Chapter 7 Present Day
CHAPTER 7
PRESENT DAY
July
My sleep that night is fitful, even though the ancient bed still feels moulded to my body. The shelves of all my old books seem to judge me, and I’m careful to keep my blinds pulled so I’m not tempted to look at Wes’s window. Eventually, I fall asleep to the sound of the larks rising and wake up a couple hours later, disoriented. I’m trapped in a déjà vu, having slept on the same faded lilac sheets I’d spent so many summers on.
The house is quiet. Automatically, I scroll through my phone. Aside from the usual work onslaught that continued through the night, Hassan messaged.
Hassan: Hey, how is the cottage? Thinking of you
Smiling, I heart the message and mentally note to reply later. I creep downstairs and out the door to retrieve the box stuffed with work documents from Mel’s trunk. It took both Mel and me to load it in, and now I’m struggling to pry it out of the trunk.
“Want help?” Wes calls from across the yard.
I startle, almost dropping the box. Of course he’s still an early riser. So much has changed, but not that. Nor how my heart responds to his deep voice.
“I’m fine,” I grunt through the burn in my untrained biceps. I haven’t had my coffee yet and I need more fortification before I can look directly at Wes.
“Suit yourself,” he says before the buzz of a lawnmower starts.
The adrenaline from interacting with Wes gets me through the front door. Once I do, the box gives out, papers sliding everywhere.
“Shit.” I try to stack everything back in order, but the paper clips are no match for gravity. It’s going to take me forever to sort it all. My throat constricts. I’m off to a great start.
Ciji strides down the stairs, giving me a look as she passes, intentionally stepping on the piece of paper I’m trying to pick up. “Sorry,” she says, sounding the opposite. My aunt and my sister follow her down, wincing when they meet my gaze. My sister shakes her head, whispering quietly to Ciji, who brushes her off.
I wave my aunt and sister away when they try to help. I can barely decipher half of the paperwork myself.
Shehla Auntie makes porridge sweetened with maple syrup while I quickly finish stacking documents on my father’s old desk in the corner of the living room. “Come join us,” Shehla calls.
“Thank you, but I’ll eat later,” I tell her, retreating to the bathroom upstairs to splash water on my red flustered face and get changed for the day.
By the time I come back down, Shehla’s bags are already at the front door. It’s as if she wants to be efficient about leaving before she can change her mind. Despite the rush, Shehla keeps a smile on her face as if she’s just heading into the city for a change of scenery and not for a surgical procedure to remove a large portion of her left breast. Mel and Ciji head upstairs to get ready, leaving Shehla and me lingering by the door.
Shehla will be driving with Mel, leaving her car for me to use in an emergency. I didn’t explain to her that I don’t drive. Not now, not ever. Luckily, Ciji will be catching a school bus to class and the general store is easily reachable with a longer walk or shorter kayak across the bay.
My aunt touches my arm as I reach for one of her suitcases to take to the car. She pulls me back into the kitchen. “Thank you so much again for helping with Ciji.” She pauses. “I wanted to chat with you about her.”
“Mom mentioned she’s having a hard time with math?”
“Yes,” Shehla says. “But that’s only the start. Ever since we moved here, she’s been off. Angry, even, but it doesn’t seem directed at me. I thought we’d have a fresh start here, but she seems set on stirring up trouble.”
“Has her dad been able to talk to her at all?” All I remember from my brief interactions with Amir Uncle is a slick comb-over, a harsh laugh and the overpowering smell of Ralph Lauren cologne.
“Amir hasn’t been back to visit this year. But he keeps wanting to throw evidence at the court that I’m unsuitable. If she doesn’t finish this math course, she’ll be behind and maybe that’ll be enough for the judges to decide she shouldn’t stay with me. In any case, I don’t want my health to interfere with her future.”
There are so many burdens on my aunt that I impulsively reach out to squeeze her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Auntie. I’ll be here. She’ll be fine.”
Ciji stomps down the stairs. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but she pastes a smile on her face. “All packed, Mom?”
Shehla nods. “Just a few last things.” She puts her arm around her daughter, drawing her away for a private conversation.
From the kitchen, I hear Mel shuffling around upstairs. Probably packing. When I passed by her room on my way down, her clothes were strewn everywhere, even though we’ve only been at the cottage a day.
Ever since last evening, there’s been tension between my sister and me. I want to go up to talk to her before she goes, but my plans are derailed when I spot a willowy woman with blond-streaked hair coming up the edge of our gravel driveway, her facial expression unreadable. I step outside, and the gentle breeze rustling the trees is intermittently overshadowed by the buzz of Wes’s lawnmower.
I take a breath, steeling myself, and approach Ms. Forest. I have to get this over with. She has every right to be aloof, to make this encounter as hard as possible.
“Hi, Ms. Forest,” I say, lifting my arm for a handshake, but she bypasses me to give me a tight hug. Cinnamon and vanilla waft over me, and I’m brought back to the memories of her baking and the warm apple pies that would be waiting for us when we’d return from a day on the water. The tension in my neck dissipates. I always felt safe with Ms. Forest. Safe in her home too.
“Lia,” she exclaims. “It’s so nice to see you again, dear. Look at you!”
I’m not sure how to answer this woman who was a fixture in my life growing up. Is she not upset that I disappeared? That Wes and I fell apart? But her smile is bright and I can’t help but smile back.
“It’s been awhile. I guess time passed me by,” I say. There’s a pause; Ms. Forest and I don’t know how to navigate the space. All I can do is take in the grey that now blends in with her light hair and the creases the decade has left in her cheeks.
“How’s that big-shot lawyer life?” Ms. Forest asks.
“Oh, it’s good. You know, another deal, another dollar,” I say and immediately cringe. “How have you been?”
“Happy it’s summer.” Her laughter is a chime. “Happier that Wesley is home for it.”
Her son appears over her shoulder but I’m the first one to notice him. I involuntarily drink in every nuance of him like I’ve been in a desert.
“Hey, Lia,” he says casually, as if it’s a decade ago and it’s another summer day filled with carefree thoughts and dreams of ice cream and afternoon naps. I’m not sure where to look so I settle at his chest.
I can’t help but notice that the fabric of his threadbare T-shirt is moulded to him in a way that outlines his shoulders. He takes a step forward, wrapping a golden arm around his mother’s shoulders.
I swallow, yanking my gaze away from him. And then he smiles, eyes lightening to clear skies, and I have to remind myself that this is not the boy I used to love.
Keeping my eyes on the looming pine tree in our front yard, I squeeze my hands tight, let my fingernails cut into the flesh of my palm. Pavlovian therapy.
“Hi, Wesley,” I say curtly. His invitation to be a good neighbour feels dangerous. I can’t crack open that door because he’ll have an onslaught of questions that will barrel me over. It’s better to keep my back up against it.
Wes’s grin turns into a smirk that I feel all the way to my toes. “Wesley? You haven’t called me that ever.”
“I’m sure I have,” I mutter, avoiding his gaze.
“Alright, Lia,” he says, his expression dancing with levity. “You can call me Wesley, the barbecue conqueror, if you insist.”
He gets a startled laugh out of me, my eyes meeting his, and forces my expression into a mask of indifference. Our past is behind us now.
Liar, liar , my heart beats.
“So, how are you finding being back up here?” Wes asks. “How long has it been since you’ve last been up?” The question isn’t innocent. There’s a downward slant to his eyebrows, as if he’s carefully unravelling a tight knot in a delicate chain.
“It’s been awhile. I’ve been busy.” It’s a half answer.
“She’s a lawyer,” Ms. Forest tells her son proudly, as if she’s genuinely happy for my achievements.
“I know,” he tells his mother. His head tilts to the side as he processes my non-answer. “You haven’t driven up even for a weekend?”
“I’m not the biggest fan of driving,” I admit. “Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering if there was a weekend you were here and I missed seeing you.” Wes’s eyes widen earnestly.
The idea of him looking for me sits uneasily in my chest. “No. I haven’t been back. We rented the cottage out.”
“You could have stayed with us,” Wes murmurs.
I let out a scoff, but the screen door slams before I have a chance to answer. Mel hauls the luggage outside to the car, while Shehla walks towards us.
“Oh, Sharon,” Shehla says to Ms. Forest. “Thank you so much for everything.” Shehla and Ms. Forest chat until the door slams again and Ciji slowly wanders to us. Her slim shoulders are held upright, but she’s chewing her lower lip. There’s a riddle here I need to solve.
Wes gives me an understanding smile. It’s not fair of him to be so perceptive, not when I can’t tell what’s going on behind his tanned face anymore.
Returning from the car, Mel grabs Ciji when she’s an arm’s distance away, ruffling her hair. “It was good to see you, squirt.”
Ciji protests, drawing back, looking up at Wes through her eyelashes.
“Hey, Ciji.” He casually smiles at her in greeting. Ciji promptly turns red. I cough to hide my laugh; if I’d met adult Wes in the throes of pubescence, I would also be speechless.
“Alright, beta,” Shehla tells her daughter. “You be good for Lia, you hear? Work hard and this summer will be over before you know it.”
Ciji nods as her mother gives her one last hug. “Don’t worry, Mom.” Her big smile doesn’t meet her puffy eyes.
Shehla smiles back and then, like ripping off a Band-Aid, she’s in Mel’s car and they pull out with a quick wave and a shouted farewell. Loneliness pangs in my chest, and I instinctively look at the steadiness of Wes’s shoulder. I should want him gone, but somehow, his presence still reassures me.
As soon as they’re out of sight, Ciji bolts back towards the house and I briefly glimpse her scrunched expression. Worry courses through me. I turn to follow her. “Ciji, wait!”
She pauses, turning to me with eyes tinged with desperation. “What do you want?”
I search for the right words to say. “Let’s go for a walk. We can talk, catch up.” What she needs is to not be alone right now, stuck in her own head.
“Why would I want to go anywhere with you?” she shoots back, arms crossed.
“Because I care about your mom too, and I’m going to be here with you. We could take out the boat together, distract ourselves?” I reach out my hand to place it on her shoulder, but she shrugs me off.
“No.” The front door swings closed behind her. I stop, unsure what to do next. The lack of coffee amplifies the emotional strain of the day, and a rubber band squeezes around my temples.
This is already not going well. Feeling Ms. Forest’s and Wes’s eyes on me, I bite my lip. “I’ll give her space?” I try to say it confidently, but it comes out like a question.
The way Ciji flipped from daughter holding it together to angry child has thrown me off. This is far from the briefs I read and draft: dry, convoluted things that need an analytical eye and emotional detachment. I don’t know if I can be what she needs.
“Give her some time,” Ms. Forest says with an understanding smile. “It’s hard, those teenage years. She’s dealing with a lot.”
“Right.” My forehead pulses, and I press my fingers to my temple, feeling the warning signs of a migraine; they’ve plagued me for the last ten years.
Wes notes my posture. “Everything okay?” The way he leans over me is too familiar, and I shy away.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I paste a wan smile on my lips as I turn to go. “See you later.”
Ciji’s locked herself in her room, angsty music pouring out that exacerbates the throbbing in my head. I’m tempted to knock on her door and ask her to turn it down, but if this angry beat helps her, I don’t want to be the one to take it away.
After riffling in my bag and finding that I forgot my migraine medicine at home, I grab some Tylenol from the bathroom and brew coffee to wash it down. The tension in my forehead eased, I pull out my phone.
Hassan: Seems like it must be busy up there at the cottage? How are things?
Shoot, in the thrall of everything, I’d forgotten to text him back.
Lia: So sorry! It’s been more hectic than I expected…Family stuff, you know
Hassan: Oh yes. I get that. You love ’em, but they don’t always get it
Lia: Yeah, it’s just a lot
Hassan: Want to talk about it? I know you have it handled
Lia: I’m okay, it’s all good! But appreciate you thinking of me. How are you?
An hour passes amid work interspersed with text banter but, somehow, the fact that Hassan is the only person I have to turn to right now makes me feel more alone, instead of relaxing the tightness in my lungs. My sister and aunt are still on the road. While there are work emails I could answer, I call Norah instead.
“I need to vent, and I need you not to tell my sister,” I say when she picks up. There’s commotion from her end, faint clanging and laughter that’s typical of when she visits her brother.
“Give me a second,” she replies.
“Is it a bad day? Never mind, we don’t have to chat right now.”
“It’s a good day, he got a new set of Legos. It’s a good kind of loud.” The din behind Norah quiets. “So, what’s going on?”
I start to tell her that I’m frustrated with Mel for not giving me a heads-up about Wes, but Norah interrupts me.
“Look,” Norah says, “I hear you. I want to be there for you, but I can’t take sides.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” I say. Tears bite my eyes and I fight them back. After high school, I’d had a hard time opening up to anyone, until I met Norah during law school. Norah was the person I used to tell almost everything to, at least before she and my sister got together. While I’m happy for them, I’ve felt so much more alone since I lost my main confidante. I force myself to change the topic. “I’m not sure what to do with Ciji. I feel like she’s hurting but I don’t know how to help.”
“She’s your baby cousin. You just need to be there for her.”
I pinch my fingers over my nose and take in a heavy breath. “Yeah, sure. Did Mel mention Wes was going to be her tutor?”
Norah inhales sharply. “Yes, she did.”
“And you didn’t warn me either?” I try to hide the betrayal coursing through me. After a night out with too much sangria in law school, I’d confided in Norah that I couldn’t risk falling in love again, not when loving Wes crushed me. And after she vowed secrecy, I cried and told her why and begged her to never tell anyone. I never told Mel, out of shame and fear of who she might tell.
“In my defence, I haven’t told her your secret either,” Norah promises, the reluctance in her voice thick. “Listen, if you really can’t handle it there, say the word and I’ll talk to Mel.”
What would she even say to her? I pace around the living room looking out the window where the sun has crept higher in the sky.
“It’s fine,” I lie. “You should get back to your brother. Give Mel my love when she gets back.”
“Sure,” she says skeptically, but I’m already hanging up on her and pulling out my neglected emails.
From: [email protected]
Lia,
I need to see a draft of the stakeholder agreement for Brittle by tonight.
Eleanor
I don’t know why I thought working on holiday would be any different. It’s been years of this, constant calls and texts from partners expecting me to jump, cartwheel and hopscotch at their demand.
From: [email protected]
Before midnight please.
Eleanor
It’s cartwheel time. At least she said please. Resigned, I spend the rest of the morning flipping through paperwork and drafting. The pounding of Ciji’s music fades, but she doesn’t emerge from her room, not even when I knock on her door to offer lunch. By the time evening arrives, I have a skeleton of a stakeholder agreement. With relief, I click send and shut down my laptop.
When the screen goes black, I get up, my back cracking. As I pace, it’s harder and harder to keep my past distant. The same scuffed grey fabric couches we sat on as a family clutter the living room. My dad’s old oak desk is tucked against the corner with a worn leather office chair. My family was never big on staged photographs, but all through the mantelpiece there are old candid photos, developed en masse for a discount at Walmart. If I stare at them too long, my eyes pinch and my chest constricts.
I blink, pushing myself back into the present. I’m hungry and Ciji must be starving. Though I know she’s old enough to forage for food, I stride to the kitchen. Even I can’t mess up a sandwich. Meat, lettuce, onions, tomatoes, bread and condiments. It seems like a good peace offering.
With renewed determination, I climb up the painted wood stairs to Mel’s old room, pausing at the door. There is a clear outline where my sister had once taped an Enter at Your Own Risk sign. It’s long gone, but Ciji’s clearly taken the sentiment on board.
I tap quietly and, when there’s no answer, wait. The one thing I’m not going to do is open the door on her. Growing up, my parents had no sense of privacy, to the point where changing clothes became a lightning-fast endeavour, lest they walk in mid bra removal.
Ciji’s voice creeps through the door. “Dad, I think that maybe—no. Yes, I’m starting tutoring soon but—”
I still my hand at the door before I knock again.
“I thought you’d come visit, maybe make up with Mom—”
I can almost see her face cracking through the deep brown oak.
“No, Dad, I don’t want to live with you…I don’t know how sick—”
Silence and harsh breaths as the person on the phone answers her.
“Fine,” she says shortly. “Talk to you later, Dad.”
It would be easier to go back downstairs, but something in the raw hurt emanating from the room keeps me grounded at the door. I have to help her.
Tentatively I knock again.
The door swings open. Ciji’s wearing over-the-ear headphones, one ear uncovered. She peers at me through her lowered lashes. “What?”
“Let’s have dinner.”
“I’m good,” she says, shoving the door in my face, but I hold it open until she meets my gaze. The shadows under her eyes have grown since the morning.
My instinct is to insist, the way my parents did. She needs to be out of the room. But the way she’s looking at me with despair swimming in her eyes makes my voice catch.
“You have to eat something,” I gently implore.
“I don’t want to eat with you,” Ciji stares, defiant, as if she’s waiting for me to drag her out of her room so she can kick and scream and let everything and anything she’s been feeling out.
I gather my breath. “I made sandwiches. They’re downstairs.”
“Great,” she says. “Now can you leave me alone?”
Helplessness makes my throat close. I can’t force her to confide in me. “Suit yourself,” I say. “I’ll be in my room. Knock if you need me.”
“I won’t.” Though her voice rings triumphant, her expression shuts down further, like this win has only been another defeat. Before I can say more, the door closes in my face. I creep away to the sound of sobbing locked behind the solid oak.