by fallensea
I noticed you haven’t been at work in a while. I hope you haven’t quit because of what happened between us. It’s all gone a bit too far. We should talk.
They said it took a strong person to say sorry, and an even stronger person to forgive. They said forgiveness was good for the soul. They said you shouldn’t die without forgiving those who hurt you. This would be my time to forgive, but they could all go to hell. I wasn’t going to forgive Edna. I knew what it would do to her, once I died. I knew the regret she would feel, and I didn’t care. It wasn’t up to me to save her. No one was saved.
Bronco returned. “Want to go to the lake? We can feed the ducks.”
“I’m wearing Westwood. You can’t feed the ducks in Westwood. I think I’m ready to go home,” I told him, in desperate need of my bed.
“Fowl mood?” he joked, but he pushed me home, taking the long way through the city blocks.
I was lulled into a sleep, waking only when we were outside my apartment building, received by a portrait of a sunbird flying away from a pale Bird of Paradise flower. It was the only flower of the Owl’s collection to be painted white, and it was giant, overbearing the first, smaller painting next to it on the corroded brick.
“Strelitzia alba,” I acknowledged. “They flower throughout the year, white spikes neither bleached by the sun nor frosted by the snow.”
“It’s something,” Bronco commented. “But why’d he paint a second one here? He has all of Toronto as his canvas.”
“Maybe it’s the start of a bigger portrait,” I suggested.
“He better watch himself. Kids get fines for graffiti; adults get jail sentences. Pretty soon, he’ll have the graffiti cops staking out the place.”
“It’s art,” I protested. “Graffiti sounds dirty, but it’s art.”
“I know that. You know that. Most of Toronto knows that. But that doesn’t make it legal.”
“Neither is the pot you give me, but it still has its purpose.”
He yielded. “You’re right. There are lots of things people do that aren’t legal, things others may consider wrong, but they do it because it helps, it serves a purpose.”
I sensed a collision of hesitancy and duty within him. “Why does that sound like a confession?” I asked.
“Because it is.”
He refused to say more, but I didn’t have to wait long to find out what he was guilty of. My father waited for me in my apartment. He stood as soon as he saw me, full of a concern that reminded me of a dressmaker watching the threads of his finest cloth pulled apart.
“Bronco said you needed to tell me something, but your infirmity says it all,” my father boomed. “Hayley, you’re all bones and no flesh. Is this some kind of eating disorder? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? I knew those fashion magazines were no good for you…”
“This has nothing to do with fashion,” I told him. I turned to Bronco, infuriated. “Take me back outside. We need to talk.”
“To me,” my father ordered. “You need to talk to me. Not him.”
“Not right now, Daddy,” I said, matching his tone, and I wheeled myself to the door.
Bronco relented. “It’ll only be a moment, Mr. Leighton.”
“I should hope so,” I heard my father remark as we returned to the wild blue summer.
Upon my insistence, we went to the docks, far from where my father could hear, but I felt his eyes upon me from the floor-to-ceiling windows above. A child could always feel their father’s eyes, protective, like a shepherd watching his flock.
“I want you to leave,” I said coldly to Bronco. “Get the hell out. I never want to see you again.”
Bronco didn’t budge. “He had to know, for both your sakes.”
“How could you do it?” I demanded, full of resentment. “Were you just going to stand there and watch me break my father’s heart?” A drill began from the construction zone nearby. It wasn’t an interruption; it was a test to my fury.
“Yes,” Bronco said. Not all confessions were apologies. He had no remorse. “His heart is going to break, no matter what. You’ll destroy him if you keep avoiding him. You need to tell him what’s going on.”
“You already did that. He saw this,” I said, indicating my feeble body in the wheelchair. “You’re right—his heart is going to break, no matter what. I was saving him the torment—the waiting and the watching and the hoping. He’ll pray to God for a miracle cure until the day I die, and when I do die, not only will his heart break, but he’ll lose his faith. When I’m gone, his faith is all he’ll have left. I can’t take that from him, not even a dent. It would have been better to just die. Now, he’ll have to suffer with me.”
“Telling him will alleviate his suffering—the suffering that comes after you die. The regret that he didn’t get to spend more time with you and the sorrow that he didn’t say goodbye. That kind of suffering—it lasts a lifetime.”
I adored Bronco, and I hated him. I wanted to run him over with my wheelchair and never look back. None of this was fair. I didn’t have a choice in any of it. Death had taken away my choice to live, the cancer had taken away my ability to walk, and Bronco had taken away my decision not to tell my father.
“It wasn’t your place,” I seethed. “I want you gone.”
“I know you’re angry. I understand it, but I won’t let you push me away. I love you, Hayley. I’m tired of us playing keep-away with our feelings. I love you. And I want to marry you.” He got down on one knee so that we were face-to-face, and he pulled out a diamond ring from the pocket of his jeans. “Marry me. It’s Tiffany.”
Tears of confusion streamed down my face, blinding me from my own heart. “How can you ask that of me? You’re not making any sense. I’m dying.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“It’s entirely relevant.” I wanted to shout, but I didn’t have it in me. “I wouldn’t even have the strength to walk down the aisle.”
“I’ll carry you.”
“You’ll be marrying Death.”
“I’ll be marrying you.” He placed a hand on my cheek, affectionately wiping away my tears, wiping away my pain. “Time means nothing to me. I would rather have you as my wife for an atomic second than never at all. That second would be infinite.”
“I don’t want to be a crippled bride,” I said, my fear overriding my anger. I was lost to it. The fear possessed me. “Kill me. Bathe with me in the water and hold me down. I want to live, but if I must go, I want to go now, while I can still appreciate the beauty of what you’re offering me.”
“If I truly believed that’s what you wanted, I would. Anything to make you happy,” he claimed. “But it’s not you. Don’t let your fear be the death of you. Defy it. Go upstairs, tell your dad about your cancer, and invite him to our wedding.” He placed the ring on my lap. “I have to get to work. Will you be okay on your own?”
“Your shift isn’t until later. You’re running.”
“I’m giving you space. You need this time with your dad.”
I said nothing, and he left. Disturbed, I held the ring over the water, determined to release it, to let it drown, but I couldn’t. It meant too much to me, so I tucked it into my cardigan and looked up at my apartment to where my father stood, still staring down at me through the window, a single hand pressed against the glass, reaching out to me.
I’m sorry, Daddy, I mouthed.
***
My father was a strong man. He dealt with murderers and thieves daily. They were his morning coffee. To prosecute and defend, he had to be tough, but he had not raised me the way he behaved in the courtroom. He was strict but kind, afraid I would crack beneath his grip, but with the news of my cancer, it was he who cracked beneath my grip. I was the barrister and he was the prosecuted.
“What’s the prognosis?” he asked on the couch beside me, his teacup trembling with his hand.
“Terminal,” I told him, but he already knew. The wheelchair and oxygen tank had given me away.
�
�How long?”
I was tired of the short, static questions. It wasn’t us. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, Daddy,” I cried, causing his teacup to fall out of his hand to the floor. I barely noticed. I didn’t think he noticed at all.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” It wasn’t an interrogation. He was trying to understand.
“I couldn’t stomach your grief. I was being selfish.”
“Selfish.” I didn’t think he knew what to do with the explanation. “And what is Bronco’s part in all of this?” he asked solemnly.
“He’s a nurse. And a friend. He was there when I was diagnosed. He’s been taking care of me.”
“For a while, it would seem,” my father said, signifying the mess of suitcases around the living area. “I’m glad you’ve had him, but I wish you would have trusted me with that role, not a stranger you picked up at the hospital.”
“He wants to marry me.” I hadn’t meant to tell my father that, but once I had, I was happy I did so—not because he needed to know, but because it made me realize how much I wanted Bronco to be my husband.
“I can see you feel the same, but is it wise? He’ll be a widower.” My father choked on the words.
“You’re a widower,” I reminded him. “You survived.”
“That’s because I had you.”
I was heartbroken. For so many years, I’d fastened on to the memories of my momma. I hadn’t made the same allowances for my father. We were close, but not as close as I had been with the ghost of my mother. Yet it was my father who had played dolls with me until I grew too old, and it was my father who helped me buy my first bra, and it was my father who had stayed up late at night when I was a teenager, waiting for me to come home, the single candle in a cherished house.
“I saw it outside here—your last painting with the white Bird of Paradise,” he told me. “Your farewell piece.”
I was appalled. “You knew I was the Owl? How?”
“A father always knows his daughter’s signature. You used to draw sunbirds all the time when you were little. You’ve always been fascinated by them.”
“I painted the graffiti on my way home from my late nights at work. It was momentum, and it was serenity. I have all these gorgeous vintage gowns, but I didn’t make them. I wanted to create something worthy. I have no energy for painting now. I was barely able to finish the one outside. Don’t tell Bronco. Let’s keep it a secret between you and me, something only we share.”
“Of course, baby girl,” he said. “It’ll be our secret. The painting reminds me of your momma. She was right when she said beautiful things need to be free so they can inspire others. I just wish she hadn’t been so beautiful. And I wish you hadn’t taken after her.”
***
Bronco and I wed in a simple ceremony at a church in Richmond Hill, near my family home. The church was contemporary and plain, but it was the core of the community. Compassion flowed within it, indestructible and godly. Or, as my father would say—mandatory. I did not agree. Love was not mandatory. It was as much a part of us as our flesh. It was the essence of us. We did not love because we had to. We loved because it was all we had.
I wore my floral dress—vintage, like the act of love. To a small crowd of family and friends, including Jean-François and Olivia, my father gave me away, rolling me down the aisle in my wheelchair while I tried not to drop my bouquet, a cascade of purple orchids and myrtle to complement the blush of floral in my dress. The same orchids were in my hair, replicating a style my momma had worn on her wedding day.
“I’m not giving her away,” my father said to Bronco when we reached him. “I’m taking you in as a son. You’re family now.”
Bronco took my hand. “We are. And we always will be.” It was a promise to me. My father wouldn’t be left alone. He would have a son to call in on him and invite him to holidays. He would have someone to look after him in old age.
“Are we ready?” the preacher asked, a friend of my father’s.
“Ready,” Bronco said, speaking for us, and he kneeled down to the floor so that we were level. Eye to eye. Body to body. Me to him.
My father took his seat, and the preacher opened the ceremony, reminding us that we were committing ourselves to a binding and legal marriage, but also a marriage under the holy authority of God. The ceremony wasn’t romantic. There had been very little time to prepare, to make the ceremony our own, but we weren’t worried about romance. We were in a hurry to live out our atomic second. When the service and the prayers were over, when the candle was lit, it came time for our vows. Bronco said his first, repeating what the preacher read out, like we had discussed. He swore to do everything he’d already done—honor me, protect me, care for me in sickness and in health. Our relationship only knew sickness, but it made his words all the nobler.
When it was my turn, I surprised Bronco with vows I’d written—couture, designed solely for him. “Bronco,” I began, “you were such an unexpected happiness. Your compassion and your humor and your blithe are unrivaled. I wish I could be more like you, but I’m not, and that’s okay. You taught me to be okay, despite everything that was happening around me. For that, you are more than my guard dog—you are my teacher. And now, you are my husband, my beloved. I will always be by your side, here and after. I will always love you.”
***
“We’re here,” Bronco said, nudging me awake as he turned the car into the driveway of the bed and breakfast where we would be spending our honeymoon. I had been dreaming. The wings of Eos, lit within the dawn, had ruled my sleep. And so had memories of my momma. They were peaceful dreams, but they terrified me. Hearing Bronco call to me was a pleasant release.
For our honeymoon, we’d booked a room at the country home in Quebec, the one we’d passed on our way to ride the bike in Montreal. The gardens around the bed and breakfast were as vibrant and inviting as when I’d first seen them from the road. I was eager to explore the back, past the gazebo, where the award-winning estate was meant to stretch on for acres.
“I really do love you,” Bronco said after he’d parked, squeezing my hand.
“Lucky for me,” I rasped, and I released him so he could unload my wheelchair. But not so lucky for you, I thought as I watched him through the side mirror.
Bypassing the check-in desk, he took me straight to the gardens in the back. Check-in was a burden I could not endure. There were papers to sign and small talk to make. My speech was as labored as my breathing, and my capacity to concentrate was minimal, diffused by my lassitude and my pain. I needed more meds. The pills were not enough. As soon as we returned from the honeymoon, I’d be on a drip and likely bedridden until it was over.
The gardens lived up to their reputation. They stretched on, engulfing several ponds and bridges, commanding the land. I didn’t pretend to know the names of the shades and species of the flora. I enjoyed gardens, but I was not a greenkeeper. Unless a particular flower caught my attention, I did not know the details of it. But my ignorance didn’t stop me from appreciating the beauty of where I was, or the man who had brought me here.
“I feel like an old woman,” I stated as Bronco fixed my wheelchair next to a stone bench surrounded by carnations. “So much of me is gone. There is so very little left.”
“There is everything left,” he said, and he kissed me on the forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
The gardens were ambrosial, and the sun was warm, alleviating some of my pain. I didn’t want to enjoy the gardens from a wheelchair. I wanted to feel normal, a woman sitting amongst lovely things. With a strength I could only conjure on my wedding day, I moved myself off of the wheelchair and onto the stone bench.
As I did, a movement near a sweep of roses caught my eye. I thought it was my momma, but there was no one there. My mind was leaving me before my body did.
It made me think about the conversation I’d had with Mr. Tremblay about Yeh-Shen, the servant girl who wished upon the bones of the golden fish, protected by her an
cestors. I would not be the ancestor of any children born, but I was an ancestor to the land, a presence that had lived. I found comfort in that. With that comfort, and under the peace of the sun, I closed my eyes.
When I woke, I was not in my body. It was draped across the stone bench, a bride in her floral dress, a dress she would be buried in. I stayed until Bronco found me. I witnessed his confusion at my empty wheelchair then the instant sorrow when he found me collapsed on the stone. No amount of preparation, of knowing, could prevent such sorrow.
He sat next to my body and smoothed the hair from my face. “I would have made you happy, little runaway,” he proclaimed with grief. “I wish I’d gotten the chance.”
Time shifted. I was no longer in the gardens. I stood with Bronco outside my apartment building, but he didn’t know it. He thought he was alone. Unshaven but neatly dressed, as if he’d just come from church, he touched the sunbird flying away from the strelitzia alba. The flower was immortal in its paleness, but the sunbird, with its red feathers and golden breast, had been the quiet feature of the piece. I was happy he had recognized it, almost as happy as I was to see that he still wore his wedding band.
My body no longer ached. I was healthy, able to walk and move free. I glowed. It was not fair that in my renewed health, I could not be with my husband, that we could not enjoy life without restraint—take turns cycling by the river, go four-wheeling in the junkyard, eat strong flavors and drink bitter wines. I had vowed to stay by his side, but I didn’t want to be there anymore, not without Bronco knowing I stood so close. My love for him was too strong, my despair too deep, so I turned around, and I left.
Part IV
The Kidnapped Bride
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Festival
Busana