View from the Tower
an excerpt

(on either side the river lie)

Two days ago, in an incongruously comfortable room, the doctor had asked if Carolyn was going to tell her mother.

"Of course," Carolyn had said.

The doctor merely held her gaze. He said nothing. They were old friends, having dated briefly in secondary school, almost twenty years gone; he was married now, with children whose white teeth flashed from the picture on his desk. The rest of the office was dark woods, muted fabrics, bland landscapes; the picture frame was the sort of clashing personal treasure that drove interior decorators to distraction. It was covered with pastel and neon scribbles, proclaiming that Daddy was loved. Carolyn found herself staring at it, at the gap-toothed smiles.

"Of course," she said again. "Peter, of course I will."

He nodded shortly and dropped his gaze to her file, open on his desk. "It's a river you'll have to ford on your own," he said, and then smiled a little. "Well, you've the ferry, anyway. Say hi to my folks if you drop by."

From the Tsawassen shore, the Georgia Strait did not look particularly like a river. But Carolyn now lived on the shore of Chicago, the waters of Lake Michigan stretching to the horizon like a cold freshwater sea, and she was accustomed to loose definitions for bodies of water. Underneath her feet, the ferry rumbled across the waters separating Vancouver Island from the mainland.

When she was younger, the ferry trip back to the island had always seemed like the closing doors of a prison. Saanich was by no means a small town but it was still isolated, closed off from the mainland. Vancouver Island was ringed about by pine-covered hilly knolls that poked from the water, like the fingers of some giant ominous hand. Carolyn would inevitably turn back, stare out the stern of the boat towards the mainland, and wish for adventure, for drama.

She should have been, Carolyn reflected, a bit more cautious about the type of drama being wished for. But careful semantics is at the heart of all successful wish-making.

She steered the rental car down highway 17 and onto side streets, retracing the twisting roads back to the tiny house of her childhood. Her father was gone now, grandfather long gone, mother and tiny wizened grandmother all that was left to her. Women live longer, studies said.

She parked the car and turned off the engine without consciously having decided to do so. Before her, the grey pavers trailed to the front door, and the magnolia tree was in bloom.

Her mother opened the door. "Carolyn," she said. Her hair was even whiter than it had been, like fine snow-powder.

"Mother," Carolyn said, and hurried up the steps to her mother's embrace. Love rose thickly in her throat, choking her with things unsaid.

Her mother pulled back, eyed her wonderingly. "It's been so long. How are you? How have you been? Is there anything new going on in your life?"

"No," said Carolyn, and smiled.