Edmond Dias side-eyes his only neighbour’s door as he calls the elevator. He first met them a month ago, as he was moving in. Their incessant questions about why he chose to move to Vancouver in the middle of a pandemic had put his guard up, and he does his best to avoid them since.

To think, his first choice for escape hadn’t been the other end of the country. It had been back to his family, in Sri Lanka. Once he started making tentative inquiries from his siblings and got an inkling of their idea of privacy, he gave it up quickly enough. Having been living in Canada for over thirty years, he had forgotten their entitlement to everything that is going on in one’s life.

The idea of Vancouver had been brilliant, he congratulated himself. He didn’t know anyone here.

He steps into the elevator, pressing the surgical mask firmly against his chin. Did the previous elevator users wear masks? Apprehension strangles his chest. The moment he steps out to the street, he starts to breathe deeply to claim back lung space lost to tension. One had to pay attention to one’s lung space, unlike before, because if this virus gets hold, it would the first organ affected.

There’s a particular quality to the grey hovering over Vancouver, a shade that straddles the blues and a threat. Its reflection on Burrard inlet makes the scene monochromatic. Beyond the marina, Stanley Park evergreens cluster anxiously like men under lockdown, and only a hint of the looming Cascades can be seen through the cloud overhang. Over the last month, he had only had a couple of days of the fabled Coal Harbour vista.

Edmond hurries towards his morning refuge of a coffee and a croissant.

The girl in the café reaches for the medium cup when she sees him, “The usual?”

Officially, he has become a regular with a usual breakfast and a usual place to eat it. He makes his way to the seawall, to the third bench from the corner with views across the marina all the way to the container terminal. The bright orange container cranes contrast garishly with the grey. Two punters from the rowing club, row out past the exposed tidal beaches of Deadman’s island. A lone jogger pants past him, maskless, making Edmond hold his breath. He is glad he hadn’t taken his mask out yet to start eating. Mostly, it’s peaceful at this time of the day, before the hordes come out for fresh air. After what he feels like sufficient time has passed for the jogger’s cloud of droplets to settle or get blown away in the breeze, Edmond takes out the mask and takes a sip of his coffee.

“Hello? Hello?” A plump man stops on the seawall to answer his ringing phone.

Edmond lets his eyes roam away from the man, willing himself to relax.

The man leans against the metal railing, the width of his tan jacket firmly blocking Edmond’s view, his voice loud and agitated as he chats in his language.

His language. Edmond feels the sliver of self-satisfaction that comes whenever he stops himself from naming things he doesn’t know. It was Dirk who enlightened him while still in grade school. “Dad, not every Asian is Chinese. We are blind to facial details in people different from us.” Edmond hadn’t liked Dirk’s tone, and he made sure the kid never talked down to him like that again. But afterwards, he had remembered how shocked he was when he realized his Canadian colleagues couldn’t tell the difference between him and people from India, who were so clearly very different from Sri Lankans, by their looks as well as by their behaviour and culture.

Longer the man chats, more extravagant his volume and animation become. Edmond turns away from his fat back towards the mountains, his irritation rising.

Then, to his horror, the man pulls off his KN95 mask.

“Sir! EXCUSE ME!” Edmond bellows, his body coiled, his foot itching to plant itself right between the man’s shoulder blades, to send him careening over the railing. The man turns, looking at him with unfocused eyes.

 “Put on your BLOODY MASK and MOVE!” Edmond gestures to the side.

The man’s eyes sharpen with comprehension, and he tilts forward in an apologetic bow before moving to the next bench.

Shaking his head, Edmond turns to face the marina again and takes his first bite of the croissant. Flakes melt on his tongue and the buttery aroma float up the roof of his mouth but instead of the familiar solace, unease blooms in his gut. Ruby’s call echoes from the previous evening, “Great that you are going out for breakfast, Edmond. You know, Phyllis started that coffee routine to help manage your COVID-stress?” He didn’t know. But apparently Phyllis had thought it was perfectly okay to keep her friend informed of it, and the fact that she thought he had COVID-stress, whatever the hell that is.

It disturbs him to think of his new routine as a recreation of his ‘European breakfasts’ with Phyllis. In his attempt to escape the Phyllis-spectres of Toronto, constantly triggered by reminders of their thirty-plus-years together and well-meaning friends whose sympathetic casserole drops and teary eyes glistening over masks, he had moved here. But is he still seeking comfort in a Phyllis-routine?

She had started the coffee thing partway last year. On random days, she would suggest driving down to Yonge and Rosehill for a ‘European breakfast,’ --an Americano and an almond croissant for her, a cappuccino and a plain croissant for him.

Stuck at home in a never-ending cycle of work and sleep, they needed a de-stressor she had said. And he had agreed. His study was a dark wood panelled purgatory compared to his bright, glass-encased corner office. Instead of his colleagues’ banter, all day he tried to shut out Phyllis’s zoom chatter seeping in through the closed door of his study. He couldn’t even drop by the office because his mild hypertension was an underlying condition, making him vulnerable to the virus’s worst effects. Driving out for coffee, sitting outdoors watching the seasons turn from spring, to summer, to fall, had brought some relief despite the deserted streets and masked pedestrians.

Edmond moves the ball of his right foot sharply against the edge of the concrete, to hurt-away the pain that builds up every time he thinks of Phyllis.

He is pulled out of his reverie as the man’s excited laughter reverberates around them. 

The effing imbecile. Edmond wants to get away. But he was there first. Why should he change his routine? Phyllis’s voice comes uninvited, “Don’t be so stogy, Edmond.”

Edmond settles his posterior more firmly on the seat, anger at the man abating as a new defiance takes its place. He is free to be as stogy as he pleases. And while he’s at it, might as well admit that if Phyllis was around, he would be stuck in the god-awful Toronto winter while she worked, lording it over him. He would be the pathetic chump who got booted out of his job right in the middle of one of their busiest consulting years for losing it a bit. Well, who wouldn’t, cooped up like that with the Damocles sword of this bloody virus hanging over their heads?

 To Edmond’s relief, the man hangs up. But instead of leaving, he sidles closer to Edmond’s bench.

“Sorry about earlier,” he grins, “I just got news. My son has escaped from Hongkong.”

Edmond looks at him blankly. The man nods vigorously, beaming.

“I was so afraid for him. But now he is safe in London. Escaped.”

Edmond thinks of Dirk, so far away. He understands the man’s relief, his infectious enthusiasm. Or perhaps it’s seeing another human being’s smile for the first time in months that makes Edmond smile back. He repeats, “Escaped?”

The man nods even more vigorously, “Yes, his friends’ setup a fake conference and got him to London. He just got there.”

“Why did he have to escape?” Edmond can’t help asking.

“He was on bail for protesting for people’s rights, and we were afraid what would happened to him after what’s happening to the two Michaels. China is not reasonable.”

Flashes of pro-democracy rioters clashing with Hongkong police come to Edmond. But all of it had been in the periphery. Phyllis had insisted they skip tv news to maintain their sanity, or as he now knows, to manage his stress.

“The Hong Kong riots last year?” Edmond asks.

“Protests,” the man corrects, his smile contracting ever so slightly. “Because China is going back on their promises. My son was putting his life in danger for the people’s rights. I am so happy he is safe.” He looks eagerly at Edmond to share his joy.

Edmond smiles, lifts the coffee cup in a farewell gesture, and starts to fish for his mask. He isn’t in a mood for political talk.

The man points to the opposite end of his bench, “Garbage here, by my bench.”

Edmond shakes his head, “No, I need to go.”

“Appointment?” the man asks.

“No.” There’s awkwardness once truth slipped out.

“Stay,” the man says. “It’s nice to be outside with rain letting up a bit. Nice to have some human connection.”

Human connection. That phrase grabs Edmond by the throat. Human connection has been a gradually widening chasm since Phyllis’s death, the badly lit faces and awkward calls only highlighting the loss. Edmond sits back, feeling magnanimous. If he can provide that all-elusive connection to this man, why not?

“You’re right,” he says. “It makes a difference talking to a live person face to face.”

“You feel it too? My family and friends, we all have problems. A bit of asthma, a bit of blood sugar. So, we only call. But it’s not the same,” the man shakes his head. “This is good. I am Angus Wu, by the way. That’s W-U, not W-O-O,”

“Nice to meet you,” Edmond says. “I am Edmond Dias.” This guy isn’t half bad. Perhaps a possibility as a Vancouver acquaintance? “Do you live close by?”

“Yes, that building.” Angus points to the blue and white building by the water.

“That must be nice.”

“Yes, like floating on water. Got it when it was first built in 98. I’d never be able to afford it now. But the good market value helped to make bail for my son.” Angus shrugs. “All gone now. But my son is safe.”

“Are you originally from Hongkong?”

“My grandfather was from the mainland. My wife too. She came for a conference in Toronto when Tiananmen square happened. Couldn’t go back because of her student activities. I met her at a human-rights talk for its anniversary. She felt strongly about things like that.”

Edmond had met Phyllis back in Sri Lanka, a fellow engineering batch-mate. But they didn’t start going out until after his first love gave him the boot because her Sinhala father didn’t want her involved with an Eurasian. Edmond found it funny coming from a landed peasant, considering his own ancestor was a Portuguese nobleman. Phyllis, a fellow Eurasian but of British descent, was everything he had wanted in a future partner. Well, almost everything.

“My wife would have been so proud of Mark.” Angus cuts into in reverie.

Edmond notes the past tense. “Your wife… she is no longer here?”

“She… she passed away in 2003, blood cancer.”

“I am sorry.”

“But she lived long enough to teach Mark to stand up for others. He is a very good writer,” Angus’s eyes flash with pride. “But he puts his body in the harm’s way too, taking part in protests. You have no children?”

“One son. But he is not a child. He is…,” Edmond wants to say 23, but he knows that is not right. That was Dirk’s age the year he left. “He is almost 30,” he says with a tinge of surprise in his voice.

Angus seems to hear it too, because he says, “Where does the time go? I am constantly surprised too. Mark turned 26 last year. Is your son here, in Vancouver?”

“He is in Da Nang, Vietnam, with three colleagues. They are programmers working from there for an American company. Digital nomads, they call themselves.”

“Ah!” Angus nods. “Digital nomads. Good. That’s good.”

It had not been good. Phyllis’s joy at Dirk’s first job and the eye-watering starting salary, her dreams of a house nearby full of grandchildren dissipating faster than it began with Dirk’s announcement of the plans to work from Asia. Phyllis’s shock and sorrow had made Edmond strike out at Dirk, breaking a decade old promise to her, and hastening Dirk’s departure. While Angus’s son puts himself on the line of fire to fight for others, Dirk had run from his most basic responsibilities in search of pleasure, breaking his mother’s heart. The realization settles in his stomach, an oblong piece of smooth granite weighing down his lower belly.

The two men stare out across the water in silence. A boat pulls out from its dock and glides east, its backwash merging with the wind ruffled waves leaving only a faint mark of its journey.

Edmond had left all the child-rearing to Phyllis. When their friends groused about the aimlessness of their children, she made sympathetic sounds but afterwards said, “If I left him to his devices, Dirk would be in the same boat.” But now he wonders if her focus should have been more balanced.

“My wife taught Mark to care about others. Even as a kid, he would make secret Santa packages for classmates he thought needed supplies. But I am afraid for his future, so much for others, not enough for himself.”

It’s as if Angus can follow Edmond’s train of thoughts.  Angus sighs. “But then, my father didn’t approve of my life either. He was a scholar, and my going into business was a personal insult. More money I made, more betrayed he felt. I try to remember this. But I wonder if we should have done things a bit differently.”

“I wonder that too.” There’s relief in admitting it.

“What do you do?” Angus peeps into his face.

“I am a civil engineer,” Edmond takes a deep breath and blows it out through pursed lips.

“Where do you work? Government?”

“I am retired.” Edmond says curtly. After he got booted, he had pretended to search for work but never sent out a single resume. After Phyllis’s death, he hadn’t seen the point of the pretence. In reality, they could have retired when they turned sixty. Phyllis, always the planner, had talked about it, selling their Rosedale house and buying a condo in the city so they can travel for part of the year while they still had their health. Why did they continue working? Habit? He wasn’t sure.

“Oh, I wish I could retire, but there’s that mortgage,” Angus shakes his head. “I used to dream of retiring, my son running the business, my wife and I travelling in China, visiting her village. All just castles-in-the-sky.”

After Phyllis’s death, that’s how Edmond had thought of it. “Our retirement dreams turned out to be castles-in-the-sky too.”

Angus turns his head sharply towards Edmond.

“My wife… she died last year.” Just like that, it comes out. Only the second time he said the words.

The first time was to Ruby. From the hospital. When he flailed about, not knowing what to do. Ruby had shown up and taken care of everything, leaving only the bills for Edmond’s care, proving Phyllis’s unwavering faith in her friendship.

“I am sorry. Was it COVID?” Angus furrows his brows.

Edmond shakes his head. His chest constrict as the searing pain in his foot starts again.

“But it was sudden.” Edmond’s voice sounds strangled to his own ears.

“That’s hard. I was thankful for having the time to look after my wife. Tell her everything I needed to say.”

Edmond takes a deep breath and tries to focus his eyes on the orange container cranes at the far end of the inlet. But it’s their Toronto kitchen he sees.

There’s the cherry red Le Creuset pot ready on the stove. There’s the recipe book clipped open to braised tofu. There’s the cutting board, chopped-up vegetables awaiting tofu and ginger he was supposed to bring. There’s Phyllis’s right heel flying up. Her left skidding forward. The shriek. Her body toppling back. Arms flailing. The dull thud of her head against the countertop. The white plastic grocery bag sailing down with nothing but tofu to weigh it down.

There’s Edmond, staring at the imprint of his right shoe at the back of Phyllis’s house slipper.

The paramedics tell him she had slipped on a bit of water.

Edmond snaps on his mask again. His right foot jiggles as the searing pain builds in the ball of his foot. But this time he can’t stop it. This time, it’s as if the thinly stretched membrane securing his feelings about Phyllis had finally been stretched beyond its elasticity. And with its rupture, five months’ worth of sorrow and guilt pore out, bringing him to his knees on the concrete by the bench.

Deepthi Atukorala is a graduate of The Writers Studio at Simon Fraser University and writes fiction and poetry. Pulp Literature and Passengers have welcomed her short stories. She has been shortlisted for Malahat Review Far Horizons Award for Short Fiction and Surrey International Writers Conference Short Story competition. Her poem Authentic Self won the 2021 Fox Cities Book Festival poetry competition. She was born and raised in Sri Lanka and makes her home in the unceded territories of Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh First Nations known as Vancouver, Canada.