Words By Whittall

  Neville and I exist in a drafty, clapboard house at the end of a gravel road. We don’t see much of the neighbours. It’s conversation-worthy if a car goes by or, more likely, turns in our lane to avoid the dead end ahead. Neville mostly does his own thing and, especially in the winter, I rarely see another human being outside of the monthly trip to town. The view from every window is white and devoid of beauty.   The interior landscape is just as bleak. I dust, mop and wipe, yet see only a film of gray blanketing my home. Neville and I sleep in the same bed and eat our meals together, but the deeper connection we once had has now also accumulated a hazy grey-white patina. He used to gaze lovingly into my eyes, sit cuddling close, and pay attention to whatever I was doing, angling for my attention. Now Neville looks at me when supper is late. In lieu of meaningful looks, caresses or conversation, I tell him to do the thing he’s already doing. It gives me the illusion that he’s listen

  Moira fingered the fabric in her closet: a winter wool designer suit purchased at an outlet store. Her mother had been with her then. Mom’s the first spur-of-the-moment trip outside the house in years. The suit was fine, her mother said, but a little snug. Perhaps one size up. Moira complied. Two days later her mother patted her hand. “The eulogy was lovely, dear. But all I could think about was what a great job you’d done in hemming those pants.” Moira laughed bleakly at the memory of her father’s funeral. Her family wasn’t one for feeling their feelings. She’d been pleased to give her mother something else to think about that sad day. A decade had passed; the hem held. Moira knew she’d been lucky. At 49 her dad was the first funeral for which she’d chosen her own outfit, her grandparents and other family friends having died when she was a child.   At 59, there were too many funerals. She’d worn these the original pants to mourn her business partner in January, then bought a new

She can’t bear Charlie’s impossibly dark, beseeching eyes. He wants to go for a walk – needs to prance and run to the park, but she can’t do it. She scratches the fur behind his ears. “Sorry. Daddy’s not here for walkies and I can’t… can’t...” She’s tried to be brave for Charlie. She trembles, sickened by the gift a well-meaning friend brought when Joe died. This one’s blue. Even hanging behind the door where she can’t see it, she smells the leather. It reminds her of the last time she saw the old red leash. And how Joe used it.  

Doug and I loved going to Aruba. It’s a beautiful, arid island that’s small enough to travel end-to-end in a day, but full of beautiful vistas and quirky spots like Charlie’s Bar where business cards from around the world layer the walls. In the early 90’s, touring the island meant leaving the two areas where resorts were located. At the time, all of the high-rise hotels were located along one long sandy stretch. This meant you could easily walk up and down the beach, choosing from any of the cantinas, cabanas and sandy spots. A pink tractor – the booze-mobile – covered the entire area, so you could plop down for the day, with all your needs, wants and desires close at hand, napping to the sound of the waves, and the scent of coconut and pineapple. One day, we decided to take a break from lying in the sun and getting drunk to exercise and do some sight-seeing.  We saw a sign for bike rentals and hatched a plan.  The sign did not say “functioning” bike rentals, nor “properly sized” bicy

  In the summer of 1980, several things happened. The most important, personally, was my move from Banff, Alberta to Vancouver, BC.  I’d been a chambermaid at a hotel in the resort town and hoped for an office job in the big city.  I bunked with a friend in townhouse in North Vancouver and, armed with a trusty umbrella, took the sea bus across the Burrard Inlet to work every day at various offices as assigned by a temp agency. I should point out that, since I couldn’t type, these jobs mostly involved filing various bits of paper into file folders in various filing cabinets all in alphabetical order. I did know the alphabet. One job involved feeding recipe card-sized pieces of paper into a micro-fiche machine. I sat for hours moving only my thumbs as I fed each card into the maw, imagining, but not actually writing, a novel. I digress. Another thing that happened in the summer of 1980 was the release of the Brian DePalma movie  Dressed to Kill , in which Angie Dickenson met a ghastly an

  I float in an out of consciousness. Not new. Don’t recognize my surroundings. Also, not new. The scent of fresh cut grass and a breeze to my right, but not my left. Must be an open window. I’m lying flat. Must be on a bed. Not enough energy to raise my head, so I start with an easy one. My right hand. Oh shit. I’m tied down again. The bed’s plastic. Another hospital. That realization jolts me just enough to raise my head. The room is like fog, dull and fuzzy-coloured. Through the window I see bright grass and trees. Low sun blazes across blue mountains in the distance. Alberta? BC? Are the Rockies blue? No snow caps. Perhaps down south, somewhere warm? The breeze is cool. The itching starts. Shit. I look to the night stand on my left. Cup, pitcher and bowl of fruit. All plastic. Nothing to cut through the restraints or use as a weapon. The clock radio might have promise. I let that percolate while I search for meds. Nothing. The pitcher drips with condensation. There’s water