by Gail Bowen
Ainsley’s smile was faint. “Roy felt magic realism was the way into the heart of Sisters and Strangers too,” she said. “At lunch the day he died, Roy was telling me about a book dealing with the work of an artist friend of yours, Joanne. Taylor had loaned it to him, and he was captivated by it. Roy said he’d forgotten to bring the book with him, but he’d give it to me as soon as we returned home. Those were the last coherent words he spoke to me. After that, he and Kyle Daly walked into the woods, and the next time I saw Roy he was . . .” Her eyes narrowed as she searched for the words. “He was no longer Roy,” she said finally. “He was a stranger — a crazed stranger with dirt under his fingernails from digging in the ground like an animal.” Ainsley took a step towards me. “Do you think I’ll ever get over this?”
Then she turned and walked towards the cab without waiting for an answer. And that was lucky, because I didn’t have one.
After I closed the door, I took the envelope containing the memoir and the DVD into the family room and left it, unopened, on the mantle. Later, Zack, Taylor and I could read the memoir, watch the rough cut of The Happiest Girl and mourn the friend we had lost and the work he might have done had he lived. But Ainsley’s account of her final conversation with Roy raised a question that was too vexing to be recollected in tranquility.
Everyone with whom Roy interacted the day he died believed he had turned a corner and was once again on solid ground. Nothing indicated that his mental state was so precarious that within hours his mind would explode. But it had. And the only concrete proof that Roy was in deep emotional trouble was his promise to bring a book he had violently defaced to Ainsley as soon as they were back in the city.
I still didn’t know where this loose end led. I had hidden the book in my sewing basket, a relic of the ’70s that for decades I had opened only to hide Christmas stocking stuffers. I went to the mudroom and took down the wicker basket. Nestled in the psychedelic-orange and harvest-gold swirls of the polyester lining, the book appeared unremarkable, but when I opened it, I was stunned by what it revealed about Roy’s state of mind as he destroyed what he believed was the key to recovering his ability to write. I was thumbing through the pages searching for some sort of pattern when my phone rang.
Ben Bendure was on the line, and he had welcome news. Taylor’s art dealer and our friend, Darrell Bell, was driving to Regina on Thursday. The prospect of delivering Sally’s self-portrait to our house and having a visit with Taylor, whom he had represented since she was fourteen years old, had been impossible for Darrell to resist. If I was agreeable, Ben was going to tag along, so he could meet Georgie and the three of us could talk about Sisters and Strangers.
Georgie and I had fallen into the habit of having a cup of tea and exchanging news before we began our workday. As we sat at the kitchen table waiting for the tea to steep, Georgie stretched lazily. “This is always such a nice part of the day. And we have one less thing to worry about. Nick just called to say that Danny Kerrigan is back at work.”
“Did Danny offer any explanation for where he’d been since Friday?”
“No, and Nick didn’t press him. Nick said Danny seemed fine, and when Kyle came by to talk to Nick, Danny apologized.”
“That’s a good sign.”
Georgie frowned. “I’m not sure it is. Nick said Danny’s apology was not exactly fulsome. Danny said he was sorry for hurting Kyle, but that Pastor Kirk told him he had done the wrong deed for the right reason.”
I cringed. “If Pastor Kirk’s path and mine ever cross, I’m ninety-nine percent certain I’ll do the wrong deed for the right reason too.”
“I’ll be in your corner, holding your towel and spit bucket.”
“I’ll count on that,” I said. “And now, to paraphrase John Cleese, time for something completely different.” After I explained how seeing Julie Taymor’s use of magic realism in Frida had made me think about the potential that magic realism had for taking an audience to the heart of Sisters and Strangers, I turned on my laptop and opened Kahlo’s Henry Ford Hospital, 1932.
Georgie stared at the screen for a long time. “My God. That poor woman,” she said. “Did Sally ever paint anything that revealing?”
“She did,” I said, “it’s a self-portrait she made at the age of fourteen after — well, you know what her life had become by the time she was fourteen.”
Georgie looked away. “I do,” she said. “Ben Bendure’s footage of Sally after Nina sent her to live with Izaak Levin in New York is searing — that child was dead inside.”
“And her self-portrait reveals that,” I said. “As soon as I saw Frida, I knew we needed Sally’s self-portrait, and very soon it will be here with us. Darrell Bell’s been hanging onto it since Izaak died and he and Ben are coming here on Thursday. So you two will finally meet.”
“Good news all around,” Georgie said. “I’ve watched The Poison Apple more times than I can count. I’m a Ben Bendure groupie — it’ll be a thrill to meet him. And Sally’s self-portrait will be invaluable to Vale Frazier’s preparation for her role as Sally.” Georgie lifted her teacup to me. “Well done.”
“Ainsley came by this morning on her way to the airport. She brought the memoir she’d written about Roy and a rough cut of The Happiest Girl. Have you seen it?”
“Last night. Nick and Chloe and I watched it together. Chloe loved it, and I was blown away. That movie absolutely shimmers. I’d lost sight of how good both Roy and Ainsley were, and I’d never seen Vale. She’s astounding. Watching the scenes between her and Rosamond Burke made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Rosamond was generous about allowing Vale her moments, and Vale was graceful about accepting them. Nick said Ainsley created an atmosphere on The Happiest Girl set that brought out the best in everyone.” Georgie shook her head. “We lost so much with Roy’s death. If Ainsley is too mired in grief to do her best work on Sisters and Strangers, that loss will be compounded.”
“Finding out the truth about Roy’s death might help.”
Georgie tensed. “You don’t think we know the truth?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve always had questions, and then Ainsley said something that set me off again.” I told Georgie about Roy promising to give Taylor’s book to Ainsley as soon as they got back to Regina.
“That is curious,” Georgie said. “And worrying. If Roy blocked the memory of what he did, he was in worse shape than we thought. But that will have to be a problem for another time. Right now we should get to work. I have to leave early — doctor’s appointment.”
“Everything okay?”
“Just a menstrual problem.”
“I am so glad all that is behind me.”
“My body may be moving in that direction too,” Georgie said. “My period has always been irregular, but it’s really gone wacky since I came to Regina.”
“Stress can throw everything out of sync.”
“True, but I’m forty-four. I checked with Dr. Google, and apparently that’s early for menopause but within the normal range. No big deal. Now, I have an idea about how we can use that self-portrait of Sally’s as a bridge between the scene where Sally escapes from the hospital and runs through the rain to beg Izaak not to force her to go back to Nina and the scenes of Sally in New York. I thought an establishing shot of New York City, a couple of quick scenes — no dialogue: Sally at a smart hair salon getting her hair cut; Sally, very chic, at an art opening with Izaak; Sally in bed having a cigarette, looking down on Izaak beside her, obviously post-coital, sound asleep. Then the scene with Sally painting the self-portrait for admittance to the Academy of One. And while we watch Sally’s portrait take shape, there’s a voice-over from Rosamond Burke telling how Sally described her life with Izaak. ‘We painted, and we went to galleries and we fucked, and that was my school of the arts.’”
“That’s good.”
“It’s not bad,” Georg
ie said. “And then what?”
Georgie and I had one writing rule: the best line in the room wins, and that day we came out even. The pathos of Sally’s situation was undeniable, but we were determined to show that Sally had not been defeated by the hand she’d been dealt. As an adult, Sally told me she saw her relationship with Izaak as a fair exchange: she got what she needed from him, and he got what he needed from her. It was difficult for anyone, including me, to see Sally’s relationship with Izaak as anything other than that of victim and predator, but Sally had not allowed herself to be a victim. She bore scars, but she lived life on her own terms. She made the art she wanted to make, she loved and was loved, and she lived fully. Georgie and I decided we could show that through intercutting scenes of Sally’s often tumultuous growth in her relationships with Izaak and other lovers and the increasing boldness and assurance of her work.
We had lunch at the work table, and we were both surprised when Georgie’s phone beeped and it was time for her to leave for her doctor’s appointment. We had worked through a knotty problem, and we knew where we were headed. We were optimistic, and when we parted, we exchanged a brief hug and Georgie promised to call and let me know what the doctor said.
* * *
Two hours later when there was no phone call, I felt the first stirrings of unease. The offices of ob-gyns are notorious for running late, and the specialist Georgie was seeing had a stellar reputation, but as the minutes ticked by, my mind began running through the myriad of gynecological complications women’s bodies are prey to, and I grew increasingly anxious.
When my phone rang and Georgie asked if she could see me, I didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Just . . . are you okay?”
“I’m standing on your doorstep, and instead of knocking like any normal human being, I called you on my phone. Obviously, I’m not playing with a full deck.”
“The door’s not locked,” I said. “Come in.”
I ran up the hall to meet her, and when I saw Georgie’s face, I feared the worst. She appeared dazed. I took her hand. “Come and sit down. Can I get you anything. Water? Tea? Something stronger?”
Her head shake was vigorous. “Nothing stronger,” she said. “Jo, I’m not having an early menopause; I’m having a late-life baby. My due date is November 7.” She grinned. “I walked into that office thinking I was about to say ‘goodbye to all that,’ and now I have a due date. How the heck did that happen?”
“I’m pretty sure you’re the one with the best line on that one.”
“You’re right.” Georgie squeezed her eyes shut in concentration. When she opened them again, her face relaxed into a smile. “Valentine’s Day,” she said. She shook her head. “No clichés spared for Nick and me. It was our first time, and we barely knew each other. It just felt right. After that, we were always careful.”
“It only takes once.”
Georgie rolled her eyes. “And another cliché enters the ring,” she said. “But pile it on. We acted like teenagers. We had it coming.” She looked away. “Jo, how do you think Nick’s going to react to this?”
“He’ll be elated,” I said. “So will Chloe. When Chloe was passing around the appetizers at Nick’s party, Zack commented that the three of you looked right together, and that it would be great if . . .”
“If what?”
“I wouldn’t let Zack finish his sentence,” I said. “I was afraid that if he said the words, he’d jinx your happy ending. Luckily, motile sperm cells are not superstitious.”
Georgie’s lips curved into a smile. “You’re happy about this aren’t you?”
“As long as you are . . .”
“I am,” Georgie said. “When I left the doctor’s office, I went straight to Groovy Mama on 13th and looked at baby things. Who knew babies needed so much?”
“The staff at Groovy Mama are great about suggesting what’s necessary. Did you tell them you were pregnant?”
Georgie’s expression was rueful. “Nope, unlike motile sperm cells, I am superstitious.”
“When are you going to tell Nick?”
“As soon as I leave here. I’ll be able to catch him at the production studios. But I think we should wait till after the three-month mark to tell Chloe, and I’m only at nine weeks. Dr. Nawaz wants to see me again then, and she said she might want to take an ultrasound. I told her about Chloe and she said that in addition to showing if the fetus is developing as it should, an ultrasound could help Chloe understand how the baby is coming into being.”
“Dr. Nawaz sounds very caring.”
“She is,” Georgie said. “The baby and I are in good hands, Jo.”
Chapter Twelve
That afternoon, Taylor called to say she and Kyle had finished ordering all the furnishings needed for the apartment, and they were celebrating by bringing a feast from Peking House to our place for dinner. After we had eaten our fill, and Esme had polished off the extra order of moo goo gai pan, Kyle, a non-dog owner, had left on the counter, the four of us settled in the family room and watched The Happiest Girl.
Zack had not been present for any of the production’s filming; I had watched isolated scenes; Taylor had been on set most days; Kyle had been working in the U.S. and had no connection with the shoot. We came to the rough cut from very different perspectives, but like Georgie, we were all blown away by what we saw.
Rosamond Burke and Vale Frazier are the only actors I’d ever known, and I wondered if my personal relationship with them would make it difficult for me to suspend disbelief as I watched the movie. I had no grounds for concern. There are few human characters in the film, and only two are significant. The bond between Ursula, the anthropologist who has given her life to studying the relationship between humans and the polar bears of Churchill, and her granddaughter Ursula, who shares both her grandmother’s name and her passion for the bears, is palpable. The film begins on the longest night of the year. Eight weeks earlier, the grandmother ventured onto the tundra and never returned. She is presumed dead, but Ursula refuses to believe that her grandmother would leave her without a message. On this, the winter solstice, the bear Callisto appears at the grandmother’s cabin, and Ursula knows that Callisto has come to take her to her grandmother.
When Rosamond, in her role as the Grandmother, began to speak — “Winter is the time for storytelling in the northern hemisphere” — the screen was black, but as her thrilling voice continued, the aurora borealis began its dance across the sky and the screen pulsed with undulating bands of colour: luminous white, yellow-green, indigo, violet, and finally a deep, vibrant red.
The grandmother narrates the Inuit myth that the northern lights are torches held in the hands of spirits seeking the souls of those who have just died to lead them over the abyss at the edge of the world into the spirit world, and the camera moves in on Vale Frazier as Ursula. She is alone on the tundra as she has been on the five nights since she and her mother arrived from Winnipeg to pack up the grandmother’s belongings so the cabin can be sold.
The camera continued to move toward Ursula until the screen was filled with a close-up of her face. In person, Vale was an attractive young woman — auburn hair, blue-green eyes, flawless skin — worthy of a second glance but not mesmerizing. Onscreen, Vale seemed to emanate light, and her eyes had depths that drew the audience in, but it was her expression that held my attention.
Everything Ursula was feeling was in Vale’s face: disbelief, grief, anger and terror at the possibility that what everyone was telling her was true, that the link between her and the grandmother who connected her to everything she cared about had been irreparably broken. Without saying a word, Vale made the audience feel the emotions that were tearing Ursula apart. I’d watched an interview in which the host asked Vale if she drew on memories of her own life to generate emotion. Vale seemed faintly amused at the question, but her answer was polite. “No,” she said, “when I’m playing a role, the only ex
periences I can draw on are the character’s. I have to find the place where she was happy or hurt or whatever and pull my emotion from that.”
There was something else about Vale’s performance. When she was with us, I always sensed there was a part of Vale that remained closed off, but onscreen Vale was completely open to everything going on around her. Vale’s Ursula was fully present in the moment, and she was never more present than she was in the flashbacks to the summers she spent on the tundra with her grandmother. As I watched Rosamond and Vale together — listening, responding, offering, receiving, reaching out, embracing — I knew I was witnessing an actor nearing the end of her career welcoming an actor just beginning.
At the movie’s end, Ursula finds her grandmother in the ancient cave of the bear-people where she has come to die among the bones of her ancestors. Ursula promises her grandmother she will continue her work with the polar bears, and the grandmother gives Ursula the tan camera bag that holds her prized Nikon. For a time they stand apart, facing each other, fixing their last moment together in memory.
Finally the grandmother speaks. “Now, it’s time for you to leave. The aurora borealis is putting on a real show tonight, Ursula. Don’t miss it. Look up at that big sky. All the stories are there.”
Ursula is obviously warmed by the memory. “My favourite was the one about the northern lights being the spirits of children waiting to be born playing ball in the heavens until their turn comes. You and I used to make up names for every child and we gave each of them a story.” Ursula’s voice breaks. “Nana, I can’t go on without you.”
“But you won’t be without me, Ursula. An elder once told me that their language has no sense of time. In the old language, the past, present and future happen all at once. That’s how it will be for us, I will still be happening through you. You and I will always be in each other’s present tense.”