Chapter 1
“Clara, when are you going to play again?”
Biting her lip, the woman shifts and taps her pen on the desk in front of her. She shifts a bit, adjusting the angle of the phone pressed against her ear. “We’ve talked about this, Mom.”
A pause on the other side of the phone and then a small sigh. “I know. It’s just been so long, and I was listening to your old recordings. You didn’t sell the cello, right?”
Clara shakes her head and then remembers that her mother can’t see the gesture over the phone. “Of course not,” she answers, forcing herself not to get annoyed. A quiet sigh escapes her mouth. “I’ll start playing soon. I’m just busy doing other things. Adjusting.”
Her mother continues. “You could come adjust back in Vancouver, you know. You don’t need to be on the other side of the country. There are lots of nice young men in Vancouver, too. Maybe a boyfriend would make you happy.”
It takes a significant amount of effort to keep from scoffing. Clara smiles a little, doodling a tiny flower on the pad of sticky notes next to her computer. “I make myself happy,” she teases. “I’m enjoying being an independent woman. Men in Vancouver would be just as disinteresting as the men here. I promise.”
Her mom laughs, but it’s an awkward half laugh. Clara’s face falls a little. She adds a stem and several leaves to the flower and then a pot. Eventually, her mom starts speaking. “I’m sure you like the quiet there—”
“I do,” Clara adds.
Her mom sounds deeply irritated. “Well, that’s all well and good, but Port Murmure is so small—” She breathes in sharply, and Clara has to hold the phone a little bit away from her ear to cut the shrill tone of her mom’s voice. “I mean, can you really function on your own? I didn’t think you’d be alone out there. I never thought your aunt would—”
Clara cuts that one off quick. “It’s been a year, mom. I’ve been living by myself for a while now. I’m not a child. I’ve gotten used to everything. You know that.”
“Well, honey, I’m sure,” her mother moves on, and Clara starts to zone out. She always does this. “But wouldn’t it help to have a boyfriend to help with your…situation?”
“Not right now,” Clara replies cheerfully, pretending she doesn’t know what her mom means. “Men would just distract me from my work, and I’m trying to save money so I need to be working.”
A sigh from the other end. “Clara—”
Pressing a button on the phone dock to activate a beeping sound on her mom’s end, Clara makes an excuse. “Sorry, mom, gotta run. There’s someone on the other line and it’s probably for work! Love you. Bye!”
“Oh, love you, hun. Stay sa—”
Clara hangs up the phone. Breathing a sigh of relief, she leans her forehead into the desk.
Clara knows her mom tries, of course. Trying, however, sometimes becomes too much.
Cara’s mother’s worry about her wheelchair-bound daughter isn’t unfounded. Clara knows she has it harder like this, but the idea of a boyfriend toting her around and treating her like porcelain is far worse than the effort of doing everything herself. She finishes up writing her references for her article and rolls back the wheels of her wheelchair. She turns one of them, propelling herself toward the outdoors.
Once to the screen door, Cara fishes the remote out of her pocket and finds the button for the garden door. Pushing it, the door glides open, and she rolls over the slight bump in the opening and out onto the smooth marble patio. Once out, she rolls to the hose and grabs it off the hook by the wall it’s hanging on. When she turns it on, she rolls around to one half of the garden on the edge of the marble before pulling the handle and starting the flow.
Rocking her knees back and forth a little, she watches the horizon while absentmindedly watering her plants. Morning sunlight on the water makes everything glow, and she shivers a little under the breeze. When Clara breathes in, the air tastes saltier than usual. The taste of it lingers on her tongue, making her heart swell.
With this area watered, she wheels back across the patio and waters the honeysuckle. The breeze hits her again, and she rolls down the sleeves of her jacket. Ah, spring. She tilts her head up once more, staring beyond the patio to the small hill beyond and then the sea.
There’s not much terrain on the hill, just grass and sparse bushes that fall off into sand as they descend into the Northumberland Strait. It’s just the far edge of the strait—it’s mostly Atlantic ocean here. Far off, all the way on the point, Clara can hear kids playing.
Her mother probably thinks she’s got the mind of an old woman. Clara can’t even deny that, but it’s not because of the muscular sclerosis. It started developing in her late teens. At first, it was just chronic pain that took her supply of Advil down. In the next few years, however, it became harder and harder to walk and function. Eventually, the pain of it became too much, and she switched to a wheelchair. That was in the last semester of graduate school, and she’d put it off far too long before that.
Being alone makes Clara feel self-sufficient, but she’d be lying if she tried to say it wasn’t at all related to being nervous about how ex-classmates and peers in Montreal would treat her differently with her change in mobility. Being the token friend or the one who drags people down with their disability isn’t a good feeling. In Port Murmure, no one’s really like that. They’re all too busy worrying about their lives and Nova Scotia’s plummeting economy.
As long as Cara can remember, she’s liked being alone. Sure, interaction is nice. When it comes down to it, however, there’s something valuable about separation. Wheelchair or not, she’ll always prefer staying at home with her plants and cooking for one than going to some big gala.
Not that people invite her to galas these days, but that’s mostly her fault. She left her peers, most of her career, and her beloved orchestra back in Montreal. Nova Scotia is mostly known for its fishing and shipbuilding, not a thriving music and entertainment industry.
That’s fine. She doesn’t play these days, anyway. It’s much less stressful to make money writing her articles and reviews of musical scores. Just because her cello is gathering dust doesn’t mean she’s lost the strength of her master’s degree in music theory.
Returning inside, she uses her remote to close the door. It’s lucky Clara’s aunt left the house to her, as well as a sum to outfit it with accessibility tech. Lauren Summers never really jived with the other members of the family, which is probably why Clara fit in so well with her. Solitary people sometimes seek other loners. Of course, none of this could really be called lucky.
Her aunt invited her here to stay and then passed away almost immediately. Cara didn’t even know she was sick. Aunt Lauren just told her she could have all her things. After all, she never married or had kids, so there weren’t a lot of people to pass it on to, and Clara’s mother certainly wouldn’t want to live all the way out here.
Clara cooks breakfast and rolls back to her room to get dressed. Shakily standing and sitting on the bed when needed, she gets dressed. It’s not like her legs don’t work at all—she just can’t stand on them for any significant amount of time without weakness or severe pain, confining her to her wheelchair. Staring into the bathroom mirror, she pulls at her cheek.
Her skin is rosy, warm-toned with a soft, orange glow. She grabs the comb, pulling it gently through shoulder-length, hazelnut locks. Combing the straight hair to one side of her shoulders, she sighs.
Cara’s not unattractive. However, not all men can see past her mobility issues, and if they do, it’s usually because they want to exploit what they see as weakness for their sort of protective fantasy. It’s fetishization of her disability. But even those cases aren’t popular. Most guys are just worried she can’t have sex right and don’t even bother to ask her if that assumption is true.
Around mid-morning, the doorbell rings. Rolling to the front entryway, Cara taps the unlocking code on the inside of the door and presses a remote button. This door opens on its. Outside the door stands Alice, a thin, stick-like woman.
Blond hair pulled into a messy braid and tossed over one shoulder, Alice shifts from foot to foot nervously.
“Hey,” Clara says warmly as she rolls back, welcoming her in. Alice steps inside, cautiously drifting her hand over the polished doorframe as she enters. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I just turned in a piece for a deadline,” Alice murmurs, smiling. She closes the door and leans against it. “I was craving of company after all that typing.”
Clara’s eyes brighten. “Oh, that’s fantastic! What was this one about?”
Biting her lip, Alice grins. Her expression relaxes quickly as she speaks passionately. “This one was an intense western romance. A cowboy on the run from the law visits his childhood sweetheart. She’s hesitant at first, but the two grow together—the cops are still chasing him, and she gets all roped up in it.”
“That sounds fantastic. You have to let me read it when it’s published,” Clara demands. “I want a copy.”
Alice smiles. “You always want a copy.”
“Why are you really here?” Clara asks, raising an eyebrow. “Do you want to get coffee in town?”
Sighing in relief, Alice nods. “Yes. I didn’t want to go on my, so—”
“I know you well enough to know that.” Clara smiles and wheels herself out the door. Once Alice follows, she closes and locks it. “You drive, though. I’m not in good shape to stand today and get myself into the front seat.”
Alice helps Clara into the car and they travel downtown. They get out at a coffee shop, and Alice holds the door open as Clara rolls her wheelchair in. At the counter, the male barista is looking at a TV screen on the wall. Clara follows his stare.
The video is of an apartment filmed from below. In the apartment, police look out from an open window. “—two weeks ago in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. The victim in question was a female shifter, age twenty-four. The information has been kept to the investigation until now. The police are identifying her boyfriend, twenty-five-year-old Mr. Walker, as a primary suspect, but as of now, his whereabouts are unknown. Individuals in the areas of New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, and northern Maine area are advised to practice caution around individuals of unknown shifting status—”
The barista turns off the TV, shaking his head. “Enough of that. Much too depressing to dwell on this fine day.” He turns to Clara and Alice. “What would you young ladies like?”
Snapping back to reality, Clara blinks her eyes back to him after reluctantly pulling them from the darkened television screen. “I’ll have an Americano with hazelnut flavoring, please.” She smiles politely. “Don’t bother leaving room for cream.”
Alice takes the bill as usual, despite Clara’s protests. Clara can’t really blame her—Alice’s romance work is renowned, and her paychecks aren’t small. It’s a good thing Alice is successful as an author because she is so anxious that Clara can’t imagine her working any job that would require her to speak to people.
Frankly, Cara is surprised that Alice even agreed to go out with her. Her friend is so constantly anxious that she only ever really leaves her house to send mail, buy groceries, and visit Clara, but even that isn’t as often as Clara would like.
They sit at the table and talk for a while. Clara listens to Alice talk about her book and her ex-fiancé and the things Alice usually talks about. She’s not very good at articulating what she means, but Clara loves her anyway. They became fast friends a year ago when Clara first moved to Port Murmure before her aunt died. Alice is a little weird and sometimes standoffish, which is likely why she and Alice click. Weird people are like magnets for each other. Clara knows the fact that Alice likes her feels is a big compliment. Ever since Alice’s fiancé booked it out of town a few years after telling her he found her boring and hard to handle, the blond woman’s self-confidence has been totally shot.
Eventually, Alice drives her home. Clara takes the time to water the plants at the front of her house and wheels herself up the ramp to her front door and then inside.
Once alone, the wooden floors and sparse furniture feel lonely. Is it a problem? After all, Clara likes being alone. She’s never had luck with men, even before her muscular sclerosis. She knows she’s quiet and not all that friendly, although it isn’t intentional. Aw, hell, it’s not just men, it’s everyone. Even friends are a little hard to come by, even when she wants them. She’s visually pretty, sure. Pretty isn’t everything.
She’s not like Alice, who would rather gut herself than have many friends or date again. Clara wants that. It’s just that there’s no one who meets her standards. Even if there was, what would she say? How would she trust them? Would they understand the complexities of her experience without infantilizing her or treating her like a chore or some piece of fine china?
Rolling through the living room, she stares out the wide windows of her house toward the sea. Clara’s breath gets stuck in her throat, and she swallows. Slumping a little, she pulls herself out of the wheelchair and transfers to the recliner.
Curling into herself as much as she can without pain, she stares at the ocean, lit by midday sun. The water looks true blue like this, fading to reflective white near the horizon. Clara pretends for a moment that she can see creatures under the surface. She pretends that the darker spots of blue in the water are stingrays or shoals of fish, as if either of those would be common here.
Eventually, she falls asleep, head falling against the side of the recliner and hair fluffing out around her.
Clara dreams of music. She dreams of the smooth wood of the concert hall under foot and the way the orchestra chairs felt. Under her hand, paper rustles. She runs her fingers over the pages, pointer finger following a crescendo. The feeling of her instrument, the weight of it, calms her. In the dream space, she drops below the surface of melody and falls somewhere safe, where she’s hidden within the string section.
When she wakes from her nap, the evening sun is burning her eyes orange. Raising a hand, she covers her face. It stings her skin, making her uncomfortable. She feels drool on the side of her mouth.
Transferring painfully to her wheelchair, she turns from the window. Clara starts to wheel to the kitchen, but her brain stays behind in the dream. Why am I going back to this again? It’s probably because her mother brought it up.
Drawn to the other room, she wheels to her study. Going to the closet, she struggles and opens the huge cello case. A shiver runs through her body. Biting her lip, she reaches out and drifts her fingers over the polished wood and strings. She picks up the bow, giving it an experimental slide.
It’s so out of tune, Clara flinches. The sound winds into her, and she immediately replaces the bow and closes the case. She struggles and puts it back where it belongs, closing the closet. Once it’s away, she feels safer. With the instrument out of sight, Clara tries to put it out of mind.
It doesn’t work. She fixates—she misses playing—she misses the music—she misses composing. Sure, music criticism keeps her brain occupied and still within the realm of her art but not the realm of her heart.
It’s not her fault she stopped playing. OK, it is her fault, but it’s more complicated than she would describe to anyone.
What needs to be changed for her to get back to music? What would need to happen to allow her to play again, to face the thing she loves most?
It isn’t that she physically can’t play. It’s a mental can’t. Clara knows she can play, but every day makes her more afraid to deal with how rusty she’ll be when she eventually tries. If she messes up playing now, everyone will pity her. They’ll all think, Oh, we predicted it. It’s OK, Clara. No one expects you to play as well.
The thought makes her want to break down. If she really can’t play right, it’ll be her fault—not the fault of her disability. To know that people expect her to fail even when she knows she’s capable keeps her away—keeps her bow from the instrument.
Hell, even if she plays well, people will pin it on her illness. They’ll congratulate her for being brave and for being an inspiration to disabled people everywhere, not understanding that there’s nothing about Clara’s specific disability that should really make playing dramatically harder. Clara’s worked for her whole life to play this instrument the way she can. The idea of that accomplishment being minimized by her disability hurts.
Rolling back and sitting in the middle of her empty, sunset-lit study, Clara presses a hand to her face, covering her eyes and slowly breathing in and out. She won’t cry. That’s not her style. This isn’t worth crying over. The past overwhelms her, taking her emotions down with it in a big wave. Clara pulls closer to herself.
Backing out of the study, she goes to the kitchen and grabs a wine bottle from the fridge. Pouring it into a glass, she takes a big gulp. Ignoring as much of her experience of emotion as she can, she pulls out the cheese and bread, cutting them up and eating them with the wine.
Cara only drinks enough to take the bite of her feelings off at first. The more the sting starts to fade, the less of the bottle she finds there is. She’s not an alcoholic. She’s just…occasionally avoidant, that’s all. It’s not a problem yet. Thinking about the issue just makes her feel bad, so it’s better not to think at all.
Once the sun sets, leaving her house dark and shadowed in blue, Clara calls it a night. In her bedroom, she pulls off her clothing and puts on pajamas before crawling into bed. When sleep and exhaustion and a half-drunk headache pull her back into dreams, they aren’t of music.
Hours later, she wakes to the quiet beeping of the remote on her dresser. Shifting in bed, Clara reaches for the plastic item and stares at it. The tiny light next to button C, the one corresponding to the patio door, is flashing red. Her stomach lurches. That means the door is open.
Clara stops breathing. Staying completely quiet, she listens for noise outside of her open bedroom door. Somewhere in the living room, there’s someone stepping on floorboards. Immediately, her heart hammers in her chest even harder. There’s someone inside the house.
Call the police? She left her phone is in the kitchen after making dinner. Clara tries not to panic. She needs to think rationally. What can she do?
Her wheelchair will be too loud on the tiled kitchen floor. If she can stand at all, it wouldn’t be for long. It would be a miracle if she could get to the kitchen undetected.
Slipping out of bed and into her waiting wheelchair, she sticks the remote in the pocket of her pajama pants. As careful with the wheels as she can be, she slowly rolls into the hallway. It’s wood floor all the way into the main area of the living room. To the left, near the kitchen and the front door, it becomes tile. She’ll have to walk from the edge of the hallway to the kitchen and hope not to be caught. She wished she could send for help from her computer, but the study can only be accessed from the other side of the living room.
Biting her lip, Clara summons strength and rolls her wheelchair down the hallway.
When she reaches the beginning of the living room, she sees him—a man, too dark to identify properly, lying on her couch. He’s breathing in soft, snoring wheezes. Oh, thank God. The patio door is closed now, too, but the lock looks broken.
There’s not supposed to be crime here. This is a small town. Why is an unfamiliar man in her house?
Wheeling as far as she can, right to the edge of the tile, Clara struggles to stand. Moving to the counter, she moves with wobbly, pained steps toward her phone. Once she gets there, she leans her elbows against the counter and opens the lock screen. Clara shakes, body too weak for this even on a good day. She types in a number.
A hand grabs her wrist before she can push call, yanking it away. “Don’t. Let me explain—”
His voice is deep and quiet, vibrating through Clara’s whole body. Her heart thumps out of her chest, screaming for fight or flight. There’s no flight—she can barely stand, and she can’t run with him holding one of her arms. Fight takes over and her hand latches onto the kettle on the stove nearby.
The next moment feels like an out-of-body experience. Throwing her arm forward, Clara hits the strange man in the head with the metal teakettle. He yells, dropping her wrist, and she struggles back with shaking legs.
Her body’s too weak. Legs falling from underneath her, she drops onto her ass with a yelp. The man doesn’t seem to notice or care. Gurgling, he buries his face in his hands and groans. He stumbles back into the island in the middle of the kitchen, bending over himself and screaming in pain.
Horrified, Clara watches fur burst from his skin. His limbs get bigger, seeming to melt into each other as he becomes a larger form. Hyperventilating, Clara tries to get away, pulling herself back. She tries to struggle to her feet to no avail. The man becomes a monster in front of her eyes, and a wild growl comes out of his mouth.
Shifter. Her brain feeds her an explanation, but it’s not an answer or an escape. Bear shifter.
Looking up, she watches the creature’s head bump against the high ceiling of her kitchen, making two of the hanging lamps spark and shatter as they fall. Sleek white fur and huge paws fall back onto the ground, shaking her plates and freezing her in her bones.
The polar bear lurches toward her. Before she knows it, it swipes her to the left with one huge paw, and her body goes flying, hitting the sliding glass door. The glass cracks, some of it shattering down on top of her. Her vision lurches, and it takes a moment for her head to start hurting. A warm sensation stings her shoulder and arm.
When Clara groans, twisting a little, something snaps. The sound of the bear growling seems far away but not far enough. Even as she drops out of consciousness and into painful dreams, the speed at which her heart thumps in her chest doesn’t slow.