I told my mother once that I thought Willa was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. In reply, my mother told me that Willa thought she could talk to trees. That she was barren and that’s why she and West had adopted Ezra, which proved that looks could be deceiving. Then my mother got angry at me for some trivial thing and sent me to my room. I didn’t know then that it was pure jealousy talking. That my praise of Willa was like poking a rattlesnake with a stick.

I stare at the photo of Willa staring at my mother and West. How could my mother carry on like that under all our noses? Did she think everyone was too stupid to realize? The betrayal is bad enough, but it’s just insulting that she didn’t think she would be found out. You always get found out.

I toss all the photos onto the coffee table, and they fan out into an accordion of visual secrets. I’m emotionally drained, and a slow-moving headache is traveling across the top of my skull. I should probably drink some water, I think to myself while sliding into a fetal position on the couch. I pull a cushion up under my head and close my eyes, wanting escape more than anything. Escape from my longing for the Avril Island days of my youth, no cares and concerns weighing on my innocent mind. Wanting to be once again unaware that my mother was spinning all of us into a cocoon of lies and betrayal.

The next day, despite a bit of a hangover and the heavy weight of the secrets I learned the day before, I go out to the shed in the back to look for some tools to help clear the path around the island. I want to do mindless and productive work that will make me feel like I’m taking Avril Island back for myself, regardless of its sordid past. I’m thinking it’s best to just let the past stay in the past and keep moving forward.

The inside of the shed smells of gasoline and damp earth. The tools are neatly hanging from hooks along one wall above an empty workbench. An ancient lawnmower sits in the corner along with some red gas tanks. I didn’t come in here much as a kid. There was no need, with West around taking care of things.

I pull a rusty pair of pruning shears off the wall. It takes some work to open and close the blades, but eventually the rust is rubbed from the hinges and I can get it going at a good pace.

I go the same way I ran yesterday, since I already started on that side. There’s something cathartic in hacking away at the overgrowth, and I quickly get lost in it.