45 been the one who should have been placed in the casket. She looked as if she might blow away in the November wind, like the forgotten smoke of a birthday candle. She walked the chill grey streets with a curious expression, as though she had left something very important somewhere, though she was unsure where. She seemed lost, like a six-year-old in a supermarket. Where was mom? Was she still mom? She turned in at a brick complex and proceeded numbly down a hall carpeted in a mad frenzy of colours—each competing for notice, and each succeeding. She unlocked the door to her apartment to find Sam, the loyal Labrador, waiting with a questioning look in his large brown eyes: Where is Julia? Why isn’t she here? She reached down to pat his blocky yellow head. “She’s not coming, bud.” She wormed out of her coat and scarf, draping them over the sofa on her way to the kitchen, depositing her shoes along the way. Setting the pies on the counter with a heavy sigh, she turned back to the hallway and paused in front of the telephone: twenty-two messages. She erased them all. As her eyes travelled up from the receiver, she took notice of the framed photographs on the wall. Toward a corner, attempting to be inconspicuous, a tall man with coffee-coloured hair grinned back at her from a forested scene. Somehow the redwoods at his back made him larger than life, dwarfing her as the spectator of a moment she would never forget. She was disgusted by the image and the feelings it inspired, but she couldn’t bring herself to throw it out, as she had the rest. She hated herself for it. Seeing his face, she thought back to the morning: an awkward handshake, a glance, a supposedly shared sorrow. The only connection after nine years. Charles had left shortly after Julia was born. He ‘wasn’t ready for the responsibility,’ he had said. That wasn’t the first time he had said that. The apartment felt so empty—it was just her and Sam now. Alice brushed the chestnut hair from her eyes, forcing herself to move. She stepped into the kitchen, the tile cold on her bare feet. Opening a series of cupboards, each nearly empty, she realised that she had neglected the shopping. She wasn’t surprised. If she wanted some semblance of a meal, it was either pie, or a box of macaroni and cheese: princess-shaped. Julia’s favourite. She sighed heavily again, turning a dial that corresponded to an ancient burner with a series of clicks, watching the coils turn red beneath the pot. She took a seat on the sofa, curling in on herself as Sam trotted up to meet her gaze, resting his head in her lap. She smiled weakly at him as she stroked his silky yellow fur—listening for the sound of boiling water over the deafening silence and the ticking of the clock. She had heard silence like that in the hospital. Closing her eyes, she tried not to think. She patted the cushion next to her, inviting Sam to join her while she unfolded a large, knit blanket. Her cardigan and
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