House Hunting by Graham Fortier

4385 Algoma Place: The first home she shows us is a stunner. A hillside craftsmen in a calm neighborhood. The primary suite has glass french doors that open up onto a deck overlooking the houses below. At the bottom is an elementary school, and the children on the playground zip and chirp like jungle birds. My wife Elena stands outside with Ryan in the stroller, the sunlight grazing on her neck. I think about how we haven’t been intimate much since Ryan was born. He’s almost two now, full of joy and wonder. He has the curiosity of a cat with two remaining lives. The kitchen has been tastefully redone with granite counters and custom teal cabinetry. Our daughter Julia sits on a barstool tucked against the island, glued to her iPhone. We can’t believe something like this is within our budget. “It’s priced that way to start a bidding war,” our realtor says. I love it, but Elena is skeptical. “The gaps in the railing are too wide. Ryan could crawl through them and roll down the hill,” she says. “Everything is fixable,” the realtor tells us. We put in a competitive bid, but the house ends up selling for $1.3 million. 

2242 Clifton Lane: Elena is bothered by the street noise, but the office space is large. I think it could work as her studio. She paints textured, expressive landscapes on stretched linen canvas, and keeps her oils in a cardboard Amazon box. Some she sells, but most hang on the walls of our apartment. “You could plant some holly at the curb,” says our realtor. “An evergreen hedge can really reduce noise pollution.” I’m a fan of the hardwood, and there’s good sunlight in the living room and kitchen (a big deal for me), but the thought of driving up that steep, narrow alley every time we need to use the rear driveway gives me nightmares. Julia finds me out back to tell me she’s going vegan. “It comes with solar panels,” says our realtor. “Energy prices being what they are, it’s a nice perk.” We pass.

385 Eagle Roost Way: We love the backyard. The hardscape has been touched up recently. Throw in some patio furniture and bistro lights and it has the potential for some fabulous al fresco entertaining. There’s a large grass yard for Ryan to roll around in. “We could put a play structure in that corner,” Elena says, motioning to an area in sight of the kitchen windows. “It’s got that extra half-bath, and everything is already up to code,”  says our realtor. “Greywater system, ember-resistant vents, you name it.”  Inside, the bedrooms are on the small side, and while it’s listed as a three-bedroom, one of them doesn’t have a closet. “I do want things to be fair for the kids,” my wife says. “Could they share a bedroom?” I ask. I think it a fair suggestion, as she could use the third room for her painting. But Elena frowns at me. When we get home, Elena and I debate the pros and cons. We call the realtor the next morning and say we’re interested in making an offer, but she tells us it's already been sold. We hang up the phone, and see that Ryan has spilled his cereal all over the living room floor. We try to coax Julia out of her bedroom for breakfast, but she ignores us, deep in a YouTube rabbit hole on current affairs. 

2051 University Street: Our present situation. It’s fine, but we’ve outgrown it. Ryan is getting bigger and we want him out of our bedroom. We love him, we just want him out.  Julia is almost eleven. She has a good size room, but the stains on the carpet put my wife off. Some made by Julia, some there before us. “It’s the ones that were here before,” Elena tells me, “because you just don’t know.” Our kitchen is small. I love to cook, so I want something larger, maybe with an island, but it’s not a deal-breaker. Elena yearns for quiet, for safety. She thinks of the kids. Our condo has a courtyard drive where Julia can ride her bike, but two months ago someone peeled through and nearly hit her. “That’s the last straw,” Elena said to me, and I agreed. For my part, I just want the family to feel settled. I had it hard growing up. My father moved us around a lot for work, and I’d been in seven different schools by the time I graduated high school. That’s not how I want our family to go through life. When Julia and Ryan get older, I want them to think back on their home with specificity. I want them to remember it as something singular. As something that belonged to them. 

1935 Poplar Boulevard: Our realtor is entirely blonde. She’s a much older woman, but she still carries herself like a bombshell. She struts with confidence through each of the rooms, and I imagine her winning midwestern beauty pageants in her youth. “I think you’re going to love this one,” she tells us. Julia has brought her earbuds at my request, and she parks herself on a staged leather ottoman in the corner of the den. She’s started to wear her hair in a ponytail. She pulls it tight, and the tender skin of her forehead is stretched like one of Elena’s canvases. The house itself has a big problem. The four of us would need to share a shower. It’s a beautiful shower, tiled in a blue and white mosaic that reminds me of southern Spain, when we toured the Mezquita on our honeymoon and made love on gold Andalucian beaches, and the last thing I would want is Ryan befouling the tiles with his Crayola bath markers or God forbid, to walk in on Julia in her teenage years, or have her walk in on me. “We’re going to have to compromise somewhere,” Elena tells me. Julia informs me that the house is in Flood Zone 5, and insurance prices being what they are, I give a look to Elena, and she gives a look to me, and our search continues.

1718 Woodhaven Drive: This one is in a neighborhood we’re not familiar with, and I’ve got my eye on the barking Terrier across the street. It hurls itself against the wrought iron gate with the vitality of something that stays outdoors. The living room and kitchen are open-concept, and I like the thought of watching Julia and Ryan play Battleship or Scrabble while I get our dinner going, as they pertly accuse the other of cheating, and Elena, raising from her book on the chaise, purrs at Julia to go easy on her brother. I want to share this anecdote with Elena, and I am now thinking of moving ‘no open-concept’ into our deal-breaker category. Ryan has been in and out of tantrums all morning, and Elena carries him warmly against her bosom, rocking and shushing him in the calm rhythm of a woodland brook. Our realtor walks Elena through the features of the security system, and I step through the house with Julia, who is a bit more present today. The bedrooms all face north, and they’re gloomy in the late afternoon. The walls are a pigeon grey, and each room has mirrored, sliding closet doors. “Can I show you the family room?” I ask her. She takes my hand and we make our way. “Another one started today,” she tells me, and she holds her phone to my face. “That’s the tenth one this month.” I give her hand a little squeeze. 

212 Crosby Street: Elena and I don’t love the dark shade of the hardwood floor, as it eats up what little sunlight manages to cut through the haze outside, but I have always loved vaulted ceilings. “This one comes with central air and HEPA H14 filters throughout,” our realtor says. “And, they’ve knocked the price way down, since they’ve already joined up with one of the caravans. They are desperate to sell. It’s a steal.” Julia is under the entryway frame of a load-bearing wall giving a demonstration to Ryan, who watches googly-eyed as she braces herself, pushing her hands into the trim as if forcing open a heavy gate. Five bedrooms mean that I could have my own dedicated work space, separate from the living room and Elena’s studio. I ask Elena what she thinks, and she says, “I think we should reconsider our decision on the caravans.” I roll my eyes, but first I turn away, so she doesn’t see this. I don’t want to pick another fight about the caravans. I ask the realtor if she’ll show me the mudroom. As we step through the kitchen, the latest IPAWS alert turns our mobile devices into blaring, dissonant air horns. I skim the words of the message and find myself more committed than ever to landing our dream home.

8347 Knowles Road: We join up with one of the caravans. I want to keep Elena happy, but we don’t give up on our search. Our realtor has also joined a caravan, and continues to provide us with listings. She seems as determined as I am, and I share with Elena that we really lucked out on the realtor front. Elena gives me a look. I know what she’s thinking, but I honestly just admire the woman’s work ethic. We’re three hours north of the evac-zone and already she’s found us a house to look at. She confesses the architecture isn’t really our style–we were hoping for Craftsman or Mid-Century Modern–but Elena says it’s not an issue, and Julia doesn’t complain about taking a detour because the 5G is spotty on this stretch of highway. So off we head. Google Maps says we’re only eight minutes away when we hit a roadblock. A man in desert camo fatigues stops us. A boy, really, and he gives me the same forlorn stare that Julia gave me that one time when I was late picking her up from school.  He tells us the highway is closed, and when I ask about another way to access Knowles Road, he explains that everything within the wildfire perimeter is gone. When I see our realtor I can tell from her body language that she’s just as disappointed as I am, but she remains upbeat. “There’s always another house,” she says, or at least I think she does. She has a full-face ventilator and her words crackle out like an old radio. 

825 Tributary Way: Elena and I revise the deal-breaker list. She wants to add “high pH levels in soil” and “running water and/or access to a well,” and I decide to remove “open-concept” and “outdoor dining options.” We  return to our caravan, and arrive at the Eureka Refugee Intake Center (ERIC). The access line must be two miles long, and while Julia snaps at her mother to adjust the radio tuner to find the broadcast, I check my email and, lo and behold, our realtor has sent us a listing nearby. A gem, she says. We like it, it’s nice, although there’s no tub in the second bathroom, which means Ryan would need an immediate transition to showers. There’s a wood burning fireplace in the living room, and it ties things nicely together. The hearth is classic brick and mortar, and the mantel is deep enough to fit the bronze stocking holders Elena’s mother handed down to us. They are awkward and cumbersome in our suitcase, but Elena won’t let them go. They call up memories of her childhood and she insists on taking them. The house will need some work, as the appliances are still connected to the gas line and the rainwater filtration system hasn’t been fully installed yet. Elena wants to keep moving north, and while I think the place has a quaint charm to it, and I can see us here, our realtor informs us that it isn’t slated for a water allotment for another six months,  Back at the car, Julia tells me that sea levels are rising another foot this month. We decide to head inland.

5898 Heron Trail: When we reach the Northern Continental Alliance checkpoint, our realtor is already waiting with our visas. “These are much easier to get from the Eastern Shoreboard Federation,” our realtor says. “We’re not really East Coast people,” I assure her. I’d like to pause here to say that I continue to be impressed with our realtor’s tenacity, although I no longer confide these sentiments to Elena. Ryan is fussy with a cough and sore throat, and his illness wears on all of us, but especially Elena. She has become aloof and unwanting as of late. She irritates easily, and I tip-toe around her when speaking, especially of house-related things. We make three separate trips to the abandoned supermarkets to find medicine, which is difficult to come by. By the third store, Julia and I go in alone. The store is overwhelmingly bare, but to our delight we discover separate Adult Wellness and Children’s Wellness aisles, and while the Adult section is familiarly bare, in Children’s we find Motrin and Zarbee’s. Julia and I leaf through the shelves, procuring Brawny paper towels, a box of Ho-Ho’s, and twenty-six cans of Del Monte mixed vegetables. I offer a Ho-Ho to Julia and ask if she remembers these from her 7th birthday party. “It hurts to remember,” she says. We return to the car, and I share with Elena our new provisions. She is unimpressed. We drive to the address our realtor provided, and as we pull up I can already tell it’s a dud. Full of deal-breakers. I express this graciously to our realtor, who takes the feedback well, and after a brief chat, our hopes are raised for this next property she has found.

1234 Athabasca Road: I think we’ve hit the jackpot, a lakeside cabin somewhere deep in Former Alberta. The ice has just melted, and the lake is a brimming, cerulean mirror that catches golden drops of sunlight like a sifting pan. The inside appears just as the owners left it, with no obvious signs of squatters or raiders. And it’s open-concept. I can’t believe it. I find Elena upstairs lying on her back in one of the beds and proceed to tell her my thoughts. She rolls her head to me, and I remember her on the birthing bed shortly after Ryan was delivered. What a day that was–a miracle–and maybe today will be another like it. Elena is too tired to share my enthusiasm, but I insist we make an offer. I find our realtor and tell her we’re going to pull the trigger, but before she can make a call, we hear gravel churning in the road from an approaching humvee. Eight figures clad in a black ensemble and M4A1 carbines exit the vehicle. They all wear a white armband with a crudely-drawn red hieroglyph. The armbands are a torn fabric that frays at the edges, not unlike Julia’s old ghost costume that Elena and I fashioned from a stained tablecloth. We are approached by a taller man with his face covered by a black balaclava. His eyes match the ice-grey of the landscape. He informs us that the house is under occupation and no longer available. “Are you even military?” our realtor asks them. “What military?” he says. 

16 Chickasaw Drive: Already under the occupation of the Hay River Militia by the time we arrive.

4431 Province Road 55: Already occupied by the Savage Boys.

Northwest Territory Road D: Occupied by the Whitehorse Brigade. “You know, I’ve always considered myself a military gal,” our realtor says. “I mean, I’ve always supported our men and women in uniform. But this is ridiculous.” 

Rustic Farmhouse: The melting snow and ice have turned everything into a thick, slushing mud. We no longer need the parkas we received as part of our welcome kit at ERIC, and Elena folds them the way she learned from her Marie Kondo book and puts them in the trunk. The farmhouse is really more of a barn. It has loamy soil with a pH of 6.3. This pleases Elena. An olive green tractor sits in a nearby field. It has one flat tire and is caked in dirt. It screams ‘non-operational.’ I tell Elena that the farmhouse doesn’t feel like a good fit, and she snaps. “What the fuck do you want to do? Where the fuck can we go?” Julia hears the forbidden words and carries Ryan back to the car. Elena stomps off in the direction of the tractor, her hands on her head, and I remember her dancing The Macarena at our wedding. It feels like a lifetime ago. The realtor has overheard us and offers me comfort. “It’s a big decision, I know. I’ve been doing this a long time. The choices are never as cut-and-dry as you’d like.” I am assuaged by this, and I wonder why Elena can’t be more optimistic when our realtor possesses it with such abundance. Ryan begins crying through the open rear window, and Elena returns to the car. We head to the lodge in a tense silence.

Arctic Hunting Lodge: The lodge does not have the curb appeal that I was hoping for, but by now curb appeal has fallen on my list of priorities. The interior is quite spruce, and it’s clear the property would have been out of budget if not for everything that’s happened. The bedrooms are adorned with skull mounts of moose and whitetail deer, with bear skin rugs at the foot of each bed. Elena and our realtor follow me to the kitchen and dining area. The kitchen island is the largest I’ve seen thus far, a smooth white quartz. The lodge is fine, but it seems as though each of us has a sticking point. Elena thinks the property might be attractive to raiders, and Julia is concerned by the flood potential from the ice caps of a nearby mountain range. I just really don’t like the floors. All of this gets expressed to our realtor. “I’m sorry but at this point I have to ask: Do you even want to buy a house?” our realtor says to us. Her words are like a dagger being forced through my solar plexus. I am personally offended. We’ve always shown gratitude toward her and the diligent work she’s been doing, especially since the evacuation, and her words shatter what I considered to be our shared dream of home ownership for my family. I never saw her as someone who was only it for a quick commission. Maybe I was foolish to think otherwise. Our realtor struts to the exit. Elena emerges from one of the bathrooms, and I can see the sharp edges of something pushing against her handbag like fingers in latex. Back in the car, my eyes go to her bag, and she tells me she’s found a box of menstrual products underneath the sink. “For Julia,” she says. “When it’s time.” I gaze out the windshield, and I feel lonelier than ever.

Fort Franklin Barracks: Elena is ready to throw in the towel on house hunting. I tell her don’t give up hope now, I know what an ordeal this has been, especially as renters without any real equity to work with, but I have a hunch that we are close, that this could be the one. The owners are on site–a group of men with ice in their beards and blueish, spindly fingers–and our realtor explains our situation and asks for them to provide us access. I love the portcullis, and think Elena should love it too, as I can’t see how the Savage Boys or the Yellowknife Brigade would be able to penetrate its steel bars. There are four separate barracks at the fort: A, B, C, and D. It doesn’t offer much privacy, but it certainly seems to check Elena’s safety box. The owners, albeit disheveled and rife with off-putting smells, appear committed to fostering community among their neighbors. I wonder if they might be interested in getting an HOA up and running. I ask Elena and Julia what they think, and they tell me they’re tired and want to find a warm place to take Ryan and rest for a while. This has been a lot for them. I return to our realtor and tell her it has been a tough journey, and although the barracks aren’t perfect, the entire family feels like we’re in a position to settle. I ask her to find out what kind of bid the owners are looking for. She returns to me, somewhat sheepish and apprehensive, and tells me that what they’re looking for is my wife. I say, “What do you mean, my wife?” Our realtor says, “I think you know what I mean.” She puts a cold, fragile hand on my shoulder. I realize it’s the first time we’ve made physical contact since that handshake when we were introduced. “You’ve been through a lot,” she says, “And I know I’ve pushed you.” Her lips curl across her face, their ruby-red color now a muted rose. “But you need to leave. Now. Get your wife and children and go to your car. I’ll tell these guys you’re considering, maybe throw them a counteroffer to string them along for a bit.” I want to say something but her eyes bore into me as she tightens her grip, and I only manage a nod to thank her. I find Elena and the kids huddled by a generator in C Barrack. I tell them we’re leaving, and I don’t say what has transpired, but there is an understanding and no one lolligags. I help Elena to her feet, and I squeeze her hand, and she squeezes mine. We hurry to the car together, and our feet plop softly upon the muddy earth surrounding us.

Bunker, Inuvik Territories: I had one unread email from our realtor, something she sent before showing us the barracks that I never got around to reading until days later: 

This is the only other listing I could find. Let’s prioritize Fort Franklin, as I think it’s a better fit. I know it feels impossible some days. But just keep going. What do you gain if you give up hope? You all have been troopers, and–in spite of everything–a joy to work with. I’m sorry for what I said the other day. We all lose heart from time to time. – Linda.  

“The Bunker,” as we’ve taken to calling it, is certainly not what we were expecting when we set our sights on home ownership. It’s loaded with deal-breakers. But I’m trying to take a new approach to this whole thing. I want to look at everything with fresh eyes. The picnic bench outside: Outdoor dining. The three deadbolts on the blast door: Safety. The long, echoing corridor: Open-concept. Is it our dream home? No, no it’s not. It’s a starter home. Everything needs to start somewhere. And when things turn around, well maybe then we return with some equity in our sails, and move on to something better. In the meantime, we’re making the most of it. Ryan and Julia have invented a game where they attempt to land a rubber ball in a cup by bouncing it off the concrete wall. Once it touches the wall, it can’t bounce more than twice before it enters the cup. Elena and I smile as we watch our two children play together, brother and sister, and I think, isn’t this what everyone wants? Their own little place in the world.