SCARED

I meet Geoffrey in the middle of the night on a Greyhound bus.

He gets on in Cache Creek, clutching a brown leather Gladstone bag that has seen better days. There are two faded band stickers on one side: The Beatles' Abbey Road, and Pearl Jam's Ten.

It's hard not to stare; he doesn't look like most of the people I've seen on this bus these last three days. There is no cowboy hat. No jean jacket. No boots. Instead, there are black Oxfords, brown corduroy slacks and a pink paisley shirt.

He sits down across from me, and sets the bag on the floor, then changes his mind and lifts it onto the empty seat beside him. Our eyes meet, and he smiles.

"I'm Geoffrey," he says, extending a slender hand across the aisle. "That's two f's for double fun."

He has a thick British accent. From the north, I think—Yorkshire, maybe, or Manchester.

I smile. Shake his hand. "Zoey," I say. My voice comes out sounding foreign, even to me, but I'm not surprised. I haven't spoken for three days.

Geoffrey hesitates, reluctant to release my hand, and I wonder if he is waiting for a witty quip; a comment from me about my name.

"Most people just call me Zee," I say. It isn't clever, but it's something.

He nods, then settles back into his seat, his right leg stretched out in the aisle.

There only two other people on the bus—a sad-looking woman with a cast on her arm, and a man in a red ball cap. He's been snapping his gum since Kamloops.

"Doesn't anybody else travel in the middle of the night?" Geoffrey says when the bus pulls away from the rest stop.

I shift in my seat. "Guess not."

Please. Don't. Don't be a talker. Just read a book, or even better, go to sleep.

But I don't hold my breath because Geoffrey looks wide awake.

I wait for the inevitable, "Where you headed?" and begin formulating my vague response. I could say I'm destined for Williams Lake, or maybe Bella Coola, but the truth of it is, I'm not really sure, and as long as the bus keeps rolling, I feel like I don't have to decide. Not now, anyway. For now, I can sit and stare out the window at the blackened stands of Ponderosa, at the scorched blur of split rail fencing, at the ashy wake that is Highway 97, straight ahead at twelve o'clock. It was a bad summer for wildfires. But I'm not bothered by any of it. It's the rest stops that undo me, especially the ones we pull into after dark. They look out of place here; like they've fallen off the back of a truck to land in the dirt.

I don't like them. They make me restless; all that bright, unnatural light in the dark. Light that dulls the stars overhead.

But Geoffrey doesn't ask me where I'm going. At least not right away. Instead, he says, "How do you feel about Marmite?" and I am taken aback.

"Pardon me?"

"Marmite. You know. Like Vegemite—that Aussie shite, only stronger." He holds up a small jar with a yellow label in the palm of his hand and offers it to me. "I can't stand the stuff, but my mother gives it to me every time I go home. She says it puts hair on your chest, though God knows why she would ever think I'd be interested in cultivating excess body hair."

I take the jar and study the label. Yeast Extract. Rich in B Vitamins. 100% Vegetarian.

"Thank you," I say. "Looks wholesome."

Geoffrey wrinkles his nose. "Don't kid yourself. It's horrid, but most Brits get weaned on the bloody stuff."

"But," I say, "You're not a fan?"

He places a hand over his pink paisley-covered heart and rolls his eyes. "Please. I'd rather chew glass."

When we stop in Clinton, I freshen up in the bus station's washroom, then stare at my reflection in the mirror over the sink. I've lost some weight; there are hollows in my cheeks that make me look hard—older, somehow, which is not surprising, considering.

I go into the 711 and buy a box of crackers and a jar of smooth peanut butter. I'm not hungry, but it's comfort food, and the mere physical act of buying it quiets my pulse a little.

When I get back on the bus, Geoffrey is plugged into his phone, his fingers tapping lightly on the knee of his corduroys. I guess he would call them trousers. Not pants.

"The Hip," he says, removing a bud from his right ear. "Scared. Great song."

I nod in agreement.

"Damn!" he says. "I miss Gord. It was fucking tragic, wasn't it?"

I nod again. He's right. Good people die too young; it happens every day. But I don't want to talk about Gord Downie dying. I don't want to talk about anybody dying. I'm not ready yet. I don't think I'll ever be.

But I think about it. I think of nothing else as the Greyhound speeds past the matchstick stands of burnt pines. I think about how strange it is that people go on to have perfectly ordinary days after somebody you love dies. They will do perfectly ordinary things. They will have toast and marmalade for breakfast. They will pay their hydro bills on their lunch hours. They will grab hotdogs on the weekends, with the works: mustard, fried onions, jalapenos. They'll sing old Hip songs in the shower, even though, somewhere not far away, maybe even just around the corner; someone else might be crumpled in a chair, finding it hard to breathe.

When I open my eyes, the stars have gone out, and the first pale fingers of dawn have appeared over the mountains in the distance.

There are more people on the bus now, maybe twenty, and everybody is singing, even the sullen woman with the cast on her arm. Geoffrey, kneeling on his seat, is responsible for this, captivating the crowd, gesticulating wildly with a super-sized O-Henry bar—his makeshift baton.

I can make you scared, if that's what I do

If you're prepared, and if I have to

He is all smiles, but his eyes are closed, and I realize a moment later that he is crying, tears streaming down both cheeks. I look away. How easy it is for some people to feel what they need to feel. How sudden and natural grief can be. But I haven't shed a tear yet. Not even one.

"Come on, luv," Geoffrey says, catching my eye. He swipes at his cheek. Sniffs a little. Winks at me, but I turn away.

Simon would have joined in, but then, he was always more comfortable around people than me. "Come on, Zee, you'll never see any of these people again," he would have said. "Who cares?"

If I make you scared, and you pay me to

That's the deal, now here's what I can do for you

Even the bus driver is singing, one hand pulsing against the steering wheel, a smile in the rear-view mirror for a random collection of nameless souls, riding a bus on a lonely stretch of BC highway, briefly united at 6 a.m. by a beloved song, all except for me.

Two hours later Geoffrey and I buy lousy coffee from a roadside diner. "So where are you going?" he finally asks when we're back on the bus, and because I am tired of the charade, I say, "I have no idea." And Geoffrey doesn't bat an eye. Just nods and says, "You'll know when to stop. Because you can't ride a bus forever."

"BC's a big province," I say. "I can ride for a while."

"Yes," Geoffrey says. "Indeed, you can."

When we stop at Green Lake, three teenaged girls board the bus, all black eyeliner and tight jeans and chatter. One of them wears chunky gold and green earrings; costume jewellery, probably a thrift store find. They settle near the front of the bus, laughing over their phones, oblivious to the rest of us.

"Jesus," Geoffrey says. "Don't you wish you were their age again?" Dramatically, he mimes a dagger penetrating his chest. "Do you remember how glorious it was to be that self-involved? When you actually believed the rest of the world gave a shit about everything you said and did?"

He doesn't wait for me to respond.

"Wait. Who am I kidding? It was rubbish. I'm glad it's over. It's actually liberating to be this age. You can fuck up repeatedly, and it doesn't matter. Nobody pays much attention. At least not for very long."

Geoffrey tells me he messed up a good relationship. That he cheated on his partner and then lied about it afterwards.

"David didn't deserve any of it," Geoffrey says. "He's a good man. A much better man than I."

He pauses, and I feel like it's time; finally. It's my turn to tell him my dark secret.

So I do.

"My husband just died," I say.

He is quiet at first. Touches my hand. "I'm sorry, Zee," he says a minute later.

I nod. Manage a smile. I thought there would be tears when I said the words out loud, but there's nothing; just a persistent dead weight—like someone parked a car on my chest.

I think about what Geoffrey said; that people will eventually lose interest in your story, and wonder if they have already moved on from mine, now that I am no longer there to remind them.

Geoffrey stares out the window at some cows in a field that is more mud than grass. He has not let go of my hand, and I don't pull it away. This warm skin against mine, it feels nice, like a soothing balm.

"There aren't any rules, you know," he says suddenly. "You can ride the bus and feel like shit for as long as you need to. You don't need anyone's permission." And I gasp because they are the best words anyone has said to me since the accident.

"Thank you," I say.

"Tell me about him?"

I blink.

"Your husband," Geoffrey says softly. "What was his name?"

My breath catches in my throat. "Simon," I say. "His name was Simon."

And then I start to cry.

A few people turn in their seats and stare, but only for a moment. I feel exposed. I have never been one for such displays.

"It's OK, Zee," Geoffrey says. "You'll never see any of these people again."

"That's what Simon would have said," I manage.

He smiles. Wipes tears from my eyes with both of his thumbs. Pulls me close.

"I… I don't know how to be without him," I say.

"I know."

It's dark when we reach Tatla Lake. There isn't much here: a lodge, a diner, a gas station.

Geoffrey gets off. He has a sister here, but I decide to go all the way to Bella Coola.

He hugs me. Tells me I am going to be OK, and I tell him I'm scared.

"Scared is OK, Zee," he says. "Scared always comes before anything good."

Moments later, after the bus is back on the narrow gravel road, a shooting star flashes over the trees in the distance, leaving a trail of brilliant white light in its wake.

"See that?" the bus driver calls out. I see him shift in his seat, bend forward a little to peer up at the night sky.

"I did," I say.

"That was a real doozie, eh?"

I nod, even though he can't see me. Then I close my eyes, draw in a breath, and feel a little more space in my chest.

END