I reach behind me for my suitcase before remembering Liam has it.I spin around to apologize to him, but he’s gone, and my suitcase sits on the bottom step.Forgetting about my abandoned carry-on at my feet, I trip on it and pitch forward, letting out a squeak of fear as I imagine tumbling down the stairs head first.Strong hands lock around my upper arms, stopping my forward momentum, and pulling me back until I’m steady on my feet once more.
I don’t even have a chance to thank Nathan before he releases me and descends the stairs to get my suitcase.Just like my parents’ house, Nathan hasn’t changed much over the years: same thick, wavy hair the colour of my dad’s prized oak desk.Same tall, broad frame and tanned skin.Same ability to send my stomach into turmoil and make my knees weak whenever he’s near, even though I’ve sworn to myself a million times that I locked away my feelings for him when I left Honeywell.
“I’ll take your bags upstairs and leave them outside your room,” he says gruffly.“You go be with your mom.”He keeps his back to me as he speaks.Considering it should only take a second to pick up my suitcase, I get the impression he’s hoping I’ll leave so he doesn’t have to look at me again.
I barely register that I’ve said his name until he glances over his shoulder.Every time I see Nathan, it stirs up a tornado of emotions inside my heart and mind.Right now, countless memories are getting swept up in the storm: random, seemingly meaningless moments from childhood, like the time he dressed up as Chewbacca and spent Halloween night camped out on the couch with me because I was too sick to go trick-or-treating in the Princess Leia costume Mum made.Our first kiss.The first time he told me he loved me.The first fake smile he ever gave me—the one that didn’t quite mask his pain the day I left on my solo trip across Canada.The self-loathing and regret on his face when we woke up naked and hungover last December after we were snowed in together at a hotel in Toronto.The obvious adoration and respect painted across his handsome face every time he looked at my dad.The quiet way he spoke to Mum just a few moments ago.
It takes everything in me not to throw myself at him.I’d give anything to step into the warm circle of his arms and inhale his familiar cedarwood scent with an underlying hint of peppermint.When my dad quit smoking in the late ’90s, he constantly sucked on mints or chewed gum.He was always happy to share with Nathan, Liam, and me, but while Liam and I got tired of the taste of mint after a few months, Nathan never did.
“What is it, Fiona?”The words aren’t unkind, just weary.For the first time, I notice the new lines around Nathan’s eyes, and the faint dark circles under them.
“Thank you for being here,” I say.“For them,” I add quickly, lest he think I would ever believe it wasmehe was here for.
Nathan’s gaze drops to the ground.My eyes follow, and I see he’s not wearing shoes.First Mum with her bare feet and now Nathan in only black socks.How is it possible for these small things to make the world feel even more topsy-turvy?
“It’s not a problem,” he says.“I love your parents, you know that.I’ve done what I could to make things easier.Tried to be here as much as possible.”He raises his head again, and the naked accusation in his eyes almost makes me stagger back.
“My dad told me to stay in Europe.Youknowthat.You heard him say it on multiple occasions.”My tone is as defensive as his gaze is accusatory.“My parents promised they’d tell me when it was time to come home.Dad said there was nothing I could do for him, and he didn’t want me to…he didn’t want…” My voice wavers, so I snap my mouth shut.
A flicker of remorse passes over his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.“Mm.Still.”He shrugs one shoulder.The flippant gesture makes my blood pressure spike.Nathan never understood my desire to travel.Never got over the fact I left Honeywell—and him—behind to pursue my dreams.The dreams my dad encouraged from the time I was a little girl.
I gear up to defend myself or tell him off, but the words die on my lips.There’s no use.Nathan made up his mind about me a long time ago.Anything I say now will be considered excuses to him, so there’s no point wasting my breath.“You know what?Forget it.I don’t owe you any explanations.”
Nathan lets out a humourless laugh.He climbs the porch steps two at a time and comes to an abrupt halt in front of me.He’s so close, I can smell his cedarwood and peppermint scent, and I curse my traitorous body for its reaction: pure longing.
“You’re right, Fiona.You don’t owe me a damn thing.”
I stand there, speechless, as he disappears inside.
CHAPTER FOUR ~ NATHAN
That persistent, gnawing ache is back in my gut as I climb the stairs with Fiona’s bags.An unnamable tension has been building inside me for months as Murph’s health declined and it became apparent the end was likely closer than any of us wanted to believe.Unnamablebecause it shifts and morphs constantly.It’s anger and bitterness, love and gratitude, sadness and foreboding, and so many other things all wrapped into an ugly, heavy weight that settled over me like a leaden cloak.
The sensations are familiar in a way; I remember a similar heaviness nine years ago when my mom died.That makes it easier to convince myself it’s simply grief.There’s nothingsimpleabout grief, but at least it’s something I can name.Liam has always said I prefer things that are easy to identify and label, and leave little room for ambiguity.
I avoid looking directly at Fiona’s bags as I set them outside her closed bedroom door.Thinking about our interaction just now brings up another emotion, one that’s annoyingly easy to identify: guilt.There’s a mess of other stuff mixed in there too, but guilt takes the forefront.I should have been nicer to her.Should have held my tongue.I can imagine the look Murph would give me if he’d heard our brief interaction, and it makes the gnawing in my stomach intensify.Not disappointment, not exactly.More like fatherly disapproval with a sense of understanding and love mixed in.Always love.
I knew Fiona was coming, but actually laying eyes on her was a gut punch, the way it always is.Seeing her stirred up a fresh wave of resentment.While most of that resentment is directed at her, part of it is reserved for the little voice in my head that says I’m relieved she’s home.That voice refuses to be dismissed, no matter how many times I tell it that any relief I feel at Fiona’s presence is for Mae’s sake.
Real voices from downstairs signal that more visitors have arrived.People mean well and they want to help Mae, but the constant stream of visitors, along with the phone calls and deliveries, are making her even more scattered.Over the last three days, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve found her standing in a room, staring blankly at the wall or sitting at the kitchen table staring into her tea as it grew cold.
This morning, I found her in the kitchen clutching the receiver of the landline in one hand while the fingers of her other hand were wound in the cord so tightly it had cut off her circulation.When I gently took the phone and untangled her, there was only a dial tone.I never did find out who she’d been talking to, or if she’d picked up the phone intending to call someone and then spaced out.
Liam is at the bottom of the stairs when I come down.He has the same vacant look Mae has had for days as he gazes at the chairlift.He meets my eyes, and the slight twist of amusement on his lips makes me wonder if he’s picturing the same thing I am: Murph on the day we installed the lift.We were worried he’d be embarrassed about needing it, but he had plopped himself down like a king on his throne, giving us his best royal wave and cheeky smile combo the whole way up the stairs.
In an act of lifelong best friend telepathy, Liam picks up my thoughts where I left off.“That was Murph.Always making the best of things.”
“He told me once that he knew it wasn’t possible to leave us with only good memories, but he’d try his hardest.”
Over the last few weeks, as Murph grew weaker, Liam and I made sure we were available around the clock.Murph wanted to hire someone to help with what he jokingly called the ‘heavy lifting’—things like bathing him and getting him in and out of bed.A personal support worker came every morning, but Liam and I offered to take turns coming each evening to help him get settled for the night.
Liam swallows audibly.“We…we made a difference, didn’t we?For him?For both of them?”
The gnawing in my stomach turns into a painful squeezing.I’m not ashamed of the tears I’ve cried over the last few days, but I don’t want to cry right now.As much as I try to deny it, seeing Fiona has heightened all my emotions, and I’m afraid if I open the floodgates, I’ll be welcoming in one hell of a breakdown.I cross my arms tightly over my chest, hoping it’ll help to hold everything in.
“Absolutely,” I say.“Murph was always proud of us, no matter what, but I know for a fact he was proud of how we handled these last few months.How we did all we could for him, and took care of Mae.And we’ll keep doing that.”
“Yeah.Yeah, we will.”Liam crosses his arms, mirroring my posture.I wonder if he’s trying to physically hold himself together too.He sways slightly, and it hits me how exhausted he looks.Neither of us has been sleeping much lately, and Liam had the added task of trekking all the way to Toronto and back today.
