Chapter 1 #

Tessa

I’m shivering in my Roots sweatsuit as I pace the front porch of Gramps’ house. Though this outfit has seen better days, it’s the warmest thing I have with me here in Toronto, seeing as the two boxes of belongings I shipped over are nowhere to be found. The Canada Post worker on the other end of the line argues otherwise, assuring me they were delivered.

“33 Niagara Lane? Toronto, Ontario?” I reconfirm for the third time as the March winds sting against my skin, their force growing stronger with every second. This must be why my parents only took us to visit my grandparents in the summer.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, his voice way too chipper to be spreading bad news. “Says they were delivered and accepted yesterday.”

Though Gramps’ hearing and vision may not be at their peak, his mind is as sharp as ever. If he’d accepted my packages yesterday, he’d remember. Not that he’d be able to move them, but I’d also searched the entire house as a precaution.

“I’m telling you, I looked everywhere,” I say as I go to double-check the laneway around back where the garbage bins are stored. It’s pointless, but I’m trying to cooperate before I really let him have it. “They’re not here.”

“I can file a claim, but that’s the best I can do.”

“Just forget it,” I huff. “I’ll figure it out.” Much like everything else in my life, I can only depend on myself to solve this problem. I slide my phone into the grey fleece pocket of my sweatpants and make my way back to the front door.

When I catch a glimpse of the brick Victorian house that once served as a reminder of all my childhood memories, my mind shifts from angry to heartbroken. Every part of it makes me think of Gran. The walkway where she used to help me draw hopscotch with sidewalk chalk. The wraparound porch where she taught me how to paint. I watch the hanging bench swing from the rusty chains in the cool spring breeze. Somehow, I never imagined a world where that old piece of wood outlasted her.

The guilt of not having visited in a few years has loomed over me like a bad nightmare ever since we received the call last month that she’d passed.

I head back inside to finish cleaning while Gramps takes his late afternoon nap. As much as I resent my sister Annie and our parents for leaving me to pick up the pieces, I’m grateful to be back in this house. We used to visit every summer, until we were teenagers, when Annie and I became ‘too cool’ to go on a family trip, opting to stay in Vancouver for the break with our friends.

Knowing I’m long overdue for this visit makes it easier to swallow the fact that I’m the only one in my family who doesn’t have a successful career, and therefore the default person in line for any family obligations. My dad is a heart surgeon at Vancouver General Hospital, my mom is a litigator at one of the top firms in the country, and my sister Annie runs her own social media management business.

And then there’s me, a former art student turned coffee shop employee. The black sheep of my family who, after twenty-five years on this planet, hasn’t accomplished anything noteworthy.

My mom did take a couple of weeks off work to help Gramps after the funeral, but even she wasn’t able to accomplish her main goal, which was to convince him to sell the house. Everyone in my family thinks he’s crazy for refusing to move to a retirement home, but he says the second he does, it’s going to be sold to some developer who’s ready to tear it down and turn it into more condos. This house isn’t just a piece of property to him. It’s his whole life. His memories.

My phone buzzes, and I see my sister Annie’s name pop up.

His last tie to Gran.

ANNIE: How’s the first day?

I decide to ignore her for now. If Annie actually cared, she’d be here too. Her desire for an update is for the sole purpose of making herself feel better about choosing to focus on her wedding instead of helping out with Gramps. Despite the fact that her business is run entirely remotely, it was apparently ‘impossible for her to leave London’, where she lives with her fiancé.

“Can’t you take one for the team, Tess?” she asked a few weeks ago. “It’s not like you have anything important going on, anyway.”

My being here is also another reminder that I’m the black sheep of my family who, after twenty-five years on this planet, hasn’t accomplished anything noteworthy.

The dryer lets out a high-pitched beep, and I walk to take out the load of Gramps’ laundry I put in earlier, the old wooden floor creaking beneath each of my steps. My grandparents bought this house over five decades ago, before downtown Toronto turned into a string of developments filled with party animals and overpriced restaurants. Living in the most chaotic part of any city is my worst nightmare, but somehow it doesn’t bother Gramps at all. I think he likes feeling as though he’s a part of the action, while also soaking in the fruits of his laborious career as a former marketing executive.

I spend the next hour caring for the house the way I know Gran used to. Whether it was reupholstering her furniture, cooking a five-course meal, or planting flowers that made her yard the most manicured in the whole neighbourhood, there was no task she couldn’t tackle. I may not have her natural domestic skillset, but I can fold a mean basket of laundry, which is what I’m doing when Gramps saunters into the living room.

“Please don’t tell me you spent your whole afternoon cleaning my ratty old clothes.” He gives me a look of disappointment as he points a stern finger in my direction.

I smile at him. “I’m here to help, remember?”

“I do,” he says, settling into his favourite armchair, the blue one with embroidered peach-colored designs that look like sunsets. “Because as I’ve been reminded, I’m old. And at my old age, I’m here to remind you that you can’t spend your prime years taking care of everyone else.”

“It’s just temporary,” I say. “Until we figure out a way for you to live here comfortably on your own.”

I’ve been looking into part-time care providers for Gramps, which I think he’ll come around to with a bit of time. Given he’s the first to strike up conversation with anyone new, I think I’m the tougher critic on who we let into his home.

“Why don’t you set up your easel over there?” He points to an empty spot in the corner of the living room. “That’s where Gran used to paint in the winter.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him that even before Gran passed, I hadn’t been painting much this past year. Knowing I convinced my parents that art school was the right choice only to end up managing a coffee shop is embarrassing enough. Pile on a block that has left me uninspired to paint or draw and I’m a colossal failure. The closest thing I have these days to creative expression is the dozens of romantasy books I’ve been binging on my e-reader. Somehow, I don’t think that would impress my art school professors or any practicum I’d ask them to refer me to.

We settle into a comfortable groove of cleaning and talking, me the former and him the latter. The thing I missed most about Gramps these past few years is his knack for telling stories so outrageous that I can never actually tell if he’s exaggerating or not. Without Gran here to fact-check, he now gets to let his hyperboles run free.

As he recounts a story about a friend of his who he claims was the original creator of the Ketchup chip, I catch a glimpse of the old grandfather clock and realize it’s past his dinner time.

“Can I whip you up something to eat?” I ask. “I make a mean lasagna.” I choose to leave out the fact that it’s one of the only things I know how to cook.

“How about some of that pasta? The orange stuff your Gran never let me touch.”

I laugh. “You mean Kraft Dinner?”

He nods and leans in conspiratorially. “I think if you look deep in the back of the pantry there might be a box somewhere.”

“You’ve got it,” I say. “Let me put something on for you. Baseball?”

“Baseball doesn’t start until next week,” he chuckles. “Two and a half decades on this planet and I still can’t convince you to care, can I?”

“No chance,” I say. “But I’ll pretend I do, and that’s my final offer.” Despite the fact that I couldn’t care less about men hitting a ball around a field, I’ll do anything for my Gramps these days if it will bring him a little bit of happiness.

We find a re-run of The Price is Right instead, which I swear he only likes because of our last name. “You can’t argue with a Price - we’re never wrong!” He always says. Another one of his corny jokes that only slides as an eighty-six-year-old.

Once I finish making the pasta I scoop it into two bowls, just enough for us both to share. I know he’ll probably crucify me for adding some of the frozen peas and corn I found in the freezer, but it’s my way of tricking myself into classifying this as a healthy meal.

After we finish eating and make it through the rest of The Price is Right, I put our dishes away and run upstairs to grab my Kindle. I settle back into the chair opposite Gramps and curl up in a ball to read while he continues watching the next game show that comes on.

A few moments later, I’ve adjusted to the white noise of Jeopardy when the sound of deep bass pounding through the window makes me jump in my seat. I look over to Gramps who doesn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest. At first, I force myself to go back to my book, but the cycle continues. More bass. More unbothered Gramps. And more of me, both very exhausted and very much annoyed by the inconsiderate people next door.

“Is this seriously not bothering you?” I turn to Gramps as I point towards the neighbours. I try to peer out the window, but the hedges between the houses don’t allow me to see much beyond the laneway.

“No, sweets, I just turned off my left hearing aid.” He leans over in my direction. “I think that’s what you kids call a ‘life hack’.”

I let out a sigh and try once more to re-focus on my book. Not even a minute goes by, and I hear an uproar of screams and cheers, predominantly male, and even louder than before.

“This is insane,” I say. “Should I go over there? I think I have to go over there.”

“It sounds like fun if you ask me.”

“Fun?” I raise my eyebrows. “Fun is in here, we are with warm tea, quiet TV shows and a good book. That…that is a nightmare.”

Gramps shrugs. “Fun is subjective.”

“I cannot believe you’re on their side.”

Turning to my phone, I see that it’s only eight o’clock. On one hand, I know it’s not crazy late, but it’s a Wednesday night for god’s sake. People like them are exactly why I hate downtown. The irony that Gramps has no issue with the chaos isn’t lost on me. But that also means I’m on my own if I want to try and do anything about it.

I get up from my seat and walk over to the foyer. I reach for the closet but then stop myself. It’s freezing outside, but even if I wanted to throw a coat over top, I couldn’t. They’re all in the packages that have mysteriously disappeared. I dash across the lawn as quickly as I can, and weave my way around two overpriced sports cars and a monstrous truck that makes me cringe. Though the party gives a “knocking optional” vibe, I stop at the entryway and bang my fist on the front door nevertheless.

That is what good neighbours do.

A cold breeze slaps me in the face as I wait for someone to answer.

“EXCUSE ME!” I shout, though I already know it’s a failed attempt at being heard over their horrible music. “I KNOW YOU’RE HOME.”

Why is it that people who blast their music never have anything good on? It’s always the same thumping bass. You’d never hear anyone blasting Joni Mitchell or Stevie Nicks or anything with actual substance. Which is why they already have two strikes against them: disrespect towards neighbours and horrible taste in music.

I begin to bang harder on the mahogany wood, deciding that the only move is to keep going until someone opens it or my arm falls off from exhaustion of trying. Somehow, I don’t think the latter is out of the question.

Right when I think they’re going to stay hidden in this house for the rest of eternity, I feel myself tumbling forward as the door falls open, gravity pulling my body along with it.

“Whoaaa, easy there.” All I hear is a deep voice echoing in my ears as two hands land on my shoulders to prop me back upright.

I quickly pull myself away, brushing myself off from the stranger’s touch.

“Sorry about that.” He waves his arms up, feigning innocence once he senses my irritation. “Figured it was a better move than letting you tumble to the ground.”

When I look up and get a good look at him, the first thing I notice is his piercing brown eyes. They’re locked on me with a strong confidence that I quickly disregarded the second I clock how bloodshot they are. I’m not some prude that takes issue with people smoking weed or doing drugs, but where I draw the line is when people’s habits start to encroach on my well-being. Based on the music that is killing my brain cells one at a time, this most definitely fits the bill.

“If you really cared about making the ‘right move’,” I put my fingers up in air quotes. “Not throwing loud parties would be a great place to start.”

He lets out a deep laugh. “It’s not even nine, everyone here is of drinking age, and trust me when I say we have no illegal substances in there. You’re welcome to call the cops, but I can assure you they aren’t going to do anything.”

It’s as if he had his script prepared for this very moment. I’ve always been jealous of people who can speak without stumbling over their words, but in this case, I fail to see anything admirable about the guy standing in front of me.

“The cops aren’t going to do anything about climate change, but that doesn’t make it right.”

“You’re comparing my roommates throwing me a birthday party to…not caring about climate change? Seems a little harsh if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” I say, hugging myself even tighter as I stand out here in the cold. If he thinks the birthday card is going to garner any sympathy from me, he’s sorely mistaken. By the look on his face though, I don’t think he’s trying to get anything from me other than a reaction. In fact, if it wasn’t such a crazy thought, I’d think he was actually enjoying this.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but we all work a ton so luckily for you, I don’t see this being a regular thing.”

Working a ton and partying on a weeknight don’t really seem to go hand in hand. However, as I scan the dwindling list of options in my mind, taking his word seems to be my only option given his unwillingness to compromise.

“Well, in the interest of being a good neighbour, this is your only warning.”

A sly smirk creeps across his face as he leans casually against the door frame, arms crossed in front of his chest. “Ahh,” he says. “You must be the famous Tessa Price.”

I frown, scanning my memory for any scenario where this guy might have possibly heard my name. Gramps said a few new guys moved in last week, but he hadn’t crossed paths with them other than witnessing a couple of sports cars speeding in and out of their driveway.

“I don’t follow.”

He motions behind him. “Some stuff got dropped off for you. It’s just over–”

A guy with black hair stuffed under a baseball cap comes sprinting down the stairs in a colorful jacket that looks way too familiar.

“Hey, that’s mine!”

The guy in front of me whips his head around, his eyes growing wide when he catches what I’m looking at. “Yoshida! Take off that thing and stop going through other people’s shit.”

The jacket thief sees me standing at the door and tosses it over to his friend. “Sorry, dude. I thought it was ours.”

How someone could mistake a jacket I made at a paint night as their own blows my mind, until I remember I exist in a world with men who think everything revolves around them.

“I swear I put the boxes in the front closet,” he says, turning back to me. “My roommates must not have read the label. We just moved in last week and are still in the middle of unpacking.”

“You do realize opening someone’s mail is a federal offence, correct?”

I know I’m probably being overly harsh, but I can tell he’s one of those people who thinks his dimples and charm mean he can get away with anything. The silver ring on his pinky finger, an accessory commonly worn by alumni of all-boys private schools, is a dead giveaway. There’s nothing I hate more than entitlement, and if I had to fathom a guess, I’d bet his parents paid for the sports car sitting in his driveway, along with his rent.

“Somebody dropped them off, and I knocked on your door once I realized the mistake, but nobody answered. I figured keeping them here was safest in case they were valuable.”

“Yeah, I can tell they’re really safe in there, asshole.”

“Whoa. Asshole?” He says. “I was going to be nice and offer to carry the boxes over for you, but you can consider that offer revoked.”

My blood is boiling at the way he’s trying to turn this around and make me look like the bad guy. Without giving it much thought, I push past him into the house and open the door to the closet behind him. The boxes I’ve been waiting for sit inside it, one of them half open.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan. “If anything is missing, I’m calling the cops.”

I slide both of the boxes outside, and I can feel his gaze lingering on me as I walk the first one over to my porch. When I come back for the last one, he points towards my chest.

“In the interest of being a good neighbour, you have tomato sauce, like, all over your sweatshirt.”

Knowing this is still all a joke to him makes me even angrier. “In the interest of being a good neighbour,” I shout from the end of the walkway. “STAY AWAY FROM MY THINGS!”

“Keep it down, Tessa! You’re going to wake up the neighbourhood before they go to sleep at nine!”

Once I’m back inside, I grab my phone and find the number for the closest police station. It still doesn’t hurt to make a noise complaint just in case.