Malagash 1.2 (Patreon)

I thought Malagash would be a small town, but it is not even that. One long road, a twisting red paved loop around the north shore of Nova Scotia. There ’s a tractor sitting in a field. A dirt bike leaning up against a shed. We pass a pen of llamas, who look bored as hell. The Atlantic Ocean itself comes right up to drive along beside us. Then it slips away. 

In the front seat I have my phone out again. The glass and metal object that was once my phone. I’ve got nobody left to call. Which is a relief, because I’ve got no energy left to pretend. There are only so many condolences a body can sit through. Only so many updates on what you’ve missed before you don’t miss it. 

I use my phone to record my mother. The thunk of potholes. Shaky video glimpses of the cottages slipping past. The waif humming to himself. The trees rushing. It records everything it can while we drive through my father’s hometown for the first time. Prim little houses spaced for privacy, each sitting on its own beautiful view of the sea. There’s an old general store with a dying neon PIZZA sign. 

My mother’s voice plays over the mud. The mud stretches out to the green-grey ocean. 

“A community is the polite term,” she says. “An elephants’ graveyard for people.” Laughter in her voice, like when she teases us. This place is family to her. Neither Simon nor I have ever been here, but my mom and dad had a whole life. They lived here together, before Simon or I were born. With the phone up to the window, I record what I can. There is a church, a vineyard, an abandoned salt mine somewhere beneath us, a bible camp, a wharf where lobster fishermen once set out to sea. Maybe they still do? Another wharf. Another. Wharves always look abandoned. There’s a real graveyard on both sides of the church. “Those plots are as far as some of these people ever go,” my mother says as we pass. 

Some facts my mother remembers:
 

“The road is red like this from clay. They used what they had. Look how red the dirt is, too.”

 “When the tide is out, you can walk forever and only ever get up to your waist.”

 “Those cottages there belonged to your father’s aunt Edie and uncle Harry. Separate cottages right next door to one another. Isn’t that perfect? It saved their marriage.” 

There was no need to convince us to move here. We didn’t plead or fight. Our father wanted to go home to Nova Scotia, to die near his mother and his childhood memories. We wanted to be with our father. The math was simple enough. Take us anywhere, as long as we can be with him. Good riddance to the rest of it. 

Everything we need is here. We have our clothes. Simon has his puzzles and toys, and I have my computers. We won’t be here forever, I guess. Just for the rest of my father’s life. 

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In the month leading up to the publication of my novel Malagash (Oct 3rd! Click here to pre-order or order it from your local bookstore.) I am going to be posting chapters here, in the hopes that you like it!