by Elka Ray
My mom nods. “I know. Daphne’s tough.” I nod too. “Will you come with me to see her?” asks my mom.
I hesitate. She reaches for my hand. Hers is unusually cold. It feels oddly frail too. I give it a reassuring squeeze. “Of course,” I tell her.
Daphne is on the fourth floor. We take the stairs. My mom dislikes elevators. I’m not sure if it’s the mechanics she mistrusts, or the feng shui. We both climb slowly, without speaking. Muscles I didn’t even know I had are protesting.
Daphne is in a private room. We peer around the door.
She’s sound asleep. Strangely, without all that makeup, she looks younger. And she seems to have shrunk. Or maybe she’s just curled up under the blankets. With her hair loose and soft, she reminds me of a sleeping child. Innocent and defenseless. I remember her passed out in that smoke-filled car.
My stomach twists. How could her son-in-law do this?
My mom inhales. She blinks back tears. I know how she feels—scared and helpless. What if Daphne is irreparably damaged?My mom gestures back the way we came.
We both tiptoe away. “I’ll come back later,” she whispers.
I nod. Yes, it’s better to let Daphne sleep. Like Colin, her brain needs rest to recover.
We find a nurse. My mom hands over the flowers.
We’re turning to go when I notice a uniformed policeman sitting across the hall from Daphne’s door. Was he there the whole time? I can’t believe I didn’t notice him. Is he there to protect Daphne? Or do the cops still think she’s Stephen’s killer? But surely, they can’t think she’ll escape! Can she even walk?
I turn back toward the ward’s main door. It opens to emit Miriam Young, hand-in-hand with a small boy. He’s got golden skin and curly brown hair. In his free hand he holds a plastic dinosaur. I recognize it: it’s Buttpokersaurus.
Miriam smiles. Like yesterday, she looks dead tired. Her hair is scraped into a messy bun. She’s dressed in her usual dark jeans, boots, and a black turtleneck. Today, she’s got a quilted grey vest overtop. There’s a blob of something white—is it bird poop?—on her shoulder.
“Toby! Ivy!” she says. “You okay? I just went to see Colin.”
We nod. My mom crouches down. “And who are you?” she asks the little boy. He looks maybe two, at the most, with puffed cheeks like toasted marshmallows.
He thrusts the dinosaur at her. “Rwwwwaaaahhhh!” he roars.
My mom feigns panic. “Aaaaahhhhhh!” she mock-yells. She straightens up and brushes down her dress. “Is that a T-rex?”
“Nope.” The boy scoffs, like he can’t believe she’d make such a rookie mistake. “It’s Albertosaurus.”
“Oh,” says my mom. “And who are you?”
The kid ignores her.
“Max?” says Miriam. “This is Ivy. She asked you a question.”
The boy releases her hand and spins around. “Rrrwwwaaah!” he says again. His dinosaur leaps through the air. “I’m Max,” he says.
I can’t stop looking from the boy to Miriam Young. He looks a lot like those twins. And he looks like her. But surely, they can’t all be hers. Can they?
“Is he . . . yours?” I ask.
Miriam smiles. “Yes.”
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know you were a mom.”
“I also have nine-month-old twins,” she says. “Three boys.”
“Oh,” I say again. What I think is: poor you! I try to keep my voice neutral: “I think I met them at Colin’s.”
Miriam nods. “Colin’s been a godsend.”
Her right hand goes to her left, as if to touch a ring that’s not there. “I transferred here a few months ago,” she says. “From Salmon Arm. Messy divorce.” She swallows hard. “And Max here has been having serious asthma attacks. We’re at Emergency three, four times a week. Colin’s been minding the twins.” Her face sags, like she might cry. “I don’t know how I’d have survived without him.”
“My gosh,” says my mom. “You’re a single mom with three kids under two? I’d be happy to babysit anytime! Who knows when I’ll ever get grandchildren of my own . . .” She looks at me pointedly. I roll my eyes. She digs her ancient Nokia out of her bag. “Let me give you my number,” she says to Miriam.
“I can babysit too,” I say. But then I remember those twins. “Although I’m not so great with babies,” I add.
I can’t believe I thought Colin was dating her. The poor woman barely has time to sleep or eat, let alone date! I wish he’d told me.
I need to introduce Miriam to Quinn. They can swap baby war stories. When Abby’s a bit older, they can have play dates.
Miriam smiles. “You guys are so kind,” she says. “But it seems Max’s new asthma medicine might actually work.” Her voice lifts with hope. “It’s now been two days without an attack. Touch wood . . .” She looks around for something wooden to knock.
“Linen,” says my mom, offering up her dress. “It’s from a plant.”
Miriam taps my mom’s skirt. “Thanks,” she says.
I want to reroll my eyes but refrain. All these superstitious people! Although sometimes, I catch myself . . .
“You know, tiger-eye can help asthma,” says my mom. “Here . . .” She rummages through her massive tote and extracts a small purple velvet bag. I guess she wasn’t taking any chances and brought along her set of crystal greatest-hits.
She picks out a tawny, walnut-sized rock and hands it to Miriam. “Sew that up in a sock so he can’t swallow it and pop it under his pillow.”
I expect a blank look from Miriam. Instead, she peers at it and looks thrilled. It’s the same color as Max’s hair. “Oh yeah? Wow! Thanks,” she says. She zips the shiny tumbled pebble into her purse. “That’s so kind,” she tells my mother.
“How’s Gerard?” I ask Miriam.
She frowns. “You gave him a pretty good whack,” she says. “No fracture but he’s got a concussion.”
I shudder. The memory of hitting him—the shock waves traveling up my arm—makes me queasy.
Is Gerard here in this ward? Maybe the seated cop is here to watch him.
“Have you talked to him yet?” I ask Miriam.
We’ve now moved to the side of the wide hall, out of the way of passersby. Max is sitting on the floor. My mom—ridiculously flexible thanks to all that yoga—squats nearby. From the corner of my eye I see her withdraw a Matchbox car from her bag. Wow. It’s like Hermione’s magical beaded evening purse. What’s next? The kitchen sink? Or a live pony?
“The doctors just let me question him,” says Miriam. “Briefly.” She looks serious. “He admitted to drugging Daphne with the Ativan,” she says. “He’d been doing it for months, in increasingly dangerous doses. He wanted control of her house and cash. He claimed he didn’t want to kill her, just convince her she was losing her grip. But then, when he thought Daphne was accusing Isobel of murder, he decided to get rid of her. He drugged her and the pig with sleeping meds before gassing them in the old Mustang.”
I bite my lip. “Did Isobel know?” I ask. “About any of it?”
Miriam’s face tightens “I don’t believe so,” she says. “But we’re still investigating. We picked up Lukas,” she adds.
I nod, relieved. For Daphne’s sake, I hope Isobel had no idea what her husband was up to. Daphne will already have one kid in jail.
“How about Lukas?” I ask. “Did he confess to killing Stephen?”
Miriam looks down at her son. He’s controlling the car—a red hot rod—while my mom’s got the dinosaur. Their game seems to involve a lot of engine noises and roars.
Miriam sighs. “We’ve charged him with assault,” she says. “For that attack on you. But no, he still insists he didn’t kill anyone. We had to let him out on bail, like Daphne.”
My throat feels suddenly thick.
Seeing my face, Miriam looks apologetic. “I’m sorry,” she says. “But don’t worry. We’re working on it.”
“Stephen and Lukas fought,” I say. “I heard him admit
to that.”
Miriam nods. “I believe you.” Her face is grim. “We just have to prove it.” She takes a deep breath and draws her shoulders back. “But seriously Toby, it’s all good. Thanks to you, this case is close to being wrapped up. We will get him, don’t worry.”
When she smiles, I know I should be reassured. So why am I not? Despite my warm coat, I shiver. I want to go home. My bruised chest feels increasingly sore.
I look at my mother. “Mom?” I say.
She looks up and rises smoothly from her squat.
She joins us again, smiling at Miriam. “Remember what I said about babysitting,” she says. “Call me any time. I’d be happy to help.”
Miriam blinks, like this kindness might make her cry. “Thank you,” she says, softly.
My mom waves to Max. He’s now clutching the dinosaur and the car.
“Bye Ivy!” he yells, like they’re old friends.
As we walk down the hall I marvel at my mom’s talents. She can befriend anyone, from drunken bums to billionaires, testy babies to cranky old farts, feral cats to iguanas. More amazingly still, she doesn’t change depending on who she’s with but is always her true, kooky self. Maybe that’s her real talent.
“Want a drink?” I suggest. I already had the one coffee but could use another. Or some juice. News that Lukas is free has left me feeling shaky.
“Sure,” says my mom. “I’m parched, after all that roaring.”
We walk to the cafeteria. It’s almost empty at this hour, one table near the back occupied by a couple of nurses. A girl in red earmuffs sits alone at a table in the middle. A tired-looking doctor talks softly on his cellphone.
My mom reaches for my hand. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I know Lukas seems scary. But he’s not a real danger.”
I stop, amazed.
First off, how did she even know I was thinking about him? And secondly, how could she say that, when he broke my wrist, two days ago?
“He broke my wrist,” I say. “And he killed a man!”
My mom sighs. “I just . . .” She shrugs. “It’s just the way I feel. I don’t think you need to worry about him.”
Great. I’m glad she feels reassured, but I sure as hell don’t. She didn’t see his face that night, or hear his embittered whining. I fight back the urge to snap at her.
My mom fingers her heavy black tourmaline necklace. She lifts it over her head. “You should wear this,” she says. She looks serene. “If you’re feeling edgy.”
I pull away, then relent. Oh why not? It won’t hurt me.
I let her slip the beads over my head. She flips my hair out from under them. My hair’s now shoulder-length. I keep putting off getting a haircut.
My mom leans back to survey me. “Perfect,” she says. “Black tourmaline’s the best.”
I nod. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know: the stone to ward off negativity and aggression. I touch the faceted beads. Actually, this necklace is pretty.
“Hot chocolate?” offers my mom. I nod. That’s exactly what I need. “You sit down,” she says, pointing at the closest table. “I’ll get it.”
It’s only when I’ve sunk into a chair that I realize how tired I am. It’s like I’ve been running on fumes of fear, adrenaline, pain, and relief . . . I could sleep for days. It’s tempting to set my head on the table and shut my eyes. My eyelids feel heavy.
“Here we are,” says my mom. She sets down two paper cups. I wrap my hands around mine. “Thanks.”
“Cheers,” she says.
I smile tiredly. “Cheers.”
I take a sip. It’s machine hot chocolate. Below the tasty froth it’s powdery, watery, and way too sweet. I drink it anyway. As the warmth and sugar spread through me, I perk up. My mom’s right. It’s all worked out fine. Everyone survived and is expected to recover. I’m off work today. I’ll go home and sleep.
Tomorrow, I’ll come back first thing in the morning to see Colin. Colin—who loves me. How did I forget, even for an instant? He loves me! The warmth in my belly spreads to my heart.
I smile at my mother.
“You look better,” she says.
I nod and try to tamp down my smile. If I keep it up, she’ll get suspicious and start asking questions I lack the strength to deflect.
“Yeah. I’m relieved,” I say. “I’m glad it’s over.”
“Me too,” says my mom. She lowers her cup. She’s got a hot chocolate mustache.
“Um, your face,” I say. I point at my own upper lip.
She smiles. “Yeah, you’ve got one too.”
I frown. “Well . . . what?” I wipe my lip with the back of my good hand. “Weren’t you going to tell me?”
“Of course.” She smirks. “But it looked cute. So not yet.”
I’m freshly annoyed with my mother.
CHAPTER 33:
ON A KNIFE’S EDGE
While my mom goes to the bathroom I sit and wait. A few more people have entered the cafeteria: an exasperated forty-something mother and her teenage son, in the midst of an argument about his excessive (her word) videogame playing; an elderly couple who order matching bowls of pink Jello; a guy in scrubs who looks almost as tired as me; three middle-aged ladies dressed for golf. They remind me of Isobel—skinny, blonde, and disgruntled.
I rub my eyes. The sugar surge has worn off. I slump in the hard plastic chair, feeling sore and worn out. What’s keeping my mother?
Bored with watching my fellow cafeteria-mates, I skim the news on my phone. Mass shootings. Antivaxxers. More desperate refugees. The world’s going to hell at high speed.
I want to go home and hide. Ideally with Colin. The thought of him perks me up again. That kiss . . . My stomach squirms happily. We could live in a bunker.
Glancing up from my phone, a flash of gold catches my eye. Is that Josh? I squint. There’s no mistaking him.
He’s at the far end of the room, in the line to pay. My heart gives a tiny flop, like a minnow dropped onto a dock. I can see his back and the side of his face. He turns to talk to someone.
My gaze follows his. Vonda has budged into line beside him.
I grip my near-empty paper cup. Maybe she’s here visiting Daphne.
Vonda is wearing a short fur coat that’s as glossy as her hair. It looks like real mink, which takes major balls on Vancouver Island. She’s liable to get doused in red paint. Although it’d take a brave PETA activist to confront Vonda. Below this furry coat lie a short leather skirt, her enviable legs, and a pair of towering black high-heeled boots. Topping everything off is that raspberry beret, tilted becomingly.
Vonda deposits the bottle she’s holding onto Josh’s tray. She leans against him. He strokes her fluffy waist.
I grit my teeth. So they’re together, after all. That didn’t take long.
I wait for a flood of gloom. Oh-woe-is-me-I’ve-been-replaced-by-a-gold-digging-sex-bomb . . .
Strangely, it doesn’t come. I just don’t care. I pick up my cup and drain the last gluey, cold dregs. Idle curiosity inspires me to keep watching them, now at the till. They’re standing so close, they look welded. Vonda pats Josh’s back pocket, like she’s rubbing his butt. Or is she fondling his fat wallet?
I can’t help but smile. Josh is her perfect man—sure to boost her brand image. And him? I recall his ex-wife, who was an overblown kind of sexy. Vonda’s definitely his type. They’ll look awesome together on Instagram. She can pose on his yacht in extra-tight yoga gear and full makeup.
My smile widens. I truly don’t care—like not one jot. Whatever a jot is. They’re probably made for each other. Happiness has made me generous. I actually hope they’ll be happy. May they Influence-as-one and find millions of like-happy Followers.
“Toby?” My mom is back from the washroom. She’s washed her face, which is still damp, and wetted her thundercloud hair in an attempt to tame it. “Sorry I took so long,” she says. “I met someone from yoga. Her husband just had knee surgery.” She shakes her head. “Silly man. He just won’t stop
playing rugby.”
I collect our empty cups and rise, then look around for a trash can.
“Hey? Isn’t that Josh?” says my mom. She peers at Josh and Vonda.
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you going to say hi?”
“Not today,” I say. “I’m beat. I’m going home to sleep for the rest of the day.”
Just for a second, my mom looks thoughtful. Then she nods and smiles. “Can you give me a ride?” she asks. “I walked here. And I just looked outside. It’s pouring.”
“Sure,” I say. We walk toward the exit.
We’ve just gotten into my car when my mom’s phone rings.
How she can find anything in that giant bag is a mystery. Yet she does. She must not recognize the number because she frowns. “Hello?” Her face lights up. “Oh, hi, Daphne! You’re awake! How are you?”
I turn on the ignition and the heat but stay parked. My mom might want to hop out and visit Daphne, after all. Rain splatters against the windshield.
“Uh huh. Okay. Oh! Sure,” says my mom. “No problem. Okay. Give me half an hour.”
She hangs up and turns to me. “Hon, that was Daphne. She needs some supplies. A toothbrush and pajamas.” She waves a hand for etcetera. “Would you mind popping by her place and dropping me back here again? I’ll take everything up to her.”
I want to say no. I’m dying to get into bed. But it’ll take what—half an hour?
“Sure,” I say. I back out of the parking spot. “Wait,” I say, as we’re in line to exit the parking lot. “Are you sure we can go in? Isn’t it a crime scene?”
“It’s fine,” says my mom. “The police are done.”
Rats, I think. But don’t say it.
When we pull up in front of Daphne’s I’m tempted to wait in the car. I’m tired and don’t want to go in there. What happened yesterday is still too fresh. Too scary and raw.
I recall Gerard’s pale, furious face—like a bloated, murderous Alfred Hitchcock.
My mom unclicks her seatbelt. “You coming?” she asks.
I unclick my belt too. Oh why not? I may as well. If I help find Daphne’s stuff we can get out of here quicker. We walk down the path side-by-side.