Betty

11PM JULY 6 2005

English Bay Beach sits right at the edge of downtown, where the city loosens its tie and leans into the water. That’s how I always think of it—Vancouver unbuttoning itself, exhaling salt and light. By day it’s a wide crescent of pale sand, Stanley Park holding one end like a protective arm and glass towers rising on the other, all sharp lines and reflections. You can feel the pulse of the city here even with your feet buried in grit, even with your eyes closed. In summer it’s loud and alive—towels overlapping like fallen petals, bikes whispering past on the seawall, the air thick with sunscreen and salt and fried food drifting from cafés that never seem to close. Laughter carries easily. Volleyball nets line the sand, always taut, players sunburned and loud, music thumping faintly from portable speakers. The water looks gentle from a distance, all muted blues and silvers, but it stays cold no matter how hot the day gets. People wade like they’re testing a boundary. Others just let the tide lick their ankles and pretend that’s enough.

At sunset, English Bay softens. The crowds thin. The light turns honey-gold and the sky puts on a show like it knows people came to see it. Orange melting into pink, pink bleeding into violet, freighters anchored offshore like dark thoughts you can’t quite shake. People linger then—hoodies pulled on, hands wrapped around paper cups, sitting on driftwood or the seawall as if watching the sun go down is a shared ritual, something you do together even if you never speak.

Tonight, though, it’s empty.

It’s late—close to eleven—and the beach feels like it’s holding its breath. The city has gone quiet in that way it only does when it’s decided to let you be alone for a while. Betty is parked just above the sand, tucked into a spot that feels half-forgotten. I’ve got a trash can fire going a few feet away, flames licking up through crumpled flyers and driftwood scraps, throwing light that flickers like it’s undecided. The ocean murmurs. Somewhere far off, a siren cries and then gives up.

I sit cross-legged in the sand with my guitar in my lap—my blue Martin D-18, scuffed and loved and sounding better every year. I named him Martin because I’m not creative and I don’t pretend to be. He hums when I tune him, deep and warm, like he knows this song already. I play a Beatles song, something soft, something that doesn’t ask too much of me. My fingers know it without thinking. The chords fall into place like muscle memory, like breathing.

Bruiser is curled at my feet, a solid, comforting weight. He’s all muscle and calm—stocky shoulders, broad chest, that rich reddish-tan coat catching the firelight just right. The white blaze on his chest glows, runs up to his chin and around his muzzle like someone painted him carefully. His toes look dipped in white, neat and deliberate. One ear sits higher than the other, forever curious. His hazel eyes track the dark, relaxed but attentive. A gentle guardian. He looks intimidating if you don’t know him. I do.

I sing quietly, my voice carried off by the water, and for a while there’s nothing else. No past. No future. Just the sound of strings and fire and the steady presence of a dog who chose me two years ago and never reconsidered. I could do this all night. I’ve done it before. But my shoulders start to ache, and the song ends, and I let it be over instead of forcing another verse.

I wait for the fire to die down to embers, nudging it with my boot until it settles into a soft, glowing hush. Then I stand, brushing sand from my skirt, Martin slung over my shoulder. Bruiser stretches, yawns wide, and follows me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Inside Betty, the air is warm and familiar. The van is compact, but everything in it was built with intention—every inch considered, every surface earning its keep. Wood-paneled walls and ceiling wrap around me, honey-toned and worn smooth by time and hands. It feels less like a vehicle and more like a small cabin that happens to move when I ask it to. Overhead, a rectangular skylight sits centered in the roof, a dark mirror of the night sky now, but by morning it’ll pour light straight down onto my face whether I want it to or not.

Cabinetry lines both sides, narrow but efficient—simple wooden drawers and cupboards that hold my life in quiet order. On the left, a small kitchen counter runs the length of the wall, metal sink inset and scratched from use. On the right, a compact stove and oven unit waits patiently, smelling faintly of coffee and toast. Between them, a narrow aisle runs just wide enough for me to move through without turning sideways. I know this space by heart. I could walk it in the dark. I often do.

The back of the van is my favorite part. A fixed bed platform stretches wall to wall, raised just enough to hide storage drawers underneath—extra clothes, tools, jars of things I might need someday. I start making my bed, moving with the easy rhythm of routine. Patterned rugs layer the floor, their colors mismatched but intentional, softening the hard edges. Quilts and throws pile onto the mattress, heavy with warmth and memory. Pillows stack against the back wall until it turns into a lounging nook, a place to sit and think and pretend I’m not always on my way somewhere else.

Curtains frame the rear doors and windows, fabric I picked because it made me feel safe. I pull them closed, the world narrowing to this small, glowing space. String lights run along the ceiling, tiny suns I can turn on with a flick of my wrist. Lantern-style fixtures cast a low, amber glow that makes everything softer than it really is.

Plants hang from hooks and sit on open shelves—pothos trailing, succulents stubbornly alive. They sway slightly when the van settles, like they’re breathing with me. Open shelving holds the rest of my life: mugs with chipped rims, a stack of dog-eared paperbacks, a tin full of guitar picks, photographs taped to the wall that I don’t look at unless I have to.

I set Martin down carefully, leaning him where he won’t fall, and kick off my boots. I grab a glass of water and swallow a melatonin, I have cornic insominia. I swear.Bruiser circles twice before curling up at the foot of the bed, his back pressed against the wood, content. I crawl under the quilts, the mattress creaking softly beneath me. The van smells like cedar and smoke and something sweet I can never quite name.

I don’t lock the doors. I forget. Or maybe I just don’t think about it.

Bruiser sighs, deep and satisfied. I close my eyes. The ocean keeps murmuring outside, patient and endless, and Betty holds us steady as sleep takes me whole.