Fern Sinclair had an eerie sensation of homecoming as she stepped over the threshold, through dust motes glistening in a beam of sunlight, into the old farmhouse kitchen. Nothing about the room appeared to have been changed since 1980 when the house had last been occupied. The small property she was considering buying was eight miles from the town of Tangle Falls. Her neighbors would be a herd of cattle, a field of hay, and a forest preserve backing on the flanks of the Monashee Mountains.
“The McArthurs have done the bare minimum to keep up the place, but the furnace, water heater, and all appliances still work,” the real estate agent, Monique LaPierre informed her.
Monique was older than Fern, well-groomed and stylish. When she’d first heard the woman’s name Fern had assumed her family must be from Quebec, but no. Apparently Monique’s grandparents hailed from a French town called Gravelberg in Saskatchewan. Little French enclaves like Gravelberg dotted the prairies, but isolated from the political clout of Quebec, one had to wonder how long they would retain their distinctive cultural identity.
“But since the house has been vacant for decades, problems are bound to come up,” Monique concluded.
Since she’d first phoned to request a viewing, Fern had sensed a reluctance on the part of the real estate agent to show her this house. She’d said it was only “unofficially” on the market (despite the For Sale sign in the front yard) and that she had much better options to show her. Fern had needed to be quite insistent to get this far. She opened one of the kitchen cupboards. The inside was bare and spotless.
“The McArthurs have kept it clean, at least,” Monique said grudgingly.
Fern looked out the window above the sink. The house sat on a full acre. From here she could see a large rectangular patch of dark, freshly tilled earth—a former vegetable garden. The house itself was set within a white picket fence which had once contained, according to Monique, prizewinning perennials, though now they were a mass of out-of-control weeds. “I’m looking forward to tackling the gardens. It will be so nice to work outside for a change.”
“You said you were in health care?” Monique’s sentence trailed, inviting more details.
But Fern just nodded briskly. “I was a caregiver. Now happily retired.” She was young enough to imagine going back to work one day. But never health care. “Can I see the rest of the house?”
The living and dining rooms had original hardwood, not in very good shape. In some places the gaps between the boards were almost a quarter of an inch.
“The Singletons, the original owners, sold the place furnished, but over the years the McArthurs have given away most of the furniture to their son or other people in need.”
All that had been left was a sideboard in the dining room, upon which sat a chipped china cookie jar in the shape of a young girl’s head, and a bookshelf in the living area. Both the glass doors to the bookshelf had cracks, inside were dozens of old gardening magazines.
“The stairs are this way.”
They ascended a steep, narrow, staircase to a small landing with three doors. The larger master had two dormer windows, one facing the road, the other the garden. There was an ancient Singer sewing machine in the smallest bedroom, along with a huge plastic bag filled with fabric scraps. Monique opened the door to the final room, walls painted pink. “This was the daughter’s room, obviously.”
Fern gave the room a penetrating glance. It was smaller than the master but the view to the east would provide cleansing morning sunshine. She would sleep here.
They descended to the kitchen where Fern took a closer look at the stove. She tested the burners in the oven too. “Seems to be in working order.”
Monique gave a quizzical frown. “Look, this house is livable, but it’s old and it’s been vacant a long time. I have another house in town I’d like you to consider. It’s a lot newer, the yard is big enough for a garden, and you wouldn’t be so isolated.”
“Thanks, but I’ve found what I’m looking for right here. I’d like to make an offer.”
Monique was silent for a few moments. “Okay then.”
They discussed price and terms, and Monique promised her office would have an offer in to the McArthurs before the end of the business day.
At the last moment Fern suggested a price higher than the lowball offer Monique was recommending. “I don’t want to insult them.”
“Trust me, they are going to be thrilled to get your offer. I just hope you’re going to be happy way out here.”
Fern gave a noncommittal smile. Happy wasn’t the point. This was going to be like a marriage. Until death do us part.
For the past two years she’d tried living in various places, mostly larger towns in the Rocky Mountains. Her father used to scoff at the hills Quebecers called mountains: Mont D’Iberville, Boundary Peak, Tremblant, Orford. Nothing compared to the Monashee Mountains where he’d grown up, in the West Kootenays. He’d always planned to go back one day. He talked about retiring in a mountain cabin, “getting away from it all.”
Since he’d only ever worked casual jobs, Fern wasn’t sure what would constitute “retirement” for her father. As he passed through his fifties and into his sixties without making any move to leave Quebec, she finally realized it was just talk.
Her father loved to talk.
Until suddenly he didn’t.
He stopped meeting his friends for a morning coffee. He stopped asking about her days, stopped updating her on what was happening in the NHL. While he continued to watch sports, especially hockey, compulsively, he stopped his cheering, his complaining, his opinionated commentary.
The day she saw him gaze with puzzlement at his reflection in the mirror, she finally faced the truth. Her father had early-onset dementia and she had to make adjustments to their living arrangements. She’d child-proofed the apartment. Locked medications in a cabinet, hid the keys to his car, installed a new convection stove with a feature that allowed her to lock the burners.
Then he’d started wandering. At first, with the neighbors’ help, she was able to contain the problem. Then he started wandering naked. Which was bad enough in the summer, but truly life threatening in the winter.
Fern had mixed emotions the day she moved him into Maison de Quatre Saisons. “You’re locking me up!” her father had accused.
“I’ll still see you every day,” she’d reassured him. “I’ll take good care of you.”
And she had. Until she hadn’t. He’d died the fourth week of March, during the absolute worst of the crisis.
In those crazy, upside-down days, the aides, the nurses, the kitchen crew, and the cleaners, all had been worked off their feet. Staff phoned in sick, some came in despite having fevers and coughs, knowing that if they didn’t the residents would starve, would sit in their own excrement. Which happened anyway.
And so, the virus spread, it tore like wildfire through the halls and into the crowded rooms.
At least she had been with her father in his final moments. There had been no funeral, however. No celebration of life. Had his life been something to celebrate? Fern honestly did not know. Her father had done bad things.
But then, so had she.