Keychains ✔

III

Vaughan was vibrant. It wasn't charming like Aurora. Nor was it the chaotic urban sprawl that was Toronto. In a fitting way it was a mixed bag, much like my teenage self. Ten years ago, the only lasting impression the city made on me was that it had the fabled Canada's Wonderland. Today it was a conglomerate of thriving people.

Decorso Drive was a disappointment compared to that. Identical red-brick townhouses, plain lawns, and children playing on their driveways...There were three public schools nearby, a skateboard park, and lots of greenery. It was ordinary. Family-friendly, and safe.

My curiosity piqued, I met with the real estate agent.

Hugo was a portly figure who looked and sounded exactly the way he typed--that was, the exclamation points, capital letters and adverbs contained in his emails translated to a vigorous handshake, a big smile and a booming greeting: "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Whelan. Very pleased to meet you!"

"Likewise. And please, call me Nora." I wondered if the entire neighbourhood heard us. But goodness, his smile was infectious.

We walked up to 72 Decorso Drive. An old maple tree faithfully concealed the abandoned house from view. Pieces of furniture could be seen through the water-spotted windows, and creeping ivy clung to the red brick walls. It looked moderately old, sure, but not like it had been vacated for too long. One could easily assume that someone lived here.

"There were five people living here," Hugo said, scratching his chin. "All went by the last name, MacIntyre. One of them left, and then some years later, so did the rest of them. Never heard from them again. You're lucky you called me when you did; the city has had a mind to flush everything out and renovate it."

"What about ownership? Next of kin? Ten years is a long time."

"That's a bit of a story. You wanted to see the house?"

"Just a quick look," I said. I pulled out the key. Just as the letter promised, I had to jam in the key a few times before the door clicked. Mildew and dampness seeped into my nose as I pushed it open. Behind me, Hugo switched on a flashlight.

Pillars reached up into the ceiling far above us. A staircase wound up into the second floor, where I could see the doors to several bedrooms. I entered the common area. The only furniture left was a sofa wrapped in plastic and a small coffee table. There was clutter, though; cardboard boxes, most sealed but some open with an assortment of belongings that were scattered all over the floor. I headed to the kitchen, where it seemed more of the living room furniture was left on the dining table and countertop; books, ornamental nit-nacks, fake potted plants and wall art. The things you'd expect to get left behind by someone looking for a fresh start.

What did I leave back in Toronto? I had cried for days after running away, lamenting the precious possessions I regretted not taking with me. I hadn't the faintest clue what they were now. All I had taken were my legal documents, food, a change of clothes, money and a backpack.

Had Mother thrown out my things? Or was it still all there, waiting for me to come home?

I shook away the thought.

"Those are some good paintings," said Hugo. 

He gestured to the painted canvases stacked against the table leg. I shuffled through them. Acrylic and oil paintings of objects. Animals. Fruit. Abstract lines that were suggestive of people. No snowy landscapes or the interiors of a greenhouse. But there was one painting of a bouquet of buttercups on a windowsill. It was very similar--no, it was the same as my vision. I was sure of it. I fingered the neat signature at the bottom. Allison.