Chapter 6
Six
“You can stay invisible forever.”
By July, Spring had long surrendered to Summer, though Vancouver Island didn’t seem to notice. The morning I left for Victoria, the clouds pressed low and heavy over Nanaimo, blurring the skyline into soft grey smudges. Typical west coast farewell: grey and damp.
Adam was eating toast in the kitchen when I lugged my bag downstairs. He looked up, grinning around a mouthful of peanut butter. “Off to conquer the mainland?”
“It’s still the Island, genius,” I said, slinging my bag onto the floor.
“Technicalities.” He swallowed and pointed the butter knife at me. “Just don’t come back with a neck tattoo or a spiritual epiphany.”
“No promises.”
Dad appeared in the doorway, a coffee cup in his hand, wearing his old RCAF sweatshirt. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “You packed the emergency chocolate?”
“Top priority,” I said.
We stood there, the three of us, in the kind of awkward warmth that comes from people who love each other but aren’t sure how to say it outright.
“Take care of each other,” I said, louder than necessary.
Adam rolled his eyes. “Geez, you’re only gone a week.”
Dad just nodded, his gaze lingering a second too long, like he wanted to say something more but swallowed it instead.
Mia texted me as I was dragging my bag out the door:
Mia:
Break hearts. Buy books—and better shoes. Kiss from Talia x
And underneath it:
Mia:
Also, trust your gut, always. x
I stared at the message longer than I meant to.
The drive south along the Island Highway unraveled in shades of green and silver. I rented a battered Evo and hit play on the playlist Paul had sent me weeks ago. Tom Waits’ voice filled the small car, rich and low, like gravel rolled through silk. Temptation.
The ocean stretched to my left, vast and restless. To the right, dense forests of cedar and fir crowded the hills. I drove with the windows cracked, the salt air curling into the cabin, making everything taste sharper, more alive.
About halfway there, I pulled off at a random beach access.
Shoes off, socks tucked into my jacket pocket, I walked to the water’s edge.
The sand was cold and wet, and the wind plastered my hair against my cheeks.
Out over the water, a tiny speck grew larger, resolving into a seaplane, wings catching the thin light as it banked toward Victoria Harbour.
My breath hitched, and that old ache returned. A strange hunger. I couldn’t cry, so I just stood there, letting the air sting my skin, watching the plane dip lower and lower until it skimmed the surface of the water and disappeared behind the curve of the land.
“I’m still here,” I said aloud, to no one. For now, maybe that was enough.
Victoria was smaller than I remembered, or maybe it was just easier to breathe now. It was still chilly in the mornings, but the days were longer and the increasingly brave rays of sun made them wonderfully warm, especially toward the afternoons.
I made it to my host’s place near the Inner Harbour, all creaky floors and floral bedspreads and mismatched curtains, but it had a balcony that overlooked the water.
The first few days passed quickly, in a blur of quiet rituals.
Coffee from a hole-in-the-wall café. Long walks along the breakwater.
Fish poutine eaten from greasy paper trays on the docks, legs dangling over the side.
I browsed bookstores and secondhand shops, found a worn poetry collection with someone’s scribbles in the margins, and bought it on a whim.
Sometimes I’d sit on a bench by the harbour, watching the seaplanes land and take off in slow, graceful arcs.
The sound of their engines cracked something open in my chest: a reminder that I was still capable of wanting things.
Then came the photo. I found it on the third night, tucked between the pages of my journal. I must have slid it there weeks ago without thinking. But it wasn’t the old photo I’d received in Nanaimo. It was different and newer.
My dad and I beside what was left of the glider.
The wreckage was barely in frame. My face half-turned, visibly bruised, one side of my temple wrapped in white gauze.
Dad beside me, pale and stone-faced, one hand resting gently, but protectively, on my back.
The angle was off: we hadn’t posed for this.
Someone had taken it without us knowing.
A journalist? A bystander? A friend? No note.
No return address and, again, no explanation.
I sat with it for a long time. Turned it over in my hands, feeling the texture of the photo paper.
Someone remembered, and someone had watched.
And for a brief moment, I didn’t know whether to be comforted or afraid.
I tucked it back between the pages, this time deliberately: not to forget, but to carry the memory.
The night before the concert, doubt crept in like fog under the door. I sat on the edge of my narrow bed, staring at the flyer he’d left: Jazz Under the Stars: Victoria Parliament Lawn.
Did he plan to join me? He’d disappeared before. Maybe the jazz playlists and poetic emails were just his way of filling time before the next apartment, the next girl. Maybe I’d been foolish to imagine any of it meant something, and I had completely misread the look in his eyes.
I told myself I’d just stay in, eat something fried, and watch terrible TV. Let the evening pass like any other. But the flyer sat there, electric with possibility. The clock ticked, and the city lights flickered outside my window.
You can stay invisible forever. Or you can take the damn step. I got up and put together a semi-decent outfit: jeans, sneakers, a white shirt thin enough to shiver in, no makeup: just me. Scared but curious to find out what the night might bring.