Blackout Odyssey
a novel
victoria feistner
Milton, Ontario
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, events, and organizations portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Brain Lag
Milton, Ontario
http://www.brain-lag.com/
Copyright © 2021 Victoria Feistner. All rights reserved. This material may not be reproduced, displayed, modified or distributed without the express prior written permission of the copyright holder. For permission, contact [email protected].
Cover artwork by Victoria Feistner
ISBN 978-1-928011-53-8
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Blackout odyssey : a novel / Victoria Feistner.
Names: Feistner, Victoria, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210200901 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210200928 | ISBN 9781928011521
(softcover) | ISBN 9781928011538 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS8611.E453 B53 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
For Lilithe,
who always uses her words
Prologue
Mallory had never seen the stars like this before in Toronto. When camping as a kid, she’d been amazed at the ribbons of galaxy she’d seen through the trees while listening to the whispering and shushing leaves—the music of an August night in the country. This was different: cars rolled by, people talked and laughed, dogs barked and babies cried. And yet the dome of stars over the plaza shone as bright and clear as any camp-night. The dewy grass was chilly, then refreshing, under her dragging and cut-up feet. A blessed numbness crept after the chill until she sighed with relief. She debated throwing her remaining shoe away but tucked in its toes was her Nokia; the long heel of her black leather pump made a better grip for her weary fingers.
High overhead, the moon guided her along a path. Did its height mean it was early or late? She didn’t know. She’d never needed to, before… The digital signage on the corner of Mel Lastman Square was dark, its clock with it.
Someone played a guitar. Not too badly, either.
A smell from those camping days drifted over, a memory long buried and rarely revisited: naphtha.
She peered this way and that, discerning movement in the night but not shapes until a hiss from her left—as a tiny Coleman lantern flared into life—illuminated a picnic table and a small family. A woman bent over a cooler, pulling out items. Two children draped over the pine panels as only adolescents, dead from boredom, could. The younger boy leaned hopefully into the Coleman’s feeble light, straining to see his old, beaten-up Game Boy’s screen.
“Turn that thing off,” snapped the man, still fiddling with the camp-stove. Then: “See? I told you this old stuff would still work.”
“Our dad says that you’re a bum and you should get your own garage,” the older girl declared.
The man straightened. “Yeah, well, your dad owes me garage space. He knows why. Anyway. Behold! I have brought you fire!”
“Can you bring us some hot water?” the woman asked. She seemed to take notice of Mallory, her eyes large in the darkness. “You okay, honey?”
Mallory snapped out of her trance, realizing she’d been staring. “Sorry! Sorry for—” Staring? Bothering you? Intruding? All things she would say on a regular day. But today was not regular.
The woman smiled and patted the bench. She was achingly beautiful, and despite the late hour and the insanity, well-put together and clean in a way that only reinforced Mallory’s grime, torn outfit, and missing shoe(s).
Normally nothing could induce her to sit with strangers like this. But she stepped forward, walking on the outside of her feet to keep the open blisters clear off the ground.
“You look like you’ve had a rough time,” the beautiful woman said. “Hell of a day, huh?”
“Yeah.” Nervous at first, but as Mallory sat, the tension drained out of her until she too slumped like a teenager, her shoe and phone in her lap.
“I’m still hot,” whined the boy, while the older girl regarded their new guest with undisguised disdain.
“When I was a boy, that’s what August was,” said the man, cheerfully. “Hot. And there was nothing you could do about it. Just be hot.”
“Yeah, but that’s because you’re, like, ancient, Uncle Daniel.” The girl continued to stare at Mallory. “And your air-conditioning was, like, sitting in a pond.”
“Don’t knock the pond,” he replied, busy with the stove.
“Mom, do we have to stay here?” the boy asked.
The beautiful woman reached over to ruffle her son’s dark hair, leaving it in curly disarray. “I told you to bring a book.”
“This is the worst,” the girl declared, while across the square families spread blankets and opened their own coolers, escaping the built-up heat of their apartments, hoping to gain relief, and wondering at the strangeness of the day. Laughter danced upwards like the sparks from the tiny camping stove. The guitar played out in the unseeable night, its notes bouncing off the buildings that ringed the plaza.
“The worst,” Mallory agreed under her breath, so tired her bones ached, as though she was made of lead, a heavy broken weight on bare feet. A hiss of steam escaped the kettle and the beautiful woman passed the man a canister. As he unscrewed the lid, the odour wound its way around Mallory like a gentle nudging hand, pulling her upright.
He noted her attention. “Want some coffee?”
“Please.” It escaped from Mallory’s lips before she could stop it. She should leave; she still had a long way to go and someone waiting, no doubt worried. Her cell phone felt warm under her clenched fingers. The pair of adults both laughed, wearing open expressions, curiosity and friendliness, and when Mallory opened her mouth to protest and apologize, what squeaked out instead was: “Yes, please.”
The man’s smile broadened. “Always happy to share a good cup of coffee.” He glanced at the smelly campstove and his lips twitched. “Well, this won’t be good, but it’ll be hot and caffeinated, anyway. How do you take it, Ms…?”
“Mallory. Mallory Doran. Cream and sugar, please.”
“We don’t have either of those,” the woman said, her own smile like the shining moon through the trees. “But it’s hot?”
“Sounds perfect.” Mallory meant it.
“Ugh,” groaned the girl.
“Behave yourself,” her mother chided. Then to Mallory: “You can call me Shelly. This is my brother, Daniel Gabriel, and my two children Dawn and Dee.”
“Nice to meet you.” Mallory was aware she was mumbling, embarrassed, as she accepted the proffered yellowed melamine cup with deep and humbled gratitude. She wrapped chilled fingers around it, nearly at tears from the warmth, and light, and kindness, and tried to seem more human. “What a day, eh?”
“What a day indeed.” Daniel Gabriel, the coffee seen to, settled into the picnic table bench, draping an arm around his niece’s shoulders while she squirmed away. “We live—Shelly and the kids live—not too far away. So it was simple enough to set up out here to eat, away from the stuffy house.”
Shelly nodded in agreement, making sandwiches from supplies in the cooler.
“But you look like you’ve been walking a lot,” Daniel Gabriel continued, his eyes suddenly very blue in the low light, and Mallory couldn’t look away. “Why don’t you tell us about your day while we eat?”
They all looked at her, their gazes like limelight, hot and unyielding. Even Dee had put away his Game Boy. A moth fluttered and bumped into the lantern, confused. Shelly reached out to urge it away, gently, until it saw the moon again and flew off.
“I… don�
�t know where to start.” Mallory’s voice cracked, and she bent her head to sip coffee, still acutely aware of all the attention on her. Even the guitarist had paused.
Shelly handed her a sandwich, her smile inviting. “Just start at the beginning, hon. We’re not going anywhere.”
Part One
1.
A Long Night’s Day
I rested my head against the metal rim of the open window. The thick air only gusted in when the bus moved, and when in rare motion, the vehicle joggled so that my head gently bumped along with it.
I checked my watch again: 3:55 p.m.
“Traffic shouldn’t be this bad, should it?” I asked Aggie, on my left.
Aggie peered up from her stack of presentation papers, blinking behind her round glasses. After taking a moment to gain her bearings, she shrugged. “I don’t know this part of the city.”
“I don’t either.” I wasn’t sure we were even in Toronto proper yet. Someone at the front of the bus started playing music without headphones on; the CD Walkman skipped, adding even further insult to the tinny sounds of ‘Unchained Melody’. I sighed and rested my temple against the warm glass. Outside, the air shimmered over the tops of the cars, the August sun still high in the sky.
Whenever I shifted in the seat, the vinyl of the ancient bus stuck to the backs of my thighs, my skirt having ridden up; between the oversized presentation case resting on my feet, my purse in my lap, and Aggie next to me, I had little room. I furtively managed a shimmy to yank the fabric of my skirt down enough to create a barrier.
“Could be worse,” Aggie murmured, highlighter dragging across the page. “At least we’re not in three-piece suits.”
Suit skirt, jacket, and tights was bad enough. “The people in those suits don’t have to take transit. They have drivers. Or can afford a cab, anyway.”
Aggie gave a hmm of agreement, a sort of ‘true, but what can you do?’ noise. The scritch of her highlighter and the tinny, skipping saxophone music skittered like tiny nails against my skin under the layers of business wear. Acutely aware of sweat trapped between my shoulder blades, I shifted against the hard back of the seat, hoping to fend it off before it became a true itch I wouldn’t be able to scratch.
Cold showers. Cold drinks on a patio. Ice cream. Ice floes. Air-con turned so high you can smell the hole in the ozone layer.
Meditation didn’t help. I checked my watch: 3:57. “Do you think they’ll expect us back in the office?”
Aggie shook her head, some of her hair escaping her bun. “I spoke to John as we were heading out.” She straightened, capping her highlighter, and scratched at her nose. “He said we might as well just go home. By the time we get to Lawrence West it’ll be close to 5:00 anyway.”
“He probably just wants to leave early too.”
“He’s heading in the opposite direction.” Aggie pulled out her elastic and redid her bun, her black hair smooth under her hands. “Taking tomorrow off. Cottage.”
“Lucky.” I fought the urge to check my watch again. Maybe I should have brought work to look over too but the presentation case holding our movie-poster-sized display boards was heavy and awkward enough. My tiny purse had barely enough space for my wallet, keys, cell phone, and makeup. The bus lurched forward as whatever held up traffic finally eased.
Aggie was back at her presentation notes. I couldn’t read on a bus, anyway. Especially one so herky-jerky; I’d be sick. That’s why I was by the window. Ahead of us, the ass with the CD player had moved on to louder, more obnoxious musical choices, attracting the attention and ire of people around him. “Is it okay with you if I make a call?”
My colleague blinked at me. She looked like an owl when she did that, blinking before answering any question; worse when she had her reading glasses on, those ancient 90s round-frame monstrosities that she’d worn since high school. At least during the presentation she didn’t need them; I doubt the folks at the Darlington Nuclear Power Plant would have taken her at all seriously. Or maybe they wouldn’t have noticed—after all, most of them were engineers and seriously nerdy themselves. “What?”
I fished my cell phone out of my tiny purse. “Do you mind? I’ll be quick.”
“Oh, right.” Aggie didn’t have a cell phone of her own, she refused to spend the money on one. Work reimbursed us the bills anyway, so what difference did it make? Mind you, I’d fork out for new glasses too. Aggie and I disagreed on many monetary issues.
I spent a moment admiring the little Nokia’s boxy heft. John had talked a lot about the advantages of this model over the others, but since I didn’t want to admit it was my first cell phone and I had no idea what he was talking about, I merely made thoughtful noises. In the end he didn’t want my opinion anyway; he just wanted to talk specs at someone. (Some days it seemed like half of my job description was letting managers—who always sat with one leg on my desk, instead of pulling up a chair like a normal human—talk in my direction while I made appreciative noises. It drove some other girls in the office crazy, but I’ve practised a very good listening face while I continue thinking about my own work. After a while, listening to my managers was like meditation or staring out a window. Restful.)
I had a bar of signal and two bars of battery. I wish it was a percentage or a number—how long would two bars last me?—but as ever the Nokia supplied no answers, only questions. Still, it had Snake to play. Could I play Snake on a moving vehicle? With at least an hour of subway transit still to go, better not to chance the nausea.
A quick side-eye to Aggie to make sure she was still absorbed in her work, then I dialed Dylan, the number well-practised.
“Hello?”
“Hi.” I kept my voice down. “It’s me.”
“Hello? Who is this?”
“It’s me, Mallory.”
“Oh, hey, babe. Back at the office already?”
“No, still on the bus. Heading to Scarborough Town Centre. John said we could just go home.”
“Oh, great! So you’ll be home early. You can put your feet up while I finish dinner.”
I giggled. I did very much enjoy watching Dylan cook; he acted like one of those chefs on TV, all towels flipped over his shoulder and one-handed tossing of sizzling frying pans. He had a gas stove, too. No one I knew who was our age had a gas stove. It felt very fancy. “What are you making?”
Silence, leaving me with just a crackle of static and overheard tinny reggae. Then: “It’s a surprise.”
A surprise? “What? Why? What does that mean? Is it lobster? Why do you keep trying to get me to eat lobster?”
Dylan laughed. “It’s not lobster, don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. It’s a surprise because it’s a special occasion—just a second, the door—” He put the phone down on the counter. With the receiver pressed against my ear I could just about hear him talking in Spanish with a squeaky female voice replying. “Sorry about that. Camila needed to borrow a lemon.”
I made a face. Camila was always borrowing something. Didn’t she ever grocery shop? Dylan always laughed off my narrowed-eye suspicion claiming he was being neighbourly, and anyway, she always paid him back. He laughed a lot. It was one of the things I loved about him. “What surprise?” I prompted, eager to move on from our neighbour.
That laugh. “You’ll find out tonight. I’m not telling you anything—shit, I gotta take something out of the oven—”
I pulled my ear away to examine the black and beige screen. Apparently I’d used up a bar of battery already? How? “I should go anyway, babe. Do you need me to pick up anything?”
“Actually, yes.” His voice sounded muffled, and I imagined he had the phone receiver tucked under his chin. “Can you—shit, I gotta deal with this. Give me a call in a few, okay?”
“I’ll call you from the station, we should be there soon—”
“Great,” came the still-muffled reply, then sounds of clattering and swearing. “Gotta go!”
“Okay, love y—” Dial tone. I pulled away the cell ph
one and checked the battery again. Still one bar. Why did these make no sense? The bus hit a bump or a pothole and the little Nokia jumped out of my hands; I scrabbled to catch it.
Aggie watched me from the corner of her eyes. “You’re not supposed to use that for personal calls.”
“It was an emergency.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“Yes it was.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to her presentation, having moved on from highlighting to scribbled notes with a red pen. She went into each presentation with copious notes from the last tweaking right until go-time, but once we were in the room she stayed on script. Whereas I liked to improvise and go with the flow. Through trial and error we’d learned that the most effective combination was to have her present the first half and me on the second so I could answer questions as they appeared. “So what’s the surprise?”
“What?”
“You mentioned a surprise. So what is it?”
“Well, I don’t know, because it’s a surprise. He said it’s for a special occasion.” I stuffed the cell phone into my jacket pocket. It strained the seams but would remind me to make the call before I got on the subway.
Aggie looked up from her papers. “What’s the special occasion?”
I mulled it over. “I guess our anniversary is coming up… but it’s two weeks from now.”
She made a little O with her lips. “Maybe it’s that? Aren’t you away next weekend for that ‘Women In STEM’ conference?”
“Yeah, and then he’s away with his brothers for a camping trip…” I tapped my finger against my nose. “That’s probably it then.”
“Fancy. How many years?”
“Three.”
Aggie made the O again, but this time she kept staring at me until I squirmed.
“What?”
“Three years? And he’s bumping up your anniversary dinner by two weeks?”
I gave a slight shrug. “We’re not really anniversary people. Like, last year we both forgot. I’m surprised he’s bothering.”
Blackout Odyssey Page 1