Ten June 1997 #2
The pub had once been a train station, and the owners had kept the theme.
The walls were decorated with beer signs interspersed with old black-and-white photos from a time when the train was an important part of rural life.
I instantly felt old, looking at those photos and remembering all the times I had taken the train.
I had changed out of my scrubs but hadn’t had time to shower.
My hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and I wore no makeup.
If William hadn’t liked the me he met at the hospital, then I wouldn’t be searching the room right now looking for him.
I found him sitting on the opposite side of the bar, watching a television screen.
I hopped up onto the bar stool beside him.
“Sorry, that stool is taken, I’m waiting for someone,” he said as he turned toward me.
“Well then, I guess I’ll just head home.” I waved at the bartender. “Vodka soda, please. With lime.”
William was easy. Everything about him was comforting. His laughs came easily, the gentle touch of his hand against mine felt natural, and we fell into conversation like we were old friends. Until he asked me about my scar.
“I don’t actually talk about that. Not to anyone. I hope that’s okay.”
He looked mortified. “Of course, I’m so sorry. I thought there might be a fun story from when you were a kid or something. I am so sorry.”
I looked up to the television screen and watched a baseball fly out to centre field. A single.
“Want some french fries?” I asked, breaking the tension.
“Always.”
And that was it. He didn’t ask me again about the scar, and I could not possibly have predicted that in a few short weeks I would tell him everything. We ordered another drink, and he insisted on dipping his fries in mayonnaise, against my enthusiastic protests.
“So, William. Where do you come from? I know you’re not local, so where is home?”
“Home is here and there. I travel a lot for work. I’m from the Eastern Shore, but I call Calgary home now. That’s where the kids are.”
“Our Eastern Shore? Here in Nova Scotia?”
He nodded.
“You one of those Scottish descendants, then?”
“Yup, sure am. And a little Mi’kmaq mixed in a while back. Like a long while. Not enough to claim it, but I thought it might give us something to chat about.”
“Really.” I looked at him, his dark hair and pale skin, and I wondered. “I’m Mi’kmaq.”
“I assumed, with your name being Aliet. I went to elementary school with a Mi’kmaw girl named Aliet.”
“No one has ever assumed I am Indian, ever.”
I felt joy then. For the first time, someone I didn’t know saw me as I wanted to be seen, as I had begged to be seen as a little girl, and it was disorienting.
“Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked.
“Just for saying that.”
We fell back into quiet conversation and for the next three nights we met at the pub for dinner. On the fourth night I invited him to the house. I’ve never been a great cook, so it was my go-to meal: spaghetti with bottled sauce and store-bought garlic bread. That night, he stayed.
He worked long hours six days a week, doing something I wasn’t entirely sure I understood at a small factory outside of town that I hadn’t even known existed.
But we didn’t really talk about work. We didn’t talk about much really, but he was good company.
A few weeks after we met, he showed up unexpectedly at my door with a bottle of wine in hand.
“Let’s go for a drive.”
I slipped on my shoes and grabbed my sweater just in case.
“A sweater? It’s thirty-one degrees.”
“I get cold easily,” I said defensively. He shook his head and I followed him to the car.
It was hot, one of the warmest days of the summer.
Those mountains left by the glaciers had a nasty habit of trapping the heat in the valley.
On those days where humidity pulled the sweat from under your skin, most people liked to head to the shore where the Bay of Fundy meets Nova Scotia.
It was always cooler, and a nice reprieve in the days before everyone had air conditioning.
So we headed up the valley side of the mountain in search of a breeze.
When we got to the end of the paved road, William stopped.
Ahead of us was a narrow dirt road, the edges littered with trees and shrubs.
“Keep straight,” I said, and then sat up, suddenly aware of where we were, of the last time I had been on this road, so many years ago.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. I just haven’t been down this road in years. I can’t believe I still know how to find it. I hope it’s not overgrown.”
I directed him to take a right when the road narrowed even further and then forked off.
It wasn’t long until the trees gave way to the sight of water and, with it, the scent of sea water and the squawking of seagulls.
The tide was starting to retreat and I knew that soon the large boulders hidden beneath the water would make an appearance.
Feet from the waterline stood extinguished fires and driftwood benches.
A family sat around a fire roasting hot dogs at the end of the beach.
They waved and we waved back. The stream tumbled past us, emptying itself into the bay.
William took my hand and led me to a piece of driftwood beside a dead fire, and I sat.
We watched the little waves lap at the ground as they began to back away, and I lost myself in a daydream, no, a memory.
I saw myself sitting here, or near here, with John, the scent of sweetgrass rising up from the flames of a small fire.
“Let’s go,” I said, standing and nearly twisting my foot between two rocks. I pulled my foot free and started toward the car.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, hurrying to follow me.
“Fine,” I said. “I just want to leave. Maybe go somewhere else.”
He shrugged and we left, driving until we found an ice cream stand. Once away from the water, the vision of John faded. William never asked and I never explained. That moment, that memory, was mine, mine and John’s, and it would remain that way.
William and I fell into a comfortable routine—long drives through valley back roads, dinner at home or at the bar, sex and sleep.
I could hear Kiju telling me to let him in, to open my heart to this man, but we had an unspoken understanding to keep everything on the surface, no attachments permitted.
And this worked for us, at least until it didn’t.