Tied Down

For most of my childhood, my grandma, my aunt, my parents and I all lived in one big house in Ashwood, British Columbia, and though it was crowded, I loved being with all of them all the time. Though half-White, I was still the only Asian kid for hundreds of kilometres around, I had a weird name, and I had no one my own age to talk to. However, around the time I turned 12, my dad got a job in Ontario, and my parents moved to pretty much the other side of the country.

Without me.

They insisted they were doing it for my own good, that they didn’t want to disturb my development with a drastic change, nor force me to make new friends in a new city. But all I saw was me being left behind; Ontario probably wasn’t that different from BC, I thought. Plus, I was sure they knew damn well I didn’t even have any friends here. I couldn’t conceive the thought of ever being separated from my family; they were literally all I had. My whole life, my dad had been my favourite person on Earth. Sure, I was sad to be left by my mom too, but from him, it felt crueller, it felt like a betrayal. To top it all off, my grandma passed away shortly after, and my aunt wasn’t exactly the nurturing kind: she didn’t have children of her own, and clearly didn’t want any. Aunt Mai and I cohabited pretty well, but we didn’t communicate much; she had weird ways to pass things on to me. She never said anything directly and always expressed her opinions through cryptic metaphors, deep sighs and unbelievably long silences. There was a lot about me she didn’t like, and in her own way, she let me know. From then on, I didn’t fully feel at home in my own house, and I sure as hell didn’t feel in my place outside of it either. I was constantly miserable, and for a long time, I did nothing about it but blame my everlasting loneliness on my parents.

The summer after I turned seventeen, I slowly started replacing my ridiculous amounts of self-pity with a moderate amount of self-discovery and exploration. For all of my short life I had felt as though some important thing kept me tied down to Ashwood even though to most, it was pretty clear I didn’t belong. I kept thinking about how my mom had chosen this place for us to live, so she must’ve seen something great in it, right? Well, that summer, camera in hand, I spent every day and most of every night looking for whatever it was that Ashwood had to offer. That’s when I first found something I was actually good at, and that’s when I first met Emmanuelle.

The Faulkners lived in a red cottage-style house right across the lake from us, but for years, I never interacted with saw them nor with their children. One of their sons sometimes came over to our side: the lake wasn’t huge, and, on the summer’s hottest days, he often swam a few laps between our two houses. I knew his name was Emerson (we went to the same high school, though he was a year above), and I knew he could tell I was watching him when he would stop to sit on our shore and rest. He’d turn his head towards me infinitely slowly, as if he was giving me time to brace for eye contact, or time to run away before he could catch me in the window. But I always stayed right there, and we’d look at each other for only a couple of seconds before he jumped back into the water. I don’t know what he was doing, what we were doing, but I know I’d dream of him, of his straight nose, of his bruised knees and of the water droplets in his hair. I didn’t always dream of Emerson in that way, and sometimes I’d dream of complete strangers, but he was as good as any other stand-in for a companion in my fantasies of love and friendship.

On a fresh June evening, I saw two heads and two pairs of arms bobbing in and out of the water when I sat down by the living room window to read. As they got closer to our side, I recognized Emerson’s freckled back, and then I waited. He pulled himself out of the water and the second person, a seemingly younger girl but just as tall, soon followed. Her hair, tied in a ponytail, kept going and going down her back, and when she sat down next to her brother it rested against the grass and pebbles. Even with the setting sun and the darkness settling in, I could tell they had the same face, the same hands, the same smile. They talked for a couple minutes, laughed, and jumped back into the water before swimming home. Emerson must’ve known I was there, watching, waiting, but this time he didn’t play the game. Disappointed and angry for reasons I could not admit even to myself, I slapped my book shut and went up to my room.

Less than a week later, we got a pamphlet in the mail: there was a short film competition, organized by the town, accepting submissions from inexperienced filmmakers for another six weeks. A bunch of prizes were listed, but I didn’t even bother going through them: I was already completely seduced by the idea. The passion I had for movies had been passed down by my dad: from the moment I was old enough to go to theatres and sit still, he’d take me nearly every week. When I tried to casually mention it to Aunt Mai later that day, she didn’t waste any time shutting it down: she thought it was useless to try since I didn’t know what I was doing and I had barely ever touched my camera since the day it was gifted to me. She was right, but I still thought otherwise: wasn’t this the perfect project to throw myself into instead of being lonely, sad and bored all summer? Aunt Mai’s disapproval only fueled me further, and right after we finished eating, I went and dug my old camera from the box underneath my bed. I knew it was full of pictures of my parents and their old life, so I made sure not to look through the camera roll; I just checked it was still functional, taking pictures of my ceiling and filming myself in my mirror, and then set it on my bedside before going to sleep.

/ / /

It didn’t take too long for us to cross paths, but it’s only when we did that I realized I had been awaiting the moment. I spent almost an entire week walking around town with my camera around my neck, unable to come up with any good enough ideas for a film and attempting to, at the very least, find good locations to shoot in later on. One afternoon, after I’d given up for the day, I walked down to the side of the lake and started on the long way home, feet in the water. The lake was surrounded by houses and forest, so my path alternated between people’s backyards and dense patches of trees. As I went through a particularly rocky section of the shore, not far from my destination, I heard quick footsteps behind me.

“Got the leaflet too?”

I turned around, and there was Emerson’s sister. I was taken aback as I realized I had been entirely wrong in deciding they had the same face; her face was much sweeter, softer in all the places Emerson was sharp and frankly, a little scary. I didn’t understand what she had meant until I saw the camera in her hand. I looked down at mine, then back up at her.

“Uh… yeah,” I said, my voice trembling as many times as humanly possible in a single word. The silence hung heavily between us. I wanted to run away but I forced myself to stay anchored.

“Nice camera,” I added weirdly, way too quickly, but she smiled a genuine smile, with the teeth and all. I relaxed.

“I know, right? It’s Emmett’s. My brothers both thought the contest was lame so he let me borrow it.”

Emmett… The eldest child, I assumed; I’d never seen him at school or anywhere in town. Does he have her pretty green eyes or grey ones like Emerson? I chased the question from my head, and she kept talking.

“Turns out I truly suck! I don’t think I’m going to get anything good done by the deadline. Mind showing me what you’ve got?”

So many words. I had never spoken to this girl, yet there she was, casually making conversation and asking to see my stuff? I was confused and felt awkward, but she was right there and seemed nice enough; I couldn’t just say no.

“Sure,” I huffed hesitantly, and we sat down together on a sawed tree trunk. I turned on the camera and showed her some pictures and short clips of places I wanted to incorporate in my film. We stayed in complete silence, and while she looked at the small screen, I looked at her. Her eyelashes were the lightest shade of blonde, almost transparent, and she has the tiniest of freckles all over her forehead and down her nose.

“You’ll have to teach me,” she finally said, looking up. “These are amazing.”

“Thank you." I tried to answer in a friendly manner, but I could tell it came out a little cold. Would she think I was stuck-up? I didn’t really know how to be nice: I had never needed to. I also had no idea what to say or do next, so I just gave her a nod and stood up. Was I supposed to wait for her, or continue the talking? My head was starting to hurt from overthinking so much, so I just started walking.

“Hey, wait up! I just got a brilliant idea.” She jumped up and walked up to me. “What if we did this together? Like I said, I’m having absolutely no luck with this thing,” she added.

“This… You mean the movie?” I asked, stupidly.

“Yeah! You handle all the actual camera stuff, and I could help write a script. Plus, it might be nice to actually have another person in your film, right?”

Much to my confusion, her eyes were sparkling; she was getting excited about this. She was right: I was well aware I couldn’t make my project as perfect as I envisioned it without some help. But a voice more powerful than logic made itself heard in my head: I was way too scared of rejection to let someone in so fast.

“But… You don’t even know me.” It was the first thing I thought to say, but as soon as it came out I knew it had sounded rude. Still, she wasn’t phased; she simply held out her hand for me to shake it.

“Well, here. I’m Emmanuelle.” She looked so much like her brother with that smirk on her face… I wasn’t sure why noticing that instantly made me feel blush. I shook her hand.

“Claude,” I basically whispered. She was beaming.

She walked me home.

/ / /

Befriending Emmanuelle Faulkner did not go the way I thought it would, far from that. I don’t remember exactly how it started, but towards the middle of the summer, Emmanuelle and I were doing exactly what I had dreamt of for so long, with so many people: holding hands at all times, stealing kisses whenever we could, laying down in the sun to read, limbs tangled. We worked on the movie every day, but we mostly did other things. She’d drag me to swims in the lake, take me to all the little diners I had never bothered eating at, and even got Emerson to drive us out to more interesting neighbouring towns on multiple occasions. Needless to say, sitting in a tiny car with the two of them within reach provoked strange feelings that I did not want to question in the pit of my stomach. She was undoubtedly what I had been waiting for, the missing link. Watching her live made me feel more alive than ever before: she had so much joy, infinitely many passions, and just as many stories to tell, and that was all obvious in everything she did. More than anything, she had a family, and she managed to make me feel like it was mine too. Whenever we had to spend some time apart, she would text me like her life depended on it, and our conversations were just like in real life (lots of messages on her end, mostly monosyllabic answers on mine). However, her physical presence was unmatched: I still found myself missing the static feeling there was always between us, and the shivers I’d get all over whenever we came in contact.

We won third place in the short film contest, and against all odds, Aunt Mai actually came to the city hall for the screening. As we walked out of there, I couldn’t take my eyes off Emmanuelle, a radiant smile plastered on her face as she looked down at our prize certificate. I had never felt something similar before, so it took me a long time to recognize the feeling I was basking in as one of pure satisfaction. Looking back, I feel I should’ve closed my eyes, right there on the city hall steps, and enjoyed it for just a second longer because a moment later, it was gone. Aunt Mai, who I hadn’t noticed was taking a call, tapped my shoulder and handed me her cellphone. Even though it had been years, I instantly recognized the voice; it was nearly the same as my own.

“Claude? Is this you now?”

My dad didn’t sound as bored as I remembered. There was a pep in his voice that, for a second, made him sound excited to talk to me. I only hummed in response, not finding it in me to come up with words.

“Ok, well, hum, there’s no right way to do this. I know you’ve called many times, but you know how busy life can get. Your aunt just told me all about the movie you made… I wanted you to know I’m so, so proud of you,” he said in what seemed like a sincere manner. I couldn’t tell, and I hated him for diminishing my longing for a family to just a couple of unanswered phone calls, so I just hummed into the phone again.

In reality, I wanted to turn to my aunt, throw the phone at her, scream at the top of lungs.

“I get it if you don’t want to talk to me, I really do. I should’ve called before, and I probably should’ve been here today to see all this. I’m very sorry. I hope you can forgive me. I just want what’s good for you, and the work… Well, the work here is exactly that; it’s good.” I didn’t hum.

I realized then that despite the 5 years that had passed, my father was exactly the same he had been when he lived here with me. It didn’t matter what was nice or not to do, or that my feelings were deeply hurt by half a decade of silence. He truly believed what he was saying was good, that what he was doing was the best way to proceed, and nothing would ever make him sway. Perhaps noticing how tense I was getting, Emmanuelle gently took my free hand in hers, her face still turned away from me to signal she wasn’t eavesdropping on the conversation. In that instant, I felt I was in love with her.

“Anyways, I’m glad to hear you’re okay. And I hope you’ll make more movies. I always knew it would be something special for you. I’m so proud.”

Hearing him repeat that last sentence angered me beyond belief, but I didn’t bother answering. I didn’t need him to be proud of me, and I wouldn’t need nor wait for his approval ever again. I was proud of myself, and that was plenty. I tried to remember the satisfied state of mind I had found myself in only minutes ago, and I fought, racked my brains hard to try and find it again while he rambled on with meaningless pleasantries. I didn’t want him to hang up on me only to leave me in the dark for another five years. Or maybe it would be even more this time. I wanted to be the one cutting ties this time, so I started walking. Fast. Emmanuelle, still holding my hand, followed without question, and we made our way down the little hill, only to land right by the beloved lake. I looked down at the phone’s screen, my father’s voice growing fainter and fainter, and before my aunt had even noticed my little escape, her phone was sent flying. We had spent some time practicing our ricochets, Emmanuelle and I, but that’s not what I went for when I threw it; I simply leaned back and put all of my strength into it; she gasped loudly. And then I laughed, and she did too.

In that instant, I knew I was in love with her.

When the phone disappeared into the water, meters away, it’s like my father drowned with it. It’s like a thin veil was lifted from the air around me, and all that was left was my body, my fingers interlaced with the ones of someone I didn’t ever want to let go, and something like happiness.