Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
Idon’t remember the drive back to Pleasant Cove.
I must have dissociated, my body trying to protect itself from the pain I’m reeling from.
I have shed every tear in my body, and by the time I make it home and park my car, my cheeks are dry and cracked, and my eyes are bloodshot.
I pull down the visor to see how bad I look, and my once bright hazel eyes, a medley of blues and greens, are dimmed.
My mind flits back to Iris and her dull blue eyes.
I bet before Grant, they were a beautiful sky blue, full of life.
Losing him stole her colour, like it’s done for me.
I make my way back into my building, climbing up the creaking stairs until I get to my doorstep.
My head hangs low as I think about what could have been.
Dylan and I, both here, unlocking the door and stepping into our new life.
The key turns in the lock, and I step inside, into the darkness of the late afternoon.
My purse drops on the floor beside me, phone turned off—I don’t have the strength or ability yet to update Priya or talk to anyone. That can be tomorrow’s problem.
I strip out of my clothes, wishing that Dylan’s sweater was still on me, and put on my softest, comfiest pyjamas.
Climbing into bed, I hold my pillow tight against my chest, and the tears begin to pour again.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. Do I stay here?
Can I stay here? A part of me wants to throw in the towel and go back home.
Back to the life I knew before Dylan. The easy life where I didn’t have to work for anything and could have whatever I wanted.
The life where I didn’t feel anything. Ever.
Being numb sounds nice.
As quickly as that thought crosses my mind, I know it’s not right. I can’t go back, no matter how tempting it might be. I have worked hard to build my life out here. I’ve come so far, and to go back would prove Marcus right. It would erase everything Dylan and I have built and done.
No, I have to stay. I have to find a way to keep going. To keep my spark. My promise.
I close my eyes, squeezing them shut, and try to picture Dylan.
The way his emerald-green eyes would light up every time he saw me.
The scar on his jaw. His long, constantly messy brown hair.
The colour of coffee with a hint of creamer.
I won’t ever forget him. He’ll live in my mind and in my heart for as long as I’m alive.
I fall into a restless sleep, stirring all through the night, visions of a crumbling lighthouse taking over my dreams.
Morning comes and goes, and I stay in bed, unable to move. My eyes refuse to open. If I open them, then everything that happened yesterday is real. It’s real and Dylan is gone and the lighthouse is gone and I’m here all alone.
When I finally sit up, the sun is shining through the windows, and when I check the clock on the microwave, it shows it’s just past one o’clock.
I make myself an instant coffee, not having the strength or desire to stand and brew something.
When I open the fridge to grab the milk, I wince looking at the pumpkin and maple creamers I made in anticipation of Dylan being here.
I open them up and pour them into the sink, leaving the mason jars empty on the counter. Washing them is a problem for later.
I sit on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, as I sip my mediocre coffee.
Staring at the wall in front of me, I hold the warm mug in my hands, letting it soothe my chilled body.
This apartment doesn’t hold heat well, I’ve discovered, so it gets colder here when the temperature is lower.
Who knows what I’ll do come winter. I wish I had a wood stove like Killick Point did.
That was always nice to wake up in the middle of the night and feel the heat of the flames make its way to me in bed. Like a warm hug.
I guess I’ll have to find a space heater.
I grab my laptop from its hiding spot under my throw pillow and pull it onto my lap.
My fingers flit over the keys, typing in my password to unlock it.
I hesitantly open my browser and prepare to click onto a page I bookmarked two months ago.
The page I’ve revisited countless times in the night when sleep wouldn’t find me.
The Chronicle Herald article about Dylan’s death.
I know it’s not going to make a difference, but I want to see if anything has changed.
Anything at all.
Any inkling that he somehow managed to survive the storm and that fall into the ocean.
I hover over the button long enough until my index finger starts to shake, and then I press down on the trackpad and watch as the page loads. Pulling my chunky quilt around my shoulders, I close my eyes, preparing myself for what I might see.
“a powerful nor’easter that battered Nova Scotia’s South Shore that afternoon, bringing wind gusts over 100 km/h, heavy rain, and dangerous seas that pounded the coastline for hours…”
My heart drops.
It’s the same.
Everything is exactly the same.
The header, the photograph, the whole article—my eyes scan through the words I’ve come to memorize over time. Everything is the same. Not a single word out of place.
A bad storm, two boys fall over the edge, he rescues them, falls back in, and their best guess is that he drowned. The picture of the cliffside remains, no barricades to be seen.
The sharp pain in my chest grows, like someone is digging a knife directly into my heart.
It feels like I’ve lost him all over again.
I think of him, alone and cold in the rough, unforgiving ocean.
Did he even fight for his life? Or did he willingly accept his fate and let his body sink down to the bottom?
What if he didn’t try because he knew there was no point? Because I told him he died—
Lucy, you have to stop.
I blink back my tears once more. I can’t keep crying. I have to pull myself together and find a way to be okay. For him.
Peeling myself off the couch, I drape the blanket over my back and walk over to the closet near my bed. I pull on my favourite loungewear, the dark blue Eras Tour sweater and matching sweatpants, one of the outfits I wore when I first met Dylan.
In the bathroom, I wash my face and apply some tinted moisturizer. Then, I take a brush to my messy hair and secure it with a pink claw clip. Checking myself in the mirror, I can see the bags under my eyes, how I look devoid of happiness. I shrug and step away. At least I’m dressed.
I know what I want to do now.
How I can say goodbye.
Getting into the car and making the drive down to Killick Bay doesn’t feel real. I barely pay attention; I know this route so well now. The winding roads, the trees that get smaller the closer I get to the coast. How lush green grass turns into smooth, grey rocks.
As I pass by my usual parking spot, I turn my head and can’t help but notice what isn’t there. What’s missing.
I keep driving, forcing myself to look straight as my hands grip the wheel.
Just a few more minutes, and I’ll be in town.
Then I can talk to Iris. She is the only person who could possibly understand what I’m going through right now.
Her presence is calling to me. I don’t know if it’s reassurance or comfort I’m looking for, or for someone to give me the cold, hard truth.
That no matter how badly I want to be okay, I never will be.
I park on the main street and make my way through town. I swear, the scent of Irish Spring soap finds me, but as quickly as I catch it, it’s gone. Of course my mind is conjuring him even after he’s gone. A memory that will never fade.
Then, without hesitation, I walk down to the docks, where I always find Iris. As my feet step onto the creaky wooden boards, I see a grey-haired figure in her usual spot, staring out, tie-dyed cane resting on the bench beside her.
I take a breath and will my tired feet to move forward.
When I make it to her, I take a seat beside her, placing my hand in hers and giving it a squeeze.
She lets me drop my head onto her frail shoulder, and we sit together in silence for a few minutes as the tears stream down my face once again.
She doesn’t rush me, doesn’t say anything at all.
Just allows me to be in this moment with her.
As the tears slow and she hears me sigh, she finally speaks. “Let’s go to my apartment, dear. I want to show you something.”
Giving a light nod, I stand, holding my arm out to help her up before passing her the cane.
She leads the way back down the docks and onto the street.
Her feet shuffle in front of her, taking tiny steps and using the colourful cane for support.
I slow my steps, letting her set the pace.
We veer left down a street I don’t recognize, and when my eyes land on a square brown-brick apartment building, she turns down the path toward the front door, pulling out a set of jangling keys from the pocket of her long, patterned skirt.
We step inside, and instantly, I feel warmer.
The electric baseboards on the floor are heating the narrow hallway.
In front of us, there’s a set of stairs leading up to the second level, but Iris turns to the dark green door on the right, with the number 01 on it, and switches to a gold key, unlocking and opening the door.
We enter through her kitchen, clad with white counters and appliances, and a small round pine table in the centre of the space.
Iris shrugs off her jacket and hangs it on a hook by the front door before stepping over to the sink and flicking the small kettle on.
She opens a cupboard door above it and pulls out two tea bags and two accompanying colourful ceramic mugs, painted with wildflowers.
“Sit, please,” she instructs, and I pull out a chair and wait for her to finish making our drinks, legs crossed underneath me as my fingers drum anxiously on the table.
Handing me my mug, she leaves the kitchen, roaming into another room, motioning that she’ll be right back.
I sip my tea, the strong peppermint flavour seeping into my bones and warming the dull ache that sits within my chest. The sound of Iris shuffling through some drawers catches my attention, but I don’t think too much of it until she sits down beside me, papers in her hand held close to her heart.
Eyeing the papers, I wonder what they could possibly be. She clutches them in her grip with a shaking hand as she brings her mug to her lips and takes a sip. “Ah, that’s nice,” she murmurs.
I place my mug down in front of me, crossing my arms right against my own chest while I wait for her to show me whatever it is she has. “Iris, what do you have to show me?” I don’t have time for her to beat around the bush. Not today.
“This is a lot to explain, but these—” She clutches the papers; they’re wrinkled and look like they’ve been stuffed in a drawer for years. “—these are from Dylan—”
The sound of my chair screeching backward cuts her off. My heart drops in my chest, and my eyes widen, staring into her grey ones. “What do you mean, those are from Dylan?”
She pushes them, face down, toward me on the table.
I place my hand on the crinkled paper and pull it close, unable to flip it over yet.
I swear I smell his coffee-stained fingers.
“He gave these to me a few days before the storm. I remember it like it was yesterday. He came and found me and asked me to hold on to these in case your plan to save him didn’t work.
He wanted one more way to say goodbye to you.
I don’t know what anything says; I never looked, but he was adamant about making sure I held on to it and gave it to you. I’m sorry, Lucy.”
Rage builds from my toes and rises all the way up, seeping through my eyes.
My nostrils flare as I spit out, “You mean to tell me that you have known—this whole time—that he wasn’t going to make it.
This whole time, you’ve had these papers from him, and you never once thought to mention it to me?
” I’m almost yelling at this point but am too mad to care.
“Yes. Yes, dear, I did know this whole time. But he had me promise not to tell you. I wanted nothing more than to open up that drawer this morning and discover the papers were missing because the past had changed. Please believe me when I say that. I was hopeful that you were going to be successful. I know you feel betrayed, but I was only trying to help.” Her eyes fall, and I don’t miss the quiver at the end of her words.
I don’t doubt she’s sorry. I don’t doubt she was hopeful he would make it.
But I still feel betrayed by what she’s done.
“I didn’t want you to go through what I did. I hope you can forgive me, Lucy.”
I rise from my seat, papers in hand, and move toward the door.
“I have to go now, Iris.” With that, I open the door and leave, moving from the hall, back outside, and almost running to where my car is parked a few blocks down.
I can’t look at these papers. Not yet. I need to get my head straight.
Iris knew all along. Dylan knew yesterday too.
He knew he’d left these for me. Deep down, he knew he was going to fail.
There’s only one place I can think of where I want to look at these. Starting the car, I head up toward Killick Point.
Or at least what’s left of it.