Keychains ✔

II

The key came in the mail a few days later.

Meabh sat at my feet while I inspected it. The gold plating had flaked off, revealing the dark brass metal underneath. The key was attached to a rusted metal ring. It wasn't anything special; certainly not an antique skeleton key like you might see in an episode of Murdoch Mysteries.

That, along with a frustratingly brief message in size-12 Times New Roman were the only things enclosed in the envelope.

72 Decorso Drive, Vaughan.

The lock might be rusty.

The back of the envelope had my name and address in careful handprint. No return address.

I got up to clear the dining table. My notes, logo designs and statistical reports from GreenGlass were plopped onto the sofa in the adjacent living room, along with my purse, jacket, and phone. I also swallowed my Lexoyl pill with a glass of water before moving the glass to the couch, too. Meabh swished her tail in disapproval. "I'll organize them later. You'll have the couch to yourself soon," I told her. I finished my toast with Mrs. Wiśniewski's berry jam and set it aside.

I sat back at the dining table and wrapped the key in my hand. I closed my eyes. Leaned back. Allowed my present thoughts to fade.

Snippets of images, sounds and senses of another's life wandered to me. I engrained each in my memory: sparks flying from old machine parts, crumbling peppered oats and meat, acrylic paint, a low murmur, fuzzy mornings, bare feet slapping on pavement and a quiet as thick as molasses.

The memories receded like paint oozing down a small drain. I swallowed down the taste of haggis—when was the last time I'd eaten that? It seemed so long ago—and turned the key over, inspecting the engraved name one more time. I could barely keep my hands from trembling.

Taste of haggis lingered on my tongue. Despite all the expertise Youtube had to offer--a haven for self-taught cooks--it wasn't the same as when Mom cooked the Scottish dish. Store-bought haggis tasted artificial. Eating it at a crowded restaurant was unbearable.

I hurried to the windows, unlatched them and breathed deeply, ignoring the chill that raised the hairs on my neck. The traffic lights below me changed from red to green. The windowsill dug under my tight grip until I let go.

After finding my footing, I'd changed my name to Nora Whelan. Never would I have thought I'd see my family surname again.

MacIntyre.

I frowned and pressed my thumb on the key's engraving, willing it to disappear.

—

The key was safely stashed away in my desk drawer as I cleaned my apartment. But this was a newly built condo, and the only cleaning I really had to do was dusting the television mantle. With a wet cloth, I wiped the grit that had gathered in the grooves of a French antique plate. Hannah had always liked the carefully painted vines and filigree patterns; I, on the other hand, had no care for the past. Hannah knew this well. She still thought I kept it out of friendships' sake, and she was right. But the plate did have one deeming quality: it took up a sizable amount of room on the mantelpiece, making up for the lack of photos or knick knacks that would decorate the furniture. I returned the plate to its place, all too aware of the other objects that I had detached my feelings of affection from: an empty wooden photo frame, a fake potted flower, and even a Murdoch-Mysteries styled pocket watch, given by a woman I'd dated a year ago.

That night I had Tai's keys in my own hands. If I'd used my ability then, what would his keys have told me about him? What I wanted most was an understanding, a glimpse of common ground where we could co-exist without the question of family etched in our hearts. But most likely, his keys would have shown me a different world that I hadn't had the privilege of growing up in.