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PartOne
First Summer
Auden
I stare at the pen.
It’s an expensive one,obscenelyso, considering you can snag a cylinder filled with ink for mere pennies at a convenience store. I’ve never understood the allure of spending extra money on an object that can be purchased for far less and serves the same purpose.
I’ve also never lacked the funds for the fancier version, and maybe that’s what tarnishes the appeal to me. That, or the fact that a high price tag doesn’t make a gift any more meaningful.
For an ordinary, inanimate object, the shiny pen resting on scarred wood before me is a remarkably accurate summary of my parents and our relationship. Sixteen years of prolonged absences, interspersed with fancy dinners and expensive gifts representing the only way they know how to share affection. The black Montclair pen was a birthday gift I received two weeks ago. My father proudly proclaimed it to be a symbol of the path to academic success I am following him on, followed by a reminder that I should start prepping for college. I’d barely finished my sophomore year of high school. Until a couple of hours ago, that was the last time I talked to him. He returned to our beachside mansion for the first time in fifteen days so he and my mother could call me together to inform me they are getting divorced.
Ironic, if you really think about it. The end of a marriage doesn’t usually bring people together. I think the last time all three of us were part of the same conversation was that birthday dinner. I mostly communicate with my parents through their respective secretaries. All it took was them getting a divorce to spend more than a few minutes in the same room together.
I grew up with the knowledge that my parents’ relationship was far from conventional. By the time I was old enough to formulate some concept of what love is, I knew they weren’t an example of it. They’re excellent at acting as a united front in public. In private, their lives couldn’t be more removed from each other. My father is a high-powered attorney, catering to the whims of the entertainment industry. My mother runs a successful fashion empire that frequently pulls her to all corners of the globe for shows, photo shoots, and meetings.
Quality time with my parents has never existed.
I’m not surprised they’re separating—I’m surprised it’s taken this long. Almost comically, I’m pretty certain their marriage has lasted until now because they’re both so busy they’re just finally getting around to it.
My parents are highly accomplished people. They’re also cowards who only thrive on conflict if it takes place at work. The mystery of why I was shipped off to my aunt’s house in the middle of nowhere, Canada, for two weeks was solved the second I picked up the phone twenty minutes ago—the same reason they decided a fancy pen was an appropriate gift for someone under the age of sixty and the proper pre-emptive apology for missing the rest of my birthday to handle work emergencies. I mostly use it to doodle.
Three days into my stay in a town you’d need a map and a magnifying glass to find, and I’m spending a second straight day in a coffee shop constructed mostly of dark wood and black metal. It feels like being inside a wood cabin that’s been partially converted into a warehouse.
On my first day in Canmore, I occupied myself by reading in my aunt’s backyard. Half the town is situated on a lake, with a view that rivals the multi-million-dollar one of the Pacific Ocean I usually wake up to. My aunt’s place isn’t waterfront, but you can see the lake from the deck that juts off the back side of the house. I occupied my second morning wandering around the few blocks that make up the “downtown” before ducking in here for a drink and a quiet spot to focus on my daily round of Wordle. Today, I returned—and brought schoolwork.
I pick up my pen, twirl it, and resign myself to rereading the four-page assignment I’ve already skimmed twice. The laidback, beachfront Californian high schools you see on teen television dramas are about as opposite from my academic experience as one could be. You don’t skip class at Fairfield Academy to go surfing or shopping unless you want to earn a few weeks’ worth of detention.
The thick stack of summer work sitting in front of me makes that clear. It also says my low expectations for this trip have already proven to be too high.
I’m doing schoolwork.
InJuly.
My mother’s younger sister, Katherine, is the black sheep of the family. She moved north about sixteen years ago with a Canadian guy she met at college in Chicago who split shortly after she got pregnant. She ended up in Canmore and has lived here ever since, running a freelance photography business that seems to be successful, considering she’s managed to make a living with it.
I couldeasilycount the number of minutes I’ve spent with my Aunt Katherine up until she picked me up from the Calgary airport and drove an hour to the small town where she lives. They wouldn’t add up to much. Aunt Katherine and my mother are about as opposite as two people can be. My grandparents’ conservative, old-fashioned outlook on life didn’t meld well with their younger daughter’s life choices. And my mother followed their lead.
I doubted my mother’s claim that handing me a plane ticket to Canada for two weeks was an attempt to reconnect with her family. She’s more the double down type than one to extend an olive branch, not to mention the fact that I didn’t seeherboarding a plane bound for the northern wilderness. I knew there was more to the story; I just didn’t consider that it was a choice to get me out of the house so my dad could move out.
I should have seen it coming.
The man sitting at the table next to me begins coughing. I slide my headphones out of my bag and connect them to my phone so I can listen to music. Adele’s melancholy bellow begins crooning through the tiny speakers as I scan the other people choosing to spend a warm, sunny summer day in a dimly lit coffee shop.
I have yet to encounter a single Canmore resident under the age of thirty. I haven’t wanted to offend my aunt by asking her—and she hasn’t been around long enough for me to ask even if I wanted to—so I have no idea if that’s due to the demographics of this town or just the clientele of this coffee shop. It would be a better question for my cousin Annabel, who is just four months younger than me. I haven’t seen her since I was eight. She and Katherine came to my grandparents’ for the holidays nearly a decade ago, and based on the fact that it was a onetime occurrence, I don’t think it was the smoothest of visits.
After sitting around the house for a day waiting to re-meet my cousin, I gave up on her as a potential ally. Two additional days of not so much as seeing her haven’t exactly convinced me her absence is a coincidence. During the fifteen minutes she was home for yesterday, Katherine mentioned Annabel has “a lot of summer plans.” I can read between the lines.
My phone buzzes on the wooden tabletop. I flip it over to see the screen is covered with messages. I had plans for this summer, too. They didn’t involve a detour here.
The latest text is from my best friend Lana.
Lana:How is it????
I sigh and start to type a response. Then I delete it and start over.
Lana’s father works with mine. If I confide in Lana—or any of my friends—about the real reason for this impromptu trip to another country in the middle of the summer, my parents will somehow hear about it. Until my father’s law firm and my mother’s company come to a consensus on how to handle the public relations implications of their marriage ending, I’m not supposed to tell anyone about the separation.
