by Karen Swan
Three jeeps, two SUVs and a Pontiac – that was Meg’s view outside the store window. The bus from Jasper had pulled in to the stop opposite, disgorging the latest stream of visitors, all of them blinking beneath caps and from behind sunglasses as they emerged into the spring air, looking left and right, wondering which way to go first, before invariably heading towards the pizza bar and grill.
The town had switched gear and the crowds in snow-boots and goggles had been switched over for those in trainers and backpacks. The sun had a bright, silky quality to it today – good for photographs – as though still warming up from the winter’s hibernation, still testing its power, and not just the tourists but the locals too, moved with a sense of excitement. The temperatures were climbing and blossom peppered the trees, mannequins in the boutique windows wore shorts and pastel colours, and all the ski and board shops had their sale signs up, trying to clear old stock. It felt more like the true new year than that celebrated on 31 December – out with the old, in with the new.
But then, she’d already been watching it for weeks. Up at the cabin, the shift into full spring was even more dramatic and every night after work, she’d sit on the porch and look out until the sun dropped behind the ridge and the lights came on in the valley, like stars that had dropped to the floor. Her cliff-side perch gave her the eagle’s eye privilege: she had watched the Bow river gradually replenish its signature mineral-rich turquoise colour now that the pale torrents of meltwater had raced themselves back to the ocean; the trees, after a winter of weight, hummed with the forest animals scampering through the bushy branches, the grass was threaded and dotted with bunchberry, common harebells and rock jasmine flowers. But it was the air – always the mountain air – that marked the calendar so precisely, and right now it was as sweet and dewy as sucking on a stalk of grass.
A door out back swung shut in the breeze and she heard Dolores drop another box on the pile in the storeroom.
‘Hey. All done?’ she asked as the older woman came in, rubbing the dust off her hands onto her dungarees. Her hair, cut in a schoolboy’s short back and sides, had flopped forwards; her bosom was low but her arms were toned and strong in her T-shirt. No one who mistook her for an old woman had seen her hike the Sundance trail.
‘Sure am. I couldn’t be doing with all those boxes piling up out there like that.’
‘You should have let me do it.’
’We needed someone on the shop floor.’
‘No one’s come in the whole time you’ve been out there.’
‘But they could have done. Besides, you need to take it easy. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard these past weeks. You look tired.’
Meg arched an eyebrow. ‘Have Barbara or Lucy been talking to you?’
‘They’ve done nothing of the sort,’ Dolores said, sticking her nose in the air. ‘You know perfectly well I never take heed of what anyone else has to say.’
Meg smiled. ‘Well, it still should have been me lugging those boxes around.’
‘Why? Are you saying I’m too old?’
‘Are you saying I’m too broken?’
Dolores patted her on the arm, as if to say ‘exactly.’ They were the two widows, both of them. Dolores and her husband Jed had opened the store forty-three years ago and Dolores had continued running it on her own after his death in 1997. Meg had been working for her ever since a Saturday job stint in school led to a full-time offer after graduation. It wasn’t as though there had been much more she could take anyway; she could have gone to art college – she’d got the grades – but she hadn’t wanted to be apart from Mitch and the steady success of the Titch boards meant he’d pretty much had to stay rooted here with Tuck. She’d often thought they were like a daisy chain, the four of them: one led on to the other, keeping them together, keeping them here.
‘Now, coffee?’ said Dolores.
‘I’ll g—’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. We need someone on the shop floor, remember?’ Dolores said with a smile over her shoulder.
Meg sighed as the bell tinkled above the door and her boss disappeared past the Pontiac and out of sight. She looked at her laptop and tabbed back into emails again. The draft winked back, demanding her attention. She had spent most of this morning trying to get it right.
Dear Commander Solberg, thank you for sending the poem. It’s really beautiful. It was very thoughtful of you to send it to me, I had never come across it before—
She pulled a face, looking away. It was too . . . too . . . ? Too formal. Too stuffy.
She pressed delete and tried again. Hi, Commander, thanks for the poem. It’s beautiful. I’m touched you went to such efforts to send it to me, you must have so many other more important things to do.
She stalled again, watching the cursor flash. It reminded her of the flashing star she’d seen in the sky, her first night back at the cabin.
By the way, I think I saw you. When we spoke the other week, there was something moving really fast, with a flashing light, across the sky. Was it you? Or maybe it’s impossible to see where you are, I don’t know. It was strange to think you might be in there and we were talking on the radio at the same time. As you’ve probably guessed by now, I don’t know how to work those machines. It was just a fluke that you picked up my call that first time but my friend Tuck is really impressed. He says that Mitch – my fiancé – had been trying to get in touch with you for weeks; he even bought a special antenna just so he could contact you. I keep thinking what a shame it is that I got to speak to you and he didn’t. (I don’t mean that rudely. I hope you get my point.) Anyway, Tuck asked me to ask you what your best view has been up there, but please don’t feel like you need to reply. I bet you’re really busy.
I hope you don’t mind me using this email address to come back to you. I just really wanted to say thank you – for the poem, but also for what you did that night, picking up. I know it didn’t make any difference in the end but being able to speak to another person – even if you were in outer space! – I guess it made me feel like I had tried and done what I could. It means I can sleep at night and not hate myself too much.
You’re a really good person.
Meg.
She read it, then reread it. Was it too informal now? He was a commander, after all. He probably had people bowing to him, or saluting at the very least. She bit her lip, her finger hovering over the return button. Maybe she should try another draft, try to get the tone right . . .
The doorbell jingled suddenly and Meg looked up in surprise.
‘Hi,’ a woman said brightly, a small baby strapped into a baby carrier on her chest. ‘Do you have any sunhats for little kids? It’s way warmer out there than I realized and I didn’t bring anything to cover this little guy’s head.’
Meg smiled. ‘Sure. We’ve just taken a new delivery, actually. I’ll bring them through for you – they’re out back.’ She glanced at the screen one more time.
And pressed ‘send’.
Lucy rapped on the door of Room 32, already knowing no one would answer – she’d seen the two twenty-something girls booked in here leaving with the rest of their group half an hour ago. They were travelling up to the Basin and Cave, if she remembered correctly, part of a college geology trip, her mother had said, and due to check out the day after tomorrow.
She pulled the laundry trolley to the door and opened the curtains. The day fell in, illuminating the cherry-wood repro furniture and blue damask furnishings which could tolerate years of use – abuse – and hid more than just the light. She opened the windows to let the aroma of Marc Jacobs Daisy percolate in the parking lot instead and checked the bathroom to see if any towels had been left in the bath, her eyes expertly, routinely, tripping over the room en route, looking for signs of damage or theft. But apart from the contents of a make-up bag spilling out over the dressing table, they seemed like just her kind of guests: reusing the same towels for the duration of the stay thanks to the water-conservation signs she’d had
put up in all the bathrooms, and going heavy on the minibar which was always good for bumping up the bill. She made a note of what had been eaten or drunk and replenished it from her cart, before turning her attention to the rest of the room.
Clothes were strewn in messy heaps but at least they were on the chairs; various shoes were lying on their sides by the bags, a particularly nice-looking pair of lizard-effect high-heeled sandals perched on a shoebox. She could see from the sticker on it that they were her size.
Looking away with a sigh – not wanting to even glance at the comfort-first sneakers on her own feet – Lucy began folding the clothes individually, occasionally stopping to check a label on a top or examine a dress more closely. A couple of times, she held something against her in front of the mirror, feeling her spirits sink even lower. These girls weren’t so much younger than her – only a few years maybe – but they had more money and broader horizons; they also had flat stomachs and small behinds.
Lucy’s hands dropped to her sides as she stared at herself in the mirror. Again. She didn’t care what Meg said, she didn’t look great at all. She looked as disgusting as she felt – shapeless and lumpen like an old mattress. Where was the small, tight, high bump she always saw on celebrities in magazines? Why did she just look like she’d eaten a curry? Or a cow? And when was she going to get that glow people always talked about? When was her hair going to grow lustrous and shiny, instead of hanging lank as though she’d been caught in the rain?
A tear slid down her cheek as she saw the way the buttons strained on her shirt, knew that if she lifted it, she’d see the unsightly home-made waist-extender she’d made for her jeans from a bra strap. Was it any wonder Tuck had stopped looking at her, and whenever he did, it was always with this shadow in his eyes?
She raised the top she was holding up in front of her again. Cobalt blue and silky, it had a plunging V-neck and floaty, butterfly-style sleeves. Surely she could wear something like that and look OK? It was her usual size but she wasn’t, at the moment, though it looked like it would stretch; the sleeve detail would detract from her torso and the V-neck would make the most of her cleavage, which was about the only positive thing to come from this pregnancy so far.
She went to the door and looked up and down the corridor. No one was around; Sharon and Jenna, the other chambermaids, were working on the floors above and most of the guests had now left for the day.
She put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and closed it. With her fingers hurriedly unfastening the buttons of her shirt, she used her feet to push off the trainers and slip on the lizard sandals. Instantly, as she had to rebalance, her body looked better. She was forced to stand upright and throw her shoulders back, bringing some definition back to her waist.
Feeling encouraged, she unzipped the blue top, pulling it down over her head and wriggling as her hands grappled at the opposite shoulders, trying to tug it down. She managed to get it down to her chest – but there it stuck fast, the fabric strained to tearing point over her breasts, flattening and distorting them, her shoulders bunched up, not even enough room for her shoulder blades to move.
‘Shit!’ she hissed.
She staggered back, trying to look in the mirror and see what she should do now – pull it back up or tug it all the way down? But if she did that . . . she really wasn’t sure she’d be able to get it off again and what would she say to the guest then? How could Lucy possibly explain to this girl that her beautiful, expensive top had had to be cut, without coming clean about what she’d done?
‘Oh,’ Lucy wailed, stuck and already imagining the reviews on TripAdvisor. The maid wore my clothes. Or worse: The owner cut up my blouse!
She turned a circle as she began tugging the top back up, inching it painfully slowly towards her head – this had all been a mistake, a terrible, horrible mistake – when a sudden crunching noise underfoot made her freeze. Something had cracked.
‘Oh, my God!’ she wailed, feeling tears threaten. ‘Are you kidding me? What was that? What was—?’
She was panicking now, becoming so flustered that she didn’t hear the click of the door, didn’t even know that Tuck was standing there until she heard him gasp with horror.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he cried, quickly shutting the door behind him.
‘Oh, my God, Tuck, thank God, thank God!’ she sobbed, hobbling towards him but losing one shoe – they ran large, it appeared! – and falling heavily, awkwardly across the bed.
‘Jesus, Lucy!’ he shouted, running over to her. ‘Are you OK? Is the baby . . . is the baby OK?’
He rolled her over. She couldn’t see a thing, completely wedged in the blouse, her hands flapping helplessly out of the top.
‘Just get me out of this thing!’ she wailed, drumming her feet against the side of the bed in despair. What the hell did she look like – belly out, jeans held up by a bra strap, one shoe on, trapped in another, thinner and younger, girl’s blouse? ‘Don’t look at me! Don’t look at me!’
‘I’m . . . I’m not,’ he said, his voice flustered as he began pulling carefully on the fabric. ‘Can you squeeze your shoulders together more?’
‘Does it look like I can do anything?’ she cried.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get you out.’
‘What will I say to her?’
‘It won’t come to that. She won’t ever know . . . Just a bit more.’
With another tug, she was free, the top releasing with sudden ease and the bedroom basking in the gentle sunlight filling her vision again.
Tuck was looking at her exactly as she feared, the top limp in his hands.
‘I was trying to see if I could look nice, OK? Just for a minute, I wanted to look better than this,’ she cried, jumping off the bed and grabbing her shirt, buttoning it up so quickly, she didn’t realize until she was almost done that she was one button out. Of course she was! She couldn’t even wear a shirt properly. Crying, she grabbed her trainers and stuffed her feet back into them. ‘And before you ask, no, I don’t make a habit of doing this. I’ve never done it before.’
‘Lucy—’
‘Don’t, Tuck!’ she sobbed, hiding her face in her hands. ‘Just go. I don’t want you to even look at me.’
There was a long silence.
‘Why are you even in here anyway?’ he asked. ‘Where’s Janice? You shouldn’t be doing this.’
‘She’s sick, we’re short.’
His expression changed. ‘She’s always sick, that woman. I don’t know why you keep her on.’
‘Because she’s damn good when she is here,’ she snapped. What did he know about the staff? The most he ever came to helping out in the hotel was inventorying the bourbon.
Tuck sighed. ’Look, you’re exhausted. You shouldn’t be doing this. I’ll sort it out in here. Just go and rest.’
‘I can’t—’ she hiccupped.
‘You can. I’m ordering you. I’ll sort it out.’ He got up from the bed and put his hands on her shoulders, planting a kiss between her eyebrows. ‘Go on. Lie down and I’ll come and find you in a bit.’
She stared back at him, puzzled by this rare kindness. ‘But I thought you were going to Edmonton?’
‘I’ll reschedule, it’s fine. The show’s not till November, there’s plenty of time.’
She looked up at him, those super-blue eyes gazing down at her. She still couldn’t believe he was hers. Or she was his. Whichever. Or both. She still couldn’t believe it.
Chapter Ten
Friday 19 May 2017
Meg was sitting in her favourite spot on the porch, her legs tucked up on the swing seat so that her chin could almost rest on her knees, a mole-coloured soft blanket wrapped tightly around her and her wet hair twisted into a towel turban. On the ground was a half-drunk beer and a snoring dog with a newly mended leg, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the sunset, which was oozing fiery tendrils into the sky like long grasses swaying underwater. Footless halls of air . . .
She didn’t know ho
w long she’d been sitting there for. A few hours, certainly. It was a quarter to nine now but the sky was still bright, the fingernail crescent moon looking incongruous as it hung there, paled by the sun. In the valley below, the first lights had started to come on and the occasional red tail lights of vehicles on the highway glowed in the distance.
Summer was on the way. She could feel it on the breeze, closing her eyes every few moments and presenting her face up to the sky like a dog sniffing the wind. Mitch had been dead for almost two months and this would be the world’s first summer in twenty-six years without him.
Twenty-six years. That was all the time he had had on this planet and of that, only ten years had been shared with her. Just ten.
She stared into the fathomless blue again, the words from the poem tiptoeing through her mind once more. Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth, and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings . . . The thought of him up there – free . . . That poem had brought her more comfort than any words in a card, touched her more deeply than any hugs, and she had read it over and over until she knew it by heart and this had become her most treasured ritual, the best part of her day – coming in from work and sitting on the porch, swinging gently and watching the sunset as she imagined him dancing the skies—
The phone rang in the cabin behind, jolting her from her thoughts, and she stirred, her limbs stiff from sitting immobile for so long.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me.’ Ronnie’s voice was crisp and clear, the faint hollow sound of echoing corridors telling Meg her sister was still at work.
‘Hey. How are you?’
‘Fine. I just got off a shift and thought I’d try to catch you. Sorry I’ve been off radar. Work’s been crazy.’
‘It’s OK.’ They hadn’t spoken since the funeral and they knew that, in part, it would have been because she’d been staying with Lucy.
There was a short pause. ‘No. No, it’s not.’
‘Ron, it’s fine. Your work is important – people need you and I know the kind of hours you work. It’s not like I’ve been feeling especially chatty recently anyway. A phone call with me is like making small talk with Putin at the moment.’
