I had known James for as long as I could remember. He’d lived around the corner from me in a two-storey canary-yellow house with wooden shingles on the bluff by the ocean. His mother’s garden was notorious throughout all the neighbouring communities, earning her the nickname “the flower lady.” On days when the torrid sun hit just right, I’d stand in front of her garden for hours, admiring the multitiered flowerbeds, counting and grouping the varies species and colours as the water shimmered and shook just beyond.
Our mothers were friends, so we often dropped by for tea and biscuits in the afternoon. They would sit in the kitchen, sipping from floral teacups while smoking cigarettes, gossiping about the neighbours and their newly renovated kitchens and bathrooms. My mother listened, taking deep drags on her cigarette, as James’s mother complained about her job, how underappreciated her skills were there, and how she wished they would just lay her off so she could file for unemployment.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor in the next room, James and I would watch cartoons, half-listening as the threads of their conversations reached us through the open door. I knew my mother couldn’t care less about the neighbours’ renovations or their financial situations, and in that moment, I realized how deeply bored she must be.
James and I would sit together on the bus to and from school. It was always unbearably loud, kids yelling, taunting one another and whipping paper balls back and forth. We’d slouch down on the grey vinyl seat, pressing our knees into the cushion in front of us, retreating from the madness. When we hit a bump, we’d screech, lifting off. We doodled mythological creatures with felt-tip pens in his notepad or played tic-tac-toe in the condensation on the window. Nobody ever won, but we played anyway.
In the afternoon, the bus would drop us at the corner by my house, the town softened and white, blanketed with snow. James would walk me home, kicking up snowflakes with his boots or leaning to make a snowball with his mittened hands, tossing it as far as he could into the distance. He’d stand on the corner and wave goodbye before continuing to his house.
One day, as we neared my house, James noticed the empty driveway.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. But I knew. “I’ll call you later.”
I walked along the path to my front door and slowly pushed it open. It felt particularly cumbersome, as if it were made of stone. I made my way down the narrow hallway, passing my father’s open office door. When I rounded the corner, I found my father sitting at the kitchen table.
“Where’s Mother?” I asked.
My father looked at me through cloudy eyes; a deep line imprinted between his thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. I knew she was gone. He didn’t have to say it. But I wanted him to. I needed to hear the words. He just continued to stare and then let out a heavy sigh. Blood gushed to my face, making it hot and blotchy. I turned and ran out of the house, past the front lawn, stumbling through the rough terrain and the woods to James’s house. I narrowly avoided colliding with a massive evergreen, my vision blurred by tears.
I arrived at James’s house, bending to collect pebbles from his driveway, and hurled one at his window. Nothing. I hurled another. This time, his head appeared as he drew back the curtains, sliding the window up.
I was panting, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
“She’s gone,” I shouted. “Again.”
I dropped to the ground, hugging my legs into my body. I was sobbing and trembling; I felt like I was going to explode through my skin. James was at my side within seconds, kneeling beside me. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. “She’ll come back. She always comes back.”