Chapter 3

“Where do we live?” I asked, eating cereal at the breakfast table.

Addison, in flower-printed tight Bermuda shorts and a royal blue Tee, was multi-tasking; eating cereal, her Smartphone to one side, and writing in a book. She looked at me in surprise at my question. “Here. We live here.”

“No. I mean, what city is this?”

“Toronto.”

“We’re Canadian?”

“Well, duh!” she responded, immediately followed by, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Don’t worry. I think I’m going to have a lot of stupid questions. What day is it?”

“Tuesday, June ninteenth, two thousand and eighteen.”

“After breakfast, how do you feel about driving around with me?”

Addison studied me. “Are you sure you know how to drive?”

“Nope. But I’ll try,” I told her with a smile, despite some nervousness. “What are you writing?”

“My diary. I’ve kept one forever so I don’t forg...” Her face fell. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. We can’t hide what’s happened.”

On entering the garage, I saw two cars; the first, a dusty Subaru station wagon, the second, a gunmetal grey Range Rover. Since it wasn’t dust-covered, I assumed it was mine. Oddly, when I sat in the driver’s seat, I knew what everything was for. While I couldn’t remember driving before, I instinctually knew I could.

We started with canvassing the neighborhood. Addison kept up a running commentary:

“This is the Bridle Path area. Turn right. Up here on the left is my school, Park Lane Public School.”

I pulled to the curb and watched kids playing sports on a field. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Yeah. I’m taking a couple of days off until you’ve adjusted. Besides, finals are over. It’s only two weeks to summer holidays.”

“Okay.”

“Really?” Addison asked, surprised. “You don’t mind?”

“No. What grade are you in?”

“Eight.”

I resumed driving. The area we lived in was rather ritzy. Huge mansions behind electronic gates, with tall, old trees, slowly gave way to smaller plots featuring oversized homes. Our house, despite being large to me, was quite modest for the area.

“Turn right,” Addison suggested.

I did. The road dipped and rose, widening.

“That’s Edwards Gardens,” she said, pointing to a beautifully maintained park of rolling lawns, trees and blooming, colourful flowers.

For the next couple of hours, Addison navigated us around the area, circling back to our house. I’d seen luxury homes and condos and small bungalows and semi-detached houses. The area was quite a mixture. But as soon as we turned back into the Bridal Path area, quiet luxury, opulence, and gated estates returned; a small enclave of wealth. It was a very elegant area.

At home, Addison prepared lunch. I watched her. She’d gathered her long jet black hair into a high ponytail. It shone in the bright light coming in through the kitchen windows. Having seen photographs, I could see the resemblance to her mother; petite of stature, slender as a reed, delicate features. With the exception of her slate grey eyes that didn’t have the hooded lids of her mother, I struggled to see any of my features in her. To me, she didn’t look like she was fourteen years old.

“Here you go,” she announced, placing two plates in front of me. One had a sandwich, the other a small salad.

She brought a couple of plates for herself to the kitchen table and sat. I took a bite of mine and frowned. Mystery meat with a tang.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, a fork of salad paused on its way to her mouth.

“What is this?”

“Tongue with grainy Dijon mustard on dark rye. It’s what you always eat.”

I looked at her sandwich, putting mine back on the plate. “What’s yours?”

“Bologna with yellow mustard.”

“Can I try it?”

Addison pushed her plate across the table. I took half of the white bread sandwich and tasted it. “Much better.”

Addison’s eyes opened wider. “You’ve really changed, Dad. You hate bologna!”

Mouth full, I murmured my pleasure, “Mmmmm.” Swallowing, I added, “That’s what I call a sandwich! Can you make another?”

Addison gaped at me, then let out a bright laugh, her smile like a million-watt spotlight. She nodded. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Physically, yup. Mentally, who knows?”

Shaking her head with amusement, she got up to make more sandwiches. Her laugh pleased me. It chased away the fear in her eyes and lit up her face. I might be suffering from worry, but at least she was happier, and that made me feel better.

“What did I do for hobbies?” I asked.

“You didn’t have any. You read a lot and gardened ... when you were at home.”

“Did I work long hours?”

“Most of the time I’d only see you on weekends,” she replied, cutting two more sandwiches.

As she brought them over - one for her, another for me - I observed, “It doesn’t sound like I was much fun. Did we take vacations?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed, contemplating me. “After Mom died, you buried yourself in work.”

“Must have been tough on you,” I said, not really liking what I was learning about myself.