Jacintha

by Lorraine Davies

  That said, let me emphasize that Jacintha was the one who truly suffered in all this. I suffer still, but mostly from remorse, which is of an entirely different and lower order.

  I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. Still, I like what Flaubert wrote: “Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to, when we long to move the stars to pity.”

  And I was grateful for the occasional exhalations of sympathy from Carol, the stars and their pity being out of my reach. Dancing bears, on the other hand, even in their clumsiness, like my dear wife thrown off balance, can offer significant solace.

  So what now? My father died at sixty of heart failure. I used to worry that I’d suffer the same fate, and even though I still have a strong feeling that I will, I don’t worry about it anymore. A chapter of my life has ended, and I don’t know if I have the desire to write another one. There are points, I think, where many people make choices of whether to go on or not, following the loss of, say, a marriage or career, or, more seriously, following the news that they’re suffering from a terminal illness or when dealing with the death of a loved one. But losing the will to live isn’t always big and dramatic and doesn’t necessarily result in the sudden blow of suicide. It can begin with something as soft and small as a sigh of resignation, and continue as a quiet sliding away.

  What is the right amount of suffering?

  AFTERWORD TO THE SECOND EDITION OF JACINTHA

  By Carol Wilson

  RICHARD DIED OF a heart attack shortly after the publication of his novel. He had only a few months to enjoy how well it was received. He was found two days after his death by his upstairs neighbour.

  On the whole, time having given me a greater perspective, I like the book in terms of the personal story (in spite of my earlier, well-documented objections!). I ended up having more sympathy for Richard as a result of understanding more about his struggle. And I also admire it as a literary work.

  Richard appointed me executor in his will, which he’d written only weeks before his death. His premonition must have been strong. He bequeathed his computer and his books to me. He owned very little else — nothing of value. The money in his bank account, several thousand dollars, he left to Imogen. He’d been working as a freelance editor.

  He stipulated that any future income from sales of his novel be donated anonymously by his publisher to Doctors Without Borders. (So now, in spirit, he is doing some of the “good works” overseas that he thought for a while he might do in the flesh.)

  In his files I found several unfinished stories. In one, a man reconciles with a long-lost daughter and makes amends by helping her and her young children — quite boring — and in another, a man has a breakdown in Mexico that reads like a sad imitation of Under the Volcano, replete with hallucinations and DT’s.

  But what I want most to share with you here is a chapter he removed from the end of the book, maybe to spare my feelings, or maybe just because it was too close to the bone, too raw. I think he should have left it in because it is powerful and painful in its honesty and reminds me that we are all flawed, that nothing is black and white, and that most of us, if we’ve lived long enough, have a “what-if” or an “if only” of our own — not as terrible as Richard’s, perhaps, but still haunting and full of regret.

  Before we get to that chapter, I’d like to tell you one significant thing that he didn’t mention. About a year after we moved to England, he had an affair with a young woman who looked uncannily like Jacintha. (They moved to France together, but she left him within a few months.) That was really the end of us, but I don’t want to dwell on it. I don’t hurt the way I used to. It was several years ago, after all, and I am happy with Nick. But sometimes, as Richard put it, the ghosts “press up against me,” and require of me a certain amount of sadness.

  Love itself is never wrong, but sometimes we have no choice but to turn away from the object of our love. Richard most certainly had to. Still, apropos of the chapter to follow, most of us know how both body and mind can continue to yearn, and how the heart rebels and refuses to harden, and how we can become more human for it.

  Here is the previously unpublished chapter:

  FORTY-FIVE

  THREE DAYS BEFORE Richard and Carol were to leave for England, Richard received a letter from Jacintha. Trembling, he opened it.

  The first thing he saw was a photo of Jacintha and a man who looked so much like him that at first he thought it was himself on some forgotten occasion. Or that he could be in two places at once. Or that he was losing his mind. He took a breath and looked more closely. The man had Richard’s sandy hair, a nose like his, light eyes like his, and an expression that Richard had sometimes caught on his own face in the mirror. But, no, it wasn’t him.

  They were standing on a beach, a sparkling azure sea behind them. Jacintha wore a yellow halter top and a blue skirt, and her hair shone golden in the sun. He turned the photo over. Me and Jonathan in Puerto Vallarta. He read the letter.

  Dear Richard,

  Jonathan is a Brit I met here in Mexico. You’ll have noticed he looks a lot like you and that pleases and comforts me a little, but he’s not you, and that still pains me. But don’t worry, I have let you go, as you asked. Jonathan is good to me and I love him in my fashion.

  There’s just one thing, one important thing that I haven’t told you. (If I’d stayed with you, there would have been endless things to tell you.) Sorry, there I go again.

  The thing I want to tell you is this: I was pretty sure you were my father for a while before I got the test result. I saw the three moles on your neck. I have three moles in the same place in the same inverted triangle. I thought it was a sign that we were twin souls, meant to be together, but that, tragically, has proved impossible. Dear Richard, dear Papa, I’ll always cherish the time we had together. I’m not saying I’ll never see you again, but I’ll do nothing to make it happen — I’ll leave it to the universe. I like to believe we’ll never really escape each other because we belong to each other.

  Beth says Carol is back with you and you’re going to England to visit your daughter, the unsullied one. But remember, there are so many ways for a girl to be damaged in this world. But not by me. Or you. I didn’t mean that.

  I’m glad for you, truly I am. I wish you and yours all happiness. And all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

  All my love,

  Jacintha

  Richard shuddered. His heart raced and his head swam; he was gripped by a terrible thought.

  She’d never worn her hair completely up. But once — oh, god, he remembered now. It was on Thanksgiving Day, when, hot from dancing, she’d lifted her hair from her neck for a moment. He was standing behind her, very close, and he had seen two of the moles, not large but very noticeable, velvety brown, one at the base of her neck, the other at an angle an inch or so above. It had never occurred to him that there might be a third.

  A chill crawled up his spine. What if he had seen the third mole, had the same thought as Jacintha, and had decided it was too much of a coincidence? Or what if he had found out the truth another way, before the knife came down. Would he have run from her, escaped before it was too late?

  Or would he have done the opposite? Taken her away with him. Run away with her and never looked back. Prayed if she knew who he was, she would never admit it. Could he have done such a thing? How strong would he have been, one way or the other?

  He would never know. And that would be the worst part of his punishment.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  FIRST OF ALL, I’d like to thank my family. Love always to my beautiful, wonderful daughters, my dear son-in-law, and my grandchildren. All of you are also beautiful and wonderful. Your love sustains me, lifts me up, and never lets me down.

  I’m very grateful to the whole Dundurn team for their talents and hard work.

  Thanks so much to Scott Fraser, publisher, who chose my book for publication and started this exc
iting adventure for me.

  Thanks to Dominic Farrell, developmental editor, for your insightful and razor-sharp editing skills and your kindness.

  Thank you, Victoria Bell, copy editor. Your astute insights into Jacintha (the character) — one comment in particular really pleased me.

  Jenny McWha, project editor, gracious and efficient. It’s been a pleasure working with you.

  Laura Boyle, thanks for your beautiful cover design. “Stunning” was one of the comments I received.

  Elham Ali, excellent and enthusiastic publicist. I’m enjoying working with you.

  Thank you, freelancer Janice Zawerbny, for your insights early in this process.

  Stephanie Sinclair, my agent at Transatlantic: You have been a rock, always believing in my novel and cheering me on. And finding a publisher! Thank you so much.

  Special thanks to my first mentor, Shaena Lambert, novelist and short story writer extraordinaire. You gave me your friendship and the confidence, in those early days, to continue writing. I am so grateful.

  Thank you, Zsuzsi Gartner, brilliant short story writer and now novelist, for your encouragement and editing skills, and your wonderful Writers Adventure Camp in Whistler.

  Thanks to the many friends who have been there for me over the years, including some of the dearest ones: Lilia Petri, Liz Weis, Agi Rejto, and fellow writer Clare Gomez.

  I can’t say enough about you, my lovely friend Denise Wrathall. Your constant support and generosity in many areas, good times and bad, have meant so much to me. And your computer skills have saved me countless times!