by Dee Willson
Meyer flashes me an as-if grin. His sandy-blond hair blows in the wind. His face, usually clean shaven, shows signs of his mad-dash to the office for some forgotten report that couldn’t wait until Monday. He’s in a rush, on an adrenaline high. Today is Abby’s birthday party, her fifth, and he’s late.
My stomach does somersaults. “Slow down, please . . .”
My voice fades into the distance, and the car seems to dissolve. Suddenly I’m cold and the view from the window has come to a complete halt.
“Lady, shut it and drive.” The voice is rough, male, not Meyer’s.
Heavy breathing pounds my right ear. My head is pinned against the headrest, and if I move, the knife against my throat will surely hurt me, so I look straight ahead, watching the rain hit pavement then pounce into the night air. My heart skips time with the idling of the engine. A lack of oxygen distorts the view.
“Drive,” he says.
I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out. I’m far from home, I think. My headlights are the only fragments of light, the only sign of life. I catch a glimpse of a rain-blackened sign through the half open window, and a fresh wave of panic overtakes me. Nothing good happens in a junkyard at this hour.
“You’re a pretty one,” he says.
Bitter air gnaws my skin. He’s opened my blouse to run his fingers along my collarbone, his touch like shards of ice. I grip the wheel, knuckles white. I can feel the knife cutting thin slices into my neck as the car tires fill potholes. My head pounds, stomach churns. Warmth drips down my chest, the smell of blood and sweat flaring my nostrils.
“Drive round back.” His eyes glow a turbulent shade of indigo, inhuman and wild.
When I stop he’s going to kill me. I know it to my core. Fear consumes me, and the car accelerates.
Claw-like fingers dig into my shoulder. “I’ll make this hurt,” he warns.
He will. This is how I die. This is how I always die.
Bile burns my throat, stomach muscles tense. Something tugs me from the inside, and I panic, the car picking up speed. “Please let me go.” My voice is shaky and wrong. “Let me go,” I yell, and the knife slices farther into my neck, the pain unreal. Blood oozes through my bra, spreading over my thighs, gathering on my lap.
His sneer glowers in the rearview mirror, a look I recognize with dread.
Fear consumes me, and I yank the wheel. The car veers to the right, stopping abruptly when I hammer the brake, and the front-end hits the guardrail with a vibrating crash that sounds of grating metal. A pop pierces my ears, the seatbelt rips into my chest, my eyes burn. I slump back into the seat and regard the white bag hanging from the steering wheel.
A wave of numbness blankets me, disconnecting senses, leaving my oblivious mind to tally injuries with little help. My arms and hands are grossly inflamed, several fingers out of shape. I no longer feel the knife on my neck, which is a relief until I see it in my chest. The white ivory handle is spotted with blood. It doesn’t hurt, I don’t feel anything. It points. I follow its aim, and there, outside the car, is Meyer, standing beside the twisted metal, watching me.
“Wake up.” His voice is quiet and calm, as if he’s sitting beside me and not standing in the rain.
Confused, I close my eyes. You left me is all I can think.
“Now!” his voice booms.
I spring upright, gasping for air. It takes a moment to digest my surroundings. The moon peeks through the blinds, the crumpled down comforter at my feet. I peer over the bed at the sheets and pillows abandoned on the floor. Tears have left sticky stains down my face and neck on their way to soak the collar of my pajamas. I lower my face into trembling hands.
What the hell is happening to me? I’ve had nightmares before, but lately they’ve been brutal. Meyer’s car accident makes sense. I can’t help but think I should’ve been there, stopped it from happening, held his hand while he died, but why can’t I have nice dreams with happy endings? Why are my nightmares filled with strange, murderous men? Should it have been me to die that day?
If I believed in fate . . .
A shiver runs through me. I gather my stuff from the floor and climb back into bed.
There is no such thing as fate.
Mind Games
Late October
Time. It has no healing power. It just buries grief under a crapload of moments that dull the senses. Time forces you to eat, sleep, put one foot before the other, breathe. Everything that existed still exists, only altered: crumpled and ironed, crumpled and ironed, then laid out and pinned flat until it resembles something whole again.
Of course, I tend to be melodramatic. Without time I’d be a blubbering fool. Time and painting pulled me through the worst of it, the endless daze and the gaping emptiness of Meyer’s absence. Time, art, and of course, Abby. Always Abby.
I slide on my rubber boots—covered in paint splatter in various tones—and head to the studio, burning my tongue on a piping hot tea as I slush through the fallen leaves of the Niagara Escarpment, otherwise known as home. More than 450 million years ago, an Ordovician-Silurian Age sea abandoned 728 thousand hectares, leaving a rigid shelf of shale and limestone stretching from Niagara Falls to Tobermory, a horseshoe outcropping in the heart of Ontario’s Greenbelt. Nowadays, the Niagara Escarpment is recognized as one of the world’s natural wonders and designated a World Biosphere Reserve by the United Nations. Hikers and bird-watchers flock to explore the caves and trails rich with wildlife, and vast tracts of farmland part to entice golf lovers and equestrians. Me, I came for an art festival and never left.
I met Meyer here, in the small town of Carlisle, on a similar Indian summer day in October. Luckiest day of my twenty years. I lived in Toronto at the time, about a forty-minute drive east, and a school friend was meeting up with a guy she’d met at a party the week before. So I tagged along to see J.D Picoult, a local sculptor I’d met my freshmen year at the University of Toronto.
Only two booths into the fair, my girlfriend ducked behind a tarp to make out with the guy she’d come to see, leaving me to wander the fair with the dude’s buddy. He was a slightly older guy with soft blue eyes and an easy smile, introduced as Meyer Lemon, which I assumed had something to do with his yellow-blond locks. We’d barely uttered a dozen words that first hour. As usual, I was enthralled by the artistic talent hidden in tiny country towns and hardly noticed I had company until we both stood back to admire a canvas and tripped over a tethering cord, my entire cup of craft beer spilling down Meyer’s shirt.
It was the first time I’d spent the day with a guy who didn’t need to talk or touch. He made me laugh. And when Meyer confessed he’d lost his parents in a boating accident at fourteen, it was like some benevolent being pulled out a needle and thread to sew us together. My mother had stopped eating three years before, when I was seventeen. Which was, of course, when she really checked out, and not the date, some months later, listed on the death certificate.
I step inside the studio, my sanctuary, and the past slips away, splashes of burnt orange, yellow, and robust red surrounding me like a blanket. I stare at the glass ceiling, the morning sun heating my face. A brilliant hummingbird investigates a glass panel in the roof, his beak making tiny rat-a-tat-tat sounds. I’m in heaven.
My studio is actually a large glass greenhouse nestled in a grouping of ancient white cedars, exactly thirty-four steps from my kitchen and sixteen meters from the Bruce Trail at Rattlesnake Point. Meyer built the greenhouse from a kit as a gift for my twenty-fifth birthday, which was comical to watch since the man wore his corporate white collar like a badge. It’s private, pin-drop quiet, and although the trees block the bluster of early winter and the harsh summer sun, they allow just the right amount of morning sunlight to pierce from above, May through November.
I take a deep breath, air expanding my ribcage like the gills of a fish, and wander about the studio in search of inspiration. Shelves of books call out to me. My fingertips glide over pages and pages of folklore and fant
asy, realms that ignite imagination with fairies, goblins, witches, warlocks, and lessons of good versus evil. Wire strings attached to wooden dowels hang from the ceiling on delicate silver chains, and metal clips support canvases suspended in midair. Mythical creatures dance in my personal universe: angels surrounded by lush white wings, goddesses with crowns of gold and jewels, tempting fairies, and shimmering ghosts.
I spin in circles, allowing them to take me into their music.
Popping a few glass panels for ventilation, I set the fans to spin, just enough to circulate the air. Digging through my wicker basket of oils, the colors sing to me: tangerine orange, blood red, crisp white. I release them onto my pallet and prime my brush, feet planted, canvas ready. The brush pulsates. My heart pounds with anticipation. The colors join the dance and off we go, into a magical world, my solace, my escape.
Hours evaporate until thoughts of Abby float to the forefront. She’s at school, wearing her favorite dress. Lowering my brush, I soak up the sun and consider my canvas. I catch the movement of the clock, my mind foggy and distracted.
Ten to one.
Shit, I’m late.
The spa is fairly new, wedged between a Polish deli and organic café in what locals call “downtown,” which is basically a strip plaza bookended by a steakhouse and post office. My guide makes a show of opening the set of double doors to an expansive room. Huge leather lounge chairs dominate various hubs throughout the spa, each decorated in a different theme. Romi, the aesthetician, inclines her head to the right and asks if I’m a bride-to-be. I shudder at the thought.
My wedding included a court justice and Grams’s blue denim shirt and a skirt borrowed from Karen—the only things that fit over my whale-sized form. Abby was due to join us any day. Meyer was eager to marry, having asked me several times before I said yes, and I just needed the day to be over and done with. I wanted a family, yes. Badly. But a wedding? No. My little girl dreams never included iridescent pearls and white silk roses. All I ever wanted was a normal life and something to eat.
“Look who it is,” says Karen, her fake southern drawl filling the room.
Karen is vivacious and loud and the best friend a girl could ask for. She’s sitting in a pedi-chair, feet soaking in the tub. Her fingernails are already painted, a rather brilliant shade of lime green.
I smile, sheepish, and blow a kiss. “Sorry I’m late.” Climbing into the black leather seat beside Karen, I shake my shoes to the floor. “Wow. The chairs rub you down.” I feel like I should be strapped in for take-off.
Romi returns with a basket of pedicure tools, asking if I’d like some pineapple ice tea. I just stare at her, puzzled. I’ve never heard of pineapple ice tea. She tells me I’m in mini Maui and lights the pineapple scented candles surrounding my lounger before pointing to the headset. Apparently it plays Hawaiian music.
“She’ll pass on the pineapple tea,” Karen says to Romi before leaning back and miming throwing the headset over her shoulder, a heads-up to skip the cheesy music.
“Man,” I mumble. “How much is this gonna cost me?” The chair has nubs that rotate in circles along my spine. It quickly becomes creepy, and I grope for the remote.
Karen dismisses me with a wave. “It’s on Frank. He missed our anniversary. Again. Consider this his get-out-of-jail-free card.”
Karen’s husband is a doctor, a heart specialist. He’s considerably older than Karen, who is thirty-five and a good ten years older than me. He’s dull as a pebble and works a lot. Karen’s his third and most patient wife.
“Speaking of jail,” she says, “Katherine and I have been chatting, and we think it’s time you bust out of that studio of yours. You spend too much time surrounded by imaginary friends, and it’s time you joined the land of the living.”
The land of the living. What an interesting choice of words. I’d sensed an ambush when Karen insisted I meet her at the spa today, only I hadn’t realized it was a joint effort. Katherine is Meyer’s grandmother, aka Grams. She’s known Karen far longer than I have. I only met Karen five years ago, when Meyer introduced us at a charity art auction. I’d donated a painting and Karen was the organizer of the charity. She’d also been Meyer’s babysitter growing up, which made for a fun night of jokes and jabs. Meyer’s cheeks glowed pink whenever Karen described the various love notes and Valentines Meyer had given her over the years. Poor Meyer. I hadn’t laughed that hard in ages.
“I’m living. I function. I take Abby to school, walk her home. I even bring Abby to Thomas’s horse farm on McNiven Road to play with Sofia once in a while, which happens to have all sorts of living things wandering about.”
Karen rolls her eyes. “I know where Thomas lives.”
Of course she does. Karen is Carlisle’s queen bee. She probably rang Thomas’s doorbell a year ago, the minute he and Sofia set roots in town.
“So, what is it with you and Thomas then?”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. “He’s a nice guy. Good with Abby. That’s it.”
Summer was rough with Meyer gone, and Thomas kept Abby busy with playdates, allowing me much-needed time to grieve without an audience.
I smile at Karen. “The guy bakes a killer apple pie.”
I have a thing for apples.
Karen leans in, over the arm of her chair. “You don’t think Thomas wants more from you?”
“No, I don’t.” Really, I don’t. “His daughter is Abby’s best friend.”
“Sure, that’s it.”
Thomas is Carlisle’s prime bachelor, or so I gather. Ladies shamelessly fawn over him at school functions, Karen included. I guess I see why. The guy has that summer fling look, like he just jumped from a jeep with a volleyball under his arm and sand on his feet, ready to play. Not my thing. Besides, I’m done with men. Meyer loved me, and lightning doesn’t strike twice.
“Let it go, Karen, there is nothing between Thomas and me.”
“Why not? You’re beautiful, young. I see the way men look at you. It’s shitty how it happened, but you are single, and Thomas is a nice specimen if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.”
I glance at my feet. Romi’s put her weight into rubbing my soles with some gritty concoction that stings. Like hearing I’m single. Before university, I had the usual string of crappy boyfriends and one-night stands. Usual, that is, for a girl who was willing to tolerate an awful lot of crap for some much needed attention. Shitheads, for the most part, their pockets full of DUIs and stolen goods. It wasn’t pretty.
Karen rests a hand on mine. “Meyer loved you. I’ve never seen anyone so smitten. But he wouldn’t want you crying forever, Chickpea. He’d hate to see you like this, with all the life drained away. He’d want you to be happy, to move on. We all want what’s best for you.” She squeezes my hand. “No one is saying you need to jump head first into the dating game, but consider getting out, opening your mind to a world of possibilities. You’re too young to spend so much time alone.”
Tears hover just below the surface, and I turn the other way, in need of a distraction. Karen keeps talking, of course, but I can’t bear to hear what she has to say. I’ve grabbed a Forgotten History Magazine from the Formica shelving unit beside my lounger, under a shelf of strange looking bottles. The feature article asks, “How old are we?” and “Where’s the proof?” It’s quite fascinating really, “Archeological Finds that Baffle Scientists.”
“. . . I understand, but before you say—”
“Did you know they found spearheads and human remains beside extinct mastodon and mammoth bones in Mexico, proof man hunted large game as far back as the Pleistocene era?” I keep reading, pretending I don’t hear Karen’s dramatic sigh. “Apparently the discovery, dated over 250,000 years ago, proves man walked the Earth long before originally thought.”
“Look, Tess, I know getting out will be hard for you, but I’ve thought about it and I think a party is perfect.”
I look up from the magazine. “A what?”
“I said we’d
go to his Halloween party.”
“Whose party?” I shake my head. “No, no way, I’m not going.”
“Hear me out, just for a minute.” Karen leans in farther. Her breasts roll onto the arm of the chair into a sitting position, and her spandex top stretches to translucency. “Everyone will be in costume, somewhat unrecognizable, so you can be whomever you wish, in disguise. A few locals will be there, so if you’re not antisocial, you won’t be stuck in a room full of—”
“It says here that water erosion on Egypt’s Great Sphinx dates to 5000 BC, some 2,400 years earlier than archaeologists claimed, and twenty centuries before the dawn of Egypt itself.”
I turn the page, the magazine slick in my hands, but Karen is relentless.
“There will be alcohol to ease your nerves, which I’m sensing you’ll need, and food to keep your hands busy. Pig out if you want. You could use some meat on those bones.”
“Karen, I don’t—”
“His house is the old Vandemere estate. It’s only a few blocks from the school, so you’ll be close to home.”
She’s really thought this through and I almost hate to disappoint her, but it’s too soon. A night of condolences would be nothing but hell.
“I’m not going, Karen, but ‘he’ who?”
“Have you not listened to a word I’ve said?” She huffs. “Bryce Waters.”
Adonis. Oh my.
Karen grins at me, teeth showing, eyebrows lost in her hairline. “He insisted I bring you to the party. Insisted.”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“Liar,” she says. She pauses, apparently waiting for a response from me. “You met Bryce Waters on meet-the-teacher night at the school, ages ago.” She pretends to look hurt. “I heard all about it, just not from you.”
Even with my eyes focused on the magazine, I can see her looking at me.
“We ran into each other. Literally. Actually, I walked into his chin. But that was it, so I’m not sure what you’re—”