The first anniversary of his death loomed before her like the memorial stone they had raised on his grave in August. She could hardly believe it would soon be a whole year. The fourth day of the Hebrew month of Tishrei, a few days after the start of the High Holidays. Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, would never be the same again, always the association of his death. It was supposed to be a time of celebration. Friends and relatives would present each other with honey cakes, sweet things for a sweet year. David would slice up an apple, arranging it on a dish, and they would dip the slices into a pot of honey. Now, she watched out the patio door, where she could still see him bending over the snapdragons, working the earth with his little trowel, his orange-red hair echoing the colours of the garden.
The phone rang on the counter and she was pulled back unwillingly to the present.
“Hi sweetie, what’s doing?” her mother asked.
Rebecca flicked on the kitchen light and took a deep breath of relief. “I was just going to make myself something to eat before going to Sarah’s. I’m going to meet her guests.”
“It’s very sweet of you to get involved.” Her mother’s voice rasped on the phone. Rebecca wished she could persuade her to stop smoking.
“It would’ve been hard for Sarah to make arrangements otherwise,” Flo continued.
“It’s the least I can do. She never asks me for anything.”
“You don’t have to feel guilty. Why don’t you bring her over here tomorrow for dinner? She can bring her friends. I’ll throw in some extra chicken and soup. It’ll be a nice Friday meal for them.”
“They aren’t Jewish.”
“It’ll still be a nice meal. And Daddy can try out his old jokes on them.”
Her father had been a pharmacist who in his retirement had discovered Neil Simon’s plays and had decided his own jokes were just as good. Hence he had started writing some comedy and using his family as a sounding board.
“They probably don’t speak English.”
“So he’ll use sign language. Nothing stops your father from communicating. He’s already starting to wave his arms at me. I think he’s trying to tell me something. Here —”
“Hi, doll face. How’s my daughter-the-doctor? Did you see any interesting diseases today?”
“Just the usual — boils, warts. Then a guy came in with his foot stuck in his mouth.”
“That’s not interesting. Happens to me all the time. Give me his number. I’ll let him in on the cure.”
“There’s a cure?”
“Yeah. You have to light up a cigarette every time you feel the urge to say something stupid.”
“The cure sounds worse than the disease.”
“If you’re going to be critical, I won’t let you in on my secrets anymore. By the way, how many surgeons does it take to replace a light bulb?”
“I give up.”
“Three. One for the consult, one to take out the bulb, and one to tell you that you should take out the socket too, now that you’re not using it anymore.”
She giggled into the phone.
“Uh-oh, your mother’s signalling to me. Here.”
“What are you having for dinner, dear?”
“I was just going to make myself some eggs.”
“Well, never mind. Just as well on such a hot night. You’ll have a good dinner tomorrow night. Give my regards to Sarah.”
Voices droned on the CBC as she drove her little red Jaguar south through the side streets west of Avenue Road and around the campus of Upper Canada College. A discussion between pundits.
“What about the American political scene, Craig? There’s speculation that Ronald Reagan will seek the Republican nomination for next year’s election. A lot of people think being governor of California is good practice for the White House.”
“It’s hard for some people to take him seriously, Peter. They run those westerns on late-night television, and he looks awfully good in a cowboy hat. That probably got him elected in California, but we’re talking about the presidential race here.”
“Well come on, Craig, let’s be fair…”
After a five-minute drive, she pulled into Sarah’s driveway on that strange little side road in the heart of Forest Hill. She stopped beside the Camaro, which used to belong to David, and stared at the familiar beige leather seats. This was why she avoided Sarah. Too many reminders. The woman, herself, because she was David’s mother. Not her fault. A tactful, cultured woman who would never knowingly hurt Rebecca. David had been Sarah’s only child, and the loss had devastated her. Yet she somehow managed to cope better than Rebecca, who couldn’t look at her without seeing David.
She forced herself toward the front door. Maybe it was the looming anniversary that was bringing down this melancholy upon her. She had kept the sadness at bay since the unveiling, but now her body responded, demanding attention. Her heart felt like it had shrunk in her chest; an emptiness expanded in her and threatened to take her over. She would stay for a polite hour or so, then make her apologies and go home. She pressed the doorbell.
Sarah did not rush to get the door. Rebecca wondered if she had the wrong night. Finally Sarah stood in the doorway, her eyes large with anxiety. She wore a pastel blue blouse tucked into a matching cotton skirt that showed off her trim waist.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Rebecca. Something’s happened.”
Her usually creamy complexion had gone sallow. Without explaining, she led Rebecca up the stairs to the living room slowly, as if she were too tired to go faster. Books lay strewn on the floor, thrown down from their shelves, along with framed photos and knick-knacks and sheet music. Drawers in the dining room buffet sat agape, their contents jumbled. Rebecca stuck her head in the doorway of the kitchen: the cupboards and drawers stood open, some gadgets on the floor.
“We were out all day,” Sarah said. “I took them for supper, then when we came back…” She lifted her palm in the air. It began to shake, and she clasped her two hands together in front of her waist.
“Did you call the police?” Rebecca asked.
Sarah stared at the chaos on the floor. “I don’t think they took anything.”
“You won’t be able to tell, in all this mess. Did you check the silver? Or any jewellery upstairs?”
Sarah stared into space, her eyes empty.
“Sarah?”
Sarah shook her head. “I can’t think. I’m sorry.”
A pang of guilt shot through Rebecca. She’d always thought of her mother-in-law as strong and independent, but Sarah looked suddenly very small and vulnerable.
She took Sarah’s arm and led her to the sofa. “You’ve had a shock. Just sit down and take it easy.”
Sarah still stared into space.
“How about if I call the police?”
Sarah’s gaze drifted to the stairs that led to the second floor. “Halina is very suspicious of authority. She was very nervous when I mentioned police. You can understand how it must be for her, coming from a Communist country. I didn’t have the heart…”
“They may’ve done some damage. You may want to call your insurance company. By the way, how’d they get in?”
Sarah looked toward the living room windows. “I don’t know.”
“Was the front door locked when you came in?”
“Yes.”
“What other door could they get in?”
“Only the patio door at the back.”
Rebecca got up and went through the dining room into the den. She pulled open the curtains drawn across the glass patio door. Everything was intact. They hadn’t gotten in this way.
Because of the structure of the house, all the windows on the first floor were too high off the ground for easy access. Rebecca checked each one in any case. Leaving Sarah resting in the living room, she went down the stairs to the entrance landing, then further down the open staircase to the basement.
She was nearly at the bottom when she heard it. A sudden stirring sound, a rustling emanated
from the darkness in front of her. She stopped, frozen. Someone was there.
She fought the urge to run back up. Felt along the wall for a light switch. When the light came on, she found herself looking into the startled brown eyes of a large raccoon. It had halted partway through the broken window above the washer and dryer. Shards of glass sparkled on the enamelled tops of the appliances.
“Shoo!” Rebecca said.
The raccoon sat back on its hind legs and peered at her, unconvinced.
This time she waved her arms around and raised her voice. “Shoo!”
The raccoon wearily turned its rotund furry body around and crawled back out the empty window pane.
She looked around for something to cover the opening with. An old furnace filter leaned against the wall. She moved a wooden chair beside the washing machine and stood on it, lifting the filter to press it across the window. An uneven fit, but it would have to do.
She found a cardboard box nearby and gingerly placed the large pieces of glass inside. Using a sponge from the sink, she cleaned up the smaller bits.
In the living room Sarah was kneeling on the floor gathering books into piles.
“He broke one of your basement windows,” Rebecca said. “I covered it over for now, but you’ll have to get it replaced.”
Sarah stood up, anxiety tensing her lips. “Thank you, dear.” She absently handed Rebecca the books she had picked from the floor. “I’ll go upstairs and get my guests.”
Rebecca glanced at the books in her hand: The War Against the Jews, Medical Bunker: Buchenwald, The Siege of Stalingrad. The books on the floor were a mixture of history and music. She lifted them in stacks and lined them up on the coffee table.
She picked up a framed wedding photo of David and her from the floor. She in her white satin gown, cheek to cheek with him in his brand new tuxedo. This was why she avoided coming here. She didn’t want to be reminded of what she’d lost.
By the time Sarah returned with her guests, Rebecca had cleared a path on the floor to the couch.
“This is Halina,” said Sarah, “and this is Natalka.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Halina said, her handshake sweaty. Her grey eyes were puffy with fatigue.
Natalka squeezed Rebecca’s hand firmly. “I want to thank you for your trouble on my behalf,” she said in surprisingly good, if formal, English.
“It’s my pleasure. I’m glad I can be of help.”
Sarah had said she was in her late thirties, though she looked older. Maybe it was the premature white hair, thought Rebecca, or maybe it was the struggle against the cancer that had begun its treacherous course in her body. The woman’s complexion was bluish pale, the skin beneath her eyes thin and transparent. Yet there was a beauty in the curve of her neck, the perceptive green eyes.
“This is terrible!” Natalka said, raising her hand toward the disorder. “Who would do such a thing?” She said something further in Polish to Halina, who shifted her eyes placidly over the room as if she’d seen many a break-in.
“Sarah, if you don’t mind,” Rebecca said, “I’m going into the kitchen to call the police. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She had just stepped out of the room when Halina began a tirade in Polish. Rebecca heard policja! and milicja! among the supplicant phrases. Everyone followed her into the kitchen. When she picked up the phone, Halina threw her hands up to her head and began to wail. There must’ve been a universal language of begging that relied on body language rather than specific words, thought Rebecca, watching Halina’s face turn pink from effort, her eyes moistening with tears, hands gesticulating, stretched palms out, to her.
Natalka turned away in embarrassment, her long neck arched as if she’d just seen something interesting on the ceiling, but they all seemed to be waiting for Rebecca’s decision. Halina could barely look at her, her eyes darting around the room with anxiety.
“Things are different here,” Rebecca said. “We live in a free country…”
Natalka placed a hand on her mother’s arm, but she was not calmed; instead crossed her arms tight over her chest and shook her head vigorously.
Recognizing defeat, Rebecca replaced the receiver.
Halina deflated, sighing.
Sarah gazed toward the kitchen counter. “I’m going to make tea.”
Halina nodded at Rebecca. “Thank you, Pany Doctor.”
Rebecca and Natalka returned to the living room, leaving the two older women to their preparations in the kitchen.
“I must apologize for my mother’s behaviour. She is very nervous on this trip.”
Natalka wore a loose navy blue shift that showed off her shapely legs, but not her waist. Bending over the coffee table, she retrieved Rebecca’s wedding picture.
“He was very handsome,” she said. “Sarah told me what happened. It’s so unjust when young person dies.” They both gazed at the framed photo, but Rebecca felt the poignancy of Natalka’s illness.
“How long you were married?”
“Seven years.”
“What kind of man he was?”
Rebecca was surprised by the question. “He was very handsome, very warm. When he walked into a room, all the women turned to look at him. Tall, thin. He moved like…” She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to remember.
Natalka picked up a small framed watercolour he had done for Sarah of a child sitting at a piano. “Is this… ?”
Rebecca nodded.
“He was fine artist.”
She leaned over Rebecca until the loose wisps of her white hair nearly touched Rebecca’s face. “Did you ever understand?” she said slowly. “I mean, why he was ill. Why he died.”
Rebecca knew she didn’t mean the diabetes.
In a low voice Natalka went on, “I never talked to anyone about this… I struggle to understand why I am ill and not someone else. I have done something evil? God is punishing me? First He give me my talent, my gift of music. Everyone always say it was gift from God. I did not use it wisely and now I’m punished? Or maybe it’s because He gave me talent so my life is cut short, like burst of flame that must die. I cannot understand it, I cannot.” Her sea green eyes questioned Rebecca as if she might have an answer.
“You can’t blame yourself,” Rebecca said, struggling to respond with something helpful. “We can’t know why some of us have less time than others. But it would be wrong to think it was something you’d done. Good people, people who’ve never harmed anyone, die too soon. There are no explanations. The only answer is to live life as if every day counts.”
Tears filled the green eyes. Her head bowed on the long, graceful neck. “I am not ready to die.”
Rebecca’s heart contracted in her chest. Instinctively she put her arms around Natalka’s shoulders and held her as her body heaved soundlessly.
Sarah and Halina could be heard chattering in Polish in the kitchen. Rebecca found a tissue for Natalka, who composed herself, dabbing at red-rimmed eyes.
“You know, I do not feel sick. I do not believe doctor when he tells me I am so sick. I think I am just tired.”
According to Sarah, Natalka’s Polish doctor had told her she had leukemia. Her skin was white pale. Rebecca noticed some blue-yellow stains on her forearm.
“Do you bruise easily?” she asked.
Natalka shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I’ll do a complete blood work-up when you come in.”
Natalka stood up and began automatically to pick things up from the floor and arrange them on the shelves and tables in the room. She found all the sheet music that lay scattered around and gathered it in a bundle.
Sarah and Halina carried the tea things to the dining room table, which the intruders had left undisturbed. Sarah cut each of them a square of coffee cake as they sat around the oak table.
If Halina noticed her daughter’s swollen eyes, she seemed to make no reference to them. Instead, she said something to Sarah in Polish, pointing to the cake. Sarah responded in Polish. Prickles went u
p Rebecca’s back. She had never heard her mother-in-law speak her native language before, and it made her uneasy. She seemed very different with Polish in her mouth. Animated in a more primitive way. Suddenly she seemed a stranger. Maybe Rebecca didn’t know her mother-in-law at all.
Natalka was watching Rebecca. She said, “My mother asks about the cake. It’s very good and she wants to know how to do it.” She lowered her voice. “It is pointless question — ingredients to make such a cake are too costly at home. Now if she had recipe for turnip cake — then I would write this down.”
When Rebecca gave her a puzzled look, she said, “We have many turnips in Poland.”
“Are things so bad there?” Rebecca asked.
Without changing expression, she said, “We are more privileged because of Mama’s position. We get as many turnips as we want.”
Rebecca smiled and took a sip of her tea. “I’ve heard it’s hard to get out of a Communist country. Did they let you go on compassionate grounds?”
Natalka’s mouth pursed. “‘Communists are not interested in compassion. They do not care if people are ill. We have more advantage because my mother works for Orbis. The state travel. She arranges for Polish workers to have vacation. Whole factory will go to the seaside or Carpathians, and she arranges this.” She gazed off in a mocking way. “In my mind I can see five hundred workers from a factory that make tractor parts lying like sardines on beach. Each one has thermos bottle filled with vodka, the main recreation in Poland.”
Her eyes turned back to Rebecca with a sly look. “So, in her position we can get visas. You see, she is also in the Party.” She seemed to cut herself off, perhaps thinking that Communists were not a proper topic of conversation in the west.
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