K Kapuskasing

N. Nicole's Letter

Five pages of yellow lined paper, folded. On the top left corner, in black ink: August 29, 2017.

Really, there is little in the letter that was new to me. Except for the part about Nicole not being there when I got home, I had heard most of it before: the concern, the disappointment, the frustration, the helplessness. Still, I could tell it was difficult for her to write this; words are crossed out, her handwriting is more jittery than usual, not flowing naturally like the journals the marriage counsellor made her write. Nicole left the letter in my bag, knowing I would find it when I unpacked at the motel in Kapuskasing. It was in this envelope, placed neatly on top of my pyjamas, with care. With more black ink and in big block letters she wrote, 'DON.'

Nicole had been saying these things for years, long before my trip back up North. She didn't want me to go back to Kapuskasing again but even though she was mad at me the morning I loaded the pickup and pulled out of the driveway, leaving her standing in the doorway, wearing her summer bathrobe, her head down-I don't believe the trip was the reason she left me. More than anything, my trip gave her the chance to not have to say it to me in person. Nicole knew I would roll my eyes and turn away, like whenever she would get going about my apathy towards our relationship.

Once, I agreed to take her advice and see someone about my 'issues,' as Nicole put it. The therapist from the School Board's Employee Assistance Program wasn't too concerned with the problems we were having in our marriage, how Nicole felt I was too focussed on my work, how I was more worried about not being a good teacher than I was about being a good father and husband. The therapist, Dr. West, kept steering things back to my past, to my youth. I think these guys go around inventing trauma, looking to blame parents or someone. Needless to say, the sessions were a waste of time and I stopped going after a few weeks. Nicole was disappointed, but we were trying in other ways: date nights, making new friends, curling. Doctor West and I did agree on one point however: people don't really change throughout the course of a marriage; over time our genuine selves only become clearer to our partner. Yet Nicole kept insisting, even mentioned it here in the letter, I was a different person after I came back from tree planting that summer. 'It's like Kapuskasing took something from you, Don. It took the best of you.'

Nicole and I dated since we were sixteen. High school sweethearts, everyone said. We were in many of the same classes, had the same friends. Although we never spoke about it at the time, it was pretty much assumed Nicole and I would end up married after university. We went through some rough patches like when I was away at Western or for the weeks after I came back from tree planting but the time apart only made us stronger as a couple.

I read the letter a few times in the motel. Then I flattened the pages and put them into this file folder. I wrote 'Nicole's Letter' across the tab with a black sharpie. I sat on the edge of the bed. I let it sink in-she was gone. Jenny would be gone too, off to college for her first year away. The house would be quiet without Nicole. It would seem big, all those empty rooms. There, sitting on the grey and maroon bedspread of the Apollo Motel, imagining the life I would come home to, I devised the plan to convert three of the bedrooms into my studies; three rooms, one for each subject I teach, and one to store my files. I scribbled a map of the house on the outside of the file folder, confident arrows pointing how I would rotate from room to room to prepare my lessons. I placed the folder on the bed beside me, sat straight and slapped my thighs in a smack that echoed off the panelled walls of the motel room, proud of myself for finding a positive in all of this.

I took the camera from my bag and lay it on the bed, next to the file with Nicole's letter. It was Layla's old Pentax SLR film camera, the one that was in my pack when I ran to the outfitter's truck that morning. It takes better pictures than the new digital ones, plus I wanted to recreate, as much as possible, the same shots, the identical composition, as Layla's pictures from twenty-five years ago. My intent was to go to the same places where Layla stood when she shot the twenty-two frames still on the film roll when the police took the camera from me. They developed the film and eventually returned the camera and copies of the prints to me. All the prints are here, filed under P. I remember the location of each, recall the exact moment of the shot, can hear the click of the shutter. I can still see Layla, legs spread apart, bent forward slightly, back arched into a fine curve as she curls to adjust the aperture, framing the shot. Every picture tells a story, they say, and these pictures are our story.