Page 3 of Forever Gone

Somewhere deeper in the cabin, wood creaked.

Karen paused.

The building was old. Old buildings shifted and complained. She listened for several seconds.

Nothing followed.

A desk stood against the far wall. Karen dragged it toward the front window, its legs rasping across the boards, then pulled the green armchair behind it. The chair was heavier, and she had to move it in short bursts. When she finally sat, she placed both hands on the scratched wooden surface and studied the view of the meadow, bridge, and road climbing away through the trees.

“Perfect,” she said. “This is where it’ll happen. Finally.”

For years, writing had existed in the future. She would begin after the move, after Christmas, after things became less strained with Gerry. Later had been useful because later never required her to risk failure.

Gerry had encouraged the delay whenever she came close to beginning.

People like us don’t write books, Karen.

It’s pie in the sky.

The phrase had become his favorite. He used it for writing courses, magazine submissions, and the secondhand laptop she almost bought. Once, after too much wine, he had asked whether she wanted to embarrass herself in private or in front of everyone they knew.

Karen rose.

The divorce settlement had left her enough to live modestly for three months without taking another administrative job. After that, she would need income.

Maybe the novel would sell. Maybe it would not.

For once, failure would belong to her.

She went back outside and opened the trunk.

One large suitcase lay beside a cardboard box of groceries, bedding, toiletries, and kitchen supplies. The suitcase held clothes, photographs, a few books, her father’s fountain pen, and the jewelry Gerry had not claimed was purchased with joint funds.

After the break-in at her storage unit, Karen had emptied it and closed the account. Nothing remained at the house outside Loyall, either. Everything she had chosen to carry into her new life now fit inside the car.

She lifted the suitcase onto the gravel.

For a moment, she kept one hand on the handle.

Everything she owned had once filled rooms. Furniture chosen with Gerry. Shelves of novels. Wedding china wrapped in paper. Framed photographs selected to present a version of their life neither of them recognized.

Leaving had reduced her life to what fit in a car.

The price was high.

Staying had cost her too.

Karen pulled the suitcase toward the porch, carried it inside, and opened it near the desk. Folded clothes filled one side. Beneath two sweaters lay a smaller black case.

She lifted it out.

The word processor had yellowed around the keys. Its narrow screen was dark, the casing scratched near the power switch.

It had belonged to her father.

Karen remembered lying awake in her old bedroom, listening to the steady tapping from the kitchen. Sometimes he wrote until one in the morning after finishing his shift at the distribution warehouse. He had completed four novels. None had been published.

After his death, Karen found rejection letters tied in bundles inside his desk. She had cried harder over those than she had at the funeral.