on the wall above the fireplace. He took Aiden to fish at a lake when they came to the island. A small, rain-fed lake that was a popular spot for swimming and fishing. The island council had to bring in a load of trout each year to replenish the fish supply.
On that summer day 17 years ago, Dad taught Aiden how to fish. He threw the line and handed the pole over to Aiden, who wasn’t confident to do it himself. More than a dozen casts and not one bite – unless it was Dad who cast it. Even the trout sensed his lack of confidence and affirmed his absent desire for adventure.
The fishing pole and its respective experience should have brought a peaceful stillness to Aiden’s spirit. Where he looks back and sees a definitive moment in his life. One of those “All is well” milestones.
Instead, it set the precedent for his self-assigned inferiority. Wherever there’s inferiority, there’s a dominating figure acting as the source of inferior energy. Dad just happened to be on the receiving end of it – not by Aiden’s choice or by Dad’s doing. Just circumstantial.
Why circumstances played out the way they did, Aiden didn’t know. But he didn’t try to change or counter them. In Rosemary’s words, he let himself become the “victimized star” of his world. Everyone else was living in that world, always one step ahead of Aiden.
His legs were getting warm. Time to move.
He sat in the nearby arm chair, its cool velvet upholstery refreshingly comfortable on his warm skin. There was a small end table on the right side. On it was a picture.
Aiden and Dad in downtown Seattle from two Christmases ago. Dad looked happily at Mom who was behind the camera. Aiden’s face told the viewer that the yuletide greetings of Christmas were far from his mind. He wanted to be somewhere else.
This picture was on display at Dad’s funeral.
It was the last picture of them together.
He was stuck with that dissatisfied expression for the rest of his life, and Dad went to the grave before another picture could be taken. Before Aiden could express any gratitude or appreciation. Mom was transferred to a nursing home shortly after.
That memory haunted Aiden every day since the funeral. The photo was the first thing he saw when he walked into the cabin but couldn’t bear to acknowledge it for fear of having to relive the memory.
Fear of admitting to the rest of the story.
Aiden didn’t cry at the funeral; he still hadn’t cried. He was simply numb that day, and he remained numb to this day. He was still too numb to feel any remorse or closure.
Closure involves all the facts, and he knew which ones ought to remain off the record.
That was his life, his fate. He forged that fate for himself. And here he was, sitting in the chair where Dad must have read great stories, prayed for his family and reflected on a life well lived.
Aiden felt more distanced from human contact than ever. He sat there, motionless and still with quiet breaths.
“I don’t know how to grieve.”
He said it out loud and remained motionless, unsure how to physically respond to those words.
Those words were more revelatory than confessional. Maybe the most important revelation he’d ever had.
Maybe the only one he’d ever had.
Aiden was self-aware, no doubt. He lived his life in retrospect. When he did live in the present, it was purely analytical. Looking around and dissecting what he saw. People, things, smells, sounds.
He wasn’t one to analyze himself.
Until now.
It was this cabin. He didn’t have any specific memories of him and Dad here, but it was a reminder of the start of Aiden’s self-destructive perception of himself and a cruel world revolving around him in mockery, scorn and judgment.
It still held that power over him. He always felt the lack of confidence, but never had it been so vivid as being in the cabin and practically feeling Dad’s presence here. Aiden didn’t believe in the supernatural, but he believed that memories could become imbedded in respective physical objects and can then be emanated back to their subjects. Like the fishing pole.
Maybe there was more about Dad to be learned from this place, from his belongings.
Maybe Aiden wanted to know more, to glean insights about the father he never took the time to get to know.
Or maybe, just maybe, cutting off his ties with the cabin and Cielo altogether was his way out.
Maybe it was the first step on his road to recovery.
His emotional emancipation after which he could experience human contact.
His liberation from self-doubt.
This was it. This was his beginning, the reason that brought him back to Cielo after all these years.
He was sure of it.
He felt sure.
Sure enough.
Aiden was going to sell the cabin.
6. MEMORY’S DOCK
Late September manifested itself along Canoe Drive. The pavement was covered with red leaves from the bordering maple trees. Countless trees extended their top branches far out over the middle of the road, providing a tunnel of shelter for cars and creatures alike.
Chickadees and gold thrushes sang their songs as they weaved in and out of the trees. Grey squirrels hopped across bridges made of branches, collecting seeds and nuts for a late breakfast. Few cars were on the road, and the deer seized the opportunity to cross to the other side of the woods.
There was a stillness in the air, a thin fog drifting below the forest canopy.
All Aiden cared about was the Americano he so desperately needed as he sped down the narrow road.
Last night’s spurts of insomnia left him feeling like the undead: eyes dry, mouth parched, joints sore. Sleep is so crucial but is the first thing that’s sacrificed to make room for living a lively existence.
Aiden was hardly thriving and would gladly give up any activity to catch up on sleep.
Partying wasn’t the interference; his subconscious was. At 8:30 in the morning after minimal rest, a dose of straight caffeine would at least push him out of this walking slumber and exhaust the last of his energy so that he could sleep tonight.
He turned onto Borough Boulevard, driving for a few blocks with his eyes peeled for a coffee shop. Finally spotted a small burgundy cottage with a sign hanging from a trellis that read “The Bean House.” He pulled into one of the three car slots in the gravel driveway.
The single-story cottage shared a plot of land with a large willow tree that stood just to the right of the building, its branches draping along the roof and shedding their yellow leaves onto the front steps and driveway.
The door revealed a quaint room. Dark brown trim accented the cream-colored wall.
The paint was chipped in places, giving the space a weathered look. A long bar ran against the back wall with five stools. Three tables between the bar and the front door.
Walls adorned with funky, Bohemian art.
Rosemary was sitting at the middle table by herself, holding a black ceramic mug and reading a newspaper.
She looked up.
“Doesn’t get much smaller than this,” Aiden thought to himself.
He actually was pleased to see her. Didn’t consider her a friend by any means but she seemed well networked. A source for local information. Maybe she knew of a contractor he could hire to fix up the cabin.
“Good morning,” he said with a dimple-inducing grin, hoping it looked