Chapter 14
Rachel
I've never felt more alone than I have now as the ferry cuts through the dark waters of the Cabot Strait.
The metal railing is cold under my hands as I lean against it, watching the December sun sink toward the horizon.
The wind whips my hair around my face, carrying the sharp scent of salt and diesel.
A few other passengers brave the cold on the deck, but they keep their distance, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Which is probably for the best, because right now, my thoughts are ugly things.
They spew out of me like poison, infecting every thought with decay.
I imagine Karan sitting in his ergonomic chair at the office, surrounded by his three monitors, trying to fix whatever crisis emerged this time, and I want nothing more than to wring his neck.
To let the poison spill out of me and into him.
Is he even thinking about us? Does he care?
Probably not. He's probably too focused on making his boss happy.
On being the good employee. The perfect son.
When did that become more important than being a good husband and father?
The deck vibrates beneath my feet as the engines push us further from Nova Scotia. I’d been dreading this crossing even before Karan bailed. Seventeen hours is a long time to be trapped on a boat with two energetic five-year-olds.
But now, with Martine’s constant hovering and Surinder’s disapproving looks every time I try to set a boundary with the boys, it feels like an eternity.
“You’re too strict with them,” Martine said earlier when I tried to limit their screen time. “They’re on vacation. Let them have fun!”
So now my sons are below deck, probably still glued to whatever shows Martine downloaded on her tablet. I was too tired to argue. Too tired to explain again why we try to limit screens or why we have routines, even on vacation.
A gust of wind hits me, and I pull my coat tighter around myself. The sun, uninhibited by the continents out in the open sea, continues its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It would be beautiful if I weren’t so angry.
Angry at Karan for leaving.
Angry at his stupid boss.
Angry at his parents for enabling him.
Angry at myself for letting it get this far.
A family comes out onto the deck. It’s a mom, dad, and two kids around Cayce and Corey’s age.
They’re all bundled up against the cold, laughing as they make their way to the railing about twenty feet from where I stand.
The father lifts one of the children onto his shoulders and points at something in the distance while the mother takes pictures.
The sight makes my chest ache. That should be us. Karan should be here, letting the boys sit on his broad shoulders, making up stories about sea monsters lurking in the dark waters below. We should be making memories together.
Instead, I’m standing here alone while my in-laws do their best to erase every parenting boundary I’ve ever set.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. For a moment, hope flares—maybe it’s Karan, telling me he fixed the problem and he’s already on his way. But it’s only Sophie, checking in.
Sophie
How’s the crossing going so far? Not planning to throw yourself overboard yet?
I start typing, then delete it. Start again.
I haven’t told her that Karan went back to Montréal, and I don’t know how to get the words out. How do I explain that I’m hiding on the deck because I can’t fucking breathe?
I settle on keeping it simple.
It’s fine. And cold. And pretty.
I shove the phone back in my pocket before she can respond. Sophie means well, and she’s one of my favourite people on this Earth, but right now, her concern would just make me cry.
And I’m tired of crying over this marriage.
With a second thought, I take my phone out. I know who I need to call.
Océane answers within a single ring.
“Weren’t you just texting Sophie?” she asks instead of saying hello like a normal person. “Why are you calling me?”
“Want to play Wish They Were My Parents?”
For a moment, Océane is silent on the other end, and the only sound through the phone comes from Sophie’s kids screeching. Sophie and Will agreed to have Océane stay with them while we’re gone.
“Okay, sure,” Océane answers. “You okay?”
“There’s this sweet family on the deck here. The parents look like they’re enjoying themselves even more than the kids. I wish they were our parents.”
“Ha.” Océane pauses. “Mine’s going to be easy. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, but I see the way Sophie is with her kids. So patient. Firm, but kind. Imagine if we’d grown up with that kind of discipline. I wish she were our mom.”
“Same, girl, same.”
The happy family is still there, now all huddled together taking selfies. The mother’s laugh carries over the sound of the engines and the wind, bright and carefree. Her husband pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her temple, and something inside me breaks.
When was the last time Karan held me like that? When was the last time we laughed together, really laughed, deep from our bellies, with hardly anything to worry about?
“Mommy?”
I turn to find Corey standing near me, his cheeks red from the cold wind. He’s wearing his coat, but it’s unzipped—something Martine must have overlooked in her hurry to let him follow me.
“Give me a sec, Océane.” I lower the phone from my ear as I kneel down to zip up his coat. “What are you doing out here, sweetie? Where’s your brother?”
“Still watching shows with Grandma.” I’m shocked they’re apart and not panicking, but I don’t say anything to avoid calling attention to it as he lets me fuss with his zipper. “But I got bored. And I missed you.”
The simple honesty in his voice makes my throat tight.
“I’ll call you later,” I tell Océane, and we say a quick goodbye right before I pull my son into a hug.
He smells like the candy Martine gave him earlier.
“I missed you too, sweetie.” I pull back and manage a smile. “Want to watch the sunset with me?”
He nods, and I lift him up to settle him on my hip. He’s getting so big, and soon, I won’t be able to do this anymore.
Together, we watch the sun slowly disappear over the horizon.
“Is Daddy really coming for Christmas?” Corey asks after a while, his voice small.
“He said he would.”
The words taste bitter in my mouth.
“But what if he doesn’t?”
I close my eyes briefly as another spike of anger surges through me. It’s one thing to hurt me. It’s another to hurt our sons. To make them doubt his devotion to them.
“Then we’ll still have Christmas,” I say finally. “We’ll still have fun with Grandma and Grandpa, your aunts and uncle, and your cousins.”
“It won’t be the same,” he mumbles into my shoulder.
“I know, sweetie.” I press a kiss to his temple. “I know.”
We stand outside until Corey starts to shiver. The happy family has gone back inside, leaving us alone with the dying light and the endless expanse of dark water.
“Let’s go find your brother.” I set him down. “Then we can all go have dinner.”
He takes my hand as we head back inside. The ferry’s fluorescent lights feel harsh after the soft sunset. We find Martine, Surinder, and Cayce exactly where I left them—huddled around Martine’s tablet in the lounge area. Cayce doesn’t look up as we approach.
“Oh, there you are!” Martine’s voice carries across the space, making several other passengers look our way. “Rachel, I was about to text you. The boys need dinner.”
“I know,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Let’s head to the restaurant.”
Over dinner, which is comprised of overpriced ferry food that the boys barely touch, Martine chatters about all the activities she has planned for us in Newfoundland. I hear snippets about ice fishing and sledding, but I’m not really listening.
Honestly, I don’t care what we do. I just want Karan to be with us.
I push my food around my plate. Next to me, the boys are getting cranky. And no wonder, too. They got too much screen time, too much sugar, too little structure. But when I suggest it’s time to try and sleep in our cabin, Martine waves me off.
“Let them stay up a little longer,” she says. “They’re on vacation!”
I stand up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “I need some air.”
Back on the deck, the sun is completely gone now. Stars speckle the black sky, their light reflecting off the darker water.
I pull out my phone and open my text thread with Karan. His last message stares back at me:
Karan
I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. I love you.
But he won’t. He can’t. Because I’m not angry over one missed trip or one broken promise.
I think about the boys growing up watching their father prioritize work over family. About them learning that it’s normal to be absent, to let your wife shoulder everything alone, to live for other people’s approval.
The thought crystallizes in my mind, clear and sharp as the winter air around me: when the holidays are over, I’m asking Karan for a divorce.
The realization doesn’t hurt as much as I expected it to. Part of me has known for a while now that we were heading here. That all the love in the world can’t save a marriage when one person has stopped trying.
I look out at the dark horizon, where the stars meet the sea, and let the tears finally fall.