Her Better Half

Dovercourt Village, TorontoOne year later Istood back from the moving truck and took a long look at my half of the semidetached house that would be our new home. If it had any redeeming features, I couldn't see them. The place was old. Tired. Though I'd had the structure inspected and been assured of a dry basement and sound roof, the house looked as if a strong gale would send it toppling. Even the lawn and few scraggly shrubs appeared in need of resuscitation. How was I going to make this place a home, a welcome sanctuary from the world for my girls and me? The task seemed impossible. I felt lost. Ever since Gary had left, I'd been losing little bits of myself. They disappeared along with the people who had once constituted my world: my husband, our mutual friends, my in-laws and even my own parents. None of my relationships had emerged from this divorce intact. And now my home was gone, too. I sighed as I pulled out the envelope of cash for the mover. He accepted payment, handed me a receipt, then took off. I wished I could do the same. Toronto was a city of neighborhoods. Where you lived said a lot about you. My previous home in Rosedale had announced that I was part of the Toronto establishment--wealthy, privileged and entitled to the best the city had to offer. This house, in this neighborhood, said blue-collar worker, unconnected, struggling to get by. Those were hardly labels to aspire to. But a place in Dovercourt Village had been all I could afford within a reasonable distance of my daughters' private school. Unfortunately, Gary and I had never been savers. We'd piled all his salary into our house and our extravagant lifestyle. So here I was. Or, more accurately, here we were. The new family unit--me, Devin, Jamie...that was it. Just the three of us now. I brushed dust from my hands and headed for the front door. It was original to the house, too, protected by an ugly screen door. I'd have loved to rip the screen off, but maybe we'd need the extra insulation when winter came. Inside, the foyer was so small it could hold no more than a couple people at the same time. With just two steps, I reached the stairs that led to the second story. I was heading for my bedroom, when I heard the doorbell. Had the mover forgotten something? I retraced my steps and opened the door. An attractive, but hard-looking young woman and a little girl stood on the front porch. "Hi, I'm Erin Karmeli and this is my kid, Shelley. Welcome to the neighborhood." She slapped the wall that divided our two houses. "I'm your new neighbor." I supplied her with my name and a smile that, despite my best efforts, must have looked hesitant. Six months later, I would look back on this moment, on this first impression, and see Erin in a completely different light. Right now, though, I took in only a tall, thin woman with an improbably large bust displayed to advantage in a bright red tank top. Erin had striking, angular features, and wild, curly dark hair. Add in the miniskirt and high heels and there was no disputing what she looked like. Just my luck. I've moved next door to a prostitute. But there was the child to consider, a little girl about six years old, holding Erin's hand and gazing curiously down the hall at the stacked cardboard boxes. The girl had neat blond hair, wore clean denim overalls, and smelled--when I crouched to say hello--of toothpaste and sunscreen. My mothering instincts approved on all counts. "Are you in grade one, Shelley?" She nodded, then said, "We made cookies." Erin brushed a hand over the little girl's shoulder. "That's right. We did. We thought you might like to take a break and come for some iced tea on our porch." She watched as I brushed my bangs from my forehead. My fingers came away tacky with sweat. No air-conditioningCarmichael, C. J. is the author of 'Her Better Half', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373881093 and ISBN 0373881096.