bull moose so close to her door.
She makes her way upstairs to the spare room, the room where her former life is stored. A room she has avoided. Ian refuses to go in there at all. When he had caught her packing up Darlaâs possessions for the move, he had accused her of hanging onto them as if she believes their daughter will return. But she canât let go of the dolls, the clothes, even the bedding that still carries the smell of Darla. And yet, after they moved in, Julie found herself unable to open any of the boxes, in fear of losing that scent, or losing herself to it.
Steeling herself, she avoids Darlaâs neatly stacked boxes on one side of the room, and checks the labels of the others until she finds the one from her real estate career. She roots through it and pulls out a leather camera case. Inside, firmly strapped against the plush red lining, her old 35mm and accessories wait as orderly as she had left them. Film canisters line the mesh side pockets. She removes the camera, and checks the film and batteries. Theyâre still fine. The old Pentax is out-of-date technology, but she has always liked the quality of the photographs it produced. It feels like an old friend in her hands and she surprises herself with a smile as she snaps the lens cover back on. Just the idea of having a plan, having something creative to do, feels good somehow. She imagines Darla saying
itâs about time
, but knows itâs only her own inner voice trying too hard.
Hanging the camera strap over her shoulder, she goes back downstairs and pulls on her hiking boots. Outside, she avoids the pastures at this end of the lake, in case the moose is still hanging around, and heads to the north road. She will start by taking shots of the ranch house from the far end of the lake. She hasnât hiked this way since meeting their tenant in the garden last month. Today the fear of the moose outweighs her fear of running into Virgil Blue. The Clydesdales are no longer in the corral, so heâs probably out working on his woodlot anyway.
Nearing the turnoff to his cabin she slows her pace. She peers down his driveway, but can make out nothing more than the fir and mountain ash trees encroaching on either side of the narrow road. Confused by a pang of disappointment she wonders what it was she expected to see? Or hear? The woods are quiet; no strains of violin music seep through the trees. Feeling a little ridiculous she resumes her speed walking. After a while her laboured breathing and the blood pounding in her ears gives way to the everyday hum and buzz of the forest: the staccato chattering of a squirrel scurrying down a tree trunk; the familiar cry of chickadees; the hollow thumping of grouse wings in the distance; and the raspy cries of crows winging through the branches above.
Crows. It seems to Julie that wherever she goes lately, there are crows.
Were they always there, or had she only begun to take notice of them on the day of Darlaâs funeral as she stood staring out of their family-room window while hushed voices droned on behind her?
Iâm so sorry.
Is there anything I can do?
Iâll just put this platter of egg salad sandwiches on the coffee table here.
Oh, please donât let me intrude.
Iâm so, so, sorry.
Unless it was her sister speaking, she pretended not to hear.
Wishing everyone silenced, gone, she had concentrated on the ebony bird sitting like a lone sentry on the back porch railing. No cocking of his head back and forth, no fluffing of feathers, his bottomless black eyes stared into the window as if trying to connect with her soul.
She noticed the dark visitors daily after that. Others joined it, perching in the trees behind Julieâs golf course home. In the morning she could hear the scratching of their feet on the shake roof, as if chiding her for lying in bed, nagging her to get up, get up and get on with life. They became her constant companions, even showing up out here.
She makes her way upstairs to the spare room, the room where her former life is stored. A room she has avoided. Ian refuses to go in there at all. When he had caught her packing up Darlaâs possessions for the move, he had accused her of hanging onto them as if she believes their daughter will return. But she canât let go of the dolls, the clothes, even the bedding that still carries the smell of Darla. And yet, after they moved in, Julie found herself unable to open any of the boxes, in fear of losing that scent, or losing herself to it.
Steeling herself, she avoids Darlaâs neatly stacked boxes on one side of the room, and checks the labels of the others until she finds the one from her real estate career. She roots through it and pulls out a leather camera case. Inside, firmly strapped against the plush red lining, her old 35mm and accessories wait as orderly as she had left them. Film canisters line the mesh side pockets. She removes the camera, and checks the film and batteries. Theyâre still fine. The old Pentax is out-of-date technology, but she has always liked the quality of the photographs it produced. It feels like an old friend in her hands and she surprises herself with a smile as she snaps the lens cover back on. Just the idea of having a plan, having something creative to do, feels good somehow. She imagines Darla saying
itâs about time
, but knows itâs only her own inner voice trying too hard.
Hanging the camera strap over her shoulder, she goes back downstairs and pulls on her hiking boots. Outside, she avoids the pastures at this end of the lake, in case the moose is still hanging around, and heads to the north road. She will start by taking shots of the ranch house from the far end of the lake. She hasnât hiked this way since meeting their tenant in the garden last month. Today the fear of the moose outweighs her fear of running into Virgil Blue. The Clydesdales are no longer in the corral, so heâs probably out working on his woodlot anyway.
Nearing the turnoff to his cabin she slows her pace. She peers down his driveway, but can make out nothing more than the fir and mountain ash trees encroaching on either side of the narrow road. Confused by a pang of disappointment she wonders what it was she expected to see? Or hear? The woods are quiet; no strains of violin music seep through the trees. Feeling a little ridiculous she resumes her speed walking. After a while her laboured breathing and the blood pounding in her ears gives way to the everyday hum and buzz of the forest: the staccato chattering of a squirrel scurrying down a tree trunk; the familiar cry of chickadees; the hollow thumping of grouse wings in the distance; and the raspy cries of crows winging through the branches above.
Crows. It seems to Julie that wherever she goes lately, there are crows.
Were they always there, or had she only begun to take notice of them on the day of Darlaâs funeral as she stood staring out of their family-room window while hushed voices droned on behind her?
Iâm so sorry.
Is there anything I can do?
Iâll just put this platter of egg salad sandwiches on the coffee table here.
Oh, please donât let me intrude.
Iâm so, so, sorry.
Unless it was her sister speaking, she pretended not to hear.
Wishing everyone silenced, gone, she had concentrated on the ebony bird sitting like a lone sentry on the back porch railing. No cocking of his head back and forth, no fluffing of feathers, his bottomless black eyes stared into the window as if trying to connect with her soul.
She noticed the dark visitors daily after that. Others joined it, perching in the trees behind Julieâs golf course home. In the morning she could hear the scratching of their feet on the shake roof, as if chiding her for lying in bed, nagging her to get up, get up and get on with life. They became her constant companions, even showing up out here.
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