by Ali Bryan
“Yep. I was. Just thinking about Grandma.”
He hugs me.
“I’m okay,” I reassure him. “Should we put on Ice Age?”
Wes and Joan both cheer. Joan takes off her Crocs and biffs them across the room.
“All right, we have a party to get ready for.”
I set the kids up in front of the TV, give Joan her fish, and begin loading the table with snacks and finger foods. Pretzels, popcorn, Brothers pepperoni. Out back my father removes dandelions from the lawn. This will devastate Joan. The cake has the kitchen smelling like fudge. It reminds me of baking with my mom when I was still small enough to need a chair. I want my mom. She kept her fingernails short and perfectly rounded. She made happy faces with the cloves whenever she baked a ham. She was not angry or bitter or resentful for getting hit with that damn boat. And then I think about Glen. The way he used to line up said cloves on his plate during Easter dinner. The way he shaved his face with one arm behind his back. The poem he wrote in the sympathy card he gave me. Asshole.
I open a bottle of wine. Chateau Grand Paris. From 2006. I take a glass from the display on the table and fill it three quarters full. I lean against the counter, tip my glass up, take too large a sip. It floods the back of my throat.
There’s no time to shower, really, so instead I stand in the kitchen staring at my cluttered fridge door. It’s a wonder I still know it’s yellow under all the drawings and notices from school and appointment cards. I remove the magnets and decide I at least have time for this. I discard anything expired or irrelevant. A coupon for buy one get one free Kraft peanut butter. Layers of monthly calendars from Turtle Grove. A menu from King of Donair.
When I’m done, I’ve uncovered my mother’s funeral bulletin. Such a perfect photo Dad chose. There is light in her eyes, a little curl in her hair, and she is wearing her favourite green sweater. I think I should be sad, that seeing it again should make me sad and I should take it down like the other expired notices. But instead I find myself placing a magnet in each corner of the bulletin, adjusting it so it’s neat and straight on the fridge, and I smile. She would want to come to the party.
Acknowledgements
Sincere thanks to the entire Board and staff of Freehand Books, particularly JoAnn McCaig and Barbara Scott for acquiring and supporting Roost from pitch to print. My Managing Editor, Kelsey Attard, for her unwavering commitment to this project from proof to promotion and whose every communication was delivered with an infectious optimism. My Editor, Robyn Read, who has been immensely generous with her time, expertise and friendship through multiple drafts of this book, particularly the early days before she parked on my lawn, when the book did not have a plot and ham and cheese croissants hadn’t yet been discovered. And yes, we can and we did say Rainman. My mentor, Betty Jane Hegerat, for her extraordinary ability to simultaneously deliver praise and critique so comments like “I had no idea what was going on here” came across “this is really good.” Thanks for leading and following, but please never “get out of the way.” Paul “Coach Q” Quarrington, whose advice and validation through the Humber School for Writers set this entire process into motion. Gwen Davies for being there from the get go as my first writing teacher and facilitator. The Writers Guild of Alberta with support from the Canada Council for the WGA Mentorship Program, which bridged the all important gap between the tenth draft and the publishable manuscript. Todd Babiak for generously reading Roost and providing a blurb that somehow makes me feel way cooler than I actually am, and Natalie Olsen for designing the cover and capturing the essence of the book so completely.
To my many friends, clients and family who have supported me as a person through this process whether with their words or through gifts of writing time sans children I am eternally grateful. Special thanks to those who specifically supported me as a writer: Patricia Arab, Melanie Battle, Reta Dennis, Rebecca Gulbransen, Erin Haysom, Tanya Heck, Bianca Johnny, Jennie King, Amanda Maclean, Char Martin, Jesse Wallace, Kelly Weedon, Chas Young. My one and only Halifax writing group: Mary Clancy, Dennis Earle, Nancy Newcomb, Atulya Saxena, and Mary-Evelyn Ternan. My big sisters, “Amy the Great” Weedon for cheerleading and Amanda Brazil for laughing at my jokes. My father, Peter Weedon, for his encouragement and support and my mother Diane Wallace, my original mentor and editor, my always mother, for her unparalleled support and guidance. This book is your success too. To my three babes: Pippa, Hugo and Odessa for keeping me grounded and inspired with your wild and wooly ways and tolerating me on the days I was up writing at five in the morning and was an asshole by eight at night. To my husband, Dave Bryan, my first fan, for accepting me unconditionally. Through open cupboard doors, small portions, and jackets on the floor, you never doubted this would happen. You are one cool accountant.
Last, thanks be to God. How great thou art, how great thou art.
Ali Bryan is a personal trainer who grew up in Halifax and attended high school in Sackville, New Brunswick. She is a graduate of St. Mary’s University and completed a graduate certificate in creative writing from the Humber School for Writers under the tutelage of Paul Quarrington. She was a finalist in the 2010 CBC Canada Writes literary contest for her essay “Asshole Homemaker” and a bronze medalist in the 2012 Canada Writes Literary Triathlon. Ali lives in Calgary with her husband and three children. Her real name is Alexandra. Roost is her first novel.
