Every Summer After(13)

“It was a heart attack,” he said, his eyes on his rod. I swallowed but stayed quiet. “We don’t talk about him much at home,” he added, reeling the line in. “And definitely not with my friends. They could barely look at me at the funeral. And even now, if they mention something about one of their dads, they look at me like they’ve accidentally said something super offensive.”

“That sucks,” I said. “I can tell you all about my dad if you want. But I warn you: He’s totally boring.” He smiled, and I went on. “But seriously, you don’t have to talk with me, either. Not if you don’t want to.”

“That’s the thing,” he said, squinting into the sun. “I do. I wish we’d talk about him more at home, but it makes Mom sad.” He set down his rod and looked up at me. “I’m starting to forget stuff about him, you know?” I climbed into the middle bench, closer to him.

“I don’t really know. I don’t know anyone with a dead dad, remember?” I nudged his foot with my toe, and he huffed out a laugh. “But I can imagine. I can listen.” He nodded once and ran his hand through his hair.

“It happened at the restaurant. He was cooking. Mom was at home and someone called to tell us that Dad had fallen and that the ambulance had taken him to the hospital. It only took us ten minutes to get there—you know how close the hospital is—but it didn’t matter. He was gone.” He said it quickly, like it hurt to get the words out.

I reached out and squeezed his hand, then twisted his bracelet around so the best part of the pattern faced up. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Explains the whole doctor thing, huh?” I could tell he was trying to sound upbeat, but his voice was dull. I smiled but didn’t reply.

“Tell me what he was like . . . when you’re ready,” I said instead. “I want to hear all about him.”

“Okay.” He picked up the rod again. Then added, “Sorry for going all emo on your last day.”

“Suits my mood, anyway.” I shrugged. “I’m kind of depressed about summer ending. I don’t want to go home tomorrow.”

He bumped my knee with his. “I don’t want you to go, either.”





5



Now

Sue’s face is staring at me, hair pulled back, smile so wide it’s beckoned her dimples. There are fine lines fanning out from her eyes that didn’t used to be there, but even on the local paper’s smudged newsprint, you can see determination in the slight upward tilt of her chin and the hand that rests on her hip. She’s standing in front of the Tavern in the photo, which runs under the headline “Tribute to a Beloved Barry’s Bay Business Leader.”

I’ve become skilled at warding off the loneliness that threatened to pull me under in my early twenties. It’s a formula that involved throwing myself into work, no-strings sex, and overpriced cocktails with Chantal. It took years to perfect. But sitting in the motel room with Sue’s obituary in my hands and the lake sparkling in the distance, I can feel it in every part of my body—the twisting of my gut, the ache in my neck, the tightness in my chest.

I could talk to Chantal. She’s sent three more texts, asking me to call her, asking me when the funeral is, asking whether I want her to come. I should at least text her back. But Thanksgiving breakdown aside, I haven’t spoken to her about Sam too often. I tell myself I don’t have the energy to get into it right now, but it’s more that if I start talking about him, about how monumental it feels to be here, how scary, I may not be able to hold it together.

What I really need is a bottle of wine. My stomach gurgles. And maybe some food. I haven’t eaten anything except for the raisin-bran muffin from my emergency Tim Hortons stop. It’s a blistering late afternoon, so I throw on the lightest thing I’ve packed: a sleeveless poppy-colored cotton dress that hits above the knees. It has large buttons down the front and a belted waist. I fasten my gold sandals and head out the door.

It takes about twenty minutes to walk to the center of town. My bangs are stuck to my forehead by the time I get there, and I hold my hair in a dense pile on top of my head to cool my neck down. Other than a new café with a sandwich board advertising lattes and cappuccinos (neither of which you could get in town when I was a kid), the family businesses on the main street are pretty much the same. Somehow I’m not prepared for the wallop of seeing the butter-yellow building and the red sign painted with Polish folk art flowers. I stand in the middle of the sidewalk, staring. The Tavern is in darkness, the green patio umbrellas folded shut. This is probably the first time since the restaurant opened that it’s been closed on a Thursday evening in July. There’s a small sign taped to the front door, and without thinking, I move toward it.

It’s a short message, written with black marker: The Tavern is closed until August to mourn the loss of owner Sue Florek. We thank you for your support and understanding. I wonder who wrote it. Sam? Charlie? Butterflies swarm my stomach. I lean into the glass door with my hands cupped around my face and notice a light on inside. It’s coming from the windows that lead into the kitchen. Someone’s in there.

As if drawn by a magnetic force, I head around to the back of the building. The heavy steel door that leads into the kitchen is propped open a few inches. The butterflies become a flock of flapping gulls. I pull the door wider and step inside. And then I freeze.