Chapter Text
Fort Saskatchewan is the place you want to be.
Nestled on the bank of the great North Saskatchewan River, it promises life flowing smoothly and fluidly like the water itself. The dualities of the world merge and mix together daily, a mass of contrasts blended into one, sacrum and profanum turning reliquum–—in between, pleasantly ordinary. There are great expanses of Turner Park, the gentleness of Ross Creek, but they disappear gradually into the horizon, a gradient of greens and blues, giving up space for the stretches of broken ground and chimneys of Dow Chemical, Chemtrade, and other segments of technological conglomerate further north. Nature fuses with the smoke seamlessly, and if the fumes get blown too far into the unassuming little streets and squares at times, nobody seems to mind. It is all about balance and compromise, after all. A true Goldilock's zone on the surface of the Earth.
The one thing Courtney knows is that life doesn't get better than this.
It is only her third year in the city and second in her current apartment, a two-room flat on the top floor of an old townhouse renovated and repainted a sensible beige with tiny specks and crumbs of a dated charm hiding in the corners. Her neighbourhood is situated right in the heart of the duality, with the Titan Towing towering over the artificial grass of the golf club visible from her kitchenette window and the docile, tamed wildlife growing peacefully under her tiny balcony. She roams the streets of the city every day, her steps slowly getting the characteristic, confident spring of a local - and yet she is still able to find new nooks and crannies that fill her with newcomer's wonder almost every day. If her mind hungers for a challenge, the hustle of Edmonton is right around the corner. If her soul craves peace, North Saskatchewan River welcomes her with the glacier-like breath of cold.
Truly, a Goldilock's zone. Perfectly balanced. Just like her.
She is an hourglass in body and soul: what piles up on one end falls back in place immediately, and all it takes is a little tip. Her core is sure and even, proportioned: she is in place in both vibrancy of summer and greyscale of winter. A gradient of achromaticity, fitting everywhere - blending into the smoke even if the fumes get blown too far, pleasantly unassuming and content.
She works as a corporate paralegal, for Dow Chemicals of all things, and finds the job as agreeable as it is comfortable. She has a few friends, but only one on speed dial because she likes her relationships to be non-restrictive and comfortable. She keeps her daily diet clean and slimming but slips in a little flapper pie every now and then, and the feeling following that small rebellion is exhilarating and, indeed, comfortable.
This is the place you want to be, she keeps mouthing voicelessly when she wakes up in the morning and goes to bed at night, when she fixes herself a cup of coffee at the machine in the break room and when she rushes down to the nearest grocery store that isn't Walmart to do some late-night shopping. This is what balance is. This is what comfort is. This is what happiness feels like. Life doesn't get better than this.
She keeps mouthing those words almost audibly as she takes another pill for nausea that never seems to go away.
*
Fort Saskatchewan, first breaths of Fall, 20XX
It's a small thing, really.
It's nothing more important than a speck of dust. A particle of glitter set free from her old prom dress dances in the sunlight for a moment or two; it catches her attention until there is nothing else, nothing more to see in the entire world. A patch of light, a piece of brightness from old summers and younger days, lingers lazily on the old cardboard box at the bottom of the open closet full of autumn coats. Courtney squints as if the sun-rays were blinding her–—as they were known to do before. Summer used to be bright and warm.
She kneels slowly and reaches for the box.
She remembers picking it up, back in her old family house which needed to be emptied to make room for the new tenants. They had been said to arrive soon, bringing new colours and stories between the walls. Courtney knew nothing about colours and even less about stories. That was why, she remembers, she had spent an unspeakable amount of time aimlessly walking around the house, moving from room to room, sweeping invisible dust bunnies and straightening the covers over the freshly delivered furniture. Prolonging the moment before she had to pick the damn box up.
But that was the past, and now is... now. It's the present, and the future, because nothing will ever change in her world of balance ever again. Strangely reassured by the thought, she reaches for the box once again.
A photo. The photo. It lies on the very top, accusingly almost, sticking out amongst her other belongings in the worst possible way. While other things, old and dusty, lie dormant, it falls onto the ground with a thud, refusing to be forgotten. Mocking. Printed forever on the smooth, shiny surface, multiple faces are smiling at her–—younger faces, brighter faces. She remembers them all, staring at her from the wall in her old bedroom, where she had hung the picture in the last act of defiance. She can remember each time she had hit the nail, her jaw tight and her mind stubbornly blank, refusing a single thought, negative or otherwise, to emerge. The way she saw it back then, memories were not supposed to be good or bad. They weren't supposed to matter at all.
Seeking confirmation, she lets herself look, her eyes travelling from one teenager to another, allowing herself a wry smile at the sight of overlined waterlines and needlessly spiky hair. Affirmation of the long since learned truths seems to be an obvious thing - memories are not supposed to matter at all. She believes that, she truly does, until she sees green.
He is standing at the very front of the group, arms crossed and chin held up, sticking out amongst the other campers in the worst possible way. While others are smiling, he's grinning, his eyes sharp and cold, and daring, refusing to be forgotten. Mocking.
She traces the frame with her fingers, painting small patterns in the dust. It's soft and smooth to touch, almost comforting. But, like with many other things, comfort can be treacherous.
When roughness on the edge of the wooden holder meets skin, a scent of jackpines fills the air.
She hisses, more in shock rather than pain, as she watches a single scarlet droplet forming on the pad of her thumb with a black dot of a splinter right in the center. In between numbers and legislatures, there is little room for anything else. But, just like specks and crumbs hiding in the corners of an old townhouse, there are reflections of colour peeking through the beige. Fairy tales speak of blood, after all: she remembers Charles Perrault. She heeds his warning. Now, as then, 'tis simple truth: sweetest tongue has sharpest tooth.
She is grateful for the sudden jolt of pain, as she is for every remainder: little girls should never stray from the path, no matter how tempting it might have looked at first glance. It never brings balance, she mouths voicelessly, bleeding thumb between her lips, tasting of copper and dust. It never brings comfort. This is what ruins happiness.
Lulled by the old fairy tale, she closes her eyes. And yet, while her mind wanders back to modern stories of tamed wildlife willingly drowning in exhaust fumes, she remembers. Camp Wawanakwa, 2007. A place you want to be.
*
Gravenhurst, Summer, 2007
It was supposed to be her first summer. A clean start. A new life.
One of the most important pieces of advice one can give an aspiring debater is to always find a spot of comfort. A little patch of uneven paint on the wall, a broken light switch concealed incompetently with a framed picture, an ornamental detail on the doorframe; anything to make your mind focus on the objective. Some say the technique serves only one purpose: it takes the edge off the competition, relaxes the mind, helps you remember that the whole ordeal is just friendly competition in the spirit of sportsmanship. This might be true, if only on a surface level.
But the actual objective, after all, is to win.
Courtney enjoyed winning. Spots of comfort, however, were few and far between these days. Finding them in this house proved to be a challenge on more than one occasion.
“So? What do you think?”
Her father sent her an inquisitive look over his thin-framed glasses. His eyes were soft and round - and curiously apologetic. Put together with a patch of baldness which expanded significantly in the past few months and an old-fashioned dressing-gown tied tightly around his only slightly pudgy waist, he looked nothing like a respectable guardian ad litem, but a benevolent philanthropist from the nineteenth century. A Dickensian character of a modern day, with his Don't Make Me Use My Lawyer Voice mug and a colourful flyer in hands instead of the customary pipe and a copy of the daily newspaper as attributes.
Another piece of advice often given to aspiring debaters is to get to know their opponent well. Courtney narrowed her eyes. Dickens notwithstanding, her father was still her father. Benevolence and philanthropy might have been true to his character, but, not unlike spots of comfort and the spirit of sportsmanship, they worked only on a surface level.
She straightened up in her seat on the couch–—her father's couch, everything in the house was his and Valeria's–—and furrowed her brows. Her eyes left scanned the room, all the knick-knacks and tchotchkes, and all things that turn houses into homes in the eyes of those who don't know what home really is. Searching.
Finally, there it was. A chandelier. It had crystal tassels, tacky and unnecessary, reflecting light in little rainbows. She focused on one of
them and inhaled deeply.
"Okay."
This should be easy.
"First of all," she pointed one finger in the air, a gesture well observed by anyone who grew up with lawyers in the family, "let's consider the facts, okay? This... Camp Wawanakwa, is it?... is all the way out there in Lakes. That's, and correct me if I'm wrong, a full hour of unnecessary driving down the forest road. An hour of driving. With the trees and wild animals around only to get to even more trees and wild animals. Where's the logic in this? If you want me to breathe some fresh air, I can open the window! It's Ontario, for god's sake, we could bottle our air and sell it away! Those poor people in Quebec would definitely appreciate it."
She raised another finger. The chandelier was swaying gently, the tassels jingling quietly.
"Secondly: I didn't see any school affiliation listed on their website. And don't get me started on that website! Whatever, what I mean is, no affiliation means no extra credit. No extra credit means a waste of time. No counselling work, no new qualifications, nothing! What schools even are there in Lakes, anyway? The... the Hillbilly Academy for Woodchucking Aficionados? As if!"
She exhaled slowly. She layered it enough. It was time to get to the key point. The rainbows around the chandelier changed, turning slightly out of focus.
"And thirdly. Well, thirdly... I am still in the process o-of grieving," she let out a shaky breath, then swallowed the lump she didn't feel forming in her throat. Just don't cry, don't choke, don't let your voice tremble–—it was sound advice for more than debating. "And I-I don't think that fresh air and forest hiking is what's best for me at the moment."
The glasses clicked against the surface of the table. Her father stood up from his seat on the flowery armchair–—tacky, tacky, oh-so-tacky, like everything that was his and Valeria's–—and crouched next to her. A benevolent philanthropist, Dickensian on the surface, with grasshopper-like legs barely fitting in the gap between the sofa and the coffee table. His eyes were strangely soft and awfully, disgustingly apologetic. It made her want to run.
How dare you pretend to care? Her spot of comfort became even more needed than before. Debating isn't just about talking, after all. So she blinked a couple of times and focused on the rainbows again.
Her father sighed.
"Look, I know the last few months were not... ideal, especially for a teenage girl." He touched her arm awkwardly and she almost scoffed. "It's all hard for you, I understand. But that is precisely why I think summer camp would be good for you. No responsibilities, extra credits, or student council, just... just fun! In a new environment. You know, a clean start after... after all this."
I already am in a new environment.
She narrowed her eyes. Rainbows turned into lightning bolts, sharp and edgy. Here, with you. That's a clean start, isn't it? Painful, and scary, and raw. And you don't seem to get it.
When he put a flyer in her hand, slightly moist and crumpled, she didn't say anything. Somehow she knew the debate time was over and the judges were not in her favour. She tore her eyes away from the jingling tassels and looked at the piece of paper. Poorly printed pictures of wooden cabins and a burning campfire, gaudy lettering in all colours of the rainbow. Camp Wawanakwa, 2007. A place you want to be.
Her father watched her closely, his head slightly tilted, the bald spot almost not visible.
“So... will you think about it? It's going to be fine, I promise. You can even take your violin with you! Play some tunes by the fire, how's that sound? Could be fun."
Talking about no responsibilities or extra credits, huh. She smiled bitterly. Get to know your opponent well, as the saying went. How did he know so little?
She rolled her eyes, catching sight of the faint rainbows for the last time. There was no use to seek spots of comfort anymore, so she looked away. They worked only on a surface level anyway.
"Violin's not 'fun.' It's a tool of practising eye-hand coordination."
He smiled, his nose scrunched as if she just told a good joke.
"Well, let's see if it can become fun along the way, okay?"
*
Ontario, on the road, 2007
It only takes an hour to get to Muskoka Lakes from the town of Gravenhurst. An hour and a half if the roads aren't clear–—but they usually are: not too many drivers pass through Severn Bridge and the highway next to it, with its long stretches of no buildings in sight and occasional forest patches taking over the landscape. It doesn't take a lot of time to hit the gas, pass the extents of nothing but utility poles and billboards here and there, wave happily to a sporadic Mountie patrol passing by, and eventually park at your final destination–—or at the bottom of one of the lakes if you're not careful enough. Unfortunately, time is an abstract concept, ruled by principles more akin to humans' fragile psyche than the wisdom of the Universe; on the open road, after yet another fortnight which, according to her digital watch, lasted only ten minutes, Courtney abandoned all hope.
Valeria's red Toyota glided seamlessly down the road, passing other cars both too fast and too slowly. She was tapping her freshly done nails against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the song playing on the radio–—Serena Ryder, pride of the nation, currently wishing her starshine a good morning. For whatever reason, Courtney doubted her wishes were sincere.
Valeria volunteered to drive her to the camp, insisting that "some quality girl time road trip" would do them both good. Ever since Courtney came to live with them–—with dad–—the woman became hellbent on building a bond between them, setting aside the uneven foundation, fragile scaffolding, and absolutely no hope for the structure to survive more than one day. Courtney couldn't help but feel a tiniest little bit guilty: Valeria was trying, in her own way, with a desperation that was almost palpable. Almost pitiful.
Almost.
"So? How are we feeling? Excited for the vacation?"
Valeria's voice was high-pitched and naturally sweet. Courtney spared her a glance, nodded politely with a tight smile, and turned her eyes back to the book on her lap. She wasn't sure about the story or who the main character was; still, it was better to chase after imaginings on beige pages than engage in sugary chirping with the starshine behind the wheel.
“I'm sure you'll love it! It's sooo much different when you're just a camper! Counsellors don't have even half the fun, trust me...”
The lilts and tilts of the melodic voice faded out into the background slowly, mixing with the hum of the radio and all things unimportant. Good morning, starshine, insincere as it was, drowned all the other sounds out until it also became just a noise somewhere far away. Courtney lifted her head, fingers tapping against imaginings on beige pages absentmindedly. She remembered.
When she had heard who was going to drive her to the camp, she ran straight to the bathroom and spent long minutes dry heaving over the toilet seat, panic setting shivers down her spine.
Valeria was nothing like mother.
Valeria was to be hated.
Mother was sharp while Valeria was soft, serious while Valeria was bubbly, and ambitious while Valeria was a husband stealer.
*
Gravenhurst, 1997
"Son of a- ugh! Good for nothing cabrón! And that frilly, ruffly, salsa-dancing, margherita-sipping, fucking flower-picking- !"
You stand in the hallway, mouth agape, staring at your mother: at her messy hair, bloodshot eyes, teeth bared. That strangely new, passionate mother, who sends sparks of electricity in the air, is both fascinating and terrifying. You snuggle Conejito, your long-eared plushie protector and confidante, closer to your body.
Flash of dark eyes. Click-clacking of heels on the spotless floor. Your mother kneels beside you, intensity in her gaze.
“This is just adult talk, mija, you know? Mommy's angry, but not at you. And you don't have to be angry yourself.”
This is the year Conejito will lose one of his button eyes: he will be very busy these days, protecting and listening to secrets. But there are things even he cannot bear.
“You are allowed to love your daddy even if he is a cheating... poopyhead. He is a poopyhead, okay? But not to you. You can love him.”
You are five, only five, but you understand the rules and principles. You can love daddy. As of now, you don't want to. But you can.
“Go ahead and keep loving him. Lori Gottlieb says you should, and her books are approved by the CPA.”
You stand there and you listen; you might be five, only five, but your head works well and so do your ears. And what your ears can hear is easy enough to understand.
You don't have to love Valeria.
“Nothing but good advice in those books. Very educational. So... yes. Don't worry about mommy. It's fine. Go ahead and love him.”
You will always remember the quietly muttered words, the "fuck Lori Gottlieb" whispered as your mother click-clacks away.
This is the year of changes. This is the year you will decide that loving daddy is a waste of time. Loving someone that doesn't love you back makes no sense anyway.
That is also the year Conejito will say goodbye to you, wave a fluffy rabbit paw and leave for good. He will go and live with another child who needs him more, as your mother will tell you. Besides, you don't need broken toys lying around.
*
Ontario, on the road, 2007
The landscape behind the windshield started to change slowly. Utility poles, billboards, and long expanses of nothing started giving up their space to trees and bushes which framed the road like a garden arch. Courtney squinted; rays of sun found their way into the rearview mirror, sending rainbows straight under her eyelashes.
It was not unlike finding a spot of comfort. If only on a surface level.
“I'm sure you'll make lots of friends there. I used to love summer camp, you know? I met Jessica there. You remember her, right? Jessica Mann? She was just Jess Leblanc back then, of course...”
Valeria laughed with fondness, her mind occupied by memories, and Courtney's thoughts turned back to mother–—carefully, guiltily.
“We were known as the Veronicas. You know, like that band. And not like that movie... there was only one Veronica there, right? You know the one. 'What's your damage, Heather?' That one. Whatever, anyway–—we were inseparable! Every summer, no matter what, we would bunk together in that one cabin and no one could sleep there but us. One time...”
Mother's tired eyes, quivering hands, and lips narrowed with an all-consuming determination could never compete with flowing hair and floral dresses. And yet Courtney would die, or rather kill (Don't get sad, get angry - yet another piece of advice given to aspiring debaters) to see all the sharpness, seriousness, and ambition again. Even if it meant never smelling flowers or hearing laughter again.
“... and that friendship bracelet survived everything, even that one time Bucky McDaniels set my duffel bag on fire, can you imagine that? It was just a small fire, and he stomped it out as soon as it started, but still! Survived! If that's not symbolic...”
Gravenhurst was the city of art, but mother was far from artistic. Her gravestone was simple, if not straight-up plain, and she was serious even in death. Everything was practical to her, to the point, serving a purpose. Sticking to the principles even when they weren't applicable anymore.
Courtney reached behind her, to the backseat, where her violin lay, encased and secured with the seatbelt. She tapped a digit against the case. Violin's not 'fun.' It's a tool for practising eye-hand coordination. It was supposed to be her first summer. A clean start. A new life. Maybe there was some room for fun in it.
She sat back more comfortably, in rainbows and under the tree arches, moving closer and closer towards disaster.
Good morning, starshine.