No title yet, Part 4
They'd left Ireland when she was still young, and though she loved country, she'd always felt like an outsider when she'd returned, as though she'd only lived there in a dream. And she'd never truely belonged to Canada, either, despite spending most of her life there. A foot in both countries, but roots in none. And now, with no parental ties to draw her back, she felt less inclined than ever to return to Canada's bitterly cold winters and hazy, humid summers.
She noticed the train had stopped. It was dark and suddenly silent. Outside a lightning storm flashed randomly, intermittently lighting up the whole night sky. Without the noise of the train, she could here the faint rumble of thunder, competing with the snores of the elderly woman sleeping behind her. A fan buzzed in the background.
There was no rain yet, just great jags of lightning slashing through the darkness, sillouetting the trees, turning the nothingness of night into a patchwork quilt of images. In a flash another train careened past, seemingly out of nowhere, and was gone, leaving the passengers to sit quietly watching the power of nature.
A long, erratic column of heat and fire streched from heaven to earth; pure white electricity, it flashed for seconds and was gone.
The rain started in great furious gusts of wet, causing the passengers to pull shut the windows, and trap themselves in the hot, now airless, carriage. As the train ressumed its rush through the night, she watched the storm rage, through the grimy, rainstreaked windows. She noticed her reflection in the window and hoped the bags under her eyes were tricks of unflattering light.
The storm stirred up memories of a cottage on the lake, the incessant whine of mosquitoes against the screen, a loon's call in the dark. Watching lightning play in the distance, the trees responding to the increased pressure of the wind, the line of rain advancing across the lake like a determined army; silver replacing black. The sudden, earth shattering, heart stopping boom of thunder right overhead. She'd always loved those nights, trapped inside the tiny cottage that always smelled like wet towels. The carpets full of sand, the worn out couches that hadn't seen a proper living room in at least 20 years. Stacks of cheesy novels and boardgames on the shelves, stubbs of candles on the tabletops for when the power inevitably went out. The familiar creak and slam of the screen door.
She'd been happy then.
They'd sit on the threadbare couches, curled around pillows, drinking mugs of tea sweetened with the honey her mom bought at a roadside stand. Her parents would talk about boring parent things, like repair jobs or what the neighbours were saying about the new cottage at the end of the lake. Or sometimes everyone would be quiet and they'd turn out all the lights and just watch the storm roll in. In the mornings they'd listen to the CBC news on the radio; her parents refused to allow a TV at the cottage. She'd wake up early as the sun brightened her bedroom, and pull on her bathingsuit, still damp from the last swim the night before.
In the area that served as a kitchen, she'd pour a bowl of cereal and chop a banana on top, carrying it out onto the deck to eat. Then she'd be off for the day; canoeing, riding her bike down the dusty dirt road to the raspberry patch, sometimes just floating in the lake, reading Archie comics and Sweet Valley High. She'd always wanted to look like the twins, with their blonde hair and perfect size 6 figures.
Her constant companion was the family's happy go lucky staffordshire terrier, Fozzy. Fozzy would lie in the canoe while she paddled or floated, run by the bike, or follow at her heal if she walked through to cool pine forest. She sighed a long, deep sigh remembering that dog, her soft fuzzy fur, her sad, gentle eyes, the goofy way her tongue lolled when she ran.
Of course, there had been plenty of human playmates, too. Other cottage kids, one or two of the locals lucky enough to live on the lake, occasionally a classmate invited up for a week. Then there'd be secrets whispered under the dock, and diving competitions her mother would judge, or long walks to the nearest store by the highway for popsicles. One summer she'd even had a best friend, inseperable for the whole 2 months. But when September came, they'd gone back to their different homes. They'd written letters, but 10 months is a lifetime for 9 year olds, and the next summer the magical bond just wasn't there.
Maybe it was something about her that was wrong. A chemical imbalance in her brain that made it impossible for people to form lasting bonds with her. Even her parents. The thought flashed through her mind as brightly as the lightning in the sky: A fundamental flaw that made her unlovable.
She noticed the train had stopped. It was dark and suddenly silent. Outside a lightning storm flashed randomly, intermittently lighting up the whole night sky. Without the noise of the train, she could here the faint rumble of thunder, competing with the snores of the elderly woman sleeping behind her. A fan buzzed in the background.
There was no rain yet, just great jags of lightning slashing through the darkness, sillouetting the trees, turning the nothingness of night into a patchwork quilt of images. In a flash another train careened past, seemingly out of nowhere, and was gone, leaving the passengers to sit quietly watching the power of nature.
A long, erratic column of heat and fire streched from heaven to earth; pure white electricity, it flashed for seconds and was gone.
The rain started in great furious gusts of wet, causing the passengers to pull shut the windows, and trap themselves in the hot, now airless, carriage. As the train ressumed its rush through the night, she watched the storm rage, through the grimy, rainstreaked windows. She noticed her reflection in the window and hoped the bags under her eyes were tricks of unflattering light.
The storm stirred up memories of a cottage on the lake, the incessant whine of mosquitoes against the screen, a loon's call in the dark. Watching lightning play in the distance, the trees responding to the increased pressure of the wind, the line of rain advancing across the lake like a determined army; silver replacing black. The sudden, earth shattering, heart stopping boom of thunder right overhead. She'd always loved those nights, trapped inside the tiny cottage that always smelled like wet towels. The carpets full of sand, the worn out couches that hadn't seen a proper living room in at least 20 years. Stacks of cheesy novels and boardgames on the shelves, stubbs of candles on the tabletops for when the power inevitably went out. The familiar creak and slam of the screen door.
She'd been happy then.
They'd sit on the threadbare couches, curled around pillows, drinking mugs of tea sweetened with the honey her mom bought at a roadside stand. Her parents would talk about boring parent things, like repair jobs or what the neighbours were saying about the new cottage at the end of the lake. Or sometimes everyone would be quiet and they'd turn out all the lights and just watch the storm roll in. In the mornings they'd listen to the CBC news on the radio; her parents refused to allow a TV at the cottage. She'd wake up early as the sun brightened her bedroom, and pull on her bathingsuit, still damp from the last swim the night before.
In the area that served as a kitchen, she'd pour a bowl of cereal and chop a banana on top, carrying it out onto the deck to eat. Then she'd be off for the day; canoeing, riding her bike down the dusty dirt road to the raspberry patch, sometimes just floating in the lake, reading Archie comics and Sweet Valley High. She'd always wanted to look like the twins, with their blonde hair and perfect size 6 figures.
Her constant companion was the family's happy go lucky staffordshire terrier, Fozzy. Fozzy would lie in the canoe while she paddled or floated, run by the bike, or follow at her heal if she walked through to cool pine forest. She sighed a long, deep sigh remembering that dog, her soft fuzzy fur, her sad, gentle eyes, the goofy way her tongue lolled when she ran.
Of course, there had been plenty of human playmates, too. Other cottage kids, one or two of the locals lucky enough to live on the lake, occasionally a classmate invited up for a week. Then there'd be secrets whispered under the dock, and diving competitions her mother would judge, or long walks to the nearest store by the highway for popsicles. One summer she'd even had a best friend, inseperable for the whole 2 months. But when September came, they'd gone back to their different homes. They'd written letters, but 10 months is a lifetime for 9 year olds, and the next summer the magical bond just wasn't there.
Maybe it was something about her that was wrong. A chemical imbalance in her brain that made it impossible for people to form lasting bonds with her. Even her parents. The thought flashed through her mind as brightly as the lightning in the sky: A fundamental flaw that made her unlovable.
posted by Deirdre at 10:45 p.m.
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