by Joan Clark
Still too excited to eat, she rewraps the sandwich and is putting it in her purse when she notices a man coming toward her. Watching him approach, Moranna is struck by how much he resembles Harry Belafonte. She hasn’t seen a picture of the entertainer for years, but she thinks Belafonte probably looks much like this man. There are crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and his hair is iron grey, but he looks handsome and virile. He asks if she minds if he shares the bench.
“Not at all.”
He sits down and immediately introduces himself as Howard Bellifleur.
“You have the same initials as Harry Belafonte,” Moranna says, “which is interesting because you look so much like him.”
Howard chuckles. “I’ve been told that before.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be a musician,” Moranna says.
“No, I’m a businessman.”
“I’m a musician.”
He appears genuinely interested. “Do you play or sing?”
“I play the piano.”
Howard sees his chance. “There are several pianos aboard the ship.”
Moranna looks at The World. “The ship is huge. Are all cruise ships this big?”
“No, this one has residential condos. Mine is on the top deck.”
Squinching her eyes, Moranna asks if she can see the condo from here.
“No,” Howard says. “It’s on the other side. Would you like to go aboard and walk around?”
“Why not?” She grins. “I’ve always wanted to go around the world.”
“Let’s go then.” Howard’s already on his feet.
They cross the street and enter the ship, riding an elevator to the top deck—by now Howard is holding her hand. From the top deck they walk down a wide marble staircase to a mezzanine where there are shops, restaurants and bars. “The ship has everything you could want,” Harold says. “Swimming pools and tennis courts, workout gyms and saunas. Would you like to see the movie theatre?”
“No thanks.”
“How about a piano?”
“I’ve seen enough.” Moranna is becoming agitated. “I’ve got to go.”
“At least have a drink with me in my condo.”
“I don’t drink.”
Howard ignores the disclaimer, which he’s heard before. “At least have a look at my condo. It has an incredible view.”
The luxury condo is on the ninth deck. The door opens into a compact galley, and while Moranna rubs her hands over the redwood cupboards, Howard telephones for champagne and caviar. Then he leads her up the carpeted stairs to an enormous room with a king-sized bed facing an outside wall completely made of glass. A yellow silk chesterfield faces the window and a low glass table. There are yellow roses on the table.
Moranna bends to smell them.
“Why, they’re fake!” she says in an affronted voice.
The doorbell chimes and Howard goes to answer.
A waiter in blue and gold livery appears bearing a tray, which he sets on the glass table before popping the cork and pouring two flutes of champagne.
Moranna can’t remember the last time she drank wine. During the dark years when she was either hiding or wandering, she often sought refuge in alcohol, willing it to pulse through her blood and transport her into oblivion. Instead, it either plunged her deeper into despair or shot her so high she was convinced she could conquer the world. She remembers this, yet surely the glass of champagne Howard is offering her won’t set her back.
They sit side by side on the chesterfield, sipping champagne, Howard’s hand resting lightly on her shoulder. Every so often Moranna helps herself to caviar.
Howard urges her to tell him about herself. Seldom able to resist the invitation, she gives him a version of her life, explaining how she became the custodian of her family’s history by carving the clansmen, crofters and pioneers who are her forebears. Impassioned by the importance of her mission, she turns to Howard and says, “I want you to know I carry the history of the MacKenzie family on my shoulders.” Her host couldn’t care less about the MacKenzies—a self-made millionaire, he’s bored by talk of family roots, but having nothing better to do, he waits for the champagne to take effect.
At the precise moment Moranna is extolling the importance of ancestral continuity, waving her flute from side to side, Howard makes the mistake of trying to fill it and champagne spills onto her arm, prompting her to jump to her feet in agitation. “You aren’t interested in what I’m saying,” she accuses him. “You want me to get drunk so you can seduce me.” When he doesn’t deny it, she goes to the window. Staring into the night, she sees the dark, hulking shape of the mental hospital crouching on the opposite shore of the harbour like a predator waiting to pounce. What possessed her to come to this stranger’s condo?
Badly frightened, more of herself than of Howard, she turns from the window and, ignoring the puzzled look on his face, unleashes a tirade. “The world is a dangerous place, and this ship is make-believe,” she shouts. “Wake up, Howard! The World isn’t real.” Slamming the champagne flute onto the table, she flees down the stairs and opens the door.
By the time Howard has got himself off the silk chesterfield and is closing the condo door, Moranna is riding the elevator down, holding the metal bar for support, her skin prickling from the closeness of the call. As she hurries back to the inn, she lectures herself. You’ll have to do better, she says, you’ve come to the city for one reason only, and that is to attend Bonnie’s wedding. Yes, I know there are enticements and curiosities in the city, but you have to ignore them and stick to your purpose.
Moranna spends a restless night, and after breakfast returns to her room where she intends to stay until the wedding. When she’s on edge, she’s easily distracted, but surely, inside this tiny room, she is safe from herself. The edginess is the result of uncertainty and apprehension. Worried about the messages she sent to her daughters, she telephones the florist to ask if the bouquets she ordered have gone out.
“They are being delivered as we speak.”
“The cards too?”
“Yes, madam, I inscribed them myself.” Moranna asked that both cards read, From your mother, Moranna MacKenzie, with love.
She still hasn’t made up her mind about whether she will crash the wedding or watch it from outside the church, and thinks trying on the outfits will help her decide. After she’s showered and is wearing the new underwear trimmed with lace, she puts on the champagne georgette dress, and then the black strapless Randi May. With each dress she looks in the mirror, expecting her reflection to help her decide what to wear. She wants the mirror to tell her she looks elegant in the georgette, that it is the perfect wedding dress for her. She would be just as pleased if the mirror urged her to wear the strapless Randi May, which would wow the wedding guests with its verve and sophistication. But the mirror steadfastly refuses to offer an opinion on either dress.
Slipping on the modest ochre-coloured cotton dress, Moranna tries another approach. Addressing the woman with silver blond hair and pale blue eyes, she asks, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”
“Alas, Moranna, you are not the fairest,” the mirror replies. “Your daughters are the fairest. But the cotton dress looks good on you, and it’s the one you should wear.”
“You really think so?”
“I do. It’s perfect for standing outside the church.” Moranna’s voice is pitched deep as she imagines an oracle’s would be. “I advise you not to go inside the church where you might do something foolish and spoil the wedding.”
“But I want to see my daughters.” Is that plaintive voice really hers?
“Then don’t draw attention to yourself. Take up a position outside the church.”
Having prophesied the course of action she should take, which is not to walk down the aisle as she longs to do, Moranna occupies herself by brushing and braiding her hair. Afterwards, she sits on the bed and watches the television news. A vast pollution cloud hangs over China
and India and people in Beijing and Bombay are going about the streets wearing gas masks. A cave in Afghanistan believed to have been used by Osama bin Laden has been found, but there is no sign of the terrorist mastermind. Land mines disguised as dolls continue to maim Afghani children.
The bad news sobers Moranna and she begins worrying about what she’ll do if her daughters ignore her at the wedding, or if Duncan is hostile. For all her imagination, she can’t predict how he might react when the woman he’s kept from her children all these years turns up at their older daughter’s wedding. And she can’t predict how Murdoch and Davina will react when they see her. What if she is completely ignored and the MacKenzie pride takes over and she lashes out or does something that convinces people she’s mad?
At one o’clock, having decided the new purse doesn’t suit the casual dress she’s wearing, she slips the room key into her pocket and walks along Barrington Street until she is opposite St. Matthew’s. She is early and the Gothic doors are closed. The afternoon is mild with intermittent clouds scudding overhead, blocking the sunlight from the pavement. Entering the graveyard, Moranna stands on the inside of the wrought-iron fence, directly facing the Gothic doors, and settles down to watch. But she is far from settled and, gripping the fence spikes to steady herself, tracks the time on the Sears watch attached to her wrist.
At 1:30, the church doors open and two young men with roses pinned to their suit lapels appear on either side, laughing and joking while they stand with their backs against the doors, waiting for the guests to arrive. At 1:40, two elderly women are helped out of a taxi and passed to an usher inside. They are soon followed by an older, distinguished-looking man and several young women, probably university students. Moranna studies the man, thinking he might be Duncan’s father until she realizes he is much taller than Jim Fraser. She recognizes Duncan’s brother, Malcolm, now white-haired, who arrives alone. About twenty more guests trickle in, but Murdoch, Davina and Ginger are not among them. At 1:55, a black limousine stops in front of the church and Moranna sees two women sitting in the back, one of them dark-haired, the other grey. The young men open the car doors and the grey-haired woman steps onto the pavement and brushes a hand across her dress to work out a crease. Moranna is sure she is Sophie. The grey-haired woman has grown stout, but she is Sophie all right. Is the young man she’s chatting with her son? The other young man is helping the dark-haired woman out of the limousine. No, he isn’t helping the woman, but a child. A little girl in a pink dress steps onto the pavement carrying a basket of flowers, and turns as the dark-haired woman wearing the same colour pink gets out of the car. Moranna’s heart thumps with excitement. Is that Brianna? The young woman has her back turned to the street and Moranna can’t see if she’s carrying a wildflower bouquet, but she’s sure the woman is Brianna. Who is the little girl in pink?
A second limousine festooned in white pulls up in front of the church and Moranna recognizes Duncan’s profile. He’s on her side of the car and Bonnie is on the other. Glimpsing the blond hair beneath the veil, Moranna watches as one of the young men helps her older daughter out of the car. Bonnie stands on the sidewalk, her back to the street, adjusting her veil while Moranna tips her head from side to side in an effort to see the bridal bouquet. She’s distracted by Duncan, who is now getting out of the limousine on her side, providing her with a clear view. He is wearing a suit the same sandy colour as his hair, and is leaning on a cane. He limps onto the sidewalk and for a few minutes he and Sophie chat with Bonnie and Brianna and the young men, while the little flower girl gazes at the passing cars until she is led into the church by Brianna and both of them vanish from sight. Moranna hears the organ music shift from an interlude to a processional. Handing the cane to his son, Duncan places Bonnie’s arm in his and leads her inside. “I’m over here, right behind you,” Moranna says, but even the woman passing below her on the sidewalk doesn’t hear. “I may as well be a graveyard ghost,” Moranna says, then recognizing the clichéd attempt at black humour, she laughs.
The laughter eases the pain but only slightly, the anxiety is still there, spreading through her limbs, gnawing at her heart. She begins to shake and, gripping the iron fence spikes, she stands in the dappled light trying to steady herself. Apart from a bus ambling past and one or two cars, there isn’t much traffic on the road and the afternoon seems almost peaceful. Slowly, the calm of the graveyard begins to subdue the agitation and she reminds herself that she has already accomplished part of what she wanted, which was to see her daughters. But it is only a taste of what she wants and is far from being enough. Confronted with the closed Gothic doors, she struggles against the feeling that she is nothing more than a has-been, a crackpot, a failed mother. There is a strong urge to run away, to go back to the inn, pack her clothes and board The World, where she can forget her mistakes. She becomes the mirror again. “Don’t forget the MacKenzie courage. Stand your ground. Don’t run away like you did after Bonnie’s lecture. Wait. It won’t be long before the doors open and you can see your daughters again.” It seems to Moranna that the difficult road she’s been travelling since her children were taken away has been leading her to this destination, and that she has finally come to the place where she will be reunited with them. Leaving them on the island all those hours had been a terrible mistake. She has always been too easily distracted and the crooked path marking her erratic journey through the months and years since is littered with countless errors. But she didn’t jump overboard, she didn’t disappear and she never, ever forgot her daughters and she is here to tell them that. Did they recognize the wildflower bouquets as a signal? Perhaps sending the bouquets was another mistake and they have been tossed aside because they come from someone whose existence her daughters prefer to deny.
Moranna forces herself to wait ten minutes before crossing the street and positioning herself in front of the church. A pair of neon-haired boys clomp past, the crotches of their pants down to their knees. A woman wearing a tuque and a wool coat buttoned across her stomach pushes a shopping cart piled with her belongings past the church. Spotting Moranna beside the door, she asks for change and Moranna, recognizing someone as marginal and wayward as herself, feels wretched that she left her purse behind and has nothing but a room key inside her dress pocket.
The resounding chords of the wedding march reach the sidewalk and at last the church doors open and Bonnie and her husband burst outside. Looking past the groom to her daughter, Moranna is ecstatic. Bonnie is carrying the wild-flower bouquet!
“Bonnie!” Moranna cries rapturously. “I’m here!”
Bonnie looks at her, startled. A second, maybe two seconds pass before she realizes who has called. When she does, she grins, and then unbelievably, miraculously, she tosses the bouquet, tosses it as if Moranna were a bridesmaid.
Moranna catches the bouquet easily and stands holding it as the tall, reedy man, now Bonnie’s husband, hustles his bride into the festooned limousine. As they drive away, Bonnie smiles and waves at Moranna through the window.
Brianna has come out of the church and is watching Bonnie wave at the woman who stands alone not far from the door clutching the bridal bouquet in trembling hands. Holding the flower girl’s hand, Brianna threads her way between the wedding guests and stands in front of Moranna.
“Mother,” she says, “you must be Mother.”
“I am,” Moranna says and bows her head.
“Thank you for the bouquet.”
“I didn’t know if you would want it,” Moranna mumbles, the weight of shame so heavy she cannot lift her head.
“I want to introduce you to my daughter.” Brianna looks down at the little girl and says, “Gemma, this is your grandmother.”
The child stares up at Moranna, but she doesn’t speak.
Moranna reaches down and tenderly strokes the child’s head. “Well,” she says. “I wasn’t expecting a granddaughter.” When the child doesn’t respond, Moranna lifts her head to Brianna, and at a loss about what to say asks, “
Is your husband here?”
“I don’t have a husband,” Brianna says.
“Neither do I,” Moranna says and they burst out laughing.
Moranna wants so much to embrace her daughter, to say she has never forgotten her and has always loved her, but before she can speak, Duncan approaches her. “It’s good to see you looking so well, Moranna,” he says and extends his hand.
“You too,” she says, but he doesn’t look well, he looks ill. She touches his hand briefly but doesn’t hold it. The touching of hands is nothing more than a brush of skin against skin, a gesture of civility. Maybe he thinks kindness drove him to make a swift incision, to cut her off from her children, to refuse her letters, to erase his tracks. In all these years he has not sent a single photo. Perhaps he was afraid that if he stayed in touch she would have sucked him dry, demanded more than he’d been willing to give. She might have. But maybe she would have demanded less than he thought because here she is, living proof that she has survived without him.
Behind him, she sees Sophie wave. Moranna ignores her although a few hours later she will admit that Sophie has taken good care of her daughters without turning them against their mother; otherwise they wouldn’t have been carrying her wild-flower bouquets. She isn’t prepared to meet Sophie now because all her energy is being directed to remaining calm. Watching Brianna and Gemma being led to a waiting car, Moranna makes her way through the guests, but by the time she reaches the limousine, her daughter is inside and she has to lean down and speak to her through the open window. “Come see me in Baddeck,” Moranna pleads. “I live on the Bay Road. Please come, Brianna. Please come.” She knows she’s begging, that she’s thrown away the MacKenzie pride but she doesn’t care. Her daughter doesn’t answer, but like her sister she smiles as the limousine moves away, leaving Moranna in its wake. Standing on the sidewalk, Moranna feels herself sinking as the excitement ebbs away and disappointment leaks in. Aware she isn’t entirely alone, she turns and begins studying the guests as they make their way along the street, but there is no sign of Jim or Lorene, or Murdoch, Davina or Ginger.