by D. B. Carew
“That was the other thing Bernum announced this morning on Twitter. He’s trying to push back the court date. It’s clearly a stalling tactic. Un-friggin-believable!”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from him. Hell, from either of them.” Chris was tired of talking about Ray. “Gotta go.”
The rest of his day moved at a glacial pace, but Chris did his best to focus on accomplishing what work he could until the day finally came to a close.
TWENTY
Back at his apartment that evening, Chris collapsed onto the futon. Sitting alone in the dark suited his mood. He wondered how long it would take him to get to sleep tonight and how many hours of sleep he’d get before his nightmares woke him up again.
His phone rang and his thoughts turned to Stephanie as he grabbed his cell. It wasn’t Stephanie’s number on call display.
“Chris? It’s Mary.”
“Oh, hi.” He cleared his throat and tried to sound upbeat for his aunt. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m okay. It’s Maurice I’m calling about.”
“Yeah, he called me out of the blue on Saturday. What’s going on with him?”
There was a brief silence. “Chris, your father’s dead.”
For a split second, Chris thought he had misheard his aunt. Then the reality slowly started to set in. “What? How?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“What was the cause of death?” Saying the words felt bizarre to him.
“We don’t know yet, but he wasn’t well. And I’m sure his drinking didn’t help matters.”
“When did he die?” A million questions were running through his head. “How did you find out?”
“One of his neighbours, a friend of mine, was trying to reach him but there was no answer on his phone. He went over to the house, looked through the window, and saw Maurice lying on the floor.”
Stuck somewhere between shock and disbelief, Chris didn’t know what to say.
“Chris, are you okay?” His aunt’s words brought him back to the moment.
“Yeah, I guess. I’m surprised, that’s all. I mean, I suppose I shouldn’t be.”
“I know. He wasn’t much of a father to you, but he was your father all the same. It’s very sad.”
Chris felt tears welling up. He tried to push his emotions aside by dealing with practicalities. “Where is he, uh, right now?”
“At the Health Sciences Centre. I’ve already called and given your name as next of kin. I can help with the funeral arrangements, if you like.”
In his shock, he hadn’t considered the arrangements that would have to be made. “I’d really appreciate it, Aunt Mary. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Maurice called me a few days ago. He knew he didn’t have long. He told me his wishes.”
Chris was speechless again. Mary picked up on his silence. “I know this is hard right now. If you want, we can talk later.”
“No, that’s okay. What did he want?”
She gave a light chuckle. “Quick and easy. Those were his exact words. Typical Maurice. He said he didn’t want a long, drawn out affair. He wanted cremation and a small ceremony at the Evergreen Funeral Home. They’re good; I’ve used them before. I’ll make some calls.”
“Did he say anything else? Anything about me?”
“He wanted your phone number, which I gave him. I hope that was okay.”
“Yeah, but we didn’t talk long.” He didn’t have it in him to go into the details; he was ashamed of how badly he’d treated his father.
“Once again, I’m sorry, Chris,” his aunt said, jolting him back to the present. “Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Chris called Stephanie, needing to hear her voice, but got her recording. He left a brief message asking her to call, but went to bed without hearing from her.
Chris couldn’t sleep that evening, not with so many unresolved feelings clanging out of control in his head. Long-repressed questions kept surfacing in an imaginary conversation with his father. Why did you turn your back on me when I was a child? What did I ever do to deserve that? Did it ever occur to you that I grew up thinking I must have done something wrong for you to leave?
The cold, hard truth was starting to settle in. He would never get the chance to ask his father these questions, would never know the answers. He oscillated between waves of sorrow and waves of guilt for how he’d treated his father when they spoke on Saturday night. Maurice had been reaching out to him, for once giving Chris an opportunity to ask the questions he’d struggled with for most of his life. But he’d rejected his father’s offer, turning his back on the man. Chris’ final act toward Maurice saw him treating his father the same way he himself had always resented being treated, and the realization left him feeling hollow and unhappy. Worse. He felt he was no different than his father.
TWENTY-ONE
The next morning announced its arrival with sunlight shining through Chris’ blinds and birds chirping joyfully outside his window. The new day seemed to signal fresh opportunities, but Chris remained stuck in the quagmire of his previous evening’s musings and regrets. He didn’t know if he could even get out of bed and face the day.
Nathaniel would probably say he was using denial as a coping mechanism and that this could be helpful in the short term by giving him time to adjust to his father’s death. He could visualize Nathaniel sitting calmly in his leather chair, earnestly expounding the importance of accepting the reality of death in order to move on with life.
But Chris wasn’t ready to move on. His father’s death forced him to accept several truths, including the fact that the number of his blood relatives was dwindling. All he had left was his daughter, Ann Marie, and for her he was eternally grateful. He made a mental note to call Ann Marie to tell her how much he loved her.
And then he had Ray, a half-brother by blood. A man he hated. His already low mood plummeted.
Stephanie’s call distracted him from his funk. He broke the news to her.
“Oh, Chris, I’m so sorry. What can I do to help?”
“Just hearing your voice right now feels good.”
“When is the funeral?”
“In a couple days. Aunt Mary is taking care of most of it.”
“I’ll come over to help.”
“That’s nice, Stephanie, it really is. But I was thinking of heading to Maurice’s house to deal with a few things, get some clothes to take to the funeral home.” Saying the words felt surreal. “I have no idea how long I’m going to be, and I know you’ve got to work.”
“I can take the day off.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll call you when I get back. I love you.” His voice cracked on the last word.
Chris composed himself for a few moments before making his next call, to his manager, David Evans. He explained the situation, that he’d need to take a few days from work and that he’d complete the necessary paperwork for requesting leave on compassionate grounds.
Next, Chris called his aunt and was relieved but equally guilt-ridden to learn that she’d been busy since early morning taking care of the funeral arrangements. She told him she’d learned Maurice suffered from long-standing alcohol-related liver disease, cirrhosis, and kidney failure. They worked out who was calling whom to pass on the information about Maurice’s passing. It was a short list. He thanked his aunt profusely for her help.
Chris’ next call was to Deanna. It took him a minute to recall whether Ann Marie had ever actually met Maurice. He concluded that Deanna had met him once but that Ann Marie had never known her grandfather. He was lamenting this fact when his daughter picked up the phone.
“Hi, Sweetie. I thought you’d be in school today.”
“Teachers have a Pro-D day. Me and Mommy are looking at pictures from the aquarium. They’re so cool!”
“You’ll have to show me them, too.” It was refreshing to hear the excitement and enthusiasm in his daughter’s voice, compared to what he was about to discuss with her mother
. “Can I speak with Mommy?”
Before he had a chance to say anything else, Ann Marie was off, handing the phone to her mother. “Hi, Chris. How are you?”
Chris told her about Maurice.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. How are you doing?”
“I don’t know, still in shock, mostly. But I thought I should tell you and let you know about the service, in case you wanted to go.”
“I do, and I’m glad you called. Is there anything I can do to help?” There was a brief pause before she continued. “I could have Ann Marie stay with my mother and come over to help you with some of the arrangements. If you want me to, that is.”
He was a little surprised. “That’s very nice of you, Dee. Aunt Mary is taking care of most of it, but I appreciate your offer.” He thought about his daughter. “I don’t think I’ll be back in time to see Ann Marie this evening. I feel bad about cancelling on her.”
“I’ll talk with her, Chris. I’m sure she’ll understand. And please let me know if you need my help. I’ll be there for the service. And again, I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.”
TWENTY-TWO
Chris prepared mentally for the task ahead of him: an hour’s drive to Maurice’s house. He found it sadly ironic that his father had chosen to settle down in a place called Mission when the last years of his life appeared to exhibit little purpose or objective. He listened to music to lift his spirits.
Home is where the heart is, Chris thought as he entered his father’s house, knowing that Maurice’s place had been anything but. The shack Chris entered showed no outward signs of welcome. The interior was much the same as it had been the last time he’d walked through the dilapidated structure, with a shabby, dirty, worn carpet littered with empty bottles of Captain Morgan and cans of cola. The smell of stale cigarette smoke permeated the air. Chris’ glance gravitated to the centre of the living room, to the tattered recliner that had been moulded by Maurice’s body through years of overuse.
He took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled as he remembered his angry words: “The next time I see you will be at your funeral. And I promise you, I won’t shed a tear.”
His tears fell now.
He reminded himself that he was here for a reason. His aunt had suggested he collect any mementos before the cleaning company she hired cleared the years of accumulated junk from the place. Chris realized recently he’d seen only the living room and kitchen area, and there was nothing of value in those rooms.
He ventured into his father’s bedroom where his first glance yielded a similar reaction. He opened a closet door and retrieved pants and a shirt for Maurice’s final resting place. Next, Chris opened the drawers of a dresser. It felt strange and intrusive to be looking through a dead man’s personal effects.
His eyes caught sight of something sticking out of the third drawer. He opened the drawer and did a double take at what lay before him: piles of newspaper clippings, papers, and assorted paraphernalia loosely stacked together almost to the point of overflowing.
He pulled out the bundles and leafed through them. He recognized articles from the Tribune covering the events at Woodland Park featuring Chris. Next, he spotted the birth announcement for Ann Marie, and below that a faded invitation addressed to Maurice to attend Deanna and Chris’ wedding. Chris’ report cards from school were there alongside first- and second-place ribbons from Sports Day school events.
Chris was stunned. He had no idea that his father had followed events in his life. Quite the opposite: every message Maurice had ever given Chris suggested total indifference. Chris searched further through the collection and saw photographs he’d never seen before: photos of a younger, happier, healthier-looking Maurice smiling at the camera, holding hands with Chris’ mother, Fiona.
Below the photos was another pile of newspaper articles showcasing Chris’ mother. He recognized many of them, and a wave of sorrow almost overwhelmed him. He’d searched these out as a boy, eager to learn the details of his mother’s death at the hands of a hostage-taker. He already knew many of the details. His mother had been a nurse at what was then called the Grace Hospital, before it was torn down to make way for a shopping plaza. An inmate was admitted for treatment for suspected heart complications; Chris’ mother was the treating nurse. The man took her hostage and killed her.
Looking at the clippings now, Chris was transported back to those days and his desperate search for answers to his mother’s murder. The answers had never come.
In his father’s room now, Chris realized he was still looking for answers. Why had his father gone to all the effort of collecting these articles about Chris and his mother when he’d always given the appearance that they didn’t matter to him?
Chris was struck by the irony that he was learning more about his father now through the man’s death. The thought made him curious to know who Maurice was when he was alive.
Finally it was time to leave. Holding the clippings and photos together in a box, Chris took one last look inside his father’s house. Home is where the heart is. He wondered what had happened to his father’s heart to make Maurice the shell of a man he turned out to be.
There was only one person who could possibly know: Aunt Mary.
TWENTY-THREE
After locking up his father’s house, Chris called his aunt. She was happy to hear from him and even happier that he was on his way for a visit.
A short time later, he parked his truck in front of her home. She greeted him, took Maurice’s clothes, and whisked Chris into her living room. “I didn’t know you were coming, so I didn’t have time to bake.” Mary placed a ham and cheese sandwich, and a selection of fudge brownies—Chris’ favourite—on a side table. “I took these out of the freezer right after you called. If they’re too cold, let me know and I’ll warm them up.”
After finishing the sandwich, Chris took one bite of a brownie, then another. “They’re great. I have to swing by here more often.” He felt guilty now that he didn’t make more of an effort to keep in touch with his aunt beyond the occasional phone call.
As if reading his thoughts, Mary reassured him, “You’re always welcome, you know that.”
They sat on couches slightly across from each other. The living room was impeccably furnished, a stark contrast to the place Chris had just left. He glanced at a painting hanging over a piano, a beautiful nature scene of a stream meandering through a green meadow. His aunt was a gifted painter, and he realized this was from a collection of her own works. He hadn’t noticed this one during his last visit.
“How are you doing, Chris?” His aunt’s question brought him back to reality.
“Uh ... okay, I guess, under the circumstances. Thanks for all your help. I’d be completely lost if it wasn’t for you.”
“It’s what family is for.” She hadn’t finished the last word before a tear rolled down the side of her face. “You’ve had a pretty tough go when it comes to family, I’m sad to say.”
A tear escaped Chris’ control. He felt it glide down his cheek, tasted its salt as it found its way onto his lip. A lump formed in his throat. He tried to regain control by focussing on practical matters. “I took a few things from his place.”
“I’m glad you could find anything through that mess, from the way it was described to me.” She shook her head in mild disgust. “Oh, Maurice.” She stared off.
Chris wasn’t sure where to begin with his questions, and the longer he thought about what approach to take, the harder it became for him to start. Finally, he blurted out, “I found pictures of him with Mom. I’d never seen them together in one before.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out the picture he had collected and gave it to his aunt.
She looked at it and smiled. “They look so young, don’t they?” She stared at it a little longer, as if remembering a better time, before handing it back to Chris.
“I’ve always wondered what she saw in him,” he said. “This picture is the closest I’ve come to may
be understanding. They look so happy together.”
“There was a time when they were.” She smiled wistfully. “Your father could be charming. Mischievous and charming at the same time.” She paused a moment. “I saw the mischief in his eyes. Your mother, she saw the charm. I think a part of her was drawn to that mischief. She had a kind heart, always looking for the goodness in people. I guess she saw something good in your father.”
She looked away from Chris.
“What happened?”
She gave him a look that said Do you really want to know? “Maurice liked to gamble. Your mother knew that when she met him. At first, it wasn’t a problem. She thought she could change him. But it got worse. He’d gamble away his wages, then wouldn’t show up for work at all. Your mother and I would go looking and find him at the casino. He couldn’t stop, and I knew he wouldn’t stop. I told your mother she should leave him. As hard as it would be for her, I told her there was no other way.” She looked at Chris’ plate. “Would you like some more brownies? How about a drink? I’ve got cola.”
“No, thanks, I’m fine. So, what happened?”
His aunt gave him a sad smile. “You’re what happened. After she became pregnant, your mother gave Maurice an ultimatum: stop gambling or she was leaving.” She drew a heavy breath. “It worked for a while. But it was only a matter of time before everything got worse. He was gone longer, spending more money. Money he didn’t have, money they didn’t have. One night, he showed up here begging me for money. I turned him away, told him I wasn’t going to enable his gambling. Things got more and more out of control. And then it was over.” She looked off in the distance.
“What was over?”
She shivered and hesitated before slowly looking into Chris’ eyes. “That part of his life. When your mother died.”
“Yes?” He leaned eagerly toward her, waiting for her to continue. “I know Stan Edwards killed my mother. What else is there?” He had a feeling that there was more to know, more that his aunt knew, more that he, too, needed to know.