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The next morning, life feeling bearable again thanks to the pills, Lincoln braved the shower. He couldn’t stand without the crutches or bracing himself against the shower wall, and he couldn’t exactly wash his hair with his hand against the wall, so the shower turned into an awkward half-bath affair, with the water streaming down around him. He couldn't work, and was tired of fiddling at the work table, so he grabbed his books. When his brain couldn’t handle any more reading, he dropped the books to the floor and reached for Romper’s leash. He took him for a walk, a decent walk, which ended at the library. Cheryl tutted as he walked in, full of concern. He smiled.
“My secret.”
“Lincoln.”
“Does it make me look pathetic?”
She nodded. He smiled again, then propelled himself to a computer. Figuring out the solar energy was the trickiest part for him. The rest he had some experience with, but wiring a house using only solar energy? And with the number of cloudy days this part of the world experienced, weeks could go by without any significant sunlight. Tricky, indeed. His options were some mechanism to store up the energy long term, or use some kind of generator—which, from what he knew, meant an alternative power source that would need to be replenished. Not an option he wanted to consider.
He could rely on wind power. This province had enough wind. But in the woods? It would mean clearing more land, setting up ... whatever had to be set up to get the power inside, and, from the little he knew, regulatory permits he'd rather not deal with.
So research was needed. Maybe this time of rest, time to let his mind work instead of his body, was a good thing. Better than rushing ahead, making mistakes that would be costly or difficult to fix. That was the attitude. That was the mindset to hold.
Without the intense pain, the crutches weren't too bad. Awkward, but not awful. And he could go at a decent pace too, without every attempted step sending spasms of torture through his back. Needing a break, Lincoln chuckled as he used the crutches to swing his body forward rather than simply walk with them. Was he high? He might be high. Outside the library, Lincoln gave Romper a nod. He should have taken him back to the apartment. He might be inside a few hours more. But the kids who made the library their second home would keep an eye on him, stand in defence if anyone came around vexed that the dog was allowed to roam free. Hey, one of the kids now! Lincoln waved. The kid waved back. What a good kid.
When did he take his pill? Just before he left. And at breakfast. And one when he woke up. Oops. Yep, he may be a little bit high.
Anyway, Romper wouldn’t roam. He'd stay near the lawn like he always did. Content to be outside. Content to relax. So long as there weren't any cats. Lincoln scanned the area before heading back inside. Let there be no cats.
“Lincoln.” Cheryl came out from around the circulation desk. “Are you okay, darling? I asked around, heard about the accident. Kids. Reckless.”
“It wasn't the kid’s fault. Romper—.”
“Yes. Yes.” Cheryl placed a hand on Lincoln's arm. “You all right, though, honey?”
Lincoln shrugged. “A few weeks.”
Cheryl tutted. “Can I grab anything for you?”
Lincoln tilted his head to the computers. “Back to the grind.”
Cheryl wrapped her arms around her middle. “Well, you raise your arm if you need anything or tell one of the children. Anything at all.”
Lincoln nodded again.
Cheryl's expression transitioned to its usual semi-gruffness. “And be more careful, would you? Jumping out in front of cars.” She winked. “You hero, you.”
At the computer, Lincoln noticed the date. Tuesday. The second Tuesday of the month. Maybe he hadn’t had a pill at breakfast. Maybe that was yesterday. Maybe he was just giddy to be out of the house, giddy to not be in such pain.
He let the cursor hover around the navigation bar. He'd come here to research, but he didn’t feel so much like researching anymore, and it was the second Tuesday of the month. He navigated to Gmail. Outside of newsletters and advertisements, there were only four new messages. One from Andrew, sent before his visit. One from his sister, Rachel, probably for the same reason, and two from his mother.
Lincoln ignored the two from his cousin and sister. He knew essentially what they'd say. They could wait. But he opened the oldest one from his mother.
News of his father. Stable. He'd had a painting lesson that week and seemed to enjoy it. He was still carving. Nothing personal. Nothing about Joseph or his sisters. Next came the questions: How was he? Where was he? When was he coming home? After that, she loved him. Never forget that she loved him.
Having a second email was odd. His mother knew by now he wrote once a month. No more. No less. And she was good at waiting for that response. He let his hand hover, then clicked.
Lincoln,
Don't worry. No big news. No bad news. It's me who's worried about you. I know I shouldn't be, but a month is a long time. Longer for a mother than a son. Age seems to creep up on me lately. Oh, I'm not complaining. It could be far worse, couldn't it? But sixty soon. In some ways, I'm still a young woman. Or feel like one. In other ways, not. This week was one of those 'nots'.
I felt like some old sage, burdened with the knowledge of the universe. That knowledge was telling me things weren't okay. That you were in trouble or pain. That you needed me. Foolish? Am I a silly old woman making up things to worry about? Maybe. Hopefully.
I know your message is coming soon. I'm angry these are the rules you've established.
Let me know you're okay. As okay as you're capable of being right now. And if you're not, remember I'm your mother. Remember that doesn't change.
Mom
Lincoln read the letter again. He was a bad son. He knew that. It'd been Joseph who betrayed him. Not his mother. And what was she supposed to do, abandon one son in defence of the other? She loved them both, she said, would be there for them both.
It was Lincoln who had abandoned her.
Still, the fact that Joseph sat across from her for family dinners, Lucy too most likely, and his mother allowed it, felt like betrayal.
And yet she'd known, felt his yearning for her that day. Threads that couldn't be broken.
Lincoln wrote a cheery letter. Last time he wrote he'd been travelling Europe. He was still there, he said, he'd just entered Italy. The Colosseum was amazing. She should really try to get there one day. He'd gotten a wretched sunburn. Perhaps that was the pain she sensed?
Lincoln stared at the keyboard. Why was he doing this? To protect her, or him? He continued. He wasn't sure how much longer he'd be travelling. He had the bug, though. When he returned to Nova Scotia, if he returned to Nova Scotia, she'd be the first to know.
He was playing a dangerous game. Joseph had walked by him last week. Lucy had seen him, he was sure. And Brady? Brady had run into Joseph recently. He could again, and if he did, certainly he'd mention he'd treated Lincoln. Maybe he already had. Maybe his mother knew. Maybe she played her own games of deception.
He missed her, he said. He loved her. He was glad to hear Dad found something new to enjoy. Was she doing all right? Was she taking enough time for herself? He knew she needed to visit Dad, but she needed her own time as well. Her own interests.
Lincoln stopped.
He'd been happy once. She'd been happy. They all had. Their whole family. And then in one moment, with one diagnosis, it'd fallen apart. And it kept on falling. Piece by piece. Long before Joseph and Lucy. Long before Lincoln forgot who he was and who he wanted to be.
Well, he wrote, he had to get going. The hostel charged by the minute for internet. But she should be happy for him, not worried. He was building so many memories. This trip, this change, it was the best thing for him.
He ended the email with love. He meant it too. Not all his words were lies.
A little boy with dreads ran by outside. Lincoln snapped to attention, waiting for the boy to turn, though he knew before he did that it wasn't Theo. Too tall. A little too broad. Yet Kali and Theo filled his thoughts once more. He wanted to know their story. Where was the boy's father? Who was the bottle collector? Why didn't the child talk?
Kali looked like a tower of strength. Maybe that was the appeal, when Lincoln, so often, felt weak.
The teens on either side of Lincoln both scrolled through Facebook feeds. Lincoln hadn't signed into his account since he left Montreal: an essential part of separating himself from the life he'd known.
He navigated to the site now. He felt like his sixteen-year-old cousin searching out a girl on Facebook. No, he wasn't sixteen. Nineteen now? Twenty ... three. Twenty-three. Lincoln should have known that. He did know it. When was the last time he'd spent time with the kid? Before Lincoln graduated undergrad, probably. Before he had become one-track minded about pursuing a life of success.
Lincoln didn't want to access his account, so he typed Kali's name into the public search function. Dozens of faces appeared, but most of the names had her name in a bracket at the end. Some term of endearment or nickname, perhaps? The others were variations. Kahlil, Kalincy, Kalid. And the site wouldn't let him see more than one page of results.
He glanced to either side of him again. The teens were engaged with their screens, not looking to see who he was creeping. He typed in his account information and, with a feeling like a kick to his stomach, signed in.
His feed flooded with images. A sickening amount of notifications and messages waited. He ignored them all and typed in her name again. Surely they'd have some friend in common. Brady, even. Facebook would recognize that, know who he was searching for.
And it did.
Lincoln took a breath. Her. Head and shoulders. Face turned away from the camera. It was literal ... her in profile. He could see no features, just that silhouette. But it was her ... the tilt of her head, the line of her neck, screaming defiance. He'd know that line anywhere. Her. Closed off. Inaccessible. Looking away from him. From everyone. It couldn't be anyone but her. But who was she looking at? Or what?
Lincoln clicked on the image, hoping to see more, but she only had that one picture. His eye roamed to her cover photo. A small moment of beauty—an icicle on a railing. Her news feed was empty but for cover photo updates: A piece of trash next to a flower. The Halifax harbour shrouded in mist. No pictures of her. None of Theo. All the images artsy, almost angry. Not as if they were taken to display, but to confront. Here. Look. See.
He smiled. As much as he wanted a glimpse of her life, he was pleased she hadn't given into displaying her every moment for the world to see. Of course, it was possible her privacy settings were high, that if he were her 'friend' the feed would be covered with happy, laughing photos. Posts displaying what she'd had to eat that day. A snap of her and her girlfriends out to lunch, all looking fabulous, all looking like life was the most wonderful thing.
Doubtful.
Lincoln x’ed out of the page. He typed in a search on solar energy conservation efforts and felt better ... a bit better.