I t was Heather’s trailer, the coveted and final remnant of her marriage. Nestled in a copse of pine and silver birch, it crouched on the southern edge of Georgian Bay. The sun’s fall across the water offered hours of intoxicating trance, and it was here the women planned on spending their vacation: two full weeks to heal.
Elizabeth, obsessed with lists and details, collected the needed items and packed the bags. None of the others came close to challenging Elizabeth’s skill in creating order. Even her tone and diction—crisp and precise with the hint of a class-conscious English accent—revealed the perennial need to organize.
For Elizabeth, the excess body weight was no burden. She moved through life as if she were still tall and thin. Old memories shaped every step, from the curious tilt of her head to the rigid line of her spine. A spinster on the lean side of fifty, Elizabeth was easy with solitude and quick with gin. Those who met her often thought her to be aloof or arrogant. Like most introverts, appearing unapproachable was how she kept her internal world sacred, inaccessible to the common stare.
Elizabeth preferred to work alone, resting in the quiet satisfaction that came each time she checked an item off the list. Conferring with the others was kept to a minimum, just enough to ensure nothing would be forgotten. When the suitcases were full and the boxes stuffed with food, toys, and booze, she left the lot for Heidi. She was younger, stronger, and limitless in her energy. She would load the Jeep.
Heidi hated the weight. She was a year short of thirty and ached for the dancer’s body she envisioned as her birthright. Despite the extra pounds, she was still the most physical of the group. She was also the quickest to swing a fist, quaff a beer, dance, or haul a man into bed. Carrying suitcases down the long flights of stairs suited Heidi as much as sorting suited Elizabeth.
By midnight, Heidi had every spare inch of the Jeep crammed with holiday excess. With the others deep in sleep, she eased her aching body into the La-Z-Boy, a nightcap, and cigarette in hand. Despite her youth and her ability to ignore pain, the ache of the past week’s torment continued to extract its toll. The bruises and cracked ribs were a persistent reminder of just how close all of them had come to death.
She took a long, slow drag on the cigarette, a conscious attempt to dull both the pain and the memories. But as gently and effortlessly as the drifting smoke rose from her nostrils, her mind flitted across the previous week’s images. Except for Bridget, they would all be dead. But then, except for Bridget, June twenty-first might have passed without incident.
What-ifs are a dance with despair, a feeling Heidi studiously avoided. With a shift in the chair and another drag on the cigarette, she shook the meanderings free. The tinkle of ice and the burn of scotch reinforced her present moment. The cluttered apartment and their trip to the trailer were now only hours away.
Eager for a new focus, her eyes did a quick inventory of the few items to be gathered in the morning: water, a diary, a book of phone numbers, and Charlie, Patricia’s stuffed bear. Best not forget Charlie. Patricia was still a child, and if they went without Charlie, every bedtime would be an inevitable series of whines and sulks.
It had only been in the last week that thoughts of Patricia had become comfortable in Heidi’s mind. Perhaps they eased aside the lure of dark memories. For the most part, Heidi was uncomfortable around children, but lately she had grown fond of the child. And Patricia seemed less afraid of her. Painfully shy, Patricia rarely spoke to anyone except Elizabeth, her guardian, caretaker, and surrogate mother. But in the last week, a new and growing boldness had emerged in Patricia. Even on this night of packing, Patricia had been unusually confrontational, relentless in her demand that Heidi not forget toys for the beach. It was this new boldness that Heidi respected. In Heidi’s world, a life without courage was meaningless, and she valued it even more than alcohol and cigarettes.
The Scotch glass was empty, but the bottle was still half-full. The possibility of yet more numbing called, but it lasted only seconds. Heidi capped the bottle and surrendered to tiredness and the wiser call of bed. Thinking of courage inevitably brought her back to Bridget, back to the bruises and memories that demanded sleep and time to heal. Heidi never imagined she would encounter someone with more courage than herself, but Bridget had proved to be more than her match.
“Girl’s got balls. Gotta give her that.”
An hour or so after Heidi was deep in a dream, Bridget slipped out of the apartment and down to the Jeep. Much to her delight, she could see a case of beer tucked alongside Elizabeth’s gin and Heidi’s scotch. When she returned to the apartment, the smile on Bridget’s face was as warm as the blankets she pulled back over her body. Despite all she had put the others through, she was still part of the team.
In the morning, it was Heather who insisted on driving. By nine-thirty, the rays of the summer sun were enough to brown skin. The endless blue of the sky promised perfection: effortless miles and strong music. Heather wouldn’t forgo driving on a day like this. Besides, she reminded the others, it was her trailer.
She filled the tank, grabbed a coffee for the road, and made a final, quick stop at the local library. Nineteenth-century romance and a little philosophy for Elizabeth. Spy novels and a couple of westerns for Heidi. Children’s books for Patricia, and a few mystery novels for herself. She wasn’t sure what Bridget would read, or even if Bridget could read, but on her way to the checkout counter, Heather threw a few crime novels onto the pile with the hope Bridget would be satisfied.
The stack of books rose nearly to her chin, and the librarian—an older woman, well-practiced at hiding both her personality and sense of humor—began running the books through the scanner. “You have an interesting assortment of books here,” she casually remarked, “quite a wide variety of interests.”
Maybe it was the impact of all the counseling she’d done. Maybe it was the fact that she was going on holiday for two weeks. Or maybe it was that she’d survived almost being murdered. Whatever the reason, Heather felt like throwing caution to the wind.
“Actually,” she replied with a sly grin, “I have a number of people living inside me, and I’m trying to make sure they all have reading material.”
The librarian’s eyes widened, but she continued without pause, checking out the books with apparent disinterest.
Two weeks later, Heather’s body was well along the path of healing. She returned to the library to drop off the books and the same woman stood behind the counter. She took the books without comment, smiling blankly as if she’d never seen Heather before. It was only when Heather turned to leave that her professional demeanor cracked. In a playful, quiet voice, she asked: “Did all of you enjoy your books?”
Heather nodded and headed back to the jeep. She stuffed herself back in and rummaged for a cigarette, tears streaming down her face. She wasn’t sure if they were tears of sadness or relief, evidence of the harshness of her life or the delight of not being judged. It didn’t matter. In a world tipped by madness, everything comes with conflicting truths.
