Away From Everywhere (36 page)

Owen nodded, wanting to say something, but stuck with their pact of silence. He reached an arm out, but drew it back. Where would he lay a hand on a perfect stranger?What would his touch really change?

“Andrew lifted me up and out of my dreary life, and when he died I was slammed back into it, and…just cannot readjust. I don't even want to. Every day I drive myself crazy wondering: What if I never made bags and scarves? What if I never left that gate opened? What if Jocelyn hadn't called? What if I never worked where I work, and had never met Jocelyn, or the girl I was making the scarf for?What if I never used chemical dyes in my studio?Why did he swallow all those crystals? How much did it hurt, did it burn like fire in his belly?Where is he now? Is he thinking of me? Can I really live without him? Is there even a one percent chance that heaven is real and we'll meet again, so that I can say I'm sorry and see his beautiful face one more time, his cute buck teeth and freckly face? If I tried to make him throw it all up before I rushed off to the hospital, would his body still have absorbed the dye and made his blood toxic? Jesus, Owen, he was so beautiful, so innocent. And I killed him! I …killed him.”

It was the most guttural, heart-stomping crying he'd ever witnessed.

“If only some of this left me every time I cry! If only these tears shed something, cleansed me. Instead, they just remind me, make a mess of me, and I'm afraid, and I don't know why. I'm afraid I can't go on without him, and afraid I'll forget all the little things if I do. He wore glasses, Owen, and hated them. He was always pushing and pulling at them. How long until I forget all the little things?”

Owen hopped into his new truck to head over to Clarenville. He could've gone another few days without some substantial groceries, but he really needed a bottle of Drano for the kitchen sink.

As he drove past the B&B Emily had pointed to and claimed she was sleeping in, he saw a huge black sign placed in front of it. Its oversized yellow words declared
CLOSEDUNTIL JUNE.
All in capital letters, and it was January twenty-eighth. There was no way Emily was staying there, unless she knew the owners, or they had made an exception for her. Maybe they needed some extra cash, and Emily seemed the type who could be pretty convincing.

Or maybe she lied. He never wondered why, because he knew people like her – and him – had their reasons for lying. Maybe she made up the story about not being allowed back in after midnight so that Owen would invite her back to his place, so that she wouldn't have to be alone. Maybe she just valued her privacy and didn't want him knowing where to find her. Invisibility was half the reason they'd both come to Port Blandford.

WITH ALL THE JEALOUSY OF A FLIGHTLESS BIRD

AS OWEN WAS PULLING BACK into Port Blandford, he saw Clyde running frantically towards his truck, bootlaces untied, flailing his arms. He pulled over, ready for some bad news.

Catching his breath.“Just wanted to warn you, there's some weather coming. Twenty to thirty centimeters of snow, and some pretty high winds, then she's gonna turn into freezing rain.”He peered into Owen's truck. “Looks like you got some groceries, you're good there. Got yourself a flashlight? I got an extra one if you needs 'er.”

Laughing. “Okay, thanks for the heads-up, Clyde. I got some food and candles. I'll survive it all, I'm sure.”

Clyde, nodding and smiling, possibly drunk. “It's not like in the city here, kid. If the power goes, she's liable to be gone for a while. And it could be a while before the roads get cleared off.”

He peered into Owen's grocery bags and screwed up his face.

“So, I had a good time the other night. Maybe you'll want another pool lesson next week?”

“I'll schedule it in.”

“Okay, well, I won't keep ya.” He patted the truck as if it were an old pet. “You look good in that truck, boss.”

Owen beeped the horn as he pulled way. He liked Clyde, but he was fascinated by Emily, and wanted to see her again. To be around her, and feel that radiant comfort she exuded so effortlessly. She made him feel something he couldn't feel without her. Part of him suspected that Emily wouldn't come around to visit if Clyde was around. She was shy like that, and would only want to be around Owen, someone who could understand her. So he was avoiding Clyde in hopes she'd come back that day, and he felt bad for avoiding the poor old man.

By 11 p.m. there was a full-on Newfoundland blizzard outside. Blowing snow hung like white blankets outside all of his windows: the town disappeared. Not even the lights of a neighbour's house were visible. In the darkness of his living room, the sounds of the storm were amplified rather than muffled. A vicious wind repeatedly threw itself at the house, trying to break in. Wet snow beat off the windows, maliciously, as if it were trying to smash the glass and get inside.

He sat to write a note, a letter to Callie and Lucia. He would give it to his Aunt Lillian for safekeeping. His idea was that she could give it to them when they started university, or graduated high school, or turned eighteen, or at some life-defining moment that indicated a stumbling into adulthood. They would be ready to understand what had happened between him and their mother then. The story needed to be told, and their mother needed to be absolved, and he would work on that note until they couldn't blame her for it. But he kept losing focus. There was a splash of red wine on the bottom left-hand corner of the page.

As he lapped up the wine with a paper towel he took out of a trash can under his desk, he heard a hurried, urgent knock on the back door.
Clyde?

It was Emily. He felt his cheeks rise, felt the dumb smile there on his face.

“So, the storm made me feel like curling up next to a fireplace with some tea and chatting, but the thing is, the place I'm staying in doesn't have a fireplace, and I have no one to chat with. Do you mind if I invite myself in?”

She smiled, eased her way into his porch, and twirled her scarf off her neck. It was a red scarf, blood red. She took off her black peacoat and stuffed the scarf down into it.

“Where
are
you staying, Emily? I drove past that B&B you pointed to the other night, and the sign said the place is closed until June.”

“Does it really matter where I'm staying, Sherlock?”The way she said it made her declaration seem true. It was sharp enough that it stated:
Back off. Are you stalking me? Drop it.

“Fair enough. I thought you'd gone back to Corner Brook is all.”

“Gone back? I can't go back now. I'm sick of everyone tiptoeing around me. I'm sick of getting away with being late for work, or not coming in at all. I get the same goddamn looks from everyone. They smile at me, a smile of condolence, but they can't even look at me, so they stare down at their feet as they pass by me. No words are shared, ever, and I feel deaf and mute. It's just as well I was. I'm sick of being poor old Emily. I was invisible before Andrew died. I liked being faceless in a crowd, but now I'm
that poor woman with the dead kid
, or at least I used to be, now I'm
that women with the dead kid who is drinking too much. The poor soul.
Their careful words, nervous glances, and obligate condolences make me feel like a ghost. Besides, there are too many happy mothers running around that town, and I cannot help but look at them with all the jealousy of a flightless bird. I see a mother scold a child too harshly, or get impatient at their never-ending curiosity, and shake my head at their not realizing what they have, how lucky they are, what they are taking for granted.”

Realizing she'd trailed off, she reiterated her point,“There's nothing left for me back in Corner Brook. I'm not going back to that. Why would I?”

“Well, okay, I was just–”

“Nobody knew me before Andrew died. Now I have celebrity status. It's odd how a tragedy makes the invisible more apparent, don't you think? You could argue that compassion unites us, or you could argue that tragedy turns us on. Look at the headlines on all those magazines next time you're in a lineup at a grocery store. They're all about who is getting divorced, who is in rehab, or slitting their weak wrists, you know? It's never good news.”

She shook the snow out of her hair, then dried her hair in the sleeve of her black cardigan. Owen lit the fireplace and put Eric Bachmann's
To The Races
in the CD player. She explored the living room, took in the family photos he was living amongst.

“You know, you kind of look like your father, or, at least in ten more years you will. Same eyes, like you trust nothing!” She laughed a little, like,
I'm kidding but I'm serious.

“It's sad the way you lost him, Owen, but at least you can still love him. I don't even have that, if it makes you feel any better.”

Owen said nothing: she was more or less talking to herself, perhaps nervously rambling, since they didn't really know each other well enough for her to show up like this, unannounced at that. She walked over to the bookshelf and ran her fingers along the spines of each book, each a porthole into a different world. Her finger lingered on some titles longer than others as she read them.

She sat and joined him on the couch as he opened a bottle of wine.“What's it like,Owen, living amongst all these photos and your father's affairs? I ask because I know I found it unbearable living in my apartment after Andrew died. I could've boarded up his room, but there were reminders of him all over the place, like the pencil marks on the porch door where we measured his height every birthday, or like the stain on the living room carpet where he laid a red popsicle he didn't want while he watched
Scooby-Doo
, or like the pictures of him I couldn't take down, because they made me feel less alone. I could've gutted out his room, or moved, for that matter, but I knew I would always still picture that room in my head, you know? Me laying him in his crib and flicking on the baby monitor, or us baking cookies together and him dusted white with all the flour. He loved helping me with things, it made him feel more grown up. I wonder why that is? Why do kids reach three or four and have a sudden desire to be grown-ups? It's ironic that parents and children want to swap lives, don't you think?”

Owen nodded.

“So, I can imagine it's both nice but heart-wrenching to live amongst all this stuff, Owen? The photos of your mother, Alex's time capsule, all of your dad's belongings–”

The power flickered, almost violently, and each time, the room went blue as the lights dimmed, then orange as they flared back on. The way the lights flickered made it clear that the power was just about to go out, not that it might, as if the power lines were clairvoyant or the weather was kind enough to warn people things were about to go black.

And then they did. The fire flickered on, but the room felt colder and less inviting under that darkness. The sudden silence was jarring, unwelcomed. The music had created a warm atmosphere; their words sank into it and their emotions revolved around it. Both Owen and Emily looked at the silent, powerless stereo. There was only a faint crackle from the fire now, each other's faces barely visible, and oranged by the fire.

“We could go out in my truck and chat, maybe take a few CDs out with us and flick the dome light on. I've got some Mark Kozelek. I think you'll like him, and The Great Lake Swimmers.”

She smiled, no words of confirmation, and bundled herself up in her scarf. She jammed on her boots, mittens, and jacket.

Clapping her mitted hands. “C'mon then.”

If he hadn't remembered where the truck was parked, he might not have found it. It was like pushing his way through endless white curtains, and if Emily hadn't been walking right in his footsteps, she might've lost him. The wind burned. Stung. Snow pelted at his eyes so he kept them mostly shut.

He waited for her to reach out a hand, onto his shoulder maybe, so that he could guide her. He would've liked that.