My tone mirrors her tension. “I will. Love you.”
"Love you too."
I let the phone disconnect on its own. Our conversation knocks around in my brain, letting every shot she took hit me again. If Isaac were here, he'd tell me I'm not stubborn but determined, and that I have good reasons for not being close with people who choose not to understand me. He’d follow it up with the fact that it's their loss, not mine. I'd pretend to feel better until I actually did, not wanting to let him fail at his attempt to rescue me from my toxic relationship with my mother. Not having to pretend is maybe the best part of being alone, because right now, I don't want to be soothed. I want to feel indignant and misunderstood and hurt. I want to wallow in it so I don't have to face how fucking terrified I am.
* * *
Even though I’m bone-tired, I drive on without stopping. The past two months have drained me. Cleaning out every drawer and cupboard. A thousand decisions a day, each one a punch to the gut. Violent sobs shook my body as I bagged up Isaac’s clothes and hauled them to the door for Goodwill. There was a reason I avoided it for hundreds of days.
It was the unexpected things that destroyed me. The sight of his carefully polished shoes lined up in his closet, waiting. The box stuffed to the top with every card and note I’d written him over the years. I had no idea he was saving them. I just assumed he tossed them out.
In the end, I kept very few of his things and brought only slightly more of mine. His desk is with me, along with as many of his books as I could fit in one box. The rest has been given away. I only have his slippers and his favorite scarf—a gray, white, and red plaid cashmere strip of fabric that he wore everywhere in the colder months. It sits somewhere in the back of the U-Haul, still carrying a hint of his aftershave. I sold nearly all our furniture, including our bed, the couch, and the kitchen table. Everything I own—other than my house, I suppose—is with me as I put mile after terrifying mile between myself and my old life.
As brave as I like to sound, I’ve been second-guessing my decision to move to Canada since the moment I made the offer on the cottage. Other than a road trip Isaac and I took to the Maritimes over a decade ago, I haven’t spent any time here at all. Everywhere I look, I see a world that is the polar opposite of Manhattan. There are no traffic jams, skyscrapers, or crowded sidewalks. No busy streets lined with restaurants, nightclubs, and clothing stores that make it easy to hide.
If this were one of my novels, I’d be a lady in the eighteenth century who was being sent to live with a distant relative after losing my husband. I wouldn’t be driving down a smooth highway, but riding in a carriage along a bumpy dirt road. Instead of a black hoodie and comfy faded jeans, I’d be in a Brunswick gown and a straw hat meant for traveling. I’d describe the view as ‘meadows of tall grasses and delicate wildflowers stretching on for miles, only interrupted occasionally by stands of pine and maple trees that seem pleased by their good fortune to have taken root here.’ And I’d suggest that ‘if they can be happy here, maybe I can too.’ I’d take note of how the ocean appears more often to my left now, shimmering under the bright sun, hinting at what lies ahead.
What a load of horse shit. It’s empty, uninhabited land, and that ocean is probably littered with trash, or at the very least, riddled with microplastics. It’s so much better to live in reality than to believe in fairy tales. Once you accept reality, it won’t disappoint you like romantic fantasies will. Fantasies will make you weep. It suddenly occurs to me that, for the first time in weeks, I haven’t cried today, but that’s only because I’m completely frozen with fear.
When I glance down at the passenger seat, Walt glares at me from behind the bars of his cage.
“I know, Walt. This has been a tough trip, but I promise, the worst is over.” Maybe.
Just after three in the afternoon, I see a sign that says,
Welcome to South Haven,
The Little Village with a Big Heart.
“Oh, gross.”
The empty highway runs along Bras d’Or Lake to my left and the town to my right. The speed limit slows enough to allow me to properly take it all in. So far, it doesn’t look any different than it did when Isaac and I spent a day exploring the town before moving on to Sydney (where the best hotels on the island are) for the night. First is a wharf with sailboats and fishing vessels bobbing up and down. Shops are next—the quaint bakery where we ate quiche and sipped tea is still there, as is the used bookstore where Isaac found a second edition Thoreau. I fight the squeezing of my heart at the memory and instead focus my attention on the cozy cafés and souvenir shops with wooden storefronts that speak of a simpler time.
The sidewalks are sprinkled with retired tourists clad in sunglasses and hats, cameras slung around their necks. A long stretch of grass leads down to a rocky beach. Next to it is a large playground with preschool-aged children running and climbing while their stylish moms sip coffees and study their cell phones. The shops and restaurants grow closer together as I continue on, and soon, the road veers away from the lakeshore, and there are two-story office buildings on either side of me.
After a few blocks, houses appear—small, older homes with slanted roofs and flower boxes spilling over with colorful blooms. A large brick schoolhouse sits on a hilltop, and I imagine how, if I’d had that view as a girl, I’d have sat in class staring out the window and daydreaming.
I drive on through town and slow to a crawl when the GPS tells me it’s time to turn left onto Shore Lane. My heart pounds as I take in the wide, tree-lined street. My eyes search greedily for house number five. Up ahead, a ‘for sale’ sign swings in the breeze with a ‘sold’ sticker cutting across it. “I think we made it, Walt.”
Another sign catches my eye, belonging to the property next to mine.
Sea Winds Bed & Breakfast & Pub
Kitchen Parties Every Thursday Night.
Rooms Available.
“A bed-and-breakfast and a pub? That’s too many ands,” I say, signaling to indicate to no one that I’m turning into my driveway. “What the hell is a kitchen party, anyway? It better not be loud or they’re going to find the police at their door every Thursday night.”
As soon as I’m facing my property, my heart thrums in my ears and I forget about all the ‘ands’ next door. A thick screen of trees and overgrown shrubs line the property, and I can’t see the house until I’ve gone several feet up the long gravel driveway. Pulling to a stop, I feel like an intruder even though it’s mine.
Once I shut off the engine, I allow myself to take it all in. It’s the faded blue two-story clapboard I found myself drawn to on my computer screen (mainly because the price was right), but the house from the photos looked much nicer than this one. This one is all boarded up. Both of the large main floor windows have empty flower boxes fixed to them with sparse, curly strips of white paint threatening to drop at any second. The yard is overrun with knee-high grass and jumbled weeds that seem to have broken through the sidewalk blocks in their quest for world domination. The white gutter on the detached single-car garage has come loose and hangs in the way of the rusted overhead door.
Eunice Beckham, the realtor, told me the photos were taken ‘a while back’ and that the place was ‘a little worse for wear but still loaded with potential.’ Apparently, her version of ‘a little’ and mine are not at all the same. My stomach feels suddenly heavy and my skin tingles. “Fuck,” I whisper. “Why did I do this?”
My mom’s words come back to me. Scam. Rodents. Oh my God. This is the perfect place for rodents. And spiders. In fact, it looks like it’s been abandoned long enough for the spiders and rodents to have mated, creating some sort of super rat-spider mutant. The thought sends shivers up my spine.
Groaning, I look at Walt again and open his kennel door. “So, listen, I’m going to need you to become a mouser and a spider-hunter right away. Do you think you can manage that?”
