Wildwood. Elinor Florence
four sides.
I looked up at the sky. Phoenix lay in a bowl on the desert, and at this time of year the bowl was filled with thick smog. I could hear an airplane overhead, beginning its descent into the nearby international airport, but I couldn’t even see its blinking red landing lights through the grey blanket above.
Arizona was my birthplace, where my parents had chosen to raise me. I felt almost disloyal for thinking of leaving.
But the numbers didn’t lie. For that kind of money, I would have moved to the Congo. If I could inherit and sell the farm, I could afford the best doctors, the most skilled therapists in the world for Bridget. This was her only chance.
Twelve short months from now, God willing, we would be back in Phoenix with enough money to create a new life for both of us.
August
As the airplane rose from the tarmac, I peered over Bridget’s head and watched the sprawling city fall away. It looked as if it were smouldering under the haze of smog. Through the brownish mist I could see irrigated green lawns like square-cut emeralds and swimming pools like turquoise stones. These suddenly gave way to the bare, brown desert as if a line were drawn in the sand. Then we were up and away.
Bridget opened her pink backpack crammed with her prized possessions, including three Dr. Seuss books and a stuffed toy bloodhound named Johnny Wrinkle. After much deliberation she had decided to leave the Barbies behind where they would be “safe.” I wasn’t sure what she was expecting in Canada. In spite of my efforts to make this into an exciting adventure, she was even more fearful than usual.
Now she pulled out Green Eggs and Ham while I went through my mental checklist.
I had shucked off our city life like a snake shedding its skin. The car brought in enough cash to pay the bills. I even sold my computer and my phone, since the farm had neither internet nor cell service. I cancelled my credit cards and filed my income tax return in advance.
After setting aside our warmest clothing, I had donated the rest to charity. Personal belongings went into a storage locker, including my photo albums and a few precious mementoes of my parents. There weren’t many: a joke tie covered with reindeer faces that I had given my father for Christmas, a souvenir pebble from Arizona’s Petrified Forest, one of my mother’s favourite silk scarves.
The scarf still carried a faint hint of perfume, but my childhood recollections had faded like the scent itself. For years I had repressed all memories of my parents, but sorting through my possessions had drawn them closer to the surface. Now I sank back in my seat and closed my eyes, feeling the old pain.
As an only child of older parents, I had been cherished. But after The Accident everything changed. My former life blew apart into fragments, and every iota of confidence I had — in myself, in other people, in the future, in the very world around me — dissolved and vanished into outer space.
Perhaps if my parents had died earlier, I could have coped better. But adolescents have trouble seeing the big picture since everything revolves around them. And if I had been a younger or prettier child, family acquaintances might have taken me in, but they understandably balked at the prospect of an awkward, grief-stricken twelve-year-old.
So I went to foster parents in their sixties, the Sampsons. They had no children of their own and little idea how to raise a teenager. They were kind enough, but we didn’t bond, as the current terminology goes. I once overheard them discussing their future — the monthly sum they earned from Social Services for fostering me was earmarked for their retirement home in Palm Springs.
At first, I simply refused to grow up. Somewhere in my subconscious was the notion that if I grew older, I would be leaving my parents behind. I kept my hair in the same childish bob with bangs. I wore my old clothes until they wore out. My shoes were so small that my heels bled. Finally, Mrs. Sampson insisted on buying me some new things.
To be fair, she asked me if I wanted to choose my own clothing. We went on a couple of painful shopping trips, and I shrugged with indifference at every suggestion. My misery was so encompassing that I would have gone to school in rags.
So Mrs. Sampson picked out outfits that she would have chosen for her own granddaughter. Polyester pants in black and navy, wrinkle-free synthetic blouses in tiny floral prints, pastel cardigans, and plaid skirts. It was another reason to be shunned by my peers, yet in my unhappiness I didn’t know and I didn’t care.
I didn’t care because I couldn’t feel anything. In old novels the author often “draws a veil” over the past. I felt as if a veil had been drawn over my past, a filmy but impenetrable shroud through which only the merest glimpses were visible. And I refused to look, grateful not to be reminded of what had been.
Now all I recalled from my childhood was an overall warm blanket of happiness and security. A familiar tune, the odour of pipe smoke, a feminine laugh — these were fleeting wisps of memory. Thinking about my parents was like looking through the wrong end of a telescope. They were very distant and very tiny.
I sighed and leaned back in my seat. Although it felt like we were flying to the dark side of the moon, the international flight was surprisingly short. Four hours later, we were on the ground. We collected our luggage — two large suitcases crammed to bursting — and approached the Canadian Customs and Immigration counter in Edmonton.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?” A young woman wearing a smart navy uniform with an embroidered gold maple leaf on each shoulder examined our passports.
“We’re going to visit my family home in Juniper.” This was close enough to the truth. I was grateful that I didn’t have to lie, since I was a terrible liar.
“Beautiful country up there. Enjoy your holiday. Welcome to Canada!” She handed us our passports and waved us along with a smile.
We rushed through the terminal to connect with a smaller regional airline. Bridget clutched my hand tightly but otherwise didn’t make a peep. She was more comfortable in crowds, where nobody looked at her or spoke to her.
After we seated ourselves in the tiny, propeller-driven aircraft, she fell asleep and didn’t wake until we landed in Juniper an hour later. Darkness had already fallen, so we couldn’t see very much. The taxi took us to a downtown two-storey hotel called the Excelsior. A garish orange neon sign advertised “Colour TV in Every Room!” There were two doors on the side of the building. One sign read “Gentlemen,” and the other, mysteriously, “Ladies and Escorts.” It felt very much like a foreign country.
The next morning Bridget refused to leave our hotel room. I had two equally repugnant choices: drag her downstairs kicking and howling, or leave her alone in the locked room, watching cartoons. I chose the latter. Such was the life of a single parent. It was like wearing a living, breathing ankle monitor. I dashed downstairs and grabbed coffee, juice, and muffins.
After we ate, we headed down Main Street toward the lawyer’s office. The few people we passed stared curiously into our faces, first mine and then Bridget’s, as if hoping to recognize us. Each time, Bridget cowered behind me.
The morning was sunny, but none too warm. Before leaving, I had checked Juniper’s temperature statistics. It had only three months of frost-free days on average, in June, July, and August. Today was the first of August. That meant frost was only a month away.
I hastened my steps, tugging Bridget along by the hand.
On the next block we found an office with “Franklin D. Jones” written in gold lettering on the front window. I pushed open the door, Bridget clinging to my knees as usual, and saw a young woman seated behind the reception desk reading a book.
She was extremely pretty,