After rummaging around in Dad’s liquor cabinet of near-empty flasks, I finally found a half-full bottle of Newfoundland Screech and hastily put the mouth to my lips. I chugged down a huge gulp and then let out a gargle as it scorched my throat.

“Who needs a freakin’ glass?” I tipped back another swig of the rum, glancing down at the mess I’d made, waiting for the liquor to drown my anger.

I sauntered over to the heap of contents that had spilled from the small trunk and sat down, crisscrossing my legs and nestling the bottle of rum in the nook they created. First, I picked up the overturned trunk, noting that the lock hadn’t been broken, just popped open, and I set it aside.

A pile of dirty red fabric caught my eye next. I pulled it toward me, stretching it out and assessing just what it was. A jacket. A really old jacket. But, unlike other ancient garments I recall my mother archived, this one didn’t feel so delicate. I remembered once, she’d been preparing an old white blouse for display at the museum, I reached up to touch it and it felt like tissue in between my fingers.

This peacoat style jacket was thick, like leather but not. Heavy gold buttons and clasps lined the center from top to bottom, a wide collar crowned the top, and the blood-red color of the fabric was still prominent aside from the visible wear and tear. It brought to mind a captain’s jacket, part of the old uniforms characters wore in movies and on TV, with the funny white trousers and shoes with big buckles on the front.

I loved it. The jacket was definitely coming back to Alberta with me. I gently folded it and set it aside with the trunk and moved on to the other items sprawled on the floor in front of me. A massive compass made of brass, it covered my entire palm and appeared to still work, despite the cracked glass face. A thick, brown leather scabbard that held a large dagger. I unsheathed the old knife, surprised at its sharpness. The handle was made of light-colored wood, clearly hand carved or something, with the initials M.L.C. etched into the hilt.

“Cool,” I spoke to myself as I sheathed it and set it aside in the growing pile next to me.

Next, a journal. Thick and well-loved, the book was bound in black leather with the spine held together in a stiff sort of twine. The initials H.W. was burned on the cover and I wondered why the initials would be different than that of the ones I’d found on the dagger’s handle. I stopped for a moment and looked at the contents as a whole, noting the few silver coins that also sat on the floor, and realized just what this trunk was.

“This is a pirate’s chest.” A grin smeared across my face. “A real freakin’ pirate’s chest.”

As a child, I always imagined that the cool things my mother brought home once belonged to pirates and other shady individuals. But, as an adult, I looked back on those memories and told myself I was being silly. Now, though… this was proof that I was right. John would flip if he saw this. I told him all about my childhood obsession and…

“Damn it.” The sting of his betrayal poured over my wounds again, I’d forgotten about him for a brief moment, distracted by my awesome discovery. I grabbed the bottle of rum from between my legs and downed a few more mouthfuls. How could I have so easily forgotten the jerk? I still couldn’t believe he had cheated on me. Was probably cheating on me at that very moment, in fact.

But a part of me, a very small part, wasn’t really that surprised. I should have known, and I felt like a complete idiot then, as I replayed our relationship in my mind. I was always the one to initiate things. A second date, the first kiss, meeting his parents, moving in together. They were all my ideas, and I remembered some of them taking more convincing than they should have. John was a flirter, a schmoozer, a lady’s man. I was a fool to think I could tame him, make him settle. I just wanted it so bad. To share my life with someone, to share my adventure.

I drank some more.

The abrupt sound of knocking at the door pulled me down from my mountain of sorrow for a moment. The nearly empty bottle tucked neatly under my arm as I made my way toward the front door, with a slight wobble in my step. The old brass deadbolt gave me grief as I fiddled with it, but the door finally opened to reveal my aunt.

“Oh, so you are alive,” she said, eyeballing the bottle of rum under my arm as I leaned my entire weight against the door frame. In her hands was a large glass dish covered in tin foil and the warm smell of home-cooked food wafted up across my nose. “Looks like you need this more than I thought.”

I let her in and began to walk back toward the dining room, swigging back more rum. The liquid sat heavy in my stomach and warmed my veins. I glanced at the clock and saw that I’d been there at the house for nearly eight hours. My aunt’s sudden arrival reminded me that, aside from the fruit cup, I’d been drinking on an empty stomach.

“I brought some leftover lasagna I made for supper, thinking you’d be back to the house. I bet you’re starving.” She cleared some space on the table and grabbed a couple of plates from the kitchen. “How're things going here, anyway? Makin’ a dent?”

I laughed and took another mouthful from the bottle. “I have no clue what I’m doing. There’s so much crap in that room. I should just throw it all in the trash and go back home.” Another swig. “Oh, wait. I can’t go back home. My boyfriend is cheating on me and if I see him, I may very well beat him to death.” I scooped up my fork and lobbed off a huge chunk of lasagna straight from the dish and shoved it in my mouth. “Better off staying here in my mountain of garbage,” I added, motioning around the house with my fork, pieces of food falling out of my mouth.

Aunt Mary just nodded, letting me vent, I didn’t even argue when she carefully slipped the bottle out of my hand. “I didn’t know you had a man,” she said, sitting down to eat her piece of pasta. She eyeballed the side of the dish I’d been digging into. “Keep eatin’.”

I shoveled in a few more bites and chewed with one side of my mouth. “Correction. I did have a man. I told him to vamoose before I get home on Sunday.” My stomach protested at the sudden influx of food I’d been heaping into it, so I put the fork down. “Although, at the rate I’m going, I may never leave this house.”

Mary reached across the table, placed her hand over mine and gave it a little squeeze. “Dianna, I can help, you know? With everything. I didn’t want to dig too far, I didn’t…” she let go and leaned back in her chair, “I just didn’t know what you wanted to keep. What was special to you. It’s been so long.”

I couldn’t look her in the face. Staying away for so long was just as much my fault as it was Dad’s. He pushed me away, but I never pushed back. I wanted to go. Living in the pit of despair my father dug for himself after my mother’s passing was torture for me. He shut me out, became depressed, completely ignored my needs as a child. Yeah, I was a teen, but I still needed my daddy. The only person I had that showed me love and compassion and cared enough to check-in was… Mary.

I tore my gaze away from the dark patio window then and looked at my great aunt. This wonderful woman who loved my mother dearly, kept my dad alive when he was sick, helped run my family’s business when no one could… who nurtured my broken heart so many years ago. Staying away from Dad was understandable. Staying away from Mary was wrong. I hadn’t even realized until then.

“I’m so sorry, Aunt Mary. You’re right. It’s been way too long. I’m freaking horrible.” My eyes began to pool with tears and I wiped one away as it tried to escape. “I promise to come back and visit more, okay?” I let out a bubbly sigh and crossed my arms, leaning back in my chair. My stomach was doing strange things and I fought back a belch. “Especially now that I have the house.”

She perked up, a smile spreading far a wide. “You mean, you’re not going to sell it?”

I shrugged. “Why would I sell it?” Another vomity belch attempted to make its way up my throat. “Maybe the bakery. I mean, I can’t run it from Alberta.”

“You could always move back home. Fix up the house. Run the bakery.” Mary made it seem as if this were a new idea, but something told me she’d been mulling it over for a long time. She spoke with such confidence and practice. She looked at me then, eyes glistening with hope.

“Mary…” I heaved a sigh. I hated letting her down. “I can’t–I have a life in Alberta. A job I’ve worked hard to get. You have no idea.”

“So, what?”

Her curt reply caught me off guard, I hardly knew how to respond.

“You said yourself, your man is no good. If you’ve done nothing but focus on your career, then I ‘magine you don’t got many friends up there.” She wasn’t wrong about that. “Think about it. You could go from working for someone else to owning your own business. You can use your God-given talent every day.”

Her words stewed in my brain as I chewed my lip. It was hard to formulate an argument because everything Mary said made total sense. I’d be crazy not to do it. I’d been given a tremendous opportunity. A house, a business, family to reconnect with, a community to call my own. I missed Newfoundland. We all did. Those of us who leave… we all yearn to come back. Its raw beauty, the culture. Like some sort of ancient magic calls to us. Begging our return to the sea.

I stood then. “I can’t.”

Mary turned to follow me with her stare. “But-”

Suddenly, I ran to the half bath off the kitchen and threw myself down, barely making it to the toilet. Rum and lasagna filled the bowl and left my body convulsing until there was nothing left. My throat burned, raw from vomit and the not-hardly-chewed food that scrapped across it, but Mary stood behind me and pulled back my hair, patting and rubbing my back.

“My poor girl,” she spoke, “this brings back memories of your teens.” Mary laughed, the sound deep and raspy. “You’d go out drinking to those shed parties and come crawling in through my door at all hours of the night. Too scared to go home and face your father.”

I turned my head and rested my cheek against the cold toilet seat. “Not scared of him. I was scared of myself. Of what I’d say to him.” I began to cry again, hot tears filled my eyes, overflowed and coursed down across my face. “I didn’t want to add to his misery. He was so sad… so lost.”

“I know, m’love, I know.” Mary held my hair in her hands and brushed it with her fingers, gently forming it into a ponytail. “You always had this gorgeous nest of black curls. Just like your mom. Everyone always admired her beauty. Soft, tanned skin. Even in the winter. You’re the spit right outta her mouth, Dianna.”

I cried some more, unable to control the heaving sobs that erupted from my gut. “I miss her so much.” My eyes demanded to close, and my head spun. But I could feel the soft brush of tissue against my skin as Mary wiped the tears, snot, and remnants of vomit from my face. “Why did it have to take her from me?”

“What, sweetie?”

“Mmm sea.” I could feel myself drifting, threatening to pass out right there on the bathroom floor. The long plane ride, the emotional exhaustion, and the gut full of rum had brought me to my limit. My words slurred as I tried hard to stay awake and speak them out loud. “The sea took her away from me.”

That was all I remembered. Although, I vaguely recalled Aunt Mary laying me down on the cool, white tile floor. As she propped my head up with a pillow, she muttered the words had to and home, but I couldn’t piece together the sentence. I was too far gone, and I never wanted to come back.