Ep 4: It's Actually a Great Little Place

The weekly recovery meeting in town is called the Lighthouse. It happens every Monday at the Gas and God gas station. Guy is the town's official recovering alcoholic and the meeting's only participant. Father Marcel started the meeting years ago, back when he ran the gas station. Nobody in town was in recovery at that point, but it was important, he said, to hold space in case someone needed a meeting one day. Father Marcel arrived in Mirror Falls from somewhere back east in early 2004. The way he told it, the bishop sent him there as sort of a punishment. Something about overperforming from the pulpit. The final straw came on World Peace Day. The good father borrowed 6 doves from a nearby bird sanctuary to make a point about redemption or something. Nobody's quite sure what he meant, but the sermon was more than an hour long. At one point, he rapped part of a Tupac song and then held the cage above his head, yelled something about forgiveness, and released the doves, which were more than happy to fly right out the door and to freedom. One of them took a literal flying crap on the baptismal font on the way out. Who knew doves cost $800 each? The accountant at the diocese, that's who. It was the last of a series of issues with Father Marcel's liturgical creativity, and he landed in Mirror Falls with a U-Haul and an earnest plea from the bishop. Just hold mass and enjoy the fishing. Or at least that was the story. Father Marcel didn't fish, and the town didn't really go to church. The building itself had been mostly out of use for more than a decade. And he wasn't old. He was 42, had another 23 years before mandatory retirement, and Mirror Falls was, well, a bit boring for Marcel. So when the gas station next door to the church went up for sale the following year, Marcel thought it'd make a fine project. And frankly, the bishop owed him a favor. "The station has manual pumps," Marcel said he explained to the bishop. "So everyone has to come into the station to pay. A fine opportunity to chat with people. Maybe even hear confession. Don't we want to be in the community, Your Grace?" And that is how the diocese came to own the newly renamed Gas and God. I mean, it only took a few weeks to become one of the most popular places in town. People would drop by even when they didn't need gas, just to chat, maybe unload some guilt, get some advice. It wasn't confession in the proper terms. No kneeling, nothing in Latin. But people talked. They talked about mistakes and shame. Their regrets. And the quiet panic of doing their best and still feeling like they were falling behind. Marcel listened. Sometimes said a prayer. Sometimes he just nodded. Most days that was enough. He didn't really seem much like a priest, people would tell him. Which he took as a compliment. In 2007, Guy and Kim moved to town. They came from Toronto, married only a year at that point, and were looking for a change from the downtown office life. And boy howdy did they find it. They arrived with gym memberships, reusable coffee cups, and a subscription to a Chardonnay of the Month club. On their first day in town, they asked where the good sushi was, and were directed to Jim and Shirley McKenzie, who have a chest freezer and a Facebook page. To be fair, the sushi they bring in is pretty good. But Gee and Kim adapted quickly and soon found themselves imagining a future here in a town where people looked out for each other. It felt like the right place to build a family and a business, which is how just a month after they arrived, a French-Canadian and a woman with Norwegian roots came to own the Chinese restaurant in town, one of Mirror Falls' earliest businesses. The Golden Walk. No one in town can remember the original owner's full name. All they remember is Mr. Yan. Mr. Yan arrived on the island in 1948, young enough to be hopeful, old enough to already know better. He'd spent 15 years moving all over BC where work allowed him to stay. The railways were closing up shop. Mining crews hired him, until they didn't. Everywhere the message was the same. Useful, but temporary. Needed, but never really welcome. The head tax was already history, but the logic behind it wasn't. He learned quickly that permanence was not something you were granted. It was something you assembled quietly, piece by piece, without asking permission. He got to the island because work was rumored there. Coal towns, logging camps, places where people needed feeding and didn't ask many questions as long as the food was hot and the hours were long. Cumberland was the first place that felt steady. By then, its Chinese community was already established. It had structure, rules, elders, obligations, associations, burial grounds. Mr. Yan didn't grow up there, but he understood it. You survived by staying useful to one another. You survived by creating institutions when the larger world shut you out. He worked where he could— kitchens, cafes, anywhere that didn't require a union card or an invitation. Restaurants were honest in a way other work wasn't. If people liked what you made, they came back. After the war, things had loosened, but but not evenly. People talked about change, about fairness, about a better Canada. But habits lingered. Hiring managers still looked past him. Landlords still hesitated. Banks still asked too many questions. So Mr. Yan chose independence and a lovely young woman for a bride. By the mid-'50s, they landed in Mirror Falls with Steven, their 5-year-old. The government was building something nearby, sort of military thing. They rented a building on Water Street and set out to build a life together. The menu became what people asked for: sweet dishes, familiar sauces, lots of fried things. It would be called Canadian Chinese food, not because it was traditional, but because it kept the doors open. They lived upstairs, saved everything, and in 1983 retired to Parksville as one does on Vancouver Island. Their son Stephen ran the place for about 30 years, then in 2014 Stephen himself retired and sold the business to Guy and Kim. And on their first day, they discovered two things. First, Stephen had taken everything that mattered: the good knives, the decent wok, the handwritten sauce ratios taped inside a cupboard, All that was left was serving ware, tables and chairs, and a cash register that only spoke Cantonese. And second, neither of them actually knew how to cook Chinese food. They did their best with two iPads and online recipes, but the power keeps dropping in town, and that means so too does the internet and cellular data and everything. Except the security cameras around town. They always stay on for some reason. Probably backup batteries or something. The first time it happened, and there's no nice way to say this, they panicked. Someone ordered ginger beef, which they didn't have. Oh, they had ginger, and they had beef. They also found a bucket helpfully labeled "powder," but no access to a recipe and no instincts. It's probably cornstarch, Kim said. Gi dredged the beef in powder and dropped it into the hot oil. A white cloud erupted from the wok. The concoction went from food to something resembling drywall in under 5 seconds. Gi added water because water fixes things, right? It does not. The powder, as it turns out, was icing sugar. Suffice to say, the Golden Walk was a big job, a lifelong project, but not the one they really wanted. Gi and Kim had always wanted kids. Gi especially. His whole life he wanted to make a difference in some kid's life, correct some of the wrongs in his childhood. But they didn't have kids, which, given things, was probably a good idea. They used to joke that the reason was because they had white carpets, but the real reason was because Guy drank and couldn't stop. Moving to Mirror Falls was what some people in recovery circles call the geographic cure. Why, just pick yourself up, plunk yourself down somewhere else, and everything will fix itself. Except it never does. It had started simply enough. Back in Toronto, a glass of wine after a hard day at the office, maybe one to fix the occasional sadness. In time, the alcohol's job was to fix any feeling: bored, happy, angry, restless, even joy that felt a little too bright. And now, in town, the stress of the restaurant, the years trying for a child, it all caught up to him. He agreed to get help. A private rehab center down island in Nanaimo. A nice place, sort of a downmarket ski lodge vibe. He and Kim showed up at the doors not even 6 months after they moved to Mirror Falls. They were immediately split up. One person took Kim around to show her the facility. The other brought Guy into the little chapel where 2 other patients were waiting. One of them clearly knew the drill and explained it all. Daily group meetings, mandatory walks before breakfast and lunch, everyone in two groups, Maples and Cedars. The other looked like he just watched a puppy being kicked. He'd clearly been pulled fresh out of something, tears streaming down his face. "It's actually a great little place," he said between sobs. He wasn't convinced. But he stayed. He knew it would be months, not the 28-day program you see on TV. Every addict can hold their breath for 28 days, one of the counselors told him. Every day they are hurt more than the last. That was the point. But every time Guy was ready to pack up, they'd always remind him, don't leave before the miracle happens. For Guy, the miracle came on day 49. It had been a brutal day of tracing childhood wounds. And at the weekly charades game, the only moment of damned levity in the place, the one hour where everyone pretends to be normal, something finally broke. His face crumpled before he could stop the tears. A breath escaped that sounded like a child's question. The counselor took his hand. "Come with me for a second." Together they went into the same little chapel he'd been in 7 weeks earlier, this time across the table from a scared-looking young woman— couldn't have been more than 18— who'd just arrived and only agreed to come if her family let her buy vodka to drink on the way there. Her left eye twitched uncontrollably. "It's actually a great little place," Guy said. She wasn't convinced. But she stayed. Guy came back from rehab a few months later, clearer than he'd ever been, steady in a way that he and Kim hadn't known before. They agreed to stay together, restart their attempts at building a family. But it never happened. The loss settled between them, heavy and hard to name. They'd been on the foster list for years, but so far nothing. They'd even take a cranky 30-year-old at this point, they'd tell friends. It was only a half-joke. Service became an important part of their life. Simple things like showing up at every town council meeting, even though they never said a word there. Guy gave the eulogy for Father Marcel when he died the following year. Went hiking one day west of town in the forest and just didn't come back. They never found his body, but his wallet and phone were about a kilometer in on the edge of a steep slope, along with his keys, a key fob with the Gas N' God security code 573. Which brings us to last week. Every Monday morning, Guy shows up to the Gas N' God, grabs a chair and some coffee, and right at the beginning of the long dash when the lights flicker, says the Serenity Prayer, and then sits there for an hour and waits. Like Father Marcel, he keeps the space just in case someone passing through, or someone who finally agreed to get help, needs a meeting. The steps and traditions aren't on the wall. There aren't any signs or brochures. Unless you know why he's there, you might think Guy is just a very polite loiterer. Which, in a manner of speaking, he is. People do drop by from time to time. Rob and Shannon, the suspiciously friendly couple. Stephanie brought her brother Sam in to hang out when he was in town. Sam considers himself a coffee connoisseur and wanted to try what Stephanie promised was the worst coffee in the country. Mary George spent almost an hour with them a couple of weeks ago. Going on about the helicopters again. Secret supply drops. Surveillance. The dead zone in the coffee shop where you can't make calls. Okay, Mary. This past Monday, a stranger walked in, which is unusual given that Mirror Falls is the literal end of the road. A woman in her mid-30s, behind her a visibly uncomfortable husband. "I need the key to the Twilight," he said. "The Twilight Theater?" said Guy. 'Why do you need in there?' 'Why do you think? I gotta take a piss.' 'You want to piss in the twilight? The washrooms are inside. The owner hardly ever opens it. I certainly don't have a key.' 'You work at the gas station, you don't have a key?' The woman smiles. 'He's trying to say toilet. This is what happens when you marry a guy from the American South,' she says. She points the fellow to the back of the gas station. The woman pulls up a chair across from Guy. I'm sorry, it's been a long trip, she said. Two teens arguing in the back over who's more cringe. It takes a toll. He nods. You mind if I sit for a minute? I've been on the road since Ladysmith and I need to remember what chairs feel like. So what brings you here? Guy asks. Oh, this blog post, she says, and pulls it up on her phone. It's a nice town, it reads. Sits on the north end of Vancouver Island. About 400 people live there. It has what you expect: a coffee shop called Dark Side of the Moon, a gas station called The Gas and God, and a faulty electrical system. Also, she says, my mom's in Germany and she sent me this tourism brochure. Beautiful waterfalls you people have here. We can't wait to see them. Ghi remembers that the recovery program has a lot to say about practicing rigorous honesty. Luckily, it's mute on the ethics of switching topics quickly. "No, I mean on the island," he says. "Nobody gets here accidentally." "Oh, family," she says. "Memories. I got sober on the island. Hardest work of my life, but it put 'Who brought me all this?' she chuckles and rolls her eyes, gesturing to the teens fighting outside. And that's when he saw it. Not in her face. Not in the way her mouth pulled tight when one of the boys swore. Not in the way her hands gripped the arms of the chair just a little too firmly. Her left eye twitched. A tiny fault line, shifting, under solid ground. He wanted to capture her whole life in the few heartbeats they had left in each other's story. If she remembered the chapel, if she'd sponsored anyone, if she still hurts, if the vodka had ever whispered to her again, if she likes having kids. If her kids are good. If it's all worth it. If she's happy. If he helped. Even just a bit. "Are you okay?" the woman asked. "Just thinking," Kii said. "About how far people have to travel sometimes to get where they're meant to be." "Ready, honey?" her husband called from the door, jingling the keys. The woman stood. For a second, her gaze sharpened, searching his face as if she knew him from a dream. She was about to say something, but the kids in the car had already escalated to honking the horn. "Well," she said, "it was lovely to meet you. Maybe we'll meet again." "Maybe." Gee said. Enjoy your time. It's actually a great little place.

Mirror Falls is produced with gratitude on the territory of the Coast Salish people. Story and sound design by Tod Maffin. Join other Mirror Falls fans and chat about this episode at chat.mirrorfalls.com. You can subscribe to Tod's free newsletter about Canada at farandwide.news. Music licensing by Epidemic Sound. Theme song by Nicholas Gabrielsen with the Martin Landstrom Orchestra.

I'm happy again, life is a blessing if I think of you. Ain't a thing that I've been missing. I'm here on my own ♪ Just singing this song ♪ ♪ Now that you're gone ♪ ♪ I'm happy alone ♪ ♪ Just me, myself, and I ♪ Como madre orgullosa, siempre quiero lo mejor para mi familia.

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