Writings / Fiction: Catherine A. MacKenzie

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Because of Carmella’s threats, I kidnapped my son from his mother, and we boarded a plane for the Caribbean, where we managed to live undetected until Jamieson grew up and became too inquisitive. It was unfathomable to me that Lydia relocated to Vancouver for the sole purpose of finding me.

In retrospect, of course, I should have killed Lydia that day she threatened me instead of bolting with Jamieson, but I panicked and felt I had to get my son as far away from her and Canada as I could.

Years later, when Jamieson discovered I had snatched him from his mother, he bolted as fast from me as I had from Lydia. I never saw him again until after he married and had his first child, Royce. By that time, he had forgiven me. His mother, my ex, had died of cancer after Jamieson returned to Canada. Thankfully, mother and son had those few years together before she passed away. Thankfully, too, she died; otherwise I would have been up on kidnapping charges.

Those years I remained in the Bahamas after Jamieson left, I lived in constant fear—fear of retaliation by Jamieson and his mother, fear of retaliation by Lydia. The safety of my son and grandson weighted me down. I felt old before my time. When Royce was born, I had come full circle. I debated whether to nab Royce and run off with him as I had my son. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t live that way again.

After returning to British Columbia, I checked Lydia’s previous home, that old duplex, but was told she had moved out many years previously. I hoped Lydia had passed on or had given up on her threat. Or, better still, had returned to Nova Scotia.

Still worried about the situation, I decided I had no choice and told Jamieson all that had transpired—most of it, anyway. He laughed it off, those threats of Lydia’s. “Dad, you stupid, silly man,” he said, or some such words. Several months after that conversation, Jamieson, at the age of thirty-two, was killed in a motorcycle accident. Royce was six.

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With Jamieson gone, Oliver worried more and more about Royce’s safety. What if Lydia meant what she had said? He decided he’d better search her out, get rid of her once and for all, so he could live the rest of his days in peace. At sixty, one couldn’t take life for granted.

With the help of Lawson’s Detective Agency, Oliver found her. She still resided in Vancouver. He was told she frequented Linwood Park often, so he waited there for her.

Oliver had worried about Lydia’s height and whether she’d be able to overpower him, but even from a distance, he saw Lydia had shrunk, bad bones likely the culprit.

As a result, he towered over her as he had when they were young. Grasped in his fingers was twisted yarn. He held it out so she could see her fate. He had scanned the area, but the park was deserted. At his feet lay a rock, one bigger than he had used those many years previously. He wasn’t taking any chances.

Resigned to her fate, the woman never flinched. Unknown to Oliver, she lived a death sentence with cancer. Bashed over the head a second time would be a quicker way to go, with less suffering if Oliver performed the deed correctly. She had endured horrible pain with her first injury and had been correct when she had told Oliver her mind was gone, or part of it at any rate. And she’d been fooling with him when she talked of revenge against his family. She simply needed him to suffer as she had.
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“So, Royce, that’s the story of Oliver.”

“Gramps, was Carmella a real person?”

I ruffled his blond hair. “No, it’s all make believe. Just a pretend story. You know how I like to tell stories.” I wondered if, at twelve, Royce was too young to hear sordid details, but he didn’t seem upset. At almost seventy, I felt it was time to relieve myself of weighty matters. Besides, I enjoyed telling tales.

He kept harping about Carmella though. Or was it Lydia?  No matter, the two women were one and the same.

“But, Gramps, she reminds me of someone.”

“Who does?”

“Carmella. Well, Lydia, I guess. She used to come to our house to visit Daddy. She said her name was Lydia and that she was an old school friend of yours.”

My stomach lurched. “What are you saying?” Perspiration splashed over my face as it had long ago. With my arms frozen by my side, I couldn’t budge to wipe my face.

“Lydia, Gramps. Like I told you. I remember her cause her hair was long and black, like a witch, and she was tall. Way taller than Daddy. She had a deep voice, too. Scratchy. Just as you’ve described her. I remember how she talked to Daddy for a while. Then they took off, him on his motorcycle, she in her car. That was the last time I saw Daddy. What do you think, Gramps? Was it the same Lydia?”

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One Response to “Writings / Fiction: Catherine A. MacKenzie”

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  1. Obinna Udenwe says:

    This story is poignant. I haven’t read anything like this in a long time.

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