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Overview
When Emily and her family move back to Nova Scotia from Calgary, it is a return to the coastal landscape that already haunts her—and the waters where her father died. She meets her neighbour Linda, a gruff but loving widow and Linda’s grown son, Tom, who struggles to stay on an even keel. As they settle in, Emily and her husband, Daniel, learn more about the short but turbulent history of the house they’ve just bought. With Daniel away for work, Emily becomes caught up in the lives of her neighbours, relying on Linda’s friendship and growing closer to Tom, despite his unsettling knack for appearing when she least expects him. As the tension in each family builds, both Emily and Linda must confront long-unanswered questions.
With its nuanced depictions of marriage, parenting, grief and mental illness, and humorous, understated dialogue, Davison’s debut is at once suspenseful and subtle.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781771086646 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Nimbus Publishing |
| Publication date: | 09/05/2018 |
| Pages: | 280 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.70(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
2003
For years, she missed this grey, almost colourless landscape, the air nearly as sodden as the ocean. On days like this, you can squint out at the water and not be sure what you're seeing, the dark triangle of a sail or only the shifting thickness of fog. It's probably because her strongest link to him, Da, is out there in the mist, away from the solidity of land.
Daniel drives the rented moving truck. It sways on the road ahead while she brings up the rear with the delicate cargo. It's a single-lane highway with a narrow gravel shoulder. She slows for the next bend and avoids a maze of potholes. A highway is what it's called on maps. Stunted evergreens line the road, the thickest of their trunks still smaller than one of her thighs. When she pointed this out to Daniel, he automatically disagreed, admiring the curve of her hip, savvy husband.
A faded sign is propped at the end of a driveway. Whirligigs, it reads, and next to it a yellow-clad fisherman in a red dory spins the oars of his boat to an ever-receding shore. Next it's the local convenience store with large black letters announcing "izza" by the slice. Signs don't fare well in the stiff onshore winds.
The steam of her panting dog warms her left shoulder, while her son sits in miraculous silence, gaping at intermittent views of the sea out his window. They're coming up on the beach. "See any surfers out there, Ryan?"
He puts his forehead to the window and reports that there are seagulls. A wave licks over the edge of the road, leaving a trail of small rocks. A line of cars is parked in the narrow lot at the edge of the beach, the occupants glorying in the power of nature from the comfort of their vehicles. Braking, she feels the wind push the car sideways and grips the wheel a little tighter. Six days ago they left Calgary on a bright day with no snow in the forecast. Though not a confident driver, Emily is fine if the roads are familiar and the weather reasonable. Driving across Canada in the winter didn't fall within these parameters. Ryan and the dog had a love-hate relationship that played out in her rearview mirror. They had to get good stretches of driving in whenever it wasn't storming. A serious dump of snow could stall them for days. So, she kept going in moderately frightening conditions, like black ice, thick fog, and her personal favourite, freezing rain with the thermometer ping-ponging between minus two and plus two.
"Almost home!" she sings out, trying to whip up some excitement as they pass the parking lot for the larger beach.
Daniel, on the other hand, less bothered by winter driving, has spent hours in solitude, sometimes listening to an entire audiobook in a day. If she could manage a large truck she'd have switched seats with him in a heartbeat, but the idea made her percolate with anxiety. And so, they ploughed on, their daily journey punctuated by unhealthy meals and unplanned bathroom stops.
She flicks on her signal light and they wind their way up the hill. Their hill. "You see it?" It's just coming into view. "The one with the flat roof? That's our new home."
* * *
Sheltering in her porch, Linda enjoys her one smoke of the day — really, this would be it — steeling herself to meet the new owners and hand over her key, finally. She's arranged to be around most of the day, having run all her errands the day before and cancelled an appointment.
There's a squeal of brakes; she stands to get a better view. A large white truck makes the turn onto her road. With only the three houses up here, it's likely to be the new people. Or is it just movers? It lumbers past and she lifts her hand. You always wave — there's a good chance you know the person, but if not it's better than just staring. The truck backs neatly into the driveway. Not bad. Linda only puts her car in reverse when absolutely necessary, avoiding the debacle of parallel parking at all costs. A man hops down from the driver's side and nips around the side of the house, out of sight. So much for gawking. She sinks back onto her chair and turns her head to keep an eye out for the rest of the parade.
She'd watched the skeleton of the house appear from her kitchen window years ago, an anomaly amidst the traditional homes nearby. The people, she was told, were come-from-aways, their architect too, sketching out a house better suited for a warmer place. They must be from down south somewhere, live in one of those cities where life hums along predictably, where you don't have to prepare for the possibility of long stretches without power every winter. They must've walked the site on an August afternoon, a precious fog-free day, been wooed by the vision of children playing in the waves below, gulls surfing the air currents, bright umbrellas along the beach. Heck, they probably assumed there was a beach all year too, unaware that the sea gathered up all the sand in the winter storms, only returning it for the summer months.
She still has the magazine article that featured the house. It was staged with sparse furniture, a pair of wine glasses resting on a patio table with a stunning sunset beyond, a blanket draped just so over the arm of a chair, a book face-down on the table as if the reader had just stepped away to answer the phone. But there were no people in the shots, even with the fire blazing away in the wood stove. The first owners were too private for that. So private that Linda had never met them. Two years later the sign went up and it sat there waiting for its next people while the new landscaping wilted in the salt air.
The couple that moved in next had hosted a housewarming party and invited the locals as well as their urban friends. They loved to cook and talked of doing yoga side by side every morning to the distant sound of the surf. They planned to put in a kitchen garden and have friends come out for fancy dinners. Foodies, they called themselves. But the guests petered out as the ice settled on the roads. They made it through Christmas. Then he took an apartment in the city, just to be closer to work. She had emphasized this, placing a hand on Linda's arm like it was she who needed reassuring. Sure enough, the house was dark again the following spring.
Reluctantly, she'd agreed to take the key and walk through the empty house, to satisfy their insurance company. The last time around, when the first owners decided to sell, her husband was still alive and he'd done the honours. He'd only met them the one time and agreed to monitor the place without telling her. Martin would sometimes be over there for hours, doing what she never knew but he never turned any lights on. Her own visits were brief. She'd pad through each room in her socks, the chill of the floor spreading through her, and peer out the windows. From her house, just down the hill, she had glimpses of the sea but nothing like this. Martin must have liked it here, but it made her feel small, exposed.
One day it dawned on her that there was only one door on the inside of the house, mercifully it was for the bathroom on the main floor. Everywhere else, it was just a wall that would discreetly hide views where necessary. It felt more like a place to display art. How would her family have stood up to this environment? She needed to have a sense of privacy, even if it was just a cheap door in a small house.
Now this must be them, soft things squashed against the car's back windows. There's no room in the driveway with the moving truck there. She watches them turn around at the end of the road and halt in front of the house with two tires planted on the front lawn.
Finishing her cigarette, Linda listens to it hiss as she touches it to the snow, drowning its little fire. Might as well go up and say hello, give them the key in case they don't have one yet. God knows that realtor might keep them waiting half the day.
He'd seemed a touch flighty when he pulled up in front of her house. His eyes darted around her yard like he was tallying up the details for her listing — split entry in a quiet area, walking distance to the beach, a handyman's dream. It was a family moving in, he said. He'd walked them through a few places before they decided on this one — moving back home — he didn't say from where.
She sighs and quickens her pace as she sees the car door fling open. Her voice isn't strong enough to be heard at this distance, calling out to warn her new neighbour about the ice.
* * *
Emily hasn't seen it since the late fall when they flew out to find a place. It is unlike their old bungalow with its steep-pitched roof to shrug off the snow. This one is airy, in and out, windows framing the horizon. The landscaping is a blank canvas, except for the haggard tree at the side. Daniel, an architect, went on about clean lines. He told the realtor how as a kid he always drew houses with flat roofs. Emily stayed near the wall of windows, squinting at boats on the horizon.
She barely remembers signing the documents to put in the offer. But offer they did, and it was accepted within the day. The sellers didn't ask for any changes to the contract. Emily and Daniel had stretched their credit a bit to have the ocean view. It was, after all, a bargain compared to house prices in Calgary.
The moving truck is in the driveway, but there's no sign of Daniel. Sliding out, she lets her foot touch their lawn for the first time. She doesn't notice the ice until she slides, heavily, underneath her car door and is looking up at the sky. Her winter hat cushions the blow. She takes a second, suppressing the curses that would once — pre-motherhood — have issued casually, satisfyingly, from her mouth.
"You all right?" A woman's face appears above, upside down. She's slight; grey eyes in a thin face, the wind ruffles her pale hair into whimsical shapes.
"Yes, I'm fine. Thanks."
"I'm Linda, I live next door, I have a key." She holds it up. "To your house. You'll probably change the locks but ... let me help you."
"No really, I'm okay." She manages to roll onto an elbow. "Been sitting in a car for a week. I'm Emily." She offers a hand, and as Linda reaches to shake it she, too, loses her footing and lands beside Emily with a cry of alarm.
"Shit, I'm sorry."
"Fine," Linda croaks and erupts into a coughing fit.
"Right," says Emily. "Me first." Using the car, she pulls herself up, then helps Linda to her feet. It's less than graceful and they're laughing, brushing the snow from their coats, when Daniel appears.
"Ah, here he is." Emily slips her arm around his waist. "This is Daniel. Linda brought us a key."
"You all right?" he says, shaking her hand.
"Fine."
"And in there," Emily continues, "is Ryan. The one licking the window is Hoover."
The dog gazes at them through the smeared glass, his head swaying with happiness.
"Pleasure to meet you all. I live just over there." She waves her hand. "Just me now, my husband passed a few years ago. Oh, and there's the cat, Bert. He thinks he lives at your house." She turns away from them to cough into the crook of her arm. "Sorry, this just won't go away."
Daniel releases Ryan's seatbelt and the dog barks, demanding equal treatment.
"Daddy, you have to get Bumpy too."
Emily shares a look with Linda and mouths imaginary friend.
Another car pulls up. The bright letters on the side doors boast of how quickly the driver can sell a house.
Nodding, Linda says, "You have plenty to do, no doubt. Come over if you need anything. You too, Ryan. You like cats?"
Ryan nods then buries his face in his dad's pant leg.
"Lord love him." Linda smiles.
CHAPTER 2She's the first to wake the next morning. Crawling out of her sleeping bag, she sits, yawning silently on the edge of the bed. Neither one of them could find the box labelled bedding last night, but the camping supplies were easy to locate in the battered backpack. A large unopened wardrobe box is in the corner of the room. Daniel has neatly folded his clothes on top. Her own things are heaped on the floor nearby, so she only need reach out a hand for her sweater. She tugs on yesterday's slightly stiff socks and tiptoes out of their room, craving her first private moments with the house.
When they'd first seen it, they had overlooked the lack of doors, dazzled by the views instead. The omission was a clever design feature. The rooms still had privacy, visually. But it would prove challenging with a little boy. Standing at the top of the stairs, she surveys the cardboard boxes below, clumped into the middle of the great room. They'd managed to drag it all inside by the end of the day, call for a pizza, then set up Ryan's bedroom as best they could.
Hoover opens one eye and, seeing her, thumps his tail against the floor. This brings to mind another matter: not a single carpet in the place. They'll have to remedy that with a few rugs to deaden the sound. She jogs down the stairs, intent on getting the dog outside before he can begin his morning routine, which — for reasons she can't fathom — always includes a round of explosive sneezing. As her foot hits the last step Hoover heaves himself up on his forelegs, wrinkles his snout, and begins to snort. Too late. She leans down and pushes him by the rear end toward the door while his sneezes ricochet off the high ceilings.
As she stands in the doorway, watching the dog snuffling the ground outside, Ryan begins mumbling in his bedroom. This is followed by Daniel, yawning loudly. So much for a few minutes alone.
Ushering the dog back in, she heads to the kitchen and begins restacking boxes in search of the coffee machine, no longer attempting to keep quiet. She has just about unearthed the familiar box — on which Daniel and Ryan doodled a pre-coffee portrait of her with hair standing on end — when she feels arms reaching around her.
"Welcome home."
It's Daniel, happy to wake up in his own bed and happy not to be driving a truck. Turning around, she moves into the warmth of him. They'll need to fire up the wood stove.
"Welcome home. I need coffee, a rug for the living room, and a way to keep our son in his bedroom."
"I'll do a coffee run."
Not an entirely selfless offer: it would get him out of the morning routine, something she'd been doing for the past week.
"That's okay, I have all the bits needed to get some coffee on. We'll head out later, get our first grocery run in. How about you see to Ryan?" She smiles and watches his face fall.
"Right. I'll do that," he says, pushing his glasses up on his nose, standing taller. Then, over his shoulder he adds, "Don't forget to add the windows to your list. You going to sew curtains this time?"
A parting shot. Few things make her feel quite as incompetent as being unable to sew a square. In the last house, after weeks of ripping seams, she ended up leaving the fabric in a heap in one of the closets, a sad offering to the new owners. Plus, there is the sheer height of these windows; they must be fourteen feet and god knows how wide. Custom coverings would cost a fortune. The windows face the beach below, it's not like it's a busy street. They'll just have to remember not to wander nude through the house.
While she fills the coffee carafe with water she gazes out the windows. They should probably work on making things safe first. At the rear of the house, a cliff leads down to the beach. There's a ragged picket fence in the back. At best, it might slow down a small child and a dog. The gate's latch has rusted so that it moves back and forth like a pendulum in the wind. In the meantime, she'll make sure to be outside with them.
Hitting the start button on the machine, she wanders over to look at the yard. Why did the previous owners never build stairs down to the beach? Maybe it's not permitted. When they'd viewed the house the first time, walking around in the yard she'd thought she could see a worn spot where people had made their way down. The thought of it made her queasy. It must be more than sixty feet, although Daniel is always teasing her about her judgment of distance.
She pulls out a pad of paper and begins a list. House Things, she scribbles. Rug. Wood. They'd need more firewood than the dwindling pile behind the house. Price Fences. This she underlines.
"Ryan!" He streaks into the living room, diving onto the sofa with Daniel striding in behind, tiny pants and shirt in hand. "You have to get dressed. It's too cold to be naked."
The coffee machine is entering its grand, gurgling finale behind her and she's loath to delay her first sip, knowing Dan will soon give up the chase and expect her to step in. She holds her fingers up to Daniel. Two choices, she mouths at him.
"Ryan, you can walk back to your room or I can carry you. ..."
Ryan leaps from the couch and runs for his new bedroom. Muffled sounds of father and son continue upstairs while she scans the labels on the boxes.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "In the Wake"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Nicola Davison.
Excerpted by permission of Nimbus Publishing Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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