by MG. Warenycia

If it weren’t for the row of houses – old, small, yet fiercely guarded against development – she could have been watching the Lake as she ate, but the little donut shop, decorated in a rainbow of browns back when the first Trudeau was Prime Minister, was not meant for pleasurable dining. Gemma Bledsoe, who never wrote her surname except on government forms, liked the place for its authenticity. For a graduate of the Ontario College of Art and Design, authenticity was of prime importance; something one sought and claimed sole authority to determine. Dingy independent establishments over which the atmosphere of vintage malaise hung like cigarette smoke were perfect, although, ironically, there was always a suspicious shortage of actual working class folk (to say nothing of the exotically sketchy lumpenproletariat) in the spots where her middle-class hipster peers gathered to claim street cred. Gemma was different, at least when she needed a breather from the endless run of projects, dates, dinner parties, gallery shows, drinks, more drinks, and, above all, the shifts without a workplace of which only the fruits appeared on social media. Facebook and Instagram she checked frequently but updated less and less. She came to the donut shop because none of her friends would bother to venture so far from their own haunts to slurp coffee that was mere “coffee,” and the closest thing to a latte was adding extra creamer to the Stygian liquid that the swarthy, mustachioed owner brewed up in an ancient urn.

The shop had never been reviewed by BlogTO or NarCity, but its customers were unlikely to read either publication, if they were aware of their existence. This customer base was utterly unchanging through the decades and completely different depending on the hour, beginning with construction and municipal workers arriving before the late autumn sun, then office workers, students, cops, retirees from lowly professions, students again, drunk partygoers, cops again, homeless schizos and workers in the oldest profession, before it all started again. One wondered what Stavros, or Radovan, or whatever his name was mixed into his own coffee, or whether he derived certain mysterious powers from the stern-faced figures whose gilt and cross-emblazoned images adorned the wall beside the counter along with stock photos of whatever southeastern European country he hailed from. Gemma used to be able to relieve her mind by just sitting and observing people while she worked halfheartedly on an assignment or doodled in her sketchbook. At some point – she wasn’t sure when – she’d imperceptibly lost the intriguing sensation of being an observer and had started to see herself as being part of the same painting, so to speak, as all the other characters for whom the shop served as a connecting node. She ceased to feel strange and out of place. This disturbed her, because the world she was presently munching a crueler in was not the same world as existed, physically, in the space around her. Not as far as she would admit. Instead of visiting this world like a tourist, the gallery shows and gastro pubs were becoming excursions into a territory which she knew but which was slipping away from her, like a cake glimpsed through the oven door that is failing to rise even as its crust is well-browned. Even her apartment, or, rather, the room she occupied in a Victorian Bay & Gable on D’Arcy Street was detaching itself from her universe, as if it had a mind of its own.

“Ugh!” She banished the thought with a growl that noone noticed and smothered it with a Boston crème, the crisp dark chocolate and sickly sweet custard doing an excellent job of restoring her mood to confident ignorance. It was rare for Gemma to touch any of the crude pastries sitting in ranks in their plexiglass case. It was rare that she ate what most people would consider a ‘meal.’ Today was different, however. With relish, she mashed the remaining portion of the crueler into her pale, thin hand and gulped it down. A hum in her handbag told of a phone call. Gemma waited. Several short throbs: text messages. In enough time for someone to get slightly bored and put their phone in their pocket, she drew out hers and read, ignoring the backlog of emails, ‘likes’ and other alters cluttering the top of the screen.

It was Brittany, as expected. She said she was at the beach where they were supposed to meet. The next message said that it was cold. She hadn’t brought her parka. Gemma gazed out the window. The Core’s glassy spires stabbed into a faience void, pure as a colour swatch in a booklet of paint samples. However, her artist’s eye noted a subtle variation of tint towards the south, over the Lake. More than one among the pedestrians walking by unconsciously tucked their hands into their pockets or pulled their zippers closer to their chins. The trees still wore their green finery, but the scent of fall, which, in Toronto, is basically winter, had crept into the air. Without haste, Gemma wiped her lips, balled up her napkin and left. On the way out the door, she knocked shoulders with a face familiar yet forgotten: a former high school classmate, now a TA up the street from OCAD at Ryerson. He, for his part, did a double take, which caught the eye of his companion. Interrupting their discussion of the job market and their respective girlfriends, the one explained to the other why he stared, who Gemma was, along with two or three anecdotes from school which seemed to reveal why she was only ever glimpsed by him and the other alumni of those days in fleeting and wordless encounters. It was all well that the other fellow also saw something worth contemplating in the almost spectrally lean figure that strode past them with unflinching purpose, shawl flapping in the northward-blowing breeze, eyes burning yet without a trace of warmth…for this momentary distraction prevented them from noticing the inordinate amount of time the proprietor took to respond to their order, giving his attention instead to the gold-embellished pictures on the wall, mumbling stilted words…not “how can I help you?”…not even English. If they had noticed, they might have had a lot more questions with their meal.

Brittany revealed herself before she saw her friend. Of course, it was difficult for her to hide anywhere, the more so on a temperate beach on a weekday afternoon with nobody but the odd dog-walk, jogger, or melancholy poet passing along the strand. It is possible for a woman to capture the attention of men by the possession of certain large and dramatic elements of her anatomy, often coupled with expensive and scanty clothing. It is also possible (though less common) for her to capture the attention of both sexes by a whole-package type of beauty; the sort which provokes an impression based on stimulating a vague but profound plethora of thoughts, concepts and passions, very few of which are comprehended by the one who experiences them; a beauty that perfectly embodies an ideal and is desired as such, completely irrespective of anything like personality or history. Those entranced or envious of such beauty probably cannot describe it or why they are drawn to it, and it is from this uncertainty that the majority of its power derives. A smaller but significant component originates in the aspects more amenable to description by words, such as the toss of butter-blonde tresses, the pout of glossy rosette lips, a glimmer in a naive and adventurous eye, and a quirk in the step and the smile.

“Sorry I’m late, Gemma flashed an uncharacteristically apologetic smile. Half stumbling as her chunky heels dug into the soft sand, “Sometimes you just get into a mood with something, you know, and it takes forever to work yourself up to do anything. Didn’t expect it to be so chilly…”

“It’s okay,” Brittany grinned, bouncing as she spoke, as if to reassure her friend that she wasn’t being sarcastic. “Really. I don’t get down to the beach, like, at all anymore, I mean, since the summer, but, you know. Yeah…” She cast her eyes outward, to where the impenetrable grey-green waters curled and frothed over the jetties and breakwaters of concrete blocks and wire-caged stones. A painter – which both women were – would have seized upon the contrast between the sublime gloom of the landscape and the golden smile of the subject whose already-eventful life had somehow not yet fully changed her from ‘girl’ to ‘woman.’ Gemma saw, and remembered sketchbooks she’d filled years ago, when the two lived in a sharehouse on Baldwin Street with five or six other students; how they had sat up into the wee hours on rainy nights, rendering each other in charcoal and aquarelle. Gemma had been the first to present her work. Brittany, delighted, immediately posted it to social media and was deluged with likes and comments about the talent of the artist who so perfectly captured her contradiction of angelic warmth and wild vivacity. The comments boosted Gemma’s ego. It took all her rigorously cultivated reserves of self-control to preserve her mask of gratitude when Brittany, who worked more slowly, handed Gemma her own sketchbook forty minutes later. There was some skill in the pen and brushwork, to be fair, and this made it all the worse to see the precisely depicted lines of fatigue and the sallow hues on cheek and brow, as well as the purplish tints under the eyes and where the network of tattoos merged on her throat. A trip to the bathroom and the mirror confirmed Brittany’s cruel gift for observation. Shortly thereafter, Gemma moved into her condo, paid for by a professor who was also a gallery owner. Many things happened, but she kept the sketches…

“Ah, ‘scuse me, is this your friend?” A stooped, turban-clad youth, eyes wide as dinner plates called out, approaching them from the direction of a clapboard cabin that sat atop the beach, not far from where the girls stood.

“Oh, hey, yeah, listen – “ Brittany waved as he came up to them. “I don’t mind if there’s a mix up and you can’t find the reservation. I don’t mind paying the different.” She nodded towards the Lake. “It doesn’t look like we’ll get many more weekends before winter, and I’m dying to get out on the water.”

“Huh,” Gemma stammered; “Who is this guy?” But a glance at the sign on the shack told her the gist of what must be the case.

“I, uh, I work here. Your friend – “ the sheepish man was crowded out by Brittany’s energy.

“I told him we had a reservation from last week. I figured, if I could fill out the paperwork for the canoe rental, I could save us a bunch of time and we could just head right out once you got here.”

“Oh,” Gemma quickly composed herself, trying to communicate her reluctance.

“It’s alright. Anyways, I saw on your website it’s a 20% discount for reservations. ‘She works hard for her money,’” she chuckled, hands firmly on her hips. “So…if you could check again maybe?!?”

“Oh, no, yeah, you’re right, that’s company policy,” the boat rental employee was easily overwhelmed. Too, he was cognizant of the slowing of business during the recent spate of bad weather and that he was still in his three-month probationary period. He sized up the racks of brightly coloured kayaks, canoes and paddle boards that surrounded his crude ‘office’ and hurried back, shouting over his shoulder: “I…I’ll check the accounts from last week; maybe your reservation will show in in there…sometimes we forget to update the schedule; change of shifts ‘n stuff like that, eh?”

As the attendant disappeared beneath the signboard bearing a pastiche of the Jolly Roger with two crossed paddles in place of the bones, Brittany turned to Gemma. “I forgot. He said I should be wearing a drysuit? Like the scuba diver outfit or something. They rent them for twenty bucks. I mean, it’s not mandatory, but, he said, if this got wet – “ she tugged at her layered outfit, comprising denim vest, cotton sweatshirt hoodie, and an array of necklaces and bracelets. Her expression suggested Gemma, too, might consider renting a drysuit, given her present wardrobe.

“Nevermind.” Gemma took her friend by the arm and led her to a grove of shaggy willows, so that they were out of sight of the boat rental shack. “Why did you talk to him already? We don’t have a reservation.”

“Huh? But I could swear…”

“I said, I’d reserved a boat, yes, but when did I ever tell you it was at these people, Paddle Pirates or whatever?”

“I dunno. Come on, it’s the only canoe rental place on the beach.”

“Ugh…” Gemma continued leading her friend northeastwards up the shore. The houses moved further back as the sense of old money permeated the atmosphere. “You remember Sophie?”

“Sophie Belzer? From high school? Def.”

“Yes! Okay, so, I knew her grandpa from community events…” Gemma relayed an anecdote of an NDP rally during the previous federal election, when the favoured part of downtown activists and academics valiantly captured 37 of the 308 seats in Parliament, much to the cheers of those in the riding of Beaches-East York who didn’t sell out and jump on the Liberal bandwagon. The late Professor Belzer’s granddaughter Sophie was friendly with Gemma as with almost everyone from their tight-knit school circle and had offered the use of a canoe – a charming 16-foot Peterborough that the Belzers normally used as a collective resource whenever any of the clan was going on one of their excursions to a cottage or Provincial Park up north. Brittany had kept in touch with Sophie, albeit not closely: after high school, they’d sometimes met at dinner parties hosted by a mutual friend in Scarborough and, though they went to different universities, the worlds of Film Studies majors and Fine Arts have a great deal of overlap in Toronto.

The canoe was stored in a shed overlooked by a lot on which stood a slightly whimsical old house bulging with bay windows and decorated with painted wood and knickknacks. “He left Sophie the house, but she’s working this weekend,” Gemma explained.

“Oh…” Brittany cocked her head this way and that, like a bemused cat, as Gemma wrestled open the lock guarding the canoe they’d be ‘sailing,’ for lack of a better synonym on her mind. Sixteen feet sounded like a lot, although, in real life, it seemed so small and delicate. Regardless, the canoe was a thing of great beauty; a condensed fragment of the authentic Canadiana that City-dwellers often cherish and identify with but seldom ever manage to get more than a fleeting taste of. Its gracefully upswept prow, basketwork thwarts and gleaming hunter-green paint evoked memories – some one’s own, some imagined – of moose, maple syrup, beavers, catching sunfish from the dock, wood smoke, and the mournful cry of the nocturnal loon. Adventure, with just enough distance and risk of danger to excite the heart and facilitate self-discovery. Brittany knew she had made the right decision to skip yoga class for this.

It was a feat of acrobatics to climb inside the canoe without tipping it, but, once they were inside, two young women of slim build and good coordination had little difficulty in keeping the vessel upright and steering straight. Gemma, under protest against her mom (who needed her kept busy while she toiled at the office) had been forced to do her time in the Girl Guides in childhood. Now, she was grateful for the bushcraft skills she’d been taught which, though very basic, were infinitely beyond the ‘nothing’ that most of her peers and neighbours knew. Once they got away from the shore, the slender vessel cut the waves admirably and it didn’t take much effort to make swift progress on their westward course towards Toronto Island. There were plenty if inlets to land at there, if they got tired, and Gemma’s boyfriend would pick them up – he had an SUV they could strap the canoe on top of to bring it back.

Meanwhile, the two girlfriends, aided by the supremely meditative experience of paddling a canoe, fell naturally into the purpose of the voyage, which was not to travel (the subway would do for that) but the meditation itself; to savour the beauty of the City from an angle, literally and metaphorically, that their busy, stressful lives blinded them to, and to rekindle bonds grown cold amid the rat race.

After much small talk, Gemma set her compassionate eyes upon her friend’s deceptively buoyant visage as if to place her hand upon her shoulder: “Is everything okay?”

Stunned by the change in topic, Brittany did not answer at once, though one might have perceived a relaxing of the corners of her lips and a faint blush upon her cheeks.

“I understand…”

“You’re right…not everything…” Brittany asked herself, how could Gemma know, given they hadn’t met up or had a serious talk in almost a year?!?

As though in sympathy with their desires, the wind died down as the two girls shuffled as close as the needs of managing their craft would permit towards the middle of the hull, the better to talk about private and serious things, though there was nobody to hear them besides two or three cabin cruisers visible in the distance.

Those who knew Brittany best would have known how alien it was for her to pour out her heart to someone. Emotional though she was, she didn’t brood. She began by thanking Gemma for all she had taught her when they lived in the sharehouse together. As they struggled through the first year of OCAD, Gemma had warned that the classical oil painting of an Ingres of Delacroix (as much as a new student could imitate those old masters) would not go over well with the professors. And, of course, it is impossible for any creator to remain aloof from the theory and ideals of the movement they identify with aesthetically. Romanticism is the sworn enemy of the cynically secular, obscenely materialist souls that preside over the modern-day Academy in all the metropolises of Western Europe and the Americas. Gemma lamented the situation, but, it was what it was. Nonetheless, she encouraged Brittany to follow her passion, based on the thought that it would be easier for Brittany, since she was perfectly willing to earn her income from working at Starbucks or answering phones in an office, leaving her artwork as a hobby, whereas Gemma, by contrast, was not the sort who could live a life of compromises. “Probably since grade 10, 11,” Gemma reminisced in one of those midnight girl-to-girl sessions,” I knew that nine-to-five, whatever the job, it just wasn’t happening for me. And a husband? Hell no. Even then. I knew I just couldn’t. I live for me.”

Brittany listened with rapt attention. Despite the closeness of their ages – Gemma had been one of the wise and worldly grade 12s when Brittany entered grade 9 – there was an enormous gap in maturity between the two young women which must have been rooted in their fundamental natures. For, while Brittany had come from a rough and impoverished childhood and thus would (wrongly) have been assumed to possess abundant street smarts, Gemma grew up in bourgeois comfort (notwithstanding the lack of love between father and mother), and, while her family was not rich, she never had to impede her journey of self-actualization by flipping burgers in order to pay rent. Yet, the former was as a bright-eyed child before the austere sagacity of the latter, the Big Sister. Further credence to Gemma’s advice was lent by the fact that, as Brittany was well aware, there was no shortage of men eager to step in and ensure that Gemma would never have to earn her own avocado toast. Their promises (for, at that age, in such an expensive City, they could be only promises) however, did not interest Gemma, who scoffed at the perfume-seller’s son and even more at a fellow artist who spoke about becoming a lawyer, as though the daydreams of an inferior would taint her and prevent her from entering the Paradise which could only come from monkish devotion to an ideal.

Brittany may have been weak in religion but she was strong in faith: she took her ‘big sister’s’ advice, converting her room into a studio and hammering away at her craft even as she toiled for minimum wage. The failures piled up. Gemma nodded gravely as she listened…Yes, she had gathered things were not going well when she didn’t see a “graduated from – “ on Brittany’s Facebook, and when Brittany did not appear at events – the galas and shows where Gemma would be, dressed in one of her cocktail dresses, glass of rosé in hand, heels like daggers and eyes like a wolf; events which often carried on past when the AGO or R.O.M. closed and those who weren’t chained to mundane responsibilities would move the party to a townhouse on a leafy boulevard in the Annex or a luxury condo by the waterfront. Gemma felt for her poor eager friend and told her she could not blame herself. She knew that if you wanted to swim with that crowd, there would be many occasions when the next morning or, for that matter, the following evening, you could not stray far from bed (yours or someone else’s). As pleasant as Brittany was, no one was bidding for the chance to pay the rent on a condo for her…

“You lack…vision; you are but a technician, not an artist. I care about your happiness, which is why you should find some other outlet for your energies.” The words were said by the gallery director at the last occasion when Brittany was able to get her fine arts professor to vouch for one of her works to be included. The professor did not want to help her, but she had paid her tuition and, if she was not given the same assistance as other students, there might be grounds for a discrimination lawsuit. The gallery director meant his words with every appearance of sober reflection carved upon his face. Brittany’s chest felt hollow. Two or three big names – who she didn’t know except that they worse suits and tuxedos and received deference from every cluster of attendees whom they deigned to bless with their presence: they all agreed, each with the appearance of the utmost reluctance to condemn…alas! Condemn they must, if they were to do their duty!

Brittany frowned and sighed retelling it in the canoe. She had poured out hot tears on her walk home that fateful day. Her words softened till only her lips moved. Gemma suddenly heaved into her paddle and corrected their course with vigorous strokes that one would not expect her frail body to be capable of. “Go on, it’s okay,” Gemma reassured her companion. “Some of us, hey, it’s luck, Fate; call it whatever you want, nobody should judge you for what you have to do to make things work. Fall down, get back up. All we can do.” After making sure they were in no danger of being washed into the shoreline and that there were no other boats nearby that might ram them, she let the canoe drift and gave her full attention to her troubled friend. “And, you know, nobody will blame you for changing course. “Gemma recalled how she had not seen Brittany on any of the last few occasions where she had dropped in at the studio on campus, nor at the coworking space where she sometimes brought mostly finished works, that she might be seen to be labouring on something impressive. She thought, too, of Mr. Stein, of the bar in King Street – and a firm on Bay Street. Not that she knew the firm or cared whether it was accounting, law or real estate, and she was quite sure his real name was not “Bo” as she had heard his friends and the other girls at the Silver Flamingo call him. She grew uneasy, thinking of the swelling threat in her belly and how “Bo” did not respond to her texts, sometimes for a whole night. She asked herself, “But what if I told Lawrence that it was…?”

In apparent synchronicity with her mind, Brittany revived from her tearful stupor and spoke of the very man of whom Gemma was thinking. “ understands, at least…” This was known to them both for years. More recently, to Gemma, he was known as someone who ‘liked’ her posts religiously and was convinced that every work she did was a masterpiece, and that every photo she posted was speaking some profoundness of creativity and pensive beauty. She would not even consciously remember him without prompting, except that Mr. Stein from the King Street bar had not returned her last message for two days, did not follow her on social media, and the familiar discomfort in her stomach was becoming more insistent. She thought of her wardrobe and the photo shoots, which Nguyen was no longer given her the extra discount on. He said it was because the cost of developing film had gone up, but she had a mirror in her apartment. She knew the real reason. Once, two weeks ago, she had become so enraged that she scoured the Estée Lauder palette with the tip of her fingernail, gobbing it on the way one applies oil paint to canvas with a palette knife. Yet no quantity of cosmetics could enliven muscles slack from late nights and vile habits and no makeup has yet been produced with can return the impish sinfulness of a 17-year-old freshly entered upon the Big City’s scene – and market – to eyes which have seen much experience and been forever stained by practical concerns and frugal planning. Lawrence was dumb and desperate, though…he liked to feel like he was helping someone…how much more, if he could build a life with them, at least, for as long as they needed him…

“You’re right,” sighed Brittany. “You wouldn’t have seen my at the studio or the coworking space. It’s way too distracting. Like, people just go there to show off. You can’t actually get any work done. All the noise; people coming and going.” A look of disgust crossed her face.

Gemma smiled to herself: “Sour grapes,” she thought.

“Yeah, and OCAD, okay, so, full disclosure, I never graduated.”

Gemma squeezed the gunwale so hard that her tendons were numbed. If it weren’t for the letter from her landlord, she might have become worried by the umbrous cauliflower clouds rolling north. She grunted softly as she fought to hold herself from breaking out in laughter. “It’s alright. Oh my God! If you can’t let it out here, where else?”

“Thanks,” Brittany sneezed, pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt. Gemma hadn’t noticed before, but now she saw it was emblazoned with an illustration of a ram’s head and lettering in the blue and gold of Ryerson University. Odd, as Brittany had only ever attended OCAD, whose students consider themselves a breed apart. “Actually, I didn’t fail, I dropped out.”

“Yep,” Gemma confirmed in her mind. “Well, if that’s your way of trying to find a ‘win’ in life…” She would let Brittany have it. It was too late to break her own resolve now. The mood-lit rooms in hotels she couldn’t remember the names of; the parties in penthouse condos from which she’d returned the next afternoon. The boyfriends she’d driven away because, arrogant as they were, they thought that she would (for them!) sabotage her climb to…herself.

“Yeah,” Brittany paused, seemingly reliving events. For a split second, she furrowed her brow and tightened her grip on her paddle. “Are we going the right way?” She shrunk down to shelter a little from the wind that was gusting strong and chill, bearing scattered drops of rain.

“Yes,” Gemma stared meaningfully to her right. “That’s Ward’s Island there.” She chuckled. “If you want, we can pass by Hanlan’s Point, but I don’t think anyone’ll be on the beach this time of year.” Gemma didn’t mention it, but she was recalling the day – this exact day, several years ago – when she had first seen herself on a poster when she emerged from the subway at St. Andrew Station. How she’d wished she’d been with a group of her friends – or any other human, for that matter – for that triumphal moment. Originally, she was only supposed to be one name among many listed only in text. Peter…was his name Peter? Had overruled the committee on which crotchety Saul Gwartzman and Muriel Wong had conspired to sideline her. But Peter…it was Peter? Or Brian?…had calmly threatened to pull his company’s donations at the last minute. It would have been a breach of contract, true, but the committee knew that no lawsuit could recoup the loss of having to cancel the annual event that year. Grudgingly, the committee obliged and Gemma headlined the event, although none of her works sold at the auction following the show, except one bought by Peter – an experiment in post-structuralist feminist cubism which probably now adorned a dentist’s waiting room, if it wasn’t in the landfill….A copy of the poster hung in her own room, until it became laden with too many memories and was rolled up and sealed in a closet. How powerful the photographer – hired by Peter – had made her look! The interrogatory gaze, lips the wine-crimson of ripe cherries, accentuated against the Gothic pallor of her smooth, round face; the impudence of her pouty chin and upturned nostrils against the blackness of the backdrop and the blood red of her dress and heels…It was not yet a decade ago, but it was an eternity.

Reassured, Brittany resumed her tale: Yeah, so, okay, I didn’t fail, technically. But I stopped going to classes.”

“Dropped out.”

“I know, okay? I dunno, there was a ton of shit going on in my life. I didn’t know what I was doing any of it for. All I could see, I mean, realistically, was me in some office like 80 hours a week or not even that, like, just at McDonald’s or something worse…”

“You need to think outside the box.” Gemma observed her friend withdraw something on a necklace from within the collar of her hoodie, rub it between her fingers and kiss it. It was a crucifix, in rosewood and grey metal, with the tortured mini statue of Jesus on it. Gemma sighed benevolently. Ah, religion! Refuge for those who cannot make it in life and need to be told that this is somehow a virtuous thing. It would be like Brittany, too: she was always doing silly things to show off how empathetic she was. Rescuing abandoned kittens at the animal shelter; serving food at the soup kitchen in winter. The foolish girl hadn’t realized that no man actually cared and, honestly, she would have been noticed a hundred times more if she had simply spent those precious hours slinging drinks in a bar – any of them would hire her. Even one of the gay bars on Church Street might, just for her sheer joyful charisma. It was a sign of Brittany’s weak will that she did not seek to better herself, yet she destroyed the hopes of so many of her peers merely by existing as her beautiful, envy-inspiring self. Gemma knew, though, that not everyone could make the sacrifices needed for the climb. They were not to be pitied. They would be forgotten.

“Yeah, so, Lawrence and me were pregnant.” Brittany blurted out the news as though she were still embarrassed. And she was, for the public school system in Canada teaches women that their highest calling is drudgery in service of some corporation, while motherhood is a curse.

Gemma could already see the story before Brittany told it. ’ parents were devout Catholics; the Shame would be cast aside and blotted out. No wonder Brittany was dressed so shabbily: the hoodie, a no-name denim jacket, a knock-off Chinatown handbag. She suddenly remembered how, ten months or so previously, Brittany had messaged her, seeking advice in a serious, “help me, Big Sister” way that was highly irregular. She hadn’t even recognized the voice as Brittany’s at the time, and the profile pic next to the Facebook messages was not an actual photo but rather an anime cat. Gemma was admittedly a bit drunk – she was at a New Year’s party, held at an AirBnB she’d rented for the occasion. She had also decorated it with personal effects and brought over clothing: clean to fill the closets, dirty to fill the laundry hamper, along with half-eaten food in Tupperware containers for the fridge. It had a Lake view. Everyone was fooled. She was lolling about the balcony, smoking kreteks – part of a stock carried back from Sumatra by a longhaired backpacker that, unfortunately, Peter found out about. She hardly recalled the conversation or anything else about that night, but she did remember the flattery of being consulted as an oracle. Move out here, she’d suggested straight up. Deal with your problems, forget Lawrence, forget your parents’ objections and move out here, for your own sake. Gemma never gave advice she would not follow herself. Cut the ties holding you back, settle into one of the new condos going up. If you want to attract flies, lay out some honey. She could meet the sort of people – male people – whom she’d need out there, in the lobby, at the local clubs. Forget all the schmucks busily plowing ahead with degrees, worrying about developing boring skills or getting houses in the gross-ass suburbs. “Girl, you are a perfect being already; the universe is within you, you only have to decide to manifest it!” The kreteks were getting to Gemma’s head – she really believed the advice she was giving. The bright lights behind her shimmered on the waves like constellations. She was on top of the City, which was better than being on top of the world.

As far as Gemma knew, the other girl had taken her advice and joined her, pursuing the same dream like so many salmon swimming up the same river. It might have flickered through her head afterwards that the caller had been Brittany. But it might also have been a dozen other pretty, dream-filled girls. It didn’t matter. The more salmon in the river, the more she could know her triumph as those beside her dropped out from exhaustion or were devoured by lurking bears.

Gemma stared at her friend across the canoe with a smile, her heart filled with mercy that was the opposite of love. “I didn’t see any photos of you with a baby…” The anguish on Brittany’s face was palpable. “You did the right thing,” she was about to say, but was saved from awkwardness when Brittany cut her off.

“I told Lawrence, but she’d already died.” Brittany shrugged, smiling painfully.

“You buy all the Church’s propaganda?” Gemma snorted, but soon regretted her cruel humour. The story Brittany told had Gemma balling fists till her knuckles almost burst through the skin. Brittany, it turned out, had not taken her advice. She had told everything. They had gotten engaged and married. Worse, she had abandoned OCAD voluntarily, canceled the lease on the condo she rented, and vanished into nothing out in the suburbs – in Richmond Hill, of all places. She worked a few hours every week in a cafe owned by ’ aunt. That was it? Gemma lashed herself for being such an idiot; for briefly thinking that forgiveness was warranted for this ungrateful creature before her. Brittany wasn’t supposed to do that. It was a betrayal, to leave her friend all alone…

Yet, how could you criticize a girl like that without seeming like a monster? “But…you still have ambitions? Don’t you?” she frantically asked – nay, pleaded. “Tiffany and Roweena miss you. The guys still ask about you at the Silver Flamingo.” The first two were lies, the second was true, except none of the drunken businessmen asked for Brittany by her name because they had never learned it.

“Oh, for sure. We’re going to try again…”

“For the downpayment? If your credit history is established, which it probably is by now, you don’t need the 20%…or, you mean ? Isn’t he working at Tim Horton’s?”

“He was but he quit. Actually, he helps out at his dad’s office part time. He’s studying. His parents are cool with things.” Brittany’s lustrous eyes darted as if searching for the perfect descriptor. “We’re happy.”

“But…why?” Gemma couldn’t contain herself.

“I…well, it’s hard for me to say…” Brittany fidgeted, wringing her cold hands. “The bottom line was…we’re close, I mean, you showed me a lot about life, but…I saw what you were doing; what, I guess, you had to do to get it all: the attention, the shows, your place where you were staying and…what you did to your boyfriends, yourself and…”

“You couldn’t hack it!” Gemma thought to herself.

“…And I didn’t want to be like you.” There was no trace of mockery in her words. Only pure, honest truth.

Gemma was floored. And yet she had been preparing for this moment for weeks. Months, even. In the silence that followed the bombshell words, she witnessed Brittany’s expression change from apologetic, to thoughtful, to concerned as she saw how far out from the shore they were and as she recognized the increasing patter of raindrops spat from the darkening clouds. Gemma saw her friend’s mouth open in pleas, then in a scream, but she did not hear anything as, with laser focus, she reached below the thwart, fumbled and yanked out the plug which she had patched in a day earlier…

It did not take long to find the body but, for half a week, the papers and TV carried the photos of the beaming blonde, glowing with the promise of a Tomorrow cruelly snatched away. A Sergeant McMurtry of the Toronto Police Service informed reporters gathered at the daily presser that there had been a tragic accident, although, privately, as a son of rural Ontario and an avid outdoorsman, the Sergeant was astonished that the girls had made it out so far, in such a small craft, the hull of which had been punctured pretty bad by rocks. Naturally, he went to talk to the Belzer family, who owned the canoe and whom he was familiar with via the late Professor. The parents claimed that no one had permission to access their boathouse besides themselves, and Sophie denied telling Gemma Bledsoe that she could borrow the green Peterborough, although she admitted to knowing both the survivor and the victim socially.

Traumatized by the incident, Gemma sought comfort and attention wherever she could find it – in particular, from a devastated Lawrence. Alas, the idiot would only open up pictures of Brittany on his phone when she tried to console him, and he was cold as granite to her attempted caresses. Then there was the notice from the Landlord & Tenant Board on the door. She went to ask the manager at the Silver Flamingo for help to pay the back rent, but he saw her in the bright light of day and he was sober, therefore she did not get to set foot past the bouncer-guarded doors. With the scribble of a ballpoint pen on the application form at a Tim Horton’s on Kennedy Road north of Eglinton, Brittany’s beyond-the-grave revenge had begun.

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