Lost Soul

 

Chapter one

 
 
Surveying the sea of brown moving boxes, the piles of misplaced furniture and the retreating backs of the movers, I couldn’t help but feel abandoned. So much to sort out. In so many ways.
The moving company had been anxious to get back on the road and I couldn’t blame them. Night had descended and the rain was beating a torrential rhythm against everything in its path. The spring rain was welcome, the fact that the temperature was expected to drop back below freezing over night, was not. Even though they’d been eager to be away those sturdy stalwart young men had carted my bed frame and mattress up the narrow stairs to the room I’d declared my bedroom. And for that I was thankful.
I slapped at the dust on my jeans then contemplated the chore ahead and took a deep breath. “Okay then, food.” Breakfast had been a coffee and bagel fourteen hours ago and they had long since burned off. I had just spotted the cooler of perishable produce and some kitchen survival foods, when the wind, already shrieking, suddenly gusted with even greater force. The lights flickered, valiantly. Then the world was plunged into complete and solid darkness.
“Well-hell,” I grumbled running my hands through my hair and leaving them to rest on the top of my head. I didn’t move. Anticipation huddled in the shadows cradling hope. A long wish-list of hopes. The first was that a knight on a shining well-lit horse would wing to my rescue and brighten the world with electricity. That would be nice. I held less tangible desires tender and fragile deep in my heart. One in particular nudged its way bravely forward and for a brief moment we stared at each other.  A future brighter than my past…would that be too much to ask?
Once it became clear that there were no super heroes in my immediate future, I waded across the room, shuffling forward through the boxes, the occasional flash of lightning marking the trail to the lone box of food I’d spotted across the vast expanse of my treasured possessions. Which I have to admit, at that moment didn’t seem all that treasured.
I swam upstream against the flood of belongings, found the box, retrieved an apple, crackers, peanut butter and a bottle of wine. Then using the weak beam of light from the tiny flashlight attached to my key ring to mark the way, I climbed the stairs to the bedroom.
The mattress was leaning against a wall and the frame still in pieces. I cleared a spot on the floor, dropped the mattress, sat down cross legged and screwed the cap off the bottle of wine. Taking a deep swallow from the bottle I gave silent thanks for frugality. I had no idea where there might be a cork screw.
Raising the bottle into the air in celebration of survival and in deference to the blustering skies toasted, “Welcome to your new home.” I took another healthy swig. “Go some place new,” they’d said. “Start fresh.” And so, here I was, sitting on a mattress on the floor, in the dark, in a new town, alone. How far you’ve come, I thought. Meanwhile outside, the universe raged on pounding against the windows. Was it my past refusing to let me go? Or the sign of things to come?
I did not sleep well. Exhaustion and wine did not cancel out the fact that I slept in clothes and the room was cold. The storm had continued, the elements drumming an erratic beat against the windows. Sometime in the wee and very dark, very noisy hours of the morning the temperature dropped and the rain slashing against the windows turned to the clinking of ice pellets. Daylight brought an icy glass-encased world. Beautiful. But treacherous.
As I stumbled down the stairs in the morning a passing glance in a mirror confirmed the worst. I truly looked like I’d slept in my clothes. My hair, dark and curly and a challenge to corral at the best of times, was standing on end as if I had personally encountered one of the vicious flashes of lightning that had split the sky open during the night. Dark shadows under grey eyes reflected the gloomy weather.
A knock at the front door distracted me. The man standing on the doorstep was far too cheerful considering the early hour. His face was clean shaven but lined with life’s experiences. His brown eyes radiated intelligence and kindness, even good humour.
“We heard the new owners had moved in,” he said. “I’m Tyler, I’m with the fire department. We’re just letting people know that the power won’t be back on for a while but the fire station has a generator, is heated and we’ve a buffet set up for anyone that would like a warm breakfast…hot coffee…Anyway, you should come, meet your neighbours.”
Then before I could respond he turned and waving an arm down the street began doling out directions. “The fire station is at the far edge of town just follow Station road then turn left onto Main, it’ll be on your left. You can’t miss it.” And then without warning he gave a tip of his head and a weary smile and turned to leave.
“Thanks,” I called out to him as he trudged away. In spite of the ice and the wind and his bulky gear he walked with confidence and an easy rolling gait, a man on a mission. I watched him head down the street to the next house on the block. In another life time, I would have acknowledged an appreciation for his lean build and pleasant features.  
After he left I looked around at the task ahead of me, the chilly room and the dreary skies and decided to take his advice. I ventured out across the ice coated street scape. As morning crept forward the gusting wind turned the area into a war zone as tree limbs heavily encased in spring gone wrong dropped to explode like bombs.
Main Street was lined with homes, businesses and hints of what was once, perhaps one hundred years ago, a vibrant and busy village. Remnants of the past clung to the present: church, school, hardware store, hotel, gas station. And finally, my destination.
Standing on the sidewalk outside the modern fire station the musical strains of laughter and easy conversation of neighbours turning an ice storm into a social event drifted out. I envied their camaraderie. Longed for it. But approached with caution.
Well, here we go, I thought wrenching open the door. As expected, silence greeted my entrance. I could feel the communal radar lift off warning a stranger in their midst. Drawn forward by the warmth and the smell of coffee I stepped into the room.
Tyler saw me arrive and greeted me at the door and to the wary quiet that followed my entrance unexpectedly introduced me. “Everyone, this is...sorry, I don’t even know your name,” and he turned to face me, “this is...” he repeated and waited.
“Annie,” I said reinventing myself on the spot. Not Joanna. But Annie. I breathed in deeply and felt a glimmer of optimism hovering on a far distant horizon. New home. New name. New self? Did it work like that?
“Annie,” Tyler repeated, “She bought the old train station, just moved in.”
People nodded, lifted coffee in salute and returned to their conversations. Tyler led me to the row of tables heavy with warming pans. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I began lifting the lid on the trays and the heady fragrance of eggs, bacon, sausage and pancakes wafted out. It was a symphony of scents. “We’ll have pots of chilli tonight and cots set up in case the temperature dips even more.” He explained. “The old train station, your place, used to have a wood stove. Did the last owners remove it when they renovated?”
 “No it’s still there but I have no idea if they left wood anywhere or where it might be.” Plate overflowing, we stopped to fill a cup with coffee.
“I’ll send a couple of the boys out with wood, just to be sure.” Tyler offered as he led me to a table, made introductions then left me anchored to a group of my new neighbours.
The black coffee was rich, the scrambled eggs fluffy and the bacon crisp. Conversation was surprisingly easy. Pleasant as everyone seemed, now fortified with strong coffee, and a heavy dose of maple syrup on my pancakes, I was more than ready to begin unpacking.
Shortly after returning home two teenagers showed up with wood and kindling and stacked it at the front door. With teenage enthusiasm for pyromania they offered to set a fire. I was perfectly willing to let them have a go at it, because I knew the only way I would successfully get a fire started involved gasoline and a blowtorch. I would never survive in the wild. A fire in the stove quickly lifted the chill of the room and slowly I was relieved to see a dent in the layer of packing boxes that were slathered across the floor. I could almost envision this railway station as a home, my home.
The previous owners had purchased the village train station and renovated it into a home at great cost financially and emotionally. My breakfast table mates were more than willing to share their belief that the renovations had cost the couple not only their savings but their marriage.
I thought they had done a wonderful job of retaining the spirit of the building while creating a modern living space. The entry was wide and spacious and had held the station master’s wicket where customers purchased tickets or sent telegrams. To the left was the waiting room. When the building was a stop on the Great Western Railway it would have been lined with rows of wooden benches. There was one original bench left along the north wall facing into the room. The wood stove sat in a far corner and in the diagonal corner of the room a kitchen work space with island, sink, appliances a counter, some cupboards. The open concept of the room meant there was plenty of space for a dining table, and living room furniture. Sided on three walls with the original floor-to-ceiling multi-pane windows, it was bright cheerful room even on this dreary day. I contemplated updating the windows to combat the cool draft leaking in around them and pooling in the back corner around the bench.
The room to the right of the entry had been the baggage area and this room I hoped to use as work space. It had only one wall of windows and a scarred wooden floor. The second floor had originally contained a small apartment for the station master and his family. Now it was one large master bedroom, bathroom and an office.
I chose this small rural community initially because I thought I needed a place to hide, a place where I could be anonymous. One community breakfast, however, shredded that misconception. Anonymity did not live in the hinterland; it was an urban animal.
By late afternoon I was pleased with my progress on the main floor and headed upstairs to put the bedroom into some semblance of order before the light of the day faded. Sleep the first night had been interrupted several times by the raging storm I hoped that a warm, well-made bed, exhaustion and pyjamas would guarantee an uninterrupted sleep through the second night. It did not.
I had escaped the living space that housed my past and given myself a new name but the emotional baggage from those days was not so easily discarded. Screams, my own, woke me and sitting up with a breathless gasp, I wiped sweat from my face. The past is never gone.

Chapter two

Power was eventually restored, and the pile of empty and folded packing boxes slowly outnumbered those still scattered around waiting attention. Order replaced chaos. I opened a box containing art supplies and lugged them into the baggage room. When I first toured the train station I immediately felt drawn to it as a place where I could be reinvented. It provided space to not only live but work. Spacious rooms, good light, perfect for an art studio. I put in an offer and had found a new home.
My art degree had never really been put to use and so when instructed to find something that had once brought me joy and reintroduce it into my life. I didn’t have to contemplate the topic long.
I hoped I could regenerate a long lost love of line and colour because at this point I was simply going through the mechanical motions. The therapist had assured me it would return. “Practice isn’t just for muscle memory; it works for intangibles like joy as well. Keep at it.”
There was so much internal infrastructure I needed to rebuild. I had lost any sense of connection to life moving through my days with a sense of alienation, living outside of life, here but not, substance but hollow. I ached to feel connected, but couldn’t rally the strength or courage to make it happen.
While setting up a work space I discovered, on the top shelf of a storage closet, historic photos showing the station as a functioning railway stop. I took them out and lined them up along the wainscotting in the baggage room. After studying them for a moment I reached for sketch pad and pencils. If not now, when? Lines created form.
Slowly a rough outline took the place of the blank white of the sketch pad. From the photos I took suitcases, as well as a woman and young child standing at the window looking out at the incoming train. I created the waiting room with inspiration from the one wooden bench in the back corner, and the wood stove. Around the wood stove I imagined a group of men in conversation. The one corner with the bench looked empty so I added a fresh-faced young man sitting primly, a suitcase anchored between his feet.
For a brief moment I was lost in the process. The sensation of free fall, letting my imagination take me was glorious. Well, how about that, I said to the empty room setting my pencil down. Not a bad start. Scaffolding in place. Let the building begin.
In spite of the fact that I had come here with the intention of being off the grid, untraceable, I began to wonder if perhaps I could put my knowledge to use. I could use it to generate an income, and share my learning curve with others. It would ensure I practiced. And squeaked a timid voice buried deep, make you interact with people. Shh. I warned.
Before I knew it I was not only adding detail and the first hints of colour to the sketch I was planning after school activities, weekend paint nights, seniors’ events. I set aside the sketch and began working on advertising posters. Once they were completed a few days later, I got them copied at the library then began the rounds of village businesses, school and churches asking if I could pin posters in their windows on their information cork boards.
That done, I suddenly realized with a wave of panic, I now needed to figure out exactly what I would teach should someone actually sign up for the classes. A loose list of activities led to a trip to Hudson’s hardware store on the Main Street for a shopping list of art supplies. I walked the aisles of the store looking for a section that might have paint brushes or craft items.
“Can I help you?” A familiar voice asked. I turned to face the fireman. Lacking the hat, coveralls, heavy jacket and boots, he looked, smaller. More approachable. I explained what I was searching for.
 “Hmmm, not sure we’ll have what you need but we do have some supplies in the paint section. Let’s go look.” And he turned and walked away. He walked with the same purposeful, on-a-mission stride in the store as when delivering news of power outages door to door.
My first class included twelve elementary aged students. I played music and asked them to describe a scene that might go with the music. We talked colours, lines and feelings. Then putting them in front of easels with different sized brushes and pots of primary colours I played the music again. Once the class was over I put out snacks and encouraged them to take a gallery walk exploring their classmates’ work. Their interaction spoke of years together in the community.
One frail looking waif of a boy, Sam, with sleek black hair and old soul brown eyes sat alone on the original wooden bench swinging his feet and contentedly munching his apple slices. He was staring out the window but was clearly deep in conversation. He seemed too old to entertain imaginary friends.

Chapter three

In preparation for an upcoming sketch class of high school students I crammed sketch pad, pencils, water, a snack, and camera into a backpack and set out for a country walk.
The gravel crunched under foot marking the rhythm of my pace. The sun was high and warm and the spring wind brisk but in the breath of the breeze was the promise of warmer days. There were a few clouds lingering, sleepily drifting past high and unthreatening. The fields on either side of the road stretched off to the horizon and smelled of warm fresh earth.
Eventually I crossed a stone bridge over a creek that was lined with arthritically gnarled ancient willows. On one side of the road was a woodlot on the other a small herd of beef cattle grazed contentedly. I settled in, first photographing everything then pulling out sketch pad and pencil.
Completely absorbed in the process I not only lost track of time but of weather and failed to notice that the clouds rolling by were no longer soft and friendly but more menacing and now heavy with rain. It wasn’t until I leaned back to stretch and dig an apple out of my pack that I took time to look around.
One glance up had me quickly packing up for the trek home. The wind continued to pick up and the sky steadily turned black until rain began to fall in large dollops. When I passed a field with a shelter for cattle I didn’t hesitate to climb the fence and hunker down between a hay feeder and the outside wall.
I wasn’t the only life form hiding from the storm. From a mewing in the corner, I gathered up a tiny, bedraggled kitten, eyes wide in fear, light-socket-shocked hair shooting out in every direction.
The tiny creature fit into my cupped hands. After tucking him inside my jacket he promptly curled into a tiny ball and went to sleep content to let his future rest in my hands. Literally.
I fully intended to set him down once the rain ended and leave him safe and cozy in the cattle shelter however, once the weather cleared and I picked his claws out of my shirt one by one then set him in his nest in the corner, he followed me across the field toward the road.
The faster I walked the more frantically he staggered through the tall pasture grass doing his desperate best to keep up. I stopped and turned to watch his frantic stumbling and could not ignore his pathetic and weak mewling. A tiny fissure in the vicinity of my heart creaked open. He too stopped and stared for a moment and then as if sensing weakness in my hesitation put new effort into his odyssey. I watched him wobble the last few steps then lurch forward clamouring up on to my foot where he seemed to melt down against my ankle in relief that he had arrived at his destination. He rubbed his round furry head against my shoe.
Oh.
No.
A cat?
I entered Hudson’s Hardware store on Main Street. Again. This time loading up a cart with a litter box, pet bed, a few toys. I was trying to decide between food brands when Tyler, came round the corner. “Need more paint?” Then he paused and glancing over my choices grimaced. “Oh boy. New pet?”
I laughed. “Yea, you caught me.” I sighed, “He followed me home.”
“Uh-huh. They’ll do that. Don’t feed him, you feed him, he’ll never leave.”
“Too late.”
“Sucker.” He shook his head in mock disgust. Before I could respond he moved past my and turned down the next aisle.
The students were enamoured with the fluffy tabby, who as yet, had no name. He made himself at home immediately, sleeping on my bed at night, winding himself around the legs of my students while they worked, and purring when given attention. He was skittish though. Occasionally he would enter a room and instantly his tail would explode in size, his back would arch and he would bolt from the room, a streak of grey, returning only when his perceived threat was gone.
“Why does he do that?” Sam asked one afternoon, feet swinging as he thoughtfully chewed crackers and cheese, curious but unconcerned.
I didn’t really know.  “Maybe the wind spooks him.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I think you should name him Storm. ‘Cause that’s how you found him.”
I thought that a very appropriate name. “Storm, it is.” We smiled at each other and he went back to contentedly snacking. Just then his mother breezed in breathless and apologizing for being late. Sam looked up and smiled. He joined her, took her hand and as they left the station house he turned back in the direction of the bench and waved goodbye. I looked over to see which student had taken his place on the bench but there was no one there.

Chapter four

I was surprised when Sam’s mother Kate invited me to meet for coffee. I realized that I wasn’t opposed to making a friend. It had just been a long time. As the waitress set cappuccinos in front of us the door rattled open and Tyler walked in. He scanned the room, then smiled and waved at an older man sitting at a table alone near the back, a coffee already cradled in his hands. He greeted us as he sauntered past heading for the man at the back. “That’s his dad,” explained Kate. “They own and run the hardware store, well mostly Tyler runs it. His dad had a heart attack a few years ago, handed the business over to Tyler.”
“I thought he was a fireman,” I said, watching the two greet each other as I lifted the frothy drink to my lips, then cringed at the heat of the scalding liquid.
“He is,” agreed Kate who warily lifted her cup but then blew across the top of it. “But being a fireman in this town is a volunteer position. His job is running the hardware store.” She grinned at me and nudged my foot with hers under the table, “He’d be a real catch.”
I laughed shaking my head, “Nope, not in the market.”
“Probably for the best, he’d be hard to catch he doesn’t stand still very long still trying to outrun demons. He would come with baggage.” She took a cautious sip of her drink, and shrugged, “But then who doesn’t.”
“Oh, I’ll give you that,” I agreed thinking of my own darkness. “So, I assume if you’re pushing this he’s not married.”
 “Not now. He was. Like I said, baggage. He met his wife in the cancer ward. He’s remained cancer free, She wasn’t so lucky.”
I considered all this silently. Kate sipped her coffee while I digested the story. “So,” Kate said eventually, breaking the silence, “the reason I actually asked us to get together wasn’t to try match making with the most eligible bachelor, maybe the only bachelor, in town.” She leaned forward and cryptically added, “It has to do with something else.”
She paused. The chatter of voices and clatter of dishes enveloping us in the busy diner faded. I was sure Kate was about to share some truly scandalous gossip.
Kate took a breath, glanced down at her coffee then back up again and directed a steady gaze at me, “Well, I guess, for starters you have a ghost.”
I stared, waiting for the “just kidding.” But it never came. Kate held my gaze.
 “Excuse me?”
“Yea, crazy right?” Kate repeated myself. “There’s a ghost in your station house.”
“How do you-who said, I mean, why?” I sputtered.
Kate shrugged but ensured me this was not an uncommon occurrence for Sam. It had happened before and she shared a number of examples. “So, when he tells me there’s a man sitting there, well, I believe him.”
When I returned home I stood in front of the long wooden bench that would have faced railway tracks. And waited. I felt nothing. No presence, no coldness. And then Storm the cat began to enter the room. Turned and bolted.

 

Chapter one

 
 
Surveying the sea of brown moving boxes, the piles of misplaced furniture and the retreating backs of the movers, I couldn’t help but feel abandoned. So much to sort out. In so many ways.
The moving company had been anxious to get back on the road and I couldn’t blame them. Night had descended and the rain was beating a torrential rhythm against everything in its path. The spring rain was welcome, the fact that the temperature was expected to drop back below freezing over night, was not. Even though they’d been eager to be away those sturdy stalwart young men had carted my bed frame and mattress up the narrow stairs to the room I’d declared my bedroom. And for that I was thankful.
I slapped at the dust on my jeans then contemplated the chore ahead and took a deep breath. “Okay then, food.” Breakfast had been a coffee and bagel fourteen hours ago and they had long since burned off. I had just spotted the cooler of perishable produce and some kitchen survival foods, when the wind, already shrieking, suddenly gusted with even greater force. The lights flickered, valiantly. Then the world was plunged into complete and solid darkness.
“Well-hell,” I grumbled running my hands through my hair and leaving them to rest on the top of my head. I didn’t move. Anticipation huddled in the shadows cradling hope. A long wish-list of hopes. The first was that a knight on a shining well-lit horse would wing to my rescue and brighten the world with electricity. That would be nice. I held less tangible desires tender and fragile deep in my heart. One in particular nudged its way bravely forward and for a brief moment we stared at each other.  A future brighter than my past…would that be too much to ask?
Once it became clear that there were no super heroes in my immediate future, I waded across the room, shuffling forward through the boxes, the occasional flash of lightning marking the trail to the lone box of food I’d spotted across the vast expanse of my treasured possessions. Which I have to admit, at that moment didn’t seem all that treasured.
I swam upstream against the flood of belongings, found the box, retrieved an apple, crackers, peanut butter and a bottle of wine. Then using the weak beam of light from the tiny flashlight attached to my key ring to mark the way, I climbed the stairs to the bedroom.
The mattress was leaning against a wall and the frame still in pieces. I cleared a spot on the floor, dropped the mattress, sat down cross legged and screwed the cap off the bottle of wine. Taking a deep swallow from the bottle I gave silent thanks for frugality. I had no idea where there might be a cork screw.
Raising the bottle into the air in celebration of survival and in deference to the blustering skies toasted, “Welcome to your new home.” I took another healthy swig. “Go some place new,” they’d said. “Start fresh.” And so, here I was, sitting on a mattress on the floor, in the dark, in a new town, alone. How far you’ve come, I thought. Meanwhile outside, the universe raged on pounding against the windows. Was it my past refusing to let me go? Or the sign of things to come?
I did not sleep well. Exhaustion and wine did not cancel out the fact that I slept in clothes and the room was cold. The storm had continued, the elements drumming an erratic beat against the windows. Sometime in the wee and very dark, very noisy hours of the morning the temperature dropped and the rain slashing against the windows turned to the clinking of ice pellets. Daylight brought an icy glass-encased world. Beautiful. But treacherous.
As I stumbled down the stairs in the morning a passing glance in a mirror confirmed the worst. I truly looked like I’d slept in my clothes. My hair, dark and curly and a challenge to corral at the best of times, was standing on end as if I had personally encountered one of the vicious flashes of lightning that had split the sky open during the night. Dark shadows under grey eyes reflected the gloomy weather.
A knock at the front door distracted me. The man standing on the doorstep was far too cheerful considering the early hour. His face was clean shaven but lined with life’s experiences. His brown eyes radiated intelligence and kindness, even good humour.
“We heard the new owners had moved in,” he said. “I’m Tyler, I’m with the fire department. We’re just letting people know that the power won’t be back on for a while but the fire station has a generator, is heated and we’ve a buffet set up for anyone that would like a warm breakfast…hot coffee…Anyway, you should come, meet your neighbours.”
Then before I could respond he turned and waving an arm down the street began doling out directions. “The fire station is at the far edge of town just follow Station road then turn left onto Main, it’ll be on your left. You can’t miss it.” And then without warning he gave a tip of his head and a weary smile and turned to leave.
“Thanks,” I called out to him as he trudged away. In spite of the ice and the wind and his bulky gear he walked with confidence and an easy rolling gait, a man on a mission. I watched him head down the street to the next house on the block. In another life time, I would have acknowledged an appreciation for his lean build and pleasant features.  
After he left I looked around at the task ahead of me, the chilly room and the dreary skies and decided to take his advice. I ventured out across the ice coated street scape. As morning crept forward the gusting wind turned the area into a war zone as tree limbs heavily encased in spring gone wrong dropped to explode like bombs.
Main Street was lined with homes, businesses and hints of what was once, perhaps one hundred years ago, a vibrant and busy village. Remnants of the past clung to the present: church, school, hardware store, hotel, gas station. And finally, my destination.
Standing on the sidewalk outside the modern fire station the musical strains of laughter and easy conversation of neighbours turning an ice storm into a social event drifted out. I envied their camaraderie. Longed for it. But approached with caution.
Well, here we go, I thought wrenching open the door. As expected, silence greeted my entrance. I could feel the communal radar lift off warning a stranger in their midst. Drawn forward by the warmth and the smell of coffee I stepped into the room.
Tyler saw me arrive and greeted me at the door and to the wary quiet that followed my entrance unexpectedly introduced me. “Everyone, this is...sorry, I don’t even know your name,” and he turned to face me, “this is...” he repeated and waited.
“Annie,” I said reinventing myself on the spot. Not Joanna. But Annie. I breathed in deeply and felt a glimmer of optimism hovering on a far distant horizon. New home. New name. New self? Did it work like that?
“Annie,” Tyler repeated, “She bought the old train station, just moved in.”
People nodded, lifted coffee in salute and returned to their conversations. Tyler led me to the row of tables heavy with warming pans. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I began lifting the lid on the trays and the heady fragrance of eggs, bacon, sausage and pancakes wafted out. It was a symphony of scents. “We’ll have pots of chilli tonight and cots set up in case the temperature dips even more.” He explained. “The old train station, your place, used to have a wood stove. Did the last owners remove it when they renovated?”
 “No it’s still there but I have no idea if they left wood anywhere or where it might be.” Plate overflowing, we stopped to fill a cup with coffee.
“I’ll send a couple of the boys out with wood, just to be sure.” Tyler offered as he led me to a table, made introductions then left me anchored to a group of my new neighbours.
The black coffee was rich, the scrambled eggs fluffy and the bacon crisp. Conversation was surprisingly easy. Pleasant as everyone seemed, now fortified with strong coffee, and a heavy dose of maple syrup on my pancakes, I was more than ready to begin unpacking.
Shortly after returning home two teenagers showed up with wood and kindling and stacked it at the front door. With teenage enthusiasm for pyromania they offered to set a fire. I was perfectly willing to let them have a go at it, because I knew the only way I would successfully get a fire started involved gasoline and a blowtorch. I would never survive in the wild. A fire in the stove quickly lifted the chill of the room and slowly I was relieved to see a dent in the layer of packing boxes that were slathered across the floor. I could almost envision this railway station as a home, my home.
The previous owners had purchased the village train station and renovated it into a home at great cost financially and emotionally. My breakfast table mates were more than willing to share their belief that the renovations had cost the couple not only their savings but their marriage.
I thought they had done a wonderful job of retaining the spirit of the building while creating a modern living space. The entry was wide and spacious and had held the station master’s wicket where customers purchased tickets or sent telegrams. To the left was the waiting room. When the building was a stop on the Great Western Railway it would have been lined with rows of wooden benches. There was one original bench left along the north wall facing into the room. The wood stove sat in a far corner and in the diagonal corner of the room a kitchen work space with island, sink, appliances a counter, some cupboards. The open concept of the room meant there was plenty of space for a dining table, and living room furniture. Sided on three walls with the original floor-to-ceiling multi-pane windows, it was bright cheerful room even on this dreary day. I contemplated updating the windows to combat the cool draft leaking in around them and pooling in the back corner around the bench.
The room to the right of the entry had been the baggage area and this room I hoped to use as work space. It had only one wall of windows and a scarred wooden floor. The second floor had originally contained a small apartment for the station master and his family. Now it was one large master bedroom, bathroom and an office.
I chose this small rural community initially because I thought I needed a place to hide, a place where I could be anonymous. One community breakfast, however, shredded that misconception. Anonymity did not live in the hinterland; it was an urban animal.
By late afternoon I was pleased with my progress on the main floor and headed upstairs to put the bedroom into some semblance of order before the light of the day faded. Sleep the first night had been interrupted several times by the raging storm I hoped that a warm, well-made bed, exhaustion and pyjamas would guarantee an uninterrupted sleep through the second night. It did not.
I had escaped the living space that housed my past and given myself a new name but the emotional baggage from those days was not so easily discarded. Screams, my own, woke me and sitting up with a breathless gasp, I wiped sweat from my face. The past is never gone.

Chapter six

Determine, once again, not to be defeated I brought out my painting of the interior of the station and began adding more colour and detail to the sketch of the young man in the waiting room. I was momentarily drawn into the safety net of artistry. The outer world dropped away.
           A knock at the door jarred my focus.
I had the door half open before I realized who was standing there. I knew the man before me could be charming, and funny, but he could also be cold and calculating, narcissistic and dangerous. Which would it initially be? The flipping moods were exhausting, the rage terrifying and the weeping and begging of forgiveness debilitating.
He smiled but the expression conflicted with the “Don’t try to stop me,” stride as he pushed past me and into the room. Once across the threshold, the smile dissolved swerving sideways into an sneer. “You were hard to find. Y’know that though, don’t you?”
I waited. I knew any response at all would simply enrage him. This was no-win battle. He swaggered toward me menacingly. I took a step back.
He followed. “Where’s my money?!” He demanded belligerently.
Inwardly quaking but determined to maintain outward calm, I asked with a lift to my chin, “What money?” then took another cautionary step back.
He followed. “The money. From the house. You must have sold it to move here!”
An inheritance from my grandmother tucked away and invested years ago had allowed me the freedom to simply walk away. I would take that secret to the grave.
I had backed across the room, the wooden bench now pushing against the back of my knees. “I didn’t sell the house. You sell it. Didn’t you even go look?! Talk to the bank?”
For one fragmented breath we stared at each other and in that silence lived regret for all the words that had never been said, would now never be said. My fear which had begun to melt into sorrow suddenly hardened into anger.
From behind me I felt a surge of energy. It enveloped me like a cloak and filled my lungs. I was infused with a rage that boiled in my core and steamed out every pore. I surged forward aggressively and putting both hands on his chest shoved. 
The power of my thrust shocked not only myself but my ex-husband. It lifted him off the floor and sent him through the air to crash against the kitchen island. Hitting his head on the edge, he slumped momentarily stunned.
“Get out of my house,” I bellowed in a deep, low voice I didn’t recognize as my own.
He stared at me for a moment from the floor then stood, he took a step toward me, “This isn’t over!”
“Oh, yes it is!” I felt myself propelled forward toward him as aggressively as he had approached me. And again, that deep otherworldly voice bellowed across the space between us, “Get out now!” Before I had crossed the room he scurried out of the house with one last glance over his shoulder.
As the door slammed shut, I melted to the floor. The rage that had fuelled me, began to pool away. I pulled my knees up, wrapped my arms around them and dropped my head gasping for breath. Except for the erratic pounding of my heart and the aftermath of adrenalin the air was calm, the wind and the anger were gone.
I was still trying to catch my breath when there was another knock at the door. Moving stiffly, feeling bruised, I got to my feet.
Tyler stood, one arm leaning against the door jam, as he stared down at the door handle as if willing it to open. We studied at each other silently, awkwardly. Then, sheepishly, he asked, “You okay?” He didn’t wait for a response but cleared his throat and ploughed forward, “So, Kate called me, said Sam was frantic, sure you were in trouble. Kept talking about a bad man.”
I smiled and shook my head, “What? He’s psychic too?”
“He does seem to be hooked into the inner workings of the universe.”
I studied the man before me and realized I had it all wrong. Fears that are pushed into the deep dark corridors of our hearts do not shrivel to dust in the darkness. Locked away they fester and grow. It takes exposure to warmth and light to defeat demons.
Tyler stood waiting patiently concern clouding his kind eyes. A gentle smile lifted the corners of his mouth wrinkling the crow’s feet around his eyes. His presence was an offer of friendship. As was the phone-call that had sent him to me.
“I’m fine. It has been a day, though, that’s for sure. Want to come in? I could fix some coffee?”
And with that, life took a careful step forward.
 

-end-