by Nicole Young
“I’ll be back. Don’t worry. You’ll see me again, maybe sooner than you think.” Yeah, but would he ever speak to me again after what I had planned for his girlfriend? Maybe that “friend’s” apartment in Havana was waiting for the possibility of Puppa reconciling with Candice.
If that were the case, Puppa might not appreciate my quest for justice.
We hugged.
“Take care, Patricia. I love you,” Puppa said, walking me to the security line.
“I love you too. I’ll be fine. Now go.” I gave him a playful swat and watched him leave the building, wishing I could have my revenge and still keep my grandfather. But somehow, I knew I couldn’t have both.
32
A night in an airport lounge chair and a night in a Goose Bay hotel room. I was convinced there was no difference between them when it came to quality of sleep. Maybe it was my nerves that had kept me awake, or maybe second thoughts. Either way, I felt caged sitting in the commuter plane on the last leg of my journey, a bundle of pent-up energy ready to explode or expire. I looked through the scratched-up Plexiglas window as the noisy Provincial liner circled the Churchill Falls field.
From my seat in the air, the town looked like a wheel with two sides lopped off. An extension of long, straight roads ran off in one direction, ruining any symmetry that might have pleased visitors from outer space. To the south, hills rose on the horizon. And to the north, there was nothing but a flat expanse of snow and water.
With a final turn, the plane landed and the sparse array of occupants disembarked. Inside the terminal, I claimed my oversized suitcase and hooked up with a local woman heading to town.
The middle-aged brunette gave me a running commentary on the company-owned settlement as we headed to the inn, where Koby, my thoughtful travel planner, had booked a room for me.
The car traveled east on Churchill Falls Road and hung a right toward the lopped-off wheel part of town. We turned on a street that began with an O but was impossible to pronounce. And by the time we reached our destination, I’d given up on trying to read the French-Canadian and native Inuit words.
According to my hostess, the Churchill Falls power plant and the community that served it had been built in the early seventies. My hotel room confirmed the story, the architecture and amenities testimony that no updates had been made since then.
But beds were beds, and within moments of bolting the door to my room, I climbed under the covers and fell asleep. I must have been dreaming, but I could have sworn I heard the doorknob jiggle, and the door creak open. A man entered the room. It was Brad. He’d found me and come to take me home. He snuck over to the bed and leaned over me. I could feel his hot breath on my cheek, the heat of his skin where his hand touched my neck, the brush of his lips to mine… Still dreaming, I jerked open my eyes. Brad dissolved like a vapor, gone. I sat up in bed, checking the room. Empty.
Disappointed, I flopped back to my pillow and tried to shut down my brain.
A few hours later, I woke to the squawk of hunger pangs. I sat up, throwing off the green and yellow floral bedspread, and yawned. When we’d pulled up to the inn, my driver had called the building the Town Center, mentioning that the complex also housed the school, theater, library, bank, post office, and most importantly, a restaurant.
I freshened up in the mirror, running a brush through the hair I’d managed to save from Maize’s scissors. The California summer had bleached the ends to a straw color now topped by dark winter roots. With my daily wardrobe consisting of a sweatshirt, jeans, and a ponytail, it was easy to forget there was such a thing as style. I threw on a dab of makeup, hoping to perk up my still-sleepy eyes. A fresh coat of lipstick, a cardigan over a turtleneck, and I was headed down the hall toward food.
But when the restaurant appeared dark and closed, I walked to the front desk instead.
I cleared my throat hoping for the clerk’s attention.
“Excuse me, where would I get something to eat?” I asked.
The woman laid the novel she’d been reading facedown on the desk and stood, walking to the counter.
“Sorry. Restaurant’s closed. Chef quit last week.”
My stomach gurgled. “What about the grocery store? Isn’t there one in this building?”
“Grocery store, bank, post office, school, you name it, it’s in here. But you can’t shop until Thursday. It’s closed for the holiday.”
A squeak from my intestines. “But Christmas was yesterday.”
“It’s always closed Sunday and Monday, but since they fell on holidays, the employees get two extra days off. That’s the way it is with The Company.”
“Oh.” Squeeeeeek. My stomach roiled with hunger.
The look on my face must have earned her pity.
“Here.” She handed me a slip of paper. “It’s a voucher for the mess hall. That’s where the plant workers eat. Probably better than what you’d get here anyway.”
I took the paper like it was manna. “Which way do I go?”
She pointed at the front door. “Out there, then take a right on Naskaupi. It’s about a half kilometer down.”
“Thanks.” I walked back to my room to bundle against the frigid wind, glad for the attack of good sense that overcame me during my layover in Boston. I slipped into my new hip-length cream parka with fur trim, feeling chic enough to put Lara Croft to shame. A pair of snuggly wool-lined boots, hat, and mittens, and I was ready to take on the frozen tundra.
Not another soul braved the weather. I hiked alone down the street, grateful everything I’d need during my stay was contained in a one-mile radius. Snow had begun to fall and a steady breeze kicked up swirls that stung my cheeks. I pulled my hood tight around my face and stood under the glow of a streetlight looking at the building marked Staff Dormitory & Mess Hall. My stomach plunged, suddenly no longer hungry, as I wondered what I’d really do to Candice LeJeune if I actually found her. I resisted taking another step, the voice in my head screaming, “Go back! Go back!”
But the thought of Brad, wasting away at River’s Edge, never again to be mine, kept me moving toward the door. I pulled it open. Light streamed onto the snow. I stepped inside and brushed off the flakes. A scattering of plant employees sat around several cafeteria-style tables. An array of steaming food was set up off to one side, the smell of turkey and stuffing curing my temporary nausea. After briefly making eye contact with a few curious onlookers, I bellied up to the buffet, handed over my voucher, and piled my plate high.
The recluse in me saw a solitary spot at a far-off table. But the bloodhound in me led me toward a table of four.
“Mind if I join you?” I gave a big, friendly smile to the three men and one woman.
“Go ahead.” The woman gestured for me to take a seat.
I set my tray down and scooted into a chair.
“What brings you to town this time of year? Family?” she asked.
I mulled over my answer. Candice could be considered family. She’d always said I was like a granddaughter to her. “Yes. Family.”
“What’s the name? We probably know them.” The man spoke with a French accent.
The group gave a laugh.
“I suppose you know everybody in town.” I smiled along with them.
“If they’ve been here any length of time, we know them,” said the French-speaking man.
“Ah,” I said. “What about one who arrived recently?” I dug in my purse for the picture of Candice I’d packed for a moment just like this.
“Sometimes. If they’ve been over to the bar,” he chortled.
“I’m looking for my grandmother. Her name’s Candice LeJeune, but she may be here under another name.”
“Ah, she is running from an ex-husband, no doubt.” I shrugged. “Something like that.” I set the photo on the table. “Have you seen her?”
The dark-haired Frenchman picked up the photo. “She is very young and beautiful. It is easy to see why she is being hunted.”
“The photo was
taken more than twenty years ago. She’s in her midsixties by now. But she looks about the same as she did back then.”
“It would not be wise to hide in Churchill Falls if you are an older person. Here, they must leave town at retirement age. The Company only rents to active employees. All others must go.”
I watched as the group passed the photo, looking at Candice’s picture and shaking their heads. Disappointment swelled in my throat.
“Thanks. I’m staying at the inn, if you happen to see her. I’m Tasha Stewart, by the way.” At the last moment, I decided that my pseudonym would be a safer route, though my travel arrangements had been made under the name Patricia Amble. I could imagine the innkeeper’s confusion if someone did try to contact me.
I dug into my meal, savoring the juicy breast meat and gravy. In my mind, I thanked God for the Christmas feast, even though I didn’t deserve it. I dabbed at my mouth with a napkin, catching the Frenchman looking at me. I blushed, uncomfortable under his gaze.
“I am sorry to stare at you. You remind me so much of a girl that is a friend to my daughter.”
I nodded and waved a hand. “Oh, I get that all the time.” Back in Rawlings, I turned out to be the virtual twin of a total stranger.
“Do you see it, Therese?” he asked the woman. “Doesn’t she remind you of Monique?”
“Very much. Even her mannerisms.” She turned to me. “Perhaps you are related?”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“What makes you think your grandmother came to Churchill Falls? This isn’t a place you come by accident,” the Frenchman asked.
What could it hurt to just tell them the truth-or at least most of it?
“She made travel arrangements to this area last May. But the tickets were never used. I thought it was worth checking out. Just in case she arrived later, by car or something.”
He nodded. “We have tourists along the Trans-Labrador Highway all summer. Perhaps she visited then.”
“Maybe.” Discouragement crept into my voice.
“How long are you staying with us? You must take a tour of the power plant while you are here.”
“I’m here a week.”
“Wonderful,” Therese said. “Tomorrow you must come to dinner at my house. It is my daughter’s birthday and we are having a party.”
I almost declined, but the thought of spending a week alone in my hotel room made me nod in agreement. “Thank you. That’s very kind. I’ll enjoy that.”
Therese gave me directions to her home. Then the group took their leave.
I nibbled at a glob of cranberry sauce and watched as workers entered and exited the mess hall. Finished with my meal, I cleared my tray and poured a cup of coffee, helping myself to a slice of chocolate layer cake for dessert. My fork played with the smooth frosting. I sipped my steaming beverage, hoping I wasn’t dooming myself to a sleepless night.
Across the room, several workers walked in. One of them was a slim older woman. The group got in line and I watched as they laughed and loaded their dishes with food. I studied the woman’s movements and facial features, thinking that beneath the long blond hairdo might be short gray hair and the face from the photo. As the five workers sat down, I nixed the idea that one could be Candice. Or maybe I just hoped it wasn’t her. My bravery quotient had dropped from ten to zero since my arrival in Churchill Falls.
I headed back to my hotel room, glum. Would I be able to carry out my plans against Candice even if I had the opportunity? Just what would I do if I found her? Be a good girl, Candice, and stay put while I get the police. She’d laugh in my face. I had no leverage. As far as I could tell, there was no gun shop in Churchill Falls. And probably no tazers lying around either. That left the option of wrestling her into submission, which seemed unlikely given her remarkable strength for a woman of her age, or hitting her in the head with a heavy object, which would probably require some element of surprise. The way I was gallivanting around town, looking more like Tish Amble than Tasha Stewart, she’d see me coming 2.5 kilometers away.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I gave a savage kick to a mound of snow in my path. Maybe I wouldn’t wait for the cops. Maybe I’d be the one to give her what she deserved, then and there. As scenarios of vengeance scuttered through my mind, I played each of them out to their violent end.
Back at the inn, I stomped my boots on the entry rug and took the stairs to my room. Who was I kidding? Maybe I’d had it in me to sprinkle some pills in my suffering grandmother’s arthritic hands, but when it came time, would I really have the gumption to deliberately kill someone? Especially where blood was involved?
I tamped down my anger, reverting to plan A. Turning her in to the cops, extraditing her to Michigan, testifying at her trial, seeing her go to prison… that would be my revenge. On the other hand, knowing Candice’s history, she wouldn’t let the cops take her anyway. She’d escape, or die trying.
My mind flashed to the day at the lodge, with Brad lying on the floor, his chest covered in red. I’d felt his blood on my hands, not comprehending at the time what it meant to my future. Not comprehending that it would lead to this day, this moment, this place.
Wasn’t that enough reason to seek my revenge? Blood for blood. Her life for the life she took from me.
33
Inside my hotel room, I showered, hoping to wash away the images I’d concocted in my mind. I dropped into bed and watched an hour of lousy cable programming, then fell asleep, tossing and turning through the night.
By morning, my mind was back on food. This time I headed straight for the hotel desk for a breakfast voucher. With a clear sky above and only a light wind, I took the long way around to the mess hall, heading left out the front door instead of right.
I found myself on another street with a name too difficult to pronounce. I passed a group of apartment buildings and turned down Raven Street, the outside circle of the lopped-off wheel. Boxy prefab houses in various pastels lined both sides of the road. Labradorians, or perhaps just The Company, seemed to lack the notion of porches or trees, making the neighborhood feel antiseptic. Behind the homes, a ridge of snow-covered pines reached for the sky.
Now and then a car pulled past, the occupants giving me a curious stare as they drove by. I angled up Eagle Street, the cold starting to penetrate boots that promised more than they delivered. Ahead was the mess hall. I pushed inside, joining the crowd for coffee and a hot meal.
I sat kitty-corner from a klatch of men and women gearing up for their day. I tried to blend in but noticed several stares, nods, and muted conversations around the cafeteria. Perhaps I was paranoid. Then again, the workers probably were speculating on my visit to town, perhaps having heard about my search for a missing person.
A gust of wind blew past my feet as another group came in from the cold. Finished with my oatmeal and eggs, I cleared my tray, pausing on my way out to zip my coat. I walked without looking as I fiddled with the pull-and collided with the chest of a plant worker.
My head shot up. “I’m sorry,” I gushed, catching his startled look. “Just trying to bundle up before I hit the door.”
I tried to brush off the incident, but the fifty-something man stood stock-still in front of me, staring. Eyes wide, mouth open, stepping backward as if he’d seen a ghost. I squinted at him, confused by his reaction. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, mute, then twirled and dashed off toward the restrooms.
That was the first time I’d gotten that reaction. Never thought my face could make a man ill.
I slipped on my hat and mittens, pulled my hood tight around my face, and walked directly back to the hotel, wishing the library wasn’t on the same holiday schedule as the grocery store. I’d left the book I’d borrowed from Denton’s shelf of classics back at Puppa’s for safekeeping.
To pass the day, I watched cooking shows and twiddled my thumbs, not having the faintest clue where to start looking for Candice beyond the mess hall. After a fascin
ating lesson on fluffy cheese soufflés, I stretched out on the floor, loosening up muscles tight from traveling. With my face so close to the ground, I could fully examine the lint and miscellaneous other particles that had landed on the carpet. I got up and dusted off, then got ready for Therese’s party, thrilled to have been invited to dinner by a complete stranger my first night in town.
I double-checked for Candice’s picture in my purse, ready to show it at the gathering should the opportunity arise. With parka and boots on, off I went to the party. I stopped at the hotel desk for an envelope and put in a generous gift for the girl whose friend looked a lot like me.
A few blocks away, I found the gray-sided house. Several cars were parked in the drive and a couple more along the curb. As I knocked on the door, I wondered how all those people would fit in the tiny space.
Therese opened the door wide. “Tasha. Welcome.”
I stepped in, surprised that the interior felt roomy and open. A group of partygoers filled the living room. I smiled at the blur of faces, nervous to be surrounded by strangers.
Therese led me through to the kitchen. “This is my daughter Renee. Renee, this is Tasha Stewart, visiting from the States.”
I shook the hand of the dark-haired beauty, who glowed like a candle atop a sixteenth-birthday cake. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, amazed at the radiance of youth.
She returned the compliment, then joined a group of young people at the table.
Therese led me around the house, introducing me to her clique. I lost track of names, and before we were done, the faces began to look the same. We’d made a circle through the living room and were headed back into the kitchen.
“Oh,” Therese exclaimed, “you haven’t met Monique yet. Wait until you see her. You will be amazed.”
Heads turned when we reached the table of teens, as if I’d already been a topic of conversation. I spotted my look-alike right away. Long, reddish-brown hair, and a nose and mouth the same as mine. I’d always thought the bottom half of my face was run-of-the-mill, but Monique was beautiful. Her eyes were brown, not green like mine, and had a rounder shape, but somehow our eyebrows had the same arch to them.
