Chapter 3 Present Day
CHAPTER 3
PRESENT DAY
July
On Sunday morning of the long weekend, my sister and I stop briefly to say farewell to my mother before we head out. She still lives in the bungalow my parents bought after my dad got his big promotion, the one that I now pay the mortgage for. It wasn’t even a question I’d cover the payments. When my dad passed, I signed the paperwork. It was one of the easier things for me to do for her.
My mother meets us outside dressed in ironed pants and a crisp blouse, but her cheeks are hollowed from stress. “Thank you, beta, for taking time for your family. Ciji needs a role model. She is this close to going astray.” My mother holds her index and thumb together to indicate the imminence of Ciji’s ruin.
“Of course, Mom.” I give her brittle shoulder a squeeze. “Take care of yourself and Shehla Auntie.”
My mom’s nod is faint. After our goodbyes, Mel pulls me by the elbow back to the car. “As if I’m not a role model,” she says through gritted teeth.
I hum in agreement. Their fighting makes my temples pound.
My sister’s rattly turquoise Mazda 3 is packed with an overstuffed suitcase and my laptop. There’s something surreal about this, as we transition away from the cramped 401 to the single-lane highway leading to Wiarton, the closest town to our cottage on Pike Bay. This drive used to make me happy, but now, there’s a pit in my stomach and I keep shifting in my seat every time Mel accelerates. The subway no longer seems so bad.
But at least it’s better than being in the driver’s seat. The idea of staring out over the steering wheel gives me heart palpitations.
I wipe my clammy hands on my linen blouse and shift uncomfortably in my high-waisted shorts. My typical summer attire is too formal for the sweaty ride. I unearthed my flowy T-shirts and ripped jean shorts from the dredges of my closet, but I wasn’t able to convince myself to put them back on. They are from a different time, a different self.
My phone pings and a text from Hassan lights up my screen.
Hassan: I’m jealous that you get to work from a cottage
Lia: Ugh! I’m so worried I won’t be able to get as much done
Hassan: 100% better than working from the office. Think of the lack of distractions
Lia: I’ll be missing one of the distractions for sure
My sister would usually have asked me what I was doing on my phone by now, but she’s wholly focused on the road, lips pursed. I tuck my phone away.
“Things okay with you?” I ask, my back sticking against my seat from the heat. My sister insists on windows down with no AC, but the hot outside air doesn’t provide much relief.
“I’m annoyed with Mom. Like, we have a family crisis and I’m not good enough to help?” Her lips tick down into a frown. “Anyway, whatever. Are you excited about going back up to the cottage?”
“I don’t remember the last time I was really excited about anything.” The truth comes involuntarily out of my lips. “I guess the change of scenery will be nice.”
Mel shakes her head slowly. “You used to be so pumped that your leg would shake the whole drive up. It was all I could do not to smack you.”
I turn towards the window. My reasons to not come up have been numerous. Internships in the city. Conferences. Bugs. My parents never questioned it. Putting everything into work, that was something they understood. They agreed that renting it out made the most sense. Now, though, on the familiar road up north, it feels like I blinked and a decade blew by without anything to show for it.
After a quick Tim Hortons bio break, we lapse into silence. Mel relents and turns on the air conditioning, so at least my nervous sweat isn’t amplified by heat. Even though it’s been years, the route is familiar, like it’s been unwillingly tattooed on the inside of my eyelids. Wind turbines now dot the previously empty fields lining the highway, and we have to drive further north before the new subdivisions fade into open land. But eventually, the fields blur into brush and then a forest that partially shades us from the summer sun. And then we’re turning down Critchey Lane, my stomach in free fall.
Mel pulls into the gravel driveway, parking beside a navy sedan. “Home sweet home.”
The sun is just over its peak and glints off the roof. The house is as unassuming as ever, with blue wooden siding and a glass-paned door with tall pine trees looming in the yard. My racing thoughts are deafening compared to the rustling of the leaves. The cottage next door has new siding and a fresh coat of paint, but the lights are off and there are no cars parked out front. Relief and a twinge of disappointment make my breath catch.
I drag myself out of the car and the fresh breath of country air sinks deep into my lungs, as if trying to cleanse the stain of a decade living downtown. My feet kick up dust from the dirt driveway, and I mentally note that I’ll need to swap to my old Birkenstocks or my matte leather flats will be beyond saving.
I grab my suitcase from my sister’s trunk, my arm nearly buckling. Meanwhile, Mel swings her overnight bag onto her shoulder with ease and whips her keys around her finger.
The cottage is almost exactly as I remember it. A big open-concept living room that leads into the dining space and kitchen. There are unfamiliar knick-knacks that must be Shehla Auntie’s, and a few dishes scattered on the counter. My dad’s old woolly throw blanket is on the couch rumpled instead of folded, but the moose-shaped footrest he bought from an estate sale still rests at the base of the brown leather armchair, like he could stroll back in and sit down. I walk over and fold the blanket, setting it neatly with trembling hands.
“They must be outside,” Mel says, striding to the back door, breaking me out of my reverie. She opens the door and we amble down the cobblestone path towards the dock, where two distant figures are lounging.
“Mel!” Ciji exclaims, leaping up from her chair. She’s older than I remember, her face slimmer and limbs long. Her flimsy lime bikini would never have passed my mother’s muster, but Shehla Auntie is ten years younger than my mother and so ten times more relaxed about these things.
“Cee!” Mel grabs her for a hug, standing on her tiptoes to ruffle her hair.
My aunt follows her daughter, her flowy swimsuit cover drifting in the wind. “You girls are such a blessing for coming down and helping out this summer. Lia, beta. It’s so good to see you.” She ignores my outstretched hand and crushes me into a hug. When she lets go, she smiles, the subtle circles under her eyes the only evidence of her stress. I can’t believe she’s actually sick.
Ciji shakes her head. “Mel, why aren’t you staying with me instead?”
My gut twists as my sister tries to play it off. “Oh, I wish I could, but I have so much going on this summer. But I’ll be staying the night!”
“We’re going to have fun, Ciji.” I take a reluctant step closer, not knowing how best to approach. Even though she’s been at a few family dinners in recent years, the last time we really spent time together was when she excitedly showed me her dolls and Lego playhouse. But here she is—in the liminal space between child and woman—a smidge taller than my carefully measured five foot three and a half.
Ciji’s neck tightens, but she acts like she doesn’t notice me and turns towards her mother instead. “Mom, this summer is going to blow.”
“It’ll be fine. Besides, this summer isn’t for fun. It’s for getting your grades back up.” My aunt grimaces, turning to Mel and me. “Let me get you girls some chairs.”
“We’ll get them,” I say, pulling my sister along through the overgrown grass. Once we’re out of earshot, I ask her, “What’s going on with Ciji?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Mel says. “You know, her parents are separated, her mom is sick, and our family thinks that her math performance is more important than her mental health.”
“How am I supposed to help with that?”
“You’ll figure it out.” She gives me a half smile that does nothing to settle the growing unease in my belly. Everything feels off balance here at the cottage, and I’m the wrong person to help Ciji. My mother may think I’m a great role model, but she wouldn’t if she knew the truth.
The code to open the garage door is still the same. We drag white Muskoka chairs back to the dock.
I sit next to Ciji. Maybe if I break the ice now, the rest of the summer will go smoothly. This is exactly like wooing a reluctant client. Only with less wine and more trauma.
“How has your day been?” I ask.
“Fine,” Ciji replies. “Mel, I love your hair.”
I ask about how she’s finding the cottage and if she knows anyone in her summer school class, but no matter what I say, she stonewalls my overtures with monosyllabic replies. Eventually she stands up, drawing Mel to the other edge of the dock, the distance muting their words.
As I get pushed out of the conversation, my eyes keep drifting to the house next door. The lights remain off. I force my attention back to the dock.
Shehla Auntie shifts her chair closer to me. “I don’t know what’s gotten into my daughter this year. We used to be so close, but now I feel like I’m disappointing her,” my aunt whispers, eyes darting to where Mel and Ciji are engaged in conversation. “It’ll be good for Ciji to spend time with you. She might connect more with someone nearer to her age.”
“Adolescence is hard,” I tell Shehla, forcing the turmoil out of my mind. “I’ll take care of Ciji. Focus on yourself right now. How are you feeling?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Not looking forward to surgery and recovery but there’s no other way forward.” Shehla frowns, absentmindedly touching her lower chest.
“Ah.” My hand curls into a fist.
“Don’t worry, Lia. They caught it early.”
I focus on the bite of my nails against my palm, my brain flashing through the memories of my dad in the hospital and then our unexpected goodbye. I don’t want my cousin to lose her mom so young. I wasn’t ready to lose my dad.
Shehla lets out a deep breath and the baton passes to me. I’ll get Ciji through her class so Shehla can focus on her treatment. I’ll get everything back on track for our family. That’s my job, after all.
Dinnertime rolls around, and even though Mel and I insist on being helpful, my aunt’s evaded us. She’s marinated chicken wings and tossed a salad with homemade vinaigrette.
Mel and I force Shehla to take a break, offering to cook the meat. “I could use a shower,” she agrees, gesturing to the barbecue. “Have at it, then.” Ciji follows her inside.
“I wish it was mishkaki,” Mel says. The sweet savoury barbecued meat was married to the summers spent at the cottage when my dad was alive. It tasted of happiness, of togetherness and of so much possibility. I swallow a lump down my throat. Mel and my mom would take charge of the side dishes and dessert and my dad and I would make the mishkaki. We would spend the afternoon humming around the barbecue as the sweet and spicy tang of ginger and garlic came to life. My role would be to hand my dad skewers, help him find the perfect placement for the char. He always said that my touch made the magic come out. But for me, it was a time for us to be together, without the pressure of school and the future clawing at our conversation. I blink hard, brushing the memories away.
“How do you turn this thing on?” I pick up the tongs and absentmindedly click them together as I inspect the blackened char coating the grill.
“I think it’s this knob here.” Mel gives a front knob a quick turn and presses the ignitor button. Nothing happens besides the click of the spark. She waits a few seconds and holds the button down again, but not even a matchstick of fire materializes.
I let out a huff. “Maybe we should ask Shehla Auntie after she’s done with her shower.”
A trademark look of fierce determination comes over her face. “No way, we’re going to figure this out. Shehla Auntie made the whole dinner. We have to help with something.” She kicks the barbecue, oblivious to the fact that she could cause an explosion. I put the tongs down on the side table and creep further back, ready to dodge any potential disasters. No flames emerge, but the tongs go flying into the grass as Mel batters the barbecue one more time.
“Good job,” I say, picking up the sullied utensil. “Now we have no barbecue and dirty tongs. I’m gonna go rinse them,” I tell her, stifling my sigh and plodding back to the house, around the ancient evergreen in the centre of the yard and up the cobblestone path. After washing the tongs and sifting through the drawers for an extra spatula, I make my way back out. I’m about to emerge from behind the tree and toss the spatula at Mel when a deep, familiar voice makes me freeze. “Do you need help with that?”
I peer around the trunk as blood rushes to my head. Even though I’m facing his back, I recognize him like the lines on my palm. He’s taller than I remember, and broader. The years have lined him with muscle, and sandy hair dusts his sinewy forearms. His hair is shorter than how he wore it in high school, but as sun-streaked as ever. His blue cotton T-shirt looks soft, paired with khaki shorts that finally fit him right. He folds his arms together as he laughs at my sister, and I remember how safe it felt for them to be wrapped tightly around me. My heart picks up and a woozy feeling comes over me. I place my hand on the gnarled bark of the tree to steady myself.
“I didn’t know you’d be up already.” Mel smiles up at him. “I’ll trade you some chicken for a working barbecue.”
Already. That means she must have known he would be here. Hot, sticky betrayal bubbles in my stomach.
Wes shakes his head, nudging her aside playfully. “Maybe I can help you so both our homes don’t burn down.” My ears ring with his voice and my chest hurts at the ease they still have with each other.
He bends over, turning the knob on the propane tank. “It helps if you turn the gas supply on.” Amusement layers his tone.
“Thanks,” Mel says, blasé. Our embarrassing error doesn’t faze her.
When he stands up, he turns the front knobs to midway and presses the ignitor button. Flames lick the grates as he closes the lid. “There. It’s heating up.”
Maybe now he’ll go back to his cottage and I’ll be able to postpone the inevitable. I hold still, barely breathing. There’s something more to him now. Less clumsy, more assured. I feel the opposite, as if being here has stripped away the last decade and I’m an awkward adolescent again.
He brushes the back of his neck, like he feels the weight of my gaze there.
I can’t hide forever. After a deep breath—I can deal with this, I have to deal with this—I take a step, a crunch of grass under my feet as I move past the branches. Wes turns, his eyes finding mine as if drawn to me like a magnet.
The world stops while I take him in greedily, studying the face I’d imagined over so many years and used to know better than my own. The same high, arched nose, rich lower lip and freckle next to his left eye. His features are more striking, the years apart melting away the softness of youth, and shadows of stubble coat his jaw. He’s undeniably a man now.
Wes examines me, tilting his head as I stand there like stone. I test a blink. He blinks back. My face burns.
Glancing past him at the water lapping at the dock, I count to three and peek back at him. He’s still staring at me.
Taking another deep breath, I force myself to take a step closer to him. His expression is a manifestation of the dread and longing in my chest. I don’t know how to be near him again without letting all the memories flood over me.
“You’re here,” I whisper.
The way he’s looking at me, as if he’s seeing a ghost, makes my attempt at a cursory smile falter.
Wes bites down, a twitch in his cheek. “Hello, Lia.”