Anticipation.
One hour in the car along this potholed flatland. Okay, so he is grumpy and complaining. This cannot be a good start.
I want to shake him and tell him that this is important. I want him to know that this is the most intimate thing we have ever done.
"We climbed Salter's hill nearly every day. It looks like it would be easier than Pimple Hill but it is actually much steeper." He is barely responding. Why did I want to take him? I bite my lower lip to stop dwelling on these thoughts.
More silence.
"I got my only speeding ticket along this stretch, going 129 in a 90 zone. I was 16 and so scared. I think I cried a little. Nearly lost my license; just one more kilometre over and I would have been done."
As I drive, I glance over for some type of reaction. He is nearly asleep. "So I was speeding to get back to work at McDonalds, but with the 30 minute lecture I got from the RCs, I was still late. Don't even think I went into work that day."
He is asleep.
Fuck me. Why did I bring him?
Weaving through both the new and the old divots and crumbling pavement, I picture freedom. I am on my way to freedom. My shoulders soften. I turn the radio on low.
As I slow down to switch highways, my company stirs.
"Nearly there now, that little ice cream shop is the source of my ticket. I could never resist it." I take a breath. "Do you want to stop?"
"Doesn't matter to me," he remarks.
It should matter to you.
"Okay, it is only another 20 minutes or so."
He is in a better mood. We talk about nothing in particular.
The flat prairie land opens up. I grab his hand. "THIS is it." We start our descent into the valley. The choppy, lake water sits in a bowl of grassy hills and scattered cottages.
I know these hills. I speed up. I laugh and he looks nervous as I fly along the road.
We near the cabin, a knot forms in my stomach. Words anxiously tumble out. "... Ours has an outhouse... a real cabin, not a house... most of the time we are outside anyway..." My heart is showing.
The skinny trees and choke cherry bushes hide the facade as we approach. The car is in park. My mind pulls him out of the car. The fresh air hits my nostrils and I feel alive. I am no longer a shell.
I spy the dilapidated blue and white two-toned siding with that hole filled with the rust coloured foam (from where the squirrel ate through). I grab his hand and guide him onto the deck. "Watch your step, that middle board is rotted through."
The tour is a blurred memory. I talk, a lot.
When I look at him, he says, “This is great.”