Chapter 1
Ella
Tuesday
“That’s the men’s bathroom,” a man’s voice said behind me as I opened a door.
“Oh,” my brain caught up three seconds later, my eyes flicking between the guy’s face and the little figure drawn on the bathroom door. “Of course, thank you,” I said, awkwardly gesturing with my arms.
The next moment didn’t go any smoother. Since I’d ordered the messiest option in the coffee shop’s display — a warm, gooey chocolate muffin with chocolate chips — my hands needed some napkins.
I accidentally pulled out too many from the dispenser and tried to shove them back in, but only made it worse, jamming the spring that was supposed to push the napkins forward.
“Well, not your best move,” I told myself in the middle of that operation.
After apologizing for my slightly chaotic over-pull of napkins and then clumsy attempt to shove them back in, I left that coffee shop, earbuds tucked under my hair and the Discman inside my tote bag.
I walked alongside the river.
It was a chilly end of the day, and end of the summer. Sailing boats slid down the river, slowly, barely moving. On the sidewalk by the water, some people were running, others walked, as slowly as the boats, alone or in company, soaking in the last rays of sunshine.
I sat on the steps at the entrance of the Verryn Museum of Art, a notebook on my lap, which I called my journal, observing strangers in their own parallel city lives.
I didn’t leave Evermere much during the school months.
My mom used to plan one big family summer vacation every July.
And sometimes, throughout the year, we’d meet other family members in their own towns, since we all lived far apart.
Today, the meeting was here, in Verryn, for a museum night, and they were due to arrive at any minute.
My mom had come with my siblings this morning, but I was busy in Evermere so I couldn’t catch a ride with them when they left. I had just arrived in the city by train, and they were meeting me so we could all go to be part of my aunt’s art exhibition opening.
I didn’t mind at all that they came without me. I enjoyed my trip, my solo wandering through the city. Dates with myself were fun.
I liked my time alone. I was constantly trying to make space in my agenda to plan more of it.
Sometimes the feeling of lacking my own space surfaced, despite actually having my own bedroom. Later, I realized the problem was never at home.
We were not a family of “everyone in their place doing their own thing”.
The doors to the rooms were rarely closed; we talked from one floor to the other all the time, and we went into each other’s bedrooms just to chat, simply because the other person was there — sometimes that included the bathroom too. And I still loved it.
Our favorite thing to do was to all go to the living room at night and play a board game or watch a movie in front of the fireplace, some on the couch, others on the floor, with fluffy blankets and something pretending to be popcorn.
No one needed to say it, but we all knew it turned out to be the best part of many days.
The older I got, the more grateful I felt for this closeness.
I ended up finding some spots in nature, close to home, where I could be all by myself, living in my thoughts, writing, reading, listening to music, or reflecting on the sunset.
And I always loved coming back to my crowded, noisy home.
I waited on the cold steps of the museum entrance for my family to arrive, and smiled to myself at the sight of a woman walking by, holding hands with a little child who still walked unsteadily, as if it was difficult to hit the ground with the whole soles of those miniature shoes.
Suddenly, in my peripheral vision, I noticed them. Some of those who shared surnames with me. My sister Mira was walking backwards, and I saw her nearly collide with a gentleman on a bicycle, making me nervously shift my focus.
To all the older sisters out there: Are we all like this?
I was aware of my constant worrying. That I cared too much.
The other day, I was sitting on the floor of a balcony, leaning against the railing, my legs stretched out in front of me, relaxing.
And I noticed that when my sister came and sat down next to me, leaning her back against it too, I almost immediately straightened up so that I could keep an eye on her.
And the thought crossed my mind: if anything happened, I’d be sitting up straight, ready to grab her.
Also, I never closed my eyes during a car ride. No matter who was driving. Mom, dad, or anyone else. There was something in me that felt responsible for staying alert, for being aware of everything and anything that might happen.
So I could never, ever, ever, close my eyes during a car ride.
People called me sunshine, but they didn’t know I always felt like I was climbing the mast to the crow’s nest of the ship, looking out for any storms approaching the people I loved.
“Where’s Theodore?” I asked myself.
“Have you been here long waiting for us?” asked a voice behind my back. It was Theodore, my little brother.
“Oh,” I turned to smile at him. “No, come, sit here with me!”
I looked at my mom and my three other siblings. In the background were my grandmother and my two aunts, talking quickly and walking slowly.
A large family equals a large amount of time to get to places.
My mother usually went crazy on the first day of vacation.
There was always someone who forgot the bag, the hat, the toy, the toothbrush, or whatever it was that only came to mind when it was almost too late.
Almost. Because — as it was never too late — we all ended up going in and out of the house a thousand times before the final departure.
Oh, the fun start of summer family vacations.
The rest of the evening went perfectly. The remaining members of the family arrived throughout the night, so the noise of surprising voices and hugs constantly disrupted the museum’s silence.
But that was the fun part of my family — you never really knew who was showing up to my mom’s town hall speech, or to my uncle’s book release party, or to my aunt’s exhibition opening at the Verryn Museum of Art.
We ended up being there for each other’s important milestones, even though we lived far apart.
And after my aunt gave a thank-you speech to end the art opening, my cousins and I started debating which nearby restaurant might be open and have enough free tables.
Because every reason was a good reason for an unplanned family dinner.
It was a great night, even if, right after dessert, I felt a wave of sadness. The moment of goodbyes. My mom, my siblings, and I headed back to the other side of the river, to the countryside. About two hours away.
We all hugged goodbye and hoped for a real “see you soon.”
As my mom drove and we got further from the city, the light pollution faded, and the number of cars decreased.
I started to see the view of the mountain in the darkness of the night, the stars shining brightly above us as we entered Evermere, where the great, familiar trees danced in the soft wind.
I couldn’t lie. I loved my small town and every part of the nature that surrounded and belonged to it.