“The water will be fine,” I said. I handed over the menu and tried to appear as officious as Fiona.
Fiona leaned forward as the girl retreated with our order. “You aren’t joining me in a glass of vino? It’ll take the edge off and make the afternoon go way smoother.”
“I’m heading to the Riverside to do a facelift at two. The patients get a little nervous when the surgeon comes in smelling like they’ve belted back a few.”
“I suppose. You really should find another line of work.”
“You should talk,” I said. “Child psychologist with the most troubled youth in Ottawa. Your job is much tougher than mine.”
Fiona relaxed back into her chair, and it was my turn to study her face. Soft brown eyes, high cheekbones and oversized lips that gave her the pouty expression so in vogue with models. Her hair was gleaming auburn, cut in spiky chunks that would have looked boyish on most other women. Fiona had an Irish spirit that radiated from her eyes and creamy skin. The most attractive thing about her, though, was her indifference to her own beauty.
“I like my work,” she said. “That makes what I do much easier than what you do.”
“I don’t hate my work.” I met her eyes. “I’m just not convinced that what I’m doing now is one hundred percent worthwhile.”
“Then quit and find somewhere else to use your talent. God knows there are people who really need a good plastic surgeon.”
I looked past Fiona to our waitress, who was laughing at something the other waiter had whispered into her ear. Her cap of red hair crackled like fire in the overhead light. They looked so young and carefree that I felt a momentary sadness for a time long past in my own life. Had I ever been that happy?
“It’s not that easy,” I said at last, pulling myself back. “I signed a five-year lease on my office. Besides, if Sam is serious about retiring, we’ll need my salary.”
“Nonsense. Sam must have a pension, and you’ve got to have enough socked away to keep you in fine style.”
I didn’t want to tell Fiona that I had no idea the state of our finances. It all went into a joint account that Sam looked after. If Fiona knew, she’d give me a royal raking over. She’d told me more than once that for a brilliant doctor, I was lax about the details of my life.
“I couldn’t imagine not working,” I muttered as the waitress placed water glasses in front of us.
After that, I steered the conversation away from me. I’d learned long ago that people like to talk about themselves and their own lives, and I could ask questions to nudge them there. Even Fiona, my best friend and a good psychologist, was susceptible. She went on at length about her latest patients—a child of ten who wet her bed every night and a seven-year-old boy who liked to light fires. We were sipping on steaming cups of coffee thick with cream when she finally stopped talking about her work and zoomed her attention back on me.
“Does Sam know how unhappy you are?”
“What?” She’d caught me by surprise. I should have remembered how astute Fiona was when it came to reading people. She was a psychologist, after all. “Whatever do you mean?” I tried a smile. “I’m not so sure happiness comes into it after you’ve been married ten years.”
Fiona’s eyes bored into mine and I inwardly squirmed. I usually avoided any talk of my feelings. She continued, “I’ve known you five years now, Maja, and I’ve learned to read you, probably more than you’d like. It looks to me like you’re having more and more trouble fitting into the world you’ve carved out for yourself.”
“You’ve never said anything,” I said, at a loss.
“I figured you’d tell me what you wanted me to know when you were ready, and if you’re never ready. . .” Fiona shrugged and smiled. “You’re a very private person, Maja, and I respect that. You remind me a lot of my kid sister, Katrina.”
“My life is fine. I am fine.” The mantra I kept repeating, it seemed. “I’m not thrilled about my work, but neither are a lot of people.” I suddenly realized that Fiona was my closest friend, and I barely shared anything that meant anything with her. Instead, I’d kept to safe topics like work and books and social functions. “I’m sorry, Fiona,” I said. “I’m not great at this spilling my guts thing.” I uttered a shaky laugh. “The irony is that I’ve picked you as a friend.”
“I think one day, just like Sleeping Beauty, you’re going to wake up and face life square on. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for you.” She hunched forward and spoke quietly, forcefully. “You’ve so much going on, my friend, and you have no idea.”
“Will that be all?”
I looked up. Our waitress was standing between us, scribbling on the bill. She was staring over our heads through the plate glass window that captured the bustle of Bank Street.
“Yes, that’s all for now,” Fiona said as she reached out for the check and smiled at me. “It’s time we put on our winter coats and got back into the fray.”
When everything else in my life seemed out of my control, I could rely on my skill as a plastic surgeon to give me a feeling of competence and even peace. It was no surprise then, when the rhytidectomy went without complication. I’d opted for a local anesthetic, and our thirty-five year old reporter would be going home to spend the night sleeping it off at home with a tube for drainage behind her ear. I left her resting in the post-op room after leaving instructions with the nurses and went to the 13 ward to check on another patient who’d had a tummy tuck the day before. She’d spend one more night in the hospital before release. I was pleased to see they’d removed her intravenous drip and that she was sitting up, sipping on some broth.
Seven o’clock found me backing my silver Ford Taurus out of the reserved doctors’ parking to head to our New Edinborough home. I was tired but relatively happy with the day. A recent dusting of snow gave the city a softened, new-world patina caught in the glare of my headlights and the myriad lights of the city. The snow’s whiteness lifted my spirits, and I was suddenly looking forward to a night in with Sam. I knew I’d been out of sorts and withdrawn lately, and we needed to connect. Hopefully, he’d have defrosted one of the many packets of frozen meals and started supper by the time I got home. We’d eat in front of the fireplace in the back room and listen to a classical recording from his extensive collection. He’d mentioned buying a rare Mozart recording that he wanted me to hear.
I took the long way, turning north along the canal past the University of Ottawa. I enjoyed this route, and it let me clear my head. By the Rideau Centre, I stopped at a red light and reached for my cellphone. I looked at the brown copper roof of the Chateau Laurier and its castle-like towers as I checked my messages. Two waiting. I played the first. Sam’s resonant voice saying goodbye filled my ear, and I felt my spirits plunge. I’d forgotten he was heading to New York. He would be in the air now, likely sipping on a Scotch and soda and reading the paper. That meant I’d be having supper alone again.
The light changed, and I dropped the cellphone into my open purse. The second message would wait. I crossed Rideau Street and travelled north on Sussex, past the bustle of the Byward Market and the spired glass magnificence of the art gallery. I turned right and entered my neighborhood, passing the treed grounds of the Governor General’s residence, the extensive property hemmed in by a black iron fence. One more right turn onto our street and the welcome sight of our driveway. I parked and stepped out of the car. The tire marks from Sam’s Land Rover were filled with snow. He’d been gone a long time. I lifted my head and looked at our two-storey red brick house, set back from the street and nestled in behind conical cedar bushes and lilac trees, now encased in clumps of snow. Its narrow frontage kept it unassuming, hiding its spacious rooms, rich oak floors and high ceilings. I shivered in my wool coat and hurried up the stone walkway, careful not to slip on patches of ice hidden by the thin snow cover. The porch light was on a timer, as was the lamp on the post closer to the driveway. They lit my way through the early darkness of the chilly February evening.
The first thing I did was run a hot bath. I’d been chilled by the day and soaked for half an hour, letting the Jacuzzi jets pulsate away all the tension from my neck and shoulders. By the time I dressed in flannel pajamas and a housecoat, my stomach was rumbling, and I hurried downstairs to the kitchen.
I heated up a packet of leftover stew from the freezer and poured a glass of pinot noir the colour of crushed rubies. The house was cool, and I settled in front of the gas fireplace in the backroom to warm up. Instead of classical music, I put Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” on our antiquated turntable and relaxed into his voice. The wind had picked up, and I could hear it battering the house and rattling down the chimney. Gusts of snow blew past the windows and danced in the lights placed about the backyard. Halfway through my meal, I remembered the phone message that I hadn’t listened to. I took a forkful of food and pushed myself to my feet from where I sat in front of the coffee table. I waited until I was sitting once again in front of my meal before retrieving the saved message. It was a moment before I could place my sister-in-law’s voice. Hysteria had sharpened Claire’s usually level voice, and I felt prickles of fear rippling along my skin.
“Maja? Maja,” a deep breath, “this isn’t good news. I don’t know how to tell you... It’s your father. He was found dead in his backyard a few hours ago. They think...they think he may have been murdered. They’ve taken Jonas in for questioning.” Another deep breath mixed with a sob. “Maja...call me as soon as you can.”
I had to listen to the message three times before the words finally sunk in. Dad was gone. Part of me rejoiced. Take that, you old bugger. I knew you’d get what’s coming to you one day, but it took a hell of a long time. Another part of me wanted to cry. I lifted my eyes to my ghostly reflection in the patio door. Jonas needed me. The wall I’d so carefully erected around my past was about to come tumbling down. I raised my cellphone again with a shaking hand and dialed Jonas’s home number. Claire picked up on the first ring.
“This is so terrible. I just saw your dad, and he was looking fine.”
“He left the hospital on his own?”
“Yes. Apparently before lunch. Are you coming? Jonas needs you.”
“I’m...of course.”
“Thank God, Maja. I can’t talk now. Someone’s at the door.
“I’ll call you when I get in.”
“I’ll tell Jonas.”
The first Northwest Airlines flight I could make was six a.m. with stops in Detroit and Minneapolis. If the weather cooperated, we’d be touching down in Duluth a few minutes after noon. I booked a window seat and went in search of my suitcase.
By one o’clock the following afternoon, I was wending my way in a rented Chevy Cavalier up Highway 61, heading north through Minnesota towards the Canadian border. The snow was deep and mounded along the sides of the road, covering the rock outcroppings and lying heavy on the branches of fir and spruce. At Two Harbors, I pulled off the highway for a rest stop at Betty’s Pies and bought a large cup of bitter coffee in a Styrofoam cup, and on the spur of the moment, a strawberry rhubarb pie to bring to Jonas’s. The coffee warmed my hand through my thin glove, and I took small sips as I walked through the snow to my car in the parking lot. While I’d been inside, a layer of snow had covered the car, and I swiped at the back and side windows to clear enough away to see, snow crunching under my boots as I circled the car. Even as I settled myself in the front seat, thick flakes had recovered the cleaned surfaces. I turned the heater on high and flicked on the windshield wipers. They thump-thumped against the glass and left icy streaks in their wake. Driving would be slow going for the last leg of my journey.
I’d called Claire from the Duluth Airport. The phone had woken her from an exhausted sleep, but she reported that Jonas was on his way home from the police station. The police had questioned him off and on for most of the night but couldn’t come up with enough evidence to charge him. Her voice had been worried but relieved at the same time. She said Jonas would be thrilled to see me.
I pulled back onto the highway, sorry to leave the friendly comfort and yellow lights of the restaurant behind me. Even though the falling snow hindered my view, I knew that the drive through Northern Minnesota was a thing of beauty. The two-lane road curves through thick coniferous forests, and I caught glimpses of rocky shore and grey-white stretches of Lake Superior that awakened my senses. Town names rolled off my tongue— Castle Danger, Beaver Bay, Taconite Harbor, Lutsen. Near the town of Lutsen, I pulled off the highway and drove down a newly plowed side road towards the lakeshore. A rock face caked in snow cut steeply into the Lake Superior basin. The grey clouds hung heavy in the sky while the snow drove down past the ice cakes that rimmed the shoreline, the lake heaving. I stayed inside the car with the heater up full and prepared myself for the final few miles that led to Duved Cove.
Who would want to murder my father? I was at a loss. Jonas was not a choice I considered seriously. He’d never stood up to my father, even in the days when the old man had ruled our lives with an anger unparalleled, even after my mother made her last stand. Did it matter to me who had murdered someone of my flesh? I focused my gaze upwards towards the leaden sky. My father had been murdered. My breath quickened. Maybe it did matter after all. I’d loved him once, I’d tried to love him...and that should be enough to make it matter. The snow picked up steam as the wind pummelled the car. I shivered inside my wool coat and placed one hand over the heater. The air blasting into the car was still cold. I reached down and put the car into drive. It was time to face my demons.
I waited for three cars to pass by on the highway before easing into traffic. Twenty minutes and I would be home. Less than half an hour to Duved Cove.
THREE
My brother Jonas and I were thought to resemble each other, often mistaken for twins when we were younger. My father Peter Larson had Scandinavian roots, like many of the families who had made the trip from Sweden to settle in Minnesota. My mother Annika Sigredsson was first generation American. Her parents had emigrated to up-state Minnesota six months before she was born. Jonas and I had the same blue eyes and white-blonde hair of our ancestors, although where Jonas had curls, my hair hung in poker straightness. Like my father, Jonas had grown to six foot while on that score, I resembled my mother, both of us topping out at five four. When I wrapped my arms around my brother for the first time in six years that January morning, the bond was as strong as if we’d never been apart. After giving me a kiss on my forehead, he stepped back and looked at me.
“You haven’t changed much,” he said. “You’re wearing your hair shorter, but the rest of you is the same.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I think. I was hoping you’d find me more sophisticated or something.” Secretly, I was pleased that Jonas saw me as I’d been. There were many times when I felt like that young me had disappeared. I looked him over too. He was two years younger than me, but his hair had darkened and was streaked with grey strands. Tiny lines now rimmed his eyes. He still looked lean and slightly curved inward at the shoulders. “You’ve grown a beard,” I said. “It suits you.”
Jonas ran his hand over his chin and cheeks and grinned. “Keeps me warm.” He lifted my suitcase, turned and motioned towards the house. “Come inside out of the cold. I’ve put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
I followed him around the back of the house and climbed the steps to his deck. It had been freshly shovelled, and weathered cedar planks showed through the snow. I took a moment to look over his property. It extended back to the woods with a steep drop down to Lake Superior. His nearest neighbours, the Lingstroms, were a good mile away, half the distance back towards town. The snow continued to fall silently around us. I could smell their wood stove—he was burning spruce if my nose remembered correctly. We stepped inside.
My brother was a carpenter, and he’d built this house using local pine and cedar. Inside, the kitchen and the walls were red cedar, and the cupboards were painted a soft white. Jonas had built a table and stained t
he wood a golden brown, tucking it into an alcove encircled by windows that looked out over the side yard and a stand of birch trees and spruce. A gold and brown-glassed Tiffany lamp hung over its centre. I watched him pour two cups of coffee, noticing his hand trembling. He set the cups on the table and we sat kitty corner to each other at one end. As he handed me one, some of the coffee slopped onto the table. I pretended not to notice.
“Claire’s gone into town to buy something for supper and then she’ll pick up Gunnar from a friend’s. They should be back in an hour.”
“It’ll be good to see them.” We both drank from our cups. The coffee tasted of hazelnuts and sweet cream.
“So, what’s the situation with Dad?” I asked. With Jonas, I didn’t have to couch what I said. We didn’t speak often, but we understood each other. “How did he die exactly?”
Jonas held his coffee cup with both hands and seemed to hunch into it. He looked into its depths as he spoke. “Dad decided he was well enough to leave the hospital and checked himself out. That was Friday, the morning after I called you. First I’d heard that he’d left was when I drove into town to visit him in the hospital around two o’clock. Becky Holmes was on the floor and she filled me in. I told her I’d drive to his place to check on him.”
“Becky became a nurse?”
“Yeah. She married Kevin Wilders, but I still think of her as Becky Holmes.”
“There was a time, I thought you and Becky...”
“Well, high school romances don’t always end happily.”
“That’s for sure.” You and me, Maja, we’ll be together forever. Billy Okwari’s black eyes intense and certain. His lips warm on mine, sealing the deal. “Did you find Dad?” I asked, more harshly than I’d intended.
“I didn’t get over to see him until about five o’clock. I got held up.” Jonas’s eyes met mine then slid away.
What aren’t you telling me, Jonas, I thought, but I let it go. He’d tell me when he was ready.
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