One – I’m sitting on top of Wailing Hill wearing your deeply unfashionable cyclops torch.
Two – I miss you frantically. The lodge feels too big without your ridiculous coat taking up all the space.
Three – I went to the knitting group today and cried like an idiot, but I still don’t regret you. Not now, not ever.
Three A （because I know you don’t approve of a fourth） – Don’t feel the need to reply. I get that you probably drunk-texted, or you were at a low ebb, or struggling to readjust. I’ve replied, so we’re even again now. X
I press send, then slide my phone into my pocket. I could sit here and wait a while, see if he replies even though I told him not to. He might; he’s hours behind me and it’s early afternoon in Boston. I wait for just enough time to be sure my words have fired themselves off in search of him, then I click on the head torch and set my sights on Otter Lodge. It’s still mine for now, I have to make the most of it.
I’m pleased to see the fire I left in the hearth hasn’t completely died out and I feel a sense of accomplishment when I’m able to revive it. Fire means light and heat, cavewoman necessities I can provide for myself. I mean, I put the lamps on too, because I’m not an actual cavewoman, but the sense of satisfaction in my own capabilities is real. I can do things to make myself feel strong. Heat up some soup, light some candles, layer on my favourite cardigan. I remember feeling apprehensive before I came to Salvation at the thought of being alone at the lodge. I worried I’d feel too remote, too alone, exposed. A little afraid, even. If anything, I feel the absolute opposite of all those things tonight. I’m in need of this silence, and I feel held and supported by the thick stone walls around me. When Mack was here, it was a nest for two; now it is a nook for one.
My eyes come to rest on the brown-papered parcel Delta gave me. It’s tied with simple string and there’s a note.
Most of Salvation’s women have had need of one of these at some point in their lives. You know where we are if you need us. X
I pause, the package resting on my knees. I’ll take good care of that note, it will always be precious to me. Pulling the string, I fold back the paper, and then I gather up the contents and press my face into it with a soft, grateful sigh. I didn’t think I had any tears left in me today, but it seems I’ve got a back-up well. It’s a blanket. A blanket made up of knitted squares stitched together to make a patchwork quilt of colour and comfort. I shake it out and wrap it around my shoulders, squeezing my eyes tight shut. It’s as if the island women have wrapped their arms around me, an intentional show of sisterhood, of feminine solidarity. I sit for a few minutes and let the layer of warmth sink into my skin, and then I open my eyes and examine it. I recognize the yellow wool Ailsa used recently, and Carmen’s unmistakable battleship grey, ‘the warmest on the island’。 I smile at the thought of Dolores’s lemon-sucking expression every time Carmen says it. There’re other colours too – moss green, bubblegum pink, cherry red, turquoise blue. Offshoots of projects I’ve seen growing on their needles. God, what a phenomenal group of women. I feel honoured to count myself even temporarily amongst their number. I wonder if they realize how special what they have is or if they’re lucky enough to be able to take their good fortune for granted, an accepted part of islander life. They look after their own, and every now and then they sweep a lost lamb into their fold. ‘I’m a lucky lamb,’ I whisper. It’s the exact right gift at the exact right moment. I’m reminded of the first time I laid eyes on my lime-green clamshell laptop, the feeling of being understood, the swell of intention behind my ribs. I feel it again now, a cosmic nudge to listen to my gut. ‘Okay,’ I whisper. And then I say it again, louder, more resolute. ‘Okay.’
I get up and make myself a den on the sofa with pillows and my beloved patchwork blanket, then I fire up my laptop and open a blank document. Message received, universe, I think, flexing my fingers. It’s time to write.
Mack
6 November
Boston
IT’S OVER NOW
I became a depressing single-dad cliché tonight. Ordered a pizza rather than cooking a decent meal, let the kids drink soda at the movies even though we’ve always been careful about their teeth. It wasn’t done to score cool-parent points against Susie, I just wanted to give the boys all the stuff I could give them because I couldn’t give them the one thing they asked for when I picked them up from school this afternoon – for their mom to come with us too. I tortured myself in the dark movie theatre imagining them getting their heads together, deciding which of them would be brave enough to ask me, trying to pick out the right words to get their parents together for a few hours. I’ve been that kid, the one who thinks if he can just force his folks to spend time together they’ll remember how good things used to be. I haven’t forgotten our good times either. I didn’t tell them that, of course, just glossed over it and sold them on fizzy soda and as much popcorn as they could handle. Distraction, the oldest trick in the parenting handbook. Hey, Nate, look at my stupid elephant impersonation, not the cut I’m cleaning up on your knee. Hey, Leo, let’s go to the skate park instead of thinking about that kid’s party you didn’t get invited to. It’s easy when they’re small; they look at you and they absolutely know you’re going to make their world better. I hate that I can’t do that for them this time. Soda and popcorn is a poor substitute for their mother, but it’s the best I could come up with at the time. And now they’re late for bed and nodding off on either side of me on the couch, my arms around them as we watch the sports headlines on the eleven o’clock news. I hate having them stay here in this condo, even though their presence transforms it into a home for a few hours for me. They pretend they think it’s cool but they’re terrible liars. Maybe after Christmas I’ll look around for somewhere better. I pull the boys closer on both sides of me, my feet propped on the glass coffee table.