‘Adam, come in please,’ she said, waving him towards a chair. She sat in its opposite, a small round table between them. A vase of white hydrangeas sat in the center of the table. She moved the vase, placing it carefully on her desk, behind the table and their chairs. Sitting back, she looked at him. He felt a spark, an arc like a welder’s fire, linking his world now and the next to come, after he heard her words.
‘Where is she?’ he asked, his hands clenched in his lap. ‘Where’s Clair?’
He felt her studying him, her expression changing from concern to curiosity. She cocked her head to one side, as though looking through her side vision, like a bird, scanning the ground for a worm.
‘I don’t understand your question, Adam. Do you mean where is she right now physically or are you asking where she is mentally? You know I can’t talk about her with you. Her trial visit is over, you are no longer her legal guardian, and I don’t have a current release of information.’
Adam was momentarily transported back to the early days of Clair’s commitment and institutionalization. The line between criminality and mental illness; the criminal justice system and medicine blurred. He had changed from being her victim, to her keeper. All of that had flowed away down the river of time, and like flotsam left behind, he was without purpose or movement. Until now. He felt purpose. Find Clair.
‘I mean, Jet, where the fuck is my wife? You went to her appointment with her and then she just disappeared. What happened?’
Jet leaned forward towards Adam. ‘She did receive a poor report, and said she needed time to process. She said she wanted to be alone. Why? What’s happened, Adam?’
‘I went to see her. One of the other residents said Clair had left in a taxi, carrying her large bag. The woman said she heard Clair tell the taxi driver to take her to the airport. I’ve been calling her cell but she won’t answer. I’m afraid for her, Jet. Did she say anything to you? Tell you where she was going?’
Jet stood up, walked to the window, looking out over the neighboring woods. A trio of deer were grazing in a clearing, next to the Life Flight Helipad. She turned to look at Adam.
‘She did not, Adam. I’ve never seen her so shut down. When she heard the report…’
Adam broke in. ‘What did Ellerby tell her?’
Jet sighed heavily, returning to her chair. ‘That her cancer had spread, to her lungs, liver, spine up along her cervical vertebrae. That was what was causing that pain she thought was just a tension headache or muscle spasm.’
Adam sat, stunned. ‘What else?’
Jet leaned forward. Her hands clasped in front of her, like a penitent. ‘That there were no further treatment options for her. She had maybe three to six months to live. He recommended hospice. Clair said no to that, that she would deal with her death in her own way. She left the cancer center, telling me not to worry, that she would be OK. That was the last I saw or heard from her. Adam, I am so sorry. I thought for sure she would call you, Ben, and Jodie.’
Adam dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking with the effort not to cry. Unable to hold in his emotions, a guttural sound, like having the breath knocked out, escaped his mouth. Jet stood up, came beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder.
‘I have to find her, Jet. I can’t let her go through this alone, even if that is what she wants, or thinks she wants.’
‘I understand. But it is her choice, you know. She is of sound mind now, no longer considered mentally ill.’
‘Oh Christ, you know that’s the legal term. We both know the emotional reality is different. Look at all she’s gone through. Losing a child. Trying to kill me and herself, and then, just when there was a glimmer of hope, that she and I might find a way to create a life together without Devon, she learns she has this breast cancer, already spreading. And now, no more treatments? Yes, she may have free choice but her options are limited. How far can she go without becoming really ill? And where would she go? I’m all she has now. And she’s all I have.’
He broke down, openly sobbing, laying his head on his folded arms.
‘Adam, no, you are not alone. You know I’ll help, do what I can. And Clair’s brother and sister-in-law, they’ll help too, I’m sure.’
‘She’s so damn private. That’s the thing,’ Adam said, rubbing his eyes with his hands.
He accepted the box of tissues Jet handed him, standing up and walking around the small space, embarrassed now for his show of emotions. On stage was one thing, for real, in person, his own true self revealed, was not something he did, or hadn’t until now, until life with Clair and Devon had opened him up like an oyster, offering not pearls but tears. Tears of futility, shame, and deep sorrow at all that had been possible then, like a river flowing into an ocean, had been subsumed by the wide world of work, Devon’s therapy, Clair’s total absorption in Devon’s care and everything that went with that. They, the two of them, had never been an us, always it was Clair and Devon, and then Adam added on as an afterthought. At least, he had felt that way. Maybe all he had felt, experienced, imagined, was just that – a delusion fed by jealousy at their closeness. He had loved them both. And it wasn’t enough. He had lost Devon; he wouldn’t lose Clair. At least, not without an appeal.
‘I’m going to find her, Jet. Will you let me know if she contacts you first? Please?’
‘If she says yes, Adam. I won’t go against her wishes.’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I do, but still, please, even to let me know she’s OK?’
‘Yes, I can do that.’
Adam turned to walk out the door, glancing back at Jet, and around her office.
‘You know, we learned a lot here with you, about ourselves, each other, and how we fit in the world. It wasn’t all bad. Could have been worse. I thank you for that.’
‘It’s my job,’ Jet replied.
‘Oh, your connection with Clair, and through her, me, goes far beyond your job description,’ Adam said. ‘I think you really care.’ He walked through the door, pulling it shut quietly behind him.
Walking back to his car felt like an eternity. Hospitals were tiny microcosms of the world, in life, death, and all that lay in-between. Codes were called overhead, people rushing to the bedsides of others dying. New mothers, their laps piled high with balloons, flowers and gifts, a nurse carrying the newborn, nervous dad rushing behind, holding the car seat, looking like he had just been catapulted into a new solar system.
Adam remembered he and Clair bringing Devon home. He had felt like these dads looked. So in love and terrified of making a mistake. This tiny, helpless human being. His responsibility. And he had failed so monumentally. Both his boy, and now his wife. Good God! How had he missed this basic building block of the human system? Being a man, a father, a husband, someone others can depend upon.
Determined to find Clair, he rushed back to the housing residence. The rain had abated, small rainbows dancing in the motor oil surfaced puddles. The air was cool to his face, and he compelled himself to gather his energy, feeling the freshness on his face, then feeling the descending darkness, November in the north-west. His anxiety grew as he increased his knocking to a pounding rhythm. The door opened. An elderly man stood at the door, his expression open and friendly.
‘Good evening,’ the man said, holding the door open. ‘Come in.’
Adam was taken back by this man’s uninhibited fearlessness, opening the door to a stranger. Part of him wanted to say, ‘Wait a minute. You don’t know me.’ But instead, he did walk in. The older man stood aside, making room for Adam to pass through, a smile on his face. Adam wondered if maybe he had dementia.
‘Robert Hall, how can I help you?’ the man said, holding out his hand.
‘Robert, Adam Gage,’ Adam replied, taking Robert’s hand. ‘I’m looking for my wife, Clair. She was a resident here. I heard she took a taxi from here a
nd I want, need, to talk to the woman who saw her leave. I don’t know the woman’s name. But she had gray hair, worn in a bun at her neck, and was wearing a shawl, made of soft pink wool I think.’
‘Ah yes, that would be Audrey. My wife. I’ll get her for you. Please sit down. We were just getting ready to have a cocktail. Would you like one? There’s sherry, martinis, whisky, wine and, of course, our own Seven Devil’s craft beer?’
‘No, but thanks, so much. Just Audrey please, if she’s available.’
‘Yes, she had her last treatment today. She’s celebrating but tired too. That chemo builds up, you know. Toxic.’
Adam had an image of Clair, weak, sick, wandering somewhere, without roots or destination. His heart hammered in his chest.’
‘Sit,’ Robert said, more like ordered.
Adam did, and felt a momentary relief as his muscles, fatigued from all that had gone before, relaxed the moment he removed gravity from their grasp. He almost wept with relief. Sinking back into the deep, shabby, worn sofa, he felt the energy of all the bodies and souls who had sat or lain there, an island in the constant stream of treatment induced semi-consciousness. Unlike drug induced states that seemed to generate feelings of bliss, or hysteria, the state induced by treatment was different, terrifying in its magnitude, implications for failure, and yet, somehow, the taste of it, the feel of it coursing through your veins, in your skin, brought solace. Fighting the cancer. A war in your small, vulnerable body.
Adam felt this, from all of the bodies that had sunk into the depths of this sofa, its fabric thin where hips had turned from side to side, seeking comfort. Pillows where heads had rested, holding back nausea, sipping on ginger ale and crunching saltine crackers. Clair had been here. He leaned back, closed his eyes momentarily, sensing her being, smelling her hair, her body, mixed with all others.
‘Hello, Adam is it?’ Adam heard the melodious voice, standing before him. He opened his eyes. Yes, it was the same woman. Sitting bolt upright, he shook, as though repelling images of others from his vision. Only Clair now.
‘Yes, hi, I’m sorry to barge in,’ Adam stood, embarrassed to be sitting. ‘I’m looking for Clair. You told me she left in a taxi for the airport. Do you know where she was going? Did she give any indication at all?’
They stood, facing each other, Audrey’s hand resting on the sofa. The older woman looked so frail; Adam felt terrible for having disturbed her rest. Then Robert brought her a drink, a martini. She took a sip, smiled up at him, and their eyes locked. Adam thought this was a ritual that had probably been reoccurring for many years.
‘No, not really. I’m sorry. But she turned and looked at me and said, “Buen Camino”.’
‘Buen Camino?’ Adam repeated, his expression confused. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, I have a great niece, Becca, who went on a long walk. It was called the Camino de Santiago. And her photos all had a yellow arrow pointing one way or the other, and the words Buen Camino written on stones, walls, store fronts. It was in Spain; I do remember that.’
‘Spain? Clair has gone to Spain? Why on earth would she do that?’
‘People do strange things when they’re dying,’ Audrey said, casting a loving look at Robert. ‘I just married this fool, crazy to be in love with a walking dead woman.’
Robert grinned and, in that moment, looked like he had won the lottery. ‘A year or two with Audrey is better for me than a lifetime with any other woman. I hope you find your Clair.’
Chapter 29
Clair
The cluster of women stood outside the café, where they had gathered for coffee and pastries. It was cold, a light rain falling. All were wearing their ponchos, their packs underneath making them look like human camels. They had taken Clair shopping, helping her purchase boots, a waterproof hat and poncho, and other necessities for walking the long coastal Camino from Porto to Santiago.
‘Come with us, Clair,’ Sandy implored, reaching out to give Clair a final goodbye hug. ‘We won’t talk the entire walk, promise. And we’re just going to spend one day here exploring Porto, then we’ll begin our walk. A river cruise, wineries, museums. How can you refuse?’
‘You all go on, I’ll be fine. I need to walk alone, Sandy. For now. Maybe we’ll meet up along the way.’
‘All right, but if you get sick or need anything, you can text me via the WhatsApp I installed on your phone, remember?’
‘Yes Mom, I remember,’ Clair chided.
Sandy pulled a long face, then a smile. ‘Buen Camino, Clair,’ she said, her eyes filling softly with tears. ‘We all walk the long road alone, after all.’
Clair watched as Sandy joined her group, and they began their morning walk, their singsong chatter filling the spaces between them. This is a time of beginnings and endings, Clair thought. First times and last times. She wiggled her toes, now encased in a pair of toe socks, feeling oddly comforted by the tightness, like having her feet massaged. Shoes, backpack, walking stick, she was ready. ‘Let the rumpus begin,’ she said to herself, smiling at the memory of Devon’s favorite story about the Wild Things. One foot, one breath, she chanted to herself, stepping onto the path, locating a yellow scallop shell and arrow on the side of a stone wall pointing the way.
Porto was a busy city, hustling and bustling. The rain had stopped, and a cool golden sepia light shone over the city. Clair pulled off the poncho, reveling in the feeling of the cool air against her scalp. She adjusted her pack, shifting the weight so that it rode higher on her narrow hips. The one strap on her right side pulled across the infusion port site. Stopping at a traffic circle, at the edge of a large municipal park, she offloaded the pack onto a nearby bench.
An older woman, dressed all in black, walked across the roundabout, cars racing to gain leader of the pack status at the turns. Once by Clair’s side, she sat down on the bench still damp from the morning rain. She perched her cane between her knees, her long dress reaching her ankles enclosed in thick rubber boots. The only color adorning her small, corpulent body was a richly flowered scarf, which she draped around her head and neck. Her deep blue eyes had a slight film over them, as though she was looking through glass.
‘Peregrina,’ she said, looking Clair up and down. Not a question. A fact.
Clair wasn’t sure how to respond. She knew a little Spanish but also knew Portuguese was not the same thing. She tried a universal head nod along with a smile. She wanted to get on her way, not stop and struggle to communicate with this woman.
‘Sit,’ she said, surprising Clair with the clarity of her word. And Clair did sit, first laying her poncho down as a barrier to the cold wet bench. The woman reached across Clair’s body, taking the backpack, adjusting straps, burrowing into the depths of the pack, moving her few belongings around. Then bouncing the pack on her knees, feeling its weight and balance.
‘Now, you try.’ Holding the pack to Clair, the woman nodded her head, shaking the pack a bit.
Clair stood, amused at both the woman and her own compliance with these orders. She slipped the pack on her shoulders, astounded at the different feeling, of lightness, and fit. It was as though the pack now was a part of her body, not a thing apart.
‘Good, yes?’ the woman asked.
‘Thank you,’ Clair said, sitting down, leaving the pack on her back. ‘How did you know?’
‘Many Caminos,’ she said, pointing at her heart. ‘I have walked many kilometers to Santiago de Compostela. These feet won’t walk that far today so I sit here, in the park, enjoying seeing peregrinas and peregrinos begin their journeys. None the same. Each different. And you will be different each day.’
‘I do feel different just being here now, with you,’ Clair said. ‘Like I’m waking up.’
She gestured with her hands, trying to communicate a coming alive, brightening feeling. The old woman smiled, nodding her head.
<
br /> ‘Yes, yes, I remember. Feeling affinity for all, everything together. But you are troubled. You must leave the trouble here on this bench, not take it with you.’
‘How can you tell?’ Clair asked, her brow creasing in wonder and concern. ‘Does it show?’
‘I see it in your eyes, the saudade.’
‘My family. I do need to talk with them. Let them know I’m here and OK.’
‘You must ease your spirit, let go of the phantoms that haunt your journey. Here,’ she said, reaching up and removing her scarf, ‘take this, cover your head and enter the chapel on the other side of this park. Light a candle for each of your ghosts, that their pain and yours will release in the flame and smoke.’
‘But, how will I find you to return the scarf?’ Clair asked, wrapping the scarf around her neck.
‘The scarf is yours to keep. Pass it on if you find a reason or need. It was given to me over fifty years ago by a pilgrim. I have been waiting for you.’
The woman stood.
‘I, thank you, and what is your name?’ Clair called to her retreating back.
‘I am called Raphael,’ she said, turning around to look at Clair. ‘Now go, the Camino waits.’
Clair debated with herself. Her compulsion to stay on her path, following the yellow arrows was strong, but her curiosity about Raphael’s instructions and also, a sense of apprehension of not following them, made her mind up for her. She set off across the roundabout, into the park, looking for a chapel. Imagining a small structure, with perhaps a hidden door, tucked away into a narrow street, she stood awestruck before the massive and ornate Igreja de São Francisco. Easing inside, past a group of tourists being lectured by a guide, she made her way to the front of the church. Clair pulled the scarf up over her head as instructed, although she saw many women with bare heads. Kneeling before the devotional area, where over one hundred votive candles sat, some left burning by a previous penitent, she thought about whom to light a candle for. To release her ghosts, as Raphael had said. A feeling of great sadness overwhelmed her so that rational thought was impossible. Her heart felt like it would explode, so strong was the feeling.
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