Goose: An Annual Review of Short Fiction 2015-2016 by Goose Fiction

goose AN ANNUAL REVIEW OF SHORT FICTION

Volume 5 Spring 2016 Produced at Victoria College in the University of Toronto

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goose spring 2016

MASTHEAD PRESIDENT & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: Divna Stojanovic VICE-PRESIDENT & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: Genevieve Smith CREATIVE DIRECTOR: Alexandra Georgelos MARKETING & COMMUNICATIONS DIRECTORS: Victoria Alva-

rez, Zoe Burke TREASURER: George Ren SECRETARY: Tali Voron

EDITORIAL BOARD

Carl Christian Abrahamsen Victoria Alvarez Zoe Burke Victoria Butler Elena Djordjic Ingrid Llambi Svetlana Maleva Anju Xing

CONTRIBUTORS

Robert Baker Michael Baptista Jerico Espinas Amy Kalbun Natasha Ramoutar Nikta Sadati Alisa Severina

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Letter from the Editors 4 Cleaning Jerico Espinas 5 Pretty Odd Nikta Sadati 11 The Momentous Love Story of David Arthur White Robert Baker 22 The Man On The Subway Michael Baptista 35 Along the Coast Natasha Ramoutar 40 Eliza Amy Kalbun 43 Me and Betty-Lou Alisa Severina 48

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Letter from the Editors It has been our great pleasure to serve as the editors-in-chief of Goose. Our position has afforded us the privilege of working with the talented and dedicated individuals that comprised the editorial and executive boards. This year’s endeavors would not have been possible without you. We would like to thank the authors who submitted their works for consideration and congratulate this year’s contributors. Thank you to Victoria College and VUSAC for their support—we are grateful to be part of a community that holds the arts in such esteem. We would also like to thank Krispy Kreme for being a dedicated source of fuel for our late night copy editing meetings. We are proud to present to you a diverse collection of stories that all speak to the beauty of their form. It is a difficult task to fit a mansion into a mobile home—and yet, in a few pages, these works manage to explore vast human landscapes. Long live the printed word. Divna Stojanovic & Genevieve Smith Editors-in-Chief 2015-2016

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Cleaning Jerico Espinas

Ross isn’t out of the bathroom by the time I get back, the sound of water still seeping through the bathroom door. “Ross?” I say aloud, dragging the grocery bags over to the kitchen table. I set them down, the contents rolling like a sack of marbles. The bathroom door opens behind me. “One second,” he says, quickly shutting off the water and tossing a few things under the sink. “Take your time,” I say, rearranging some of our chairs and stools around the table, making them face inward. over.

“Dave?” he asks, checking that it’s just me before walking

I’m surprised to see he’s already dressed in jeans and a clean shirt. He even has socks on. I raise an eyebrow. He knows my parents’ visit isn’t for a few hours. “Cleaned up the bathroom after my shower,” he says, glancing at me for a beat before looking out the kitchen window. This side of the building faces the harbour, and on good days you can see the masts of sailboats on the dock, bobbing on the sparkling water like fishing lures. “Had some time, while you were gone.” “Thanks, that helps,” I say. I begin to place some fruits into a nearby mixing bowl, causing the coins, bottle caps, and ping pong balls to clink together. Ross sits down and picks up a dragon fruit, the leafy skin draping over his fingers. He gives me a curious look before he reaches into the bowl again. “I get some of it, but why potatoes?”

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“Gives it an earthy, mature feel, don’t you think?” I ask, shrugging. It’s too late to do anything about it now, so I take them off Ross’s hands and place them back in the bowl before pushing the whole arrangement into the centre. I pause before picking up another bag, this one with a carton of milk, a block of tofu, and some powdered sugar. “I should’ve picked a rutabaga though,” I continue. “Or one of those spiky durians, you know, if I really wanted to impress my parents.” He gives me a chuckle, a small shake of the head, before making an effort to stifle himself. He focuses on the table, moving around pens and plastic cutlery into piles of organized clutter. I give him a look, but he misses it. I put the entire bag in the fridge before walking back. I start gathering up the bottles that are still on the table, grabbing them by the top, their glass necks kissing. “Thanks again for putting up with this. They insisted that—” Ross waves his hand dismissively. “Families,” he says, as if that’s all there is to it. I’ve never seen his parents myself, but he says they’re divorced. He doesn’t say much about it. I don’t mean to pity him, though I do share some of the sweets my parents send in their monthly care packages. I like to think he appreciates it, all those lumpy cakes and crispy brownies. He’s at least polite enough to take them. I toss the bottles into the trash before going back. I rap my knuckles on Ross’s head, his hair still damp. He waves his hand again, this time grunting, brushing me off. “Is something on your mind?” I let the question hang in the air as I continue to clean up our mess. Ross’s thought process is like this sometimes. He’s the kind of guy who cooks bacon softly enough to hear the birds outside, or who looks dead serious at the TV when they announce the weekly forecast. There’s no use trying

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to get inside his head sometimes; when this happens, I just let it go. “The other night,” Ross says, after a beat. I didn’t really expect him to speak. He catches me glancing back at him, but he’s the one who looks away. He stares back out the far window. “I’m still thinking about the other night.” Ross is in History and I’m in English, so we don’t have any classes together. We’re free Thursday nights, just by chance, and we usually spend it together drinking. We try and do a lot in the city since neither of us grew up here. When the weather’s nice, for instance, Ross insists on touring the oceanfront. He told me he’s from out west, from some small, dry, God-fearing town where water is stored in wells and towers. It’s no wonder that the boats and sails are a novelty to him. Like they’re the props from some fictional drama, ready to ship him away. We were out that night, like most Thursdays. That week, we decided to see a harbour named after some faraway conflict. Two nations clashed, explained Ross, and the stronger surrendered. He seemed strangely energetic, waving his hands around like he was trying to scare a wild animal. The weaker army made themselves look larger than they were, he said, and the other yielded out of fear. Then we went to a bar. “What about it?” I ask now. I stifle a sigh, the noise catching in my throat, sounding like a breaking egg. “I mean, what else is there to say?” I turn on the faucet and start washing the dishes. The last chore. Another quirk about Ross is that things weigh on him differently. Or maybe that’s just how I like to understand it. Once, we were walking down a lonely stretch of beach for a few hours. Soft sand was giving way to hard gravel underneath, and the lighthouse’s beam was just a wayward dot. He told me then about his parents’ separation, how he thought it was his fault, how he’d done some

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things in the past. Hurtful things, he said. To others, and to himself. And that was it, a handful of vague and mumbled sentences spoken against a chill wind. It wouldn’t have been anything, if I had said it; just some light banter to ease the cold. But his face shut down all the same, as if he’d been pried of some terrible secret. We’d gone too far, he said, kicking at the stony ground before he started the long journey back in silence. We never really talked about it since. “Lots,” he tells me now. He moves things around on the table again, clearing some space for him to drum his fingers on the scarred wood. “Or maybe nothing at all.” “That’s deep,” I say. “That’s real deep. I didn’t realize I’m rooming with a philosopher. I have to say, though, your beard isn’t nearly long enough for it.” I start to place some plates on a rack, loud enough for Ross to hear them clatter. A tired breath, and then he’s beside me. He starts drying the dishes with a nearby rag. “Do you treat anything seriously?” “Lots,” I say, pretending to stroke a beard thoughtfully, spreading bubbles around my mouth. “Or maybe nothing at all.” I woke up Friday morning with a mild headache and the thick taste of sleep in my mouth. That was it. I was in the living room, I had a hangover, and I was half out of yesterday’s clothes. I was ready to pass it off as just another Thursday night. I saw Ross before he noticed I was awake. He was cooking breakfast in that quiet, focused way of his, the spatula continuously flipping some limp meat. He looked at me and then looked back at the pan. And then he spoke suddenly, barely above the sizzle.

He said he came onto me, sometime during the night. It was after the harbour, maybe even after the bar. It was just the two of us,

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or that’s how it felt to him. The air was cool, and we were huddled close together, and we might have been singing. He said he was spurred by some drunken impulse, by something thoughtless and uncontrollable. Just caught up in the moment.

By the sound of his voice, I thought he’d killed me.

He said we were talking, and then we weren’t. That was how he described it. We were talking, and he leaned in, and I didn’t move away. And then we weren’t talking anymore. You’d think I’d remember something – his wet nose on mine, his gloved hands against my back, his rough stubble scratching my cheek. Or else some warm and hazy remnant of that graceless contact. But I didn’t. If anything, I recalled him slowly walking away, his shoulders slumped, his head shaking back and forth. I told him so and he made a noise. I passed it off as relief. He said sorry, I said sure, and we shared his soggy breakfast. I didn’t think much of it then. I guess I should have known better. Ross usually reacts by now, a hesitant laugh or at least a chuckle, but he doesn’t, not this time. He just keeps drying, the damp cloth drilling circles into the plastic, waiting for me to pass him another plate. Some of the soap from the beard has gone into my mouth, so I wipe it off with my sleeve. Most days, I’d make a comment about how the orange dish soap doesn’t taste at all like oranges. For once, though, I’m conscious of looking stupid in front of him. I squish some of the bubbles, feeling how slippery they are between my fingers.

“Look, I said you can drop it, didn’t I?” I say, a bit too loud, or a bit too late.

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“Okay,” he says.

And that’s that. We finish in silence, with nothing but the sound of water between us.

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Pretty Odd Nikta Sadati

Preface This is a funny story. Although, somehow, I’m always the only one laughing.

Still branches hid the light of the stars where Logan stood in the trees. He was covered in the dripping remnants of last night’s rain, recalling why he decided not to indulge in photography between the late hours of the night and the break of dawn. Holding up his camera, attached to his neck roughly by a strap, he remembered. A nine-year-old with a disposable camera.. His parents, after reading multiple industry books, recommended creativity, as if it were a healing drug or an educational discipline.

“Paint?” His father had suggested. Logan could barely hold a paint brush between his thin, snake-like fingers. His mother liked to tell the story of Michelangelo; doctors studied his artwork and found signs of mental illness. How someone could find bipolar disorder in art is beyond what Logan could understand. “Look at what he did with such a weight on his shoulders. You see Logan, painting is an escape.” She would place both hands on his shoulders. Logan didn’t know if she was being ironic when she physically put a weight on his shoulders, but that was all he thought about that night. Painting was out of the question; no one wants their mind read. This trial and error method continued until his father stopped by Walmart to develop family portraits and came home with melancholy faces in front of blue backdrops, and a yellow disposable camera in hand. Summer was on its last string of days and Perth was in its peak of heat. Sweat dripped down Logan’s forehead, carving his

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jawline with its track marks. It reminded him of rain. He felt like a cloud, giving everything around him a lifeline. He wished to be a cloud, to be as needed. To be necessary. He already felt like he was watching everything from above. “Isn’t that odd?” He laughed, yelling out the question to the attentive leaves, hanging on his every last word. “I want to be a cloud. Tell me that’s not odd!” He knew his father would come out any second, with his one-way mirror look. It was the look he had when he wanted to scold Logan but held himself back, plastering a tight grin and grabbing Logan’s arm a little tighter than he should’ve. Often, all it did was make Logan feel underestimated. How could his father not try harder to pretend he wasn’t embarrassed by him? The screen door from the kitchen opened as a wasp flew by his right ear. He tried to capture it in his hands but was too slow, holding onto nothing but air for a couple of seconds. “Father cloud.” If Logan was a cloud, he must have been conceived by one. His father walked up to him, grabbing his arm, this time not bothering with words. “I took many pictures. Much. Many. A lot.” Once back in the kitchen, Logan spoke in broken beats. “Logan, listen to me. When we are outside, we don’t yell. We don’t yell, because we have neighbors and they don’t like loud noises. They only want to hear what’s inside their own homes, not what happens outside of ours. Got it?” Logan coughed. The camera was shoved under his father’s nose. “Enough to fill up an album. A blue one.”

His father sighed, holding the bulky black camera between

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his rough palms. The memory card was empty. Taking a deep breath before he spoke again, his father nitpicked at his words before letting them out. “That’s alright, Logan.” Logan nodded. Once, twice, three times. Then began counting the lines on his father’s plaid pajama bottoms. Even as he stood up and left the room, Logan craned his neck and got to 23 before his father was out of sight. Grabbing a bottle of water, Logan led himself and his thoughts up the stairs and into his bed. “Goodnight,” he whispered 14 times, before closing his eyes and reviewing every photograph of the towering forest. So beautiful, so still. No wind blew through the leaves as everything waited in a constant state of suspense for every sound Logan’s platform shoes made on the crunchy leaves of fall’s beginnings. *** To give thought to something is a peculiar phrase. It describes thought as almost a gift or present that Logan was to wrap up in pretentious filler words and punctuation, and deliver to another. He always found that phrase a little strange. Logan’s mother used to tell his younger cousins that Logan simply liked to “give thought” to things others wouldn’t even think of spending more than a minute of their time on. She liked to pretend it wasn’t diagnosed, simply too many thoughts to control. He hated family gatherings. Curious uncles and chipper aunts would stumble their way into his room, asking where he’d been all night and commenting on how much he’d grown. Logan didn’t seem to understand their surprise— it’s in a human’s biological makeup to grow. They should be more surprised if he didn’t grow. Now that would be something. Staying a toddler forever. At least, being a toddler, your string of

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words don’t have to be coherent. What his extended family didn’t seem to understand was that Logan just enjoyed being alone. His therapist would advise him to go up to people, to make conversation, but that was just unnecessary. Logan had enough conversation in his head to write a novel. There was not much else anyone could say besides the necessary greetings of “how are you” and the always dependable “fine, thanks”. The leaves and the stars had more to give. Despite this attitude, Logan’s parents took him in and out of every school in the district. His entire life was a game of trial and error and he wouldn’t be surprised if his father had been keeping tally.

Gerard Middle School: Locked in the bathroom.

Fredericton Middle School: Threatened on the football field.

Henry Terran High School: Broken nose.

Logan had switched schools more times than he could count, although he had counted 15. It was precisely 15 times that he had met new people who would learn to forget him. Currently, he was attending an all-boys school in Perth, George Henry Secondary School. Here, at least, he was invisible. He walked through the halls and no one had his name on the tip of their tongue. No one closed their eyes at night and remembered him. No one scrambled to get him the perfect gift for the holiday season. He was more of a watcher. Logan liked to understand behaviour by watching the students at his school; why would someone decide to prank their teacher? They’re the ones giving the marks after all. Why would someone willingly agree to getting punched in the face multiple

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times for the entertainment of the other students. And why would anyone find that entertaining? Regardless, Logan watched and observed and took pictures in his mind, replaying them for himself over and over again. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be in those photographs and not the one taking them. *** Names. Logan liked the fact that each one had a meaning. It was almost like a predestination or a story placed upon a person to hang on to for purpose. When he was twelve his uncle bought him an encyclopedia of common European names and their meanings. Every time his father would be angry or exhausted from work, Logan would run up to his room and learn five new names. So when the new kid was introduced in Calculus on Tuesday, the first word Logan said to him was “Wise.” “What?” The blonde-haired boy looked right into Logan’s blue orbs questioningly. “Connor? It means wise or strong-willed. It’s Irish.” His face was a book of blank pages. “Oh.” He paused, glancing at the textbook in his hand before looking back up at Logan. “That’s kinda cool, how did you know that?” He lugged his shoulder bag over to Logan’s corner of the classroom and dropped it on to the desk like a sack of sand. “Did you google it?” He leaned over, looking for a phone.

Logan didn’t answer, feeling an odd rush of heat to his face.

“So...” Connor bit his lip and Logan felt guilty. “What’s his name mean?” He pointed to Eric in the corner of the class, a lanky

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eleventh-grader who took this class a year early. “Ruler.” Logan mumbled, not knowing if he wanted him to hear or not. Suddenly, Connor giggled, covering his mouth as the teacher began the lesson and lowered his voice. “Damn, better watch out for that one then.” He watched Logan, expectant. Logan smiled and it almost felt genuine. “Well Mr. Griffin, since you seem to be chatting up a storm over there, I’m assuming you will willingly volunteer to be Mr. Alden’s tour guide for the day.” Logan held onto the edge of the wooden desk with one hand, the other gripping at his school cardigan. He stuttered, his thoughts freezing. He saw Connor nodding from the corner of his eye, almost certain it was a subconscious movement. The teacher’s loud clap caused him to jump in his seat, “Great. Now turn to page 338 and try to pay attention to the lesson.” He looked pleased with himself, powerful. It reminded Logan of when his father tried to teach him how to play soccer. He didn’t notice Connor speaking until he placed a hand on Logan’s shoulder. He had to have seen Logan’s shaking hands.

“So what’s your name mean?”

low.”

He didn’t answer until Connor asked the second time. “Hol***

The dark leaves rustled together, making blank noise. Logan watched them from his bedroom window, as the rain slid down the

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trunks of the trees. He thought about Connor. Logan had only known one real friend in his life: Andrew. He had met Andrew in the second grade when he lived in Johannesburg. Their common love of trading cards had them instantly become best friends. Andrew eventually understood why Logan sometimes read out the name of a card one too many times, or had trouble letting go of cards he had held for a while. Regardless, they remained as close as Logan had ever been to another person, until high school. High school came and Andrew forgot that Logan was ever a name in his mind. Logan gave up trying to remind him after two weeks of blank looks and snickering from his new group of “friends”. Since then, no one had graced Logan with more than three words at most, and he didn’t think he wanted more— until Connor. Connor turned on every aspect of his brain, every nerve, every vein pumped blood faster as the need for attention flowed up and down his body. All at once, Logan stopped taking pictures at school. Stopped watching the groups of rowdy boys as they pulled out thinly rolled cigarettes, letting the smoke stain the blue sky and blacken their lungs. When Logan was six, his mother would read him stories about young boys who go on adventures and save damsels in distress. It wasn’t the quest aspect that had Logan enticed, but more the fact that they always had people around them. Whether it be parents, friends, or love interests, these characters were never alone and that terrified him. Logan was comfortable living in his own mind; it was the only thing he was sure of. Sometimes his body would shake or freeze and his words wouldn’t come out the way he wanted them to, but his mind was something he loved to delve into and work with.

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So when he felt anxious over these new feelings and needs, Logan opened up his encyclopedia and read Connor’s definition 32 times before he fell asleep with his back against his door and his heart on the floor. *** “Did you take this?” Connor picked up a Polaroid photograph that was sitting on the third shelf of Logan’s book case. It had been exactly a month since their first encounter and Connor had never stopped trying to have a two-sided conversation, but every time Logan opened his mouth he felt like an expanding balloon, taking more space than he deserved. “No.” He tried to control his jittering hands when Connor placed the photo on the fourth shelf. Connor had decided he needed help in calculus and had chosen, or rather forced, Logan to fill that slot. There they were, in Logan’s room, and Connor had placed his round fingertips on every surface available in the little space he had. “My mom.” Logan blurted out, too quickly and a little louder than he had intended. “My mother took it. With a camera, she took it with those big, big cameras. Those square—” He stuck his thumb between his teeth and bit down on his nail. “Nice. Is she a photographer?” Connor spun the globe on the desk and the wrong country was facing west. Logan’s eyes glazed over as he got up to move the Polaroid down a shelf. “She— my mom, she—” His fingers spun the globe until he was faced with the stars he had placed on all the cities he had lived in, in Australia. Connor placed a hand on Logan, gripping his rope-like arm as Logan’s body went limp. Wordlessly, he understood.

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“Sorry.” Logan pulled his sleeves over the heels of his palms, running them over his glistening eyes. Both boys stood, cheated towards the wall, observing each other’s vulnerability. It was the first time anyone had apologized to Logan in a long time. “She took her own life.” Logan’s tears stained his pale skin. “Her name was Linda. Pretty. It’s Spanish. It means pretty.” Connor’s hand on Logan’s arm suddenly felt very present, burning. He flinched away from him, pulling his sleeve up and down his arm five times until he sat down on the bed, digging his nails into his palms. A flash of disappointment passed through Connor’s features before he relaxed, sitting next to Logan on the edge of the bed. “Let’s get to work, shall we?” Logan would have laughed at the abruptness of his subject change if he wasn’t biting his tongue from its desperation to apologize over and over again. *** Connor was rummaging through his father’s collection of classic movies when Logan spoke, “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t one of the thousands of things he wanted to say. Connor chuckled, looking at Logan sheepishly. “For what silly? You’re just sitting there.” Logan shrugged his shoulders, always unsure of himself. Connor got up off of the carpeted floor and sat next to him on the sofa.

“Did you pick one?”

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“We don’t need a DVD.” He shifted his gaze to the blackened TV screen. Logan laughed, surprising himself. “We’re not watching that! There’s nothing there.” Connor’s eyes widened, an instant of shock before they softened. “Sure we are. I know anything that’s going on in that mind of yours is better than what James Cameron can give me right now.” And so they sat there in silence, each speaking a word for every quarter of an hour. Logan could see their reflection in the TV screen, hoping Connor didn’t notice the way his fingers kept a spastic beat on the cushion. Drinking in each other’s presence, no one moved as they heard the door open. No one answered as Logan’s father called his name in a slur, and both boys understood to wait for the sound of 13 steps before looking at each other expectantly. “Do you mind?” Connor had whispered as he picked up Logan’s untouched camera. “Is it new?”

Suddenly, Logan wished it was.

Connor leaned in towards him, pressing his shoulder against the other boy’s stiff body. “Let’s take one.” Logan sensed heat rise up through his toes and into his fingertips, suddenly feeling like all the air in the room had been sucked into Connor’s bright, emerald eyes. A flash went off, but Logan was never ready. “It’s perfect.” Connor dug deep into Logan’s wide eyes. “Has anyone told you how pretty you are?” Logan shook his head, feeling small next to Connor’s looming confidence. He bit his tongue before he could answer, shaking

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his head back and forth in a mechanical manner. Both boys returned their gazes to the blank screen of the TV and forgot the time as Logan replayed those last words over and over in his mind. If he had locked and unlocked the door 32 times after Connor left, he would blame it on the time of night. If he had ran through all the different ways he could have answered Connorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lingering question, he would blame it on the drowsiness. If his father heard him laughing alone, he wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mind too much, and if he stared at that dark and fuzzy photograph until the sun peeked out from behind the trees, he would wonder, now, if it is finally his turn to be thought of. To be needed. His turn to be in the photographs, rather than the one behind the camera.

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The Momentous Love Story of David Arthur White Robert Baker

The most important moment in any love story is not the first kiss, nor is it the last. It is that instant of unexpected epiphany, the proverbial spark and the clarity it inspires, and it is here that romance is first conceived. It is here that our story begins. Our champion is the unsuspecting, and if ignorance were a virtue, he would already have his sainthood. His affliction is terminal, for he knows little and sees little beyond the half-pace to his front and the kilometer to his rear. His eyes are forever dragging, and one might think that the burden of retrospect would permanently bend his back. His name is David Arthur White, named David after his grandfather and Arthur because his mother liked the name. His surname, unfortunately, bears little significance other than its suggestive un-remarkability, for which poor David is quite the proponent. It was his first girlfriend who called him plain, his second who called him lackluster, and his fourth who called him boring. His third, however, spoke very little of Davidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s qualities, and their relationship only concluded after a strictly non-verbal affront on her part, one whose image David has still failed to exorcise from his nightmares. As an astute or imaginative reader might already suspect, David is a man of rigorous routine. If one wished him harm, it would be easy to set a trap, for only through an act of God or some other truly unlikely intervention would Davidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s schedule deviate. But as we have all gathered so far, this is a love story, and truly

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remarkable things are bound to happen. So, despite November 7th being a Saturday, despite the clock reading 2:07 in the afternoon, and despite David’s intention to arrive at the Muffin and Brew coffee shop at exactly 2:11, the fingers of fate were awhirl and the preposterous was already in motion. It began, as all important things do, with an imperceptible bang, quite akin to the tremendous atomic collisions heard in the whispering wind. Perhaps it began with the squirrel who, earlier that day, decided to descend the big oak tree instead of staying rooted on his lofty perch. Or perhaps it was the poodle named Alfredo, quite ironic given his curly black hair, who decided to chase the squirrel around his backyard, only to discover a discarded box of frozen shrimp thawing on the lawn. Or perhaps it was little Tony Wilson, Alfredo’s best friend, who left home on his bicycle in quite a mood after his dog spewed shellfish all over his favourite toy. Or perhaps, most immediate, it was the bus driver who, not really paying attention to the road, slammed on the breaks when a red object mounted by a little boy blurred past his windshield. Such was the continuity of events, and perhaps we, as simple men with simple minds, have ignored those events predating that mischievous squirrel’s decision. But alas, it does not matter if a dumb animal or some other devious conductor is to blame. The deed was done and the air reeked of incipient momentum. Our hero, of course, did not hear the bang. Rather, he felt it. One moment he was sitting on the bus, plugged into his music and lost in dreamscape, and the next he was hurtling forward, carried by some invisible chariot of destiny. He landed on the floor with a sound quite similar to, but in no way equivalent to, a bang. “Oh! Are you all right?” It was a woman’s voice. A meaty hand touched David’s shoulder. “That was a nasty fall, dear.” David looked up, squinting and all sorts of embarrassed. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” he said. His headphones had fallen out of

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his ears. “Looks like you’re bleeding, dear,” the woman said. She clicked her tongue. David eyed the woman. She was quite large and wearing a heavy dress and coat that only rounded her further. But she had a pleasant face in a way that reminded David of his aunt Gina, another round woman with an affinity for baking and an equal affinity for sweets. “I think I’ll be okay,” he said, staggering to his feet. Several other passengers watched him and he could see the bus driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. David touched his forehead, surprised to find that it was really quite wet. “Can I get off here?” he asked, suddenly alarmed by his head wound. Now, despite what the select embittered say about bus drivers, they really are a friendly sort. Sure, some have bad days and some are generally cranky. But on average, they are just normal people working to make a normal living, and they never intend to slight their passengers, unless those passengers really, truly deserve it. Or, of course, if those passengers try to flag down a bus from a non-existent bus stop. This driver was no different. He did not mean to cause one of his passengers harm, and he certainly was not looking for any other commotion on his bus. So, despite transport regulations, he agreed to stop the vehicle so his wounded passenger could get off. And just as David departed, the bus driver added a solemn, albeit muttered, apology. Still stunned by his head wound, David stumbled into the nearest shop, heading straight for the restroom. As it turned out, the cut was not nearly as bad as the round woman had made it out to be, so he cleaned himself up with just a rinse of water and the rub of a paper towel.

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He emerged from the restroom to find himself in a coffee shop, although it was clearly not the Muffin and Brew and it was clearly later than 2:11 in the afternoon (by four minutes, to be exact). But like many men, David was not one for superfluous exercise; one coffee shop was quite like the other, and whatever differences may have existed between them were not worth the effort of journeying back outside and walking in the cold. So he stepped forward to the front counter and squinted at the menu.

“Good morning,” said the barista.

David glanced at her briefly before looking back at the menu. The response turned out to be a mistake, however, since his eyes immediately flashed back to the barista’s face in such a way that made them flutter altogether like an epileptic’s. The crimson mark on his forehead did not help matters either.

“Are you all right?” the barista asked.

“Ah, yes!” David said. “I’m fine.” He found himself blushing as he looked into her face, so he quickly looked away. “All right then,” the barista said. She smiled, although David did not see it, given that his eyes were trained two feet to her left.

“Um, do you need more time?”

“Oh, I’ll just get a coffee,” David said.

“Small?”

“Yes, please.”

“Dark or light roast? We also have—”

“Light! Ah, yes. Light, please.”

“Great. That’ll be two.”

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David took his coffee and shuffled over to one of the empty tables, dumping his bag in a vacant chair and slipping into the other. As he took his first sip, he realized he had forgotten to add milk and sugar, but he was too embarrassed to shuffle back to the counter with his coffee. On Saturdays, David liked to read his book at the Muffin and Brew for about two hours, give or take fifteen minutes, while he enjoyed a cup of coffee, always with milk and sugar. This day had been no different—at least, not until he had knocked his head. Now, though, his thoughts were far removed from the novel in his bag. Instead, his eyes followed the barista busying herself behind the counter. There is a paradigm among men, both young and old, that baristas are equally endearing as they are impossible. It is always great fun to flirt and bat eyelashes at them, but nothing can ever come of it. At least, not for the mortal man. Men, of course, forget that baristas are human too, some female and some male—that their aprons and the counters they stand behind do not make them mythical fairies. David, unfortunately, subscribed to this paradigm. And, as we already know, our hero was quite encumbered with his past failings. He wore insecurity like an infant wears diapers: openly and with quite a bit of leakage. However, this tremendous character flaw did not prevent David from staring at and yearning for the preoccupied barista on the other side of the counter. She was a small girl—perhaps girl is not the correct word, but age is relative and difficult to discern. She was perhaps twenty, no younger but likely a few years older. She wore her brown hair in a curly bun and a pair of thick black glasses so common among folk from San Francisco. She was not thin but also not chubby. Plump might be the right word, but it always brings to mind well-off wom-

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en from the 18th century instead of the attractive alternative. So instead, we say that she had that healthy physique championed by Marilyn Monroe and leave it at that. David saw all this and more, looking at her pretty face and projecting a dozen stereotypes onto her person. She had an amazing personality, so charming and intelligent. What a wit! She was a world traveller as well, and she could speak three languages. In her free time, she watched movies, and not the sappy kind either. And she liked craft beer, because that was an essential trait in any woman of character. Obviously, David did not know if any of these things were true, but he imagined them just the same, and that was enough to elevate his simple crush into the realm of infatuation, no arrow required. This is where our romantic tale takes a wicked twist. Only moments ago, unsuspecting David Arthur White was ignorant of the barista and thus unburdened by the strange feeling now gnawing at his gut, that sensation resembling food sickness combined with a lightness of wings. His thoughts were his own, not hijacked by delusions belonging to a weaker man. But wickedness is real, manifesting in the events we call serendipity but which are truly the machinations of fate. And we all know that fate is really just three hags learning how to knit. Oblivious to the irons now clamped around his mind, David remained in the coffee shop for many minutes. We measure the passage of time by the slow migration of heat from his untouched coffee. When he finally remembered the cup sitting before him and took his first sip, he found it cold and bitter. Realizing that he had likely overstayed his visit, he gathered up his belongings and left the shop, pausing only once to send a furtive last glance at the barista. ***

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Memory is a treacherous thing, and it is quite unfortunate that the only permanence of character is shaped by its scaffolding. Pressed by the impetus of time, it fades and distorts, and with it, the truth of our character. Such is the tragedy of our brief existence. Our hero, David Arthur White, was no exception to this slow death. As the hours passed on that particular Saturday in November, the details of his first romantic joust waned to murky colours, and the two facets of his personality warred in their creative reconstruction: the hopeful romantic clashed swords with the cynical veteran bearing wounds of past defeats. And sadly, they were dark colours that finally dominated the canvas of his memory. We resume our narrative in a warm pub nestled between two small stores, both closed for the evening. David sat at a small wooden table, large enough for two, across from his friend, Anthony Bergeron. They mirrored one another in their quiet demeanors, both men grasping pints of cold lager between two hands, hunched forward as they spoke above the din of inaugurate drinkers, not yet vociferous in the early hours of the night. “You should have seen her,” David said, recalling his encounter with the barista earlier that day. “She just had this way about her.” Anthony nodded, strangely serious as he digested his friend’s story. This was a tradition of theirs, trading tales of romantic encounters with the grim countenance of soldiers reliving memories of war. Like David, Anthony was a victim of romantic tragedy, although his was of a rather peculiar nature. For a reason neither he nor David could conjure, women had always avoided him beyond the niceties of polite conversation. He was not an unattractive man, nor was he mean or abnormal in any meaningful way. But there was some invisible aura that surrounded him, unintelligible to both David and himself, and one that had proved impossible to disperse.

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Fortunately, this made him quite sympathetic to David’s tales of woe. However, and rather unfortunately, this also rendered him absolutely useless in matters of advice beyond the fueling of David’s inherent cynicism. “It’s really hard though,” Anthony said. “What could you really say to her? I mean, well, normal people don’t just hit on each other in the street. It’s awkward. And she’s a barista, for God’s sake.” “True,” David said. He peered down into the depths of his beer. “You’re right, I guess.” “Still, I guess it doesn’t hurt to try,” Anthony added in uncharacteristic optimism. said.

David brightened. “I could go back there tomorrow,” he

“Yeah.” Anthony took a sip of beer. “But what are you going to say to her?” said.

David wrinkled his nose. “That’s a really good question,” he

They continued in this manner for another hour, ordering a second and third round of drinks. Beer bloats the stomach, so they capped off the night with cocktails—whiskey for Anthony and gin and tonic for David. Stumbling out of the bar with just a little drunkenness in tow, they resumed their speculative banter. “You know, you could always try being really up front with her,” Anthony said. “Be really confident. They like that.” “They do,” David agreed with only a slight slur. He shook his head. “But I don’t know. I don’t think she was really into me.” Anthony grunted. “She’s a barista, I guess. Probably gets hit on all the time.”

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“Yeah,” David agreed. “You’re probably right.” ***

Sunday was supposed to be very much like Saturday for David. Mechanically, he rose at the same time and, usually, visited the same coffee shop. The greatest difference between Sunday and Saturday was in the evenings, however, when David bought groceries and did laundry instead of drinking and lamenting with his friend. But our love story has gained too much momentum for David to return to such a mundane timetable. Despite the pessimism that lurked within, darkening his prospects like an errant ceiling light, he deliberately switched his destination from the Muffin and Brew to the birthplace of his heinous infatuation with the barista. He entered the coffee shop at 2:09 in the afternoon, striding with purpose in a way that drew more than a few curious eyes. Bag slung over shoulder, coat done up to the topmost button and bright blue scarf wrapped around his throat, he made for an impressive figure, reminiscent of the gladiators of ancient Rome. His tongue was his spear, his knapsack his shield. He wore no armour.

“Hello,” he said even before he reached the counter.

In a major way, reality is perceived through the photons reflected from the physical world and absorbed by the flesh of our eyes. Combined with the vibrations of sound, the chemical reactions of taste and smell, and the stimulus of touch, we reconstruct reality, interpolating as we see fit. Such as it is, we juxtapose this model with the assumptions born of our distorted memories, and life is rarely as we expect it. In this way, David’s world turned from one of glorious poetry, only slightly soiled by his characteristic defeatism, to a fiery oblivion capable of rivaling the biblical apocalypse itself, for the

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barista who turned to greet him, smile ready on her lips, was not the one he remembered. To start, she was much taller, her hair also much darker and much straighter. She was much thinner too, and the fiction David immediately projected onto her was much less appealing. Altogether, she was much less than the barista from the previous day, although this opinion was bred of David’s disappointment and not from any objective evidence.

“Hi there,” she said. “What can I get for you?”

“Um, coffee, please,” he said.

She smiled encouragingly. “What size? And—”

“Small. Light roast.”

“Excellent. And would you like—”

“Just the coffee, please.”

And that was that. ***

Four months after that portentous Saturday, David deviated from the Muffin and Brew every weekend in preference of that other coffee shop, always in search of the barista so elevated in his memories. But the Fates were cruel in their intent and David’s quest failed day after day after day. Why then did destiny take it upon itself to orchestrate this romance if only to rob David of needed conclusion? Are those hands that pave our paths so malevolent that they would deliberately lead us to heartbreak, or is it simply the unguided evolution of the universe that sees us to harm through unbiased chance?

Who among us can know? We are all mortals treading the

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same road, and whether we step astray into lush pastures of fortune or trip upon buried rocks, we all reach the same destination. Again, David was no exception.

It is here that our story ends.

That is only a jest, of course. There is always another moment after this one. Such is the nature of time. The trick to telling a story, however, is to know where to stop, and this story has not yet found its satisfying end. David had now reached that level of disappointment where sickness no longer disturbs the stomach; he had accepted reality and now continued his new ritual of fruitless searching with a solemn complacency. However, this day was not a weekend, and David was nowhere near the coffee shop where he had taken ill with passion. It was March now, and snow still clung stubbornly to the ground. But winter had obviously broken, and those city folk who had taken notice now enjoyed a swelling enthusiasm for the coming spring. Even David embraced this seasonal transition, abandoning gloves and hat in defiance of the last vestiges of winter. He listened to music as he walked down the street, his gait reflecting an optimism he had only just rediscovered. And once again, our hero was unaware of the momentous powers, now mature from their conception four months ago, which rushed towards him. We said that all important things begin with an imperceptible bang, but they inevitably end with an audible one. Like many who divert their attention from reality to their electronic knickknacks, David was less than aware as he ambled along the sidewalk. With a sound quite less terrifying than the crunching of human bones, but most definitely identical to a bang, he walked headlong into another similarly encumbered pedestrian. They found themselves with arses planted in the snow, both enter-

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taining that curious look of horror and misunderstanding. “I’m sorry,” David said, scrambling to his feet and offering his hand to his victim. “No, no, I wasn’t paying attention,” she said, rising to her feet with his support. “I really should have looked where I was going.” David shook his head and chuckled. “It’s pretty embarrassing, I guess,” he said. “Well, I’m just glad no one’s hurt.”

“Yes,” she said, donning a sheepish smile.

They parted ways then, both suffering the humiliation of their blunder in their own quiet way. David, suddenly conscious of his wet bottom, began to pat his pants with his ungloved hand. It was then that he regretted not wearing gloves. And then, sixteen seconds later, while David waited at a pedestrian crosswalk for the lights to change, his befuddled mind made recognition. He turned one hundred and eighty degrees on the ball of his right foot, planted his left a pace forward in the snow, and propelled himself back the way he had come. He could see the other pair of wet jeans in the distance, already having crossed the street. Seconds counted down as the lights made the change, but David rushed across the intersection heedlessly, slowing to halt on the other side with a skid that sent him to his knees. For the second time in two minutes, he scrambled to his feet, now even wetter than before, but unembarrassed in his eagerness.

“Hello again,” he said, very nearly breathless.

“Hello,” she said back to him, slightly confused and blushing a vibrant red now.

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“You probably don’t remember me,” David said. “And there is no reason why you should. But I’d kick myself if I didn’t do this, so here it goes. You sold me a cup of coffee a few months back.” She was starting to pale now and her left foot dragged slowly backward. “I guess that comes off poorly,” David said. “Um, well, I had a cut on my forehead, and I probably came into the shop in quite a mood.” The left foot paused and something sparked in her eyes. “Yes,” she said, a smile tugging at the sides of her mouth. “I remember you.” David let out a sigh. “Well, I’m glad you don’t think I’m just a crazy guy,” he said, letting out a relieved chuckle. “Oh? Who ever said I didn’t?” she asked, but she was smiling. “So, is there something I can help you with?” David straightened up, took a deep breath, and proffered his hand. “My name’s David.”

Now grinning, the barista took his hand. “Emilee,” she said.

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The Man On The Subway Michael Baptista

Zaura Maria Machado de Vasconcelos (aged eighty-four) and her grandson Amadeus de Andrade de Vasconcelos (aged twenty-three) sat on the wide balcony having iced tea. They each sat on a chair of curly white iron-work, at a white wicker table which was covered with a crisp pink tablecloth. The table had a small arrangement of light blue hydrangeas. Along with their iced tea they were eating fresh custard tarts of a very, very delicate yellow colour that were generously sprinkled with cinnamon and white sugar. There were a dozen of these tarts and they were heaped in a pyramid upon a white porcelain plate covered with a blue-relief picture of a caravel boat riding a huge wave during a storm at sea. “Grandma,” began Amadeus, while he picked up a custard tart, “What are you thinking about? You have said nothing since we sat down.”

“Oh? Sorry, my son, I am not here today.”

“Grandma! What is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. I am just thinking about something from a long, long time ago. You know, my son, as we get older the past—it blends in with the present! Now, I am not crazy! Nor am I getting those diseases that people get when they are old and have muddled minds! But—you know—sometimes I get these flashes and I remember things that I have not thought about in years. It is unsettling.” “Grandma!”

“Grandma what? This is what being old is. I am fine.” Zaura

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turned to Leninha, the table-maid, and said: “Leninha, can you bring me my yellow fan? I think it is in the blue living room.” Leninha bowed and left. Amadeus watched her walk away. He eyed the roundness of Leninha’s backside and thought about a possible delicious rubbing of her inner thighs. His mouth hung open as he did this. Zaura wordlessly disapproved. Silently, Amadeus and Zaura sat staring out at the sea, the beach covered with ant-people, and the busy palm-lined Avenida Marginal; each picked up custard tart after custard tart and each sipped their iced tea rhythmically. Nothing was said until, five minutes later (record time for a house of that size), Leninha reappeared. Rosy-cheeked and out of breath, she passed Zaura her fan. “Thank you Leninha. You may go now,” said Zaura. Leninha bowed and left. Zaura unfastened the yellow fan’s clasp and fanned herself. Then she turned to Amadeus and said: “You are normally so curious. Do you not want to know what has been distracting my thoughts? I will tell you!” “Yes, Grandma I do! But I did not want to push for anything.” “Ai Amadeus, you are considerate of your poor old grandmother. Well, did you know that your grandfather—God rest his soul and may he be in Heaven—and I went to New York once? In 1980 I think, any ways, it was after coming back from Brazil and on the way back to Portugal we stopped in America. That was thirty…”

“If it was in 1980 that was thirty-five years ago.”

“Ai, of course! Yes, we stopped in New York and, while we were there, we did everything people visiting in New York do…we stayed in some beautiful hotel and walked through that big park and did all the other things except riding the subway—your grandfather would not permit it! He said it was too dangerous and, of course, he believed it was not proper for people of our standing to

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be doing something like that. But I desperately wanted to.” Zaura picked up her fan again and Amadeus picked up the last custard tart. At the exact moment she unclasped the fan and began fanning herself, Amadeus bit into the custard tart. Neither of them were looking at the other. But they were not looking at the view either. Instead, they looked at the table, its cups of iced tea and the empty plate with flakes of pastry sitting delicately upon the painted blue waves and caravel. “Is that the whole memory? Is that what is bothering you? That you never got to ride the subway in New York City?” “No, no,” said Zaura as she looked up and caught Amadeus’s eyes. They stared at each other for about three minutes not saying anything; Zaura was watching something occur behind her eyes and Amadeus was not sure what to say or do as she did this. So, he waited and picked at the pastry flakes upon the waves. (Occasionally, he would put one of the flakes in his mouth but, while doing so, he did not break eye contact with his grandmother.) After these three minutes of eye contact, Zaura sighed and said: “I did ride the subway.” Then, she—with the inarticulate air of someone greatly defeated—looked out at the view from the balcony. “And? What happened? Did grandfather find out?” Amadeus kept on looking at his grandmother. He was suddenly very much aware of her delicate bone-structure and began imagining what she would have looked like thirty-five years ago—before the knifings of time had carved her face into its present form. He had seen a picture of her from that time wearing a bulky white fur coat, golden loop earrings, and her hair pulled back with a golden Macanese comb. And now, while trying to imagine her younger, he could only see her as she was in that photograph. “No, he never did. I went on the subway one day while your grandfather went out to meet some friends at another hotel’s bar, and he had decided that I was to go to that big white art gallery that

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is designed like a big spiral.” As she said this, Zaura saw herself as she was that day. She had been wearing sunglasses, pearl earrings and a trench coat with her hair beneath a silk handkerchief patterned with white roses. “I paid Rosinha—the maid that had come with us—to say nothing about it and not accompany me like your grandfather had ordered. Merely, she stayed behind and I left the hotel alone and went down to the subway. I felt so free, everything was pulsating with some sort of electric energy. The subway was awful and dirty and scary, but I felt so happy. It was probably one of the happiest moments in my life. My son, it was so beautiful.” Zaura held her hands up in front of herself like a mime leaning against a sturdy wall of air. “Grandma, where did you go?” Amadeus imagined his grandmother sitting amongst dirty homeless men with her white fur coat on a screeching and lurching subway car. “I went everywhere and nowhere. I just rode the subway for hours without getting off. I saw so many different people. No one cared who I was and no one paid me any attention!” “Hours? How long was grandfather supposed to be at the bar?” “Well, you see that is exactly it. At one point I looked at my watch and realized I only had less than an hour to head back to the hotel…so I had to…I had a map with me you see…I had planned out my trip days before in secret…I had to get back and because of this I had to change trains somewhere…I don’t remember where. Any way, I got off one train and walked across the platform and I saw the train I needed to get on and its door was closing… So I ran to it and stuck my arm in-between the doors. Some nice man pried it open for me and I got on the train. But then the train didn’t move. Some guards came and asked who was the one who had stopped these doors from closing and I understood them but I didn’t say anything. Finally, the man—I will never forget this—

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stepped forward and, looking me right in the eye, said that he had done it. They took him away. The doors closed and the train pulled away. I felt awful. I felt that I shouldn’t have let him do that for me…” “Oh Grandma.” Amadeus looked at Zaura; she had tears in her eyes and was fanning herself. “I wonder what happened to that man. I wish I could see him again and apologize.”

“I am sure he was fine and is fine like you are today too.”

“I hope so. But sometimes, I think of him and I just wonder.” Zaura looked out at the view and said no more. Amadeus knew intuitively that he shouldn’t speak. So they sat in silence for fifteen minutes looking at the view, then—still saying nothing— they got up and went inside. Leninha promptly came outside and took away the two cups and the plate. Before turning her back to the view, she paused and sighed. After Leninha left, a fiery ocean breeze tore across the balcony and the cloth blew up over the table, engulfing the hydrangeas in a vast pink solitude.

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Along the Coast Natasha Ramoutar

When I was nine years old, my parents bought me an old map of the city from a second hand shop. It was dated 1901 on thin, brown paper with edges that curled like a smile. I liked to trace my fingers across the roads, feeling the indents in the page under North Street. I would press my nose against Cogswell Street, as though trying to smell the scents of the past. Although the cartographers have done an excellent job at mapping the city, the region along the waterfront was barren. I was an ocean child, spending much of my time along the coast. I would spend afternoons skipping stones and watching the sun descend below the horizon. It seemed natural that I would take to finishing the map for them, exploring each nook and cranny for future generations. It was my fourth day of exploration when I encountered it. I was mapping the northern edges, making my way across the cliffs when I stumbled upon the hollow area. It was a gouged section in the rocks, a mid-sized opening where water trickled in. Hearing a noise, I raised my brows. “Hello?” I called. My voice echoed back from the inside of the cave. I climbed in, walking slowly forward. Ahead of me, I could see a tall figure on four legs.

“Hello?” My voice was soft now, a curious whisper.

I wish I could recreate the feeling of seeing it for the first time, the way it stuttered my heartbeat and stalled my breath. It appeared as a horse, four strong, sturdy legs bearing a muscular torso. Its neck was slender, leading to pointed ears and two dark eyes.

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Dark green hair sprouted along its body, like reeds in a pond. “Where did you come from?” I asked, holding out my hand. It neared slowly and took in the scent of my skin, a mixture of soft baby powder and sharp lemon soap. The horse shook its long mane, flicking water at every angle. I brushed my hand along its back, listening to its steady breathing. When I told my father about the water horse that evening, he chuckled and tousled my red hair. “Maggie,” he said, calling to my mother. “Seems Lizzy has been seeing kelpies.” My mother threw her head back, letting out a roar of laughter. “Must’ve followed our grandparents down here, eh?”

“It’s real!” I protested.

“I’m sure it is, kiddo.” My father rested his calloused hands on my shoulders. “Just be careful out there. Don’t play by the cliff. Wouldn’t want ya getting hurt.” But I was nine years old, stubborn and determined, and kept going to the cave every evening to see the creature. I would braid its hair and feed it apples. I would sit on its back as it trotted close to the cave, its hooves concealed by the water below. We would watch the sun dip below the horizon, marking the time when I would have to return home. It was on an ordinary evening like this that it happened. I was plaiting the kelpie’s hair in the cave, folding each piece over into a fishtail braid, when I heard the rocks shift. I never did find out whether they were pushed or fell due to natural erosion, but debris began to tumble down around us. The shards scraped my skin and bounced off my head. Rising to my feet, I attempted to get to the mouth of the cave. I felt a wet nose on my back through my t-shirt

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as I was pushed forward. I turned around quickly to call for the kelpie, but the rocks continued to fall. It whinnied once and turned away, as if to tell me to leave. As I reached out my hand, the debris sealed off the entrance of the cave tightly. I tugged at the rocks, a fruitless attempt at creating an opening. When I got home, I begged my parents to help excavate the cave, but they were furious. My mother disinfected and bandaged each scrape while my father scolded me for disobeying him. They forbade me from playing along the coast alone, but I still snuck out periodically. There was never anything visible when I peeked through the crevices between the debris. I pressed my ear against the rocks and strained to listen, hearing nothing but the water drip. Two years ago, I moved to Toronto. Although I’ve trailed along the coast many times, following it down from the rocky Scarborough Bluffs to the downtown core at Harbourfront, I’ve never found a place quite like the one back in Halifax. The only creatures I find in nooks and crannies are gulls or stray dogs. Whenever I return home, I make a trip to the shore. I sit by the edge of the water and watch as the tide ebbs and flows. Sometimes, when I go by the kelpie’s cave, I think I can hear its whinny among the cascading waves. Sometimes the noise rises, carried off by gusts of wind to some far-off land.

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Eliza

Amy Kalbun She carries her husband’s broken memories in a box across the burnt moonscape of the Nevada desert. Vincent, her husband, had hewn the box from a slab of dark cedar, polishing the wood so its whorled knots and smooth grain swirled and streaked like frozen currents. It gleams in the noonday sun, its lustrous lid reflecting daggers of light into her watery green eyes. She remembers Vin giving her this box. It was the day after their wedding, the first day in their new home. Vin approached her as she sat on the floor arranging pots and pans in a lower kitchen cupboard, a large, unwieldy parcel under his arm. Wordlessly, he placed it before her, slipping it into the stream of sunlight spilling in from the window. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling away the brown paper and gasping at the radiance of the burnished wood beneath. “Your trousseau,” he explained, his gently accented voice like a flickering flame. “Not full, clearly. But you will fix that soon, I know, with all your trinkets.” He understood. He understood what it had been like for her to have no mother to prepare a trousseau, no father to give her away at the altar. He too had listened to the other town women boast about their own grand weddings, filled with family and friends, the stacks of linens and delicate china, making her and Vin’s simple ceremony seem like the sad marriage of two desperate orphans, both lost and alone.

“Thank you, Vin,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

He nodded, his sharp blue eyes softened by the rare flush in

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his cheeks. The sun’s scorch yanks her from her reverie, burning her exposed ears and the flesh of her forearms. She wishes she’d worn a broader-brimmed hat. But how could she have imagined what it meant to stand in the desert’s wide, baking palm, as thick fingers of heat curled into a molten fist? She, who had barely ventured from her small Ontario hometown, only now experiencing this oppressive American burn. Vin had been the traveller. By the time he was twenty, he’d ridden World War Two’s current from Poland to Italy to Britain, before finally washing up on Canadian shores. But he never spoke of his past. The closest she ever came to learning of his history was at night, when his screams jolted her from her own dreamless sleep. She would pad across the hall to the spare room where he slept to find him writhing in a nightmare’s claws, face moistened by tears and starlight streaming in from the window. “Vin?” she’d gently tap his leg, and he would wrench free, limbs going limp as history’s phantoms let him loose. “Go back to bed,” he’d order, glaring even as he gasped for air. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it. I have no love for my past. All I want now is to forget.” And such was their life, after their children left home. She cooked, cleaned, gardened, helped with church rummage sales, working her way into the community where she felt she never quite belonged. He toiled in his woodworking studio in their backyard, stayed up late with a bottle of red wine and a mathematics book, jazz playing in the background, the ghost of a smile haunting his lips. Like her, he’d never finished high school; unlike her, he had a head for numbers, pouring over library books of complex equations. Sometimes she’d watch him from the shadow of the hallway, as a trumpet solo did a striptease in the blue evening air, and num-

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bers danced behind his eyes. They were partners in otherness, yet worlds apart. Vin was never one for housework, so when he began forgetting to put away the milk, or to take off his boots before coming inside, she thought nothing of it. Only when she saw him sitting with his calculus book, brow furrowed as he struggled to untangle the equations, did she begin to worry. As she stands alone in the desert, sweat brewing in her armpits and loosening her grip on the box, she remembers taking Vin to the doctor’s office to receive his diagnosis, after he’d forgotten about the first three appointments she’d booked. The two of them had sat stiff and stunned as the doctor slid information brochures across the desk and babbled about the possibility of new medical developments and long-term care facilities. Delicately, Vin had picked up a gaudy pamphlet entitled “Living With Memory Loss”, slashing the doctor with a steel-cut scowl as he slowly shredded the glossy paper. The doctor gaped, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, words whisked away by the ferocity of Vin’s glare. “No.” Vin’s voice was a barely-restrained blaze. “I will not let this happen.” He tried not to let it happen, and for a while, she almost believed it was working. He developed a note system, writing reminders on shredded scraps of paper and putting them in his pockets, checking later to see what he might’ve forgotten. Clean workshop. Put away milk. Return library books. But as his condition worsened, the notes became simpler, as more memories slipped away, and he struggled to remember names, faces, meanings. Wood. Milk. Library. He gave up on his math books and lost interest in jazz. One time, when she was making caramel for Vin’s dessert, he called her into the living room and asked who the children were in the framed photographs.

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“They’re our children, Vin!” she exclaimed, feeling something collapse inside her. “Michael, Linda, Angela, Paul. How can you not remember them? If you can’t remember your own children…? Vin? Do you…do you even remember me?” He looked at her with moon-wide eyes, confused and desperate and pleading. She wanted to tell him that she was the one who cooked and cleaned, helped him dress and defecate, stopped him wandering the streets, and sat with him at night as he thrashed in the throes of his own harrowing history, which even now, refused to fade. She wanted to tell him that she felt robbed of a husband she’d never truly known: her partner in otherness, the only person she’d thought a greater outcast than herself.

Instead, she simply whispered, “I’m your wife. Eliza.”

He watched a tear trickle down her cheek, crest her lip and dangle from the tip of her chin, before tentatively slipping an arm around her shoulders and letting her lean into his chest. She breathed in the bittersweet scent of her burning caramel wafting in from the kitchen as Vin murmured in her ear. “Eliza. Eliza, Michael, Linda, Angela, Paul.” A mantra of momentary lucidity, as he reached around her with his other arm to scribble down the names. His scraps are what she carries now across the Nevada moonscape. The night after Vin’s funeral, she crept into his room, unable to sleep. She lay on the bed, inhaling his smell and gazing at his pictures of the American Southwest, a place he’d always dreamed of visiting for its vast space and expansive sky. Beneath her, she felt a crinkling, and lifted the covers to find several shreds of paper. She searched the room more closely, finding more scraps in the closet, inside drawers, tucked in other quiet yet quotidian places she’d never looked before. They contained the usual jumble

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of fragmented thoughts, with one word appearing again and again: Eliza. And now she is here, in the place Vin always dreamed of visiting, bouquets of clouds blossoming above the rosy temples of rock. She feels a strong wind sweeping up from the west, dry as old bones and as fervent as a loverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s embrace. She lifts the lid of her trousseau, and the last shreds of Vinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shattered memory fly out. Sugar. Farm. Poland. Wood. Calculus. Michael. Linda. Angela. Paul. Eliza. Eliza. Eliza.

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Me and Betty-Lou Alisa Severina

I Betty-Lou Varnes is my boyfriend’s grandma. She lives in Florida in a big orange house. It has a pleasant decor but recently I learned it was bought that way. One time, she was particularly loopy off her medication and started to point to walls at six in the morning, saying she’d wanted them painted green and how she detested its current light orange colour. My boyfriend’s name is Frank. The members of his family each have their own particular issue with Betty-Lou. Certainly her husband does. Frank’s family does not mind her husband, the grandpa. From what I can tell, it’s because he’s quiet, calm, and takes care of himself. If you were to ask the family, they’d say it was because he was a self-made man that retired at fifty. Their only qualm was that he had to take care of his annoying wife and her annoying conditions. Betty-Lou was not like her husband. “Well, even the doctors have said it’s all in her head,” Mary said, puffing on the spliff. We were driving to the beach. Her husband took the spliff offered to him. “Honey, it’s called I-need-attention-itis. There’s no cure for that.” Betty-Lou, amongst other things, was bad with an iPad and iPhone. She refused to get a cellphone more suitable for her age. One with big buttons and no apps. Mary already taught her how to use her iPad last year, and now she was annoyed because she had to teach her how to use an iPhone. “It’s exactly the same,” she said. “No, Mom, look—see where it says, slide to answer? See that? No, right here. See it? Well? Slide to answer. That’s it. Look! You did it.”

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Betty-Lou was nodding, muttering something to herself. My boyfriend’s mom started to chuckle. She looked me straight in the face and rolled her eyes. God, am I right? His youngest brother always talks about the time they saw bestiality porn in her browser history. They liked to imitate her indignance. Screechy-voiced, Jonathan would go: “‘Oh—well, oh my God. I didn’t put that there! Mary, I swear to God—I have no idea how it happened. It’s like—’ Grandma. You have a search history. Everything you’ve ever seen is right here. If it’s on your history, someone visited that site.” The middle brother, Henry, who generally kept to himself, tended to say two things about each grandparent. “Grandpa’s chill. Grandma is crazy.” Grandpa, or Al Varnes, is chill. At least, he acts like it. He doesn’t get mad when we’re doing flips in their bathtub of a pool, leaving drinks out in the living room, eating his favourite foods, or getting rowdy and drunk in the restaurants he pays for. Sometimes he gets a little strange with me, making jokes about seeing me naked or saying I have nice gams. Only one thing annoys him: being late. As a result, he makes it his goal to be at least thirty minutes early to any event. Being twenty minutes early means you’re late. The one time he screamed at me was when we were at risk of being late for a New Year’s Eve dinner. I was putting on makeup in Betty-Lou’s gorgeous, well-lit bathroom. She was fumbling with her clasp, avoiding looking in the mirror. I knew why. I was twenty-four, wearing a revealing one-piece pantsuit, and still high and glowing on LSD after a day at the beach. She was seventy-nine; in seven hours she would be eighty. She couldn’t wear nice shoes because her feet “burned,” so she was wearing stretchy slippers with a four-hundred dollar black dress. Her hair was un-

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brushed, but it was short and thinning, so you could barely notice. She was only wearing one piece of jewelry and a golden watch I had helped her put on. Her arms and legs were covered in bloody scabs because the medication made her itchy, but painless. The result was potent: a gross mishmash of scratching without ever feeling your nail reach blood. She never left the house, so this was it for her. This was the best it got, and I know that’s why she refused to look at her reflection.

“You look so nice,” I cooed.

She scoffed, glancing at me. “Oh, please.”

I felt the need to get her to hear it. “No, really. You look very nice. Trust me. I’m good with this sort of stuff. The black dress fits well. It was worth the four-hundred.”

“Al doesn’t think so.”

“Men don’t always know about this sort of stuff. Trust me, that dress is awesome. You look very well put together. Only one thing is missing. Lipstick.”

She gave me a look.

“You know, I never wear makeup, but my friend, Lucy, says that I have perfect skin, as do the doctors—they say my skin’s the best they’ve ever seen. I tell them, well, good, because I never wore makeup anyways, so that’s not surprising to hear! I never wear mascara either, not anymore anyways, because it hurts my eyes, you know? The one thing I asked Al to buy me was lipstick—so it’s funny you should say that, because that’s all I’d be willing to wear.”

“I have the perfect lipstick for your outfit.”

“Oh, yeah? What is it?”

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“Red.” She raised an eyebrow. “Is it red-red? I don’t like that stuff that says it’s red, but it’s really not.” “The brand is literally called Really Red. Here, let’s put it on—”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Come on. It’ll be fun. It’s your birthday! You should wear some pretty lipstick.” She fussed for a few more minutes about the colour and about the fact that she was probably going to take it off by accident, but I could tell she was happy when I gave her the lipstick and watched her apply it. She put it on carelessly, so most of it smeared on her bottom lip. Then she clamped her hands down on her dress, sighed, and looked back at me, disgruntled.

“There. You happy now?”

I smiled. “Yes. You look very pretty.”

“Oh, please.”

“You do!” I rubbed off the red that was in the corner of her mouth. “Just a little smidge there. Perfect. Now look.” She turned to look at herself. For a moment, she saw the bright colour and how it affected her complexion, the colour of her hair. Then she was back to looking sullen.

“I’m still old.”

“So? Doesn’t mean you can’t look good.”

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She smiled. “Oh, you’re sweet.”

That was when Al Varnes marched in. He stared at the two of us. “You two are still here? Come on, get moving, everyone’s waiting in the car.”

“Al, she’s been giving me a makeover. Look at my lips, Al.”

He stared at the red gash on her face. “Oh. What are you wearing that stuff for?”

She shrugged.

“You were prettier without it anyways,” he said gruffly, and then told both of us to leave.

“Just a second,” I said. “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned loudly. “Well, hurry up.” The two left and I heard the door shut. I was all alone in the house. I opened the medicine cabinet and reached for the oxycodone bottle that belonged to Betty-Lou. I took the last three pills, replaced them with three generic ibuprofen, and put the bottle back. I’d have felt worse if she didn’t have a whole bottle locked up in the safe, one that she routinely forgot to close. II One day, the whole house was doing their own thing. The parents were at the community pool, drinking, wondering why their kids were so uninvolved and lazy. The kids—Jonathan, Henry, Frank, and I—were all in the house, doing our respective things. Jonathan was playing video games. Henry was Skyping with his girlfriend back in Boulder. Frank was watching Jonathan play. Al Varnes was reading a newspaper on the pool patio, and Betty-Lou

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was lying in her bed. I said I would play video games, but what I really wanted was more of her drugs. I snuck into her bathroom and saw the big bottle with the unending supply of percocets. I stole about 12, swallowed six, and then began to sneak out.

“Al?” a voice called out.

I froze.

“No, it’s not Al. It’s me—Lisa. I was just using your washroom to put on some makeup. Sorry if I woke you.”

“No, no, it’s OK. I wasn’t asleep anyways. I was resting.”

I entered her room. She was, indeed, just lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her room was dark; the blinds were pulled down. It was sunny and hot outside but she kept it chilly because she said her feet burned. I remembered Frank’s words on the beach. I was starting to feel high, and I decided to use it for good.

“What are your plans for today?”

She looked off to the side. “Oh, not much. I’m just trying to get some rest. Mary said she would help me learn that darn phone, but she’s off somewhere.”

“Do you want to play Concept with me and Frank?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a board game. You’d like it. It forces you to think critically.”

“Maybe. We’ll see how I feel.”

I wondered how much pride it took to pretend like you were too busy to spend time with the kids you flew out to your house for

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Christmas. Everyone else may have had a complicated relationship with her, but not me. I had no memories. I had no obligations. I was just some girl— a stranger to the family, and the love of one young man who wasn’t very popular himself. And Betty-Lou was always alone, and in the cold dark.

“At least you have your books,” I said.

“What?” “I said, at least you have books. Books are great. They keep your mind sharp. I’m glad you read a lot.”

“Yeah, they’re great,” she says.

“I’m going to go now. You should play with us, though, if you’re up for it.”

“Oh, alright. I’ll come out in a bit.”

She never came out, and I was too scared to go back in again. III On Christmas day, Betty Lou was outside on the patio, staring at the sky. Her frail, New Jersey voice floated into the foyer.

“Look, everybody! It’s so beautiful.”

Nobody came out.

“Oh my gosh, the clouds are just gorgeous. Al. Al! Come out and look.” Al Varnes continued to stare at his newspaper. In sing-song, he responded, “Yes, my dear. Just one second.” He winked at Jonathan, who started laughing.

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I came outside. She looked a little disappointed that it was just me. it is.”

“Oh, good, you’re here. Look at the sky. Look at how pretty

I was on my second acid trip, and it was indeed beautiful. Pink and neon blue, with inflamed clouds scratched across the sky by God’s fat fingers.

“It’s beautiful. Look at how red the horizon is.”

“Oh gosh, I know. I’ve never seen it look so nice.”

I nod. “You know what’s crazy? This happens every day.”

She understood. “That’s true. It does.” IV

“She’s so lonely, Jonathan,” Frank said. “She’s so fucking lonely that she has to fake a seizure in order to get any kind of real attention. Otherwise, we’re always just ignoring her or calling her crazy.” Jonathan, who was sixteen, looked guilty. “But she’s so annoying. She can’t even use a cellphone.” “Yes, she can, Jonathan. She pretends she can’t so she can get Mom to hang out with her. Mom’s an asshole for not seeing that.” Henry said, “Well, what about all those times grandma brought up mean shit about Grandpa? Like, at the dinner table?”

“What mean shit?”

“Like anything. Like about how he flirted with some waitress once, or how he lost money on a bad investment he made. She tries to embarrass him.”

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“She’s just doing that to get attention. She’s not used to having people listen to her.”

“There are better ways to get attention.”

Frank started to draw aimless spirals in the sand with a finger. “Look, I’m not saying that’s not annoying. I’m just saying— think about her life. She was a housewife who never worked a day in her life, never had any real friends, and couldn’t even have kids. That’s, like, the one thing women were good for back in her day, and she couldn’t even do that. Nobody ever listened to her. Nobody took her seriously. She was just some rich guy’s wife. She was always alone.”

“Yeah, but, Grandpa took care of her.”

“Yeah, he threw money at her, but he never listened to her. He cheated on her and she still stayed with him because what else could she do? She can’t get a job. She can’t talk to anyone. The only thing she’s good at is Bridge, and now her club doesn’t want her to hang out with them anymore because she’s too annoying there as well. She talks so much shit because she finally can now that she’s old and dying. She’s saying everything she can say because she’s on this drug that disinhibits her and Grandpa can always take out his hearing aids.” His brothers started to laugh. I looked at the sea. I imagined being her age, except in a different place. I imagined staying at home while my boyfriend left the house. I don’t have school; I don’t work in the emergency department. I don’t read Nabokov and then argue about the unreliable narrator in my tutorial group. I don’t have professors mark my essays, critiquing and rewarding what was good and bad. I don’t have a mother pushing me to find a career I love. Worst of all, I expect nothing of myself. I just drift.

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I looked at the guys. “She told me something sad yesterday. She said, ‘I was going to be a chemist. But then I got married.’”

Henry and Jonathan laughed.

Henry says: “Well, the world lost a great mind with that. Betty-Lou Varnes, the prize-winning chemist.” I started laughing too, but I felt sad about it. In fact, I felt ugly on the inside because I can’t fathom a world where Betty-Lou Varnes has a doctorate in chemistry, working a lab somewhere. The image amused me, the wording amused me, and the sheer impossibility of such a scenario weighed down on me. Nobody laughs when I tell them I want to be a writer.

At least not to my face. V

During Christmas dinner, Frank and I had gotten quite drunk. Henry had helped his parents cook the meal. It was something we never did in my house because my parents were divorced. Not only was there a turkey, but honest-to-god mint jelly. To me, it looked like the food was modelled after some quintessential American movie about Christmas. Needless to say, I enjoyed the stuffing. “Thanks for hanging out with Grandma so much,” Frank’s dad told me earlier that morning.

“Yeah, it’s really nice of you, Lisa.” Mary added.

I shrugged. “It’s no problem. She’s fun.”

Bernie smiled as if I told him the cancer treatment was going well.

“You’re doing good, kiddo. What can I say?”

During dinner, Frank was trying to convince his grandpar-

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ents he remembered segregation.

“Don’t you remember, Grandma? It was around in the 90s.”

Both of his grandparents looked confused. The rest of the table was holding in their laughter, or their dismay.

“No—no, that can’t be right. The 90s? Are you sure?”

Frank slammed his cutlery down.

“Yeah, Grandma. I remember when the bathrooms were for blacks and whites only.”

“No, that’s baloney,” Al Varnes said.

“It’s true, Grandpa! Why would I make something up like that? Dad! Back me up on this. You remember, don’t you?”

I saw his father grinning, swaying uncomfortably.

“No, Frank, no I do not.”

late.”

“I knew it,” Betty-Lou said. “I knew it wasn’t around that

“You fucking asshole,” Jonathan laughed.

“I remember segregation,” Betty-Lou said matter-of-factly. “I remember it very well. I had lots of black friends, you know? And I never understood it. I always thought it was just the silliest thing.”

“It’s quite silly,” I nodded.

“Do you remember?” Al Varnes eyed me, smiling toothily.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m ninety-seven.”

He chuckled. “You look pretty good for your age.”

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“Al,” Betty-Lou said.

He cleared his throat.

Betty-Lou continued: “Anyways, like I was saying, I remember that and I thought it was just ridiculous. I don’t understand this new trend though. The whole… cross-dressing thing. I mean, that’s just a little much, you know?” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Are you talking about transgendered people?” Jonathan looked embarrassed. “Grandma, don’t be so ignorant. There’s nothing wrong with them.” She raised her hands defensively. “I’m not saying there’s something wrong! I’m saying I’d like to, you know, know if they’re in the bathroom next to me. I mean, what if I’m in the stall, and next to me is a man? What am I supposed to think?” Bernie cleared his throat. “I think you should say, ‘Who cares?’”

“But how can I? There’s a man in the woman’s bathroom.”

“Mom, I think that’s enough.” Mary took a swig of her wine.

“I understand what you’re saying,” I told Betty-Lou. “But you have to realize that they don’t feel like men. They feel like women. And they want to be treated like women.” “That’s just crazy to me,” she said. “There’s a man with his, you know, stuff out, in the bathroom right next to me! He’s standing.” “But there’s a wall separating you two,” Jonathan said. “Why do you care?”

“Grandma, if he was sitting down, would you care?” Frank

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asked.

She thought about it for a moment. “No, I suppose not.” VI

One night, the family was watching football in the living room and I decided to help myself to more of Betty-Lou’s medication. Like her, something in me burned, but it wasn’t my feet. “Do you like the show?” I asked, coming out of her bathroom. ing.”

“What? Oh, yeah, the show. Yeah, I think it’s really interest-

“What episode are you on?”

“The one where he opens the guy’s brain up. And he makes him cry when he touches a part of his brain, because he starts to remember something.” I sat down on the edge of the bed. Clive Owen was dissecting a pig on a table.

“God, I love Clive Owen.”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s really fantastic. Have you seen this episode?” “Vaguely,” I said. I was really high at the time. “Do you mind if I sit down and watch it with you?” big.”

She looked surprised at the offer. “Sure, yeah. The bed’s so

I lay down next to her, and it felt oddly comforting. The room was nicer at night.

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“Why aren’t you out with the rest of them?”

I shrugged. “I’m not a fan of football.”

“Yeah. Me neither.”

“I’d rather watch The Knick or read my book.”

“Oh, me too.”

“I wish I had a room this big back home. I don’t have my own space.”

“Yeah, it’s a nice room.”

We watched the show. I told her not to close her eyes during the gory scenes, and she listened.

VII

Frank was tearing up.

“I don’t like the way they talk about you,” he said. “It’s so unfair. They’re so stupid.” “It’s OK,” I said. “I mean, I wish they didn’t. As long as Jonathan likes me, I’m OK.”

“He likes you.”

“And your grandma seems to like me too. I can’t tell.”

“Don’t worry. As long as anyone’s giving her attention, she likes them.” “She’s really not that bad. I hate it when they thank me for hanging out with her. Like I’m taking one for the Betty-Lou team.”

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“I know. They’re stupid.”

“Like your mom is any less annoying. Or like your grandpa’s not this massive dick.”

“I know.” He sighed.

I leaned back on our air mattress and stared at the room. Books lined the shelves. Books Betty-Lou had read. She had read a lot. She wasn’t lying about that. “I hope she reads the book we gave her,” Frank said, hugging me gently.

“Me too,” I said. “I hope she gets it.”

“She will,” he said. VIII

On the eve of Betty-Lou’s birthday, she came out at 2 AM to see me, Frank, and his brothers all watching television. She looked anxious.

“Hello, everybody,” she said.

“Hi, Grandma,” Henry said.

“Hi, Grandma,” Jonathan said.

She started to tear up.

“Grandma, what’s wrong?” Frank asked.

“Oh, nothing. I’m just feeling a little sad, is all.”

“Why?” Jonathan asked.

She waved him off. “Oh, you’re too young.”

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“Talk to us,” I said.

“No, no. I just came out to say goodnight.”

Frank stood up. He came up to her and gave her a big hug.

She cried happily. “Oh, Frankie, thank you.”

“Of course, grandma. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s just… well… I don’t want to be 80.”

“Grandma,” Frank said. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” Betty-Lou shook her head. “I just hope everyone’s having a spectacular time.” We were playing video games in a small suburb in Florida. We were eating pretzels.

“Everything’s fine,” Frank said.

“Oh, good, good.”

She was still tearing up.

“Come here, Jonathan, let me give you a kiss goodnight.”

He didn’t stand up, but raised his arms for a hug. She leaned in and planted a wet kiss on his lips.

“I don’t want to be eighty,” she said.

She returned back to her cold, dark room. Jonathan made a joke about the kiss. Henry shook his head wisely. I didn’t say anything.

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