I blink moisture from my eyes and take a shaky breath as I focus on the road ahead. The February sky is thick with gunmetal-gray clouds, and skeletal oak trees line the quiet streets of Clearbook, my hometown. It’s not a happy place for me. I had a murky childhood that I don’t dwell on, but being here, it’s hard not to see memories when I drive past the bar, the bowling alley, the church, and the street where I grew up.
I slide one hand into my hoodie pouch, fingering the ridges of my mom’s red thirty-day sobriety chip. Thirty days. It was the longest she had ever stayed completely clean, and it was the best month of my life. We went to Cannon Beach and spent two weeks exploring tide pools, eating saltwater taffy, and reading on the beach, our bare toes buried in the soft sand. I haven’t been back since.
I glance at the delicate bracelet on my right wrist, the little gems twinkling as I move the steering wheel to turn onto the highway that leads out of town. My mom bought it on that trip, and it always reminded me that there was hope for our relationship. Even though now it feels tarnished. I haven’t taken it off since I found it going through her shit at the nursing home.
Outside the city limits, I wind my way through the pine-shrouded countryside until I hit I-5 and take the interstate north toward the Canadian border.
My life has been a complete mess the past two months.
After three exhausting weeks of visiting my mom in hospice, I was canned from my teaching job at the community college the same day she died.
Well, okay, I waslaid off.
Whatever.
The dean called to give me his condolences and in the same breath told me that funding had been cut for the theater program.
And it gets better.
I broke up with my long-time girlfriend, Anna, later that night. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. We had been growing apart for the previous six months, and I was shouldering the emotional burden of my mother’s decline on my own.
Like always.
It wasn’t Anna’s fault. She tried to be what I needed, but, in the end, I didn’t need her.
I mask well to the outside world, even with my closest friends, but inside, my head is pure anxiety and chaos. It’s like that line fromTitanicwhen Rose is boarding the ship: “Outwardly, I was everything a well-brought-up-girl should be. Inside, I was screaming.”
I kind of disappeared for a couple months after my mom died, living with a family I knew from work. My best friend, Charlie, is the only person I kept in contact with, and only by text to let her know I was okay.
I was hiding from myself and also fromhim:my stepfather, Dennis Abrams.
I don’t know why, but my mom never updated her will to include the bastard, probably because she was depressed and drunk out of her mind most of the time. Dennis was furious when he found out. He called and texted so many times, threatening to contest the will. He finally tracked me down a couple nights ago in the Costco parking lot, ranting and raving about needing money to pay off his debts.
I hate to admit that he scares me, but he does. He’s been controlling me through fear ever since I met him when I was ten. But I’m not having that anymore, so I ran again before hecould try anything. From what I understand, if he wants to contest Daisy’s will, he has four months from the date of her death to serve me papers. I’m not entirely sure why he didn’t give them to me the night he tracked me down—it’s the reason I started hiding to begin with—but I knew then that if I wanted to protect my mom’s wishes, I had to make a more permanent move.
Another country seems ideal.
If I can just wait Dennis out for another two months, his claim will be null and void. I don’t care about my mom’s money, but I definitely don’t want him to have it. My family is old money, so it’s not a small chunk of change—like millions—especially after most of my mom’s assets were liquidated when she was moved to hospice. Dennis is a seedy fuck who pretends to have access to all these powerful connections, but really he’s just their pawn, and his bad debt will probably be the death of him.
He deserves it.
Once I cross the border into Canada, the Vancouver city lights sit bright on the horizon.
I have a plan. Sort of.
Most people don’t know I’m a dual citizen, but I was born in Canada. My mom met my biological father when she was nineteen. It’s not uncommon for Americans living close to the border to drive north where the drinking age is lower, and this was one of those times. My mom described their night together like it was some sort of epic instalove story, but it just sounded like drunk, horny teenagers fucking to me.
After she found out she was pregnant, my mom traveled back and forth a lot but happened to go into labor early while she was on the north side of the border. Looking at my life now, I’m glad it happened that way.
After I cross the Port Mann Bridge, the sun shifts below the horizon, and I take in the Vancouver skyline, a collage of mismatched skyscrapers and residential hills twinkling withstreetlights. I drive directly into the heart of the city, following my Maps app to the only connection I have here: Brothers’ Beer & Bourbon.
Charlie’s brothers Sebastian and Marcus own the place, and I visited a couple times with her when I was in college. They also know me from family get-togethers we’ve had over the last couple of years. I’m hoping that they like me enough to help me find a temporary job, at least until I can get into the film industry in Vancouver. I love acting, and I know I’ll have to start small as someone’s assistant or a background extra, but it’s something, right? A concept of a plan, if you will.
I pass the bar a few times before I find some street parking nearby. Then, I step out onto the dark, damp sidewalk and pay the meter. The air is crisp and sharp with cold, and it smells like snow, which isn’t common in the Pacific Northwest. But the weather forecasters have been hyping La Niña this season, so in theory, it’s supposed to be extra cold.
I shuffle to the closest crosswalk and then walk a couple blocks until I see the red neon pub sign up ahead. While it’s dinnertime, it’s also midweek, which means most of the office dwellers have already begun their commutes home, so the city isn’t too crowded.
I grab the heavy wooden handle and open the door, and I’m immediately hit with the rich, salty smell of french fries. The atmosphere is cozy with wood-paneled walls adorned with local art and sports memorabilia. A roaring fire crackles in a large brick fireplace. The atmosphere is buzzing with laughter and conversation, and I gaze around at all the people enjoying their meals and each other’s company. It’s a luxury I haven’t had in a while.
