Ashbee & Son

Goodbye, Charlie

When Charlie was three I took him to a reading at my favourite book store in the city: Type Books on Queen West. It was the middle of winter. The snow drifted down like shavings of white chocolate. They tickled the nose and were quick to melt on the tongue. The snow blew in with us as we stepped through the door. Charlie knocked his boots of the slush upon the mat. I helped him unwrap his scarf and unzip his coat. The small space had bookshelves filled with so many colourful spines. It was incredible. And the smell of ink was so strong that it was as if they had a printing press back there somewhere. I imagined it was how Gutenberg's shop smelled after pressing the first bible. A perfect haven for bibliophiles.

I took Charlie's hand and led him through the throng of people. There was a microphone set on a stand which stood beside a small amplifier, but there wasn't an author. Charlie tried to take hold of a picture book, but found it a challenge. So, I removed his mittens and slipped them into my coat pocket. He took the picture book and flipped through it, and I knelt and whisper-read it to him. He'd smiled at the story, and I'd been in awe of the illustrations. I tended to buy Charlie books from indie presses. They were like little pieces of artisanal work. I felt the textured paper between my thumb and forefinger with each turn of the page. I kissed Charlie on his cold cheek.

Someone stepped to the microphone and announced the author. I brought Charlie up over my shoulders, his legs dangling down over my chest. She was a local poet, and she read several numbers from her new collection. She was so nuanced and charismatic and experimental with her language. I got to thinking about quitting my job to work at a smaller publishing house where they put out work like this. My head waded in the clouds for a minute or two. Sometimes I have these little moments of self-reflection. How the choices I'd made have got me to where I am in this life. How I could be happier if I changed one little thing. If I travelled back in time and stepped on a cricket, would I have won the lottery? Would that thief had passed my mother by? Would she have lived? The author finished, and Charlie clapped his tiny hands together above me.

"Want cocoa, son?" I said, tilting my head up so my eyes met his. His little arms wrapped around my neck and his warm cheek pressed up against my stubble.

I approached my house. I hesitated to climb the step to the door, for it was there that I would have to say goodbye to my son. A terrible sadness swept over me. My mind raced backward, trying to pinpoint the moment when everything fell apart. I thought if I could observe that one moment, study it, then I could tell Ingrid everything she needed to hear, and that would set it all right. But there was no one, specific moment. I shook my head and rubbed my stinging eyes. And then I knocked. Ingrid opened the door. Two large gym bags rested on either side of her. I took them up and set them beside me. She stood there and looked at me for a moment. I had a car parked on the street in front of the house, idling.

"Yours?" she said.

"Rental."

"So, you're leaving then, are you?"

"Yes," I said.

"Where are you to go then?"

"My father's."

A burst of air popped from her lungs. "Edmund?" she said, her face looking as if she were in mid-guffaw.

I nodded, tightly-lipped. "Where's Charlie?" I said.

She called for him.

"What are you going to tell him?"

"That you're going away for a while for work," she said.

"Look, Ingrid, I'm sorry—"

She waved a hand to dismiss the apology. She called for Charlie again. She stood guarding the door as if I were a door-to-door salesperson on work-release.