered.
Staredatmyselfinthemirroragainandputonasleevelessblackjerseydressthat’splaininaWhat,thisoldthing?waybutclingyinaThesehipsdon’tlieway.
BythetimeIknockonCabin20’sscreendoor,Ihaveworkedmyselfintosuchatizzy,I’mannoyedwithbothmyselfforbeingnervousandWillforbeingthecauseofmydithering.
Butwhenhestepsontotheporch,hishairstickinguperraticallylikehe’sbeenrunninghishandsthroughit,Iforgetallthat.BecauseWillBaxteriswearinganapron.Ablackapronwithverticalwhitestripes.Ididn’tknowanaproncouldbesexy,butthisapronisthelostHemsworthbrotherofaprons.
“You’rewearinganapron,”ishowIgreethim.
“I’mwearinganapron,”ishowhereplies.“Idon’tliketomessupmyclothes.”
“Youdohaveveryniceclothes,”Isay,stillstandingonthestep.
Helooksdownatwhathe’swearing—ablackT-shirtandapairoffadeddenimcutoffsthatcomedowntohisknees.
“Usually,”Iamend.“Notthatyoudon’tlooknice.Youlooknice.”Imayhaveforgottenaboutmynerves,butclearly,theyhavenotforgottenaboutme.
Will’scabinisthesameastheRoses’,minusthebarcart.Screenedbackporch,adeckoffthefrontthatlooksoverthelake.Asmalleatingareaandkitchenwithviewsofthewater.Thecast-ironfireplaceisancientbutcharmingandthepinefloorsarewelltrodden.Thewallsusedtobewood,too,butMomhadtheminsulatedanddrywalledsothecabinscouldbeusedyear-round.
IfollowWillintothekitchenandsetthewineonthecounter.Thereareveggiesonacuttingboard,twohamburgerpattiesthatlookhomemade,andatinfoilpacketofsomethingreadyforthebarbecue.
“Burgersfromscratch?”Iask,impressed.
“It’saverycomplexrecipe,”hesays.“Meat,salt,pepper.”
“CanIhelpwithanything?”
“IthinkI’vegotitundercontrol.Burgers,salad,potatoes.Soundallright?”
“Soundsperfect,”Isay,diggingacorkscrewoutoftheutensildrawer.Allthecabinsarestockedwiththebasics.“I’llmakemyselfuseful.”IgrabglassesfromanuppercabinetandpourthewinewhileWillfinisheschoppingacucumberandpeppersforthesalad.Iwatch,onehipleaningagainstthecounter.Hisknifeskillsaredynamite.Momwouldhavelikedthat.Heholdsuparedonion,andInod.
“You’reoneofthoseawfulpeoplewho’sgoodateverything,aren’tyou?”Iaskasheslicesitintothin,evenrings.Halfgointhesalad,andtherestgoonaplatewiththeotherburgertoppings.
“Notatall,I’mterribleat…”Helooksupattheceiling,lipstwistedtothesideandoneeyeclosed.Hemakesahummingsound.
“Humility?”Isupply.
“No.Iexcelathumility.”
IlikeWilllikethis.Looseandalittlesilly.Asidefromthedayofthealmost-kiss,he’sbeensozippedup.Iwonderwhatchanged.
Wemoveeverythingoutsidetothefrontdeck,wherethesunisstartingitsdescentoverthelake,castingeverythinginasaffronglow.Dragonfliestwirlthroughthesky,huntingfortheireveningsnack.Isetthepicnictable,placingcutleryandfoldedpapertowelsfornapkinsonthesamesidesowecansharetheview.
“Thisisnice,”Isay,lookingatthewateraswesitdowntoeat.Will’sstillinhisapron,butIdon’tcomment.I’mhopingheforgetstotakeitofffortherestoftheevening.WatchingWillBaxterwearanapronismynewhobby.
“Yousoundsurprised.”
It’sthefirsttimeI’vesatononeofthedecks,havingameallikeaguestwould.Therearecedarsbetweenthecabinsforprivacy,butyoucanglimpsetheneighboringcottageswiththeircheerfulgreenawnings.Themurmurofotherdinnertimescarriesdowntheshore.It’scomforting.
“IguessIam.Imean,Iknewitwasgorgeousouthere.IspentenoughtimecleaningcabinswhenIwasakidtogetagoodlookatthem.ButIthoughtitmightfeelabitexposed.”Igesturetotherowofcottages.“Itdoesn’t,though.Idon’tmindtheotherpeople.It’skindof…cozy?”
“Ithinkthat’swhyalotofpeoplecometoaplacelikethis—youcanbesurroundedbynaturebutnotisolated.There’safeelingofcommunity.”
Itakeabiteofmyburger.It’sgood,maybethebestI’vehad.I’mnotsurehow,consideringhowsimpleitis:lettuce,tomato,onion,cheddar,meat.Eventhesaladisextratasty,thedressinghomemade.
“Wheredidyoulearntocooklikethis?”Iaskthroughmylastmouthful.
“I’mnotsurebarbecuingcountsascooking.”
“Don’tbemodest—itdoesn’tsuityou,”Isay,wipingmyhands.“Besides,Isawyouwithaknifeearlier.Youknowwhatyou’redoing.”
“Itaughtmyselftocook,butItookaknifeskillsclassafewyearsago.”
“Idon’twanttostereotype,”Isay,takingmygazeawayfromthesparklingwatertolookathisprofile.“Butguyslikeyoudon’tusuallycook.Theygotorestaurantsandorderdelivery.”
“Dothey?”hesays.“Tellmemoreaboutguyslikeme.”
“Ionlymeanyou’vegotabig,fancyjob.I’msuretherearelonghoursandclientdinners.”
“Fancy?”
“Isawthepicturesonline.Partiesandfundraisers.”Super-attractiveex-girlfriend.
“Ah.”Heslideshislegsoutfromunderthetableandstandsinonegracefulmovement,pickingupourplates.I’vereachedtheextentofNewWill’slowtoleranceforpersonalinformation.
Irise,buthemotionsformetostayseated.“I’vegotit,”hesays,stackingthesaladbowlontheplatesandtakingthedirtydishesinside.
Whenhecomesbackout,he’snotwearingtheapronanymore.Hetakesaseatacrossfrommeandputshisarmsonthetable,slantingforward.Hefixeshiseyesonmine.
“Idon’tworklonghours,”Willsayswiththesametoneheusesforbusinesscalls,likethisisimportantinformation.It’struethatWillisusuallydonebetweenfiveandsix,buthe’salsoawakeinthemiddleofthenight.Iassumehe’sworking.
“Okay.”
Hestudiesme,serious,almoststern.Amuscleticksinhisjaw.“AndIcookmostnights.”
IfeellikeI’vewalkedintoabrickwallIsomehowdidn’tseecoming.IknewheandJessicabrokeup,butIdidn’tthinktoaskifhewasseeinganyoneelse.
“Butnotjustforyourself.”Itrytokeepthedisappointmentfrommyvoice,butitcomesoutloudandclear,wearingahighlighterorangeconstructionvest.
“No.”
I’llbemadatmyselflaterforbeingsotransparent,butIcan’tsitacrossfromhimforanothersecond.Ihoistmyselfoffthebench.ButWill’supfast,hishandsreachingformine.“Stay.”
Ilookathimacrossthetableandshakemyhead.Idon’twanttospeak.Idon’twanteitherofustohearmyvoicewaver.
“Please,”hesays.“Youaskedformystorythedaywewentoutinthecanoe.”Thedaywealmostkissed.Thewordsgounsaidbutthey’rerighttherewithus,shoutingfromabillboard.Will’shandsfitaroundmine,histhumbtracingthepulseinmywrist.“Iwanttoshareitwithyou,ifyou’lllisten.”
—
I’mcertainwhatWillisgoingtotellmewillhurt,butIsitbackdown,bloodsloshingaroundinmyeardrums.Hekeepshishandsovermine,andhedoesn’tpullthemawaywhenhestartstospeak.
“Iwasn’ttotallyhonestwithyou,”hesays,andthesloshingturnsintoaroar.“Butit’snotwhatyouthink.ThenightIcameovertohelpwithOwen,youaskedifIhavechildren.ItoldyouIdon’t,andthat’strue,butit’snotthewholetruth.Ilivewithmysisterandherdaughter.”
Despitemysilence,itmustbeobviousthatI’mnotgoingtobolt,becauseWilltakeshishandsaway.
“Annabelwasyoungwhenmyniecewasborn.Ilearnedhowtocookaroundthen.They’rethereasonwhyIdon’tworklate.Familydinnersarekindofathinginourhouse.”Hepauses.“MyexhatedwhenIcalledit‘ourhouse.’Iownit,butthey’vealwayslivedtherewithme.”
“Sothat’swhyyouknowsomuchaboutbabies,”Isay.
Henods.“Andthat’swhyIhavemyfancyjob.”
“I’mnotsureI’mfollowing.”
“YourememberIwenttoschoolinVancouver?”
“EmilyCarr,”Isay,quickasareflex.
Hesmiles.“EmilyCarr.IcamebackwhenAnnabelwaspregnant.Itwascomplicatedwithourdad.Hewasabouttogetremarried,andLinda,hiswife,wantedAnnabelandthebabytostaywiththem,butIcouldn’tseethatendingwellforanyone.DadandAnnabelwerebarelyspeaking.Theyhadahugefightwhenhefoundoutshewasexpectingandwantedtokeepthebaby.”
“Andyoucouldn’tstandbeingthatfaraway.”
“Right.”
“Whataboutthefather?”
“David.He’snotabadguy,buthewasyoung,too.They’donlybeendatingforafewmonths,andtheywerenowherenearreadytomakeacommitmenttoeachother.Ourgrandmotherwasstartingtoneedcareofherown.Ithought,attheveryleast,IcouldhelpAnnabeloutwithaplacetolive.”
Irefillourwine,andWilltakesasip
“MyfriendMattywasworkingathisdad’sconsultingagencyinToronto.Hesetmeupwithagraphicdesignjobandagoodsalary.Helpedmeoutwithfirstandlastmonth’srent.IhadthisideathatmysisterandIwouldberoommates,andthatIcouldlendahandwithbabysittingaftermyniecewasborn.”Heplayswiththestemofhisglass.“IhadnocluewhatI’dsignedonfor.”
“Howoldisyourniece?”
Willeyesmeclosely.“Nine.”
“Nine,”Irepeatback.Willwasn’tjustababysitterorprouduncle.“Youhelpedraiseher.”
“Yeah.”
WilltellsmehowMatty’sdadofferedtosponsorhisMBAandhowheearneditthroughnightclasses.Heandthegirlslivedinanapartmentuntilhesavedenoughforadownpayment.Ilisten,andIcanalmostfeelmymindbendingtoaccommodatethenewinformation.
“Theearlyyearswererough.”Willrubshisneckasifhe’sdecidingwhethertosaymore.“IwentfromdoingwhateverthehellIwantedtohavinganine-to-fiveandababyathome.Itkindofmessedwithme.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
Hepressesafingeragainstaknotonthetabletoplikehe’spushingsomethingdownintothewoodwork.Hedoesn’tlookatmewhenhespeaks.“Weweresosleep-deprived,Iwasbarelyfunctional.”
Idon’tthinkthat’sthefullstory,butI’mafraidifIpress,he’llsnapshut.“Whataboutyourart?”
“It’sjustnotsomethingIdoanymore.There’snotime.”
“Butyoulovedit,”Isay,andhisgazerisestomine.“Youweresogood.”
Somethingflashesinhisexpression.“Yeah,well.Iwasluckytofindsomethingthat’sallowedmetosupportmyfamily.”Hehesitates.“Isthatweird?ThatIcallthemmyfamily?”
“Whywoulditbeweird?Yoursisterandnieceareliterallyfamily.”
Hisshouldersrelax.“That’showIfeel,too.Butit’sbeenanissue…forwomen.”
Idon’treacttothementionofotherwomen,notoutwardly.Inside,mydinnercurdles.ButthenWill’seyebrowsrisealittle,likehewantstoknowwhetheritwouldbeanissueforthiswoman,andmymouthgoesdry.
HerunshishandthroughhishairwhenIstayquiet,furthershufflingthehaphazardsections.“Anyway,”hesays,“Ilikemywork.Mypartner,Matty,he’stherealbrains.I’mmostlytheretocharmtheclients.”
“Hencethefancyparties,”Isay,thoughIdon’tbelievethisforasecond.I’veseenWillinaction.I’vegoogledhimextensively.He’salwaysbeenmorethanaprettyface.ButIalsorememberhowheusedtotalkaboutart—it’shardtobuythathisjobgiveshimthesamesatisfaction.
“Hencethefancyparties,”Willagrees.“It’snotwhatIpicturedmyselfdoingwhenIwastwenty-two,butwhothehellknowsanythingintheirearlytwentiesanyway?”
“Youknewafewthings,”Isay.“YouhelpedmefigureoutIdidn’thavetoenduphere.”
Willwatchesme.“Butmaybethat’schangedforyou,”hesaysafterafewseconds.“Maybethisiswhereyouweresupposedtoendupafterall.”
I’vewonderedthat,too.IfItookthelongroutetofindmywaybackhome.Ilookoutoverthewater.“Maybe.”
—
We’reatthekitchensinkwhenthetextcomes.Willwouldn’tletmewashthedishesafterdinner,butIgrabbedateatowel,andhereluctantlybeganpassingmecleanplatestodry.He’swearingyellowrubbergloves,andthey’realmostashotastheapron.
Myphonelightsuponthecounter.It’sfromPhilippe,andit’sjustoneword.
Fate.
Ifrownatthescreen,notsurewhathe’sreferencing.
“Everythingokay?”Willasks,andthenPhilippe’ssecondmessagearrives.
It’saphotooftheoutsideofabuildingtakenatnight.It’sslightlyblurredsoIhavetoexamineittorecognizetheredbrickcornerstoreandseethesigninthewindow.Ipinchthescreentozoomin.
“Ohmygod.”
“Fern?What’sgoingon?”
IholdoutmyphonetoWill,andhetakesoffthedishgloves.“It’sforsale.”
Hestudiesthescreen.“Thisisyourcoffeeshop.”
“Yeah.”Westandsidebyside,lookingatthephototogether.“Thisisit.Ican’tbelieveit’sactuallyforsale.”Ithoughttheelderlycouplewhoownedithaddrunktheelixiroflifeandwouldhangontotheplaceforever.
AnothertextfromPhilippepopsuponthescreen.
Notimelikethepresent,BB.Comebackhome.
Willdoubleblinksandthenclearshisthroat.“?‘BB’?”
“ShortforBrookbanks.”
Ilookatthephotoagain.Philippe’sright.Thisisfate.Thisisthemomenttomakemydreamhappen.Ihaveaccesstomoney.Ihaveyearsofplanning.Ihaveastackofbakingcookbooksinmyapartmentclosetandastorageunitofvintagefurniture.Icouldputtheorangevelvetchairinthecornerbythewindow.IcouldopenFern’s.
“Iusedtowantthissobadly,”Imurmur,surprisingmyself.Whendidthatchange?
“Youstilltalktoyourex?”
“Hmm?”IglanceatWill,distracted.Hiseyesaredarkerthanusual.
“Idon’t,really.We’veexchangedafewmessages.”
Willfrowns.“Heaskedyoutocomehome.”
“AsinbacktoToronto.HeknowshowmuchIwantthis.”
“Doyou?”heasks.
“Idon’tknow.Idon’tknowwhatIwantanymore.”Istareatthephoto,myheadbeginningtothrob.“Ishouldgo.”
IthankWillfordinner,andhewalksmebacktothehouse.Hesayssomethingwhenwepassthetrailtothefamilydock,butIdon’tcatchitbecauseinsideI’munraveling.I’mnotsureaboutanythingrightnow—Will,theresort,mycoffeeshop.
Iignorethefocusedwayhestudiesmewhenhesaysgoodnight.Iclosethefrontdoorbehindmeandsecondslaterthere’saknock.
Will’sinthedoorway,hishandsoneithersideoftheframe.“Ithinkthat’sbullshit,”hesays.
Myhacklesrise.He’sneverspokentomelikethatbefore.“Excuseme?”
“Ithinkyouknowexactlywhatyouwant.Ithinkyouwanttostayhereandrunthisplaceandyou’reafraid.”
“Youdon’tknowanythingaboutme,”Isnap,andWill’sheadjerks.Themovementissubtle,butit’ssosatisfying.IwanthimtofeelthewayIdidnineyearsago.
“Don’tsaythat,”Willstarts.“Iknowyou’rescaredthat—”
Icuthimoff.“Youthinkyoucanshowuphereafterallthistime,spendafewweekswithme,andthinkyouknowme.Youdon’tknowasinglethingaboutwhoIamandwhatitfeelsliketobebackhere.”
Hisfingerswhitenaroundthedoorframe.Good.
“That’snottrue,andyouknowit,”Willsays,hiseyesfocusedonmine.“Youwanttobemadatme?Fine.Youwanttoscreamatme?Doit.Ideserveit.”Heleansincloser.“Butdon’ttellmeIdon’tknowyou.”
Iopenmymouth,butnothingcomesout.
Will’slipquirksandhegoeson.“Iknowyouloveithere.It’splainacrossyourface—thewayyoulookedatthelakethisevening.Butit’salsoclearfromhowhardyou’reworking.Youwouldn’tconsidersellingtoadeveloper,andIdon’tthinkyouwantanyoneelserunningtheshowhere,either.”Hepauses.“Iknowyoudon’twanttobecomeyourmother.”Hiseyesdroptowheremynailsarescrapingagainstmywrist.“Iknowyouscratchwhenyou’restressed.Youchewonyourcheekwhenyou’remakingadecision,andplaywithyourhairwhenyou’renervous.YouhumTalkingHeadswhenyou’reconcentrating.Youloveyourfriends.Andyouloveithere.”Everywordisanarrowoftruthpiercingthecenterofatarget
“Screwyou,”Ispitout,mychestrisingandfallinglikeI’vebeenrunningonatrack.“Whoareyoutotellmeanythingaboutmylife?Justbecauseyougaveuponyourdreamdoesn’tmeanIshouldgiveuponmine.”Iregretthestatementassoonasitleavesmylips,butI’mtooangrytotakeitback.
Westareateachother.Icurlmyhandsintofiststokeepfromreachingforhim—topushhimawayorpullhimtome,I’mnotsure.
“Idon’tthinkyoushouldgiveuponanything,Fern,”Willsays.“Ijustthinkyouwon’tadmitwhatyouwanttoholdonto.”
Andthenheturnsaroundandleaves.14
June14,TenYearsAgo
IthoughtWillhadditchedme.He’dexcusedhimselftothebathroomassoonasEliwentupstairstogetreadyforhisset.Hewasgoneforsolong,Ileanedacrossthetabletoseeifhe’dtakenhisbackpackwithhim.Butthereitwas,acrossfrommeonthebench.
IorderedtwoJ?gershotswhileIwaited,thenappliedlipglosswithanunsteadyhand,wipingtheexcessonmythigh
I’dbeenlyingtoWillalldayaboutJamie.Nowwebothknewit.
Iheldmybreathwhenhereturned.Hishairwasdampandpushedoffhisforeheadasthoughhe’dwashedhisfaceinthesink.Hesat,notmeetingmyeyes,andstareddownattheshotglasses,lipspressedtogether.Iconsideredapologizing,butIwasn’tsurewhatIshouldapologizefor.Itshouldn’thavematteredthatIhadaboyfriend.Iwasn’tup-frontaboutit,butitwasn’tlikeIwasleadingWillon.Hehadagirlfriend.
“Listen,”Istarted,althoughIhadnoideawhatwordswouldfollow.
ButWillliftedtheglassclosesttohimandbroughtittowardhismouth.HiseyesfoundmineandheldthemuntilIraisedmyshot.“Cheers,”hesaid,andwetippedtheblackliquordownourthroats.
Willslammedhisglassdown,thenstood.Iwascertainhewasabouttosaygoodbye,buthewalkedtomysideoftheboothandheldouthishand.“Let’sgodance,Fern.”
Iwouldn’thaveguessedaNirvanaskacoverbandwouldhavemuchofafollowing,buttheMightyMightyKurtToneshadpackedthepeoplein.Theupstairsvenuewasalong,narrowspace,withabarrunningalongonewallnearthebackandatightstageatthefront.I’dneverseenitsocrowded.
Withoutspeaking,Willledmetoastackofchairsinacorner.Hetookthetinoflemondropsfromhisbackpackandstashedourbagsunderthechairs.Hepressedonecandyintomypalmandpoppedanotherintohisownmouthbeforethreadinghisfingersthroughmineandleadingmethroughthecrowd.He’dsaidfivewordstomesincehe’dreturnedfromthebathroom,andIcouldn’ttellifhewasmadatme,madathimself,orsomecombinationofthetwo.Itpissedmeoff.
Ieyedthebandaswemadeourwaytothefront.EverymemberwasasdapperasEli.Theyweresquishedonthestageinplaidpantsandbowlersandcheckeredsuspenders.Someoftheaudiencewassimilarlydressed.Suitjackets.Fishnets.Fingerlessgloves.Ibrushedpastawomaninakiltandcroptop,thentoldWilltogivemeaminuteandpushedmywaybacktoourthings.Hedidn’twantmetogohomeandchange,fine.ButIwasn’tgoingtofeellikeafrump.Iunbuttonedmyblouseandscruncheditintomybag,leavingmeinmytanktop.
Willdidn’tsayanythingwhenIfoundhim,butIcouldfeelhiseyesstrayingfrommynecktomyarmstomychest.Mytopwastight,white,andnotopaque.Mybrawasblack.Oneofthestrapshadslippedoffmyshoulder,andIdidn’tcaretopullitbackup.Withmyshorthair,therewasnothingtohidebehind.ButI’dhadfourdrinksandashotofJ?ger,andforthefirsttimeinyears,Ididn’tfeelmuchlikehiding.
Theleadsingersteppeduptothemic,herhairrolledlikearetropinupgirl,herwaistcinchedinafull-skirtedpolka-dotdress.Assheintroducedtheband,ItiptoeduptoWill’sear.
“YoushouldhavewarnedmeabouttheirnamebeforeImetEli.”Ikeptmyeyestrainedonhisprofile.
“Whywouldyouneedawarning?”heasked,hisgazenotleavingthestage.
Ididn’tanswerhim.HeknewI’dalmostlostitwhenthewordsMightyMightyKurtTonesleftEli’slips.“Andyouhaven’tevenseenthemplay,”Isaid.
Ileanedcloser,puttingmyhandonhisarmtosteadymyself.WillknowingaboutJamiemademefeelasifasafetynethadbeenunfurledbelowwhateverbalancingactwewereperforming.“You’vetakenacertifiedmusicsnobtowhatcouldbetheworld’sworstconcert.Prettyboldmove,WillBaxter.”
Heturnedhisneck,bringinghisnoseinchesfrommine.Hisgazedroppedtomymouthandlingeredthere.Thenetvanished.Hemetmyeyes,thenopenedhismouthtosaysomethingasthebassbeganthefirstbarsof“SmellsLikeTeenSpirit.”
Hismouthclosedandwestaredateachotherasthedrumskickedin,andthensuddenlytherewasaburstoftrumpet,sax,andtrombone.Welookedatthestage,andthenbacktoeachother,andthentheroomsuddenlybecameafrenzyofleapingelbowsandarmsandknees.
“Holyshit,they’regood,”Iyelled.
Will’ssmilewasfluorescent.Hegrabbedmyhandandlifteditabovemyhead,twirlingmearound.
“Idon’treallydance,”Isaid,tryingtopullmyarmback.Itwasmostlytrue.Myfriendssometimesforcedmeoutwhentheywantedtoshakeoffshittydatesordisappointinggrades,butitwasalwaysunderduress.
“Youdance,”Willshouted.Heputhisotherhandonmywaist.“We’redancing.”
Will’smoveswereextraordinarilygood.EvenwithmystiffhipsandthenumberoftimesIstampedonhistoes,Ithoughtweprobablylookedlikeweknewwhatweweredoing.Notthatanyonewaspayingattention.Weweresmooshedontothedancefloor,andwitheverysong,theroomgotwarmer,morehumid.Will’shairfellinhisface,slickwithsweat,andmyshirtwassoaked.
Itdidn’ttakemuchforourbodiestocometogether.AshovefromsomeonesentmestumblingintoWill.Iglancedupathimtoapologize,buthetookmywristsandhungthemaroundhisneck.Hisbodywashardandwarmagainstmine.
“Fortherecord,Ican’tdanceforshit,”IsaidthefifthtimeItrampledhisfoot.
Heranhishandsdownmybackandalongmysides,restingthemonmyhips.“You’reperfect.”
Wedancedlikethat,lineduptogether,eyeslocked,hisfingerspressingintome,untiltheKurtTonespausedtofixabrokendrumpedal.
Westoppedmovingandwatchedeachother.Willswallowed,andhisgazedroppedtomymouthagain,andIknewthatifheweresingleandIweresingle,hislipswouldhavedroppedthere,too.
“Drink?”Isaid.
“Okay.”
Wewriggledourwaytothebar,andheorderedtwoginandtonics,andItriednottolookatthewayWill’sshirtstucktohischestwhilethebartenderfixedourdrinks.Hesetthemonthecounterinfrontofus,ashriveledlimeoneachoftheirrims,andwegrinnedateachother.Itookthestrawoutofmineandchuggeditlikeitwaswater.Itwashalficeandsoweak,itmayaswellhavebeen.
“Let’sstayneartheback,”Isaidwhenthemusicstartedupagain.Iwasbeginningtofeeldizzy—fightingtheheatandthenoiseandtheacheinthearchesofmyfeet.“It’ssohotinhere.”
Westoodattheedgeofthecrowd.Willkeptlookingbetweenmeandtheband.
“Youokay?”
Iwipedmyneckandnodded.Butmythoughtsswirledlikeatornado,thoughtsofWillandJamie.OfWill’sbodymovingagainstme.Will’sarmbrushedmine,andIautomaticallyreachedforhishand,pullingbackwhenmyfingersglidedoverhiswrist.WhatwasIdoing?Iwasn’tusedtodrinkingthismuchanymore—ithadbeenyearssinceI’dallowedmyselftobeanythingmorethanslightlytipsy.Ineededair.Ilookedaroundtheroom,judgingthedistancetotheexit.WhenWilltouchedthesmallofmyback,Ijumped.
“Yousureyou’reokay?”
“Ihavetogetoutofhere.”
Henodded.“Waitbythedoor.I’llgetourstuff.”
Willdisappearedintothecrowd.Iedgedovertothewall,pressingmyforeheadagainstthestickysurface.Istayedthere,withmyeyesclosed,takingdeepbreaths,untilsomeonetouchedmyshoulder.
“Here,”Willsaid.“Drinkthis.Thenwe’llgetoutofhere.”
Iopenedmyeyestofindhimholdingaglassofwater.Heleanedoverme,blockingouttheroom.ItookafewlongsipsandhandedtheglassbacktoWill,andhefinishedtherest.
“Comeon,”hesaid,tuckingmyarminhisandhelpingmedownthestairs.
Wepushedoutontothefrontpatioandthenstopped.Itwaspouring.Waterspoutedfromthecornersofthebarawningandpooledingutters.Lightreflectedoffthewetsidewalks,theairheavyandmetallic.Thestreetwasalmostempty,exceptforafewpeoplehuddledunderastreetcarstop.Itwasn’tjustrain.Itwasatorrentialsummerdownpour.Isteppedrightintoit.
IheardWillcallmyname,butIignoredhimbecauseIwasalreadyfeelingbetter,thedropletscoolagainstmyskin.Iraisedmyarms,closedmyeyes,andliftedmychintothestorm.Aminutelater,acarracedthroughapuddle,drenchingmyshins,andIleaptback,shrieking.
Willstoodbesideme,waterrunningdownhisface.
“Allright,”Isaid,tuggingonhisarm.“Let’sgo.”
“Wherearewegoing?”
Andeventhoughhealreadyknewtheanswer,Itoldhimanyway.“Backtomyplace.”July5,1990
Peter’sbeensuchacrablately.IthoughtadoubledatefortheCanadaDayfireworkswouldcheerhimup.He’salwaysbeennicetoLiz.Ithoughteverythingwouldbefineandhe’dchangehismindaboutEricifhespentmoretimewithhim.Wesatonthehillinfrontofthelodgetowaitfortheskytogetdark.LizandIweretalkingaboutourtrip,andoutofnowhere,PeterstartedgrillingEric.Hewantedtoknowabouthisplansforthefutureandhisentiredatinghistory.Ihadtoyellathimtocutitout
WhenIwenttothekitchenthenextmorningtotellPetertobackoff,hewasalreadyinabadmood.HecalledmesuperficialforlikingEric.He’sneverspokentomelikethatbefore,likehecouldn’tstandme.Itoldhimtotakeitback,butheturneduphismusicandignoredme.“Idon’tevenhateTheCurethatmuch,”Iyelledathim.Hejustglaredatmeandturnedthevolumeupagain.Thatwastwodaysago,andwestillaren’tspeaking.15
Now
Idon’tknowwhyIbotheredwithpajamas.Orlyingdown,forthatmatter.I’mnotgoingtosleep.Willlefthoursago,butI’mstillkeyedup,myrightfoottappingagainsttheleftlikeI’vedownedsixshotsofespresso.Themoonmustbebright—it’swellpasttwo,butIcanseethelacywebofbranchesoutsidemywindow.
WhatIsaidtoWilltonightwasawful.Iwantedtoinflictpain.Icouldfeelitinmyteeth,theurgetobitedown,toleaveamark.Ididn’tthinkIcouldexplodelikethatanymore.Myragewaslikeatangiblething,somethingIcouldballupandthrowathim.Ittookmerightbacktobeingseventeenandscreamingatmymother.
Ihaven’tfinishedreadingthediaryentriesthatsetmeoff,notthatmymomwastoblame.Icouldn’thandlethetruth,evenifI’dknownitallalong.
ButIdon’twanttobeangry.Idon’twanttolashoutthewayIdidtonight.I’mashamedofhowIspoketoWill.Hejuststartedtoopenuptome,andIuseditagainsthim.
Ishoveoffthesheetsandwalktothewindow,althoughIdon’tneedtocheck.Will’slightisalwayson.
Idon’tgivemyselftimetochangemymind.Ichargefrommyroom,downthestairs,andoutofthehouse,myskinpebblingasIrunalongtheshortpathinmybarefeetandupthestepsofCabin20.
I’msmackingmypalmonthescreendoorbeforeIcanquestionthelogicofrunningherewithmyfuzzybedhairandtheoversizedT-shirtIweartosleepin.Itsayspotheadaboveanimageofacoffeepot,andwhenIfirstsawitontherack,Ihatedit,butthenIdecidedIcouldn’tlivewithoutit.
Willappearsinhisunderwear,pullingonashirt.Icatchaglimpseofskinandswirlsofblack,butit’shardtomakeoutmuchofanythingwiththelightshiningbehindhim.
“Fern,what’sgoingon?”Hewalksacrosstheporchinthreestrides,butIdon’tgivehimachancetoopenitbeforeIstartspeaking.
“Iwasanassholeearlier,”Itellhimthroughthescreen.“I’msogratefulthatyou’rehere,helpingwiththeresort.Ishouldhavetoldyouthatbefore.AndIthinkit’samazingthatyouhaveajobyoulikeandafamilywhoyouloveandthatyouknowhowtocook.Youmakeatrulyexcellenthamburger,Will,andIwantthatsaladdressingrecipe.”Iletoutabreathtoputastoptomyrambling.“Ididn’tmeanwhatIsaidaboutgivingupyourdream.I’msosorry.”
HisfaceisinshadowsoIcan’tseehisexpression.“Allright,”hesays,hisvoicelow.“Isthatwhyyoucamehere?”
“Yes?No.”Willopensthescreendoorformetocomein,butIcan’tmakemyfeetmove.“IcameheretoapologizebutalsobecauseIwantedtotellyouthatyouwereright.IknowwhatIwant.”
Willpullsmethroughthedoorwayandontotheporch.Heputshishandsonmyshouldersandleansdown.Withoutthinkingaboutwhataterribleideaitis,Ikisshim.
It’sclumsyandquick,lessakissandmoreofaleaptowardhislips,mymouthlandingsomewherenearthecornerofhis.IpullawayalmostassoonasImakecontactbecauseWilldoesnotkissmeback.Hisarmsdonotencirclemywaist.
Shit.Ihadn’tmeanttodothat.ImeanttotellhimIthinkIwanttostayattheresort.Nowhe’sblinkingatme,eyeswide.Turnsoutinsultingsomeone’slifechoicesandthenattackingthemwithyourmouthinthemiddleofthenightisnotaneffectivewooingstrategy.
“I’msorry,”Isputter.“Ishouldgo.”
Ispinaround,butWillcatchesmyarm.
“Tellmewhatyouwant,Fern,”hesaysbehindme.
Ishakemyhead,andheturnsmetofacehim.
“Whynot?”
“Becauseyoualreadyknow,”Isay,barelyaudible.Heknewitthen,andheknowsitnow.Hedoesn’tneedmetosayitoutloud.
“Iwanttobesure.”Hisvoiceisalowrumble.“Whatdoyouwant,Fern?”
Itakeabreathandthenwhisper,“You.”
Thewordhasbarelyleftmymouthwheneverythinghappensatonce.Hisarmsbandaroundme,pullingmeupandofftheground.Mylegswraphiswaist,myarmshisneck.Ourmouthscometogethersofastthatourteethcollide,andIstarttolaugh,butit’sextinguishedbytheurgentpressofourlips.
Willwalksusintothecabin,hismouthonmine,citrusyandwarm,shuttingthedoorbehind.Idon’thavetimetoregisteranythingexceptthedimglowofthelivingroomlamp,becauseinaninstantWillhasmepinnedagainstthedoor.Itakehisfacebetweenmyhands,pressingmylipstohisscarbeforeIfindhismouthagain.HerocksagainstmeandIrockback,mythighstightaroundhim,movingmyhipsasmuchasIcan,butit’snotenough.Anunfamiliargrowlvibratesinmythroat.
“I’vethoughtaboutyouforsolong,”Willsaysashekissesdownmyneck,andIpullathisshirt,tryingtogetitofffromundermylegs.Ittakesmeasecondtorealizehe’swhisperingintomyskin,tellingthespacebelowmyearhowmuchhewantsthis,tellingtheundersideofmyjawhowbeautifulIam.
Deliriousandfrenzied,Ireachmyhandbetweenus,buthewrapshisfingersaroundmywrist,bringingitabovemyhead.Hedoesthesamewiththeother,sobothmyarmsareheldhigh.
“Don’tmovethem,”hesays,lookingmeintheeyes.“Okay?”
Inod,buthedoesn’tmove.“Yes,”Itellhim.
HeunwrapsmylegsfromhiswaistandsetsmedownsothatI’mleaningagainstthedoorwhileherunshishandsupanddownthesidesofmyhips.
“I’vegotaverylonglistofthingsIwanttodotoyou,todowithyou,”hesays,hisvoicerough.
“Bettermakeaplan,then,”Iwhisper
Asmallsmilesneaksacrosshislips.“Icoulddothat.”Hetakesmyearlobebetweenhisteeth,onehandreachinguptoholdmywristsinplace.“Icouldgofromtoptobottom,”hesays,tracinghisnosedownmyneck.“Wouldyoulikethat?”Hepresseshistonguealongtheundersideofmyarmtowardmyelbow,pushinghishipsagainstminetokeepmestillwhenIsquirm.
“Yes,”Itellhim.“Thatworks.”Heleansoverme,andmyforeheadpressesintohischest.Thecontrastofsoftfabricandhardmuscleandthesmoky-sweetsmellofhimisoverwhelming.AndthenIfeelthehotdampofhistongueashetakesmypinkiefingerintohismouth.
“Ohmygod,”Imurmur,andIfeelhimsmilearoundmyfinger,histeethbrushingagainsttheknuckle.Hemoveshistonguetomyringfingeranddoesthesame,suckingitintohismouth.Itiltmyhipsforward,rubbingagainsthisbarethigh,butheslantshimselfbackandoutofreach.AmorecomposedpersonmightbeembarrassedbythemoanthatImake.ButIamnotcomposed.IfeellikeIambeingunwrittenwitheverymovementofWill’smouth,witheachfingerheenvelopswithit.
I’mshakingbythetimeheapplieshislipstotheoppositewrist,kissingmypulse,andthenrunninghistonguebackdownmyarm,suckingandbitinguntilhe’sfoundmyneck,backtowherehestarted.Hepullsmyshirtup,bringingitpastthetopsofmylegs,pastmyunderwear,exposingmystomach.“I’mgoingtoneedthisoff,”hesays,buthedoesn’tkeeppulling.
“Okay,”Itellhim,andinoneswiftmovement,myshirtisgone.Ihearhimcurseunderhisbreathandhepausesforalongsecond,thenreacheswithbothhandstotuckmyhairbehindmyearsbeforecrushinghismouthtomine,runninghistongueovermybottomlipandthenmovingitbacktomyneck.
“Gottasticktotheplan,”hesaysintomycollarbone,cuppingmybreastandmovinghismouthdownmychestasherollsthenipplebetweenhisfingers,gently,thenalittleharder.Icrossmyanklestogether,squeezingmythighs,andthemovementissoblatantthatWillstopsandlooksbetweenus.
“Ormaybeyouwantasecondoptiontoconsider?”Hegrinsatme.“Icouldstartatthebottomandworkmywayup.Seeifyoulikethatbetter?”Herunsahandfrommykneeuptomyhip,slidinghisfingersunderthecottonofmyunderwear.
“Goodidea,”Ibreathe.“Ichooseoptiontwo.”
There’saflashofmischiefinWill’seyes.“Yousure?”Hetwiststhefabricinhishand,pullingittightbetweenmylegs.
Isighoutan“uh-huh”andthenhedropstohiskneeswithhishandsonmywaist.Mylegsareshakinginanticipation,andIholdhisshoulderstokeepmyselfupright.Behindhim,Igetaglimpseofpapersstrewnaboutthefloorandasetofpencilsonthecoffeetable.ButthenWillwrapsahandaroundmyleftankleandbringsmybarefoottohismouth,hiseyesonme.Itrytopullitaway.Hetraceshisindexfingeralongthebottomofmyfoot,andIsqueal,twistingandattemptingtostayupright.
“Optionone,”Icry.
“Toolate,”Willsays,butheputsmyfootontheground.“I’vealreadyputoptiontwointomotion.”
Hegripsbothofmyhipstightly.Evenkneeling,hecomesupalmosttomychest,andhedipshisheadtotraceuptheinsideofmylegwithhistongue.Idigmyfingersintohishair,pullingitbackfromhisforeheadsoIcanseehimbetter.
“Sosoft,”Imurmur,andhenipsthefleshofmyinnerthighinresponse.Hemoveshisthumbovermyunderweartowhereeverysensationispoolingtightlyinsideme,andIletoutasoundthatstartsasalaughbutendsasagroan.Heslipshisthumbunderthefabric,movinginlittlecircles,andhebringshislipstomyotherthigh,lightlybiting.Mybodycan’tmakesenseoftherapidtransitionsbetweenpleasureanddenial,betweenticklingandteeth.
“Whatareyouevendoingtome?”Imumble.
Willlooksupatmefrombeneaththeblacklineofhislashes,thegoldenlamplightkissingthetopsofhischeekbones.Hekeepsmovinghisthumb,fasternow,thenshiftshishandsohecanbringafingeroverthespotwhereI’mwettest.Iclosemyeyes,becauseWilliswatchingmewithsuchhunger,Iwon’tbeabletomaintainanysemblanceofcontrol.Ifeelhimslipafingerslowlyinside,thenafterafewseconds,headdsanother,settingarhythmthatbringsmerighttotheedge,andjustwhenI’mabouttofallover,heslowsdown.
“No,no,no.Keepgoing.Keepgoing.”Iopenmyeyes,andWill’sarefixedonme.
“IwanttomakeyouwantthisasmuchasIdo,”hesays.“IwantyoutofeelasdesperateasIhaveallthistime.”
Itightenmygripinhishair,tugginginfrustration,andWillcloseshiseyes.Imakeanewcompartmentinmybrainandlabelitwhatwilllikes.Itugalittleharderandwatchashebringshishandunderthewaistbandofhisunderwear,movingitbackandforthafewtimes.Iwanttodothat,Ithink,andIbegintolowermyselftothefloor,butWillstopsme,holdingmyhips.
“I’mverydedicatedtofinishingmywork,Fern,”hesays,andslidesmyunderweardown,helpingmestepoutofthem.Heeasesmylegsapartandthengrabsmyassinhishands,bringinghismouthtowherehisthumbwas.
Mylegsgoweak,andIgivehishairasharppull.
Hemoveshishandstosteadymebythewaist.
Ifeelthevibrationsthroughmewhenhespeaks.“Trustme.”
Heputsonelegonhisshoulder,andwhenI’mclose,Itellhimdon’tstop,don’tstop,don’tstop,andthistimehelistens.
AfterI’vegonestill,heloosenshisholdandIstumble.Hestands,putshishandsoneithersideofmyface,hisfingersinmyhair,hiseyesdartingbetweenmine.Checking.
Iwanttotellhimhowgoodthatfelt,butIseemtohavelosttheabilitytoturnvowelsandconsonantsintoactualwords,letalonestringabunchofthemtogetherinasentence.Instead,Istandonmytiptoesandclosethedistancebetweenourlips,kissinghimhungrily.Ireachdownbetweenus,runningmyhandoverthehardlengthofhim.Iwantmore,more,more.
“Iwantmoreofyou,”Isay.I’mnotsureitmakesanysense,butWillisnodding.
“Youcanhaveitall.”
Ifeellikesomeonehashandedmethekeystothemostincrediblethemeparkandtoldmetoplay.Iwanttodoeverythingatonce.Iwanttobeunderhim,ontopofhim.Iwanttofalltomyknees.Iwanttopushhimtothecouch.Ifeelfrantic.Myhandsaretrembling.Istartwiththebasics.Igrabthehemofhisshirtandmoveitupoverhisstomach.Willhelpsmetakeitoff,andwhenit’sgone,Iletoutmymostreverent“Holyshit.”
Themaniscoveredinink.Notsomuchthatthereisn’tasquareinchofunadornedskin,buttherehavetobeatleasthalfadozentattoosovertheplanesofhischest,theridgesofhisabdominals.Thecontrastbetweenhisfairskinandthedesigns,alldoneinblackandgray,isstriking.
“Haveyoualwayshadthese?”Itracethepencilthatsitsatopthejutofhisrighthipbone.It’sheldbylongfingers.There’sameanderinglinethatswirlsoutfromitssharpenedtipanddisappearsintothewaistbandofWill’sboxerbriefs.
“Sincebirth,”hedeadpans,suckinginhisbreathasImovemyfingertohisribcage.
“Imeanbackthen.”IfIhadknownhewashidingallthisunderhisclothestenyearsago,Idon’tknowifIwouldhavehadsomuchrestraint.
“Someofthem.”
ThenameSofiasitsatthetopofhisrightside,almostunderhisarm.Ihateitimmediately.Idon’taskwhosheis.There’salemononhisribsthatIadoreandacomicstripacrossonesideofhisstomach.Theletteringisinstantlyrecognizable.
“Youdrewallofthese,didn’tyou?”Isay,peeringupathim.Hemurmursintheaffirmative.
“Fern,I’llgiveyoutheguidedtourlater,okay?”hesays,voicestrained.
“Idon’tthinkso.”Ibend,bringingmymouthtothelemon.“Youhadyourturn,andnowIwantmine.”Imovemyhandinsidehisunderwear,wrappingitaroundhim.“Iwanttheworld’sgreatesttourofWillBaxter.”
Willtiltshisheadback,andImovemytonguealongtheridgeofhispelvis.Hesucksinasharpbreathandclaspsmywrist.“Bedroom.”
Idisagree.IhavemyownideasthatinvolveWillcomingapartinmypalmrightnow,soIkeepgoing.Willputshishandsonhishead,andjustashisstomachmusclestighteninawaythattellsmeI’mabouttogetwhatIwant,hehoistsmerightofftheground,andIhavenochoicebuttoholdontohisneck.
“Butyouweresoclose,”Isayinprotest,andhesucksontheskinbelowmyearandsays,“Youhavenoideahowmuchself-controlIcanexertwhenitcomestoyou.”
Ibitehisshoulderashewalksusintotheroom.“I’mverydedicatedtogettingwhatIwant.”
Wetumbleontothebedonoursides,andIreachforthewaistbandofWill’sunderwear,butbeforeI’velowereditaninch,heputshishandonmycheekandsaysmyname.Myeyesfindhis.“Slowdown,okay?I’vewaitedalongtimeforthis.”
Inod,buthiswordsandhisgaze—thewayhe’slookingatme,openandsteady—stirupsomethingIdidn’tfeelmomentsago.I’mlyingonabed,naked,withWillBaxter.Idon’tknowwheretoputmyhands.Idon’tknowwheretolook.
WillliftsmychinsoI’mstaringathim.“Areyouokay?”
Itellhimthetruth.“IthinkI’mnervous.”
Hesmiles.“Metoo.Doyouwanttostop?”
Ishakemyhead.“Definitelynot.”
Willmovesmyhairaside,thenkissesmyneck.Wemakeoutforalongtime,andWillkeepshistouchtomyshouldersandwaistandhips,untilI’mnotnervous.I’mimpatient.Imovemyselfagainsthim,takinghishandtomybreast.Ipushhisunderweardownoverhiships,andhedoesn’tstopme.
“Iwantyouinsideme,”Itellhim.
Hebeginstopullaway,andIwrapmylegoverhistoholdhimclose.“Now.”
“Condom,”hesays,andIblink.Right.Hebringsastripbackfromthebathroom,andIwatchhimrolloneon,thenIpullhimontothebed.
“It’sbestformelikethis,”Isay,turningsothathe’sspooningme.Hereacheshisarmaroundme,andIpressbackagainsthim,buthedoesn’ttakeitfortheinvitationthatitis.Hepinchesmynippleandkissesmyshoulder,andthensays,“I’lldowhateveryouwant”—andthenheshiftssothathe’sontopofme—“butI’dreallyliketolookatyouthefirsttime.Okay?”
Iswallow,mythroattight,thenwhisper,“Yes.”
Willholdsmygazeashepushesinsideme,takinghistime,untilwefittogetherfully.Westareateachother,unblinking.Myheartfeelslikeit’sgoingtoburstwithanemotionIcan’tquitename.Idon’trealizethere’satearrunningfromthecornerofmyeyeuntilWillkissesitaway.
Iapologize.“That’sneverhappenedtomebefore.I’llbefine.”
“You’resure?”
Inod.“I’mokay.”
Willpresseshislipstomine,sweetly,andthenbeginstomoveinaslowrhythm.“Wecandobetterthanokay.”
—
Thesunhasn’tyetrisenwhenI’mwokenbyaloon’smournfultremolo.There’sonlythesoftpredawnlightandthebird’sstrange,beautifulsong.IttakesafewsecondsformyeyestoadjustenoughtoseewhereIam,torememberthatI’mnotatthehouse.Lastnightcomesbackinaflashofsweat-slickedskinandtattoos.Myfacepressedagainstapillow,Willcurvedoverme,whisperinginmyear.Thatwasthesecondtime.
Iremembergatheringthecouragetoaskhimtoholdmeaswefellasleep,wantingthecomfortofhisbodypressedtomine.It’snotsomethingIusuallyrequestofmybedmates,tofitthemselvesaroundme,andIwasn’tsureIcouldaskitofWill.Intheend,Ididn’tneedto.Hetuckedhimselfaroundmyback,holdingmetohim.Idriftedoffwithhislipspressedtomyshoulder.
Rollingover,IfindWillstretchedoutonhisback,sheetsbunchedaroundhiswaist,hishairablackbramble.
IdecidetotaketheopportunitytolookathistattoosmorecloselybeforeIslipout.Idon’twantaguestwitnessingmesneakingbacktothehouseinmypajamas.Morethanthat,Idon’tknowhowtobewithWillinthelightofday.
“Iguesswedidn’tgetaroundtothetourlastnight,”Willrasps,startlingmystudyofthenameSofiaontopofhisribs.
“Idecidedtotakeaself-guidedone.”
HetucksahandbehindhisheadandpullsmeupsoI’mrestinginthecrookbetweenhischestandarm.Itcatchesmeoffguard,andIstiffen.Casualsexandmorning-aftercuddlingdon’tusuallygotogether,andthiswasthedictionarydefinitionofalate-nighthookup.
Willsqueezesme.“Hey,wheredidyougo?”
“Sorry.Iwasthinking.”
“Whatareyouthinkingaboutsohard?”Hisfingerstwistaroundastrandofmyhair.
“Ithink,”Isay,runningmyhandoverhisstomach,“youhavealotoftattoos.”
Hetouslesmyhair,andeverythinginsidemeunwindsalittle.“Areyoualwaysthisobservantinthemorning?”
“Idon’treallybootupproperlyuntilI’vehadcoffee.”Iclearmythroat.“IshouldprobablygetbacktothehousebeforeIhavetowalk-of-shameitinfrontofguests.Idon’tthinkthat’sthekindofwildlifethey’rehopingtoseehere.”
Hemoveshishanddownmybareback,cuppingthearchofmyhip.“ButIhadbigplansthismorning.”Isuckinabreathashisfingersskimlower.
“Tempting,but—”
“Fern,”hesayssoftly.“Don’tleaveyet.I’llgoovertothehouselaterandgetyouachangeofclothes,okay?”
“Okay.”Iturnmyheadandburymysmileinhischest.Iknowthisisn’tgoinganywhere.WillhasalifeinToronto,andI…well,IthinkI’mgoingtohaveonehere.Fornow,though,Icanstayalittlelonger.
“Sowhyallthetattoos?”Irunmyfingerdownthefirtreeonhisarm.
“Womenlovethem.”
“WomenlikeSofia?”
Hechucklesandrunshishandthroughmyhair.“Ohyeah,Sofiadefinitelylovesthem.”Itwistmynecktofindhimsmilingdownatme.“Sofia’smyniece.”WillmustseethereliefasplainlyasIfeelit,becausehissmiledeepens.
“Oh,”Isay.“Idon’tthinkyoutoldmehernamebefore.”Hetucksmebackinthecrookandsnakeshisfingersthroughmyhairagain.
“No?Thatwasn’tintentional,butnowI’mgladIdidn’t.You’recutewhenyou’rejealous.”
Imakeapfffsound.“You’reimpossible.”Irunmyhandoverthename.“Doyoumissher?”
Willletsoutabreathwithawhoosh.“It’sthelongestI’vebeenaway,”hesaysslowly,likehe’schoosinghiswordsfromaforty-pagemenu.“Butmysisterwasadamantitwouldbeagoodbreakforallofus.”
“Andhasitbeen?Agoodbreak,Imean?”
Hetiltshisheaddownsohecanseemyface.“Areyoukidding?”
Ishakemyhead.
“I’vebeenworking,yeah,butit’sfeltlikeacompletevacation.Ihaven’thadthismuchalonetimeinages.It’sbeenamazing.Atotalbreakfromreality.”
Abreakfromreality.Thewordsbasharoundinmyskull.
Ipointatthefour-panelcomiconhisstomach;thefirstshowsascruffyguysurroundedbymovingboxes.“Isthisyourcomic?”
“ThefirststripofRoommates,yeah.”
“Doyoueverthinkaboutstartingitupagain?”
“Thecomic,no.”
“Butwhataboutdrawing?Evenifit’sjustforfun?”
He’squietforalongbeat.“I’vebeensketchingalittlesinceI’vebeenhere.”
IthinkofthecartooninthecardhegavemeandthepencilsIsawscatteredaboutthelivingroomlastnight.“You’vehadmoretimetoyourself.”
“Yeah,it’sthat.Butit’salso…Idon’tknow.IguessI’vebeenremindedaboutthatsideofmyself.”
Ilookupathimandamstartledbytheweightinhisexpression.
“I’mglad,”Imurmur,thenbrushmyhandoverthetattoobelowhiscollarbone.Twotinywords.Onlythoughts.
“Whatdoesthismean?”
Willgoescompletelystill.“It’sareminder,”hesays.
“Forwhat?”
Heblinkstwice.“Nothingimportant.”
“Usuallypeopledon’tgettattoosofthingsthataren’timportant.”
“Iguessthat’strue,”hesays.Buthedoesn’telaborate.
Ilookupathim,frowning,andherubshisthumboverthelinesbetweenmyeyebrows,tryingtosmooththemout.
“Let’stalkaboutsomethingelse,”hesays.Hisotherhandskimsoverthefleshofmybottom.“Betteryet—let’snottalkatall.”
—
Forthesecondtimetoday,IwakeupinWill’sbed,buthe’snolongerinit.Ihearthegurgleofbrewingcoffee,andI’mabouttotakeoneofhispristinewhitebutton-upsfromitshanger,butIpullasoftnavyblueT-shirtfromthedresserinstead.Thelogoonthechestisalittleredheartwithcartooneyes,andIknowthatmeansit’sexpensive,butIlikehisT-shirts.Theyremindmeoftwenty-two-year-oldWill.Thehemfallsmidwaytomyknees.
Iwalkthroughthelivingroom.There’snosignofthepaperandpencilsIsawlastnight,andIfindWilllookingoutthekitchenwindow,palmsflatonthecounter.He’sputonunderwear,butthat’sit.Istopbeforehehearsmyfootsteps,takingamomenttoappreciatethetopographyofbone,muscle,andsmoothskinthatisWillBaxter’sback.
“Goodmorning,”Isay.“Again.”
Willturnsaround,hiseyesslidingdowntowheretheshirtbrushesagainstmylegs.
“Ilike…”Heraiseshiseyebrows,andnodsinmygeneraldirection.“This.”
“This?”Islantmyhead.
“Yeah.Youhere.Inmyclothes.”
There’sashadowofstubbleonhischeeksthatIhaven’tseensincethefirstmorninghewashere,andIwanttorunmyhandoverit.ButIpullacoupleofmugsdownfromthecupboard,hearthammeringundermyribs.Morning-aftercaffeinationisnotusuallysomethingIstickaroundfor.“AndIlike…coffee.”
“IhopeIdidn’twakeyouupwhenIgotoutofbed.Ididn’twanttomoveyouoffme.”Hiseyesglimmeratthis.“ButIhaveacallatten.”
“That’sokay.Ishouldhaveleftearlier.”Ifillthemugs,passingonetoWill.
Hepullsacartonofhalf-and-halffromthefridgeandpoursitintohiscupalongwiththreeheapingspoonsofsugar.Itakeasipofmyown,black,sighingathowgooditis.
“Waitasec.”Ipause.“Where’dyougetthecoffeemaker?”
Willgrimaces.“Iboughtitintownmythirddayhere.Thosepodmachinesareterrible.”
“God,Iknow.”I’vegottoreplacethem.“Thatremindsme.IhaveabunchofresortstuffIwanttotalktoyouaboutlater.Whatdoesyourschedulelooklike?”ThelastthingIwantistojeopardizeourworkingrelationship.IfIdecidetostay,I’llneedWill’shelpmorethanever.ButI’mnotgoingtogetintoallthatbeforehismeeting.
“Wehaveapitchtoday.It’sattwoandwillprobablydragonforabit.”
Ifeelapangofguiltforcomingheresolate.“Who’stheclient?”
Will’sforeheadcreases.Heputshismugonthecounterandtakesastepcloser.“Doyoureallywanttotalkaboutmyworkrightnow?”hesays,brushingastrandofhairbehindmyear.“BecauseIwouldrathertalkaboutlastnight.”
“Oh,”Isay.“Lastnightwas…”
Willputshishandsonmyhipsandpullsmetowardhim,kissingmyneckundermyjaw,andthenhesaysintomyskin,“Lastnightwaswhat,Fern?”Henipsatmyearlobe.
“Lastnightwas…nice.”Abreakfromreality.Will’sdescriptioncrawlsthroughmymind.
“Itwasn’tnice.”Hecupshishandsaroundmyface.“Itwasamazing.Thismorningwasprettyamazing,too.”
IshouldtellWillthat,asamazingasitwas,Ican’tseehimlikethisagain.It’sonethingtohaveacrush,butnakedsleepoverswillonlyleadtoruin.Idon’tthinkmyheartcanhandlebeingWill’sbreakfromrealityfortherestofhistimehere.
Butthenhekissesdownmyneck,hisstubbleticklingmyskin.“Ithinkweshouldtryitagain,don’tyou?”
Inod.“Comeoverassoonasyou’redone.”16
June14,TenYearsAgo
ItwasalmostmidnightwhenWillandImadeittothemansard-roofedVictorianwhereIlived.Itwouldhavebeenagrandhomeatonetime,butitsgutswerenowhackedintoawarrenofapartments.Thesmelloffriedonionsaccompaniedusdownthegloomy,narrowhallwaytothebackofthebuilding.IhopedWillwasn’tpayingattentiontotheyellowingpaintandthestainedorangecarpeting.
Heleanedagainstthewall,hairplasteredtohischeeks,whileIstruggledwiththelock.
“Myhandsareslippery,”Imumbled.
Weweredrenched.Therainwassoheavythatrunningwouldhavebeenpointless.Instead,wewalkedquicklyaslightningflashedinthenorthwestandtheoldtreesthatlinedmystreetswayedinthewind,theirbranchesthwackingthepowerlines.
Willfollowedmeinside,andtogetherwesurveyedthetinyroomthatcontainedthewholeofmylifeinToronto.Adoublebedwaspushedagainstonewall,the“kitchen”ontheopposite.Youcouldstandbetweenthetwoandtouchthecounterwithonearmandtheendofmybedwiththeother.Therewasjustenoughroomforapairofvinyl-covereddiningchairsandalittlewoodentable.
“Smallwouldbeanunderstatement,asyoucansee.”Iwasn’tatidypersonbynature,butI’dlearnedtokeepitneat.Imademybedeverymorning,washedthedishesafterIate.Therewasn’tmuchtodecorate,butI’dpaintedthewallsapaleshadeofmintandhungacoupleofprintsIfoundatasecondhandshop—aforestunderaninkynightskyandadonutadthatlookedantiquebutcertainlywasnot.
Willslippedoffhisbackpack,hiseyestravelingtoaGrizzlyBearconcertposterhangingabovemybed.“Ithasalotofpersonality,”hesaid.“Itseemsveryyou.Thewindowisamazing.”
Itwas.Itlookedontothebackyardandhaddeepsillsandaleadedglasspaneacrossthetop.ItwaswhatIlikedbestabouttheapartment—thehallwaywasominous,butinside,theoriginalhardwoodfloorsandthickbaseboardtrimwerestillintact.
“There’saclaw-foottubinthebathroom,too,”Isaid.“Butthewaterpressuresucks.”WhywasItalkingaboutwaterpressure?BringingWillbacktomyapartmenthadnotbeenpremeditated.Dancingwasonething—asteptoofar,probably.AllIknewwhenIinvitedhimherewasthatIdidn’twanttolethimgo.Butnowwhat?
Iscratchedmywrist.“Well,Ishouldprobablygetchanged.I’dlendyousomething,butIdoubtevenmybiggestshirtwouldfityou.”
“Ithinkitwouldbeasmidgesmall.”Willgavemeanoff-kilterhalfsmile.“Butthat’sokay.Mycoverallsareinmybag.”
Ipulleddryclothesoutofmydresser,tossedWillatowel,andshutmyselfinthebathroom,takingtwicetheamountoftimeIneededtochange.Ibrushedmyteeth,slickedondeodorant,andtwistedmybodyaroundinthemirror.I’dputonapairofbaggygraysweatsandanotherwhitetanktopandawhitebra.Nosillybusinesshere.IwaiteduntilIcouldn’thearWillshufflingaroundontheothersideofthedoor.
Hewasstandingbythetable,holdingaframedphotographwhilerainpeltedthewindow.Hishairhadbeenrubbedintochaos,andhissleeveswererolledpasthiswrists,hidinghistattooonceagain.Thewallsappearedtohaveshrunkinaroundhim.MyapartmentwasnotbigenoughtoaccommodateaWill.
“Isthisyourmom?”heasked.
Thelightsflickered.
Imovedbesidehim,lookingatthepicture.“Yeah,andthat’sPeterwithus.”Itwastakenthenightofmyhighschoolgraduation.I’mwedgedbetweenthetwoofthemonthelodgedeck,thelakeablueblurinthebackground.Peterhadn’twantedtobeintheshot.IrememberMomwhisperingsomethinginhisearandhavingthestrangesenseIwaswitnessingsomethingprivate.Peter’sfaceremainedplacid,buthe’dnoddedandstoodbesideme,wrappinganarmaroundmyshoulders.
“Youlookjustlikeher.”
“Iknow.Itusedtobotherme.”MomhadwornherhairshortsinceIcouldremember.AfterIcutmine,thelikenesswasuncanny.Ididn’tmindtheresemblanceanymore.Iwasn’tsurewhenthatchanged.
“She’sbeautiful,”Willsaid.Myeyesswungtothesideofhisface,buthecontinuedtostudythephoto.
“Yourhairusedtobesolong.”
“Yeah,thisisprettynew.”Itwiddledastrandnearmyforehead.
Willputtheframedown.“Wasitalwaysjustyouandyourmom?”
“Idon’thaveadad,ifthat’swhatyoumean.”
ItookasteptotherightsoIcouldfillglasseswithwater.Thekitchenwasonlyafewfeetofcounter,asink,anancientgasstove,andasmallfridge.IpassedWillatumblerandsatontheedgeofthebed,kickingoutachairforhimtositin.
“MygrandparentslivedattheresortuntilIwastwelve,butPeterwasalwaysaround.He’sthepastrychefthere.Hisdaysstartearly,sohe’dbedonewithworkbythetimeIgothomefromschool.WeusedtohavetheseteapartieswhenIwaslittle.He’dmakecrustlesscucumbersandwichesandwe’dlistentoTalkingHeadsandtheRamones.”Ismiled.“OneofmyearliestmemoriesofTorontoishavingafternoonteaattheRoyalYorkhotelwithPeter.”He’dbeentryingtoconvinceMomtodoafancyteaattheresort—helostthatargument.
Willinspectedtheroomagain,hiseyeslandingonthecloset.Itwaslittlemorethanasingle-doorcubbyandsostuffeditwouldn’tcloseproperly.“Iguessyoucouldn’tstartpackingwithyourfriendhere?”
Ifloppedbackonthebed.Whitney’svisithadgivenmeanexcellentexcusenottothinkaboutboxingupmystuff.“Ican’tbelieveI’mgoingtohavetolivewithmymomagain.”
“Whydoyouhaveto?”IheardWillsay.
Iblinkedupatthecrackthatranthroughtheceiling.Icoulddrawthefissurewithmyeyesclosed.“Well,unlessIwanttobunkinthestaffcabins,andIdefinitelydonot,therereallyisn’tanotheroption.TheresortiskindofremoteandIdon’thaveacar.”
“Right,”Willsaid.“ButwhatImeantwas,whydoyouhavetogohomeatall?”
Acrackofthundersavedmefromanswering.Ijerkedupright,sendingacrushingpressuretomyskull.
“Weneedsomemusic.”IopenedmylaptoponthetablenexttoWill,andtheBrookbankswebsitestaredbackatus.MomhadcalledasWhitneyandIwereheadingoutthedoorthismorning.Shewantedouropiniononthenewroomreservationtool.
“Isthisit?”Willleanedforward.Thephotographerhadgoneoutinaboattogettheshotofthelodgesittingatopitsgrassyhill,thebeachbelow.Itlookedlikeanoversizedskichalet,athree-storystone-and-woodchateauwithagabledroof.
“That’sit.”IclickedoffthepageandovertomyiTunes,scrollingthroughmyalbums.
“Whataboutthem?”Willasked.WhenIturnedtoseewhathemeant,hisfacewassoclose,Icouldseeanalmostinvisiblesmatteringoffrecklesonhischeeks.Ifollowedhisgazetotheposteronmywall.
“GrizzlyBear?Sure.”Iclickedontheirmostrecentalbum.“IsawthematMasseyHalllastyear.Peterboughtmetickets.That’swhenIgottheposter.”
Isatbackonmybedasthefirsttrackbegan.“InmyidealworldI’dhavethespaceandthemoneyforarecordplayer.”
“Andabrand-newHorsesLP.”
“Exactly.ButI’mveryhappywithmystreetcarpin.”
Willtappedhisfingersonthetable.Ourconversationfeltstiltedforthefirsttime.
“Ifyoucouldhaveanythingrightnow,whatwoulditbe?”Iaskedtofillthedeadair.
Willblinkedinsurprise,andablushslunkupfromunderhiscollar.“I’dprobablyhavesomethingtoeat.”
“You’rehungry?Afterallthosenachos?”
“I’mhungryafteralmosteverything.”
“Noted.”
ImighthavebeenabletoopenthefridgewithmyfootifIwereastallasWill,butasitwas,Ineededtogetuptostareatitsemptyshelves.Ihadn’thadachancetorestockafterWhitney’svisit.
“I’vegotpickles?”Ilookedovermyshoulderandnoticedthepaperbagonthecounter.“Oh,actually.Ihavesomethingmuch,muchbetter.”
PeterhadsenttwoloavesofsourdoughdownwithWhitney,andtherewasstillpartofoneleft.“It’snotsuperfresh,butit’lltoastupgreat.”IhelditouttoWillinonehandandwavedmyotherarounditasifitwereapropinamagictrick.“Preparetobeamazed.”
“I’mnotsureI’veseensomeonethisexcitedaboutbreadbefore.”
Istoppedmoving.“Thisisnotjustbread.ThisisPeter’ssourdough—andit’sgoingtochangeyourlife.”
“Isthatso?”
Thelightsflickeredagain,andwebothlookedup,thenbackateachother.
“Iguaranteeit.Aftertonight,you’llneverbethesame,WillBaxter.”
AsIwasgettingoursnackready,agustofwindtoppledthegarbagebinsintheyard.Theraincameharderagainsttheglass,andmylightdimmed,flashedonce,thenwentout.
“Shit.”
“Doyouthinkit’sonlyyourplace?”
Ishuffledovertothewindowtocheckthestreetlights,whichhadalsogonedark.
“Nope.”
“You’vegotabitofaserialkillerthinggoingonrightnow,”Willsaid,hisfaceglowingintheblueofmylaptopscreen.Iwasstillholdingthebreadknife.
“Ah,you’vefigureditallout,”Isaid,raisingitintheair.“ItrickedyouintothinkingIwasaninnocentcountrylass.”Ifrowned,droppingtheknifetomyside.“Thetoasterisoutofcommission.”Ichewedonmycheek,thinking.“I’lljustuseapan.”Thestovewasolderthanmeandthebackright-handburnerwasbroken,butbecauseitwasgas,Icouldcookinapoweroutage.
“Doyouhavealighter?”WillaskedasIwasfryingthebread.“Icandoyourcandles.”
“Inmybedsidetable.”IwassocaughtupthinkingabouttheequationofromanticlightingplusWillplussmallroomthatitwasn’tuntilhewasopeningmydrawerthatIrememberedwhatwasinside.“No,wait.Don’tdothat.It’sinmybag.IntheZiggyStardustpouch.”
Nowmypulsegalloped,andwitheverysnickofthelighter,myskinfeltsnugger.Willlitallfiveofmycandles,eachnestledsafelyinaglassjar,deliveringonetothebathroomandonetothecounternexttome.Anotherwenttothetable,afourthtomydresser,andthelastbesidemybed.Whenhe’dfinished,theroomquiveredwithgold.
“Yourlaptoponlyhastwelvepercentbattery.ShouldIshutitdownincasethepower’soutforawhile?”Willasked,interruptingmyincreasinglyattentivebreadfrying.
“Iguessyoubetter.”
Withthat,themusichalted.
Itwasjustthetwoofusnow.Andoneplateoftoastedsourdough.
IsetitonthetablealongwithasmallramekinofflakedsaltandbutterandtookthechairbesideWill.
“Putalittlesaltontop,”Isaid,demonstrating.IwaitedforWilltodothesamebeforeItookabite,watchingashiseyeswidened.Thesoundhemade,hismouthstillfull,wassomethingalongthelinesofFuuuuh
“Petermadethis?”
“Yeah.It’swhatweserveattheBrookbanksrestaurant.”
“NowIhaveanotherreasontogetuptoyourresort.I’mgoingtoshakethatman’shandandeatsevenloavesofsourdough.”Hetookabiteandsaidwhilechewing,“Thelakelookednice,too—maybeI’lltakeacanoeoutwhileI’mthere.”
“Ohyeah?I’mhavingahardtimepicturingyouinthebush.WillBaxterinacanoe?”Ishookmyhead,smiling.
Hegavemeascowl.“I’dlookgreatinthebush.Sensationalinacanoe.You’lljusthavetoshowmehowtoholdapaddle.”
“Howaboutthis:I’lltakeyououtinacanoe,teachyouhowtodoaJ-stroke,andmakesureyoudon’tembarrassyourself.Butinreturn,youhavetoshowmeyourdrawings.”Ifweweregoingtoplaymake-believe,ImightaswellshapethefantasyhowIliked.
“Youwanttoseemywork?”
“Yeah.”Isuckedbutteroffmyfingers.“Sobringyourportfoliowhenyoucome.”
Willpushedhischeekoutwithhistongue,regardingme.“Icouldshowyounow.”
Ipaused,indexfingerstillinmymouth.
“Ihaveasketchbookwithme,”hesaid.“Ialwayscarryonearound.It’smostlyideasforRoommates.Thereareafewportraits.”Heshrugged.“Ifyouwant.”
“Really?Youdon’tmind?”
Hescratchedthebackofhisneck.“Idon’tlovewatchingpeoplelookatmystuff,butItrustyounottosaysomethingterrible.”Hegavemeaseriouslook.“Evenifyouthinkit’sbasic.”
“Iwouldnever.”
ButasWillrummagedthroughhisbag,Ibegantoworry.Iwasterribleatfakingit.
“Here.”HehandedmeabatteredgreenMoleskine,thensat,elbowsrestingonknees,chinperchedononehand.
Istartedatthebeginningandwentslowly,studyingthefiguresontheunlinedpages.Thesamefourcharactersweredrawnmanytimesover,sometimesrenderedinfineblackinkandsharp,confidentlinesandothertimesinscratchypencil.
“Youaregood,”Isaid,glancingupathim,buthedidn’trespond,justwatchedasIturnedthepages.
Oneofthecharacterswasdozy-eyed,slumped,andalwayscarriedasandwichinhishand.Anotherworeamanbun.TheonewhowasobviouslyWillwasabeanpolewithanexaggeratednose.Onepagewasfullofnotes.Hewroteintidycapitalletters.
“Ideasforstrips,”WillsaidwhenIgottoit.
Scatteredthroughoutwererealisticsketchesoftreesandbridgesandeverydayobjects—abowloflemons,Will’sbackpackdroppedinacorner.Therewereafewportraits.Myfavoritewasofagirlswimming,herhandssplashingupwater,atoothysmileonherface.
“Thisisincredible,”ItoldWill.
“Thanks.”Heclearedhisthroat.“That’smysister.It’snotalwayseasytofindpeopletositforme,somostlyIusephotos.ThatwasfromourfamilyvacationtoPrinceEdwardIslandwhenwewerekids.”
“Youcandomeifyouwant.”Iclosedmyeyes.“Imean,ifyouwantedtodrawme,youcould.”
Willdidn’tsayanything,soIopenedonelid.“Wasthatweird?Ijustthoughtyoumightwantthepractice.”Ipickedupanothersliceofsourdough,examiningtheholeswithnewfascination.
“Actually,I’dlikethat.”
Ipeeredupfromthebread.“Really?Sohowdowedothis?Doyouwantmetoputachairoverthere?”Imotionedtotheothersideoftheroom,nearthedoor.
Willtookthepieceofbreadfrommyhandsandsetitontheplate.Helookedaroundthespace,hiseyessettlingonthebed.“No.Yougothere.”
—
ItstartedwithmeattheheadofmybedandWillonachairbythefoot.Heturnedtoafreshpage,staringatitforafullminuteandthenatme,firstmyfaceandthentherest.Hishandmovedacrossthepageinquick,shortstrokes.Hekepttiltingforward,squintingatmeinthedarkness.
“Doyouwantmetomovecloser?”Isaidafterhisthirdtiltandsquint.
Helookedup,pausing.“Yeah,that’dbegreat.”
Ishimmiedforward.“Canwetalk,orwillthatmesswithyourprocess?”
“Wecantalk.”
“HowlongdoyouusuallystaywhenyoucomebacktoToronto?”IhopedIwasn’tbeingcompletelyobvious.
Willgavemealickety-splitsmilebeforehewentbacktodrawing.“Depends.Thistripwasabitoveraweek.Usuallyit’sjustafewdays.”
Notverylong,then.Notenoughtimetovisitmeupnorth.“Oh.Whythelongerstay?”
“Mydad’sgettingremarried.Therewasanengagementpartylastweekend,andIhadn’tmethisfiancée,sotherewasalotofgetting-to-know-youstuff.”
“Diditgookay?”I’dneverhadtonavigatetheinsandoutsofparentallovelives.IfIdidn’tknowbetter,ImighthavebelievedMomwilledmeintobeing.
“Iguess.Sheseemedgenuinelyintomydad.ButIwantedtobelike,Thisguy,really?Youknowhewashesprewashedsalad,right?”
Ilaughed,andhethoughtforamoment.
“Itwasweirdtoseehimwithsomeoneotherthanmymom.Annabelhasmetherabunchoftimesandlikesher,andmysisterisatoughcritic.Ihope…”Hestareddownatthesketch.
“Areyouallright?”
Henoddedonce,thenlookedupatme.“Itbothersme.ThatIleft,likeourmomdid.DadissohardonAnnabel,butmaybewhenLindamovesin,thingswillgetbetter.”Herubbedhiseye.“Anyway,Iunloadedonhimlastnight,notthatitwillmakeadifference.Itwasgoodtohaveadistractiontoday,tonothavetogohomeanddealwithhim.”Willwentbacktodrawing.
“Ifyouwanttocrashheretonight,youcan,”Iblurtedout.
Thepencilstopped.
“Ifyouwant.”
Helookedupatme.
“Youcan.”
Wewatchedeachother,andthenWillresumedsketching.Neitherofusspokeforseveralminutesuntilhesaid,“Sowhat’shelike—theboyfriend?”
“Jamie?”IstaredatWill,tryingtointuitwhyhewasasking,butallIabsorbedwasthelengthofhiseyelashes.
“Yeah.Jamie.”
“He’sgreat,”Isaidslowly.Ihadn’tdescribedJamietoanotherpersoninsuchalongtime,andIdidn’tlovethetaskofexplaininghimtoWill.“He’sverychill.Funny.He’sthekindofpersoneveryonelikes—he’sthecaramelpuddingofhumans.”
“You’velostme,”Willsaid.
Ilookedatthesurrealistpinonhiscollar.“It’skindofaninsidething—whattypeofdessertwe’dbe.He’scaramelpudding—sweetandsmoothandcrowd-pleasing.”
Willglancedatme.Icouldhaveswornhewassmirking.“Andwhataboutyou,FernBrookbanks?Whatkindofdessertwouldyoube?”
“Me?”Iswallowed.“JamiethinksI’malemontart.”
IwatchedWill’schestriseandfall.Hetippedhisheadtowardhisbook.“AndwhatdoyouthinkI’dbe?”
IcouldtastePeter’ssaltedchocolatetorte,thathintofchili.“Idunno…achocolatelog?”
“Chocolatelog?”
“Yeah.Youknow,withthechocolatewafersandwhippedcream?”IshouldhavethoughtbeforeI’dopenedmymouth.
“Uh-huh,”Willsaid.“Whatelse?”
Iknewhedidn’tmeanwhatelseaboutthelog.Itookadeepbreath.
“I’veknownJamieforalongtime,buthewasalwaysjustanolderlakekid.”
Willglancedatme.“Howmucholder?”
“Threeyears.Hisfamilyhasacottageneartheresort.Anyway,Iwaskindofamessattheendofhighschool,andJamieandIwereworkingtogether.Hewastheonlypersonwhodidn’tjudgeme.”Willlookedupfromhisdrawing.“Thatwasthebeginning.”
“Fouryearsago?”
“Right.Weworktogetherattheresorteverysummer.Jamiestaysinthestaffcabinsinsteadofhisfamily’scottagebecausehelikesittheresomuch.”Ipickedatthebluepolishonmyindexfinger.“Idonotrelate.”
“That’snotthesenseIgot.”
“Areyouserious?”HadInotexplainedtohimhowIdidn’twanttogobacktotheresort?
“Yeah.Atthegallerytoday…andthewayyouspokeaboutit.Idon’tknow.Igottheimpressionyouloveitupthere.”
Iblinkedathim.Insomanyways,Idid.Ilovedwatchingastormmoveacrossthelake.IlovedhangingoutinthepastrykitchenwithPeter,andplayingcribbagewiththeRoses,andtakingakayakoutonastillday.“Maybe.”
Istareddownatmyhands.ThingshadbeenbetterwithMomsinceImovedinherebeforethestartofmysecondyearofuniversity.IneverappreciatedherType-A-ness,butthedaysheandPeterhelpedmeunpack,sheattackedscrubbingandorganizingtheapartmentasifitwereamilitaryoperation.Inoneafternoon,theburntcheesewasscouredfromthestove;thebathroomtilegroutwasrevealedaswhite,notgray;andeachofmypots,pans,andutensilshadbeenwashedandassignedahome.Iwasgratefulandtiredwhenweweredone,butinsteadofthemgoingbacktotheirhotelroom,Momsuggestedthethreeofuscelebrate.Wesatoutsideatalittlerestaurantontheendofmystreetandorderedpizzaandredwineandreminiscedaboutthesummer.Itfeltlikewewereanormalfamilyhavinganightout,andIguesswewere.WhenMomdroppedmeoffatmydormtheyearprior,Icouldn’tshoveheroutthedoorfastenough.ButIclungtoheraswehuggedgoodbyethatnight,wishingshecouldstayalittlewhilelonger.
“IfIdidn’tgohome…”Ishookmyhead.“It’snotanoption.”
“AndwhataboutJamie?Youhaven’ttoldhim?”
“No.Ican’tseethatgoingoverwell.IthinkPeteristheonlypersonIcouldtalkto.”Ithoughtabouttheplaylisthe’dmademe.“Heprobablyalreadysuspectsanyway.Heknowsmebetterthananyone.”
“Youlovehim?”
IglancedatWill,surprised.
“Peter?Yeah.He’stheclosestthingIhavetoadad.”
“ImeantJamie.”
Ididn’tintendtoleaveagapingpause,buthe’dcaughtmeoffguard.“Ofcourse.Iwouldn’tbewithhimifIdidn’t.”
Henodded.
“AreyouinlovewithFred?”
“No,”hesaidwithouthesitation.Afterasecondheadded,“IthoughtImighthavebeen.ButI’verealizedI’mnot.”
Iwantedtoknowhowhefiguredthatoutandwhen,andwhytheywerestilltogetherifthatwasthecase.Butaskingthosequestionsseemeddangerous.Instead,webothwentquiet,andIwatchedthecandlelightflickeragainstWill’scheeks,gettinglostinitshollows.
Therainfellharder,hittingthewindowsideways.Eventually,Will’shandstilled.
“I’mworriedyou’regoingtohateit,”hesaid.
“Honestly,metoo.”
Heshiftedtotheedgeofthebed.Iscootedbesidehim.Ileftafewinchesofspacebetweenus,butIcouldfeeltheheatofhisbody,smelltheraininhishairandthepaintonhisclothes.
Ileanedoverthepage,andthereIwas,capturedinfinestrokesofgraphite,inshadowandlight.Theillustrationwascarefulanddetailed,thefocusclearlyonme,thebedandroomblurringoutaroundme.Mychinrestedonmyknees,armswrappedaroundmyshins,feetbare.Therewasaslightupwardslanttomylips,myeyeswidenedinakindofsecretivedelight.
“Youhavethislookwhenyou’reexcitedaboutsomething—Iwastryingtogetthat.”Heduckedhisheadsohecouldreadtheexpressiononmyface.“Yournosewashard,too.”
“Mynose?”Ibrushedmyfingersoverit.
“HowdidIdo?Doyouhateit?”
Ishookmyhead.“No.It’s…”Iwantedtoexplainhowitfeltasifnoonehadreallyseenmebeforethatmoment,butallIcameupwithwas,“It’sme.”August3,1990
Myperiodislate.Myperiodisneverlate.Iwassupposedtogetitsixdaysago.
ButIcan’tbepregnant.I’vebeencareful.I’monthepill.
Ihaveaplan.Managingtheresortbytwenty-three.Marriedbytwenty-six.TwochildrenbeforeI’mthirty.
I’mnotsupposedtohavekidsforatleastanotherfiveyears!
Europe.Work.Marriage.Babies.That’stheorderthingsaresupposedtogoin.
I’mnotpregnant.I’mnot.Ican’tbe.
Exceptmyboobshurt.Alot.17
Now
Idiveofftheendofthefamilydock,slicingthroughthewateruntilI’mforcedtosurface.IputonmysuitassoonasIgotbackfromWill’scabinandtookthekayakout.Butitdidn’thelpmetaketheedgeoffhavingspentthenightwithhim,theprospectofspendinganothernighttogether.
LongbeforeIwasborn,mygrandparentsandmomwouldcomeheretospendtimebythewater.Theshorelineisprivate,tuckedintoasmallbay—youcan’tseethecabinsortheresort’sbeach.Therearetwometalchairs,theirredpaintpeeling,andashort,equallyworndock.Agnarledcedargrowsoutoverthewater;thebaseofitstrunkliesparalleltothesurface.WhitneyandIusedtostrutdownitlikeitwasacatwalk.Whenwewereeleven,shetalkedmeintodressingupinMom’sformalwearandtakingastereowithustogetthefulleffect,butshefellinthelakewearingasilkteadress.Momhaduscollectingerranttennisballsaroundthecourtsfortherestofthesummer.
Ipreferredswimmingatthefamilydock,awayfromeveryone,butWhitneylikedthebeachforscoutingMysteryGuesttargetswhenwewereyoungerandcuteboyslateron.ThiswasMom’sfavoritespot,whereshecametoenjoyhercoffeeandasliverofsolitude.
Mybrainislikeanoverstimulatedmagpie,strugglingtodecidewhichshinyobjecttolandon.
Theresort.
Will.
Theresort.
ThethingWilldoeswithhisthumb.
I’mnotmuchofaswimmer.Ilovebeinginthewater,thoughI’mmostlyalounge-on-a-pool-noodlekindoffish.ButtodayIpaddlebackandforthuntilmymindshutsup.
Wrappingmyselfinatowelwhenmylungsandarmsgiveuponme,IsitinthesamechairIalwayshave,theoneontheleft.Iwatchthewavesfromaboat’swakecrashagainsttherocksandscrubattheshore,andforasecond,it’slikeMomisrighttherebesideme,holdingasteamingmug.
Thiswasourplace—theonlyonethateverreallyfeltlikehersandminealone.We’dcomeinthemornings,andMomwouldleaveherBlackBerryatthehouse.Inthemiddleofsummer,shewouldn’thavetimetolinger,andassoonasshefinished,she’dbeupandoutofherseat.Butinthefall,we’dbringstreusel-toppedmuffinsPeterhadbakedandstayhereuntilIneededtogetreadyforschool.Inspring,we’dtrudgethroughthemeltingsnowandhuddleunderblankets.
Iloveithere,shewouldsigh.Aren’twelucky?
Icanhearhervoicesoclearly.
IwishsohardIcouldhearitagain.ThediariesaretheclosestthingIhave.It’sbeenmoredifficultreadingthefinalonethistime.Ididn’tthinkthatwaspossible.Momwasyoungwhenshebecamepregnant.I’vealwaysknownthat—butreadingherjournalasanadultissodifferentbecausenowshesoundsyoung.
Amonarchbutterflyflittersby,thenlandsonthepurplepetalofawildirisgrowingatthewater’sedge.EvenwhenIwasinthethroesofmyteenagerebellion,Momwouldmakemecomeherewithher.I’dsitwithmyarmscrossedovermychest,notspeaking,untilshewasdonewithhercoffee,andthenI’dslumpbackupthetrailtothehouse.
Ican’trememberthelasttimewesathere.Idon’tthinkwegottothelaketogetheronceinthepasttwelvemonths.ThemoreresponsibilityItookonatFiltr,theharderitwastofindtimetocomehome,thoughIstayedforafullweektheThanksgivingafterPhilippeandIbrokeup.Onmylastmorning,ItoldMomaboutmydecisiontoswearoffmen.IsaidI’dbehappieronmyown,likeshewas.
Sheleanedovertotakemyhand,fixingmewithhergrayeyes.Iknowyou’renotreadyrightnow,honey,butIthinkonedayyou’llfindyourheart’stoobigforjustyou.Inodded,thoughIdidn’tbelieveher.Itwaschillyoutside,theskybrightblue,theleavesredandgold.Momtippedherchintothesun,sittingtherewithhereyesclosed,asmileacrosshermouth,untilItoldherthetime—sheneededtogetovertothelodge.Sheshookherhead.Let’sstayalittlelonger,pea.
Istareattheemptychairbesideme,andIknow.Myheart’stoobigtoletgo.
Peoplechange.Dreamschange,too.
WhenIgetbacktothehouse,Isitontheendofmybedinmydampbathingsuit,towelaroundmywaist.IpickupthediaryfromthenightstandandrunmyfingersoverMom’swriting.IwanttotellherI’mgoingtostay.Iwanttoaskherforadvice.Iwanthertotellmehowproudsheis.Iwantmymom.
AfterI’vewipedawaytearswiththeedgeofthetowel,mygazelandsonanameonthepage,andIpickupmyphoneandpressthecallbutton.
“Fern?”Peter’sdeepvoicesoundsinmyear.
“Hey,Peter.Iwantedtotellyoufirst.I’vemadeadecisionabouttheresort.”
—
“Ithasn’tchangedatall,”Jamiesaysashelooksaroundthelivingroom.“Ihaven’tbeeninheresinceweweredating.”
I’mnotsurprised.AsmuchasmymotherlivedandbreathedBrookbanks,shekeptherrelationshipswiththestaffprofessional.Peterwasanexception.
IalwaysthoughtMom’sreservewaspurelyaboutestablishingboss-employeeboundaries.NowthatI’mreadingherdiarywithadulteyes,I’mcertainthat’snotthewholestory.
ButI’mnotmymother.
AfterIgotoffthephonewithPeter,IaskedJamietocomebythehouse.
He’swearingahuntergreentiewithwhitepineconesprintedonit.It’ssomethingInoticedonlyafewdaysago—healwayswearsatiewithatleastasplashofBrookbanksgreen.Iwonderhowmuchtimehespendsonline,huntingforgreenties.IwonderwhenhemorphedintotheJamieheisnow,organizedandtidy.
MaybeitwaswhenhelivedinBanff.Hestayedthereforafewyears,workinghiswayupatoneoftheresortsbeforemovingtoOttawatomanageahoteldowntownnearParliamentHill.ItwasJamie’sparentswhotoldmymomhowmuchheenjoyedhissummersatBrookbanksandsuggestedshegivehimacall.
Hertextmessagearrivedoutoftheblueafewyearsago.
WestilllikeJamiePringle,right?
Ihadn’theardhisnameinyears.Wedidn’treallystayintouchafterourbreakup.
Wedo,Iwroteback.Ihadn’tsaidmuchtoMomwhenwe’dsplit,andIknewthiswasherroundaboutwayofasking.
Thinkingabouthiringhimforthemanagerjob.
He’dbegreat,Itexted.
Asidefrommymom,noonelovedtheresortasmuchasJamie.
“Ireallyappreciateallthesupportyou’vegivenmethelastfewweeks,”Itellhimoncewe’reseatedatthekitchentable.Myvoicesoundsstiff.Idon’tknowwhyI’mnervous.
“Whatthehell,Fernie?Areyoufiringme?”
“What?No.”
Heletsoutagustofairandthendropshisheadtothetable.“Ireallythoughtyouweregoingtofireme,”hesays,voicemuffled.
“WhywouldIdothat?”
Helooksupatmewithalopsidedgrin.“Becauseyou’restillinlovewithme,andyoucan’tstandtobeinthesameroomwithoutwantingtotearmyclothesoff?”
“AmIthattransparent?”
“Thedroolinggaveyouaway.Youdroolwhenyou’returnedon.”
Ilaugh.“IbroughtyouherebecauseIwantedtotellyouthatI’mnotgoingtoselltheresort.I’mgoingtostayonasowner.”
Jamieslapshishandonthetable.“Now,thatisexcellentnews.”
“Buttherearegoingtobechanges.”
JamiehassomeunderstandingofWill’sconsultingwork,butIexplainmoreaboutwhatwe’vebeendoing.“YouknowBrookbanksandtheguests,”Isay.“I’dloveyourinput.”
“Ofcourse,Fernie.Iwouldbehonoredtohelp.”Honored.He’sserious,too.
“YoureallythoughtI’dfireyoubecausewedated?”
Heeyesme.“Iwasworriedyoumight.Wehaveahistory,andIthoughtyoucouldwantacleanslate.”
“Ihaveahistorywithalotofpeoplehere.Atleasthalfadozenpeopleonstaffchangedmydiaper.Acoupleoftheguests,too.There’snosuchthingasacleanslateforme.”
“Buthowmanyofthemhaveyousleptwith?”
Iblink.Animagefromlastnightslinksthroughmymind.Willbeneathme,hisswollenlipsaroundmynipple,lookingupatmewithdarkenedeyes.
“Waitasec,whoelsehaveyousleptwith,Fernie?”
“Noone,”Isay,cheeksburning.“Wecan’ttalkaboutoursexlivesifwe’regoingtoworktogether.”
“Okay.”Heflashesmeagrin.“Thoughwe’llhavetoifwestartsleepingtogether.”
Ikickhimunderthetable.
Twohourslater,I’mcurleduponthecouchwhileJamiewarblesoutashockinglygoodversionof“Ironic.”Heinsistedthatwecelebrate,insistedweneededtodothatwiththegoodstuff,andinsistedonitbeinghistreat.Hecalledthelodgetohaveabottleof“ourfinest,cheapestsparklingwine”sentover.
“YourAlanisisunreal,”Icry,clappingmyhandswhenhe’sdone.
“Iknow.”Heflopsdownonthesofa,puttinghissockedfeetupbesideme,andsipshisbeer.Thebubblydidn’tlastlong.
Isigh.“Ican’tbelievethey’regoingtoletusrunthisplace.”
Jamiebumpsmylegwithhisfoot.“I’mhappyyou’reback.Imissedyou.”
“Imissedyou,too,”Isay,becauseit’strue.IlostaclosefriendwhenIlostJamie.
“Allright,Fernie.You’reup.”
“Whatdoyoumean,up?”
“Thefloorisyours.”
“Nope,sorry.YouknowIdon’tdokaraoke.”PublicdisplaysoftonedeafnessarefirmlyonthelistofembarrassingthingsIdonottakepartin.Also:kitschyholidaysweaters,bachelorettepartygames,sparklyeyeshadow.ButJamierazzesmeuntilIrelent.
I’malmostthrough“Insensitive”(MomwasamajorJannArdenfan)whenJamieturnstowardthedoorway.InitstandsWill.He’swearingthefullWillBaxter:jacket,tie,combed-backhair,andanunreadableexpression.
“Iwashopingyouwouldn’tnoticeme,”hesays.“Please,continue.”
Ishakemyhead,mortified.“Howwasyourmeeting?”
“Fine.Itranlong.”WilllooksatJamieandtheemptybottleofcavaonthetable.“IgothereassoonasIcould.”
“FernieandIwerecelebratinghergoodnews,”Jamiesays,standing.
WillflinchesatthewordFernieandrunsahanddownhistie.“Whatnewsisthat?”
“I’vedecidedtostay,”Itellhim.
WillglancesatJamieandbacktome.“Congratulations,”hesays,hisvoicehoarse.“SorryIinterruptedthefestivities.”
“Youdidn’t,”Isay.
“Youdefinitelydid,”Jamiesays.“ButIwasjustleaving.Showmeout,Fernie?”
Will’seyesslit,andJamiewinksathim.
“Thatguy?”Jamiewhispersoncewe’reatthefrontdoor.
“Ican’tbelieveyou,tryingtobaithimlikethat,”Ihiss.
“Comeon.Igetsomeleewaytohasslehim.Fouryearstogetherbuysmethat,doesn’tit?”
“Youdon’tstill…”Istart,narrowingmyeyes.
“Havefeelingsforyou?”Jamietugsastrandofmyhair.“I’llalwaysloveyou,Fernie.Butdon’tworry.Icanbeprofessional.”
I’llalwaysloveJamie,too.“Idon’twantittobeweirdwithus.Iwanttobefriends.”
“Same,”hesays.“Andasyourfriend,Idon’tlikehimforyou.He’stoouptight,tooserious,andthere’ssomethingshiftyabouthim.It’slikehe’shidingsomething.Whatdoyouseeinhim?Doesheplayaninstrument?”
“Goodbye,Jamie.”
Hekissesmeonthecheek.“Andhe’swaytootall.”
WhenIgetbacktothelivingroom,Willisonthecouch,hishandsbetweenhisknees,staringatthefloor.
“You’relookingalittlebroody,”Isay,sittingbesidehim.“What’sgoingon?”
“IwasthinkingabouthowmuchIusedtohatethatguy,andI’dneverevenmethim.”
“Really?Ifwe’rebeinghonest,Iwasn’tabigfanofyourgirlfriend,either.”
Will’slipquirks.“Icouldtell.Youaren’tthemostsubtleperson,FernBrookbanks.”
Iwince.
WillpullsmesothatI’msittingonhislap,mythighsaroundhis.Herunsahandunderneaththeskirtofmydress,tracingitupmyleg.Iclosemyeyesandburymyfingersinhishair,groaning.Forsolong,Willhasbeenmywhatifguy.Whatifwehadbothbeensinglewhenwemet?
Hekissesthespotbelowmyearashepushesmyunderweartotheside.“IthoughtyouwerethecoolestgirlI’devermet.Iwasconsideringbreakingupwithmygirlfriend.Sendingheratext.”
“What?”Myeyespopopen,buthedoesn’tstopwhathe’sdoing.
“ButthenIfoundoutaboutyouandJamie.”Will’swatchingmeintently,andthenhedoesthethingwithhisthumb
“Ohmygod.”
“Istillhatethatguy,”hesays.“Ihatethatyoutoldhimabouttheresortbeforeme.”
Will’sfingersaremakingitveryhardtobeverbal.Butafterafewseconds,Imanagetoask,“You’rejealous?”
Hepresseshisteethtomyneck.“Sofuckingjealous.”
Itshouldn’tthrillme,butitdoes.Istandjusttoslipmypantiesoff,thenIreachforthebuttononWill’spants.Hepullsafoilpacketfromhispocket,andwhenIlowermyselfontohim,webothgostill.
ImurmurwhenIfeelhimpulseinsideme.Istarttocirclemyhips,lookingforfriction,butheholdsthemstillandbringshislipstomyear.
“Wanttoknowsomethingelse?”hegritsout.
Inod.Adverbshaveabandonedme.
“Ididn’tneedyourhelpvarnishingthemural,”hewhispers,histhumbgoingbacktoworkbetweenus.“ItwouldhavebeenmuchfasterifI’ddoneitmyself.Icouldhavefinishedinhalfthetime,butIwantedtohangoutwithyou.”
ImurmuragainbecauseI’velostallthewordsinmyvocabulary.
“AndIthoughtverylongandhardaboutwhatyoukeptinyourbedsidetabledrawer.”
I’mtoofocusedontheneedbetweenmylegsandthehungerinWill’seyestohaveevenashredofembarrassment.
It’sfast,almostfeverish.Willwatchesmyfacethewholetime.HemustbeabletotellhowmuchIlikethethingsthatcomeoutofhismouth,becausewhenI’mclose,heputshislipstomyearandtellsmetocome,andIdo.
Ileanmyforeheadagainsthis,catchingmybreath.IwanttoliedowninbedandreplaymydaywithWillwiththeknowledgethathewasjealous.AndthenIwanttosleep.
—
TellingWhitneyI’mstayingisperhapsthemostrewardingexperienceofmyadultlife.ShebeggedmetobringWilltodinnerattheirplaceinHuntsville.She’sjuststashedOwenintheJollyJumperthathangsbetweenherlivingroomandkitchenwhenIgiveherthenews.Shescreamsandburstsintotears,smashingmeagainsther.
IlookatWilloverhershoulder,andmouth,Wow.HeandCamarelaughing,andtheJollyJumperissqueakingwitheachofOwen’sleaps,andWhitneyissaying,“I’mjustsohappy.”It’sloudandlovelyandIthink,Thisiswhatagoodlifesoundslike.
Cammakesspaghettibolognese,andwhenOwengetsfussy,Willwalkshimaroundthemainfloorofthehouse,singinginhisear.He’sdressedinjeansandawhiteshirt,sleevesrolledpasthisforearms,andbothWhitneyandCamoglehimlikehe’sagiftfromthebabysittinggods.Atonepoint,Whitneyaskshimtomoveinwiththem.
Overdinner,Whitneylaunchesintothestoryofhowwebecamefriends.Camchimesin,“IstillhaveadentwhereFernsockedme.”Willsqueezesmythighunderthetableandgivesmeasecretsmile.He’sheardthisonebefore.
Whenthebabyhasgonetobed,Whitneysteersmeintothekitchenundertheguiseofhelpingherservedessert.Shewantstoknowwhat’shappeningbetweenWillandme,andItellherthetruth.Ihavenoidea.AllIknowisthathe’sdecidedtostayuntilthedayafterthedance.Weordereddinnerfromtherestaurantafterourquickieonthecouchyesterday,andthenhespentthenightinmybed.Ithoughtaboutaskinghimtoleavebeforewefellasleep,butIcouldn’tgetthewordsout.Iwantedhimtostay.
OtherthanWhitney’sprolongedinquiryintoWill’soralhealthregime,thewholeeveninggoesoffwithoutanyawkwardness.
ButthenthebellstollonWill’sphone.
Whitneyistryingtotalkusintohavinganotherdrinkandsleepingintheirguestroominsteadofmedrivingthetwentyminutesbacktotheresort,butassoonasWill’sphonesounds,heexcuseshimselfandheadsintothekitchen.
He’sgonelongenoughthatCamandWhitneygiveeachotherpointedlooks.
“I’llgoseeifeverything’sokay,”Isay.
WhenIwalkintothekitchen,Willglancesupfromhisphone.Hisneckisredandhelooksasthoughhe’sabouttoissueasternwarning.“Igottago,”hesaystothepersonontheotherend.
“Areyouallright?”Iaskwhenhehangsup.
Willblinkstwice.“Doyoumindifwetakeoff?”
ItellhimIdon’t,butmystomachlurches.WesaygoodnighttoWhitneyandCam.Willthanksthemfortheinvitationandthemeal,buthe’stenseanddistracted.Hissmiledoesn’treachhiseyes.
What’swrong?WhitneymouthswhenWillisn’tlooking,andIshakemyhead.
Thedrivebacktotheresortisquietexceptforthecracklingofcountrymusicontheradio.IkeepglancingawayfromtheroadatWill,buthe’slookingouthiswindow,twistinghisring.
“Hassomethinghappened?”IsaywhenIpulltheCadillacintotheBrookbanksparkinglot.
Will’sfrowndeepens.“It’sfamilystuff.”
Apuzzlepiecefallsintoplace.AbellringtoneforAnnabel.
“It’syoursisteryouweretalkingto?”
Willdoesn’tanswer.
Iconsiderlettingitslide.Talkingabouthishomelifedoesnotequaltheescapefromrealityhe’sclearlyseeking.ButIreachacrosstheconsoleandputmyhandonhisknee.“What’sgoingon?”
“Annabelhasstartedlookingforherownplace,forherandSofia.Shewantstomoveout,”Willsaysafteramoment
“Oh.”Ihesitate.“Andthat’sbad?”
“It’s…”Helooksoutthewindow,thenatme.“It’snotsomethingIwanttotroubleyouwith.”
“Itwouldn’tbetrouble.Idon’tmind,”Itry.
“Imind,”hesays.“Let’skeepthemoutofthis,okay?”
IaskWilltostayoveratthehouse,buthesayshecan’ttonight.HewantstocallAnnabelback.
ItossandIturnandeventuallyIfallasleep,onlytowakewithagaspfromadreamIdon’tremember.It’s2:08a.m.IpullthesmalldeskchairuptomybedroomwindowandstareatthegoldensquareoflightcomingfromWill’scabin.Ifinditcomforting,knowingthathe’sthere.
ButIwanthimhere,inmybed.Iwanthimtotalktome.I’mafraidofhowmuchIwantwhereWillisconcerned.18
June15,TenYearsAgo
IwashunchedoverWill’ssketchbook,mynoseinchesfromthepage,staringatthedrawing.Itmusthavebeenwellpastmidnight.Willstoodbesideme,stretching.
ForyearsI’descapednotice.Isatinthebackrowoflecturehalls.Ipartied,butnottoohard.Ihadonlyafewclosefriends.Iwaitedtomakeadramatichairtransformationuntilafterclasseshadended.Idatedsomeonewhoseboisterousnessletmefadeintothebackground.
Ididn’twantattention.
Deepdown,Isuspectedsomethingwaswrongwithme—thatIhadunearthedacoreofrotatseventeen,andIwasworriedifsomeonelookedtooclosely,they’dseeit,too.IdiligentlycoveredmymistakeswitheconomicsclassesandgoodgradesandshiftsatTwoSugarsandSundayphonecallswithMom.Iwasneverlatetoanyofthem.Asidefromtheoccasionaljoint,Iwasthepictureofresponsibility.AndwhenIfeltthecoldtrickleofmyfuturerunningdownmyneck,IputonmyheadphonesandIwentforawalk.Idisappearedintotheveinsofthecity.
Butforsomeunfathomablereason,IletWillsitacrossfrommeandscrutinize.Ilethimsee.
And,yes,Ilikedhowhemademelook—themysteriouscurveofmymouthandthearchofmyneck—butitwasmorethanthat.TherewasnoquestionthepersonWillhadseenwasbeautiful—hehadn’tfoundarottencore.
“CanIhaveit?”Iasked.
Asmallsmileansweredmefirst.“It’sallyours.”
Iwatchedhimstretchalittlelonger.“Thewayyoumove,”Isaid,notsurehowtodescribeit.“You’rekindagraceful?Andyourposture—it’sverygood.”
Willopenedhiseyes.“Myposture’sexcellent.”
Hesmirked,thensatonthechair,absentlyrufflinghisdamphair,sendingitinallsortsoffascinatingdirections.“Mygrandma’sgotathingaboutposture.”Hesmiled.“Andtablemanners,handwashing,walkingontheoutsideofthesidewalkwhenoneisescortingayounglady.”
Ilaughed.“Aha.It’sallcomingtogether.Didyouspendalotoftimewithyourgrandmagrowingup?”
Henoddedandrubbedatthespotonhischinwherehisscarwas.Heseemedtohesitatebeforehespokeagain.“MysisterandIlivedwithherforafewmonthsafterMomleft.”
“Yourdadwashavingahardtime?”Iguessed.
“Weallwere.But”—hiseyessearchedmyface—“IguessIhadthehardesttime.”
Iblinked.“You?”Willseemedsotogether.
“Me.”
IthoughtofthecommentElimadeatthebar,aboutWillbeingemo.
AndthenIcouldseeitclearly.“Youweremadather,”Isaid.Iknewallaboutbeingangryataparent.
Willlookedawayforalongmoment.“Iwasfuckingfurious.”
Icouldfeelmyheartracing,likeitwastryingtobreakthroughmyribsandreachouttohis.Iknowyou,eachthumpsaid.You’relikeme.Iwantedtoleapoffthebedandthrowmyarmsaroundhisneck.“Whatdidyoudo?”
“Ipickedalotoffights.Itwasdumb,butitwastheonlythingthatcouldshutmybrainoff.”
Istaredatthescaronhischin.“Isthathowyougotit?”
Henodded.“Igotjumpedbyafewolderkidswalkinghomefromschoolaftermouthingoffonetoomanytimes.Itwasonlytwostitches,butitwasenoughtosendmygrandmaflyingintoaction.Iguessmydaddidn’tknowhowtodeal.AnnabelandIstayedwithheruntiltheendoftheschoolyear,andforthesummer.IgotalotoflecturesaboutresponsibilityandchoosingwhatkindofpersonIwantedtobe.”
“Andthatworked?”Noneofmymother’stalkswereenoughtoputastoptomyanticswhenIwasateen.
“Ididn’tknowwhoIwantedtobe,exactly,butIknewwhoIdidn’t.”
“Andwhowasthat?”
Willtwistedtheringonhisfinger.Icouldbarelyhearhimwhenhesaid,“Mymother.”
“Yourmother?”Irepeated,surprised.“Inwhatway?”
“Ineveryway.Selfish.Critical—”
Icuthimoffbeforehewenton.“You’renotlikethat.”
“Icanbe.We’realotalike,”hesaid.“Ileftlikeshedid.Ilooklikeher.Thinklikeher.”
IthoughtofhowcalmlyWillhadspokentohissisterearliertoday.Howheseemedtoknowwhentoaskquestionsandwhentostayquiet.Howheletmefallapartattheartgalleryandthencheeredmeupafter.“Forwhatit’sworth,Idon’tthinkyou’reanyofthosethings.”
Wewatchedeachother.Theairfeltthick.“It’sworthalot,”hesaidinalowvoice.
Imovedtotheedgeofthebedandleanedtowardhim,lightlypressingmyindexfingertohisscar.
“Thewayyoudrewme…it’slikeyousawsomethingIwasn’tsurewasthere.Idon’tthinkaselfishpersoncouldcapturesomeonelikethat—couldseeotherpeoplethewayyoudo.”
Will’sgazemoveddownmyfaceandthenhereachedout,touchinghisfingertomychin,sameasIhaddone.Heslantedhishead.
“What?”
“Nothing.”Heraisedhishands.“It’snothing.It’snotmyplace.”
“Whatdoyoumean,it’snothing?Whatdoyoumean,it’snotyourplace?”Ifeltferal.Whateveritwas,IwantedittobeWill’splace.
“Ijustthink…”Heloweredhispalms.“Youdon’twanttogohomeandworkattheresort,sodon’t.Youwanttobehere.Youshouldstay.”
Iranmynailsovertheinsideofmywrist.“Everyoneisexpectingmetogoback.Mymomwouldkillme.Sometimesshewillliterallysaystufflike,Thedayyoubecometheresort’smanagerwillbemyproudestmoment.Ican’tdothattoher.”
Will’shandcoveredmine,puttingastoptothescratching.Ilookeddownathisfingers.
Westaredattheredweltsontheinsideofmywrist.“Youdon’treallyseemlikethekindofpersonwhogoesalongwithwhatotherpeoplewant.”
Ichewedontheinsideofmymouth.
“AmImissingsomething?”
Inoddedslowly.
Heduckedtomeetmyeyes.“Doyouwanttotellmeaboutit?”
IlookedatWillandnoddedagain.IwantedWilltoknowme.Iwantedtotellhimeverything.August13,1990
Eric’sgone.Heleftanoteinhisbunk.Justeighteenwords.Icounted.“Maggie,I’msorrybutIcan’tbeadad.Iwishyouallthehappinessintheworld.”Hedidn’tevensignit.Iknewhewasshockedaboutthepregnancy.IknewhewassurprisedIwantedtokeepthebaby.ButIthoughthe’dbeinthiswithme.Ithoughthelovedme.HowcanIbeamotherifIcan’tevenpickaboyfriend?Peterwasrightabouthim.It’sbeenmorethanamonthsincePeterandIhavespoken,andImisshim.Ineedhim.He’dknowexactlywhatIshouldsaytoMomandDad.Ineverthoughtourfightwouldlastthislong.19
Now
WillshowsupwithabagofgroceriesthemorningafterdinneratWhitneyandCam’s.Hishairiswet,andI’mstillwearingmypotheadpajamas.
“Ihaven’thadachancetomakeyoubreakfastyet,”hesaysasIlethimin.“Myomeletisexcellent.”
“I’msureitis.”
HesetsthebagonthecounterandasksifIhaveanapron,andIdigoutMom’s—theonewiththeredapplesonit.I’msurehewon’twearit.ButWilltiesitaroundhiswaistandkissesmeonthecheek,andI’msocharmed,Ireacharoundhisbackandunknotthestrings.
Willgivesmeaquestioningsmile,andIpullmyshirtovermyheadsomyintentionsareasclearasthefactthatI’monlywearingunderwear.
Hebacksmeuptothekitchentableandliftsmeontoit,pushingmykneesapartandsteppingbetweenthem.
“Lieback,”hetellsme,cuppingmynecktosetmedowngentlyasIdo.Heslipsmypantiesdownmylegs,andthenbringshislipstomynavel,tracingitwithhistongue.Heleadsawettrailtomyhipbone,andwhenIputmyfingersinhishair,hekneels.Willpausesonlytotellmethathemissedmelastnight,andIlastonlyafewsecondsafterthat.
AsIshower,Willmakesomeletswithspinachandcaramelizedonionsandwespendmostofthedayinbeduntilit’stimetogetreadyforcocktailswiththeRoses.Westayforlongenoughtoseempolite,andthenraceback.Iturntoheadupthepathtowardthehouse,butWilltugsonmyarm,leadingmetohiscabin.
“Closer,”hesays,bitingmyearlobe.
It’sthebestSundayI’veeverhad,andIfallasleepwithasmileonmylips.Butthenextday,theweekfromhellbegins.
FollowinglunchserviceonMonday,Igathereveryoneinthediningroomtoannouncemydecisiontostayonasowner.Ikeepmyhandsclaspedbehindmybacksonoonecanseehowbadlythey’reshaking.OneofthehousekeepersaskswhatqualifiesmetorunBrookbanksasidefrommylastname.Eyeswidenathisboldchoiceofwords,butIcantellfromthewaypeopleleanforwardintheirchairsthatthey’rewonderingthesamething.Isaysomethingaboutmydegree,myhospitalityexperience,andhowIhelpedoverseeFiltr’sexpansion,butIcan’thearmyselfspeakoverthebloodrushinginmyears.
Thentheairconditionersstartdying.Themaintenanceteamisabletofixmostofthem,butonefamilydecidestoleaveearlybecausewecan’tgetanewunitintheircabinsoonenough.Ascathingone-starreviewappearsonline,callingusoutfortheACissues,anddescribingresortmanagementas“inept”andthecabinsas“out-of-date.”“Youcouldn’thavepaidmetostaythereanothernight,”itreads.
Thenextevening,Jamiesendsmealinktoanewspaperarticleheadlined,torontohotelierrevampsroadsidemotel,abouttherenovationofoneofMuskoka’sderelictmotels.Accordingtothearticle,TheDaisywillbea“retroplaygroundforurbaniteslookingforacoolersideofcottagecountry.”Theroomswillhaveallthemodernamenitiesandaseventiesdecorvibecourtesyofanup-and-cominginteriordesigner.There’sgoingtobeasaltwaterpool,lobsterrollsdeliveredbyserversonrollerskates,andanemphasison“funky,hard-to-findwines.”It’smajorcompetition,ashinynewhipster-approvedhotspotthatwillmakeourbattletostandoutevenmoredifficult.
IthinkthingsareturningaroundonThursdaywhenWillgoesoverhisbig-picturestrategy.HedialsinfourBaxter-LeecolleaguesandwalksJamieandmethroughathree-yearplanandmarketingcampaigntimedtoagrandreopeningnextMay.There’saflashypresentationandchartsandanewemployeestructurethatdoesn’tinvolveeverymanagerreportingtome.
Iwalkoutofthemeetingconfidentandexcitedandamquicklypulledasidebymyheadofreservations,whogivesmehernotice.She’sgoingtomanageTheDaisy.
Itdoesn’thelpthatit’shot,theairsostillyoucanseecleartothebottomofthelake.It’sthekindofhazyAugustheatthatdrivespeopleinsidebyearlyafternoon,andmoisturecollectsinyoureverycrannyifyoudarewalkoutthedoor.Thekindofheatwhereeverythirdsentenceoutofyourmouthis,It’ssohot.
WillandIgoswimmingatthefamilydockintheeveningstocooloff.Thelakeislikesoup,anddeadbugsspeckleitsflatsurface,butit’ssohot,wedon’tcareifwe’relyinginawaterygrave.Wefloat,armsandlegsspread,apairofstarsdriftingacrossaliquidsky.Backondryland,Willcooksdinner,andIpretendIdon’tlovethegameofhousewe’replaying.Ipretenditdoesn’tbothermethatheexcuseshimselfwhenthebellschimeonhisphone.IthinkaboutwhatJamiesaid—aboutWillhidingsomething—andIpretendIdon’tbelievehe’sright.
—
“Haveyoueatenyettoday?”
IlookupfromthesmallpileofjobapplicationsonmydesktoseePeterstandinginthedoorwayoftheoffice.
“Breakfast,”Itellhim.
WhenIcamedownstairsthismorning,Willhadcoffeemade.Grapefruitjuiceonthetable.Breadinthetoaster.I’vebeengettingtheselittleglimpsesofwhatIimaginehe’slikeathome.Notthathetalksabouthislifeathome.
“Sitforfiveminutes,”he’dinstructed,settingaplateofscrambledeggs,tomato,avocado,andtoastinfrontofme.Thatwassevenhoursago.
“Ineedataster,”Petersays,motioningformetogetoffmybuttwithatiltofhishead.EverythingPeterdoesissparse.Hespeaksminimally.Movesquietly.Hedoesn’tgetangry.Hislipsrarelydeviatefromtheirstraightline.Allhisextravaganceispouredintohiswork.Thelemon-lavenderpoundcake,thepistachio-orangeoliveoilcakewithcardamomdrizzle,thesaltedcaramelpecanpie.
Istareattheapplicationsforthereservationsmanagerjob.They’vebeencomingindrips,andmostcandidatesarevastlyunderqualified.Atruckerlookingtomakeacareerchange.APilatesinstructorslashtarotcardreader.
“Comeon.It’llallbetherewhenyou’redone,”hesays,andaddsunderhisbreath,“JustlikeMaggie.”
“Iheardthat,”Isay,pushingoutofmychairandgivingPetermybestdeathstare,thoughsecretly,I’mpleased.
AsIfollowhimdownthecarpetedhall,throughtheswingingdoors,andintothestaffpassagewaysofthelodge,Igetasuddensinkingfeeling.IgrabPeter’sarmsohestopswalking.
“You’renotquitting,areyou?”
“?’Coursenot,”hesays.
Iputmyhandonmychestandexhale,myeyesclosed.WhenIopenthem,IthinkthecornersofPeter’smouthhavearchedupinfinitesimally,butit’shardtotellwiththebeard.
“Itoldyourmotheroncethatshe’dhavetodragmeoutofhereifsheeverwantedtogetridofme.Thisismetellingyouthesamething.”HewaitstomakesureI’veabsorbedwhathe’ssaid,andthenhekeepsmovinginthedirectionofthepastrykitchen.
TheyeastysmellofbreadfindsitswaytousbeforeweenterPeter’sstainless-steelsanctuary.It’snotsourdough—Iknowthatscentsowell,it’salmostaphysicalobjectIcanfeelthecontoursof.Inside,boules,baguettes,brioche,andoil-slickedbreadknotscovertheworkcounter.I’veseenthekitchenlikethisbefore,whenPeterwasdevelopinganewdessertmenuorduringoneofhisexperimentalphases—frozencustardwasmyfavorite.Butitwasalwayssweetsheplayedaroundwith.
“Timeforachange,Ithink,”hesays,rippingoffapieceofaplain-lookingrollfromaclusteroffourandhandingittome.
“Why?”
Hetakesapiecehimselfandputsitintohismouth,chewingbeforeheanswers
“Maggiepickedthesourdough.Thoughtyou’dwanttohavesomethingthatwasyours.Somethingtosuityourvision.”Hedoesn’tsayvisionlikeithasairquotesaroundit.PeterknowsIwanttomakethediningroomandthefoodlessformal.Losethewhitelinens.Scalebackthemenu.
Mythroattightens.“Ilovethesourdough.”
“Idid,too,”hesaysquietly.
HepointsatthepieceofrollI’mholding,andIpopitintomymouth.It’swarmandsoftandsurprisinglybutteryforsomethingthatseemssoordinary.
“Wow,”Isay,butPeterdoesn’treact.Hehandsmeasliceofoliveloaf.Wechewtogetherinsilence,nomusictoliftthemood,onehunkofbreadafteranother,avoidingeyecontact.Witheachbite,IfeellikeI’msayinggoodbye.Iwipeatearawaywiththeheelofmyhand,andPeteractsasifhedoesn’tnotice.
“It’stheroll,”Isaywhenwe’redone.
“Ithoughtso,too,”Petersays.“Withwhippedbutter.”
Isigh.“Ican’tbelievewe’regoingtolosethesourdough.”
“I’llmakeitforyouwheneveryouwant.Thestarterismyonlychild.I’mnotgoingtogiveitup.”Hishandfreezesmidwaytohismouth.“Sorry,”hesays.“Ididn’tmean…”
Ittakesmeasecondtocatchontowhyhe’sapologizing.“It’sfine,Peter.Icametotermswithallthatalongtimeago,”Isay,thenaddafteramoment,“I’vebeenreadingMom’sdiary.Iknowyouknewhim.Eric,Imean.”
Hegoestothefridgeandpullsoutawedgeofcheddarandsomeleftovercookedham.Heslicesthem,spreadsbutteronapieceofroll,andsetsitallonaplatethathepushesinfrontofme.
“Ididn’tknowhimwell,andIdidn’tlikewhatIdidknowofhim,”Petersays.“Hewasagood-lookingguy.Realcharmer.Thoughtprettyhighlyofhimself.IfiguredmaybeIwasjealous.”
Istopchewing.
“Youthinkingoflookinghimupagain?”heasks,andIshakemyhead.
“Thatshiphassailed.”
Henods,thenafterabeatsays,“Yourmomsaidshelovedyouenoughfortendads.”
“Thatsoundslikeher.”IthinkofhowmuchtimeI’vespentwithPeterinhere,watchinghimwork.“ButIhadyou,too.”
“Notquitethesameasyourownfather.”
“Better,”Itellhim.“Muchbetter.”
Neitherofussaysanythingforaminute,andthequietofthekitchenislouderthananyofPeter’smusic.“Areyoudoingokay?Iknowyoumustmissher.”
Hewatchesmefromthecornerofhiseye.“Maggiewasmybestfriend.Imissherlikehell.”
“Didyouever…”Ipause.“I’vebeenwonderingifthetwoofyouever…”Isneakaglanceathim,andheturnstofaceme.“Ifyouwereevermorethanfriends?”It’saquestionI’vehadsinceIstartedrereadingthediary.
Peterdoesn’tsayanything.Idon’tbreathe.“Maggieshouldbehereforthis,”hesays,lookingattheceiling.Heshakeshisheadandthenmeetsmyeyes.“Thereweretimeswhenwewerecloselikethat.”
IstareatPeter,holdingapieceofcheese.
“IfellinlovewithMaggiethefirstdayImether.”Hiseyesgleam.“Shegavemeatouroftheresort,talkingamileaminute,andIthoughtI’dneverbelonelyifshewasaround.AndIwasn’t.”
“Momnevertoldme,”Iwhisper.
“Maggie’dsayshewasprivate;I’dsayshewassecretive.Shewasn’talwayslikethat.”Petersmilesalittle.“Iwaitedalongtimeformychancewithher.Afteryouwereborn,ItoldherhowIfelt.Butshewouldn’tletmetakeheronadateuntilyougotolder.”
“When?”Igasp.Myheadisspinning.
“OnceyouandWhitneybecamefriends,goingforsleepoversandrunningaroundheretogether.Ithinkshefeltlikeshecouldrelaxalittle.”
Thatwassolongago.Iwasten.
“Iwantedtogetmarried—sheknewthat.Ithoughtshewasready,butthenyou”—hepauses,choosinghiswords—“hitaroughpatchasateenager,andsheblamedherself.Shesaidtherewasnowayshecouldbeagoodwifewhenshecouldn’tmanagetobeagoodmother.Iknowyouthinkshepickedthisplaceoveryoutimeandtimeagain,andmaybeshecouldhaveworkedalittleless,butrunningtheresortwastheonethingshefeltshewasdoingwell.”
Istaredownattheplateoffood,guiltturningthebreadinmythroatleaden.Peterandmymomasacouple?TheworstpartisthatIcanpictureit.Howperfecttheywouldhavebeentogether.
Istarttoapologize,butPetershakeshishead.“Itwasn’taboutyou,Fern,notreally.Itwasmorecomplicatedthanthat.Wearguedalotovertheyears,butwealwaysfoundourwaybacktoeachother.”
Amemory.DinnerwithMomandPeterinToronto.FeelingtiredfromhaulingboxesandassemblingIkeafurniture.HuggingMomgoodnight.It’shardtosaygoodbyethistime.Walkingdownthesidewalkandturningaroundforonelastwave.Peter’sarmaroundMom.Momlookingupathim,smiling.
“DoyourememberwhenyouandMomhelpedmemoveintomyfirstapartment?”
Peter’ssmilepartshislips.“Thatplacebarelyfitthethreeofusinitatonce.Maggiemademehangyourmirrorthreetimesbeforeitwasperfectlycenteredoverthedresser.”
“YouandMomstayedatahotelforthenight.”
“Stayedacouplemoreafterwegotyousettled.Wedidn’ttellyouthat.”
Ican’tbelieveIdidn’tsuspectanything.“Whenshedied,wereyoutogetherthen?”
“Astogetherasweeverwere.”Peterseestheshockonmyfaceandpatsmyshoulder.“Ourrelationshipwasn’ttraditional.Wewerebestfriends,andsometimeswewere…partners.IalwayswantedmorethanMaggiecouldgive,butIfigureI’mluckyIgotasmuchofherasIdid.”
Itmightbethesaddest,sweetestthingI’veheard.
BeforeIgo,Peterpacksmetwopaperbagsofleftoverbread.
“Whendoyouthinkyou’llstartplayingmusicagain?”IaskasI’mleaving
Helooksoverattheoldbrokentapedeckbyhisworkstation.“OnceI’mreadyforadaywhenyourmotherdoesn’twalkthroughthatdoorandtellmetoturnitdown.”
“I’llmakeaplaylistforthen,”Itellhim.“SomethingMomwouldreallyhate.”
—
WhenImakeitbacktothehouselatethatevening,myheartisheavy.ButthenIseeWillatthestove,wearingawhiteshirtandMom’sapron.IloveWillinmykitchen,wearingthatapron.IlovehowheneversaysawordabouthowmuchI’mworking.Ilovethatwhenheservedmesourdoughtoastthismorning,hekissedmynoseandsaid,Notasgoodasyoumadeit.Itoldhimit’sbestwhenit’sstaleandcookedinapanduringablackout
WillsmilesatmeoverhisshoulderwhenherealizesI’mwatching.“It’sjustastir-fry.Hopethat’sokay.”
“Perfect,”Isay,movingnexttohim.Hespearsasugarsnappeafromthepanandfeedsittome.
“IpromiseI’llcookforyouoneday,”IsayasIchew.
“Yeah?AsidefromthatdinnerwithWhitneyandCam,it’sbeenalongtimesincesomebodymadeamealforme.Annabelknowshowtoboilwater,putafrozenpizzaintheoven,andusethemicrowave—that’saboutit.”
ThisisoneofthefewtimesWillhasvolunteeredinformationabouthissister.Iknowshe’samakeupartistandworksonsomeofthebiggerproductionsthatshootinToronto.Iknowshecan’tcook.ButWillhasussealedinabubble—keepinghisvacationseparatefromhishomelife.
“WhataboutJessica—shedidn’twineanddineyou?”Wehaven’ttalkedaboutWill’sex,andI’mnotsureifshe’sallowedinthebubble.
“Sheknewherwayaroundamenu.”
Istayquiet,andafteramoment,Willgoeson.
“Wedidn’texactlyleavethingsonthebestofterms,”hesays,lookingintothepan.“ShesaidIwastedhertimeandthatI’mincapableofcommitment.ShefeltIwastooinvolvedwithSofia.”
“Andyouthink…?”
“Shewasn’twrong.Iknewearlyonitwouldn’tworkoutlong-term.”
“Because…”Ipromptwhenhedoesn’telaborate.
Willexhales.“Itmadeheruncomfortable—eventhemlivingwithmewasstrangetoher.Butintruth,mynieceandmysisterareabigbarriertoarelationship.”
“Forwho—youoryourgirlfriends?”
“Both,Iguess.Betweenhomeandwork,therehasn’tbeenalotofroomforotherpeople.”
IfeellikeWilliswavinganenormousredflaginfrontofmyface.“Isthisyourwayoftellingmethatyoudon’tdorelationships?”Itrytosaythiscasually.
“It’smywayoftellingyouthatIdon’tdothemwell.Jessicawasn’tthefirstwomanI’vedisappointed.I’mnotthegreatestboyfriend.JessicawantedmoreofmethanIhadtoshare.”
“Moreofyou?”Iscoff,myheartpounding.“Who’dwantthat?”
Willpinsmewithhisdarkeyes.“Notyou,huh?Hiatusandallthat.”
Ithinkabouttellinghimthetruth—thatI’lltakeasmuchashecangive—butthenIrememberPetersayingalmosttheexactsamethingaboutmymom.Hespentdecadeswithsomeonewhocouldn’tgiveherselftohimfully.IalwayslovedwhenMomsaidIwaslikePeter,butinthisway,Ican’tbe.
“Sorryyouhadtowaitsolatetoeat,”Isayinstead.It’salmostnine.
“Idon’tmind.Iusuallyeatearlywiththegirls.”Hegivesmeaquickgrinwhileheplatesthefood.“Ifeelverysophisticatedrightnow.”
“Youlookverysophisticated.”
Heglancesdownattheapron.“Youloveit.”
“It’sweirdhowmuchIloveit,”Isay.
Butthewordsinmyheadsaysomethingdifferent.Thewordsinmyheadsay,It’sweirdhowmuchIloveyou.Surelythosewordshaveitwrong.20
June15,TenYearsAgo
WillandIsatontheendofmybedinmyapartment,facingeachother.Itwasalmostthreea.m.“ImentionedIwentthrougharebelliousphaseinhighschool,”Isaid,andWillnodded.“Itwasbad.ItstartedafterIfoundtheseolddiariesofmymom’s—onewaswrittenthesummershegotpregnantwithme.”
Itiltedmyheadtotheceiling,thebackofmynosetingling.Itwasstupidthatthisstillupsetmesomuch.
“IusedtothinkPeterwasmydad.”Ishutmyeyesbriefly.“Imean,Iknewhewasn’t,butdeepdownIguessIhopedhewas.UntilIreadthediary,Ipretended.Iwishedsohard.”IcouldfeelWill’seyesonme,andIswipedatearfrommycheek.“Mymomdidn’ttalkabouthim—mybiologicalfather.Iknewhe’dworkedattheresortforasummer,butthatwasaboutit.”IglancedatWill,embarrassed.“Iknowitwouldhavebeenmessedupforthemtokeepsomethinglikethatfromme,butitwasn’trational,youknow?WhitneyandIwerereallyintoCSIforawhile,andIhadthiswholefantasythatDNAanalysiswouldshowhewasmyrealdad.Wecanbesosimilar,Peterandme.”
IspentalmostasmuchtimewithhimasIdidwithMomandmygrandparents.ItwasPeterwhocametomysoccergameswhenMomcouldn’t.PeterwhowasaroundthedayafterschoolwhenIgotmyfirstperiod.Peterwhotaughtmehowtodrive,whotaughtmetheartoftheperfectmixCD.WheneverIwassarcastic,MomcomplainedI’dbeenspendingtoomuchtimewithPeter.“EvenwhenIgotolder,IheldontothehopethatMomandPeterwouldsitmedownandtellmethetruth.”
IfeltWill’shandcloseovermine.I’dbeenscratchingagain.
“Anyway,Peter’snotmydad.It’ssomeguynamedEricwho’dbeenalifeguardattheresort.Itwasallthereinthediary.HowheandMomdated,howtheywereinlove,howheleftwhenhefoundoutshewaspregnant.Iwassomad.”Iblewoutashakybreath,andWillsqueezedmyhand.
“Longstoryshort,ImademymomreachouttoEric.Hehadawifeandkids,andhedidn’twantthemknowingaboutme.Hedidn’twanttomeetme,either.Refusedtoevenspeakwithmeonthephone.Ididn’ttakeitwell.Idrank.Alot.Iblackedoutabunch.Imadesomebaddecisionswithguys,”Iaddedquickly.“Icutclasses,gotkickedoffthesoccerteam,andI,uh,stoleatractor.”
“Youwhat?”Willasked.
“Stoleatractor.”Itoldhimtheentiretale—aboutthepartyandthedarethatledtomebucknakedand“driving”atractoronTrevorCurrie’sfarm.Trevorsaidhisparentswouldn’tbehomeforhours.Hemusthavestartedthething.There’snowayIcouldhavedoneitonmyown.Idon’tremembermuchexceptsoberingupinthepolicecruiserbeneathaflanneljacket.Willlistened,hisgazefixedtothesideofmyface.Hedidn’tflinchonce.
“ThatwasthebreakingpointforWhitney.Wegotintoabigfight.Shetoldmeshecouldn’tbemyfriendifIkeptputtingmyselfatrisk—andIsaidthatwasfine,becauseshe’dbeenashittyfriendsinceshe’dstarteddatingCam.Shestoppedspeakingtome,butIkeptpartying.Onenight,IinvitedafewrandompeopleoverwhileMomwasworking.There’sasunroomoffthebackofthehouse—weweredrinkinginthere.EventuallyIpassedoutinthebathroom—theythinkIhitmyheadonthesinkbecausethesmokedidn’twakemeup.”IhadaconcussionandagooseeggonmyforeheadwhenIwokeinthehospital.
“Thesmoke?”
IlookeddownatWill’shandovermine,thenupathim.Hiseyeswerewide.“Therewasasmallfire.Idon’tknowifitwasoneofmycigarettebuttsthatstarteditorsomeoneelse’s.Someonecalledthelodgewhentheysawthesmoke.Mymomwentstraightintothehousetofindme—andPeterinafterher.Theybrokeopenthebathroomdoor.”Iclosedmyeyesagain.“Thefiredestroyedthesunroom,butwewereallsoluckytomakeitoutalive.”
Irememberwakingupinthehospitalwiththemostintenseheadacheandburninginmythroat.Momwassittingbesidethebed,abandagecoveringtheburnonherrightarm,herfacepuffyandcrimson.Itlookedlikeshe’dswuminchlorinewithhereyesopenforhours.I’dneverseenherlooksoravaged.
Iletoutadeepbreath,andWillputhisarmaroundmyshoulder,pullingmeagainsthisside.Westayedlikethatforseveralminutes,nottalking.
“Mymomsavedmylife—Iowehereverything,”Isaid.“That’swhyIdidn’targuewhenshesuggestedIapplytobusinessschoolandhopontheBrookbankscareertrack.”Willleanedbacktolookatme.“Ibasicallyblewupmylife,andmymomhelpedmepickupthepieces.Itwasn’tlikeIhadabetteridea.You’reanartist,butIhavenocluewhatI’ddoifIwasn’tgoingtoworkattheresort.Idon’thaveaten-yearplan.”
Willcradledmyfaceinhispalmsandsaid,veryslowly,“Ten-yearplansarebullshit.”
Ilaughed.Afterallthat,itwasn’tthereactionI’dexpected.
“Imeanit,”hesaid,droppinghishands.“Asifanyoneknowswherethey’llbeorwhothey’llbeintenyears.”
“Iguess,butIalsowantsomekindofaplan.Ienvyyou.You’vegotyourlifeallfiguredout.Ihavenoclue.”
Willthoughtaboutthisforamoment.“Butyouknowyoudon’twanttomovebackhome?”
“Yeah.Iknowthat,”Iagreed,reluctantly.
“Andyouknowyoudon’twanttoruntheresort?”
“Yeah,”Isaid,watchingthecandlelightswayinhiseyes.
“Yourmommayhavesavedyourlife,butit’sstillyourlife,Fern.”
Westaredateachotherforalongtime
“Soyouknowwhereyoudon’tseeyourself,”Willfinallysaid.
Hepickeduphissketchbookandpencilandopenedtoablankpagenearthebackofthebook.Iwatchedhimwritefern’sone-yearplanatthetop.Andthen:
Iwon’tbeworkingatBrookbanksResort.
IwillnotbelivinginMuskoka.
“Aone-yearplan?”Iasked.
“Oneyearseemsmorerealisticthanten,don’tyouthink?Andyousaidyouwantedaplan.”Hepointedtothepage.“Let’smakeone.”
Ilookedatthepaperagain.Hewroteincapitalletters,adistinctkindofprintingthatwaslikeitsownfont.Therewassomethingaboutseeingthewordsinblackandwhitethatfeltradical,likebywritingthemdown,analternatefuturehadbecomepossible.
“Huh,”Isaid.“That’sactuallyprettysmart.Butyouhavetodoone,too.”Ireachedforthebook.“Whatwouldbeonyours?”Iasked,writingwill’sone-yearplanontheoppositepage.
“That’seasy.”Heleanedbackontohishands.“I’llbebroke.”
Iscoffed.“Yourplanistobebroke?”
“Kindof.I’mseriousaboutmyart.I’mnotgoingtotakesomeboringofficejobandwearatiesoIcanhaveaniceapartment.Artisn’tahobbyforme.It’sallornothing.Withthemuralsandmaybeapart-timegig,IthinkI’llbeabletomakerentandspendtherestofmytimeworkingonRoommates.”
“So…”Iwrote:
Iwon’tbeworkinginanoffice(notiesallowed).
Kindofbroke.
Iwon’ttreatartlikeahobby.
IshowedWillthepage.
“Thatworks,”hesaid.“TheultimatewouldbeifRoommateswererunninginapaper.”
“Gotit.”IaddedRoommatestothelist.
“Perfect,”Willsaid.“Whatelseshouldgoonyours?”
Istareddownatthepage.“TheonlyotherthingIknowforsureisthatIwanttobeinToronto.”Willtookthepencilandaddedittothelist.“Beyondthat,Idon’treallyknow,”Isaid.
“That’sokay.”Willheldthepencilbetweenhisteeth,makingahummingnoise.“Whatabout:Inoneyear,adjusttheplanasnecessary.”
“Sure,”Isaid.Icollapsedbackonthebed,staringatthecrackintheceilingasWillfinishedwriting.Hesetthebookonthetable.
“Ican’timaginewhyyou’retired,”hesaid,thenblewoutallthecandlesexceptfortheoneinthejarbesidemybedandsprawledoutnexttomeonhisback.
“Isthisokay?”hewhispered.
“Yeah,”Isaidthroughanotheryawn.“It’sfine.”
Mythroatwasdryfromtalking,buttherewasonethingIwantedtoknow.“Earliertoday,whenItoldyouIwenttobusinessschool,yousaidyouwouldn’thaveguessedthat.Whatwouldyouhaveguessed?”
“Idon’tknow.AnEnglishmajormaybe.Ithoughtyoumighthavebeenwritingpoetryinthatjournal.”
“I’mnotthatinteresting.”
“You’remoreinteresting.”
Thewordslaybetweenus,sweetandripe.
Ilookeddownatourhandsrestingbesideeachotheronthebed,thenbacktohim.Iinchedmyfingerscloseruntiltheytouchedhis.
“IwishIcaredaboutsomethingthewayyoucareaboutart,”Isaidafteramoment.
“Youwill,”hesaid,wrappinghispinkiearoundmine.“Youjustneedtimetofindit.”
Everynerveendinginmybodysprintedtowardmylittlefinger.IwassureWillcouldhearthedrumofmyheart.
“Idon’twantmymomtohateme,”Iwhispered.
Hesqueezedmypinkie.“Shewon’t.Trustme,okay?”
“Okay.”Iblinkedupattheceiling,tryingtokeepmyeyesopen.“Itrustyou.”
Westayedlikethatuntilmyeyelidsgrewheavyandthecandlesnuffeditselfout.August18,1990
Petercamebythehouseyesterday.ItoldMomIhadastomachbugandhavebeenstayinginbed.PetersaidIdidn’tlooksick.HeknewEricleft—everyoneknows.Heaskedifhe’dhurtme,andItoldhimnotinthewayhemeant,andthenIstartedtocry.Peterlaydownandhuggedmeclose.HetoldmehemissedmeandmynonstoptalkingandtheAnneMurray’sGreatestHitscassetteIsneakintohistapedeck.Hesaidhethoughthemighthavebeenjealous.Thenhebroughtmyhandtohislipsandkissedmyknuckles,sosoftly,andsaidhehadtotellmesomething.I’msuremyheartstopped.BecauseIknewwhathewasgoingtosay,andIcouldn’tlethim.Notnow.Beforehecouldspeak,IblurtedoutthatIwaspregnant.ItoldhimeverythingI’vebeenthinkingabout—howI’dhavetoraisethebabyonmyownandcancelthetripandputoffmanagingtheresort,butthatIwanttodoit.Hewasquietthewholetime.AfterIfinished,hesaid,“Okay,Maggie.”ThenhekissedmyforeheadandrubbedmybackuntilIfellasleep.21
Now
JamieandIarehuddledinfrontofacomputerintheofficewhenWillknocksonthedoorframe.
Ilookathimandthennoticethetime.“Shit.I’msosorry.”
WhitneyandCamweresupposedtoarriveanhouragofordinner.
It’sWill’slastweekhere,andI’vebeenworkingtwelve-hourdays.Idon’thaveachoice.I’vebeentellingmyselfthatit’sonlyaphase,thatifI’dopenedmyownplace,therewouldbesimilarlyhorrendousperiodsandthatbusyisbetterthanslow.Butoursommelier,Zoe,gavehernoticethismorning—she’sgoingtorunthewineprogramatTheDaisy—andit’sbecomethatmuchhardernottofeeldiscouraged.
“It’sfine,”Willsays.“WhitneyandCamareoncocktailnumbertwo,andWhitney’smomcalledtosayOwenisfastasleep.They’reinnew-parentheaven.”
WillachievedwhatIhadnotandconvincedthemtostayattheresortforthenight,theirfirstawayfromthebaby.
“Ijustwantedtomakesureeverythingwasokay.Youhaven’tansweredourtexts.”
Iglancearoundtheoffice.IhavenoideawhereI’veputmyphone.
“Toobusymakingout,”Jamiequips,andIbelthiminthechest.
“He’sjoking,”Isay,scowlingatJamie.“Obviously.”
Willdoesnotseemtofindthisfunny.
“Go,”JamiesayswhileIsearchthedeskdrawersformyphone.“Ithinkwe’vedoneallthatwecanfornowanyway.”I’mtryingtostayontopofthebookingswhilehefinalizesallthedetailsforthedance.
“Yousure?”
“Yes,”hesays,pluckingmyphoneoutfromunderastackofpapers.“Getoutofhere.”
IfillWillinonmydaywhilewewalk,wavingtotheRosesaswepassCabin15.Willhasastandinginvitationformartinis.WhenweshoweduponSunday,heusheredmetotheloveseatwithhishandonmylowerback,andMrs.Roseclappedherstogether,crying,“Isn’tthisahappyturnofevents?”Iamhappy—WillandIspendeverymomentwecantogether,anditfeelssoeasyandright.Butsummerdoesn’tlastforever.
BeforeweroundthecornertoCabin20,Iseemulticoloredstreamersandballoonsthroughthetrees.There’sapaintedsignthatreadswelcomehome,baby!hangingoverthedoor.WhitneyandCamarestandingontheporch,grinninglikekidswhoraidedthecandydrawer.
“Youmonsters.”
“Willhasbeenwarnedtousethenicknameathisownperil,”Whitneysays,pullingmeintoahug.“IknowI’vesaiditbefore,butyoucomingbackhereisprobablythebestthingthat’shappenedtome,thebirthofmychildincluded.”
Ilaugh,feelingthestressofthisweekbegintoebb.“Youneedmorefriends.”
“Ihaveplenty,”shesays.“Andtheyhaven’tputmethroughwhatyouhave.Butthey’rejustnotasgood.”
Willdirectsusouttothefrontdeck,wherehe’ssetthepicnictablewithlinensandcandlestickshe’sborrowedfromthehouseandamassivevaseofwildflowers,afree-for-allofpurpleasters,goldenrod,andblack-eyedSusans.Myfavorite.
Hestepsintothecabinandreturnswithaginandtonicformeinonehandandacheeseboardintheother.
“ThefreshestlimeinMuskoka,”Willsays,handingmethedrink.
“Youwouldn’tbelievethenumberofquestionsI’vehadtoanswerthispastweek,”Whitneysaysoverdinner.Willmademushroomrisotto.“Pastaorrisotto?Mushroomsortomatoes?Favoritekindsofcheese?”
IglanceatWill.
“It’snoteverydayyoudecidetochangeyourentirelife,”hesays,andhesoundsfullofadmiration.I’mnotsureI’veeverfeltthisadored.Idon’trealizethatI’mstaringathimandthatthemeanderingstreamofchatterhasstoppeduntilCamclearshisthroat.
WesavorPeter’sdarkchocolatecakeinsilence.Willsaysheaskedfortherecipe,butPeterofferedtobakeithimself—I’verarelyseenhimwarmtoapersonsoquickly.Yesterday,hegavemealemonpoppyseedloaftosharewith“myfriend.”WeinvitedPetertonight,buthesaidhewasstillperfectingthebreadrollsforthedance.
Fromnowhere,Whitneydisruptsthequietwith,“So,Will,whenareyouleaving?”
Hiseyesflicktomine.“Sunday,”hesays.Idomybestnottolooklikehearingthismakesmewanttoripoffmyskin.WillandIhaven’ttalkedabouthisleavingorwhatitmeansforus.Ididn’tthinkanuswaspossible.Butwatchinghimwithmyfriendstonight,seeinghowmuchcarehe’sputintothedinner,maybeitis.Maybethisisn’tjustabreakfromrealityforhim.Maybethiscouldbethekindofrelationshipthat’sworththeeffort.Maybethisisthestartofanus
“Thedayafterthedance,”Whitneysays.Inarrowmyeyes,wonderingwhatshe’splayingat.I’vealreadytoldherthis.
“Right.I’mlookingforwardtoit,”Willsays.
“Andafterthat?”
Willlooksatmeagain.
“Whit,”Iwarn.Idon’twantWilltoendureaninterrogationfrommybestfriend.That’snotwhathesignedupfor.
“What?”
Ishakemyheadatherinapleatohaltwhateverschemeshethinksshe’srunning.Butshedoesnot.
“What’stheplan?”sheasks.“BecauseIreallywasn’tafanofhowthingswentthelasttime.”
IshootCamalookbuthegivesmethetiniestshrug.
WhitneypointsherforkatWill.“Areyougoingtodropoffthefaceoftheearthagain?BecauseIdon’twanttohavetoscrapemyfriendoffthefloorlikeIdidlasttime.”
“Whitney,”Isay,myfacehot.Ican’tevenlookinWill’sdirection.“Stop.”
Sheglancesatme,andthenWillsays,“IthinkthisisaconversationforFernandmetohaveinprivate.”
“Agreed,”Isay.
Whitneytakesabiteofcake.Shechews,glaringatWill,untilshefinishesherslice.
“Ilikeyou,”shesaystohimwhenshe’slickedthelastoftheganacheoffherfork.“You’retooprettyandtootall,butyou’regoodwithbabiesandyouseemsmart.Andfrankly,thatwasthebestrisottoI’veeverhad.Butifyoufuckmyfriendoveragain,IwilldrivetoToronto,andIwillkillyou.”
Willstaresatherforasecond,andthennods.“Soundslikewehaveaplan.”
—
“You’reavoidingme,aren’tyou?”WhitneyaskswhenIpickupmyphoneonFriday.
Ihavebeenavoidingher.Shemeantwell,butI’mstillannoyedabouttheothernight.
“IknowIwentrogueatdinner.I’msorry.Ihaven’thadthatmuchtodrinksincebeforeIwaspregnant.”
“It’sfine,Whit,”Isay.Sheknowssheoverstepped.IapologizedtoWillaftersheandCamhadleft,andhesaidthathedidn’treallymindWhitney’sinquisition,thathewasmoreconcernedbyhowherquestionsbotheredme.
Twosecondsofsilence.“Sowhyaren’tyouansweringyourtexts?”sheasks.
“BecauseI’minahellofmyownmaking?”
“Thatbad,huh?”
“Thedanceistomorrow,soJamieisbusywithlast-minutestuffwhileI’minterviewingjobcandidateswhocallmeFranandthinkcustomerserviceisoneoftheunderlyingproblemsofcapitalism.”
ItakeabiteofthecheesecroissantPeterdroppedoffearlier,thenwipetheflakesfrommychest.Hekeepsswingingbywithfood.IthinkhewantstomakesureI’mokayafterhisrevelationabouthimandMom.MostlyI’msadtheydidn’tgetahappierending.I’msadshenevertoldmeaboutPeterherself.Iwishwecouldhavehadmoretimetogether,thethreeofus.Myfamily.
“What’sgoingon?”Icoulduseadistraction.
“Muchbiggerproblemsoverhere,letmetellyou,”shesays.“Ihavenoideawhattoweartomorrow.Mybodyisallwonkyafterhavingababy.Nothing’sinthesamespotitusedtobe.CanyoulookatthephotosIsent?”
Iscrollthroughthepictures.“YouknowI’mnotgoodatthisstuff.Maybethepinkromper?”Isuggest.
“Yeah,maybe.Maybewithheels.Whataboutyou?Didyoufindanythingintown?”
“No.Imeantto,butIhaven’tbeenabletofindthetime.I’mgoingtoraidMom’sclosettonight.”I’msureshekepteverypartyoutfitsheeverwore.“Ithinktherearedressesfromtheninetiesinthere.”
Whitneygasps.“Rememberthepurpleonewiththebigbowinthefront?”
Ithadrufflesattheneckandthemostover-the-topsash.Thefabricwassostiff,itcouldstanduponitsown.Wewereprobablyfourteenthesummersheworeittothedance.
“WecalledherGrimaceallnight,”Isay.“God,wewereassholes.”
“Yeah,”sheagrees.“Butshelovedusanyway.”
Shedid.
“So…”Whitneysaysafterafewmomentsofsilence.“TwomorenightswithWillhere.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Andafterthat?”
“Afterthat,hegoesbacktoToronto.”
“Butobviouslyyou’regoingtokeepseeingeachother.”
Idon’tknowifthat’sobvious.Idon’twantSundaytobetheend,butIhaven’tcomeoutandsaidit.
“We’llstayintouch.”Ithink.
Whitneyscoffs.“Stayintouch?Thatmanisintoyou.NotintoyouintheHey,let’sbangwhenyoucometothecitykindofway.He’sintoyouintheI’mpicturingwhatourkidswilllooklikeway.Trustme,he’sindeep.”
Ichewonanail.“Iwonderifit’sjustthathe’shere,withhisfirsttasteoffreedominalongtime.He’sinvacationmode.Oncehegoesbacktohisactuallife,hemightrealizeIdon’tfitinit.”
“Ireallydon’tthinkthat’swhat’sgoingonhere,”Whitneysays.“Hemaderisotto.”
Ilaugh.“Andacheeseboard.Ijustdon’tknowifIcanputmyselfoutthereagain,especiallyrightnow.”
Whitneystaysquietforamoment.“Evenbeforethehiatus,youclosedyourselfoff.Andmaybethathastodowithyourmom.Andmaybeithasabittodowithhewhoshallnotbenamed”—whichishowWhitneyreferstoEric—“andmaybewhathappenedwithWillbackthendidn’thelp.”
Isigh.
I’vebeentryingnottothinkaboutwhathappenednineyearsago—howbigmyfeelingswereandhowsuddenlytheygotcrushed.I’vebeentryingnottothinkabouthowmuchbiggerthosefeelingshavebecome.
“Comeon,”Whitneysays.“Youcantellsomeguyyoulikehim.”
“Yeah,”Imurmur.Ifonlythatwereit.22
June15,TenYearsAgo
WillwasalreadyupwhenIopenedmyeyes.Hesatatmytable,writinginhisbook,adarkslashofhairoveroneeye.Seeinghiminmyapartmentwasstrangeallover.Butitfeltlikehebelongedthere,scribblingbymywindow.
ThebedgroanedasItuckedanarmundermyhead.Will’sgazeshiftedtomine.Weeyedeachotherinsilence,themorningsunslippingthroughtheglass,capturingbitsofdustinitsraysandpaintingsquaresoflightonthehardwood.
“Hi.”Myvoicecrackedwiththeday’sfirstword.Thefridgewasmakingasteadywhir.Thepowermusthavecomebackonwhileweslept.“Whatareyoudoingoverthere?”
“Justthinking.”
“Ican’tspellmynamewithoutcoffee.”Icrawledoffthebed.“I’llmakesome.It’snotasgoodasatthecafé,butitisstrong.”Ipulledtheboxofpaperfiltersfromthecupboard.
“Actually,I’vegottoheadout,”Willsaid,standing.“It’salmostten.I’mgoingtobelateforbreakfastwithmysister,andthenI’vegottograbmystuffbeforegettingouttotheairport.”
“Oh.”Iclearedmythroat,tryingnottowearmydisappointmentlikeadiamondtiara.“Ofcourse.”
“Itwassuchalatenight—Ididn’twanttowakeyou.”
“Yeah,no.Iappreciatethat,”Isaid,mychesttightening.“So?”
“So…”Hegesturedtoapieceofpaperonthetable.He’dtornhisdrawingofmefromhissketchbook.“That’sforyou.”
Iswallowed.“Thanks.”
“AndIhadanidea,”hesaid,twistinghisring.“I’mgoingtobebacknextJuneformydad’swedding.Ithoughtwecouldcheckinoneachother—seehowwe’remakingoutwithourplans.”
Hepickeduphisnotebook,holdingitopentothelists.He’dwritten,June14,BrookbanksResort,3p.m.onthebottomofeachpage.
“You’reserious?YouwanttocomevisitmeatBrookbanks?Forreal?”
“Ifonlytoeatmoresourdough.”Hegavemeahesitantsmile.“IwanttoseewhereFernBrookbanksgrewup.Youcanshowmehowtoholdapaddle.MakesureIdon’tembarrassmyselfoutonthewater.”
“Webothknowyouwill.”
Hissmilewidened.“Soisthatayes?You’llmeetmeupthereinayear?”
“Yeah,Icandothat.”Myhearthadrampeduptodoubletime.“Maybeinayear…”Idriftedoff.Icouldn’tfinishthatsentence.I’mnotsureIknewhowto.
Adoorslammedoutinthehallway.Willblinked,thenrippedmyplanoutofhisbook,passingittome.
Ilookeddownatthepage.“It’saprettybigplace,”Isaid.“Weshouldpickaspot.”
“Whatdoyousuggest?”
“Howaboutwemeetdownatthedocksnearthebeach?I’llneedtoknowhowWillBaxterreallylooksinacanoeassoonaspossible.”
“Sensational,I’mtellingyou.”Hegrinned.“Thedocksitis.”
Willtuckedhissketchbookintohisbag.Ieyedthelittleredstreetcarpinfixedtotheflap,thengrabbedmyphone
“What’syournumbersowecanstayintouch?”Isaidashetiedhisboots.“Andifyougivemeyouraddress,I’llmakeyouaCD.AWestCoasttheme.Ortrees?Thereprobablyaren’tenoughtracksforthat,butnatureingeneralcouldwork…”
Willstoodbackup,apainedlookonhisface.“Ithinkitmightbebestifwedon’t.”
Ifrowned.“Whatdoyoumean?”
Herubbedthebackofhisneck.“Idon’tthinkweshouldtexteachotherorbecomefriendsonFacebook.Youprobablyshouldn’tsendmeamixCD.Ijustthinksince…”Helookedoveratthebedandtheindentsourbodieshadleftbehind,thenbackatme.“Whydidn’tyoutellmeaboutJamie?”
Mylegswobbled.
IcouldhaveliedandsaidJamiesimplyhadn’tcomeup.Itwaslesscomplicatedthanthetruth.OnlyIdidn’twanttolietoWill.
“Atfirst,itdidn’treallymatterthatIhadaboyfriend.Butlater,Ikindofwantedtopretendthattherestoftheworlddidn’texistforaday,andthatincludedJamie.NotthatIwouldhavedoneanything,”Iaddedquickly.“Iwouldnevercheat.”
Willnodded,butIhadnoideawhathewasthinking.
“DoyouthinkI’mhorrible?”Iaskedquietly.
“No.Ithinkyou’reprettyfuckingawesome,FernBrookbanks.”Hesqueezedmyhandonceandletitgo.“ButIthinkitwouldbeabadideaforyouandmetocontinuewhateverthisis.”
“BecauseofJamie?”
Henodded.
“Ayearisareallylongtime,”Isaid,staringdownathispinklaces.
Willduckedtomyeyelevel.“It’snothing.Youwon’tevenmissme.”
Ipressedmylipstogether,wishingthatweretrue.IreachedaroundWillforthedoor,holdingitopenwithmyhip.Iwasn’tgoingtobeabletokeepittogethermuchlonger.IhadthoughtwhatIfeltforWillwasphysicalattraction,butitwasmorethanthat—itwassomuchworse.
Willslippedhisbackpackontohisshouldersandsteppedintothehallway.
“Will?”Isaid,waitingforhimtofaceme.“Iamgoingtomissyou—morethanasmidge.”
Overthenexttwelvemonths,I’drememberthesmilethattookoverWill’sface.I’dclosemyeyesandpicturethatverymoment.Thebendofhislips,thesurpriseinhiseyes,thefaintlinesattheircorners.Itwaselectric.
“Youandmeinoneyear,FernBrookbanks,”hesaid.“Don’tletmedown.”
AndthenWillBaxterturnedaroundandwalkedoutofmylife.August21,1990
IwenttothepastrykitchenyesterdaytofindPeter,butoneoftheguystoldmehe’dtakenthedayoff.IwasworriedhewasupsetaboutwhatI’dtoldhim,butthenheshowedupatthefrontdesk,tookmetothelibrary,andshutthedoor.Hepulledoutabunchofprenatalpamphletsfromhisbackpack—he’dgonetoseehisdoctorforinformationabouttravelingduringpregnancy.Hewastalkingsofastabouttrimestersandultrasounds,fasterthanI’veeverheardhimtalkbefore.Heusedtheworduterusatleasttwice.
HemusthaverealizedIwashavingtroublekeepingup,becausehetookadeepbreathandsaid,“Youdon’tneedtocancelyourtrip.”ItoldhimavacationwasthelastthingIneededtoworryabout,andheshookhishead.Hesaidmywholelifewasabouttochange,butthatIdidn’tneedtogiveupEurope.Hemademetakethepamphlets,andthenhetoldmehe’dbeenthinkingaboutwhatI’dsaidabouthavingtoraiseababyonmyown.HetoldmethatIwasn’talone,thathewashere,thatmyparentswerehere,thattherewasawholeresortfullofpeoplewho’dwanttohelp.
Ididn’tknowhowmuchIneededtohearthat.Isatthereholdingabunchofpamphlets,crying,andheaskedifIwasOK.Ithrewmyarmsaroundhimandtoldhimhewasthebestfriendanyonecouldpossiblyhave.23
Now
Jamiesendsmehomeinthelateafternoon.Ichuckouta“Youareliterallynotthebossofme!”butithastheimpactofacottonball.
ThecoolwindisthefirstthingInoticewhenIstepoutside,followedbythefaintsmellofrainonrocksomewhereinthedistance.Finally,abreakintheheat.
IthinkaboutwhatWhitneysaidwhenwespokeonthephoneearliertodaywhileIwalkbacktothehouse,keepingmyarmscrossedagainstthechill.
IthinkaboutmymomandPeterandwordsunspoken.ButIcanbebrave.IcanletWillknowhowIfeel.
He’sstillworking,soIsendhimatext,sayingthatI’mhomeearlyandtocomeoverwhenhe’sready,andthenIclimbuptotheguestbedroom.There’saqueenbed,asuitcasestand,andacarafeforwateronatray—buttheroom’smainfunctioniskeptbehindthebifoldclosetdoors.
Islidethemopenandrunmyfingersovertherainbowofskirtsandsleevesandmemories—allofMom’scocktaildressesandholidayoutfits,andmanyofmine,too.There’sthepurpletaffetanumberandthelong-sleevedblackgown.There’sthepaleblueA-linehangingnexttoatinywhitedresswithamatchingpalebluesatinbow.Somuchofourlivesarewovenintothesethreads.
Mom’sgreenvelvetshiftandpinksequinedbolero:Peterandmeplayingfancyteaparty,andMomcominghometofinduseatingcrustlesssandwichesandlisteningtoSmashingPumpkins.
Thematchingtartandresses:theChristmasdinnerwhenGrandmaandGrandpaannouncedtheyweremovingoutWest.
Astraplesssilvergown:tellingMomshewastoooldtowearsomethingthatshowedsomuchskin,evenifitwasNewYear’sEve.
Ipullthesilverdressout.It’sfloor-lengthwithaslituptheleg.Itisprettysexy—toosexyforthesummerdance,andmygod,it’stight.Itryonaboutadozenmore,growinghotanditchyasIdo,butmostareeithertoosmallortoofroufrou.Idonotdoruffles.Orpinkfloral.Orrhinestone-bedazzledsleeves.Ithrowopenthewindowandagustofcrispairblowsthroughtheroom,slammingthedoorshut.
Sweating,IpulloutanarmfulofclothingsoIcangettothebackofthecloset,andwedgedbetweenatoileteadressandanavyandwhitestripedfrockisashortorangey-rednumberwithascoopneckandthinstraps.I’veneverseenitbefore.Redisn’treallymycolor,norwasitmymother’s,butwhenIslipitovermyhead,thefabricislightandfloaty.It’sfittedbutnottight.
Iheadtothefull-lengthmirrorinmybedroom.Thedresslooksincredible.It’skindofninetiesbutnotinacostumeyway.Thecolorsomehowworks.Smilingatmyreflection,IknowthisiswhatIwanttowearwhenItellWillhowIfeel,whenItellhimIwanttobeapartofhislife—hisrealone—evenifIdon’tknowhowthatworks.Ifhefeelsthesame,we’llfigureitout.We’llmakeaplan.
Sothatsettlesit.I’lltellWilltomorrow.I’lltellhimwhilewedance.
Ihangeverythingupandrunmyhandsoverthefabriconelasttime.
“Thanks,Mom,”Iwhisper,andslidethedoorsshut.
—
There’soneentryleftinthejournal—I’vebeensavingituntilIhavesomealonetime.Igrabthediaryfrommybedsidetableandtakeitouttothebackdeck.It’sshieldedfromthewindhere,butI’mbundledinasweaterandcozypants.
“Hey.”WillpokeshisheadoutthedoorasIfindmyplace.
“Hey,”Isayastherestofhisbodyfollows.Whiteshirt.Notie.Acasualmeetingday.“Ididn’tthinkI’dseeyousosoon.”
“Icutoutearly.”Heclocksthebookinmyhands.“AmIinterrupting?Icouldcomebacklater.”
“Don’tdothat.”Iputthejournaldownandstand,wrappingmyarmsaroundhiswaist.“Youalwayssmellsogood,”Isayintohisshirt.“Yousmellbetterthanothermen.”
“I’mgoingtopretendyoudon’tknowwhatothermensmelllike,”hesays,pullingbackandtippingmychinupwithasmile.Hekissesme,andit’sslowandlushandassweetasalemondrop.“I’mgoingtopretendthere’sneverbeenanyonebutyouandme.”
Ilaugh.“Webothknowthat’swildlyinaccurate.”
“Butwouldn’titbeniceifitweretrue?”hesays,tracingthelineofmyjawwithhisnose.
“Idon’tknow…wemightnotbeasproficientwithoutallthatexperience.”
“Ormaybeit’dbeevenbetter,”hesays,“ifIhadtenyearstofigureoutexactlywhatyoulike.”
“Ithinkyou’redoingjustfine.Butifyouwantalittlemorepractice…”Itakehishandandleadhimtothecouchinside,wigglingoutofmysweats,andpullinghimdownoverme.Iwanttofeelthefullweightofhimpressingmeintothecushions.
After,wesurveythescatteredpillows,theshirtflungoverthelamp.
“Mightneedtotrythatagain,”Willsays,sittingupandhoistingmeonhislap.“TomakesureIgotitright.”
“Goodidea.I’llorderdinnerfromtherestaurantsoyoucanfocusallyourenergyonstudyingtonight.Yourfinalexamwillbenext…”Thewordweekisabouttoslidefrommylips.Will’ssmilefalls,andaheavinesssettlesbetweenus.
“Tonight,canwepretendlikeyouaren’tleavingonSunday?”Iask.“Likeit’sanyothernight?”
SomethingflickersinWill’seyes,butit’squicklyextinguished.Hemoveshishandstomylowerback,pullingmetightagainsthischest.“Ifthat’swhatyouwant.”
“Justfortonight.”
Wehavetherestaurantsendoverfishandchipsandcoleslaw,andweeatinourunderwearonthelivingroomsofawatchingFrasierreruns.Aswe’refinishingdinner,acrackofthunderrattlesthewindows.IdartouttothedecktosaveMom’sdiary,puttingitbackonmynightstand.Wegetdressedandsitonthefrontporch,shelteredfromthestorm,watchinglightningbranchacrosstheblacksky.
WillandIheaduptobed.Beingwithhimfeelsasimpossibleandinevitableashisleaving.ButIdon’twanttothinkaboutthatpartrightnow.Icurlintohimwhenit’sover,pleasantlynoodle-limbed,followingthelinesofhistreetattoowithmyfinger,writingFernoverhisheartafterhedozesoff.
It’sthefirstnightsincewestartedsharingabedthatIhaven’tbeenabletofallasleep.Iflickonthelamp,andwhenWilldoesn’tmove,Ireachforthediaryandfliptothefinalentry.
September8,1990
TwosleepsuntilEurope!
I’mgoing.AcoupleofdaysafterI’dtoldMomandDadthenews,Petercameoverwithmoreprenatalpamphletstohelpmeconvincethemitwasokaytotravel.Ithinkthey’vefinallystoppedfreakingout,orthey’redoingabetterjobhidingit.I’malmostoutofthefirsttrimester,andhopefullythevomitingwillstopanydaynow.
I’mexcitedforthetrip.I’mlookingforwardtobeingatwenty-two-year-oldwithnoresponsibilitiesforalittlelonger.I’mgoingforsixweeks.Italy,France,andEngland.
Peterhasvolunteeredtodrivemetotheairport.Hehasn’tmentionedwhathewantedtotellmethedayIannouncedIwaspregnant.I’mnotsureheeverwill.ButI’vestartedhopinghedoes.Ican’timaginealifewithoutPeter.Ithinkthatmeanssomething.Somethingwe’vebeenmovingtowardsincethedayIgavehimatouroftheresortfiveyearsago.
LizwasshockedwhenItoldherthenewsandalittleupsetaboutthechangeinplans,butshe’sdecidedtotravelonherownforthefullyear.
I’lladmitI’msomewhatjealous,butwheneverI’mfeelingdownthesedays,Irubmybellyandtalktomybabygirl.I’mcertainshe’sagirl.Icallhermysweetlittlepea.ItellherhowmuchIloveher.ItellherI’llloveherenoughfortendads.AndItellherstoriesaboutallthepeoplewhowillmakeupherbig,wonderfulfamilyhere.Abouthergrandparents.AndtheRoses.AndPeter.Itellherhowshe’llneverfeelalonewhenshe’sathome.ItellherIcan’twaittomeether,butthatIdon’tneedtomeethertoknowIwillneverloveanotherpersonasmuchasIlovemydaughter.
Iputthediarydownonthebedbesideme.Idomybesttosobquietly,butwhenItakeashudderingbreath,Willstirs.
“Hey,”hemurmurs.“What’swrong?”
ButspeakingisimpossiblewhenI’mcryingthishard.
“Shh.It’sallright,”hemumbles,stillhalf-asleep.
Ishakemyhead.
“Itwasjustadream.”
“No,”Icroak.“Itwasreal.Mymom.”
It’sallIneedtosay.Hekissesmycheeksandwipesthetears,thenturnsmesomybackissnugtohisfront.Hebringshislegovermine,tuckingmecloser.Igripthearmthat’sbandedaroundmychest.“Shelovedme.Somuch.”
“Ofcourseshedid,”hewhispersintomyneck,pressingakissthere.“Shewasyourmom.”
“Butshedidn’tknow,”Isay,shakingwithmoretears.
HeholdsmeuntilIstop.“Didn’tknowwhat,Fern?”
Itakeadeepbreath.“Shedidn’tknowthatIlovedher,too.”
Willhugsmetight.“Sheknew,”hesays.Hekissesmyshoulder.
Inod,butIcan’thelpfeelingthatifI’dbeenabetterdaughter,shewouldhavetoldmeaboutPeter.IfsheknewhowmuchIlovedher,shewouldhaveconfidedinmeabouttheresort’sstruggles.
“Fern,canItellyousomething?”Willsays,hislipsagainstmyskin.
Irollovertofacehim.
“ItoldyourmomImetyou,”hesays.
“What?”
“Itoldherhowwemet.Itoldherhowmuchyoulovedithere,andthatIhadtoseeitmyself.”
“Youdid?”
“Idid.Wespokeonthephoneshortlybeforetheaccident.”Hebrushesmyhairoffmyforehead.“ShesaidIhadnoideahowhappythatmadeher.”
Hiswordswraparoundmelikeadown-filledduvet.Iloveyou,Ialmostsay.ButthenIrememberthereddressanddancingwithWill.Wehavetomorrow.Wecanhavemorethanthissummer.It’sthelastthingIthinkbeforeIfallasleep.
WhenIwakeup,Willisgone.24
June14,NineYearsAgo
Igottothedocksearly.ItoldMomIwasmeetingafriend,butI’dbeendeliberatelyvagueoneveryotherdetail.ItwasmyfirsttriphomesinceChristmas,andshewassuspicious.I’dgraduatedfromuniversityayearearlier,andmyfriendcirclewassmall—moreofatriangle,really.WhitneyandCamwereupnorth,andAylawasmygoodfriendinthecity.AsidefrommycoworkersatTwoSugars,Iwasn’tclosetoanyoneelse.
IthadbeentwelvemonthssinceI’dseenWill.Afterhe’dleftmyapartment,Ispentthemorninginbed,staringatthespotwherehe’dlainthenightbefore,hiswordsonrepeatinmyhead.
It’sstillyourlife.
Itwasn’texactlynewinformation,butitfeltlikeIwasseeingmyselfinadifferentlight.Will’slight.HisconvictionthatIneededtobehonestwithMomandhisownpassionforartcastonethousandwattsonhowpassiveI’dbeenaboutmyfuture.Iwaslettinglifehappentome.
Ihadrepeatedhiswordstomyselfinthebathroommirrorlaterthatafternoon.ItwasSunday,andwhenitwastimeformycallwithMom,IheldthelistWillhadwritten,staringatthefouritemsontheplan.IexplainedtoMomthatIhadsomethingtotellher,thatIwasn’tsurehowtosayit,butIdidn’twanttoworkattheresortthatsummer.Oranysummer.Orever.
“Idon’tunderstand,”shesaid.“You’recominghomeinaweek.TheRosesarethrowingaparty.IhaveyoubookedonthefrontdeskthroughJuly.Iwasgoingtoshowyouhowtodothescheduling.Iorderedyouanewuniform.”Shespokequicklywithoutpausingforair.“IgotthegoodcoffeebeansandboughtafancygrinderIstillcan’tfigureout.Iwasgoingtosurpriseyouonyourfirstmorningback.Youalwayssaymycoffeeistooweak.”Iheardhersuckinabreath.Whenshestartedspeakingagain,hervoicetrembled.“Iwaslookingforwardtoourmorningsatthelake.Ithoughtthiswasgoingtobemeandyou,pea.”
Iclosedmyeyes.IapologizedandsaidIwasgratefulforeverythingshe’ddoneforme.ItoldherIdidn’twantherlife.Iwantedalifeofmyown,whateverthatwas.
Shewentquietforafewmoments,thenshesaid,“Okay,Fern.”Hertonewasflat.“Yougofigureyourlifeout,butI’mnotgoingtopayforit.”
IstartedsayingthatIdidn’thaveanysavings,butthelinehadgonedead.
Shaking,Iputmyphonedown.IhatedhurtingMom.ButIwasalsobuzzingwithadrenaline.Ihaddoneit.Iwasn’tgoinghomeinaweek.Iwasn’tgoingtoworkatBrookbanks.
Icouldhardlybelieveit.Ihadtocallmybossandbegformoreshifts.IhadtotellJamieandWhitney.ButthepersonImostwantedtotalktowasWill.OnlyIcouldn’t.
NotoncedidIcontactWill,althoughthefirsttimeIgothighafterheleft,aloneinmyapartment,Ityped“WillBaxter”intoaGooglesearchbar.IfoundanarticleintheVancouverSunaboutastudentartexhibitthatfeaturedaphotoofWilllookingjustasI’dremembered.IduguphisprivateFacebookpage—theprofilepicwasacartoonself-portrait—butIdidn’tfriendhim.IsearchedforRoommates,hopinghiscomichadadigitaltrail,butcameupempty.
Ispenttwelvemonthsdesperateforhiscompany,hiswidesmile,hisexplosivelaugh.Hiscertainty.Iimaginedwhatourdaywouldhavebeenlikeifwe’dbothbeensingle.Iimaginedthenightgoingverydifferently.Iimaginedpressingmylipstohisscar.
Ispenttwelvemonthsthinkingaboutwhatitwouldbeliketoseehimagain.I’dtakehimoutonthecanoe.We’dpaddleupthelaketothequietstripofsandyshorelineandsitwithourtoesinthewater,andwe’dtalk.Wewouldtalkforhours.
TherewassomuchIwantedtotellWill—howIhadstayedinmyapartmentinTorontoandhowIwasbrokebutmuchhappierthanIhadbeenwhenwemet.IwantedtotellhimIwasworkingfull-timeatTwoSugarsandthatpeoplelovedhismural.IsmiledwheneverIsawthetinyfernontheplane’srudder.IwantedtotellhimabouttheinklingofanideaIhadtoopenmyowncoffeeshoponeday.IwantedtotellhimI’dgonetoHighParktoseethecherryblossomsinthespring.IwantedtotellhimIwassingle.
IdecidednottogotoBanffwithJamie.IconvincedmyselfitwasbecauseIcouldn’taffordtheairfareanddidn’twanttogiveupmyapartment.ItwasaTuesdayinearlyJulywhenhebrokeupwithme.Ihadjustgottenhomefromadoubleshiftwhenmybuzzerrang.Iknewwhyhe’dcomeassoonasIsawhim.Wesatonthefrontstepsofthebuilding,andJamietoldmethatlovingmefeltlikeholdingwater.“I’mtryingtohangontootight,Fernie,”hesaid.“Ithinkwebothneedtofacethenextadventureonourown.”IknewhewasdoingwhatIshouldhavealready,butIachedforweeks.
WhitneysaidsheunderstoodwhyIdidn’twanttocomehome,butthensheaskedwhyIhadn’tmentionedanythingwhileshewasvisiting,andIcouldtellI’dhurther,too.
Ayla,myclosestfriendinToronto,wasdoinganinternshipinCalgaryuntilSeptember,andIwasn’ttightenoughwiththeTwoSugarscrowdformorethantheoccasionalafter-workdrink.Iwaslonely.
Countlesstimes,IstaredupatthecrackinmyceilingwonderingifI’dmadeahugemistakebynotgoinghome.TherewereevenmoretimesIalmostsentWillaFacebookrequest.Iwantedsobadlytotalktohim.Ihadfeelingsforhim,Icouldadmitthat.Butaboveall,Ineededhisfriendship.
Junefourteenthwasoneofthosegloriousafternoonswherelakeandskyformblueparenthesesaroundthegreenhillsideoftheoppositeshore.Theresortbeachwascrowdedwithfamilies,thewaterdottedwithcanoesandkayaksandpaddleboards.Itwasn’tashotasthedayWillandIhadspenttogether,buttherewasthesamefeelingintheair—the
ThepairofteenageboysworkingintheoutfittinghutclearlyhadyettoexperiencethewrathofMargaretBrookbanks,becausethedockswerecoveredinpineneedles.Iduckedinside,saidaquickhello,andgrabbedabroomtokeepmyselfbusy.
IwassurprisedwhenWillwaslate.Hestruckmeashavingaresponsiblestreak—thewayhe’dcheckedinonhissister,hisideaforaone-yearplan,evenhisinsistencewenotstayintouch.Iwascertainhe’dbethere.Isquintedupatthelodge,andwhenIsawnosignofhim,Isatdownattheendofthedock.I’ddressedtotakehimoutinacanoe—apairofcottonshortsandagreenbathingsuitI’dboughtbecausethecolorremindedmeofthetreesinEmilyCarr’spaintings.I’dpackedastrawbagwithsupplies—acoupleofsandwiches,twobottlesoflemonSanPellegrinoI’dbroughtwithmefromToronto,atubeofsunscreen,andabuckethatforWill.
IwaiteduntilIstartedtoworrymyownnosemightpeel,andIputthehaton
Iwaiteduntilthesunhadsunklowinthesky.
IwaitedforWillBaxterforhours.
Andthen,finally,Ifelttheprickofbeingwatched.Ilookedovermyshoulderandfoundapairofgrayeyesidenticaltomyown.Thedisappointmenthitmeinoneswiftblow.
Mommadeherwayacrossthedock.
“Wanttotellmeabouthim?”sheaskedassheslippedoffhergoldsandalsandsatdownbesideme,herperfumeticklingmynose.Shewasdressedfortheeveninginaturquoiseshiftandchunkygoldjewelry.
Ididn’treply.
TherewasnodenyinganuneasehaddescendedbetweenusafterItoldherIwasn’tcominghome.
SheandPeterhadcomeforconvocationandtakenmetodinneraftertheceremony,buttheeveningendedwithMomandmefighting.Ihadn’tvisitedherattheresortuntiltheendofsummer.WhenI’dwokenuplatemyfirstmorninghome,I’dbeenconfused.Momhadn’trousedmetogotothelakewithourcoffees—she’dalreadyleftforthelodge.Shehadn’twokenmethenextday,either.
Christmashadbeenaminordisaster.Shetalkedalotaboutawholelotofnothing,butshecouldbarelymeetmyeyes.SometimesIcaughtherstudyingmelikeIwasastranger,likeshewasrewiringherentireideaofwhoIwas.
ShewassnippywithPeterandworkedChristmasDay,whichhadalwaysbeenasacreddayoff.PeterandIcookedChristmasdinnertogether.WehadthenewHaimalbumuploud,andIwasrage-peelingpotatoes,fumingabouthowMomhadn’tonceaskedaboutthecoffeeshop.PetertoldmeIhadtobepatient—thatsheneededmoretimetoadjusttomydecision.
“Allshecaresaboutisthisplace,”Icomplained.Itfeltlikemylifelonghypothesishadbeenproven.NowthatIwasn’tgoingtobeapartofBrookbanks,Momhadzerotimeforme,andshe’dneverhadmuchtobeginwith.
PeterhandedmeanotherYukonGold.“Whenyourmomwasyourage,itwasherdreamtotakeovertheresortfromyourgrandparents.She’sthrowneverythingshehasatmakingitasuccess,showingshecoulddoitonherown,”hesaid.“Butforthelastfouryears,Fern,allshe’sbeendreamingaboutisworkingnexttoyou.”
I’dstaredatthepotatoinmyhand,stunned.I’dpromisedPeterI’dgivehersomeslack,butwhenshe’dshownuplateforturkey,I’dcutmytripshortandhadn’treturneduntilnow.
MomandIsatbesideeachotheronthedock,watchingtwotweensattempttosteerapaddleboat.Shetookthehatoffmyhead.
“Youcouldstartwithhisname,”shesaid.
IconsidereddenyingthatIwasmeetingaguy,tellingMommyfriend’snamewasBethorJane,butateartumbleddownmycheek.Iswipeditawaywiththeheelofmyhand.
“HisnameisWill.”
Sheabsorbedthisforamoment.“Andhewasgoingtomeetyouallthewayuphere,athome?”Hervoicewaslacedwithskepticism.
“Hewassupposedto.”
“Isitseriousbetweenthetwoofyou?”
“Ithoughtitcouldbe.”Irubbedmycheekagain.“ImadehimamixCD.”
I’dspenthoursperfectingit.I’dwantedittobesummeryandmeaningfulbutnotinanI’mtotallyinlovewithyouway.Ididn’tknowifhewasstillwithFredorsomeoneelseorifhefeltthesamewayIdid.Iincludedsomeofthesongswe’dlistenedtoatthecoffeeshopandsomethatremindedmeofthedaywespenttogetherandothersthatremindedmeofhim.Theonlytheme,really,wasWill.
MusicmayhavebeenthelanguagePeterandIshared,butMomknewwhatmakingaCDforsomeonemeanttome.Sheplacedapink-manicuredhandonmythighandgavemylegalittlejostle.“It’shislossthen,Fern,”shesaidfirmly.
“Maybe,”Isaid,tiltingmychintotheskytofendoffanotherswelloftears.
Mompressedherpalmstomycheeks,turningmyfacesoshecouldlookmeintheeyes.
“No,pea,”shesaid,unblinking.“It’shisloss.Hehasnoideawhathe’smissing.”
Itookanunsteadybreath.“Youthinkso?”
Shewrappedherarmsaroundmeandpulledmeagainstherchest,thesamewayshedidwhenIwaslittle.
“Oh,honey,”shesaidintomyhair.“Iknow.”25
Now
There’snonote.Notextmessage.Novoicemail.There’snothingtoexplainWill’sabsence.
AtfirstIthinkhemusthavehadanearlymeetinganddidn’twanttowakeme,butwhenIpullonapairofsweatsandwalkovertoCabin20inthedrizzle,there’snolightoninside.Idon’twanttoknockincasehe’sonacall,soIcreeparoundtothefrontdecktopeerinsidethekitchen,butthecurtainsaredrawn.
AsIheadbacktothehouse,Itellmyselfhe’sprobablygoneforajogorawalktogetsomefreshair.Itakeahotshower,buthe’snotdownstairslikeI’mexpectingwhenIcomeout.Imakecoffee,thinkinghe’llwalkthroughthedooratanymoment.ButafterI’vehadtwocups,dreadseepsitswayintomylimbslikeacoldfog.
Isendhimatext.
Wheredidyougo?
Iwaitforthethreelittledotsforeshadowinghisreply,buttheydon’tcome.Igetdressedandstillthere’snothing.
Iwalktothelodgeandtendrilsofsmokecurloutofcabinchimneys,thesmellhanginglowinthemist.Thelatesummerheathasturnedintothecooldampofearlyfall.Mymindiswhirling,butmylegsareleaden.Somethinghastobewrong.Aworkcrisismaybe.Willwouldn’tjustleave.Hewouldn’tdisappearonme.Notagain.
Isitinmychairintheoffice,nomemoryofpassingthroughthelobbytogethere.Icheckmyemail,butthere’snothingfromhim.Istareatthecomputer.I’mstillsittingthere,eyesunfocused,whenJamieunlocksthedooranhourlater.He’sfumingaboutsomethingtodowiththefloristandashipmentdelaybutstopsmid-sentence.
“Areyousick?”Hebendsdowninfrontofme,puttingahandonmyforehead.“You’reclammybutyoudon’tfeellikeyouhaveafever.”
Iblink.“Hungover.”
“Shit,Fernie.Thisisabigday.WantmetogetyouaGatorade?”
“Bigday?”
“Thedance,”hesays.“Howmuchdidyoudrinklastnight?”
Thedance.
“I’mgoingtogofindthatbottleofGatorade,”Isay,pushingoutofmychair,ignoringhisoffer.Ineedafewminutesalonetocollectmyself.“Thenyoucanputmetowork.”
Iduckoutsidetogetsomeair.Myeyeswanderdowntothedocks,andIshiver
Youandmeinoneyear,FernBrookbanks.Don’tletmedown.
ThedaypassesslowlywithnotraceofWill.Jamiewon’tletmeintothediningroomtohelpwithsetup.IleaveWillfourvoicemailsandseveralmoretextsaskingwhereheisandifeverythingisokay.Allthewhile,Ican’tseemtowarmup.Achillhassettledinmybones.Bylateafternoon,whenIwalktothehousetochange,I’msoanxiousandworried,I’mvibrating.Somethinghastobewrong.
Ishower,blowoutmyhair,andputonmymakeup.WhenIslipintothereddress,Ilookinthemirror,hopinghe’llbethere.Iwanthimtobeokay.Iwantustobeokay.Iwantmorethanokay.TherealityofwhatIwantwithWillcrashesintomewithsuchaforcethatIhavetositdown.
—
Afloodofguestsheadstowardthelodge,andIfollow,rubbingmyhandsovertheprickledfleshofmyarms.I’mnotpayingattentionasIenterthelobbyandIalmostbumpintotheglitteringbackofMrs.Rose.
“Fern,dear,what’sthematter?You’rewearingthesamescowlyoudidasateenager.”
Iapologizeandtellherhowlovelyshelooks,thenrearrangemyfacesoI’lllooksuitablyimpressedwhenIenterthediningroom.
ButIdon’tneedtofakeit,becausethetransformationissodramatic,Igasp.Everythingispink.Pinklinens,pinkdahlias,pinkballoons.Tableshavebeenarrangedtocirclethedancefloorandthereareprobablyahundredstrandsoftwinklelightshangingintherafters.Candlesflickeringlassjarsallovertheroom.Thebandisalreadyonstage,playing“BeMyBaby.”
Usuallythedancingdoesn’tgetstarteduntilsometimearounddessert,butassoonasMrs.Roseputsherpursedown,sheandMr.Roseareshimmyingtheirwaytothefloor.
“Youlike?”Jamiesays,startlingme.Ispinaroundandseethathe’sfoundahuntergreentiewithapinkfloralprinttogowithhistansuit.
“It’sincredible,Jamie.IthinkyoumayhaveoutdoneMom.”
“Nah,”hesays,buthe’spleased.
“I’mserious.Thankyousomuchforall…”Istop.Thebandhaschangedsongsandisnowplaying“LoveMan.”Inarrowmyeyes.“Whatkindofbanddidyoubook,Jamie?”
“TheymostlydoMotowncovers,”hesays.“ButImayormaynothaverequestedasetlistheavyonsongsfromDirtyDancing.”
Ishakemyhead.“You’retheworst.”
“I’mjusthappyyou’rehere”—hewaggleshiseyebrows—“Baby.”
Ilaugh,forgettingWillforabrief,wonderfulmoment.Therewasatimewheneverythingaboutthisnight—theend-of-summerdance,abandhiredspecificallytoteaseme,aroomfullofguests—wouldhavebeenmygreatestnightmare.IspotWhitneyandCambeingusheredtotheirtable,andaflockofchildrenboogieingwiththeRoses.Inonecorner,Peterwatchestheserversdeliverbasketsofbreadrolls.Rightnow,Ijustfeel…athome.
Thebandtakesabreakforthetalentportionoftheevening—Mr.andMrs.Rose’s“TheSurreywiththeFringeonTop”getsastandingovation.It’soneoftheliveliestend-of-summerpartiesI’veseen.Imakemywayfromtabletotable,myeyesconstantlyflickingtothedoorway.ButWillneverwalksthroughit.Bythetimedessertisservedandthebandbeginsitsthirdset,theglowIfeltearlierthiseveninghasfadedintonothingness,andIhavetoholdbacktears.Whyisn’tWillwalkingthroughthatdoor?
IwishMomwerehere.Iwantnothingmorethantoburymyselfagainsther,inhalingthesweetnessofherperfumeandthesaltofherskin,thewayIdidwhenIwaslittle.
IlookforJamietotellhimI’mleaving—I’mgoingbacktothehousetocallWill.Again.
“CanIhavethisdance?”IhearPetersaybehindme.He’sinacharcoalsuit,thesameoneheworetothefuneral,probablytheonlyoneheowns.
“Youdon’tdance.”
“Youdon’t,either,”hesays.“Butlet’smakeanexception.”Heholdsouthislargepaw,andIfollowhimontothefloor.
Wemoveslowlyamongtheothercouples,andafteraminute,Peterclearshisthroatandsays,“You’realotlikeher,youknow?”
Ifrown.“Iam?”
“Notjusthowyoulook,thoughIthoughtI’dseenaghostearlierthisevening,youwearingthatdress.”
“Yourecognizedit?”
Petergruntsintheaffirmative.“CanadaDay,Ithink.Itwasprobablyaround1992.”
IrestmyheadagainstPeter’schestandtakeadeepbreath,breathinginhisOldSpicecologneandalongwithitalifetimeofmomentswithhimandmymom.TheholidaydinnersandcardgamesandbirthdaybrunchesPetercookedforher.
“You’vegothergrit.Comingbackhere,steppingintohershoes—that’snosmallthing.”
Iconsiderthisforamoment.“I’vealwaysthoughtIwasmorelikeyou.”
“Maggieoncesaidyouhadmysoftheartandherstronghead.Ithoughtshewastryingtomakemefeellikepartofthefamily.Butmaybeyoudohavealittleofbothofus,”Petersays.“Eitherway,she’dbesoproudofyou.”
“Yeah,”Iwhisper,mythroattight.
Weswayinatinycircle,notspeaking.
Afteraminute,Ipullbacktolookupathim.“Doyouthinkthiswouldallbeeasierifyou’dbeenmarried?”Iask.“Ifyou’dgottenwhatyouwantedbeforeshedied?”It’ssomethingI’vewondered.
“Itwasn’tmarriageIwanted,Fern.”Hisfeetstill.“ItwasMaggie.Itwasn’talwayseasy,butwewerealwaysfriends.Wewerealwaysthereforeachother.”
IhugPetertighter,andashiswordssinkin,thetruthhitsmewithasuddencrushingclarity.
“I’vegottogo,”Isay,andthenIrushouttothelobby.IaskthedeskclerkifIcanlooksomethingupinthecomputer,andeventhoughIknowwhatI’mgoingtofind,theshockofseeingitspelledoutinfrontofmeisdizzying.
Irushoutofthelodge,imaginingallthefoulwordsI’lluseonceIfinallygetWillonthephone.ButthenIhearWhitney.
“Fern,waitup!”
She’sjoggingtoreachme,herheelsclutchedinonehand,herboobsintheother.
“ThankgodIworethejumpsuit,”shepants.“Muchbetterforchasingdownfleeingbesties.”
“I’mnotfleeing.”
“Youliterallyfledthedanceasifescapingthesceneofacrime.What’sgoingon?”
IfillWhitneyin,andherhazeleyesbulgesowide,I’mworriedshemayburstafewbloodvessels.
“Willcheckedoutthismorning,”Ifinish.Thenoteinthefilesaidhe’dsendforhisthings.Hemusthavebeeninquiteahurry.
“Hewhat?”shescreeches.“Hejustvanished?Again?Oh,Iwillkillthisman.Isthatwhereyou’regoing?”
Myeyecatchesonabranchofredmapleleavesflutteringinthewind,thefirstblushoffall.Sothat’sit—summerisover,andWillisgone.
Ishakemyhead.“I’mgoingtothehouse.Ineedtospeakwithhim.Yougobacktothedance,enjoyyourself.”
Whitneylooksoverhershoulderatthelodge.Camiswaitingonthefrontsteps.“Areyousure?Camcanpickmeuptomorrow.IhavealotofWilltrashtalkinthetank.Icangoallnight.”
“No.Really,Whit.Iwanttobealone,okay?”
“Okay,”shesayswithobviousreluctance.“Butifyouchangeyourmindaboutneedingcompany,letmeknow.”
IcallWillassoonasIgetbacktothehouse,pacingthekitchenfloor.Igethisvoicemailforthenineteenthtime.ButIwon’tlethimignoreme.Icallagain.Andagain.Myangerriseswitheveryring.Mymomgotaneighteen-wordnotewhenshewasabandonedbyEric.Iwantmore.
Finally,Willpicksup.
“Fern.”Hesaysmynameonafrustratedsigh,andit’slikebeingdousedinicewater.
“Youleft,”isallImanage.
There’samuffledsoundontheotherendoftheline,andIhearWillapologizetosomeone.Thenthelinecrackleswiththesoundofwindwhippingintothemicrophone.
“Thisisn’tagoodtime,”hesaystome,voiceassterileasanunopenedbandage.
“Whatdoyoumean?”Icry.
“Ireallycan’ttalkaboutthisrightnow,”Willsays.“I’vegottogetback.”
“No,”Isay.“I’vebeenworriedallday,wonderingwhereyouwentandwhetheryou’reallright.Youneedtotellmewhatthehellisgoingon.Youcheckedout?What’shappening?Whereareyou?”
Willletsoutanothersigh.“I’matthehospital,Fern.”Itsoundslikeachastisement.“Sofiaissick.”
Mystomachseizeswithamixoffearandrelief.Iknewsomethingwaswrong.Iimmediatelyswitchintoproblem-solvingmode.“Whichhospital?Howisshe?I’lldrivedownandmeetyou.”IfIpacknow,Icanbeinthecitybeforemidnight.I’llcallJamieonceI’montheroad.Doesthecarneedgas?“CanIbringyouanything?”Iask,openingthefridge.Willwon’thaveeaten.Icouldpackuptheleftoverquichehemadefordinnertwonightsago
“Fern,no.”
Istopmoving.
“Don’tcomedownhere.”
“What?Why?”Isay,confused.“Icanhelp.”
“Idon’twantyourhelp.I’msorry,butyouandI…Itwasamistake.Wewereamistake.It’smyfault.Ishouldhaveknownthatfromthebeginning.”Hesoundsvacant.It’slikethere’sastrangertalkingtomeontheotherendoftheline,notthepersonwhoheldmeinhisarmslastnight,whisperingsoothingwordsintomyear.
“Idon’tbelieveyou,”Itellhim,myvoicebreaking.
IthinkofthePattiSmithalbumandthecardhegaveme.Youdoknowme.AndIknowyou,too.Ilookbehindmeatthestove,rememberinghimpreparingthequicheinmymom’sapron.
“Will,Iloveyou.”
Thereisnothingbutsilenceontheotherendofthephone.
Ithinkofswimmingtogetheroneeveninglastweek.Itwassohot,wedidn’tbothertowelingoffafter.Wesatattheedgeofthefamilydock,dripping,ourfeetinthewater.Willpressedhislipstomyshoulder.“Idon’tthinkI’vebeenhappierthanIamrightnow,”he’dsaid.
“AndIthinkyouloveme,too,”Isaynow,myheartthrashingwildlyinmychest.
“Fern,Ican’t,”hesays,andforasecond,hesoundslikeWillagain.Butthenhisvoicegoeshard.“It’stimewebothstoppedlivinginafantasyandmoveonwithourlives.”
Ibegintoargue,buthe’shungup.
Iholdthefridgedooropen,staringattheplateofleftoverquiche,unabletocomprehendwhatjusthappened.ItoldWillIlovehim,andhedidn’tsayitback.ItoldhimIlovehim,andheendedthings.Islamthefridgeclosed.Iamnotcrying.
MyhandsshakeasIfillaglasswithwater.Itakeasip,butmythroatissotight,Icanbarelyforcetheliquiddown.Istandatthesink,lookingoutthewindowatWill’scabin,rageturningmybloodhot.IthinkofWill’stailoredsuitsandpristinewhiteshirtshanginginanorderlyrowinthecloset.
Ibringthematcheswithme.
Pleasebeunlocked,IwishasIclimbthestepstoCabin20.I’mwearingthereddressandnoshoes,andifsomeoneseesme,they’llthinkI’mmad.
I’mnotmad.
I’mfurious.
WhenItwistthedoorknob,itobeys,andIchargeinsideandheadstraightforthebedroom.IthrowopentheclosetandWill’sclothingstaresbackatme.IgrabasmanyjacketsandshirtsandslacksasIcan,tampingdownonthedesiretopressmynoseintothefabricandgetahitofWill.Icarrytheloadintothelivingroom,andmyfootslipsonsomething.WhenItwisttoseewhat’sgotteninmyway,Ifreeze.
Sheetsofpaperlieonthefloorandalargesketchbooksitsonthecoffeetable,apenciltuckedintoitsrings.Idon’tregisterwhentheclothesfallfrommyarms,onlythatI’mpickingoneofthepagesoffthefloor,staringdownatadrawingofmefloatinginwater,armsoutstretched,eyesclosed.There’sasmudgeovermynose,likeit’sbeenerasedatleastonce.Therearethreeotherdrawingsonthefloor,unfinishedvariationsofthesameimage.
Itakethesketchbookoffthetableandflipthecoveropen.Willmentionedthathe’dbegundrawingagain,butIhadnoideahe’ddonesomuch.Itfeelswrong,likeI’mreadinghisdiary.ButIwasabouttosetflametothousandsofdollarsofsuiting.What’sonemorebaddeed?
Iflippastsketchesofscragglytreesonrockyshorelines,ofacanoepulledontoabeach,oftheRosesplayingcards.Ofme.Inoneoftheillustrations,myhairisshort,thewayitwaswhenwefirstmet.Ileanagainstagraffiti-coveredwall,myfacetilteduptothesky.Ipressmyhandagainstthesharppaininmychest.WhenIturnthepage,ashiverrunsthroughmybody.
No,no,no,IthinkasIstudythedrawing.
Thebagbesidemeonthedock.Thehatonmyhead.
“No.”Isayitoutloud,asifIcanmakeittrue.ButthemoreIstareatthepage,themoreIknow.
Isagontothepileofclothing,thebookinmyhand,andwhenthetearsfalldownmycheek,Idon’tholdthemback.Istaythereuntilabreezeblowsthroughthebackdoor,carryingwithitthefar-offsoundofthebandplaying“(I’veHad)theTimeofMyLife.”26
Now
Myapartmentisalmostempty.Overthepastfewdays,I’vepackedeverythingintobubblewrapandnewspaper,replayingmytimeinToronto.Myuniversityyears,myfirstshiftatTwoSugars,andallthelongwalks,baddates,andsloppynightsoutalongtheway.It’sjustme,themovers,atrayofdarkroasts,andaboutadozenboxesleftnow.It’sstrangeseeingmylittlehomethisway,strippedofallthetrimmingsthatmadeitmine.
I’velivedhereforfiveyears,longerthananywhereotherthantheresort.IrememberhowexcitedIwaswhenIfoundit,howspacioustheone-bedroomlayoutseemed,howgrownupthestainless-steelkitchenappliancesmademefeel.It’sthemainfloorofaskinnysemidetached,andasIlookatitnow,itfeelscrampeddespitethemissingfurniture
Myphonevibrateswithamessage.IdroptheclothI’musingtowipeoutthefridgeandtakeoffmyrubbergloves.ForafractionofasecondwhileIgetthephonefromthebackpocketofmyjeans,IthinkitmightbeWill,andIholdmybreathuntilIseethatit’sanemailtotheBrookbankseventsreservationaccount.
It’sbeenaweeksincethedance,andIhaven’theardasinglethingfromhim.Iknowtodaywon’tbeanydifferent.AfterIpickedmyselfupoffhiscabinfloor,Iwentbacktothehouse,takinghisdrawingwithme.Icomposedfurioustextmessagesinmyhead.Itypedoutafew,butitdidn’tseemrightsendingthem.Hegavemesolittleintheend.Heliedtomeallsummer.DespiteallthequestionsIhave,IdecidedWilldidn’tdeserveanyofmyemotions,eventhewild,wrathfulones.IwroteabriefmessagesayingIhopedSofiawasokayandtogothroughJamiefortherestoftheconsultancywork.Iaskedhimnevertocontactmeagain.
Buteverytimemyphonebuzzes,atraitorouspartofmybrainhopesit’shimandwishesIhadn’tslammedthedoorbetweenusshutsofirmly.NotthatIhaveascriptforwhatI’dsayifwewerespeaking.Thefoundationofhurtandconfusionneverfalters.Agnawingachehassettledinmybelly.IthoughtIknewwhatitwasliketomissWillBaxter,buttheemptinessIfeltyearsagowasacrevicecomparedtothiscanyon.
Themessageisageneralinquiryaboutacompanyholidayparty,soIbookmarkittoreplytoafterIgetthisplaceclean,handoverthekeys,andheadbacktotheresortintherustyCadillac.Allweek,I’vebeendreamingoftheWebersburgerI’mgoingtoeatonmywayhome.
IpromisedJamieI’dkeepupwithbookingswhileIwasgoneandjustifiedtheless-than-idealtimingofmytripbymeetingwithafewpotentialsommeliersinthecity.IthinkheknewIneededspacetoclearmyhead.I’mgoingtotakeafewdaysoffoncewe’restaffeduptobuyacar,boxsomeofMom’sthings,andstartredecoratingthehousesothatitfeelslikeme.
“Forgettopackthisone,eh?”callsoneofthemovers.Ifollowhisvoiceintothebedroom,whereWill’sten-year-oldportraitofmehangsintheotherwiseblankspace.Myone-yearplanistuckedbehindthedrawing.WhenIlostthestreetcarpinyearsago,Itoreapartmyapartment,emptiedallmypurses,dumpedmydresserdrawersoutonthebed,butIneverfoundit.Iputthelistinsidetheframethatday.
“IthinkIhaveanemptypictureboxsomewhere,”saystheyoung,bleary-eyedredhead,whoreeksofthejointhesmokedbeforegettingstarted.IthinkhisnameisLandonorpossiblyLandry.“Wantmetowrapitup?”
“No,that’sokay.Idon’tknowifI’mtakingitornot,”Itellhim.MaybeI’llbringitwithme.OrmaybeI’lldumpitinthegarbagebinonmywayoutthedoor.Fifty-fiftychance.
LandonorpossiblyLandryshrugs.
Itakeitoffthepicturehookandleaveitonthekitchencounterfornow.
Themoversworkatanincrediblespeedfortwostonedtwentysomethings.IhiredateamfromHuntsville,andtheyaren’tusedtonarrowdowntownTorontosidestreets.They’vepulledhalfontothesidewalkbutarestillblockingpartoftheroad,andbetweentheangryhonking,passive-aggressivebicyclebells,andsneersfrompedestrianstryingtonavigatearoundthegianttruck,theyseemfrazzledandanxioustogetthehelloutofhere.Peterismeetingthematthehousesincethey’llhaveaheadstartonme.Idirectthemoutoftheirmakeshiftparkingspaceandthenstartonthestove.
I’mscrubbingtheovenwhenthedoorbellrings.Ilookaround.Idon’tseeanythingthemovershaveforgotten.Ipokemyheadoutthefrontwindow,butit’snotLandon,Landry&Co.onthesteps;it’sawomaninavoluminouswhiteshirtdress,herdarkbrownhairfallingstraighttohershoulders.Themanwholivesintheunitabovemineisasmoking-hotlinguisticsPhDwhoteachesFrenchontheside.Iassumeshe’sbuzzedthewrongapartment.
“CanIhelpyou?”Icallout,andshejumpsbeforeturningmyway.She’sstunning.Theoversizedburgundyleatherbagshe’scarryingprobablycostsamonth’srent.Icanseehowpreciselywingedherliquideyelinerisfromfivefeetaway.
Shestudiesmeandasks,notaltogetherkindly,“AreyouFern?”
“Iam,”Isay,wary.Strangersdon’tjustshowuponyourdoorstepinthiscity.
Shelooksoverhershoulderlikeshe’snotsupposedtobehereandthenbackatme.“I’mAnnabel.CanItalktoyouforaminute?”
—
AnnabelandIstandacrossfromeachotheratthekitchenisland.It’sasthoughallofWill’sextremeshavebeensoftenedinhisyoungersister.Herhairandeyesareatouchlighter,thecolorofpenniesratherthancola.Herfaceismorerounded,hernoselessdramatic.Shedoesn’thavetheWillBaxterposture,butshe’severybitasput-together.
“Youdon’treallylooklikehistype,”shesays,unfazedbyherbarrensurroundings.
IglancedownatmygrimyT-shirt,rippedjeans,andrunningshoes.Myhair’spushedbackwithaheadband.Nomakeup.Sweatsheen.Coffeebreath.I’mnotanyone’stypeatthemoment.
“Well,IguessIwasn’t.”
“Ididn’tmeanthatasaninsult.”HergazedropstoWill’sillustrationonthecounter.“I’mjustsurprised,that’sall.”
Thatdoesn’tsoundmuchbetter.“Idon’twanttoberude,butwhyareyouhere?Howdidyoufindme?”
Shehitchesherpursestraphigheronhershoulder.“Igoogledyou.FoundoutwhereyouworkedandtoldyouroldbossIwasacollegefriend.”
FuckingPhilippe.
“Andyoudidthisbecause?”Iask.“IsSofiaokay?”
“She’sonthemend.Howmuchdidmybrothertellyou?”
“Onlythatshewasinthehospital.”
Shenods,asifshe’snotsurprised.“Itwasmeningitis.Theykeptherthereuntilshewasoutofdanger.IcalledWillearlySaturdaymorningfreakingout.Sofiawasshiveringandvomiting.Icouldn’tgetaholdofourfamilydoctor.WilltoldmetogototheERimmediately,andIdid,thankgod.Itwasawful.”Annabel’seyeswell,andshewavesahandinfrontofherface.“Iwon’tgointodetail,butshe’sgoingtobefine.Idon’twanttoimaginehowfastWillmusthavedriventogetbacktothecitysoquickly,buthemetmeatthechildren’shospitalandstayedwithus.Yourfriendcalledyesterday.”
“Myfriend?”
“Theangryone.Ididn’treallycatchhername.IcouldhearherchewingoutWillthroughthephone.Shewasgoingonandon,andhewassittingtheresaying‘Iknow’overandover.Idon’tthinkheevennoticedI’dtakenthephonefromhimuntilIwasyellingather.”
“Whitney.”Shedidn’ttellmeshe’dcalledWill,althoughI’mnotshocked
“That’sit,”Annabelsays.“Apologizetoherforme.Imayhavecalledhersomenot-so-nicethingsbeforesheexplainedthatmybrotherhadtakenoffonhisgirlfriendandthatyouwereinthecityifhewantedtomakethingsright.”
“Iwasn’thisgirlfriend,”Isay.Itfeelsimportanttomaketheclarification.
“No?ItsoundedprettyseriousfromwhatWhitneytoldmeandfromthelittleWillsaid.”
IwanttoknowexactlywhatWillsaid,wordforword.Iwanttoknowhistoneofvoice,whathewaswearing,andwheretheyhadtheconversation.“Youstillhaven’texplainedwhyyou’rehere,”Isayinstead.
“Mybrotherdoesn’treallyscrewup—don’ttellhimIsaidthat.ButaccordingtoWhitneyandfromwhatI’vemanagedtogetoutofhim,hescrewedupwithyou.”AnnabelstraightensherselftoaWill-likestance.“I’mheretodefendhishonororwhatever.”
“Willknowsyou’rehere?”Iask,hatinghowhopefulIsound.
“No,he’dbepissed.Hetoldmeyoudidn’twanttobecontactedandthatIneededto”—shemakesairquoteswithherfingers—“?‘respectthat.’Butpleasehearmeout.Ididn’tcomeallthewaytothewestendforfun.”
Iletoutaheavysigh.“Allright.”
“I’vehadalong,shittyweek,andWillhasn’tbeenashelpfulashethinks—he’sjustabig,mopeydisaster.Anyway,hisrecentfuckupaside,mybrotherisextremelyloyaltothepeopleheloves.Ithinkwhenheofferedtoworkwithyourmom,hewas—”
Iwavemyhandstocutheroff,assumingshehasmisspoken.“Excuseme?”
Annabelslantsherhead.“Earlierthisyear?Afterhestayedattheresortforthatwedding?Heofferedtoworkwithyourmom?”Shemustseetheshockonmyface.“Hedidn’ttellyouthat.”
“Hesaiditwasmymom’sidea.”Iputahandonthecounter,feelinglight-headed.
“Well,I’llleavethatmessforhimtoexplain.ButIthinkitwashiswayofmakingthingsrightwithyou,atleastatfirst.Ittookmeawhiletoputitalltogether.Thatyou’rethegirl,theonefromthatdaytenyearsago.”
Inod.
“Willcouldn’tstoptalkingaboutyouthemorningafterhemetyou—howheshowedyouaroundthecity,howyouweredifferentfromeveryoneelse.I’dneverheardhimspeakaboutsomeonelikethatbefore.”
Ittakesasecondformymemorytokickin.“Hewasmeetingyouthatmorningforbreakfast,”Isay.“BeforehisflightbacktoVancouver.”
Annabelpressesherlipstogether.“I’llneverforgetit,”shesays.“Ithrewuphalfwaythroughourwaffles.It’swhenItoldWillIwaspregnant.”
“Hedidn’ttellmethat,”Iwhisper.Hedidn’ttellmealotofthings.
“Ourdadfoundthepregnancytestinthegarbageafewdaysbefore.HeassumedIwouldn’thavethebaby,andhonestly,Ithoughtthat,too.ButthenhestartedsayinghowIcouldn’ttakecareofmyself,nevermindachild,andIsnapped.WhenItoldWill,heofferedtostayinthecityandcometotheclinicwithme,butI’dalreadymadeupmymindtoproveDadwrong.Iwasgoingtohavethebabyandbecomethebestmomever.”Annabelshakesherhead.“StubbornnessandpriderunintheBaxterfamily,FYI.”Sheglancesatthedrawingonthecounter.
“Willgaveupalotforme.Ididn’trealizehowmuchhewasgivingupatthetime;neitherofusdid.ButI’velearnedalotsinceIwasnineteen.”Annabel’seyesmovetowheremyfingersgriptheedgeofthecounterandthenshepeersaroundthespace.“Istheresomewherewecansit?There’smore.”
—
AnnabelandIgoouttothefrontsteps.It’shumidinthecity,thesunsmudgedoutbyfatclouds.Aspottedwhitecatissprawledonthewalkway.ColonelMustardbelongstothenext-doorneighbor.
Annabelsetsherpursebetweenhersandaledfeetandfidgetswiththeshoulderstrap.“Doeshetalkverymuchaboutourmother?”sheasks.
Ishakemyhead.IknowshestilllivesinItalyandthatWillhasn’tvisitedherforacoupleofyears.Otherthanwhathetoldmetenyearsago,hehasn’tsaidmuchmore.
“I’mnotsurprised,”Annabelsays.“Hedoesn’tliketo.She’saverygiftedartist.Andgorgeousandsmartandover-the-topcharmingwhenshewantstobe.Butshewaskindofanabsentparent.Evenbeforesheleft,shewasnevertotallythere.Itwasn’tallherfault—Iknowthatnow.Herdepressioncouldbedebilitating.Duringabadspell,she’dbeinbedfordays.Andwhenshewaswell,shewashyperfocusedonherwork,likesheneededtouseeverydropofhercreativityincaseitranout.”AnnabelgivesmealooktomakesureI’mfollowing,andsomethingaboutthesteadinessofhergazeremindsmesomuchofWill,mychestsqueezes.ButthenshenoticesColonelMustard.
“I’msorry.Doesthatcathaveamustache?”
“Yep.”IclickmytongueandtheColonelturnshishead,theblackpatchoffurunderhisnoseonfulldisplay.
Annabelsquealsandthecat,spottingamark,stretches,thensashaysover,wrappinghimselfaroundherankles.
“Weneverhadpets,”shesays,strokinghisfur.“Willisallergictoalmostanythingwithfourlegs.Itchyeyes,asthma,thewholething.”
Itpokesatmelikeapebbleinashoe.Ididn’tknowWillhasasthma.ThelistofthingsIdidn’tknowaboutWillgrowswithalmosteverywordfromAnnabel’slips.
“Anyway,”shesaysastheColonelsettlesbyherfeet,“whenourmotherwasworking,shecouldshutouteverything.Herstudiowasabovethegarage,andIrememberstompingupthestairslikeanelephant.I’dstandrightinfrontofherandhavetotryfourorfivetimestogetherattentionbeforeshe’dnoticeIwasthere.AfterIbecameaparent,Iwonderedifshemovedsofarawaybecauseshefeltguiltyfornotspendingenoughtimewithus.Like,ifsheputanoceanbetweenus,shewouldn’thavetoattemptsomekindofbalance.Shecouldn’tfail.”
ItremindsmeofsomethingPetersaidaboutMom—howoneofthereasonssheworkedsomuchwasbecauseitwastheoneareaofherlifewhereshefeltsuccessful.
“Willidolizedherwhenweweregrowingup,”Annabelcontinues.“Everyonealwayssaidhowaliketheywere.Hewassoproudofthat.Thetwoartists.HelookslikeMom,too.Andheseemedtounderstandher.Whenshewassuffering,he’dsitbesideherinbed,sketching.Itusedtoscaremewhenshewaslikethat,butWillwouldjustbewithherinthequiet.”
Icanpictureitclearly,ayoungWilltryingtocomforthismomwithnothingmorethanhissolidpresence.Ithinkofhowhewaswhenwefirstmet—thewayheletmespeakwhenIwasready,howhelayacrossfrommeinthedark,assuringmeeverythingwouldbeokay.
“Areyouallright?”Annabelasks,lookingdownatmyarm.I’vebeenscratching.
“Yeah,”Ilie,puttingmyhandsaroundmyshinstoholdtheminplace.ThemoreAnnabeltellsmeaboutWill,thewiderthecanyoninsidemesplits.He’sariver,pushinganderoding,andmybanksaresand,notgranite.
Annabelmakesadubioushum,butshegoeson.“Whenourmomleft,Willtookitthehardest.Welivedwithmygrandmathatsummer,andIrememberoneday,hewasdrawingoutinthebackyard.Iwantedhishelpputtingabasketonmybike,andIhadtocallhisnameabunchoftimestogethimtohearme.IsaidsomethingabouthimbeinglikeMom,andhegotsomad.Hetoldmehe’dneverbelikeher.SometimesIthinkhe’smadeithislife’smissiontoproveit.”
Istayquiet,watchingAnnabel’sprofile.
“Thethingis,”Annabelsays,“Willisalotlikeourmother.Notinthewaysthatcount—he’stheleastself-centeredpersonIknow,andhisheartistoolargeforhischest.Buthe’screativeandpassionate,andwhenhedecideshewantstodosomething,hiscommitmentisunbreakable.”Shepullsinadeepbreath.“WhenSofiawasborn,hehadahardtime.Itwasdifferentfromourmom’sdepression,andit’snotmyplacetotellyouwhathewentthrough,butIthinkitonlyconfirmedhisbeliefthatdeepdownhe’sthesameasher.Hestoppeddrawingaltogether.HegotanMBAwhileworkingfull-time.Tohim,beingaresponsibleadultmeantbeinglikeourdad—havingasteadyjob,abigpaycheck,owningahome—andsothat’swhathedid.Buthegaveupthishugepartofhimself,andIdon’tthinkhe’sbeentrulyhappy.”Shelooksatmeexpectantly.“That’swhereyoucomein.”
“Idon’tseehow,”Imurmur.
Annabelgivesmealookofsheerpity.“No?Hesaidyouweresmart.”
Iblinkinsurprise,andshesmiles.“God,you’rebothsoserious.”Sheturnssoshecanfaceme.“Ihaven’theardmybrothersoundmorealivethanhehasthissummer.Whenhetoldmehewassketchingagain,Iwassorelieved.Ithoughthewasfinallystartingtotakehislifeback.”
IthinkofthedrawingIfoundathiscabin,andIwonderifAnnabelknowswhatIknow.
“Hewassomadathimselfthathewasn’thomewhenSofiagotsick,andI’msureheseesitasevidencethatheisn’tallowedtohaveallthethings.”Annabelstaresintotheclouds.“AndthatI’mnotreadytoliveonmyownwithSofia.Buthe’swrongaboutboth.Justlikehewaswrongtobreakupwithyou.”Shelooksbackdownatme,piercingmewithhercoppereyes.“Althoughmaybeyoushouldn’thavedumpedallyourfeelingsonhimwhenhisniecewasinthehospital.”
Mymouthhangsopen,butAnnabelgoeson.
“Andhe’snotgoingtocometoyouandapologize,ifthat’swhatyou’rehoping.Youaskedhimnottospeaktoyou,andhewon’t.”Shereachesintoherdresspocketandpullsoutatorncornerofpaperandhandsittome.There’sanaddresswrittenonit.“That’swherewelive.Sofia’swellenoughtostayatherdad’stonight,andI’mgoingoutwithmygirlfriends,sohe’llbetherealone.”
“Idon’tknow,”Isay,shakingmyhead.Ihaven’tbeguntoprocesseverythingAnnabel’stoldme,andIalreadyfeeldepleted.“I’mnotsureIcan.”
Annabelgivesmeahardstare.“I’mgoingoutonalimbhere.Ihavenoideawhetheryou’regoodenoughformybrother,buthe’sneversoundedhappierthanwhenhewaswithyou.Iknowhimbetterthananyone—betterthanyou.Iknowhemadeamistake,andheknowsit,too.He’sbeenacompletewreck.SoI’mhopingyouaregoodenough.I’mhopingyoushowup.”Shestudiesmeforamomentbeforestandingandslingingherbagoverhershoulder.“Evenifit’sjusttoendthingsproperly.”27
Now
IstareatWill’sSummerhilltownhousefrominsidetheCadillac.Number11isawideorangebricksemidetached,threestorieshigh,withsmartblacktrimandfloppywhitehydrangeasliningtheporch.It’swellpasteight,lateenoughthatI’msureAnnabelwillbeout.
Aftershe’dleftthismorning,ItoldmyselfIwouldn’tcomehere.I’vegotmyownshittodealwith;Ican’thandleWill’s,too.Ineededtoresumethehiatus.Ishovedthepieceofpaperwiththeiraddressdeepinsideatrashbag,planningtodrivebacktotheresortassoonasI’dfinishedcleaning.Fifteenminuteslater,Idugitout.
WhenIgotinthecar,insteadofheadingforthehighway,Icheckedintoahotel,showered,thensatatthedesktowritealistofreasonswhyIshoulderaseWillBaxterfrommycontactsandmylife.
ButasIstaredattheblankpage,Icouldn’tstopthinkingaboutWillatfourteen,angryandresentfulandmissinghismom.AndWillattwenty-two,feelingguiltyaboutlivinginVancouver,worryingabouthissister.Tenyearsago,Willhelpedmeseemyselfclearly,andIdecidedtotakeownershipofmyfuture.Whenhewalkedoutofmyapartmentthatmorning,Iknewmylifewasabouttochange.Ihadnoideahiswould,too.
IwasworriedIwasdifferent.
That’sthereasonWillgavemefornotmeetingmenineyearsago.WhenIfoundthedrawinginhiscabin,Ithoughthe’dbeenlyingtome.ButasIreflectedonwhatAnnabeltoldme,Ibegantowonderwhetherhewasn’tlying—ifmaybehecouldn’ttellmethefulltruth.
Twice,Willhascrashedintomyworldlikeameteorite,andbothtimes,I’vebeenlefthollowedout.Cratered.ButI’dneverthoughtabouthowthecollisionmighthavethrownhimoffhisaxis.
Isatatthehoteldesk,andIthoughtaboutWillatthirty-two,successfulandguardedandpatient,slowlyfindinghiswaybacktoart,dippinghistoeintoarelationship,claimingasliceofhappinessforhimself.IcouldhearhisvoicecuttingthroughthedarkthenightIknockedonhiscabindoorinmypajamas.
Whatdoyouwant,Fern?
Ilookedatthatnotepadforanhour,andinsteadofwritingallthereasonsIshouldletWillgo,Imadeacompletelydifferentlist.
AndnowhereIam,outsideWillBaxter’shouse.ScaredandinloveandreadytofightforwhatIwant.ForwhatIthinkWillwants,too.
IjustwishIdidn’tfeellikepuking.
Igrabthedrawingfromthepassengerseat.MyfingersshakeasIpressthebell,andItakeadeepbreath.ButwhenWillopensthedoor,thespeechI’veprepareddiesinmythroat.
Helooksnothinglikehimself.Foronething,stubblecovershisfaceandneck.It’sbeenleftunattendedsolong,it’svergingonscruffybeardterritory.Darkcircleshangbeneathhiseyes,andhishairisunkempt.He’swearingabaggypairofsweatsandastainedT-shirt.Assoonasheregistersmestandinginfrontofhim,hesnapsuprightwiththejoltofanelectricshock.
Iopenmymouth,andwhatcomesoutisanastonished“Youlookterrible.”
“Fern.”Hesaysmynamelikenooneelse,likeitmeanssomuchmorethananame.Butthenheblinks,seemingtorememberhimself.Whenhespeaksagain,hisvoicehascooledbyseveraldegrees.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
There’ssomuchIwanttosay,butIstartwiththehardest,simplestthing.
“Imissedyou.”
Thepinkcreepingupfromtheneckofhisshirtistheonlysignhe’saffected.
Istraightenmyshoulders,tryingnottolethisdemeanorthrowme.I’veseenthisbefore—theblankstare,theemptyvoice—thewayhecandetach,stripoutallemotion,staysafe.Willisonlockdown.“AndI’mheresoyoucanaskformyforgiveness.”
Heshakeshishead,butbeforehecanspeak,Ihandhimthedrawing.
“Andexplainyourself.”
I’veexaminediteverydaysinceIfounditinhiscabin,lookingforacluethatmighttelladifferentstoryotherthantheoneIknowistrue.
Heslidesthepagefrommyfingersandstudiesthesketchasthoughhehasn’tseenitbefore,runninghishandoverhischeek.
Thedrawingisofme,sittingattheendofthedockinabathingsuitandshorts.I’mgazingoutoverthewater,lookingboredormaybesad,wearingthehatI’dpackedforWill.Besidemeisthebagthatcontainedsunscreenandsandwichesandlemonsodas.TherewasamixCDinthere,too.Ithadawhitelabelonitscasewithsongsforwillwritteningreenmarker.
Whenhiseyesreturntomine,theyarewellsofblackremorse.“Fern,”hesaysagain.
“Youwerethere.”Myvoicecracks.
Henods.“Yeah.Iwasthere.”
Iswallowbackthelumpinmythroat.“Nowiswhenyouinvitemeinside,”Itellhim.
Helookslikehe’sabouttodisagree,buthenodsagainandholdsthedooropen.
—
Will’shomeisspectacular.Themainfloorisopenconcept,andfromtheentranceIcanseepastthelivingroomandkitchentotheenormouswindowsattherear.Thefloorsarewarmhoney-coloredwood,thefurniturelookscomfy,andthewhitewallsarecoveredinart,thoughIcantellnoneofitisbyWill.
Hesetsthedrawingonthestonecounterandtakestwobottlesoffizzywaterfromthefridge.Heleadsmetothepoppy-coloredcouchatthebackofthehouse.It’sobviouslytherecarea—thereareframedfamilyphotosonthewallandagiantflat-screen.Itwouldbecozyexcepttheceilingaboveopenstocathedralheight.Thereareskylights.
Isitatoneendofthesofa,andWillbrushespastmetotakeaseatattheother.
“Annabelcametoseeme,”Itellhim,andhemakesalowgroaninthebackofhisthroat.“ShesaidSofia’sgoingtobefine.”
“Yeah,”hesays,twistinghispinkiering.
“Shealsosaidyouwere,andIquote,‘abig,mopeydisaster,’whichIcanseewasanaccuratedescription.”
Willgivesmeasidewaysglance.“Iwasn’texpectingcompany.”Hisvoicesoundslikesandpaperonmetal.
Itakeaquakingbreath.Idon’tthinkI’veeverbeenthisnervousinmylife.“Doyouwanttotellmewhyyoulooklikeroadkill?”
“It’sbeenaroughweek.”
“Iknowithas.”
“Ihaven’tsleptmuch.”
“Clearly.”Ipause.“You’vebeenworriedaboutyourniece?”
“It’sbeenthat,yeah.”
“And?”
Willleansbackonthesofa,hisheadtiltedtowardme,buthedoesn’tspeak.
“Itsoundedliketheremightbeanand.Isthere?”Thetremorinmyvoicebetraysme.
“Ithinkyoualreadyknowthereis,”hesays,anditchiselsawayatthewalloffearI’mscalinginordertobehere.
“IthinkIdo,too,”Itellhim.“ButIwanttobesure.”
Willlooksupattheskylights.Heopenshismouth,andthenclosesitagain,jawclenching.
“Becauseyouleftwithoutsayingaword,andthendidn’treturnanyofmymessages,andthensaidweneededtostoplivinginafantasy?”
Heshakeshisheadslightly,andthenhisgazelocksonmine.“No,”hesays,andmyheartsplitsintoamillionraggedpieces.Iforcemyselftostayseatedinsteadofrunningoutthedoor.Iwait,handspressedbetweenmythighs,untilhespeaksagain.
“Ishouldn’thavedonethosethings,andI’msorry,Fern.Iam,”hesaysslowly.“Iwasstressedandnotthinkingstraight.Butthat’snotwhyIcan’tsleeporeatorgetthatimageofyousittingaloneonthedocknineyearsagooutofmyhead.”
“Thenwhy?”Iwhisper.
“Fern,youmustknow…”Hischestrisesandfallswithalongexhalation.
Istareathim,eyeswide.
Hisvoiceisquiet.“I’veneverwantedanythingformyselfthewayIwantyou.I’mcompletelyinlovewithyou.”
Aloudbreathrushesfrommythroat,myreliefinstant.
“ButIdon’tknowifIcandothis,”hesaysasIshiftcloser.“Idon’t—”
Iputmyfingersoverhismouth.“Youcandoanything.”
Will’sgazesoftens.
“I’mgoingtogiveyousomeadvicethatsomeoneoncegaveme.Hewasapretentiousartschoolgrad,butheknewwhathewastalkingabout,”Isay,andafaintsmileblossomsbeneathmyfingers.“Iknowhowmuchyourfamilymeanstoyou,andIwouldneverquestionthat.Butit’syourlife,Will.”
He’ssilent.
“SoIguesswhatIneedtoknowiswhetheryouwantmeinit.”
Willtakesmyhandfromhismouthandwrapshisarmsaroundme.Westaythatway,breathingandholdingeachother,forafullminute.
“Isthatayes?”Iask,myfaceagainsthischest.Ifeelaquietlaughrumbleinhischest.“Becausethere’salotofstuffweneedtotalkabout,butnoneofitreallymattersotherwise.”
Heleansback,hisfingersinmyhair,hisgazedartingbetweenmyeyes.“I’msorry,”hesays.Istarttopullback,buthedoesn’tletmego.“Wait.ItoldyoubeforethatI’mbadatprioritizingrelationshipsalongwitheverythingelse.IthoughtIcouldfigureitoutthistime.”Herunshisthumbsacrossmycheeks.“Ialmosttoldyouthetruthaboutbeingtherenineyearsago,butthemoretimewespenttogetherthissummer,theharderitgot.I’msorryIdidn’t.”
“Whatisthetruth?”Icanbarelygetthewordspastmylips.
“Ithoughtaboutseeingyoueverydayforayear.Igothalfwaydownthehilltothelake,andthen,finally,Idid.Youlookedsobeautiful.Iwantedtositdownonthatdockwithyou.”
“Whydidn’tyou?”Iwhisper.
“Itwasn’tyou,pleaseunderstandthat.Sofiawasfourorfivemonthsold,anditwasadarktimeforme.Iwasawreck.”Heleansback,runninghishandsoverhisface.“AndIguessIwasembarrassed.AftereverythingIputdownonthatlist,thereIwas—workinganine-to-fiveinanoffice—doingexactlywhatIsaidIwouldn’tayearearlier.Backthen,Ihatedmyjob.Iknewyou’dseeitrightaway.You’dbeabletotellthatI’dchanged,thatIwasn’thappy.Youwouldhavecalledmeonit.”
“Maybe,”Isay.“OrmaybeIwouldhavebeenimpressedbywhatyou’dtakenon.Youcouldhaveatleastsaidhello.”
“That’sthething.Icouldn’tjustsayhello.Youweresittingthereinthatgreenbathingsuit,andIrememberedexactlyhowithadbeenbetweenus.Wewouldhavetalked.IwouldhavetoldyouI’dgivenupmyart,andyouwouldhavebeensurprised.Iwouldn’tbeabletopretendthateverythingwasokay.Ididn’twanttoseemyselfthroughyoureyes.IthoughtifIsaidhello,Iwouldn’twanttosaygoodbye.MaybeIwouldn’twanttogobacktomysisterandmyniece.Ormyjob.MaybeI’dbeselfish.Icouldn’triskit.”
“Iwishyouwouldhave.Iwishyouwouldhaveletmeinbackthen.”Iputmypalmsonhischeeks.“YouareoneoftheleastselfishpeopleI’vemet,butit’snotselfishtowantsomethingforyourself.It’shuman.”
Willletsoutalongbreath.“Beingwithyou,beingatthelake,awayfromallthis—it’slikeIrememberedwhoIusedtobe,whatIusedtowant.Idon’tknowthatIstillwantthosethings.Idon’treallyknowwhoIam,Fern.”Hepauses,andIdon’tmove,Idon’tblink,Idon’tfillmylungs,untilhespeaksagain.“ButIknowIwantyouinmylife.”
Iskimmyfingersoverhisjaw,tracingthemtohisscar.Imeethiseyes,andhelookssotired.Morethanthat.He’sexhausted.IrememberwhatAnnabelsaidthismorningaboutdumpingmyfeelingsonWillatabadtime.
“I’vegotahotelroom,”Itellhim.“Whydon’twecallitanight,andIcancomebacktomorrow?Youreallydolookterrible.”
Will’sfacecrumplesalittle.“Idon’twantyoutogo.”
Idon’twanttosaytherestofwhatIhavetosaywhenhecanbarelykeephiseyesopen.Ichewtheinsideofmycheek.“Howaboutwejustvegforabit?”Icanpretendlikethisisanyothernight.
Willagrees,andwesettleinonthesofa,aFrasierrerunplayingontheflat-screen.Eventually,Icoaxhimtoliedownwithhisheadinmylap,andwhenhefallsasleep,IswitchofftheTVandsitinthelastgaspofeveninglight,studyingthephotosthathangabovethecouch.Therearethree.AnnabelholdingatoddlerSofiainagarden,theirnosespressedtogether.Sofiaonwhatlookslikeherfirstdayofschool,backpackandgoofygrinfirmlyinplace.Andtheonethatmakesmyheartswell:ayoungWillwithshaggydarkhair,staringdownatalittlepinkbabyinhisarms.
WhenAnnabelunlocksthefrontdoor,Willisstillsleeping.
“Jesusfuck,”shecries,surprisedtofindusonthesofainthedark.
“Sorry,”Iwhisper.“Ididn’twanttomovehim.”
Shecreepsover.“Finally,hesleeps.”
IbrushWill’shairfromhisforehead.
“I’mgladyoufoundme,”Itellher.
Shesmiles.“IhopeIam,too.”
Whenmyleftbuttcheekfallsasleep,InudgeWill.Helooksatme,startled,andbeginstospeak.Ishooshhim.“Let’sgetyoutobed.”
Weclimbtwoflightsofstairstohisroom,andWillcollapsesontothemattress.
“Stay,”hesays,reachingformyhand
“Okay,”Itellhim,pullingthesheetup.“I’mnotgoinganywhere.”
—
IwakebeforeWilldoes.Thehouseissilent.EitherAnnabelisn’tupyet,orshe’salreadyout.
Will’sroomtakesuptheentiretopfloorofthehouse,withslopedceilings,anenormoussparklingbathroom,andaslidingglassdoorthatleadstoadeck.There’snoartworkuphere.It’sserene.Everythingiswhiteandthepalestshadeofblue—itfeelslikebeingintheclouds.
IchangeoutoftheT-shirtItookfromWill’sdrawerlastnightandgetdressedquietlysoIdon’tdisturbhim,thenmakemywaydownfartoomanystairstothekitchensoIcanfigureouthisspiffycoffeemakerandgethimsomethingtoeat.Ifindacartonofraspberriesinhisdouble-doorfridge,butthenIseethemilkandeggs.Ihuntoutflour,bakingpowder,andbutter.IknowMom’srecipebyheart.
WillissittingupinbedwhenIreturn,sheetskickedoffaroundhisankles.He’sstillwearingthedirtyshirt,butthepurpleblotsunderhiseyeshavefaded.IwanttopullhimintotheshowerandwashhiswonderfulWillsmellback.
“You’rehere,”hesays,hisvoicescratchy.
“I’mhere.”Iputthecoffeeonhisnightstandandpasshimtheplateofpancakes.“IpromisedI’dcookforyouoneday.Icoveredtheminanungodlyamountofmaplesyrup.”
Hesmiles,crinklesfanningoutaroundhiseyes.Thereheis,Ithink.
“Sogood,”hesaysafterhisfirstbite.
“Eatup.You’regoingtoneedyourenergy.”
Hiseyebrowsrise.
“Notforthat,”Isay,rummaginginmypurseforthefoldedpieceofhotelstationery.IsitbesideWill,leaningbackonthewhitelinenheadboardwhileheeats.Oncehe’sfinished,Ihandhimthepaper.
“What’sthis?”hesays,openingit.Istayquietashereads,amusementticklingthecornersofhislipswhenhegetstotheend.
“It’swhatIwant,”Isay,thenpause,reconsidering.“Actually,it’smorethanthat.It’swhatIneed.”
Will’sgrinstraightensout,andhereadsitagain.Therearen’tmanywordsonthepage,buthetakeshistime.
“Isthisall?”
“That’sit.”
“Doyouwanttogivemeanyfurthercontext?”
“It’showyouwinmeback—afive-partplan.”
Ileanoverhisshoulder,andwelookatthelisttogether.
Apologizeprofusely.
Behonest—nomoresecrets.
Letmehelp.
Wearanapron.Always.Imeanit.
Drawmeapicture.
“Thefirstoneisprettyobvious,”Isay.
Willleansagainsttheheadboard,andreachesformyhand,twiningourpinkies.Hewatchesme,hisexpressionserious.“Idon’tthinkthere’sanapologybigenoughforhowsorryIam,Fern.I’vespentyearsregrettingleavingyoualoneonthatdock,andIhatehowItreatedyoulastweek—thethingsIsaidonthephone.I’msorryforrushingawaylikethatandmakingyouworry.Ican’tbelieveyou’rehereaftereverything.Iamsorry,butI’malsosogratefulyoushowedupatmydooryesterday.”
Iexhale.“Thatwasagoodapology.Thenextoneisevenmoreimportant.”
“?‘Behonest—nomoresecrets,’?”Willreads.
Inod.“Suchasthefactthatyouofferedtohelpmymomwiththeresort.”
Willwinces.“Annabeltoldyou?”
“Shedid.Ilikeher,bytheway.”
“Thatdoesn’tsurpriseme.”Hetakesasecondtothink.“Icouldtellyoudidn’ttrustmewhenIfirstarrived,andIwantedyoutosayyestoworkingtogethersobadly.Iwasworriedifyouknewitwasmyidea,you’dbeevenmoresuspicious.Ihadcoffeewithyourmother,andwhensheexplainedhowchallengingbusinesshadbeen,Ifoundmyselfvolunteeringtohelp.IthinkshethoughtIwasbeingpolite,butweemailedacoupleoftimes,andIofferedagain.Andno,Iwouldn’thavedonethatifshewasn’tyourmom,orifitwasn’tyourresort.Andyeah,inmydreamscenario,youwouldhaveshownupwhileIwastherethissummer,veryeagertohavealotofsexincanoes.”
Ilaugh.“Youcan’thavesexinacanoe.”JamieandIdidn’tevenattemptthatbackintheday.
“Theimaginationofmytwentysomethingselfbegstodiffer,”Willsayswithasmirk,andIlaughagain.
“Anythingelseyouwanttocomecleanon?”
Willrunshishandthroughhishair.“IguessthisisasgoodatimeasanytotellyouthatItakemedicationforanxiety.”
“Okay,”Isayslowly.“That’snotreallywhatImeant,butI’mgladyoutoldme.”
Heswallows.“Ithinkyoushouldknowitcanbebad.ThefirsttimeIspiraledwasaftermymomleft.Mymindwassofrenzied,butIdidn’tunderstandwhatwasgoingonatthetime.AndthenwhenSofiawasborn…”Heshakeshishead.“Itwasawful—reallydarkstuffwouldgothroughmyhead.Terriblethoughts.Images,too.Ididn’tknowwhatwashappening,andIcouldn’tgetridofthem—”Hecutshimselfoff.Ithinkofthetwowordstattooedbeneathhiscollarbone—onlythoughts—andsqueezehispinkie.
“Youcantellmewhenyou’reready.Iwon’tjudge,butyoudon’thavetorush.”
Henods.“Iwasafraidofbeingalonewiththebaby,andAnnabelfiguredoutsomethingwasoff.Igothelp.Startedmedication.Ievenwenttogrouptherapy.”
IshiftsothatI’msittingcross-legged,facinghim.“I’msorryyouwentthroughthat.”
“Itcouldhappenagain,ifIhavekids,”hesays.Icantellit’sawarning.“AndIstillworry.I’maworrier.”
“Okay.”Ipause.“Noneofitisanywhereclosetoadealbreakerforme,ifthat’swhatyou’rethinking.ButIneedyoutotellmewhat’sgoingoninyourlife.Whensomethingismakingyouanxiousorupsettingyou,Iwanttoknow.Ifwedothis…”
Adoorclosessomewhereinthehouse,andagirl’svoicedriftsupfromalowerlevel.WelistentoAnnabelandSofiamovingaroundforamoment.
“Whenyouleftlikethat,”Itellhim,“itwaslikeallthefearsIhadaboutushadbeenconfirmed.”
“Whatfears?”
“Ithoughtyouhadbeen,Idon’tknow,playingmake-believewithme?Idon’twanttobewithsomeonewhokeepspartsoftheirlifeseparatefromme.Idon’twanttobeanescape.Iwanttobethereality.”
Willleanstowardmeuntilhisnosebrushesmine.“Fern,”hesays.“You’renotanescape.You’reeverything.”
“Really?”Iwhisper,pullingbackslightly.“Becauseyouwouldn’ttellmeaboutthephonecallsuntilIforceditoutofyou.Youwouldn’tletmein.”
Henods.“Iknow.Butasmuchassomeonethinksthey’reokaywithmysisterandmyniece,andthefactthatIdopickupanddrop-offandcookdinneralmosteverynight—it’sbecomeanissuemorethanonce.Ijustnevercareduntilnow.Ididn’twanttopullyouintoallourfamilydrama.Iwantedtobeselfish.Iwantedyoutomyself.”
“Icanunderstandthat,”Itellhim.“Butyoucan’tlockmeawayfromthetwomostimportantpeopleinyourlife.Nomoresecretphonecalls.”Ipointtothethirditemonthelist—letmehelp—asAnnabel’smuffledyellfloatsuptous.“Iwanttobepartofthedrama.Iwanttobepartofallofit.”
Willsmiles.“There’salotofdrama.”Andthenhefallsserious.“Annabelhasbeenthreateningtomoveoutforawhile,butIdidn’tthinkshemeantit.ShetoldmeafterIgottotheresortthatshewasworkingwitharealestateagent,sosometimesthat’swhatourcallswereabout.SomeofthemwereherhasslingmetotellyouhowIfelt.Someofthemwerequestionsaboutusingthestove.Butwe’vebeenarguing.”
“Becauseyouwantthemtostay?”
“Yeah.Iknowthatinsomewaysitcouldbegoodformeiftheyrentedaplaceoftheirown.IknowAnnabelthinksso.Shefeelsbadthatthey’vebeenheresolong,butI’musedtohavingthemaround.Ilikehavingthemaround.”Hegivesmeanapologeticlook.“Iknowit’snotwhatmostwomenwanttohear,thatIwanttolivewithmysisterandmyniece.”
“I’mnotmostwomen.”Ijostlehisleg.“Andyou’renotmostmen.”
Hemakesaskepticallittlegrowl.“Icomewithalotmoremess.”
IhatehearingWilltalkabouthimselfthisway.IfeelprotectiveoftheWillImettenyearsago,butIalsowanttostandupforthemanIknownow.Icrawlontohislapandtakehisfaceinmyhands.“Letmetellyousomethingaboutme:Iamextremelypickyaboutpeople.Mostofthem,Idon’tparticularlylike.IhaveveryhighstandardsfortheonesIletintomylifethesedays.Andyou,WillBaxter,aremyfavoriteofallofthem.”
Helookssurprised.“Iam?”
“Youare.Iloveyoubestofall.”
Will’seyeswidenandthenhislipsareonmine,urgentandhungry,likethisisthelasttimewe’lldothis.Iputmyarmsaroundhisneckandslowitdown,meltingintothekiss.Hetasteslikecoffeeandmaplesyrupandcominghomeafteralongday.I’mnotgoinganywhere,Itellhimwithmytongueandmymouth.
“Youloveme,”Willsaysinahush,runninghisthumbovermybottomlip.
“Ido,”Itellhim.“Especiallythemessyparts.You’retooperfectotherwise,Will.It’sannoying,really.”
Hesmiles,thenkissesmyjaw.“Fern.”Hekissesmycheek,andwhispersintomyear,“Iloveyou,too.”Hepresseshislipstomynose.“Somuch.”
“Good,”Itellhim.“Becausethatwillmakeitemsfourandfiveeasier.”
“Youliketheapron?”
Iputmyforeheadagainsthis.“Iadoretheapron.”
Helaughs.
“AndIwantyoutokeepdrawing.”
Willhums.
“OrpaintingorMod-PodgingteacupswithphotosofChihuahuas—don’tgiveupartagain.Thatlistwewrotetenyearsagowaswrong—itcanbeahobby.”Igivehimakiss.“Juststartwithonepicture.”
Heletsoutalongsigh.“Okay,”hesays.“Sinceit’sonthelist,I’lldoitforyou.”
“Andyou.Youcanhavesomethingthat’sforyou.”
Willpullsmeagainsthim,andIrestmyheadonhischest,listeningtothesoundofhisheartandfeelingthevibrationofhisvoiceonmycheekwhenhesaysIloveyouagain.
Butthenfootstepssoundonthestairs.
Agirl’svoicecallsfromoutsidetheroom,“UncleWill,canIhaveoneofthesepancakes?AnnabelsaidIhadtoask.”
“Tryagain,Sof,”Willreplies.
“Fine.MamasaidIhadtoask.”
“Better,”Willsays.“Andgoforit.I’llbedowninafewminutes.There’ssomeoneIwantyoutomeet.”Ipullbackandheraiseshiseyebrows.
“Okay,”Sofiasays.Herfootstepsflybackdownthestairsasshecalls,“Annabel,Itoldyouit’dbefine.”
“She’swhatyoumightcallprecocious,”Willsays.
“Ohyeah?”
“Andshe’satotalchaosdemon,I’mwarningyounow.”
“Perfect,”Isay.“Ilikechaos.”
Hetucksastrandofhairbehindmyear.“Areyousureyouwantallofthis?”
“I’msure,”Itellhim.“Iwanteverything.”28
Now
IspendalmostafullweekwithWillandthegirlsinthecity.ImakepancakesforSofiainthemorninganddrivehertosummercampsoWillcancatchuponsleepandAnnabelcangettoworkearly.Intheafternoons,WillandItakemeanderingwalksthroughToronto.Wewalkandwetalk,andwecomeupwithaplanfortryingtomakethingsworklong-distance.Willisgoingtovisitmeonweekendsasoftenaspossible,we’lltalkintheeveningsafterdinner,andhepledgestosendmeaphotowheneverhewearsanapron.
IgivePetermymom’slastdiaryassoonasIgetbacktotheresort.ItellhimIdon’tthinkshewouldmindifheknewwhatshe’dbeenthinkingallthoseyearsago,anditmightbeapleasantsurprise.Forme,readingMom’sjournalwasn’tquitelikehearingheragain—theMargaretBrookbanksIknewwasdifferentfromtheyoungwomanwhowroteinitspages.ButIthinkforPeter,itmightbe.Heknewthatyoungwoman—chattyandoptimisticandimpatient.HelovedthatMaggielikehelovedtheversionofMomIknew.
Istaybusy.IjoinWhitneyandCam’smonthlygamenightandspendtimewithJamie,hunchedoverthekitchentable,reviewingblueprintsforhisdreamhome.IvisitPeterinthepastrykitchenalmosteverymorning,andonesunnydayinlateOctober,IhearmusicbeforeIenter.PeterisplayingAnneMurray.Ibefriendtheownersoftherecordstoreintown.IbuyaguitarandwatchlessonsonYouTube.IimaginebecomingbothbraveanddecentenoughtomakeasurpriseperformanceatthedanceandtalentshownextAugust.AndIworkmyassoff.
Butinthemiddleofthenight,aloneinthehouse,afamiliarachereturnstomybelly.IcreeptothewindowandlookoutatCabin20,butalightnevershinesthroughthedark.Willisneverthere.
Asthemonthspassandthesnowfallsandthemooncastsapaleglowoverthefrozenbush,theacheturnssharpwithawareness.Idon’twanttomissWillanymore.
OnNewYear’sEve,weswayonthedancefloor.TheDJisplayingthesongIrequested.It’sElvisandit’scorny,butit’salsoexactlyrightforthemomentIaskWillifhe’dconsiderlivinghereoneday.TheroomsparkleswithcandlesandChristmaslightsandtheoversizeddiscoballJamietalkedmeintohanging,butnothingisasbrightasthesmileonWill’sface.
Ittakestimeforhimtorearrangehisworktomakethatpossible,butinMay,ayearfollowingMom’sdeath,Willmovesintothehousewithme.Thesunroomisnowhisoffice.Myhomeisnowhis.WhenIgodownstairsinthemorning,thecoffeeisstrongandthemusicisplaying,andWillisinthekitchen.
Muchtohisrelief,AnnabelagreestostayathisplaceinToronto.Hestillworries,andshecallsortextsbothofusalmostdailywithcookingquestions,butWillcommutestothecityforworkatleastonedayaweek,soheseesthegirlsregularly.IdecoratetheguestbedroomindarkpurpleforSofia—she’sspendingacoupleweekswithuslaterthissummer.TheclosetisstillstuffedwithMom’spartyfrocks.Sofiasaysshe’stoooldfordress-up,butIsawthewaysheeyedthepinksequinedbolero.IbetIcantalkherintoatleastoneteapartywithPeterandme.
IhireanewexecutivechefandrenametherestaurantMaggie’s.OfallthechangesImaketotheresort,thisistheoneIlovebest.Sometimes,whenIwanttofeelclosetoMom,Igotothediningroom.ButwhenImisshermost,Ifindmyselfwanderingdowntothefamilydock.Isitinthechairontheleftandlookoutatthelakeandupdateheroneverythingthat’shappening.Sometimes,Icanalmosthearhersay,We’resolucky.
Eventhoughtheresortispoisedforagoodyear,somedaysaretoolongandtoohardandjustplainsuck.ButnowWillistherewhenIcomehome.Whilehecooksdinner,heremindsmeofallthethingsI’veaccomplishedandhowmuchIlovewhatIdo,andIstareathimwearingMom’sapple-printapron,notquitesuresomeonesowonderfulcanbereal
I’msleepingbetterthanIhaveinalongtime,buttherearetimeswhenIwakejustaftertwoa.m.andfindthatWill’snotbesideme.Itiptoedownstairsandpullthepenciloutofhishandandbringhimbacktobed.IfWillcan’tsleep,hedraws.
Everydayfeelsspecial,butJunefourteenthisagift.
WillandIpaddletothestripofshorelinewherewesattogetheralmostayearago.Unlikethen,thesunglittersoffthelake—notasinglecloudinterruptsitsrays.Sunglassesarenecessary.Willhaspackedapicnicbasketandabottleofchampagne,andweraiseourplasticcupstotheanniversaryofthedaywemet.
Werelaxwithourfeetinthewaterandourpinkieslinkedinthesand,reminiscingaboutthatJunefourteenth.Whenthebreezepicksup,itblowsWill’shairacrosshisbrow,andmybreathcatches.I’veconvincedhimtogrowitoutalittle,andhelooksjustlikehowhedidattwenty-two.Relaxedandrumpledandgorgeous.Forthethousandthtimeoverthepastyear,IthinkImightbehallucinating.It’shardformetobelievethatwe’refinallyheretogether,forgood.
ItookaleapwhenIshoweduponWill’sdoorsteplastAugust.Itoldmyselfiftherewasonepersonworthfightingfor,itwasWill,andiftherewasarelationshipworththeeffort,itwastheonewehadstartedtobuild.Becauseeventhoughwehadn’tputalabelonit,WillandIwerebuildingsomething.Itoldmyselfwecouldmakeitstronger
Whenthesungetshot,Willpullsoffhisshirt,andIstareattheridgesofhisstomachandthegroovesofhishipsandtheblackofhisinkuntilhetosseshisV-neckinmyface.
“What?”Ilaugh.
“Yourtongueishangingout.”
“Pfff.Iwassimplyadmiringtheart.”
Willpullsmetomyfeet,andItakehishandandpressmylipstothenewesttattoo,asmallfernfrondontheinsideofhiswrist,butthenWillbeginstounbuttonmyshorts.
“Let’sswim,”hesays,plantingakissonmynose.
Wewadeouttowherethelakeisdeepandcoolandfloatonourbacks,shuttingoureyestothesun.EventuallyWillpullsmetowardhimandwekissasthewaterdancesaroundourwaists,andheslipshisfingerundertheedgeofmybathingsuitanddoesthethingwithhisthumb.
Afterwe’vedriedoffandfinishedoursandwichesandthelemonsquaresPeterknowsWilllikesbest,Ibeginpackingourthingsintothecanoe.Isetthebasketinthemiddleoftheboat,andwhenIturnaround,Williskneelinginthesand,atinygreenvelvetboxinhishand.Butbeforehesaysanything,Ithrowmyarmsaroundhisneckandtacklehimtotheground.Ikisshimthroughtearsandhemurmurssomethingaboutnothavingsaidanything,butI’mtooovercometocare,becauseWillBaxterismyfavoriteperson,andI’mgoingtokeephimforever.
“Don’tyouwanttoseethering?”Willsays,laughing.ItellhimIdon’tgivearat’sassaboutthering.AllIwantistohearthathappysoundburstingfromhismoutheverydayofmylife
“It’skindofmeaningfultome,”hesays.
Ipullback,blinkingatWillunderneathme,mythroattight.
Heholdsmyfacebetweenhishands.“Standupforasecond,okay?TherearethingsIwanttosay.”
IgettomyfeetandWillkneelsinfrontofme,holdingthesand-coveredbox.Aplaingoldbandsitsinside.Ican’tbelieveIdidn’tnoticehewasn’twearingit.
“Ihaditresized,”hesays,takinghisgrandfather’sringout.“It’sthemostimportantthingIown,andIdidn’tthinkyou’dwantanythingsparkly.”
Willtellsmehowluckyheistohavemethissoulmateelevenyearsago,andevenluckiertohavefoundmeagain.HetellsmeI’mhisbestfriend.Hetellsmeheneverthoughtitwaspossibletobeashappyasheisnow,withme.HetellsmeI’mthebravestpersonheknows.Hetellsmehelovesmyloyaltyandmyplaylistsandmynose.Hetellsmehelovesmebestofall.Wekissandwecryandwehug,andwetumblearoundinthesanduntilagroupofteenagersinaboatstartwhistlingandhonkingtheirhorn.
There’sagroupofpeoplewaitingforusonthedock.Isquintaswepaddlecloser,tryingtomakeouttheirshapes.Sofiaisobvious.Icanseeherpurpleshirt,theonesheandWilltie-dyed,fromwayoutonSmokeLake.We’refarfromshore,butshe’salreadyjumpingandwaving.
“Icouldonlykeepsomuchasecret,”WillsayswhenIturnaroundfrommyspotinthefront.“YouknowwhatAnnabel’slike.”
IdoknowwhatAnnabel’slike.FromthemomentweannouncedthatWillwasmovinghere,she’sbeenplyingmewithbridalmagazinesandlinkstofloraldesignersandPinterestinspirationboards.ShelikesanoccasionalmostasmuchasJamiedoes,andonceshehasahankering,she’simpossibletodeter.She’smorestubbornthanWill,andthoughshe’dneveradmitit,she’sasprotectiveofhimasheisofher.Itoldherplanningaweddingwasthelastthingonmymind,andmoreimportant,Ididn’twanttodothebridething,ever.I’mnotopposedtomarriage,butweddings?Ithoughttheveininherforeheadmightburst.
Iturnbacktofacetheresort.We’vedriftedinalittle,andIcanspotAnnabelaswellasPeter’sbulkyframe.Jamie’sthere,too,standingbesideWhitneyandCam.
Theyreachforusbeforewe’veeventiedupthecanoe.SofiawrapsherselfaroundWill’swaistoncehe’soutoftheboatandAnnabelgiveshimaone-armedhug,pullingmeinwiththeother.
Someoneelsecurlsaroundmyback,andIcantellfromthesmellofhershampooit’sWhitney.
“Getinhere,”shesays,andIfeelmorearmslockaroundusinajumbledgrouphug.
“I’mthrowingyouanengagementparty,”Annabelsays.“Justtrytostopme.”
Thegirlswanttotakethecanoeout,andasthecrowddisperses,PeterandIwatchWillhelpthemclimbin.
“IthinkIgotagoodone,”IsaytoPeter.Iknowheagrees.SinceWill’smovedhere,notaweekgoesbywhenPeterdoesn’tdeliverussomekindoflemonydessert.
“Youbothdid,”hesays.“Well,Ibettergetbacktothekitchen.”Hegivesmyforeheadakiss.“Congratulations,pea.”
Asthegirlsbegintopaddle,WillandIsitattheedgeofthedock,whereweweresupposedtomeettenyearsago.AnnabelandSofiagoaroundandaroundincircles—neitheroneofthemhasgotthehangofcanoeing.
“Theyhavenoideawhatthey’redoing,”Willsays.
“No,theyreallydon’t,”Iagree,grinningasSofialeansoverthesidetosplashhermomwithherhand.Annabelshrieksandedgesoveronthebench.Theboatrocks.
“Theymighttip,”Willsays,andIpathisknee.
“They’renotgoingtotip,”Itellhim.“Andiftheydo,we’rehere.”
Then,withawickedsmile,Annabelraisesherpaddleandswooshesitthroughthewater,drenchingherdaughter.Sofiasquealsindelight.Willlaughsandbringshisarmaroundme,tuckingmetightagainsthisside.
Wesitthere,together,untilthegirlsgetboredwiththecanoe,andtheywanderovertothebeach.
Wesitthere,myheadonWill’sshoulder,untilthesunsinkslowinthesky,paintingthelakeinpurpleandgold.
Wesitthereforhours,WillBaxterandme,makingplansforthefuture,thedreamsthatwe’llshare.
Ilookatourfeetdanglinginthewater,thenupatWill.“SometimesIcan’tbelievewe’rehere,”Itellhim.
“Iknowthefeeling,”hesays.“Buthereweare,FernBrookbanks.Rightwherewe’resupposedtobe.”Epilogue
I’mnotsurehowtobegin.I’veneverkeptadiarybefore.
WillsaysIshouldthinkofitlessasajournalandmorelikealetter.Hesaysthere’snowayyouwon’tfinditonedayandreadit.
Iguess,inthatcase,Ishouldn’tcallhimWill.Ishouldcallhimyourdad.
Ican’tseemyfeetovermyswollenbelly,butit’sstillhardtoimagineonedayyou’llbeheresoon.Ourdaughter.
Yourdadthoughtitmighthelptotalktoyou.Heputshisnosetomystomachandsingslullabiesorgivesarthistorylessons,butIfeelsillywhisperingtomystretchmarks.SoIthinkI’lldothisinstead.I’llwriteaboutallthepeopleyou’llmeetonceyougethere.PeterandWhitneyandJamie.AnnabelandSofia.Mr.andMrs.Rose.TheincrediblemanwhoIcallWillandyou’llcallDad.AndI’llwriteaboutthepeopleyouwon’t.I’lltellyouallaboutthislittleworldyou’lllivein.
Andthen,oneday,I’llgivethisbooktoyou.I’llmakecoffee—pleasetellmeyou’lldrinkit—andwe’llwanderdownthepathtothepairofoldmetalchairsbythewater.I’llsitinMom’soldspot,andyou’llsitinmine.We’llwatchthewavescrashagainsttherocks,andI’llshareeverythingwithyou.It’llbeourplace.Youandme,atthelake.Acknowledgments
I’msittinghereonmycouchinTorontotryingtodecidehowmuchtotellyouaboutthechallengesofwritingMeetMeattheLake.It’samoodydayinOctober—thepeakoffallcolor—andthecloudsareslategray.Everysooftenthesuncomesout,makingthetreetopsgloworange,red,andgold.Tomorrow,I’lldrivenorthwithmyhusbandandtwoboystoBarry’sBayforThanksgiving.Itfeelsliketheidealtimetowritemyacknowledgments—there’ssomuchtobethankfulfor.
Atthetopofthelistaremyreaders.Idon’thaveathank-youbigenoughforyourincredibleresponsetomydebutnovel,EverySummerAfter,andforthecountlessmessagesofanticipationI’vereceivedinthelead-uptoMeetMeattheLake.ThewayyoudevouredEverySummerAfterandthentoldyourfriendsandfamilytodothesamewastrulyhumblingandcompletelysurreal.IknowmanyofyouwantmoreofPercyandSam.IgetdailyrequestsforCharlie’sstory.Ilovehowmuchyoulovethosecharacters,andIhopeFernandWillhavewonasimilarplaceinyourhearts.
ItwaseasytotellyouaboutwritingEverySummerAfter—theexperiencewasoneofpurejoy.Iwasworkingfull-timeasajournalist,hadayoungchildathome,andwaspregnantwithmysecond,andyetittookjustfourmonthstopenthefirstdraft.Inmylatethirties,IfeltlikeI’dfoundmycalling.
DiscussingthecreationofMeetMeattheLakeismoredifficult—butyou’vegivenmesomuch,andsoI’llgiveyouhonesty.IspentatleastfivetimesthehoursonthisbookthanIdidonEverySummerAfter.Thereweremanyroundsofeditsandrevisions.Irewrotealmosthalfthebookduringtheseconddraft(andhadablastdoingso).Witheachdraft,MeetMeattheLakegrewclosertobeingthestorythatitwasmeanttobecome.Butthefirstdraftknockedmeabout.
BeforeIbegan,IrememberlookingbackatthenotebookI’dkeptwhilewritingEverySummerAftertotrytofigureouthowI’dmanagedtowriteanovel.Itseemedlikeanimpossiblethingtodoagain.EverySummerAftermusthavebeenafluke.Itmusthavebeenmagic.
EverydaywhenIsatdowntowritethefirstdraft,IwagedabattleagainstthechorusinmyheadtellingmeIhadnoideawhatIwasdoing,thatmywritingwasterrible,thattherewasnowaymysecondbookwouldbeasgoodastheonethatcamebeforeit.Ithurt.Ikeptgoing,andeventuallyIhadsomething.Itwasn’tgreat,andtheMeetMeattheLakeyou’vejustreadisafarbetterbook.ButI’masproudofthefinalproductasIamofthatearliest,messyversion.TheremayhavebeenalittlemagicinwritingEverySummerAfter,butdraftingMeetMeattheLaketookgrit.
Asyou’venodoubtguessed,thisbookrequiredtremendouseditorialguidanceandsupport.AmandaBergeron,pleaseknowthatI’mcurrentlyintearstryingtocomeupwithwordsthatexpressevenafractionofmygratitudeforyou.It’sunrealthatwehaveyettomeetinperson,butI’mstartingtothinkthat’sagoodthingbecauseI’llprobablyhugyoutootightlyandfortoolongandthenI’llstartsobbing,anditwillbeweird.Youarebrilliant.
I’mspoiledtohavethewildlytalentedDeborahSundelaCruzinmycorner.Deborah,I’mthrilledyouliveinTorontoandthereforeIcanhugyouatsemi-regularintervals,mostlywithoutlosingmycool.Amassivethank-youforhelpingmebringMaggieintosharperfocusandgivedeepermeaningtothebook’stitle.
TaylorHaggerty,iftheseacknowledgmentswereaplaylist,yoursongwouldbeBetteMidler’s“WindBeneathMyWings.”You’remyhero.Andbecauseofyou,Icannowstartsentenceswiththewords,“Myagentsays…”PleaseseenotetoAmandare:tear-filledhugsIRL.(Foryou,Imayalsobowdown.)JasmineBrown,I’mcomingforyounext.Thankyouforallthatyoudo.
Anenormous,slightlymoreprofessionalthank-youtothemastermindsatBerkley—SareerKhader,BridgetO’Toole,ChelseaPascoe,ErinGalloway,KristinCipolla,CraigBurke,IvanHeld,ChristineBall,ClaireZion,Jeanne-MarieHudson,Vi-AnNguyen,AnthonyRamondo,ChristineLegon,MeghaJain,JoanMatthews,LeeAnnPemberton,andLindseyTulloch.I’msohappytocallBerkleyhome.
IwarnedthegoodpeopleofPenguinCanadathatbecauseI’mnowwritingfull-timeandnolongerhaveanofficeofcolleagues,theyareallonthehook.KristinCochrane,NicoleWinstanley,BonnieMaitland,BethCockeram,DanielFrench—it’ssuchagifttoworkwithyouall.EmmaIngram:Iadoreyouandyourdresses.
WheneverIworryaboutbookstuff,IthinkabouttheextraordinarypeopleI’msurroundedby.HollyRoot,Ionceheardyoudescribeliteraryagentsaswearingcardigansandsendingemails.Idon’trememberthecontext,butsometimeswhenI’manxious,Ipictureallyousmarty-pantsesatRootLiteraryincutebutton-upsweaters,andI’minstantlysoothed.HeatherBaror-Shapiro,thankyouforbringingmybookstointernationalaudiences—whatanabsolutedream.Speakingofdreams,CarolinaBeltran—itisatotalpleasuretoworktogether.Thankyou,thankyou,thankyou!
ToElizabethLennie,whosepaintingshavenowappearedonthecoverofbothEverySummerAfterandMeetMeattheLake:Thankyouforbringingthelaketolife.
ThankyoutoDr.JonathanS.AbramowitzforspeakingwithmeaboutpostpartumOCDinmenandnon–birthparents.Yourworkandexpertiseisgreatlyappreciated.
Oneofthecoolestthingsaboutbeingapublishedauthoristhatyougettopretendthatyouknowother,morefabulousauthors,sincesometimesthey’rekindenoughtomentionyouonsocialmedia,orblurbyourbook,orparticipateinaneventwithyou,orrespondtoyourDMs.ThankyoutoAshleyAudrain,KarmaBrown,ImanHariri-Kia,EmilyHenry,AmyLea,AnnabelMonaghan,HannahOrenstein,JodiPicoult,AshleyPoston,JillSantopolo,andMarissaStapleyformakingmefeellikepartoftheclub.AndalsotoColleenHoover,whomentionedEverySummerAfteronInstagramtwiceandnowpeoplethinkIcanintroducethemtoher.(Thejigisup:I’mnotthatconnected.)
TotheBookstagrammers,BookTokers,reviewers,journalists,podcasters,librarians,andbooksellers:Thankyouforyourpassion,dedication,andcreativity.I’minaweoftheworkyoudotobuildcommunitiesofreaders.Thebookworldisbetterforit.Aspecialthank-youtotheearliestadoptersofEverySummerAfter—youshoutedloud,andwhoa,peoplelistened.(Yes,Lianna,youweretheloudest.Nocontest.)
ThankyoutoSadiyaAnsari,MeredithMarino,CourtneyShea,andMaggieWrobelforreadingthisbookinitsearliest,shaggiestform,andforallthesupportandencouragementonthisroller-coasterride.
LianneGeorge,thankyouforyourmentorship,yourfriendship,andespeciallyforthecoffeedates.Thekicklineisforyou.
RobertNida,Iwilltreasuremytimeatthecottageforever.Youhavemyeternalgratitude.
ThankyoutotheUrsiandPalumbofamiliesfortheenthusiasm,excitement,andcarbohydrates.Grace,thankyouforyourfaithandthecountlesshoursyoulookaftertheboys.(Cantheysleepovertonight?)
TotheFortunefamily:OursongisobviouslyTinaTurner’s“TheBest.”IthinktheNewSouthWalesRugbyLeaguewillshareitwithus.Thankyouforinstillinginmethevalueofhardwork,andforprovingthathomeisn’tthewallsinwhichwelive,butthepeoplewithinthem.Mom,I’msolucky.
Marco,IknowyousuggestedIdevotethisentireacknowledgmenttohowgreatyouare(youaresogreat!),butIdedicatedthebooktoyouandI’mmakingsteakfordinner,sohopefullythatdoesthetrick.Thankyoufornotlettingmetalkmyselfoutofquittingmyjob.ThankyoufortakingayearofffromyourownworksoIcouldwritethisbook.Youwerearockstarstay-at-homeparent.ThankyouforbeingaspreparedtocelebratewithmeasyouaretopickmeupwhenIfall.Wedon’thaveasong,butIthinkthat’sbecausewehavethemall.
AndtoMaxandFinn:Iloveyoubeyondmeasure.Mayyouonedaygrowintomenwho’llreadtheirmother’sbooksbutnevertouchherdiaries.MeetMeattheLake
CarleyFortune
READERSGUIDE
BehindtheBook
Anotetothereader:ThankyousomuchforreadingMeetMeattheLake.IhopeyouweretransportedtoBrookbanksResortandtotheTorontoIsolove.Mostofall,IhopeFernandWill’sstoryleavesyouwithafullheart.Partsofthisbookaredeeplypersonaltome—theyarethesubjectofthis“BehindtheBook”essay.IwantyoutoknowthatI’mgoingtotalkaboutsometoughstuff.Ifyou’renotinaplacewhereyouwanttoreadaboutreproductiverights,anxiety,anddisturbingintrusivethoughts,thenIencourageyoutosaveitforanothertime
TheearliestinklingsofMeetMeattheLakecametomelikefartoomanyofmyideasdo:inthemiddleofthenight.Itwasseveralweeksfollowingthebirthofmysecondchild,andIcouldn’tsleep.Sleepinghasneverbeenaskillofmine,butIdevelopedchronicinsomniaduringmypregnancy,anditcontinuedafterFinnwasborn.AsIlayawake,IfoundmyselfwonderingwhatIwasgoingtodoaboutmynextbook.Writingmydebutnovel,EverySummerAfter,in2020wasajoyfulexperience,andIwasbrimmingwithideasforfuturestories.Butinthespringof2021,Iwasempty.Iwasalsointhemidstofmysecondboutofpostpartumanxiety.
IfindwritingsimilartoreadinginthatIgettotraveltowherevermycharactersexist.Thatnight,IaskedmyselfwhereIwantedtobe.Ishutmyeyes,andIsawit:aclassiclakesideresortinMuskoka,withahilltoplodgeandcabinsoverlookingthewater.AndIsawFern,reluctantlyrunningtheplacefollowingthedeathofhermother.IthoughtofMaggie’sdiary,too—howitwouldrecountherownromancebutultimatelyshowamother’sloveforherdaughter.IwroteEverySummerAfterpartiallyasanescapefromlifein2020,butIcreatedBrookbanksResorttogivemyselfaworldtoescapeinto.(SmokeLakedoesexist,bytheway,butit’sslightlyeastofMuskokaandinsideOntario’sfamousAlgonquinPark.Therearenoresortsonitsshores.)
TherearepiecesofmescatteredthroughoutMeetMeattheLake.MyparentsownedarestaurantandinnwhenIwasgrowingup.IgaveFernmyinsomniaaswellasmyfondnessforboththecityandthelake.Maggiereceivedmydedicationtomycareerandmyworriesaboutnotbeingverygoodatanythingoutsideofwork.AndtoWillBaxterIbequeathedthequiet,invisibleterrorofpostpartumanxiety.
MeetMeattheLakehasevolvedoverthecourseofwriting,butfromtheearliestconversationswithmyeditor,itwasalwaysabouthowlifedoesn’talwaysturnoutthewayweexpect.ButIdidn’tsetouttoexplorethewaysparenthoodshapesus—perhapsthat’swhathappenswhenyoubeginwritingabookaboutamotherandadaughterafewmonthsafterhavingyoursecondbaby.
DuringthelatestagesofeditingMeetMeattheLake,theUSSupremeCourtoverturnedRoev.Wade,andIbegantoworrythatthetwounplannedpregnanciesinthebook(andthefactthatbothMaggieandAnnabeldecidetobecomemothers)wouldbeperceivedasanendorsementofthatruling.Thatisnotmyintention.Ifirmlybelievethechoicestocontinueapregnancyandtobecomeaparentareexactlythat:choiceseverypersonwithauterusshouldbeabletomake.Reproductiverights,includingaccesstocontraceptivesandsafeabortions,arefundamentaltoindividualwell-beingandtosocietyatlarge.I’vealwaysconsideredmyselfpro-choice—becomingaparentonlystrengthenedmystance.
TherewasamomentwhenIwasinlaborwithmyfirstson,whenmyhospitalroomwassuddenlyswarmingwithdoctorsandnurses,theirfacestense,thatIthoughtImightdie.Itwasn’tmylifeatrisk,itturnedout;itwasthebaby’s.Longstoryshort:Heneededtogetoutofmybodyasquicklyaspossibleandwasbornviaabrutalforceps-assisteddelivery.IttookfifteenminutesofactivelaborforMaxtocomeintothisworld,andanhourandahalfforthedoctorstostitchmebacktogether.
Fromthatdaytothefirstweeksandmonthsofthebaby’slife,itfeltlikeIwasfightingforsurvival—myownandthebaby’s.Thereweremanyintensechallengesinthoseearlydays,andcopingwiththemwasmademoredifficultbecausemymindhadbecomeaveryscaryplace.Asajournalist,I’vewrittenaboutsomeofthestrugglesIfacedasanewparent,butI’veneverpubliclyspokenaboutmypostpartumOCD.
There’sagoodchanceyou’veheardofbabybluesandpostpartumdepressionbutnotaboutpostpartumOCD—IknowIhadn’t.(Duringbothmypregnancies,nomedicalpractitionermentionedittome.)It’saseriousbuttreatableanxietydisorderwithsymptomssohorrifying,fewofusarecomfortabletalkingaboutit—it’softenmisdiagnosedandunreported.Despiteitsname,itcanaffectnotonlybirthparentsbutadoptiveparentsandanyoneinaparentingrole:peoplesuchasWill.
Ididn’texperiencecompulsions,butlikeWill,Iwasbombardedbyrecurringintrusivethoughtsandimages.ImadeaconsciousdecisionnottodescribeWill’sthoughts—Ididn’tthinkhe’dbereadytosharethemwithFern,andtobehonest,Iwasworriedyou’djudgehim.Ittookmemonthstotellmyhusbandwhatwashappeninginmyhead.Yearstotellmymother.Thethoughtofputtingitoutintotheworldmakesmychesttight.Idon’twanttoburdenyouwithwhatplaguedme,withwhatmademeafraidtobealonewiththebabyeveryday,withwhatmademecertainI’dbeinstitutionalizedifItoldanyone.ButthereasonI’mwritingaboutit(andasvaguelyaspossible)isincaseyoufindyourselfinasimilarposition.Ifyoubecometerrorizedbythoughtsofharmingyourbaby,ifthesamehorribleimageskeepflashingthroughyourmind,ifkitchenknivesorstairsorsubwaytracksfillyouwithterror,youarenotalone.Thethoughtsarejustthat—onlythoughts—eventhoughyoudreadthepossibilityoflosingcontrol.Youwon’t.Infact,I’vebeentoldpeoplewhoexperiencethesekindsofthoughtstendtobehighlycontentious.Youwillbeokay—yourbabywillbe,too—butyouneedtotellsomeone.Infact,tellingsomeoneisthefirststeptobeingokay.Wegothroughourdarkestmomentsalone,butweemergefromthemwithhelp.
Mypostpartumanxietywasdifferentthesecondtimearound.Ihadafewepisodeswithintrusivethoughtsandimages,butIwasbetterpreparedtoacknowledgethem,seethemasanuisance,andsendthemontheirway.Myanxiety,however,wasalmostdebilitating.I’veexperiencedanxiousthoughtsbefore,butnothingcomparedtothespringof2021.ItwaslikeeveryproblemIcouldpossiblyfaceformyentirelifeneededsolving.Gettingoutofbedeachmorningtookimmenseeffort.Tearfulconversationswithmymom(abouthowIsuckedasamom)andmyhusband(abouthowterrifiedIwasforthefuture)helped.Walkinghelped.Therapyhelped.WillandFernhelped.
IntheepiloguetoMeetMeattheLake,welearnthatFernispregnantwithababygirl.Idon’tbelieveI’mamorefulfilledpersonbecauseI’mamom.Whensomeonetellsmetheydon’twantchildren,Igetthat.SometimesIenvythat.Butforthisstory,IwantedtogiveFerntheopportunitytoforgeherownpathasamother—todecidewhatelementsofherrelationshipwithhermomshewantedtopreserveandwhatshewoulddodifferently.Perhapsmostofall,IwantedtoshowthatWill’sanxietyhadnotstoppedthemfromhavingchildren,thatmentalhealthstrugglesdon’tprecludeyoufrombeingawonderfulparent.IliketothinkthatwhenFernandWilldiscussedhavingchildren,theydidwhatmyhusbandandIdidbeforewehadoursecondchild:TheytalkedaboutthepossibilitythatWill’sintrusivethoughtsmayresurface,andtheycameupwithaplantoensurehe’dhavesupport.
WhatIadmireaboutbothWillandFernisthattheylovehard.It’snoteasyforeitherofthemtoopentheirhearts—toriskrejection,judgment,failure—andtheystumblealongtheway.Neartheendofthebook,FerngivesWillachancetoexplainhisactions.Shedecidestoreachoutherhand.This,Ithink,isoneofthebravest,mostchallengingthingstodointheearlystagesofanyrelationship.It’salsowhatmakesthemstronger.Weallmakemistakes.Weexperiencetraumaandlossandplainoldbaddays.Weallfly,face-first,ontoloosegravel.Butwithanyluck,someonestandsbesideus,reachingouttheirhand.DiscussionQuestions
FernandWilldevelopaclosebondoverjustaday.Haveyoueverfeltthatkindofstrong,fastconnectionwithanotherperson,whetherplatonicorromantic?Ifso,whatdoyouattributeitto?
HowdoFern’sandWill’slifestagesplayintotheirfriendshipwhentheyfirstmeet?Doyouthinktheywouldhavebeenasdrawntoeachotheratanothertimeintheirlives?
Inchapter5,Fernthinkstoherselfthatsecretsareakeyingredientinclosefriendships.Doyouagree?DoyouthinkFernstillbelievesthisbytheendofthebook?
HowdidyouseeWhitneyandFern’sfriendshipevolve?Haveanyofyourlong-lastingfriendshipshadsimilarupsanddowns?
WhatdoyoumakeofFernandJamie’srelationship,inboththepastandthepresent?DoyouthinktheywouldhavestayedtogetherifFernhadnevermetWill?
Willlearnsthathissisterispregnantafterthetwenty-fourhourshespendswithFern.DoyouthinktheirtimetogetheraffectedhisdecisiontomovebacktoTorontoandhelphissisterwiththebaby?
Inherthirties,Fernisonhiatusfromrelationshipsbecauseshedoesn’tthinkthey’reworththeeffort.ButshedecidestogiveherrelationshipwithWillachancedespitehisactionsandthesecretshe’skept.Wouldyouhavedonethesame?
Ferncarriesaroundalotofguiltwhenitcomestohermother.WhatdoyouthinkofMaggieandFern’srelationship?Do