“Good. Is it safe to drive there? I’ve heard the roads can be very icy in Canada. Did you get winter tires? I read that you need special tires there.”
“I think that’s only in the winter. It’s almost eighty degrees today.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that.” Her words come out short, their undercurrent hinting at the strain I’ve always been on her. Well, the feeling is mutual, Mom.
She sighs heavily. “This is very hard for me, you know. You just pick up and move to a foreign country. What if it’s not safe for a single woman there?”
“It’s Canada, Mom, not a war zone in the Middle East. A tiny little village with less than three thousand people too polite to rob you. Besides, I ran a check on the Internet, and South Haven has been certified to be completely free from gangs and thugs.” I’m not proud of how sarcastic I sound, but somehow, I can’t seem to stop myself.
“Ha ha.” She adds extra emphasis to each ‘ha’ as proof of my lack of wit.
“Sorry. It really is lovely here though. The sky goes on forever, and the rest is just a lot of trees and fields.” I hope my false bravado is convincing because I refuse to let her know I’m locked in a relentless battle against my urge to make a U-turn and go back to New York. “Every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of the ocean. It’s really lovely.” Damn, I said that already.
“You already said that.”
I suppose I can’t blame her for not being enthusiastic. She was hoping I’d move home, and instead, I’ve added thousands of miles to the distance between us.
“It was a smart move, Mom. You know there’s no way I could afford a place anywhere near Portland. Here, I already own my house outright, and I have enough money left over to write for the next year or so without worrying about how I’ll pay for groceries.” And I can be alone.
“Well, you wouldn’t have to—” She stops herself from finishing, but I know the end of the sentence. You wouldn’t have to pay for food if you came home.
Trying to control the edge in my voice, I say, “I need to stand on my own two feet for once.”
“You need to be with the people who love you most in this world.”
I sigh loudly in lieu of an answer, knowing any attempt at trying to make her understand will fall on deaf ears.
Neither of us speaks for a full thirty seconds, which is an eternity in a conversation. As much as I want to hang up, I know I can’t just yet. We’ve both grown accustomed to the tight wire that holds us together and the way it threatens to snap at any given moment. A small token of peace must be offered so we’ll have an inroad the next time we speak. “How is everybody there?”
“Fine. Same as usual. We’re going to Medford on Saturday. Kaitlyn has a gymnastics competition, so that should be nice.”
“Oh, great. You’ll enjoy that.”
“Yes, I will. She’s so talented, and she works very hard. It’s really something to see.” Meaning that it’s really something I should see.
“Good for her. Well, wish her good luck from Aunt Abby.”
“I will.”
“And hello to everyone.”
She swallows before she speaks again, and I know it was a lecture about staying in touch with my family that she’s just ingested. Switching gears, she goes from guilt to my other favorite, doubt. “I just can’t believe you bought a house sight unseen. What if it’s a scam? Or it’s completely run down and it costs a fortune to fix?”
“It’s fine, Mom. Seriously. I’m not an idiot.” Probably.
“I’ve never once thought you were an idiot. Stubborn, yes. Stupid, no.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“What if it’s overrun with rodents? Or cockroaches?”
“It’s not—can you just give me some credit, please?” I grip the wheel harder than necessary, then remind myself that when this conversation ends, it’ll be weeks before I’ll be reproached for whatever my next horribly disappointing decision might be.
“Well, it’s hard for me to understand how you can sound so sure if you haven’t seen it for yourself.”
“Yet, I am.” Or at least I was until she got on the phone.
“Abby—”
“I should go. I don’t know how much this call is costing me.”
“Fine.”
Silence fills the line again, and it is so much louder than any of our words have been. Countless arguments that will remain unheard. In her mind, I haven’t done even one thing right since the day I met Isaac. She’ll never understand me, and I’ll never bend to her will and become the daughter she wishes she had. Nothing will ever change, and we both know it.
“Drive safely, Abby. I love you.” Her voice cracks and I suddenly wish for the uncomplicated, easy love we shared when I was a child. I can see her smiling down at me and feel my hand wrapped in hers as we walk home from the playground.
She clears her throat, and when she speaks again, her voice breaks the spell. “Call me when you find the time.”
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?”
He springs out of his kennel onto the floor, then looks up at me with a glare that says, ‘no way in hell.’
“Spoiled city cat,” I say, finally forcing myself to open the car door and step out. I stand and stretch, feeling the relief of a few pops in my spine, then look back at him. “Come on, Mr. Whitman. Don’t make me do this alone.”
He’s crouched motionless on the rubber mat, his ears sideways and his eyes wide.
“Isaac should have gotten me a dog.”
He doesn’t budge.
“Fine. Be that way. I’m going.”
Here we go. This is home, whether I like it or not. Oh, I am so not going to like this.
I walk gingerly up the sidewalk, keeping my eyes peeled for rats or spiders or spider-rats. A gust of wind ripples through the tall grass and causes a bright yellow army of dandelions to nod their heads at me. I flinch in response, waiting for something nefarious to jump out at me, but nothing happens. If Isaac were here, he’d walk ahead while we laughed about my imaginary enemies, and it would all seem amusing rather than sinister. A flash of anger passes through me, as it sometimes does. How dare he die on me? We were supposed to do this together.
Guilt is next.
Then nothing.
Walking around to the backyard, I’m relieved to find the property is surrounded almost entirely by tall, full pines and aspens that part in the south to give a clear view of the water. At least that’s the same as the pictures. Now that I’m back here, I feel slightly less positive that this was the worst idea anyone has ever had. I can picture myself sitting at a small wrought-iron table with a mug of tea and my journal, listening to the waves lap against the shore. If Walt the Wimp ever gets out of the car, he may even enjoy hopping through the grass to hunt bugs.
It’s not his fault he’s scared. He’s never been outdoors in his entire life. Not free, anyway. Isaac brought him home a few days after he found out he was sick. Walt was ten weeks old at the time. Since then, he’s lived exclusively in the five rooms that made up our apartment, only to go outside in his cage to the vet a couple of times. But here, he can be free. And maybe so can I.
I make my way over to the large glass greenhouse. Several of the panes are smashed, but the white frame seems sturdy enough when I push on it. An old wooden shed is tucked in the back corner of the lot. According to Eunice, it has every gardening tool needed to get this place back into shape, not that I know what to do with them.
As I wind my way around to the front yard, I expect to find Walt waiting in the car. My muscles tense up at the sight of an older woman standing by the U-Haul holding my cat.
“Hello, you must be Abigail Carson.” Rather than having a Maritime accent, she sounds Irish.
The New Yorker in me is immediately suspicious of a stranger calling me by name. “Yes, I am.” I hurry to take Walt from her.
“I live next door. Nettie O’Rourke. Well, Annette, actually, but everyone calls me Nettie. This lovely boy must be yours.” She smiles and instantly her face looks younger by a decade. Her gray hair is swept up in a messy bun, and from the looks of her clothes, she’s been out
gardening for some time. Maybe years.
“His name is Walt.”
“I hope you don’t mind me picking him up. He was meowing so loudly that I came by to see what was going on.”
“No, it’s fine.” It is so not fine.
“Eunice told me you’d be arriving today. Welcome to South Haven.” Nettie reaches out and touches my arm.
“Thank you,” I say tightly, pulling my arm back as an indicator that I’m not here to make friends.
Seeming not to notice my attempt at being standoffish, she continues to smile at me. “It’ll be grand to have a nice new neighbor around.”
Might as well set the boundaries right off the bat. “Well, I’m not that nice.”
Instead of scurrying away like I hoped, Nettie laughs. “You’ve got that fast New York wit about you. How fun!”
“Listen, Nettie, I think it’s important for me to be clear. I’m more of a cat person than a people person,” I say firmly.
“Don’t worry, we’ll change that,” she answers with a wink.
I’m just about to tell her not to bother when she snaps her fingers. “Oh! I almost forgot. Eunice gave me the keys so you won’t have to wait for her. A retired couple from the city came to town today to look at a few houses.” She digs around in the front pocket of her jeans and produces my house keys.
I take them from her and stare at the dull metal in my palm. “This is not how we do real estate transactions in Manhattan.”
“I imagine not,” Nettie says with a chuckle. “Eunice said to tell you she’ll be by around four o’clock to check on you and bring you the paperwork.”
“Okay, great. Thanks.” I close my fingers around the keys and my heart thumps in response. I’m about to unlock the door to my first house.
“I’ll let you get to it then. It’s wonderful to meet you, Abigail.” She pats Walt on the head and immediately his motor starts up with a purr.
Traitor.
She turns to leave, then stops. “Come by anytime to get the key to your room and have a bite of supper. And let us know if you’ll need any help bringing your luggage over.”
The After Wife Page 3