by Carol Mason
‘Why are you reading the Eastbourne Herald?’
I was sitting at the computer in the spare bedroom we’d turned into my office. I hadn’t heard him come in and practically jumped out of my skin. ‘For God’s sake, stop sneaking up on me!’ I said, and quickly clicked off the page.
But he knew why.
‘Liv . . .’ He clamped a big warm hand on my shoulder, squeezed.
There are times when I can still feel the imprint of Mark’s fingers, the steadying reassurance, the low register of his despair. I can feel it right now as it happens. I actually believe I could reach up and touch the back of his hand.
The English newspaper is saved to my Favourites. In some ways I know more about a place I’ve never been to than the one where I’ve lived for most of my adult life. I do this by force of habit now, I think, which makes it feel harmless. But somewhere in the frontal lobe something tells me it should probably stop. Today would be a good day to make this the last time.
I usually need wine when I do this, so I make sure there’s a decent glass at hand – not quite full, a shy seven ounces – then I click on the page. Up comes the red banner, the word Herald in big red letters. I go to News, scroll down, idly scanning the headings and subheads. Winning sculpture pays tribute to pier fire. There’s an old photo of the famous Victorian pier with its blue and white dome engulfed in flames and black smoke. Family thanks funeral cortège for 11-year-old Eastbourne boy. A picture of a policeman on a motorbike leading a procession past terraced houses with multiple dustbins lined up like soldiers in postage-stamp-sized front gardens. I scroll through a few more pages, only half concentrating, not even sure what I’m doing, the heavy hand of tiredness creeping up on me.
I’m almost ready to log off when I see it.
For a split second my response mechanism shuts down. My eyes distrust what I’m seeing. It’s too unlikely. Seriously – what are the chances? But the more I stare, the more my heart rages with adrenaline.
It’s a photograph, probably snapped during an outing to the beach. To anyone else it’s just a man in his thirties with a little girl with loose blonde ringlets, and a boy a couple of years older. The man has his arm around both children, the little girl tucking into his side. She looks cross, as she often can, but the boy is beaming the cheekiest of smiles and clutching an ice cream – he’s got chocolate smeared all over his chin. His eyes are very much his mother’s: strikingly dark brown against the fair hair, but the rest of him is every bit his dad.
I would know this man’s face if we happened to find ourselves on the same Tube in central London, or if I stepped outside right now, on the other side of the Atlantic, and he were passing my gate. The strong smile lines, the slightly hollow cheeks. Something of a bygone era about him, like a young Frank Sinatra minus the twinkling blue eyes. You’d say he was handsome, in a spare, ‘grew into his looks later in life’ way. Staring at him is a chilling thing. He is holding my gaze the way photos do when you invite them to reach back at you. I am jailed by it. I can’t break away, and nor, it seems, can he. I’m sure that if you put us in a room we would have a great deal to say to one another, or perhaps we would have nothing at all. It would be a test I would never want to face.
The headline says: Doctor Admits ‘I Made a Terrible Mistake’.
I try to decide if those words can mean something else. The eyes are still looking at me as though it’s important he monitors my reaction to this. My urge to read on is as strong as my dread. I pretty much take the first paragraph in one gulp then caution myself to resist skimming to get to the end in case I miss something crucial. By the time I finish, I have to remind myself to breathe. A lump the size of a small planet is lodged in my throat. I swallow but it won’t budge. My muscles from my breastbone up have seized.
TWO
Nanette, my pint-sized landlady from the Philippines, is standing at my door peering at me through funky wire-rimmed glasses. ‘Everything OK, Olibia?’
I try not to make it too obvious she just woke me up; I actually thought the knocking was in my dream. ‘Everything’s fine, thanks.’ I plaster down bits of my hair with the flat of my hand. It’s still raining. I’m guessing I’ve been zonked out for a couple of hours by the damp cotton-wool feeling in my head.
‘You not well today, Olibia?’ She searches my face, looking more concerned than she ought to be about a virtual stranger, which is unexpected and touching.
‘No, no . . . I’m fine. But I put my foot through the deck last night. Look at my leg.’ I hike up my Lululemons so she can see the network of scratches on my calf, the streaks of dried blood. ‘There’s so much raccoon dirt under there, too! It’s a toilet. I almost needed stitches and a tetanus shot.’
‘Oh no!’ She slaps a hand over her mouth. ‘Poor leg! I so sorry! So sorry ’bout this, Olibia!’
I suddenly feel bad for exaggerating. ‘It’s all right. Not to worry, I bathed it and it’s totally fine.’ I wave her inside and proceed through to the back of the house, hearing the short shuffle of her feet following. When I answered her ‘house to rent’ ad two months ago she told me she’s lived in the US for twenty years and has worked at the local library for most of them. ‘Do you go to the library where you live?’ she asked. ‘Because I can pull string, get you temporary member card.’ When I told her I did, she said, ‘So where do you live, Olibia? Tell me, what bring you here to Port Townsend?’ Clearly, I’d walked right into that one.
We step outside, stare at the hole. ‘The wood’s all rotted,’ I say. She leans in for a closer look. Large drops of rain pockmark the white cotton of her shirt. I’ve noticed she’s always in black trousers but wears them far too high up on her waist, giving her a ‘long ass’, as Jessica would say, and exposing a couple of inches of ankle at the other end; it makes me want to adjust them into their proper place. ‘It’s really disappointing. I’d been hoping I could sit out here in better weather.’ I wave her back into the house, worried she’s going to get soaked. I’m a big believer in perspective, so I’m trying to keep some, but I’m all for disclosure too; she should have told me the thing was falling apart.
‘Ah, yes!’ she says and shakes her head, meaning, Well, that’s not going to happen, is it!
‘You know, I really like it here . . .’ I look up at the tall cedars rinsed with rain. The garden is a little private cocoon. I can hear the neighbours on both sides but can’t see them. No need to make awkward small talk or have to look like a normal, together human being when I am feeling anything but.
‘Your husband . . . Mr Chapman . . .’ She utters his name like he’s a state secret. ‘Maybe he fix?’ There’s a flare of mischief in her eyes. I try to look away smoothly without appearing cowed by her curiosity.
I realise I’m a bit of an enigma. In small towns like this you can’t be aloof without being a nut somebody needs to crack. I’m new, in my early forties, and while I wear a wedding ring, I don’t have a man in tow. I’m definitely a city type because I dress well; it’s a failing. Much as I always wish I could look on trend casual, I never feel I’m quite pulling off the look, so I end up resorting to smarter clothes – jeans paired with a three-quarter-sleeved black jacket, say – that might make me look more uptight than I really am. I’m certainly more British than I am American, meaning, while I’m polite and not unfriendly, I don’t give much away. I neither welcome, nor over-answer, questions, nor do I bond easily; I need to trust someone a great deal before I’m ever going to put my heart on my sleeve or air my dirty laundry. All my life I’ve been one to push against the idea of having to give an account of myself – even back when I had nothing much to hide – and it’s anathema to me now.
‘A handyman could probably take care of this quite easily,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just nailing together a few planks of wood. Even I could probably do it.’
She is shaking her head. ‘Deck is rotted. Handyman fix now. Problem come back later.’
She has a point. No sense in throwing good money after bad, as my
mother would say. I place a hand on my hip and stare out at the garden, aware of her scrutinising me like I’m visiting royalty. ‘Rent very cheap!’ she chirps.
‘Yes, I know. But to be honest I’m not sure I can stay if I can’t use the outdoor space.’ I meet her fully in the eyes now. ‘I’m not trying to be awkward. I’m really not. But I’m used to sitting out in a garden.’ It sounds way more lady of leisure than I intended. I wonder what she’d think if she knew I’m used to a house three times this size, and that I’m already feeling claustrophobic and it’s got nothing to do with the size of the property. That’s why I need to be able to sit outside – I just need somewhere to go when I can’t breathe. ‘I suppose I just didn’t expect the deck was going to be unusable, that’s all,’ I add, trying to sound less aggrieved by first-world disappointment.
‘I can’t build new deck,’ she says, firmly. No hint of chummy agreeability now. ‘Too much bills. Too much debt since my husband die.’
She told me it was sudden, that she’d had to move in with her daughter to rent this out for extra income. I felt sorry for her, and intrigued – she seemed more angry at her husband than anything else. Though I didn’t want to show I was intrigued in case it gave her license to reciprocate.
‘Well, we’ve reached a bit of a stalemate,’ I say, affecting good-natured resignation to compensate for sounding so stuck-up. I really could leave as I’m travelling light and I’ve spotted plenty of other to-let properties as I’ve moseyed around town. But I really don’t want to mess her around. Plus, I’m here now. It’s furnished adequately – not modern, but cosy and cared-for. I adore the little view of the sea, and how the deer will actually come and graze in the garden while you’re right there. A whole family visited just a few days back when I was sitting on the step; I felt like I had companions. And Nanette was very kind in trusting me when I told her that even though I had no references I could most certainly pay my rent – which she seemed to accept by scrutinising me up and down. So, really, the moral of the story is, if you want to earn a living as a confidence trickster, just invest in a pair of smart jeans and a nice handbag from Nordstrom Rack. A British accent might help too; everyone trusts people from countries where there’s a reigning monarchy. Plus the good thing is she’s letting me pay month to month; I’m not bound by a one-year lease. Freedom for me right now is everything.
‘The rent, I lower it,’ she says, holding my eyes in bright desperation. A sweat has broken out on her brow, pooling in the folds of her wrinkles.
‘No. I definitely couldn’t let you do that. The rent’s already very reasonable. That wouldn’t be fair at all.’
‘No?’ She seems stunned.
‘Of course not!’ I’m hardly going to rip off somebody who’s got nothing, if I’m going to rip off anyone at all. ‘I’ll go on paying what we agreed. If I decide to stay, I mean.’
She unleashes a smile. ‘You good person, Olibia Chapman! Good person!’ Her flattery makes me blush, despite the fact that the way she says O-lib-ia sounds like she’s calling me a female private part.
‘How about if I see if I can find someone to take a look at it?’ The idea just comes to me. ‘I’ve got some time on my hands.’ I don’t say that I could use the distraction, that the days are cruelly long and as each new one starts I have to talk myself down from the fear of wondering how I’m going to possibly fill it. ‘If it’s not ridiculously expensive I can maybe pay for the labour if you can cover the cost of the wood?’ I have no idea where I’m getting this from. It’s more than a little mad. But the area is pretty small: I can’t imagine it’s going to cost an arm and a leg. I’ll get my use out of it, even if I only stay here for this summer. And, besides, Mark can afford it.
‘Oooh!’ She claps, and jumps up and down like a kid on a bouncy castle. The innocence of it makes me smile. ‘You so kind! So kind! This is very nice offer! Very nice offer, O-lib-ia!’
‘Not really.’ I’m sure my cheeks are turning puce now. ‘It’s purely selfish. I just want to be able to enjoy the garden, that’s all.’
‘No!’ She wags a finger. ‘Selfish is bad person. You’ – she reaches up and gives me a keen poke in the shoulder – ‘are good person!’
After dinner – baked beans on toast from the can I opened a few nights ago – I contemplate another walk to deter me from pouring a second glass of wine that might easily become a third. But I don’t really have it in me to traipse the roads again, on one more date with my own headspace. I don’t feel like watching TV either, as I have a hard time concentrating, so I think, Hang it! Just have another glass and get over yourself! So I do. And then I open up my laptop. As I stare at my Favourites bar I think maybe if I click on it the article won’t be there. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve imagined something. Part of me is looking forward to being proven right. But no. When I click on the article there it is – the photo, the faces, as real as day. I stare at him again. He’s one of those people who could be thirty-five or forty-five, you can’t quite tell. Something to do with the strong lines like parentheses either side of his mouth – they fool you into thinking his skin is older. The tips of his fingers peep just above his daughter’s left shoulder. I’ve got an almost identical one of Mark doing that with Jessica when she was about the same age. But it’s the sharp, soulful eyes I keep coming back to. Once again my own lock into his until they burn from lack of blinking. Before I re-read it I warn myself to affect an air of indifference. This could be anyone’s misfortune, anyone’s life. But it’s impossible. When I’m done I’m devastated all over again, so many thoughts spooling in my head I don’t know how to order them.
I’m not sure how long I sit here automatically refreshing the screen every time it goes dark, reviving his face. Finally I open up my email, click on ‘Create New Message’. I punch in the first few letters of Mark’s address then, when it auto-fills, copy and paste the link to the article. I try to think what to type in the subject line, and then it comes to me.
Consequences.
THREE
Port Townsend has changed so much since Mark and I used to come here almost two decades ago. I had no idea what I was expecting. I was driving north, in an unthinking void, subconsciously aware I’d have to find somewhere to base myself for a day or two until I could figure out my next steps, or I was going to end up in Alaska. I remembered how this place had always felt like a point of both destination and departure, which seemed somehow appropriate, though I’m not sure my decision was even that conscious – if I was clear-headed enough to think. I was on autopilot. In many ways I still am.
But when I was able to disconnect from my disconnect, and imagine myself as more of a tourist, I enjoyed discovering the town’s new visage. It sadly never amounted to the name it was given in the 1800s – City of Dreams – when it was predicted to be the largest, most prosperous harbour on the West Coast, but its eclecticism somehow makes up for that. The main drag is a hodgepodge of unique and charming little shops catering mainly to middle class vacationers and day-trippers who are drawn to its remote, unexpected, historical charm. There’s one that just sells premium olive oils and balsamic vinegars, and one next door that’s into spices, sugars and salt from the far corners of the world. There are a couple of thrift stores whose windows are bursting with everything from old record players to vintage designer fashion, and even a store dedicated to all things British with a nature/hunting theme. So many times I’ve thought, Oh I must text a picture of this to Jessica! but something stops my hand. But then I was poking around in a shop and came across a gorgeous vintage belt – chunky, embossed leather in peacock blue. I thought, Oh my! This has Jess written all over it! I could see her pairing it with her jeans and oversized white peasant blouse. So I bought it and parcelled it up in brown kraft paper tied with jute twine. I’ll hang on to it and give it to her as a little welcome home gift. Just the thought of her face when she sees it is already making me smile.
Then there is the café. What I like about Books and Beans is
its trendy dilapidation, how it practically sits on top of the water through a curious feat of engineering, and that it’s part coffee house, part used bookstore, which, being an English major who loves coffee, I think is quite ingenious. You can always grab a book and sit and read and no one hovers like a vulture for your table; people will happily sit on the old oak floor.
‘You’re not looking for work, are you?’ Beth, the owner, looks up from writing on a piece of letter paper at the counter. I glance behind me to see who she’s talking to, and she smirks. ‘You see, once in a while people do get the courage to speak to you.’
She’s always fresh with me and while it’s bizarre she can be so familiar when she doesn’t even know me it makes me feel human again. ‘Hmm . . . Do they?’ I pretend to frown. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘Oh, you’re English! I would never have guessed!’
Clearly she’s taking her witty vitamins. She knows full well I’m English. I watch her painstakingly draw a decorative flourish on the paper right above the words, The Correspondents’ Club. I wonder what that is.
From even the little time I’ve been here I could write a book on the people of this town and it wouldn’t be a very flattering one. In fact, if it got published I’d probably turn up dead in a lavender field. I am slowly gathering that Beth is the frosty one whose armour never comes off. I’m sure we have nothing in common on any possible level, but it hasn’t been helped by the fact that we got off on the wrong foot. Beth is a bit of a vegan tree-hugger, in her pocketless jeans, with her salt and pepper hair that’s always braided and secured by scrunchies, which I believe should be put in a landfill along with baseball caps. Now, while I have a daughter who has put us through many a ‘clean eating’ phase, I am also the offspring of a farmer, and I believe that certain animals, so long as they are humanely raised and humanely killed, are part of the food chain. I told Beth this when she lectured me on all the ways Earth Balance is superior to butter. It only began because I asked what fat she used in her morning glory muffins because they were a little oily, though I didn’t add that last part, but my face might have. It didn’t end well.