I have to stop telling myself off. To be honest, I didn’t need Helen to tell me off all the time. I’m doing a superb job of it myself. Charlotte McFarlane said half of my problems stem from the high expectations I have of myself and my need for perfection. Every time I don’t meet my standards, I fall into a deep abyss of insanity. Today it took only five minutes to get out of it. That’s progress, I guess.
Now, where did I leave the van?
I squint into the setting sun until I spot the white roof of my Toyota HiAce twenty yards down the road. Who’d believe my luck? I parked the van right in front of the Pet Doctors, Port Somers. I have to remember this place. Once I’m ready to look for a job, I could inquire with them. Maybe I can build a future worth living? Maybe. For a second I enjoy a warm sense of excitement. Then I turn away from the vet clinic and the warm feeling collapses like a house of cards.
It’s better not to hope too much.
At the van, I stop just before I slide the key into the slot. This isn’t my van. How could I have been so stupid and not see the sign for the Forever Fit Gym? I turn around and search the parking spaces along the road. There is no other white Toyota HiAce. It doesn’t make sense, especially when the dent in the back bumper looks exactly like the one, I made when I backed out of our driveway a few weeks ago.
I try the key and to my surprise, it opens the driver’s door. This is strange. I’m familiar with strange. It has been the domineering flavor of my life. But this is taking strange to a whole new level. I look around like a thief, expecting any moment to see a person running up to me shouting, “Stop thief.”
But nobody comes running, no alarm blares. Instead, I see on the passenger seat my orange clipboard where I keep my notes and my travel bags are stashed in the back. Not just bags. Boxes and bags filled with books and other stuff are piled in the back of the van. Even my favorite pillows and floor cushions are here. I feel like a Peeping Tom looking in on a life that doesn’t feel like mine at all.
I slip behind the wheel. The door swings shut, and I stare at the traffic signs at the intersection ahead. I don’t know where I’m going and don’t know why I’m here. I’m so tired of running into the same problem over and over again. Do I have to write everything down? Really? I reach for my clipboard and to my surprise see I have written down where I’m going. I’d forgotten all about it. Obviously, with a memory like mine, you have to write down everything. One day it’ll go so far that I’ll have to write down not to forget to breathe.
At first glance, the handwriting is hard to read. I must’ve been in a hurry. Well, my handwriting was never anything to be proud of. Depending on my mood, it changes dramatically. I envy people who have a steady writing style that never changes over time. A graphologist would have a ball analyzing my handwriting. At least I can never be convicted of a crime simply by my handwriting. That should count for something.
The top sheet features a yellow warning sign. It says: STOP! The van signage is to disguise our escape! That’s a great idea. I wish I could say it came from me. Further down it says Wright’s Homestead, Flatbush Creek Road, Port Somers, Aunt Mandy’s place. I know that one. I remember spending summer vacations at her cottage in the woods.
So, I am in the right van. A weight lifts off my shoulders. Clipped under the top sheet with travel directions I find the deed to a house with my aunt’s name on it. Amanda Wright. I stare at it and let the memory come trickling back. I found this document in the spine of the family bible. I’m at the end of my journey. It should take mere minutes to get to my aunt’s house. My new home?
But first I have to get out of these horrible clothes. The Swanndri Jacket is stiff and itchy and at least two sizes too small for my taste. I hate clothes that stick to my body like cling film. They suffocate me. I slip into the back and rummage through the bags. I don’t have to look far for my baggy pants and my oversized t-shirt. They are lying neatly folded on top of a bag with my other clothes.
The van is spacious enough for a quick change of clothes. I don’t have to be afraid of people looking in. Port Somers’ streets are almost empty at this time of the day in any case. Further up the road a few people file past closed shops, probably window-shopping for tomorrow or just killing time before dinner.
A minibus with the signage West Coast Adventure spits out a handful of tourists in front of a place with the pretentious name of Grand Hotel, and a mother is leaving the corner store, handing her two youngsters a giant cone of ice-cream.
Sounds of music and chatter are coming from nearby backyards. Going by the whiffs of steak cooking on grills that floats by on the evening breeze, people are enjoying the first BBQ of the season.
I take a deep breath. Is this my new life? Here, on the wild West Coast? It’s hard to imagine a slower pace of life than Port Somers
