The Devil's Heart

by Candace Osmond

  “So, whereabouts are you from?” he asked, changing the subject.

  I blinked away the teary film and slipped my hand out from under his hold to rub my eyes. “West Coast. Just outside of Deer Lake, by Gros Morne.”

  “Ah, pirates,” he replied, “gorgeous over there. We go to Marble Mountain every Winter.”

  “Pirates?” I asked, confused.

  He just chuckled. “You don’t know your own history?”

  “Well, yes, I do. Sort of. I mean, I know my Dad’s side, I guess.” I felt like he was about to school me. I knew, as most Newfoundlanders do, that our province had a lot of ties to piracy back in the day. “I thought the whole pirate stuff happened on the East Coast, over by St. John’s? What was his name, Easton, or something?”

  “Ah, so you do know?” he replied with a cheeky grin. “Yes, Peter Easton was probably our most famous pirate. But not the only one. The West Coast was riddled with them. All those coves and bays, lined with caves and whatnot to hide their treasures.”

  “That’s cool. My mom was a historian, of sorts. More like a collector, I guess. She was obsessed with collecting and archiving everything she could get her hands on that had even the slightest thing to do with the history of the area. I’m going home now to sort through it all, actually. I’ll keep an eye out for any pirate stuff.”

  I laughed then, but I was serious. I really would. As a kid, I remember adoring my mother’s things, her precious possessions that she coveted so much. Things like scrolls and books, ancient fishing tools and really old swords. They littered our home, hanging on walls and filling glass cabinets, but the chests were my favorite. I always imagined they were pirates’ chests, full of cursed treasure.

  “You speak about your mother in the past tense. Is her death the unfortunate reason you’re coming home?”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek, my go-to nervous bad habit when I felt anxious or stressed. Over the last decade, these few words were the most I’d spoken of my mother out loud. “Um, no. She passed away when I was a teenager. It’s my dad. He died yesterday.”

  More hand squeezing.

  “I’m so sorry for all your loss. Too young. You’re far too young to be left alone in this world, m’love,” he said, comforting me with a term of endearment I hadn’t heard in years.

  “It’s okay,” I assured him and pointed my gaze out the window. “I’m used to it. I’ve been alone for a long time.”

  The familiar bing came across the intercom once more. “This is your captain speaking. We’ve landed in Deer Lake at the Deer Lake Regional Airport at about a quarter past five. The temperature is currently eleven degrees Celsius on this warm August morning and is expected to rise to the mid-twenties by late afternoon. For those who are visiting Newfoundland for the first time, welcome, and thank you for flying with West Jet. For those who are residents of the province… welcome home.”

  I inhaled deeply. Yes, welcome home, indeed.

  Chapter Two

  Isent John a quick I’m here text before I made my way through the crowd exiting the plane and headed toward the tiny area of the minuscule Deer Lake airport where I knew my aunt would be waiting for me. I worried that I wouldn’t recognize her, or vice versa. It had been well over a decade after all.

  But then those thoughts quickly dissipated when my eyes scanned the crowd and landed on a quirky woman with crazy grey, curly hair that was slopped atop of her head in a haphazard messy bun. Long strands fell loose around her shoulders and even touched the back of her rainbow-colored knit sweater. Her welcome smile eased my nerves and I fell, awkwardly, into her open arms. She smelled like homemade bread and an open fire.

  “My girl.” She grabbed me by the upper arms and pushed me away from her body. “Let me get a look at ch’ya.” Aunt Mary scanned me up and down with a fierce and proud grin. “Just as I thought. Too beautiful for your own good. I see you finally figured out how to tame those damn curls.

  “It’s good to see you, Aunt Mary, you haven’t changed a bit.”

  We both stood and smiled at one another until she looped her arm in mine. “Come on then, let’s get you fed.”

  “Did you, by chance, bake bread?” I asked, my mouth filling with saliva at the thought of my favorite childhood food.

  Aunt Mary would bake a batch of loaves every Sunday and I could smell it from down the gravel road we all lived on. I’d go running to her house on those days, and she’d have a special loaf, just for me, set aside. A small, one-bun, loaf and I’d take it down by the ocean side to sit on a rock and eat it. The whole dang thing.

  She gave me a sideways look. “Of course. Company comin’.”

  I wrapped my sweater tight across my chest as we exited the airport and the moist East Coast air blanketed me. I grinned as we kept our pace across the small parking lot toward her car. “Did you, by any chance, save some of the dough?”

  “Still love your toutans, do ya?” Mary chuckled. “I did. Hope you’re hungry.”

  I was. But that wouldn’t have mattered. Newfoundland hospitality meant you were going to be forced to eat more than you could handle, whether you liked it or not. Luckily for Aunt Mary, I loved it. Growing up around so much comfort food was the reason I became a chef. I would have become a baker, like my parents, but then I would have been guilted even more about moving back home.

  The hour-long drive back to my childhood home was lengthy and nerve-wracking. Glorious, long-forgotten shades of the green landscape filled my vision and brought memories to the surface; both happy and sad. The closer we got, the more my brain spun with thoughts of seeing my family.

  The questions, the odd looks, the shared memories of Dad that I won’t understand because I hadn’t been there in years. A fact that they all know and will surely use to pile on the guilt. They’ll be talking about him, sharing stories, and I’ll just sit there, unknowing, on the outside. Mary seemed to sense my unease and let a comfortable silence fill the car. I took a deep breath and tried to remember John’s wise words.

  You don’t owe anyone anything.

  It helped. A little. He just didn’t understand the history of my life. The craziness that was my childhood; growing up with a mother who seemed to be from another world with her outrageous stories of magic and wonder, and a father who was as much a realist as the sky is blue.

  They were such an odd couple but loved each other fiercely. It was a love I admired my whole life, a love I aspired to have someday. Things were getting there with John. For me, anyway. He was like a lone wolf that I tamed and brought home. And I constantly worried that he’d one day realize the door was left open.

  But, yeah, my parents. Mom was like the glue that kept us together. And not just us, but the whole community. She ran that bakery and made everything with love. Kids got free cookies every Sunday, she donated freshly baked bread to less fortunate families, and she even used some old recipes that were passed down through generations in her family.

  Braided bread contraptions too pretty to eat, stone-fired buns infused with rosemary. Everyone looked forward to the smells emitted from our bakery each and every day. After she died, after we lost her to the sea… things changed. Dad tried his best to keep the bakery running, but it was like Bert taking over for Ernie’s job. It just wasn’t the same.

  Aunt Mary began to slow on the highway, so I knew we were approaching our exit to my small hometown community of Rocky Harbour. As we drove through the winding roads toward my aunt’s house, I gazed out the window at the landscape that rushed by. Nothing had changed. Not a single thing. Every tree, every rock, still exactly as I remembered it. As if time stood still while I was away and my arrival kick-started a motion picture that now played out in front of me.

  As we passed children riding bikes and endless lines of clothes drying in the warm summer breeze, I became more certain in my decision to not come back and settle. I wasn’t built for small-town life. Yet, I hadn’t truly settled in Edmonton, either. I’d find my forever home someday, I knew, deep do
wn, that I was on the right path. I just had to keep following it. I just wished there were a big flashing sign or something. This is it, this is your life!

  “So,” Mary finally broke the silence, “how does it feel to be home?”

  I was about to plaster on a fake smile but one look at her told me not to. There was something about my great aunt, the one family member who always told it to me like it was, never missed a birthday or Christmas card, that made me comfortable around her.

  “Truthfully?”

  “Always,” she replied sternly, gripping the steering wheel as we made a sharp turn.

  “It feels weird. Like I shouldn’t be here.”

  We then pulled into her driveway, a long gravel stretch that ended with her house and a steep drop to the ocean side.

  “Dianna, m’dear. You have every right to be here as anyone. You’re your father’s only child, and it would be wrong for you not to be here. You understand me?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “Now, let’s get inside and get some food on the table.”

  “Okay,” I answered. “I’ll just get my bag.”

  Mary scuttled into the house while I grabbed my modest carry-on from the trunk. As I closed the hatch, the sweet smell of ocean whipped through my hair and across my face, leaving a light mist on my skin and I inhaled deeply. I may not belong there, but I did belong to the ocean. That much I knew for certain. As a kid, I’d run and play along this gravel road where my family lived. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and us. But most of my time was spent by myself, down by the water, gazing out to the horizon and building rafts to try and get there.

  “Dianna! You comin’?” Aunt Mary called from the front porch, yanking me out of my daydream.

  “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

  My chest heaved as I ached to leave the gorgeous view that stretched out as far as the eye could see. There was nothing after this. The closest piece of land was Quebec, across the St. Lawrence. To me, there was something comforting in an endless horizon. Go where you want, as far as you can, with nothing to stop you. Unlike life on land, where there’s something to face every which way you turned.

  ***

  After the heaviest breakfast ever; a pile of fried bread dough drowned in syrup, I sat on her back porch with a cup of tea in hand. I smiled at the delicate piece of china, a dainty thing with hand-painted roses and a gold rim. I pulled out my phone to check if John had replied to my text but was disappointed to see he hadn’t. Mary was inside, fussing around the kitchen, clanking pots and pans as she cleaned up. Soon, she emerged and sidled up next me in her rocking chair.

  “How you feelin’, dear? Tired? You want to go lay down for a bit? I got the spare room all done up for ya.”

  I shook my head. “No, thanks. As much as I’d love to fall into a coma after that meal, I should probably get some work done. The funeral’s tomorrow, right? What time?”

  She reached over and pat my arm. “Now, don’t you go worryin’ about that stuff. I took care of it all. Your father made me swear. He had everything planned out, right down to the very last detail.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, sounds like Dad. Such a stickler.”

  “The funeral is at eleven, then everyone’s comin’ back here for lunch.” She gently rocked her chair and sipped her tea.

  “Oh? Do you need help to make food, then?” Surely, if I knew my aunt at all, there wouldn’t be a deli tray in sight. All homemade, no doubt.

  She grinned and gave me a wink. “Nope. Had everything pre-made and in the deep freeze since yesterday morning. Plus, I imagine people will bring stuff.”

  “Well, now I feel useless.”

  Her face turned serious as her rocking came to a halt and she leaned forward. “I don’t think you understand the state over at your father’s house, Dianna. In his last few months, he went mad going through your mother’s things, lookin’ for… something. I dunno.” She shook her head and took another sip of tea. “You’ll be busy over there, for sure.”

  Perfect. I needed something to keep me distracted from thoughts of the funeral. Plus, it was a great way to avoid seeing the rest of my distant family. I stood up and downed the last of my tea which was mostly milk and sugar at that point.

  “Do you have a key? I can head over there now. I only have so much time here, better make use of it, I guess.”

  She gave me a sympathetic look before standing from her own chair. “Come on, then. I’ll bring you over.”

  The drive was short, just a few minutes down to the opposite end of the gravel road. It was just how I remembered it; bumpy and narrow. But I was shocked to see the state of my childhood home as it slowly came into view, like seeing a grandparent for the first time in ten years and trying to hide your devastation over their drastic aging.

  The house was once a beautiful two-story, with a giant turret that provided a wicked view of the ocean. On the first level, the turret housed part of my mom’s office. On the second story, it was my old bedroom and I loved it dearly. Mom had insisted on it being my room, said it was where I was meant to be.

  Never really understood what she meant, but now… I think I did. I spent endless hours sitting by the window, staring out onto the ocean water, watching the hypnotic waves and letting the crystal reflection of the sun on its surface burn my eyes. And then, at night, I’d watch obsessively as the moon played with the waves lapping in its light.

  But now, I was faced with an aging property, one that had clearly been neglected. The old-fashioned wood siding, once a cape cod blue, had faded into a lifeless grey. Pieces had fallen off and sat on the ground below, the relentless grass grew over parts of the boards which gave me an idea of how long they had been lying there. Some windows in the second story had been boarded up. I wondered then, what had my father’s state of mind really been like these last few years and my chest filled with anxious waves of guilt and regret.

  Was it my fault?

  I followed Aunt Mary to the front step, careful to avoid the bottom one that was clearly rotting, the rust-colored wood peeking out through cracks and missing chunks. I hopped up to the third step and then made my way across the large front porch as she unlocked the door.

  It opened with a loud creak, threatening to fall off its hinges and, as I stepped over the threshold, the familiar scent of my childhood punched me in the face. The distinct smell of old books, a wood-burning fire, and leather. It never lessened, even after all these years. The only thing missing was the pleasant taint of baked goods, which aired out with my mother’s passing years ago.

  I looked at Mary. “What the heck happened? Why did Dad let the house get this way?”

  She shrugged apologetically. “Who knows, m’love? The mind of a dying man is a lonely place.”

  She walked over to the woodstove and tossed in a small log along with some crumbled-up sales flyers from the box next to it. Within a minute she’d had a fire going and closed the cast iron door.

  “He left it to you, though. That much I know.”

  My heart fluttered. “The house?”

  “Yep, like I said before, and the bakery. Along with a bunch of other stuff. It’s all in the will. We can go over it tonight when you’re done here if you want.”

  All these years, especially after my dad got sick, I always said to myself that I didn’t want any of it. No reason to come back. But now, being here, seeing the state of what’s left of my past life… I felt an odd compulsion to stake a claim. To fix it. Make it mine. It’s what my mom would want.

  “That would be nice, thanks.” I glanced around at the fairly empty front room. “So, where should I start?”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “Follow me.”

  She brought me down the hallway toward the end of the house that faced the ocean. But the blaring sunlight that I remembered once filling the space and pouring out from my mother’s office was missing. Instead, I walked down a shadowed hall half-filled with aging boxes, papers spilling out of them and onto the floor below my feet. When I came
to the mouth of the room, I nearly choked on my breath.

  Mom’s office. It was a disaster. The hallway was like a preview of what was contained in the circular space. Towers of boxes, half falling apart, papers flooding the floor, unable to even see the beautiful hardwood I knew lay beneath it. Her antique desk, once a giant in the room, was now dwarfed by the mountain of stuff that smothered its surface.

  Mary looked at me and slapped her arms at her sides. “I imagine this is as good a place as any to start. There’s a lot of things of your mother’s that the museum wants. But it’s up to you what goes and what stays.” She turned and headed toward the door, patting me on the shoulder first and then handing me the key. “I’ll leave you to it. Call over to the house if you need anything.”

  ***

  Five hours later, I’d barely made a dent. All I managed to do was create more of a mess, it seemed. But I had attempted to organize things, at least. Four piles laid out on the floor in front of me, each marked by a box.

  One for papers that seemed to be important to our direct family, one for certificates of authentication so I could match them to objects later, one of straight-up garbage, and then the miscellaneous pile. The biggest one. The further I went, the more I worried about my father’s state of mind before he passed away.

  Why was he looking through boxes of scrolls and books that held birth certificates dated as far back as the early 1600s? I even found one box in the hallway that was literally just full of broken things; buttons, ripped pictures, jewelry, dishes. Most of the items were Mom’s, which I found really odd. Was he taking out some frustrations? Was it evidence that he attempted to clean up Mom’s stuff? Or perhaps the box was just that; a container of broken things my mother couldn’t part with. I’ll never know.