Free Ellen in Pieces by Caroline Adderson Page B

Stop and try to figure out the real source of the rage. If she did that, it would usually dissipate.
    “I feel like you’re judging me, Brad.”
    “Judging you? Never. It’s just a house.”
    Ellen sighed. Because, of course, if she didn’t do so many stupid, impulsive things, no one would have any reason to judge her.
    “At the very least, Ellen? Paint. And this sort of thing”—he gestured to the fridge papered over with recipes and photographs—”it will cost you thousands. I’m not kidding.”
    She ripped it all down. Baked Alaska. The list of fruits and vegetables most likely to be pesticide-tainted. Here, under several layers, was a three-year-old mammogram reminder. Brad was chuckling.
    “What?” she asked.
    “Nothing. Who’s this?” He pointed at the picture of Mimi in front of the CN Tower, toothful smile, nose ring. She told him. “Really?” he said. “I thought she was your sister.”
    “Come on.”
    “For sure. We could have a drink sometime after all this is over. To celebrate.”
    Ellen tapped the broad gold band on his finger. “I don’t think so.”
    “No hard feelings,” said Brad Wheeler, who evidently didn’t feel things very solidly. He left a stack of papers—the contract, stat sheets on houses in the area and what they’d sold for.
    So here was Ellen, chucking again. Chucking crap so the house would show well. On all fours in the downstairs crawl space, pushing more boxes out into the light. Mildewy cardboard boxes all over the rec room. Opening the softened flaps of one, she discovered school-work. Such comical spellings! In the drawings, no one had a neck. How could she discard this precious record, proof that no matter how she beat herself up about it now, her girls had been happy?
    At the bottom, a smaller box. She lifted the lid, shrieked, and dropped it. The disgusting contents spilled out onto the floor. Something had chewed its way into the box and expired. A very hairy sort of rodent. She bent to inspect it then, gingerly, picked it up. By the blunt end, not the flowing end.
    Larry’s ponytail.
    Oh, she was evil. Wicked. She put it in a padded envelope addressed to
Larry Silver. General Delivery. Cordova Island.
    She knew the address by heart.
    O N the first of December Jack McGinty was released from hospital. He stayed with Ellen for a week, enjoying her cooking now,taking short walks in the neighbourhood with her. Ellen kept him company during the evening news, which she normally didn’t watch because she interacted too much with the television. Jack coached her through several minor repairs, such as replacing a broken switch plate in the hall; he couldn’t do the work himself because his hands still shook, though not half as much.
    Brad Wheeler-Dealer’s stat sheets scandalized Jack. He couldn’t believe the price of real estate.
    “The more expensive, the better. I’ve got plans.”
    What plans? her father wanted to know.
    “I’m tired of publicity. It’s all self-promotion now anyway. Social media. Do you remember I used to make pots?”
    Jack didn’t. He’d probably never seen one of her pots.
    “Back when I was married to Larry. When we were living on Cordova Island. I’d like to take it up again. I’m going to sell the house and live off the proceeds. Sign up for some classes. Maybe rent a studio.”
    “You’ll have more than enough money,” her father said.
    Every night Moira phoned to talk to him and exchange with Ellen a few civil, then gradually warm, words. That day twenty-three years ago, when Charles ran straight to Moira and foolishly confessed because he couldn’t wait until the party was over like everyone else—it seemed to evaporate. The fact that there was no party in the end, only confrontation, screaming, Jack McGinty leaning back in the Muskoka chair gripping the armrests like he was travelling too fast in it. The flurry of confused packing, Ellen fleeing with Larry and Mimi and not even saying goodbye to her father. It had