Page 17

I PULL MYSELF TOGETHER, but I can’t be expected to write now. My creativity has been extinguished by the toxic muck seeping into the crevices in my brain. And I’m exhausted by the emotional breakdown. I feel assaulted, battered and bruised, and yet the dark temptation to read the online vitriol tugs at me. I should get out of the apartment, fill the day with something positive and healthy.

Vancouver is one of the most scenic cities on earth, glass high-rises set against a backdrop of sparkling blue ocean and majestic mountains. It is lush and green, and this time of year there’s a veritable assault of vivid spring flowers. But there is menace here, too, a dark underbelly. Illegal drugs flow through the massive port, causing an opioid epidemic that kills up to seven people each day. An affordable housing crisis has led to homelessness, tent cities, and extreme poverty. And like the rest of the world, Vancouver’s mental health has suffered from the stress and isolation brought on by the pandemic. Still, the natural beauty of this place never fails to soothe me.

A walk in Pacific Spirit Park, the huge swath of woods bordering the city, would fit the bill. The health benefits of shinrin-yoku (Japanese for “forest bathing”) are constantly cycling through my Instagram feed: decreased anxiety, increased creativity, boosted immunity. But a woman on a solo jog was murdered in the park years ago, and no woman I know will go in alone. Even the most peaceful, beautiful places can be dangerous.

The beach is another option, but I’m bound to bump into someone I know along the popular stroll. My neighborhood has a reputation for being snobbish, but I’ve always found it to be warm and inclusive. In my little pocket, it’s almost too friendly. I can’t run to the shops or go for a stroll without bumping into someone I know. And I can’t make pleasant small talk right now. I can’t field the ubiquitous questions: How’s the book doing? How are sales? Or my all-time favorite: When’s the movie coming out?

I could go in to school today even though it’s my day off. I could catch up on paperwork, lose myself in the hubbub and chaos of teen life. But my colleague Daniel, a support teacher, uses my office when I’m not there. Our public school is bursting at the seams, and there’s a shortage of space for one-on-ones. I’d be taking the room away from kids who are struggling academically so I could faff about with admin tasks meant only to distract me.

I decide to clean the apartment, though it’s practically spotless. Housework is a go-to method to allow my ideas to percolate, my stories to solidify. It’s also a highly effective means of procrastination. Pulling the vacuum from the closet, I’m about to turn it on when I hear the familiar bing of my laptop set up in the office. A new email.

It won’t be anything that can’t wait until I’m done with this chore. It doesn’t take long to clean 850 square feet of hardwood. But then I hear it again. And again. And again.

Bing… Bing.… Bing…

Hurrying into the small office, I sit in my rolling chair and click the mouse. My email pops up on-screen. There are no new messages in my personal account. And then I look at my author account: 14 new messages. Oh no…

I open the first one, my heart lodged in my throat.

Camryn Lane, you’re a cowardly piece of shit! You can’t handle readers posting the truth about the way you exploited kids in your garbage book, so you tried to rat us out! Someone’s going to find you and slaughter you like the animal that you are!

I move on to the next one, naively hoping for something more positive. Nope.

YOU SHOULD DIE, BITCH! I HOPE YOU GET CANCER!!! YOU’RE SO FUCKING UGLY, INSIDE AND OUT.

The next one reads:

I will find out where you live, and I’ll do too you what you did to those teenagers psyches. It’s called rape you sick fuck! Your no better than a pedophile.

I’m desperate to reply:

I would never exploit the kids I work with. I’ve done nothing wrong. Learn to spell and leave me the fuck alone!

But I can’t. Both Olivia and Janine told me not to respond, not to engage, but my silence has done nothing to quell the online abuse. While lashing out might feel good and righteous, I know it wouldn’t last. The endorphins would quickly leave me, and I’d feel even more jittery, vulnerable, and afraid. These trolls are all talk, I assure myself. They’re not really going to come for me. And even if they wanted to, no one knows where I live. They can’t find my physical location.

Can they?

On autopilot, I return to the front room, turn on the vacuum, and start to clean. The nozzle bangs into furniture, jostles plants, but I continue, moving like I’m in a trance. I know what I need to do. I will call my web designer (a friend of Theo’s) and have him remove my email address from the website. I’ll alert Olivia to the barrage of angry emails. But not until I have calmed down, not until I can talk without bursting into tears. Should Liza stay at her dad’s, just to be safe? I drag the vacuum down the short hallway to my daughter’s room.

Unlike the rest of the house, Liza’s personal space is a disaster. I try not to nag her; this is a stressful time for her. Her university acceptance is conditional on her final grades not dropping, and she has a heavy course load. Not to mention the emotional turning point she’s about to face: the end of school, leaving home, ending things with Wyatt… None of it will be easy. And I don’t want my place to be the no-fun zone. I know that Tori and Adrian’s rules are lax, that they ascribe to the parenting adage:

The kids are going to drink / have sex / smoke pot / drop acid / cook meth anyway… We’d rather they do it under our roof.

Liza accepts that I’m stricter, seems to appreciate it, even. But I don’t want to be a complete ogre.

I’ll just pick up the mess on the floor so I can vacuum. Liza won’t be pleased. Despite the chaotic appearance, she has a “system,” she says. But I gather the crumpled school papers, toss her dirty clothes into the hamper, wrap the cords around her hair appliances and drop them into a basket. When I turn on the suction, the sound of dirt rattling into the canister is satisfying, and then slightly disturbing. I’ll have to have a gentle conversation about keeping a clean space before Liza moves into her dorm room.

Liza’s laptop is open on the floor between the wall and the bed. She takes it to school sometimes, but not when she has to go straight to work after. She’s a cashier at a veggie burger joint that has no secure storage for personal items. As I pick up the device, I can’t help but notice that a text window is open. The messages are from Wyatt, gray balloons running down the side of the screen.

Where r u?

Where r u?

Where r u?

Where r u?

Where r u?

Where r u?

Where r u?

Where r u?

The texts were sent last night when Liza was out with her friends. The question itself is innocuous but the quantity is alarming. Does Wyatt have a possessive side I don’t know about? Has Liza’s imminent departure for college made him more needy? Even obsessive? I scroll up, searching for a preface that will give these texts some context, but there’s nothing. All earlier conversations have been deleted.

There’s a tight ball in my chest and I struggle to take a deep breath. My mother’s intuition is screaming at me, warning me that my daughter could be involved in something messy, even dangerous. But Wyatt has never shown us a dark side, has never been anything but caring and supportive. And I’m not sure I can trust my judgment right now. I’m vulnerable and on edge. I’m rattled by all the hatred directed at me.

But the bad reviews, the emails, and the accusations will mean less than nothing if my daughter is in trouble.

Liza is far more important than my novel.