A Province Away

One province away, and everything's okay.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Fiction

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Moral rights

S.E. Saunders asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

External content

S.E. Saunders has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

Authors Note:

While the assertion above states the stories found in this book are fictional, I will include notes where the stories aren't fiction. The following is based on events from my life.

I skip by a row of windows, enjoying the sun, until I see my reflection and halt. I'm not the type of child to ever look in the mirror. Summer has turned my mouse brown hair into a platinum colour that supermodels and pop stars strive for in the salon. My skin has turned a luminous golden brown, and the sun has sprinkled freckles across my nose. The transformation seems impossible, even inhuman. I pinch myself to confirm it's me, then shrug and carry on.

For the first time, I felt a deep sense of loss. The end of summer meant I would no longer enjoy the shimmering surface and mica-spangled depths of Mara Lake. Melancholy steals over my happiness. Forty-five years later, vivid recollections of floating serenely, face up, eyes shut, cradled by the boundless embrace of the water and sky are a treasured refuge—a lifeline to former days.

Within my memory, my grandmother, a loving woman with a timeless face, lives. She smells like Noxzema, sunshine, and peanut butter cookies. She, my grandfather, and their son are accompanying me through Kelowna Airport. The entire time I've been here, Corey and I have been fighting, but even he's reluctant to see me go. I cry because I cannot bear to leave. I'd go back if I had a time machine, but I'm too far removed from that time and place. They're all gone now—even the youngest son.

The flight attendant assigned to minors arrives and takes my hand. Her infectious smile escorts me through the flexible passenger boarding bridge to the front of the aircraft, where I join other young passengers who seem less anxious. Settled in the row, I desperately search for a last glimpse of my extended family before they vanish. Another brave soul's gaze is similarly glued to the window, except his face is lit with wonder as we lift off, speeding into the blue. Unfazed by the cabin pressure changes, he seems at home where my ears feel like they're going to explode until the smile-laden woman passes me a slender stick of gum.

The cabin feels eerily quiet for so many people on board. The lack of sleep the night before overtakes me. I fall into a deep slumber, only to be awakened seconds later by the excited chatter of another child leaning over my seat. He's friends with the boy gazing out the window. I mustered the courage to glance in their direction, ensuring not to intrude since the boy at the window rejected my attempts at earlier interaction. I shift in my chair, maneuvering my entire body to eke out a fleeting glimpse of majestic peaks rising into the cloudbank, with a light dusting of snow adorning their crowns. However, my flight is bound for home, and longing tears my heart. I want to stay in the mountains forever. Not in the mountains, with them. They are family.

Another hour passes until the pilot's voice leaks through the speakers, indicating we are circling our destination. The weight of the return settles heavily across my shoulders. I resign myself to the homecoming as a burden to face.

I look forward to seeing my mom for the first time since departing.

Examining this memory, I can't recall her picking me up. I scrape to remember if this is the time she's been committed to the mental hospital or the one where I'm subjected to verbal abuse by my father and his mother. Our caregivers referred to this as parenting, and they still viciously defend it as such. In truth, it doesn't matter now. They did their best with what they knew. Dysfunction doesn't know it's dysfunctional until it's taught differently. Many of their actions have caused me to be a better parent because I purposely chose not to be like them.

Months pass, and new memories surface. Mom cooks a pizza she made from scratch. She prepares and kneads the dough, generously spreads the sauce, and carefully places the cheese. My mouth waters at the thought.

I can see the layout in my mind's eye. We're in the basement suite on 97th Street facing a park. There is a sink and counter on the east wall, and an assortment of plants grow there. She grows mung beans and alfalfa sprouts.

This evening, every inch of the pizza is good until the grated mozzarella boils over and drips to the bottom of the oven, where it catches fire and starts smoking. An uncle, hoping to be helpful, opens the apartment door and sets off the entire building's fire alarm. People rush into the hallway as the alarm klaxon blares, their faces lined with fear until our family sheepishly admits their folly. Firefighters arrive ready to face off a ferocious flaming foe but happily share laughter with those present when they discover the cause. They're grateful it's as simple as a woman whose pizza overflowed having faced much worse.

We've settled into the same routine. Where the days flicker by like a magician shuffling cards. The park across the street remains empty save for the rarity of when she pushes me on the swing. I recall her small frame running underneath my swing as she pushed me forward with all her might. On that seat, I fly, feet extended, arched backward yet stretching ahead into a cloudless sky. My heart is open to all the beauty in life. I am free from all that enshackles me.

Here, my bike has been stolen, not once but thrice. First, the thieves stole the beautiful bike with the cream-coloured banana seat and tassels from the wide handlebars. The second is a Franken bike my father has built with the spare parts he's collected from a junkyard. The third is a black BMX style. He stores this one in the truck until they break into it and steal it, too.

They give up trying to keep a bike around. I teeter along the sidewalk in front of a weeping willow with my carriage and dolls under the careful supervision of my mother's watchful eye. She's crocheted me multicoloured bags and begins to fear I may become a bag lady for everything I'm dragging around daily. Despite my stolen bikes and baggage, the emotional weight far outweighs my physical possessions.

I tried to travel to the old apartment via Google the other day, but like the past, I could only travel so far down a given roadway. The tree I loved has been severed into a broken stump. It feels like a fitting symbol of many things in my childhood. Nothing left to grow with. It must be replanted.

Dad is commuting to the army base, where he works as a mechanic. Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry is his company. He's a P.P.C.L.I. through and through, right down to his tattoos. Our family is never stagnant, and we're always on the move. One evening, I watched the road slide by on the darkening horizon, my gaze on the rising moon following along. I recall wondering why we hadn't returned home, but permit my small heart to hope just a little. The only time we ever go this way is when we're on our way to visit my dad's side of the family. I'm eager to see them and wondering if my grandparents' dogs, Chico, the large white husky and Poopsy, a fox coloured red mix, are missing me as much as I miss them. My heart constricts to think of them.

We pass the turn-off with the large grain elevators emblazoned with Bashaw, once a staple of all Canadian prairie towns. I sit up in earnest as we don't skip more familiar roads. It cannot be Grandpa Herbert's or Grandma Ruth's farm. There is only one place this stretch of highway leads to, and I can barely contain my joy. We're finally returning to my beloved mountains and lake.

Something inside of me settles, like a part of my heart returned that's been missing.

My parents share they've decided to move to where my mother's parents live. My Mama and Papa have been in the small mountainous town of Sicamous for a few years now. I'm overjoyed but wonder why none of our stuff is with us. It doesn't matter. We're together, and everyone is happy. That's all that matters to a child. My Papa is a mechanic, as is my dad. I'm told they'll work together at Grandad's rental shop. Mom will take over running a car wash.

We live in a tiny fifteen-foot trailer until things take another dark turn. Here, rats race out of the cupboards and build nests so we can barely light the stove. A new highway reroutes the business that once boomed. Dad is forced to find work elsewhere to make ends meet. Mom deals with a car where a man has committed suicide. I can tell that it disturbs her. I hear them whispering about the man who drove up the mountain and blew his brains out. My parents fighting resumes, and it's so bad my grandfather intervenes.

Grandfather can't always be around, though. That night, my father had been doing what he does.

It's November 18th. Dad's hands are again around my mother's throat. Dad speaks of this with shame now, but how that shame arrived can only be described as a reckoning. For those who believe in fate or gods, something was about to help my father come to a realization of epic proportions.

As he says, it had been raining at the lumber mill where he found work. They were working with large saws. That day, he pitched forward, slipping on the sawdust. His only option was to fall headfirst, die, or push away and lose fingers. He chose life and lost three fingers and half his index finger on his left hand. Something he laments upon years later, as God punishing him for putting his hands on her. Somehow, I don't think God works that way, but who am I to disabuse him of this notion?

If it is God or the equal and opposite forces of how the universe works, he will never choke any woman again.