***Red wine and good music are essential to the writing process on a Saturday night, but I wouldn't be able to keep up the pace without my muse.***
It's easy to leave again when everything you own fits into three bags. It's difficult to leave again when you don't have a car and your overprotective aunt insists on driving you two states away to look at potential apartments. She had gone years without seeing me for more than a weekend at a time, and now she couldn't bear the idea of being without me. Part of me wanted to be indulged and taken care of, particularly after the circumstance I had just left, but I knew I would get tired of the constant attention. I already was.
What I really needed was to create a new life for myself. A new start, as cliched as it was to say. Life in Boston was great. The house was comfortable, the city was enjoyable, and I was far from Montreal. Unfortunately, it wasn't my life, it was Aunt Anne's. She had carved out a place for herself and made it into what she wanted and she seemed happy with it. Successful and elegant, still young enough to draw the attention of men everywhere she went, but happy with the one she had chosen and installed in her townhouse.
"You were such a happy child," Aunt Anne said with a frown. NPR played quietly on the radio, the monotonous voices of American civilized political discourse and the smooth motion of the car making my eyelids heavy. We were in the car again, a perfect time for her to ambush me with conversation.
"What?"
"You wear all black all the time and you never smile. You look so grim."
"You wear all red all the time," I retorted.
"Red is a happy color. The color of passion!"
"Or anger and violence."
"Or love," she said. "Black is just death and despair."
"Or couture," I shot back, a smirk on my face. I am witty.
"There's a smile from my grim child!"
"Hmph."
"Are you certain you don't want to look for a place in Salem? It seems like the sort of place you'd enjoy."
"Quite sure."
"It's no trouble. The exit is coming right up."
"You know the modern town of Salem is not where any of the atrocities happened. It's a tourist trap."
"Well, Portland is still closer than Montreal, so I guess I'll learn to live with it."
It was early afternoon by the time we left the highway and the GPS guided us across the water and through an assortment of one-way streets, past a small hospital and a little neighborhood full of bars and galleries. It reminded me of Quebec and of Boston, but it was quiet and peaceful as we drove through to our destination.
The first building was brick and brownstone with a small set of elegant stairs leading to the dark wooden door and its brass knocker. The street itself was a quiet one-way, only a few blocks from the water and lined with tall, old trees. I had already made up my mind before we walked up to the third-floor apartment. The realtor stood expectantly in the doorway, addressing her questions to my aunt who cheerfully chatted on as she looked around. The ceilings were high and the rooms felt appropriately old and not deliberately stripped of character. The fireplaces, one in the bedroom and one in the living room, were replaced with new gas units that worked with remote controls and the kitchen was modern for all I cared to cook.
I wrote out a check for three month's rent and handed it to the realtor. "It's fine. I'd like to move in as soon as I can."
The realtor looked at me, then to my aunt and then back to the check. She shifted uneasily in her low-heeled pumps. I had the impression that she wasn't expecting to have me as the tenant after directing her polite conversation to my aunt and largely ignoring me.
"We'll need to get you some furniture then. Is there a shop nearby?" My aunt asked the realtor with a ruby-lipped smile.
Another few hours and all paperwork was signed and everything was ordered and set to be delivered over the next week. Aunt Anne and I were headed back to Boston.
"Grell will be so upset that you're leaving us," she said.
"Will he?"
"Of course, my darling. He'll come up with us next weekend to help you get settled."
I found myself wondering what sort of person Grell Sutcliffe actually was. In the past week, I had spent more time with him than I had in the previous five years combined, yet I knew virtually nothing about him. He was always quick to indulge every and all whims and commands that Aunt Anne had for him and seemed happy enough to do so. I had a difficult time believing anyone was truly that subservient without some other motive. My aunt was certainly a dominant personality, but I doubted she had beaten the man into submission. There was just something about him that made me think his agreeableness was just an act. Maybe he was out committing horrible atrocities at night while my aunt was asleep. Maybe she helped him. She seemed a bit too put together to be real herself. There was a certain sinister darkness in my family and I wasn't entirely convinced it was limited to my father's side.
"You're extra quiet. Are you having second thoughts, my darling?"
"Not in the least."
"Will you miss us?"
"Of course. And I'm very grateful for all of the help you've given me. I'm not sure what I would have done without you. I'm just really looking forward to some time alone."
I hadn't ever lived alone before and the prospect was both terrifying and exciting to me.
What I really wanted was to go home, close the door, slide the lock and know I would be entirely and completely alone. No one lurking around the house like a black stormcloud. No one to slide into my bed, drunk and cold and promising harsh words if I didn't bend completely to his will. No explosions of temper and fits of chaotic violence. Just me. Just quiet.
...
Friday afternoon, we headed back north, this time with Grell sitting in the passenger seat while I huddled into the back of the car. In addition to my own bags, they had brought along new towels, linens and some kitchen wear so I wasn't moving into an entirely empty flat. None of it mattered to me. I wasn't worried about my day-to-day comfort as much as I craved silence. It was a flurry of chaos until they finally kissed me goodbye and their car vanished from my street. I slid the lock into place, pressed my back against the door and closed my eyes. The silk of the black patch still felt foreign against my skin. I untied the string holding it in place and threw it as far from me as I could.
Of all the unnecessary junk that I now had in this new space, the one thing I wished for in that moment was a stereo with speakers that could make the hardwood floor rumble and the windows shake. Instead, I plugged the tiny earbuds into my phone and scrolled to a familiar album and let a familiar voice ease me back into my own skin. Never had I felt so detached from myself as I did in that moment. I felt myself slide back like I was lowering into hot bathwater, first my legs and then my torso, slowly until it finally went over my head. I breathed in and let it fill my lungs. Beautiful warmth. It wasn't the space but the music that made me feel at home.
No language, just sound, that's all we need know.