“Marina, you can’t leave me! What will I do without you?”
“The same as alwaysdrink from morning till night!”
I slammed the front door and collapsed into the drivers seat, tears streaming down my face. How had it come to this? A year ago, our family was the picture of happinessenvied, of course. People always envy what they dont have. Thats just how the world works.
****
“Marina, hurry up, pack Vlads things! Ive got a surprise for you both. And dont forget warm clothes!”
My husband, Nicholasor “Nick,” as I called him when he was in one of his whimsical moodsadored surprises. This time, he took us out of town for a snowmobile ride. His colleague had recently bought a cottage about sixty miles from the city. Calling it a “cottage” was an understatementit looked like a medieval castle, complete with turrets and a stone wall that could hardly be called a mere fence.
“Well? What do you think?” Nick asked, watching my stunned expression.
“Theres something about this place it gives me chills.”
“Youre just cold. Come insideyou havent seen the fireplace yet.”
The interior was even more unsettling than the outside, but the men loved it, and I wasnt about to argue over taste. What was the point?
I hated the animal heads mounted on the hastily plastered walls. Nick insisted they were fake, but that didnt make them any less ghastly. Meanwhile, the men devoured grilled meat right under the gaping jaws of a boar. Vlad, ever the little adventurer, dashed around waving a toy sword, battling imaginary monsters. I kept my eyes fixed on the flames in the fireplace, refusing to glance at the decor.
Perhaps that dayand that castlestayed etched in my memory in such dark tones because it was the last hours of my old life. Soon after, the owner would roll two snowmobiles out of the garage, and one of them would take my sons life. Nick, whod been driving, would drown in guilt and alcohol, never escaping his own private hell.
I dont know why I was stronger. The pain I carried every day for nearly a year was indescribable, but I refused to let it spill out. It was part of me. No one around me suffered as I did. They had no idea what it was like to face their happy faces every day.
Sometimes, I wanted to join Nick and numb the pain with drink. But I knew it would only make things worse. Alcohol sharpened emotions, and feeling anythinganger, resentment, bitternesswas our worst enemy. Nick hid behind those emotions like a tortoise in its shell, refusing to come out no matter what I did.
I hadnt planned to leave him. I just couldnt take it anymore. I started the car and drove aimlessly, stopping at petrol stations, drinking coffee in roadside cafés. Once, I even checked into a hotel just to sleep.
My mind was blank. I wasnt driving *to* anywhereI was driving *away*. I dont remember when or why I turned off the motorway, but the road led me to a sleepy little town. I parked near a square and sat there, motionless.
“Youll freeze out here,” a voice said, tapping on my window.
A group of teenagers passed by, and I was surprised by their concernuntil I saw the elderly woman walking her dog, a small white poodle as snowy as the ground beneath its paws. For some reason, I got out and approached her.
“Youve been sitting here a while with the engine off. I was worried something was wrong.”
“Something is,” I whispered.
Funny how its easier to open up to a stranger. Maybe because they dont know your past, dont dig for faults to explain your misery. My mother wouldve blamed Nicks drinking on some long-dead relative, but a stranger? They just listen.
Before I knew it, I was sitting on a stool in a cosy kitchen with blue curtains, clutching a steaming cup of chamomile tea and a tear-soaked tissue.
I thought Id cried all my tears in those first months after Vlads death. Turns out, I had moreId just buried them to avoid the empty condolences.
“Marina, Ive made up the sofa for you. Rest, then carry on to your nowhere.”
“Alright,” I sighed, knowing I wouldnt make it to the car.
When I woke the next morning, I was smiling. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, a clock ticked on the wall, and a rough tongue licked my nose.
“George,” I remembered the poodles name. He tilted his head, his furry face resembling a grin.
I laughed.
“George, leave the poor girl alone. Shes hungry.”
Aunt Rosemy hostessentered with a tray. The smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls filled the room.
“Dont be surprised,” she said. “When I cant sleep, I bake. These rolls dont like loud praise, mind you. Just a quiet sigh of appreciation.”
“Really?”
“Roll your eyes if you must. Theyll know.”
One bite, and I understoodthese rolls *earned* their pride.
Aunt Rose left me to my breakfast, and for the first time in months, a memory of Nick brought a smile, not a pang. He used to bring me breakfast in bed, joking that a hungry wife was a dangerous thing. Hed pile the tray with whatever he foundsandwiches, yogurt, even pickled herring once.
Somehow, a cinnamon roll had lifted my spirits.
I dozed off again and woke at dusk. George snoozed beside me, his warmth oddly comforting. Id never slept so long in my life.
“Good grief!” I bolted upright. The house was quiet, half-dark. “Have I lost my mind? Sleeping a full day in a strangers home, in a town I dont even know the name of!”
George blinked at me.
Dressing quickly, I noticed the room didnt seem like an old womans. Posters covered the walls, a dumbbell lay by the window, and a desk was cluttered with boyish trinkets. A photo frame caught my eyetwo young men in uniform, smiling.
The front door opened.
“Sleepyheads!” Aunt Rose called. “Dinners ready!”
“Im so ashamed”
“Good sleep heals. No apologies. Hungry?”
My stomach growled.
Over rabbit stewa gift from her admirer, a farmer with 135 rabbits, each namedAunt Rose shared her own story.
“I lost my son too. He was older than Vlad. Afterward, my husband and I grew apart. He drank himself to death. I wanted to end it all, but an old woman told me I had to live*really* liveor Id never see my boy again. So I did. The pain it changes. Becomes softer, almost sweet. I cherish the memories now.”
I didnt want to leave. It felt like Id always lived there, with Aunt Rose, George, the geraniums on the sillall of it *mine*.
****
The next morning, a knock startled us.
Nick stood at the door, scowling. “No lover, then?”
“What?”
“Any lover. Even a mediocre one, in a town like this.”
Aunt Rose chuckled. “Pancakes for breakfast. Ever had wild mushrooms with them?”
“Cant remember. Maybe my gran made them.”
“City folk and their delicacies,” she scoffed. “Youll taste real food now.”
Nick and I stood frozen, then crumpled into each others arms. Id missed himthe real him, not the hollow man drowning in guilt.
Over the next two days, we walked snowy lanes, hand in hand. To outsiders, we looked happynot the broken shells wed been.
But reality waited.
Approaching home, I panicked. Would the nightmare return? But Nicks grip was firm, my heartbeat steady.
“Well need a new rug,” he said, eyeing the cognac stain.
“Or keep it. Like Aunt Rose kept her sons weights and posters.”
We cleared Vlads room togethernot with grief, but fondness. Who would he have given his toy cars to? Would he have ever worn that hideous green cap I bought in Spain?
Nick donned a gorilla mask, imitating the zoo trip where Vlad wore it, scaring other parents.
We were brave. No tears.
That night, we talked openly for the first time. Nick admittedhe wasnt to blame. The accident was just that: an accident.
I fell asleep in his arms.
****
Nine months later, Vlad got a sister.
Id been terrified to tell Nick, but Aunt Rose urged me. His response? A long kiss, his hands cradling my belly.
We skipped the seaside that summerinstead, we visited Aunt Rose. Shed finally said yes to her rabbit-farming suitor. Their August wedding was small, and we were guests of honour.
Life wasnt perfect. But it was *living*. And sometimes, thats enough.
