The Lookoff

Gail always dreamed of living a life of carefree adventure. As a child, she drifted off in class at the thought of never having work of any kind hanging over her head with only new explorations on her docket. Of course, these dreams became too far out of reach after Gail realized her family barely resided in middle-class terroritory. So, instead, she dreamed of a life of moderate comfort and security. Her bills would be paid, her credit score would be top-notch, she’d own a sizeable house without a mortgage, and she promised herself that she would remain debt-free. After graduating from university with substantial student debt and a degree in the arts, Gail concluded that a future involving financial security was also unrealistic. Still, she’d continued hoping that a lump sum of cash would fall into her lap, enough to free her from her binding debts and troubles. But as she currently sits in a cushioned chair in a frigid office, opposite a lawyer, she never imagined cash would come to her this way.

“So, all-in-all, he has left you approximately $20,000,” the grey-haired lawyer discloses to Gail, who is taken aback by his estimate.

“But his business always seemed so busy before he died. That must be worth a lot of money,” Gail asserts her disbelief to the lawyer, who only shakes his head while looking at an open folder of loose papers.

“Your dad’s bakery seemed to have lost more money than gained in recent months,” the lawyer tells Gail solemnly. She nods in sudden understanding, sitting back in her chair.

“Well, that would be due to his gambling habits,” Gail begins, before furrowing her brows and scooting on the edge of her seat once more, “But what about the house? That has to be worth more than 20k”. The lawyer shakes his head once more, and Gail sighs in disappointment.

“The bank owns the house, Gail,” the lawyer discloses in a pitiful tone.

“That would be down to his gambling too. The man loved slots and horse races,” Gail replies in a saddened murmur.

“I’m sorry about all this,” the lawyer earnestly apologizes to Gail.

“How long do I have to move out the house before the bank forecloses on it?” Gail questions worriedly.

“They’ve already started the foreclosing process three months before your dad passed, so they’ll give you until the end of the week,” the lawyer retorts.

“Huh. And he never thought to inform me. But I guess I can’t get mad at a dead guy," Gail exclaims. She glares down at her hands, nail-bitten and ravaged after a week of planning multiple wakes and a funeral, comforting crying relatives and eating a tray full of tiny tuna sandwiches.

“You know, 20k is still more money than I ever had. Thank you, life insurance,” Gail tries to say enthusiastically as a joke, but the lawyer only continues to gawk at her with absolute pity.

“I’m sorry, Gail. I know how much he meant to you,” the lawyer finishes, closing the folder on his desk and effectively finalizing Gail’s week of mourning.

Gail somberly enters her home. The house is cluttered with items her dad and mom collected from many years before their demise. Christmas decorations, souvenirs from cheap motels, and dog-eared books with damaged spines occupy every surface area in the small home. The thought of having to pack her and her parent's lives away within the week overwhelms Gail, so instead, she sits down at a circular dinner table in minor defeat. Only a week prior, the house was filled with relatives, neighbours, and other locals checking in on Gail. They offered her their condolences in addition to trays of food, and they perpetually reminded her that it’s natural to shed some tears—something Gail neglected to do since her dad passed. Now, the house was empty, the sympathy cards stopped coming to her door each day, and daily phone calls of support were reduced to telemarketers. Gail’s time of mourning was over, and now she was expected to pack her grief away and move on, in addition to her entire childhood home she can only dwell in for one more week.

The black, leather-bound notebook that guests at Gail’s father's wake signed sits in the middle of the table and Gail becomes fixated on it. She opens it up, touching the pages with her fingertips, and looks at the messily inked messages from friends and family. Gail’s relatives that come from the same faraway village as her parent's sign “Do come visit us, dear,” and other similar open invitations that catch her eye. She twists her head to stare at a framed photo on the bookshelf of her parents in their windbreakers and sunglasses smiling on the edge of a gated lookoff that oversees the farmlands and beaches of the village they always complained about. Gail, as a small and rotund child, sits in between them in tears over something of unimportance. She can barely remember that trip, the only time they visited that town, but she remembers their disparaging remarks about the area. “Everyone knows your business” or “You can’t hide from anyone there”, they would tell Gail as reasons for not visiting. Feeling the looming emptiness of the house, Gail desperately wishes that someone was bothering her about her business now. She hastily gets up from the table and grabs the overnight bag in the closest with a spontaneous idea rattling around in her mind.

A bus stops at a small grocery store parking lot. Gail exits the bus carefully and gleefully. She gazes around at the small village in front of her that consists of one road with rows of houses on each side of it. Couples walk their dogs on the sidewalks, women in sunhats tend to their gardens, and crowds gather at the small businesses nestled into the community. A journey that took two days by train and then by bus, Gail feels relieved at the worthy and cozy destination before her. She takes out her father’s address book and saunters toward the small road beside the grocery store.

An older woman’s face falls into confusion and shock when she opens her screen door and sees Gail standing on her porch.

“Hi, Mary!” Gail greets the woman excitedly.

“Oh. Gosh. Gail! Are you here to spread your father’s ashes?” Mary curiously questions Gail.

“No. You were at his burial, Mary. He wasn’t cremated,” Gail divulges to Mary, who just shrugs in response.

“You go to so many funerals at my age that you forget who got cremated and who didn’t,” Mary replies with breathy laughter.

“I thought I’d come to visit the village for the first time in years. Seeing where my parents grew up, where they used to play, and—” Gail begins to say.

“You know, I have something in the oven and my stories are about to start, dear. Why don’t you come back another time?” Mary interrupts Gail sweetly. Before Gail can respond, Mary shuts the door and leaves her standing alone on her porch. She opens her father’s address book again and returns to the main road. Despite the invitations in the guest book, Gail finds that her family members in the village scowl at her unexpected presence. Gail’s second cousin Elma quickly shuts the door on her to get back to her tea, Gail’s great aunt Deidre frankly tells her she’s “not interested in visits”, and Gail’s uncle simply grunts “no” upon seeing her outside his door.

“It’s 4:30 on a Tuesday. Don’t you have a job or something?” Gail’s second cousin, Lacey, grouchily asks her. Gail, standing outside her house, wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand in exhaustion.

“I did have a job. Back home. But I hate retail, so I decided to come here instead,” Gail informs Cousin Lacey.

“You quit your job for me?” Cousin Lacey asks in shock, almost seemingly flattered at the gesture.

“No, I, uh, quit my job to visit the village so I could understand my parent's lives a bit more,” Gail discloses to Cousin Lacey, who looks bored at the explanation.

“How fun that you quit your job. But I really gotta get back to folding my laundry,” Cousin Lacey mumbles her excuse.

“Uh, could you at least tell me how to get to the lookoff? I exhausted all my familial options so getting to see the lookoff would be the next best thing,” Gail says with weary laughter. Cousin Lacey narrows her eyes at Gail and slowly shuts the door without a goodbye. Looking around the small neighbourhood, with one-story homes lining the area, Gail feels lost. She has nowhere else to go and feels ridiculous for pinning her hopes on her family that have all moved past the prior week of supportive mourning. She approaches the main road once more, walking past a pub with patrons holding beers in their hands on the patio and bellowing out hearty laughter. She watches a group of teenagers snickering at the elders huddled in a wool shop and gawks at the families sitting on wicker furniture on their porches. These scenes force Gail to grapple with her seclusion within a village so lovingly close-knit while aching loneliness begins to take hold in her chest.

Gail’s mindless walk takes her to a place very familiar. A wooden bench next to a cliff’s edge up ahead prompts Gail to hold her breath in hope and anticipation. As she gets closer, she sees the small village in its entirety from above the cliff and she knows she has found the beloved lookoff. A body of water can be seen from this area, and the farmlands Gail has not broached yet are also in view. Gail plops herself on the bench and looks at the glorious view ahead as the large orange orb in the sky is getting pulled down into the faraway ocean with each passing minute. Warm, plump tears unexpectedly tumble-down Gail’s face and a loud sob breaks free from her chest. She tightly embraces her small, overnight bag and rocks herself on the bench. She thinks of that image of her parents, arms lovingly wrapped around a crying young Gail in the same place she sits now. Her tears eventually stop falling and she regulates her breathing accordingly, sighing in relief at her visceral emotions. She did not think that surrendering to her grief would also induce feelings of such strange respite. Gail perks her head back up to stare at the falling sun, now completely out of view from the pink sky beginning to darken. She remains at the lookoff for a moment, trying to soak in the forgotten and lost moments she experienced here seemingly a lifetime ago.

Walking back to the grocery store parking lot to catch the next bus, Gail stops along the main road when she spots a “For Sale” sign on the edge of a lawn of a deserted and decrepit house. A man walks out of the decrepit home, slamming the unhinged screen door in anger.

“Is this home for sale?” Gail asks timidly.

“Yes, can’t you read the sign?” the man responds irritably.

“For how much?” Gail questions.

“$31k. Like I’ll ever sell this hunk of trash—”

“Will you take $20k?” Gail inquires, interrupting the angered man before he can finish his disparaging sentence. He widens his eyes at Gail, and he looks back at the house in shoddy condition behind him, and sighs.

“Sure. Why not? Let me go call my real estate agent,” the man responds to Gail’s slight offer and returns inside the home. Gail’s home. Or soon-to-be home.

Gail’s eyes consume the piece of real estate in front of her. A joyous smile touches her lips at her unplanned purchase, and despite her loans, worries and grief that still consume her, Gail looks upon her new home with optimism stirring inside her.