I had planted in myself, a seed of success. If it had any hope of blossoming, I knew I had to get out of River Bluff. I had to nurture my individuality and empower my spirit. I was raring to experience the world beyond. So, two days after graduation, I loaded a single suitcase onto a Greyhound bus, Toronto bound. I didn't leave a note, and I never looked back.
Until now.
Twenty years later.
ONE
The reasons I had left felt commonplace to me, even after all this time. I had been a young man, desperate to find himself and a place to belong. That was natural. Normal. Yet my parents perceived it as a betrayal. It served as final, definitive proof that I had not been normal or healthy in my head. Revealing my sexuality to them only added to the tension and their disapproval. Within a few months of my sudden and silent departure, my name and everything about me became taboo. My father had even taken down my pictures and turned my bedroom into an office. Twenty years had not softened his bitterness. I had learned this information from my younger sister, Lauren. She was the only one who kept in touch with me over the years, through letters, phone calls and the occasional visit.
"He's asked me to tell you not to come." My sister's voice sounded over-enunciated and rehearsed. A clear sign that she was lying. That, and I knew our father rarely asked for anything. He commanded.
"What did he really say?" I asked her through the phone.
"He said you aren't welcome here."
"I'm not welcome at my own mother's funeral?"
"According to him, no." She gave a long, deep sigh, then said, "I doubt he intends to build a wall around the property. Not with this short of notice."
It was true. I hadn't given much notice of my arrival. It was also true that I hadn't been given much choice. I hadn't even known my mother had been ill. She had been diagnosed with stage three breast cancer several years ago. It had been spring when she received her prognosis. Until that point, it had been her favourite time of year. Her double mastectomy and ensuing chemotherapy had left her weak but optimistic. Every spring, that optimism wavered, as she prepared herself for her annual examination. She would get sullen and reclusive, bracing herself for the worst. For several years, she dodged that bullet. But Russian Roulette is a loser's game, and eventually, the weapon fired. Her cancer had returned more aggressive than before, and it took her quickly.
I had learned of this only three days ago when my sister reached out to me to inform me of her passing. The family had been forbidden to speak of her cancer, especially to outsiders. For many years now, that had included me. I knew Lauren felt guilty for keeping our mother's sickness from me, which was why I kept my anger at bay. She and her husband, Oliver Grant, had purchased a modest home a few blocks away from my parents. They married straight out of high school. I had not been invited to the wedding or the housewarming. There were many things I hadn't been invited to in my twenty years away.
Lauren was responsible for taking care of our mother in her final days. It fell to her, mostly because of proximity, but also because my father refused to hire a nurse. A burden and a gift that made me both thankful and jealous.
"My flight will arrive in Edmonton at 2:30 pm. I should be there by four at the very latest."
"He won't be happy."
"His wife died. I doubt there's a situation in which he would be."
"It's more than that, Parker. You've been gone a long time. As far as Dad's concerned, you don't exist." Lauren had a sweet, calm way of speaking that caused most people to treat her with velvet gloves. Our father was no exception. She had always been immune to his usual tyrannical ways. Being the youngest and his only daughter worked in her favour. But she was still very much aware of his personality and temperament. "He's stubborn," she said. "You know what he's like. He'll make you wish you never came."
Him, I could handle. The real struggle would be pushing through everything that had and had not been said about me over the years. I felt a brief quiver of excitement, a small eagerness to see how people would react to my arrival. All the faces which used to torment me had blurred over the years. All except one. Jack Fielding. Except for the torment I suffered at his hands, I could no longer recall who said or did what to me. I considered that a blessing. I knew most residents of River Bluff would know who I was immediately. In part, because they spent so much time making my suffering their focus. But also because my career made it difficult for them to forget me. Anyone with television could recognize me immediately.
I shrugged, even though she couldn't see me. "That will hardly be difficult. I'm sure I'll regret it the moment I step off the plane. But I know I'll regret it more if I don't go." The last thing I needed was another regret.
The past had a way of aching, and for the most part, I blamed myself for that pain. In many ways, I felt responsible for the state of our family. I even accepted their alienation as punishment. For a long time, the guilt hung over me. It tainted every experience and robbed me of motivation -- the very motivation that inspired my departure in the first place. I took a low paying job at a movie theatre, serving overpriced, flat soda and stale popcorn. The money I earned went to pay for my half of a roach-infested hovel. I shared it with Chanterelle, a girl to whose ad I had responded. I doubted it was even her real name. She had an unpleasant habit of pawning items to pay for her cocaine addiction. Most of them stolen and most often from me. I moved out within six months; my suitcase significantly lighter.
It was during that time when I met Felicity Harper. She had come into the theatre with a group of her friends. For some reason, she had spent several minutes chatting to the sad, gay boy behind the counter. She was a few years older than I, mature and experienced in city life. She had a bubbling personality, which I found both refreshing and annoying. She invited me to join her and her friends for drinks after my shift, to which I declined.
That wasn't the last time I would see Felicity. I began to see her every Tuesday evening, like clockwork. Always with the same group of friends, checking out the latest showing. Every week she would extend the invitation to join up with them later, and every week, I would decline. She was persistent. She hadn't received the memo that I was a leper. It went on that way for over a month, until one evening, the conversation took an interesting turn.
"There's a whole world outside this theatre, you know." It was a simple and true statement. I had recited a similar sentence to myself throughout my days in River Bluff. Hearing them spoken aloud by someone else profoundly resonated with me. She was right. There was a whole world out there. A world I had sacrificed my relationship with my family to experience and I was missing it. I had transplanted myself from one prison to another.
I went out with her that night and then again that following Saturday. A month later, Felicity offered me the spare room in her downtown loft. Rent-free, under the condition that I enrolled in a program at one of the community colleges. The movie theatre didn't pay enough to cover tuition. So, Felicity spoke to one of her friends. Luckily, she managed to get me a bartending job at one of the many gay clubs Toronto had to offer. I slung drinks at night and studied media and communications by the light of day. It was an exciting and exhausting two years.