Anything at all.
Any inkling that he somehow managed to survive the storm and that fall into the ocean.
I hover over the button long enough until my index finger starts to shake, and then I press down on the trackpad and watch as the page loads. Pulling my chunky quiltaround my shoulders, I close my eyes, preparing myself for what I might see.
“a powerful nor’easter that battered Nova Scotia’s South Shore that afternoon, bringing wind gusts over 100 km/h, heavy rain, and dangerous seas that pounded the coastline for hours…”
My heart drops.
It’s the same.
Everything is exactly the same.
The header, the photograph, the whole article—my eyes scan through the words I’ve come to memorize over time. Everything is the same. Not a single word out of place.
A bad storm, two boys fall over the edge, he rescues them, falls back in, and their best guess is that he drowned. The picture of the cliffside remains, no barricades to be seen.
The sharp pain in my chest grows, like someone is digging a knife directly into my heart. It feels like I’ve lost him all over again. I think of him, alone and cold in the rough, unforgiving ocean. Did he even fight for his life? Or did he willingly accept his fate and let his body sink down to the bottom? What if he didn’t try because he knew there was no point? BecauseItold him he died?—
Lucy, you have to stop.
I blink back my tears once more. I can’t keep crying. Ihaveto pull myself together and find a way to be okay. For him.
Peeling myself off the couch, I drape the blanket over my back and walk over to the closet near my bed. I pull on my favourite loungewear, the dark blue Eras Tour sweater and matching sweatpants, one of the outfits I wore when I first met Dylan.
In the bathroom, I wash my face and apply sometinted moisturizer. Then, I take a brush to my messy hair and secure it with a pink claw clip. Checking myself in the mirror, I can see the bags under my eyes, how I look devoid of happiness. I shrug and step away. At least I’m dressed.
I know what I want to do now.
How I can say goodbye.
Getting into the car and making the drive down to Killick Bay doesn’t feel real. I barely pay attention; I know this route so well now. The winding roads, the trees that get smaller the closer I get to the coast. How lush green grass turns into smooth, grey rocks.
As I pass by my usual parking spot, I turn my head and can’t help but notice what isn’t there. What’s missing.
I keep driving, forcing myself to look straight as my hands grip the wheel. Just a few more minutes, and I’ll be in town. Then I can talk to Iris. She is the only person who could possibly understand what I’m going through right now. Her presence is calling to me. I don’t know if it’s reassurance or comfort I’m looking for, or for someone to give me the cold, hard truth. That no matter how badly I want to be okay, I never will be.
I park on the main street and make my way through town. I swear, the scent of Irish Spring soap finds me, but as quickly as I catch it, it’s gone. Of course my mind is conjuring him even after he’s gone. A memory that will never fade.
Then, without hesitation, I walk down to the docks, where I always find Iris. As my feet step onto the creaky wooden boards, I see a grey-haired figure in her usual spot, staring out, tie-dyed cane resting on the bench beside her.
I take a breath and will my tired feet to move forward. When I make it to her, I take a seat beside her, placing my hand in hers and giving it a squeeze. She lets me drop myhead onto her frail shoulder, and we sit together in silence for a few minutes as the tears stream down my face once again. She doesn’t rush me, doesn’t say anything at all. Just allows me to be in this moment with her.
As the tears slow and she hears me sigh, she finally speaks. “Let’s go to my apartment, dear. I want to show you something.”
Giving a light nod, I stand, holding my arm out to help her up before passing her the cane. She leads the way back down the docks and onto the street. Her feet shuffle in front of her, taking tiny steps and using the colourful cane for support. I slow my steps, letting her set the pace. We veer left down a street I don’t recognize, and when my eyes land on a square brown-brick apartment building, she turns down the path toward the front door, pulling out a set of jangling keys from the pocket of her long, patterned skirt.
We step inside, and instantly, I feel warmer. The electric baseboards on the floor are heating the narrow hallway. In front of us, there’s a set of stairs leading up to the second level, but Iris turns to the dark green door on the right, with the number01on it, and switches to a gold key, unlocking and opening the door.
We enter through her kitchen, clad with white counters and appliances, and a small round pine table in the centre of the space. Iris shrugs off her jacket and hangs it on a hook by the front door before stepping over to the sink and flicking the small kettle on. She opens a cupboard door above it and pulls out two tea bags and two accompanying colourful ceramic mugs, painted with wildflowers.
“Sit, please,” she instructs, and I pull out a chair and wait for her to finish making our drinks, legs crossed underneath me as my fingers drum anxiously on the table.
Handing me my mug, she leaves the kitchen, roaminginto another room, motioning that she’ll be right back. I sip my tea, the strong peppermint flavour seeping into my bones and warming the dull ache that sits within my chest. The sound of Iris shuffling through some drawers catches my attention, but I don’t think too much of it until she sits down beside me, papers in her hand held close to her heart.
Eyeing the papers, I wonder what they could possibly be. She clutches them in her grip with a shaking hand as she brings her mug to her lips and takes a sip. “Ah, that’s nice,” she murmurs.
I place my mug down in front of me, crossing my arms right against my own chest while I wait for her to show me whatever it is she has. “Iris, what do you have to show me?” I don’t have time for her to beat around the bush. Not today.
