VINCENT
The three of us met at Wreck Beach, the spring of our first year. Feona tossed me a beer, which I tried to open casually, like my teeth were made of iron and not bone. It was too cold for swimming, but we talked about swimming. The sign at the trailhead read “Clothing Optional.”
I swam naked with a girl at camp, I said.
Feona’s delicate black eyebrows arched upwards, as if to say, I doubt that.
But Christie—gentle Christie!—nodded, gave me the benefit of the doubt.
The years have revealed the truth of Feona’s intuition. Christie never confronts me outright, never says, you’re full of shit—she just moved to the edge of the mattress and stayed there. We’ve been married twenty-two years now, but based on my timeline, we won’t make twenty-three.
When did the tingling begin? The medical officer asked.
Hard to say…
Has your wife noticed anything?
I close my eyes and sigh. My left hand trembles, so I grab it and hold it firm against my chest. Has Christie noticed? I shake my head. But Feona? She’d have caught on instantly.
CHRISTIE
We always knew we’d return to the West Coast someday, but someday came sooner than expected. The plan was to rent in Kits, while Jared got settled on campus. I can’t believe he’s old enough for university! I still wear my old blue and gold hoodie with the frayed cuffs. Does Feona still have hers? I doubt it. She was never one for holding onto things.
Settling Jared into his dorm, I fussed until he said, I got it, Mom. Like he wanted me to leave?
I tossed his pillow on the bunk. Look at you. You’re so handsome.
And he is. He has my eyes and Vince’s height. Jared’s baby fat dissolved at the end of high school, but not in time to get a date to the prom. No matter, I thought then. He had his whole life ahead of him.
But.
Hours after I kiss him goodbye, Jared ends up at a party. I picture him on the sidelines, the way he sat on the edge of all our après-skis, observing. Sometimes he’d head off with the older racers, but not often. He was shy, and what with COVID and everything, well.
He drinks a lot. He starts taking pictures—he’s been hiding behind a camera ever since he was a kid. Vincent encouraged his photography. But this is not Vincent’s fault.
The party winds down, and just as he’s leaving, he glimpses an open door. Lying on the bed is a young woman. Passed out. Naked.
You think you can prepare your kid for everything in life, but Vincent and I didn’t grow up with phones. That’s what I keep telling myself. We didn’t grow up with phones! But no matter how often I say it, it doesn’t change what Jared did, or how many perverts liked the photo. Or how much I want to slap him. And pull him tight against my chest and rock him like when he was a little boy. My little boy.
FEONA
Christie calls before sunrise, like she always does. And I answer, like I always do.
What’s up?
The girl was nineteen, so that’s a relief. But sorting this out is going to cost a fortune. This could bankrupt us. Thankfully, he won’t go to jail. At least, the lawyer says he’s pretty sure it’ll be okay.
I swallow a sigh. What happened to throwing a blanket over a drunk girl? Christie spoiled the kid, but she loved him, too. I mean, once upon a time we weren’t even sure she could get pregnant again.
So…
I’m impatient now, irritated by Christie’s inability to confront pain with anything other than money.
He’s fine?
He should come home, Fee. I want him close to Vincent.
What’s wrong with Vince?
There’s a strangled sound on the end of the line, a sob stuck in Christie’s throat.
It’s a quick drive from my apartment in Dunbar to Kitsilano. I slam into the cottage driveway and run up to the front door. I don’t bother knocking, and just as I round the corner in the kitchen, Vincent turns from his seat at the breakfast nook.
Feona! His face lights up.
Christie comes down the hall, her red eyes darting from Vincent to me.
Everything ok? I’m talking to him, though Christie’s hovering.
The familiar arrogance is gone from Vincent’s smile. His eyes flicker. All good, Feona.
Christie’s biting her bottom lip like she does when she’s scared.
Cut the bullshit, Vince. What’s wrong?
He puts his head in his hands, the first honest gesture I’ve seen in decades. A woman could fall in love with the curve of his neck like that.
Behind me, Christie finds her voice. They’re giving him six months.
CHRISTIE
She comes over all the time, even when I’m not here. Vincent says, she’s so bossy, but he might as well say, I’ve never been happier.
Last week, he gave Feona his credit card and a list of wines he wanted to drink before he couldn’t swallow anymore. He doesn’t want the trach. Pump me full of morphine ‘till I’m dead, baby. I’ve never been good with gallows humour. Feona approves because the plan is practical and she has always been practical. Okay, almost always.
That night in our dorm room, when the test came back positive, Feona said, Vincent will marry you, what’s the problem?
My parents’ life savings was for a degree, not a baby.
She didn’t say, don’t do this, but she started vacuuming the carpet between our narrow beds, back and forth, though the room wasn’t dirty.
Years later, it was hard to tell her when we were pregnant again. Feona hadn’t met anyone, no one I’m bringing back to Bella Coola, she’d say, jokingly, but with a tinge of actual sadness. I tried to temper my excitement. I’d fold and refold the baby clothes alone, wishing Feona were there but never picking up the phone.
In the beginning, it seemed like Vincent liked being a dad. And then he applied for the post in Oman, then Sweden, in a panic to tick invisible boxes. When he was made Chargé d’Affaires in France I asked if he was finally content. He just looked at me sadly, the way you look at a child who’s slow, who’s always going to be a bit behind. And I knew. Vincent was still that skinny kid on Wreck Beach, chipping his tooth on a beer cap to impress her.
The winery delivers a case of pinot noir the next Friday. I call Feona. You better come over and help drink all this.
I pick up Jared on campus to bring him home. Your father can’t get out of his chair anymore, sweetheart.
We drive through the forest separating UBC and Kitsilano in silence.
Vincent? Feona? We’re home. The scent of cedar and bergamot wafts towards us from the living room. Candles glow on the coffee table and mantlepiece. Jared squares his shoulders.
A tremor moves across Vincent’s chin as he tries to smile.
How are you, Dad? Jared says.
Feona wiped my ass today.
I watch as my son’s shoulders shake, and he begins to cry. Feona pulls my baby close and says, Welcome to the shit show, kiddo.
FEONA
I’ll just come out and say it.
I like him better like this. Maybe this makes me some kind of terrible human, but now things are just, I don’t know…stripped down. He’s not talking about the cabin, or some ambassador nobody cares about. I wish we had more time.
Christie’s a mess. She finds reasons to go to Whole Foods about ten times a day. Jared was up early yesterday and walked into the den while Vince was curled in my arms. I know how it must have looked, but I didn’t jump up to explain. When someone is dying you just submit.
Hey, Jared. Come on in. I was just leaving.
The kid is confused. He stands in the doorway, uncertain. Vince has no idea about the photograph, the academic probation, the lawyers. But you can see in Jared’s eyes that he wants to tell his dad everything.
I slip into the hall and watch as Jared sits down. He picks up a photo album of the family at Whistler.
Thanks for carrying my skis, even when Mom said that it would make me soft.
Vincent laughs and tries to pat Jared’s head.
Remember when we called ourselves the trio? So corny.
The room is quiet but for the distant sound of Jazz FM and the whir of a ceiling fan.
I fucked up, Dad.
Son. Vince is wheezing, but he wants Jared to hear him. It’s going to be alright.
I want you to be proud of me…
We all make mistakes. More coughing.
Jared is crying now, and I want to wrap him in my arms, because Vincent can’t. Instead, I run to find Christie.
VINCENT
Good kid, terrible decision.
I need more time.
It’s killing me that I won’t be around to know if he’s going to be okay.
We were as hopeless as all get out. As parents, I mean. We were hopeless, but Feona refuses to let me say that.
He knows how much you love him. Feona says.
We’re quiet then. My time’s running out but if we drink the wine too soon, I’ll be asleep for the rest of the day.
I loved Christie, too.
I know.
Okay.
Okay.
FEONA
Vince is hanging on. I have to leave so that he can just go.
Sprawled on the carpet, Jared is reading, while Christie has pulled her easy chair alongside Vince’s bed and is knitting an afghan. The entire room is full of afghans.
Vince looks up and blinks once, as if to say, see you later.
The muscles in my face are contorting in that familiar pattern, my eyebrows lifting below fresh cut bangs.
You’re lying.
I wave, swipe a bottle of pinot noir, and stroll down to the beach where trees that broke free from loggers’ rafts nestle into the shore. With my back tethered against a weathered trunk, and tears running down my cheeks, I raise a toast.
Rest now, Vince. Now rest.
The alumni UBC Short Fiction Contest
“Mere Windblown Dust” is one of three finalists in alumni UBC’s third annual Short Fiction Contest for alumni. The Short Fiction Contest is presented in partnership with UBC’s School of Creative Writing and UBC Okanagan’s Faculty of Creative and Critical Studies.
