Vaughan was vibrant. It wasn't charming like Aurora. Nor was it the chaotic urban sprawl that was Toronto. In a fitting way it was a mixed bag, much like my teenage self. Ten years ago, the only lasting impression the city made on me was that it had the fabled Canada's Wonderland. Today it was a conglomerate of thriving people.
Decorso Drive was a disappointment compared to that. Identical red-brick townhouses, plain lawns, and children playing on their driveways...There were three public schools nearby, a skateboard park, and lots of greenery. It was ordinary. Family-friendly, and safe.
My curiosity piqued, I met with the real estate agent.
Hugo was a portly figure who looked and sounded exactly the way he typed--that was, the exclamation points, capital letters and adverbs contained in his emails translated to a vigorous handshake, a big smile and a booming greeting: "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Whelan. Very pleased to meet you!"
"Likewise. And please, call me Nora." I wondered if the entire neighbourhood heard us. But goodness, his smile was infectious.
We walked up to 72 Decorso Drive. An old maple tree faithfully concealed the abandoned house from view. Pieces of furniture could be seen through the water-spotted windows, and creeping ivy clung to the red brick walls. It looked moderately old, sure, but not like it had been vacated for too long. One could easily assume that someone lived here.
"There were five people living here," Hugo said, scratching his chin. "All went by the last name, MacIntyre. One of them left, and then some years later, so did the rest of them. Never heard from them again. You're lucky you called me when you did; the city has had a mind to flush everything out and renovate it."
"What about ownership? Next of kin? Ten years is a long time."
"That's a bit of a story. You wanted to see the house?"
"Just a quick look," I said. I pulled out the key. Just as the letter promised, I had to jam in the key a few times before the door clicked. Mildew and dampness seeped into my nose as I pushed it open. Behind me, Hugo switched on a flashlight.
Pillars reached up into the ceiling far above us. A staircase wound up into the second floor, where I could see the doors to several bedrooms. I entered the common area. The only furniture left was a sofa wrapped in plastic and a small coffee table. There was clutter, though; cardboard boxes, most sealed but some open with an assortment of belongings that were scattered all over the floor. I headed to the kitchen, where it seemed more of the living room furniture was left on the dining table and countertop; books, ornamental nit-nacks, fake potted plants and wall art. The things you'd expect to get left behind by someone looking for a fresh start.
What did I leave back in Toronto? I had cried for days after running away, lamenting the precious possessions I regretted not taking with me. I hadn't the faintest clue what they were now. All I had taken were my legal documents, food, a change of clothes, money and a backpack.
Had Mother thrown out my things? Or was it still all there, waiting for me to come home?
I shook away the thought.
"Those are some good paintings," said Hugo.
He gestured to the painted canvases stacked against the table leg. I shuffled through them. Acrylic and oil paintings of objects. Animals. Fruit. Abstract lines that were suggestive of people. No snowy landscapes or the interiors of a greenhouse. But there was one painting of a bouquet of buttercups on a windowsill. It was very similar--no, it was the same as my vision. I was sure of it. I fingered the neat signature at the bottom. Allison.
Who were these people?
I returned to the boxes and rifled through them, unstacking them onto the floor, then deciding against it and stacking them on the table again in neater piles. I fished out a photo album labelled The MacIntyre Family. I flipped through it. There were entries beside every picture, faithfully detailing the events of that day. The handwriting matched Allison's from her painting. Thanks to her notes, I gathered that Allison lived here with her mother, uncle, two brothers, and her sister-in-law, who was married to the older brother, Grant. The photos were taken when they were teenagers. I could even trace some of my physical features from theirs: the freckles, my stocky build, the stringy hair.
I stopped at a picture of Dad.
He posed with his arms spread out. Behind him, pastel-coloured houses sat on the edge of a lake. The photo was slightly blurry. I squinted at the face.
But the description confirmed it: Andrew made a joke that had us laughing so hard; Grant couldn't even focus the camera! It was our last day at the Isle of Skye. This was supposed to be our first and last trip back to Scotland, but I knew we had to come back someday. I don't know why we can't stay. If it's enough to make our parents, and even Andrew smile, then I'll do anything to make this trip happen again.
I reread it twice. It still didn't make sense. I pulled out my phone to take a couple pictures, the words spinning in my mind.
Hugo coughed. "May I ask what you're doing?"
"Learning, I suppose. I wasn't aware of my extended family."
"And your parents?"
"I'm not in contact with them. Why?"
He drew a sharp breath. "Depends on how you look at it. In three and a half weeks, on October 19th, you will be the owner of this house."
Hugo looked at me gravely.
I laughed. "This house. Mine? What, so they finally decided to give me something for my birthday? It would have been a lot more helpful back then."
Like bats my words flew into the corners of the house. They settled in the shadows.
My hands leaned against the table for support, aware of the discomfort I'd caused for Hugo. "Could you tell me more?"
Hugo shuffled through the papers he'd brought. "Your parents didn't have ownership of this house. According to your aunt's will, Allison MacIntyre, she decided to hand it down to you. We did think it was bizarre. Normally, most would choose to pass down ownership to the next surviving kin. That would be your father, Andrew MacIntyre. But in 1982, shortly after his mother's death, your father moved out. One may assume Ms. Allison MacIntyre deemed your father as unlikely to inherit the house in her place. So she passed it onto you."
I stared at the acrylic paintings. "This has to be a mistake. I never met her. Can I talk to her?"
"She must have known you, though. You were young...perhaps still in elementary school. Not knowing you personally might have been the reason Allison set the transfer date so late to your 27th birthday. Unfortunately," Hugo added with a meaningful glance, "Allison is deceased. The will paper itself was quite formal. No personal messages or explanation."
"And the house has just been sitting here? This must be worth..." I stepped around the hallway, looking up into the ceiling, the dusty light bulbs, and the windows high above where yarn-like strands of spiderweb hung. "Another family could surely use the space."
Hugo shrugged. "We did try to sell it. This neighbourhood is popular for young families looking to settle in. We even lowered the price. But no one was willing to pay for the renovation costs, and they weren't eager to move into an abandoned house. Your father never replied to any of our phone calls or letters."
I grimaced. "Right."
Then it wouldn't be as simple as selling it off. But my condo was lonely as it was. I didn't need an entire house. None of it belonged to me. What made my aunt think passing it onto me was a good idea?
They're the ones who should be dealing with this, I thought bitterly. I could easily picture Dad turning his back on this house, shrugging on his coat and heading out, sometimes the entire day to "get fresh air," as he called it. And Mom...she must have known about Dad's side of the family. She was clever. Most likely she'd shown me to Allison when I was too young to remember. Made me sound like everything I wasn't, and everything she wanted to be.
And Aunt Allison herself, the aunt I never knew. I looked more carefully at the photos. I rummaged through the boxes again. There weren't any albums that showed the MacIntyres later in life. All the written entries were in the same neat, feminine handwriting. Aunt Allison must have cared a lot. Reading carefully, I saw the quiet desperation that laid hidden behind her words. The walls of the house seemed to lean in. What exactly went wrong? Most likely it was an accumulation of stress, small details and problems that chipped away at the MacIntyre family. Some of which Dad passed down to me. Allison was trying to keep it together. I stared at her picture. A hopeful teenager who wanted to defy the odds in her own way.
Empathy and bitterness mixed within me. Did she know what kind of man her brother would become? Did she really love Dad? Or was she happy for him to leave, knowing someone else will have the burden of him?
Hugo cleared his throat. "I'll wait outside. Take your time," he said with a small smile before heading back down the hall. But instead of going outdoors, he stopped to look at the paintings hung near the front door.
I pulled out a notebook, pen, and the MacIntyre key from my purse. I straightened. Surveying the house, I decided that the bedrooms, the basement, and perhaps a few more boxes of stored knicknacks would be my best bets for uncovering more. I wanted to see if I could confirm any of the memories that the key had shown me. But I already knew: This house definitely felt familiar. In a sense I had been here before. Once, in my visions, and all throughout my childhood when I lived with my parents in Toronto.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor. I'll make this fast, I decided.
---
"You're done," Hugo said with surprise.
I locked the door behind me, keeping the photo album and a couple of Allison's smaller paintings tucked under my arm. "There wasn't much else," I said.
"Are you planning to keep the house? Or, at least get in touch with your remaining relatives? I know it may be difficult, but better safe than sorry. Legal battles can be messy, let me tell you."
"I doubt that'll happen." I went down the porch steps. Dad wouldn't strike up a fight; I knew him. As for Mom, I couldn't see how an old house would appeal to her. There was no glamour here. Only a mess.
"All right," Hugo relented. "Once it's transferred to your name, you'll have to come back to do some paperwork. Here's my business card in case. You can contact me any time."
I took the card.
"One more thing."
Hugo was gazing distantly at the house. "You'd do good to contact your folks. I'd imagine they'd have the answers you're searching for."
I nodded politely. Inside I scoffed. Hugo would interpret my disdain as aimed at him. But it wasn't every day you met others who didn't ask questions, and I was appreciative of that. One thing was for sure: The key wasn't lying.
"Thank you, Hugo. I'll think about it."
---
With shaky fingers I counted the right amount of candy-coloured pills to put in each box for the week. "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday..."
A couple pills escaped my grasp and fell on the carpet. The pink discs stared back at me like wide, innocent eyes. How much had I just lost? My mind did the mental calculations: Without insurance, each pill was thirty cents, but with all the other medicines it added up so quickly, and it was going to cost Dad at least another hour working at the factory. And Mom was going through so much too, she'd have to beg her friends for money.
The shame stung tears in my eyes. I was in freaking middle school now; I knew algebra and molecular theory and my marks didn't come from nowhere. So why couldn't I do this one simple thing?
"Sinead vacuumed here just a couple days ago," Grandpa coughed from behind. He opened his palm.
I wiped the pill with my shirt and gave it to him. He swallowed it. I helped him hold the water bottle to his lips, in case his muscles slackened. "You're a good girl, Nora," Grandpa mumbled. He laid back down in bed. After a couple of clumsy tries, I pulled the covers over him. Grandpa blinked up at the ceiling. I wondered if he was counting sheep.
Dad knocked on the door. "Get changed. We're going out for dinner."
"Dinner? Like, at a restaurant?"
Dad smiled. "Uh-huh. And after that we'll get ice cream. Come here."
He squatted down and opened his arms. I walked into his hug. Dad seemed to be doing this more often. "I'm not a kid. I'm grown up now," I sniffled.
Dad rubbed my back. "I know, Nora, I know. You had a rough day. But you made the right choice."
"I'm scared. R isn't going to like me. She's going to tell everyone else how horrible I am. I promised her we'd play at the park, and she'd even bring her brothers—"
"Psh, that's not a big deal. Just explain it to her."
"Everything?"
Dad paused. "No. Just that you're busy and you have chores to do."
I nodded solemnly. Right. We couldn't tell anyone. Besides, R wasn't like us. She wouldn't understand. "But I promised to be her best friend, Dad. How--"
Dad let out a long sigh. "Nora, there's more important things to consider. Grandpa is sick. You need to take care of him. We all do."
Dad looked so weary.
Still, he smiled. "Everything is going to be fine, Nora. I promise. Pinkie promise, even."
"No. I want a handshake," I sniffled. That was how the grown-ups on TV did it.
Dad chuckled. He held out his hand. I gripped it firmly, and we shook. "I promise," Dad and I said together, quietly.
It terrified me. What would happen if I couldn't keep it?