Free Transits by Jaime Forsythe Page A

in the mail box. You shouldn't have it there!
Give me a call.
Peter.
    In the living room, a couch took up the length of the wall. Eighties style with a rounded top and arms. Three cushions barely peeked out from the frame. Only one had its button, the others had holes that gaped open like empty mouths. Tess ran her hand over the brown weave, soft and waxy from years of dirt. She couldn't believe it was the same one. She wondered what tomb her brother had dug it up from.
    The phone rang, emptying the silence from the room.
    â€œHey, Tessy, it's Peter.”
    â€œHi. How's it going?”
    â€œNot good. Mom's really angry. You didn't give the moving guys your new address.”
    â€œShit. I thought I gave it to them.”
    â€œYeah, well, you didn't give it to them, or Mom! She had to send them away.”
    â€œIs she freaking?”
    â€œBig time. Call the moving company and see what's going on. And call Mom too. She says it's easier reaching the man in the moon.”
    Tess rolled her eyes. “I've been in and out all morning. Someone left a couple of hang ups on the answering machine. It must have been her.”
    â€œThat sounds about right. Did you see the couch?”
    â€œYeah. How did you manage to find it?”
    â€œMy buddy Darrin. He was happy to get rid of it. You know if you had asked, I would have gotten him to pick up your stuff too.”
    â€œYeah… but—”
    â€œListen Tess. don't worry about Mom, just call her and get things straightened out.”
    Tess hung up and blew her bangs away from her face. Her mother wasn't one for the phone. When she was away at school, their conversations never lasted longer than a few minutes. Once her mother had called and said, “Oh, yes, Jack Furlong died yesterday.” And before Tess could recover herself and ask any questions, her mother had hung up.
    The man from the moving company had a Mundy Pond accent. “My, honey, don't you worry about a thing. Larry's the man to solve all your problems.”
    It took her a second to adjust to his familiar manner. She half laughed. “Be careful what you offer.”
    Tess hung up and kicked the couch. She felt like a kid again: barely two weeks back and already in trouble with her mother. The thought of her unpacked bags crept up from her gut. A cab and a credit card could bring her to a place where a phone call was the only thing she'd have to deal with. She shook her head and went outside.
    Peter didn't want her to move to the west end of downtown. It was a lower income area and, according to him, full of “hard tickets.” He went on about the houses, how they were perched on the side of the hill. Many looked like they were slapped together: floors sloped, paper thin walls. A working class shanty that turned into a community. Tess loved. In the evenings people came out. They set up lawn chairs on the sidewalk and had a cup of tea or a beer. Everyone had a nod or a wave. A few words to share.
    The gentrified parts of downtown seemed empty in comparison. You saw more tourists than locals. Especially after six when the residents bunkered themselves safely in their backyards with their privacy fences.
    Tess sat on her step and took in the action of the street. Her new neighbours, the Crawleys, piled out of their home and into their car, giving a backhanded wave as they buckled Maria—plump faced and bawling – into her car seat.
    Overhead measured gusts of wind pushed through the trees, giant breaths rolling across the city and out to sea.
    She got up and went back inside to call her mother. The phone rang three times. Her mother never answered on the first ring. The anticipation of news unnerved her. Any news—good or bad. She just hated getting it.
    â€œHi, Mom. How are you doing?”
    â€œOh, you've risen from the dead.”
    â€œSorry about what happened this morning. I thought I gave him my address. But you don't have to worry, I was able