The Brightest Star in a Constellation

36: Impermanent Places

☆ Evan ☆

The basement of the house Adrian is renting has a bookcase. It leers over me and grazes the ceiling with its dense height. When I touch it, the books risk spilling out. The scent of the yellowed, old pages triggers a memory I'd forgotten about, a memory from when Elaine was younger.

Randall used to have a bookcase like this. When he was gone and the bedroom was empty, I would creep out of my room after midnight, like I was afraid he'd come back and catch me. But he never did, and I would spend my nights curled in a knitted blanket on the floor, listening to the pipes howling, reading almanacs and history books and dozens of stories about shipwrecks.

Over time, Elaine joined me. She brought a flashlight and tossed the blanket over us to make a tent. And she would read the dictionary, sounding out the words piece by piece. That was before it ended, and one day when I entered the room, the books had been cleared. It had come and gone. In its place was a rectangular impression on the floor that it had left in its wake.

She once taught me a word about design—horror vacui. From what I understood, it's Latin for a fear of emptiness. It's a cluttered painting that fills the space with elements in every corner without leaving empty space. It's the opposite of my room at home; the opposite of the way my heart is surrounded in white space like an island.

This house, too, has no visual noise. I have to analyze it to pick out a detail that sings with history. And the bookshelf has a past—the pages are annotated in bright purple pen, and bookmarks are wedged between chapter headings like I could gather the trace of a person and reform them from this.

Like I'm not just occupying an impermanent place—a place between places. Like I can move a pen from the kitchen to the living room, and somebody is going to notice it there.

I head to the fridge and open it. The kitchen is wide and fitted with windows on every side of me. Pellets of ice slip down the glass and gather in lineups that stack like building blocks racing to the top.

The fridge is bare. A six-pack of beer sits on the top shelf. Below it is a tray of fruit and a water bottle that's one-quarter full. I shut the fridge door without bothering, only to reopen it a minute later, as if that'll fix the situation.

"Are you going out in this weather?" Adrian calls from the larger bedroom.

"Yeah, I've got to work in a few hours."

He emerges from the bedroom in a sleepy haze, a bulky sweater zipped to his neck. In the unoccupied space, the cold air settles down. The tile under my feet feels like standing on a flat stone. "I'll get groceries later. Would your sister want to come over?"

My veins freeze. A shiver crawls up my neck. I had planned to keep Carolyn from finding out. After all, she's three streets down. She doesn't leave the apartment building. I could make it work if I could prevent them from ever crossing paths with one another.

"I can ask," I say, which is a lie. No more lies. "Though, I'm not sure she'll want to."

Adrian takes the fruit tray from the fridge, offering me the side with strawberries. He muses over whether to sit or stay standing. And since I stayed in the guest room overnight, I know it's (highly) unlikely for him to be stagnant. He awoke no less than four times through the night, either to meander around the house or outside. (I don't really know which.)

"You don't have to. I just..." He sighs. Stops to collect his thoughts. "It would be a new start."

He seems to catch the look on my face—as much as I try to iron it back to normal—but it doesn't work. Adrian says, "What about coming to Alberta with me? Are you still considering that?"