by Heather Burt
“How long will you be in town?” he said.
Ernie looked toward the lane. “Not long. Another day or two.”
At the risk of sounding like a jilted lover, Rudy blurted his next question: “Will I see you again?”
“I’m afraid not this time,” Ernie said. Then he turned back. “It isn’t absolutely necessary that Sri Pada be climbed during the season. When you’re feeling up to it, why don’t you and I make the journey?”
The tension that had seized Rudy’s body earlier hadn’t really gone away, but it eased off now. He sank his full weight onto the crutches and nodded.
“Sure. I’d like that.”
April 29, Wednesday. Hi, Clare. So you are still on MHR. I’m not sure how to feel about that. There’s something too real about it, I guess. Especially lately. I’ve been avoiding thinking about home. I got a call from Dad (the serious calls always come from him), and it seems Adam’s had a setback. He developed a clot that went to his lungs and fucked up his breathing. I asked Dad if I should come home (knowing full well I’m in no condition to do so), and he said there’d be no point right now. Adam’s stable, he said, but he isn’t “him-self.” No kidding. Susie sent me an article she dug up on the stages of brain injury recovery (the “Rancho Los Amigos” scale—sounds like a fucking vacation resort), and she highlighted some of the stuff she’s noticed in Adam: inattention, aggression, incoherence, irritability, self-centredness, vague recognition of people, etc. Jesus, that sounds like me. I think I prefer the Glasgow scale. I don’t know, I just don’t know. The doctors keep telling Dad and Aunty they have to wait, and that it may be a long time before they know the long-term effects. We (the family that is) are supposed to carry on with our lives as normally as possible, they say. It’s a wonder Aunty hasn’t hauled off and belted one of them yet. In a twisted sort of way, I’m glad that I can’t carry on with my normal life yet. I can imagine I’m keeping up a vigil here in my bed, useless as it is. But when I can walk again, I’m going to go on a pilgrimage.
15
ON THE STIFLING TRAIN RIDE from the city, Clare read her tattered copy of The Jungle Books, hearing her father’s voice, the way it sounded when he first read her the stories so long ago. Deep and authoritative. But when she reached the part where Mowgli appears, naked, at the wolves’ cave, it was her mother she remembered, and the awkward bedtime conversation that had followed Alastair’s reading of the strange passage. She’d been lying in the dark thinking about it, wanting to know where she came from, wondering if she herself, like Mowgli, had turned up out of nowhere (not naked, though). More importantly, she’d wanted confirmation that, despite what she’d witnessed across the street at the Vantwests’ just a few days before, Emma’s explanation of where babies came from was fantasy. “How did I come to you and Daddy?” she’d asked anxiously, but her mother’s surprising uncertainty meant that she had to explain herself further. “Emma says she knows where I come from, but I don’t believe her.” More uncertainty: “What did Emma say, pet?” Horrible awkwardness; sheet pulled up over her face. “She says I came from your stomach.” Then the astonishing reply, delivered quietly and gravely. “Aye, that’s right. Well, near my stomach. A separate place, where babies grow.”
Fanning herself with the plastic folder containing her plane ticket, Clare wondered now what sort of awkwardness her mother must have endured that evening in the face of the unanswerable question. How did I come to you and Daddy? A few years later, Isobel had bought her a book that explained the biology in simple words and cartoon pictures, and Clare had assumed over the years that her mother was simply uptight, conventionally prim and Scottish. Part of her believed it still, in spite of everything.
Her stop was approaching. Clare put the ticket folder in her bag and knotted her hair in a sloppy bun. Through the window, trees and houses and lampposts whizzed past, then slowed, then finally fixed themselves into the pattern that once had accommodated her so readily. She stepped off the train and into the sun. The air hissed with the razor-like spray shooting from sprinklers across the station building’s narrow strip of lawn. Shouldering her bag, Clare headed for the parking lot, which stretched away from the tracks and was lined with shady trees. The hissing persisted—cicadas, probably, but Clare attributed the noise to something else. Behind its quiet, patterned façade, her west-island suburb was hissing with secrets. Not the delightful secrets of classic novels, though—the kind which, the moment they’re uncovered, serve to clear up confusion and restore the proper order of things. No—these secrets revealed instead that the lives behind the tidy lawns and façades were messy. Over the years, Clare had caught occasional glimpses of that messiness: the nervous breakdown that confined Denise Carroll to her house for months; Ken Boswell’s retarded brother, said to be living in a special home in Verdun; Philip Skinner’s bed-wetting problem, which prevented him from going to camp in grade seven. And now: Alastair and Isobel Fraser’s marriage of convenience.
Isobel hadn’t described it in those terms, of course. In her words, she’d been taken advantage of by her father’s apprentice, and Alastair, whom she was fond of, came to her rescue. “Nowadays young women are smarter, not so easily taken in,” she’d said. “Not that he was a bad person—just a typical young man. And I was just very naive.” At that point she’d reached across the kitchen table and placed her hand over Clare’s. “But I got a wonderful daughter from my foolishness, and a fine, caring husband. So the story has a happy ending.” And for thirty-one years she’d kept that story to herself—for Alastair’s sake at first, then out of habit, then, finally, from a fear that by revealing the truth, she’d be playing God.
In a patch of shade Clare shook out her hair and searched her bag for an elastic band. She hummed an improvised tune, a diversion from her compulsion to repeat to herself, yet again, that her father was not her father—an idea that left her with the dizzying sensation that she was without substance, in danger of vaporizing on the spot. She told herself it was exactly what she’d wanted—an excuse to jettison the influences of her past once and for all—but she’d envisioned a letting go much different from this. She’d imagined slipping unnoticed out of the pattern of her life and drifting fatefully toward her authentic self, that elusive thing she’d expected to locate in a Paris café or on a train between Barcelona and Madrid. She’d never meant to forfeit her place altogether. When she’d imagined bombs exploding on Morgan Hill Road, it was never her own home that vanished.
“He’ll always be your father, pet,” Isobel had said—what else could she say? But to Clare the words were hollow and mocking.
On the evening she’d found out, she’d gone to her studio and sat at the piano, trying to reclaim him. The music had been his idea, his gift, offered during the trip to Stanwick. He’d understood her then, she supposed, understood her loneliness and boredom, if not her physical afflictions. But though she played her childhood songs, simple melodies her father had enjoyed, and even the same piece she’d been attempting on Aunty Jean’s piano when Alastair made his offer, she couldn’t find him—only her mother, who, now that Clare thought about it, had been nervous and agitated their entire time in Stanwick. Understandably, of course—it was her first time back.
She found an elastic, the one that held together the folder from the travel agent, and as she set about retying her hair, a car pulled up next to her. Clare glanced sideways and saw Joanne Skinner leaning across her passenger seat to roll down the window.
“Good timing,” she said. “I’ll give you a lift.”
Excuses came easily. She had some shopping to do; she felt like walking. But the heat was oppressive, and the ride with Mrs. Skinner wouldn’t be long.
“Thanks,” she said, opening the car door. “It’s really hot.”
“Tell me about it!” Mrs. Skinner huffed. “I was just dropping David off at the train. He has an interview for a summer job, and his shirt’s already soaked, poor guy.”
Mrs. Skinner’s bare arms were angry pink, and th
ey jiggled as she pulled a U-turn at the end of the parking lot and headed for the exit.
“What sort of job is it?” Clare said.
“Oh, just waiting tables. He’s not too keen on being a waiter, but the restaurant’s on that street where all the tourists go, so he’s expecting good tips. What on earth is the name of that street? The one with all the outside tables. I haven’t been downtown in ages.”
“Prince Arthur?”
“Prince Arthur ... Prince Arthur. I think you’re right. I’ll have to ask David again. Is that near your store?”
They stopped at a light, and Clare glanced inside her bag at the folder containing her plane ticket.
“Not too far. But it won’t be my store much longer.”
Mrs. Skinner darted a look to her right. “What’s this? Are you leaving your job?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t tell me Emma’s finally talked you into going to Vancouver!”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. I’m planning to travel a bit first.”
“Really? Well!”
Clare smiled feebly then looked away. She hadn’t told Emma anything—about her job, or her father, or the plane ticket that was tucked inside her bag, real and nonrefundable—but now here she was, revealing her plans to Emma’s mother as easily as she’d talked about the weather. The omissions seemed unfaithful, though they hadn’t before. Her conversations with Emma had their particular way of unfolding, and the idea of rerouting one of those conversations with announcements like hers, however important, had paralyzed her more than usual. Which was probably, Clare now considered, the very predicament her mother had been in for the past three decades.
The light changed, and Mrs. Skinner turned onto the Boulevard, nodding to herself. “So, are you going to become another one of these third-world backpackers?” she said, with a levity that seemed forced.
“No. I’m not really into that.”
Mrs. Skinner smiled. “Oh, I know what you mean! You wouldn’t catch me traipsing off to the places that daughter of mine goes. The stranger the better seems to be her policy.” They rode in silence for a while, past the shopping plaza and the Dairy Queen, then Mrs. Skinner said, “So where will you be going?”
“My flight’s to London. I’m not sure where I’ll go from there.”
She would have to call Emma and tell her everything.
“The fancy-free approach! You’re brave!” Mrs. Skinner signalled right and slowed the car, though they were still more than a block from Morgan Hill Road. “I must say, I like having everything booked before I leave. I find I just enjoy myself more that way. But ... chacun son goût, as they say. Do you think you’ll go to Ireland? I only ask because Ray has a cousin there, in Galway, and I’m sure she’d be happy to put you up if you needed a place to stay.”
Clare resisted an urge to reach for the door handle right away. “I don’t think so. I’ll probably head for France.”
“Well, let us know if you change your mind. When did you say you’re leaving?”
“Next Friday.”
“They’ll miss you at the music store, I bet.” Mrs. Skinner smiled, then lowered her voice. “Emma tells me you’ve been seeing quite a bit of your boss lately.”
Clare clenched the straps of her bag. “That’s news to me.”
She knew she’d regret her answer later on. She’d wish she had laughed off the remark, or simply acknowledged, matter-of-factly, that her boss was a nice man and a friend. But the idea of Emma and Joanne Skinner discussing her relationship prospects over the phone made her stupid.
“Oh. Well ...” Mrs. Skinner fumbled, “she only meant that the two of you seem to get along well outside of work.”
They were now on Morgan Hill Road, and neither said anything as they drifted slowly to the Skinners’ driveway. Just before making her final turn, however, Mrs. Skinner looked past Clare at the Vantwests’ house and exhaled in a manner that suggested something between exasperation and pity.
“Adam still isn’t himself. His sister was in town last week, and she was saying he’s been stuck at a level six on the recovery scale for some time now. Or maybe it was a level five.”
Clare had been ignoring the Vantwests—she’d had enough to think about, after all—but she made herself look at their house and pay attention to Mrs. Skinner’s news. Level six? Was that worse than level five or better, she wondered. And what level had he been at the afternoon his sister telephoned to say that her father and aunt wouldn’t be able to make it for dinner? Adam had had a setback, she’d said, and they needed to be at the hospital. In the wake of this news, Isobel had taken another casserole across the street, but Clare hadn’t gone along. She’d moved Adam’s jacket to the back of her closet, and gradually the Vantwests’ existence had slipped away, back behind their living room drapes, with surprising ease.
But now Mrs. Skinner was talking about recovery levels.
“It sounds just awful. Apparently he talks to them, but he just isn’t there. Mentally. He thrashes around and swears a lot, Susan was saying.” She shifted the car into park and turned off the ignition. “I hate to say it, but it sounds like things were easier on them when he was completely out of it.”
“He thrashes?” The word stuck in Clare’s head. She’d imagined Adam asleep. Bandaged probably, and frail, but still Adam.
Mrs. Skinner rolled up her window slowly. “When he’s frustrated. Susan says it’s as if he’s fighting to come back, but it’s just terribly slow. And he’s still in that brace—a halo, I think they call it.” She turned to Clare and again lowered her voice. “The nurses have to do everything for him.”
Clearly Mrs. Skinner was willing to elaborate on the embarrassing limitations of Adam’s personal care, but Clare ignored the offer.
“Do they think he’ll ever be normal again?” she said. Another problem word.
“Heaven knows. It sounds like they just have to wait and see. I know I’d be beside myself.”
Back in her own house, Clare called to her mother but got no answer. She opened the front door again—the new Toyota was in the driveway—then she went from room to room. On the dryer there was a fresh pile of folded towels; next to the phone, a handwritten message—“Clare, call Marielle from work.” The day’s mail lay open on the kitchen table, and several plastic baskets of strawberries occupied the counter. After she’d checked upstairs and scanned the backyard, Clare went to the living room and sat on the plump new sofa, facing the window. She looked out at the Vantwests’ house and decided that her mother was there. Isobel had gone to the Vantwests’ with some strawberries and was at that moment listening sympathetically to the aunt’s account of Adam’s condition, which would most certainly be free of words like thrashing.
Clare ran her hand across the nubby yellow upholstery and breathed in its synthetic smell. Surrounded by varnished pine shelving (most of it empty), glass tables, and space-age lamps, she had the impression of being in a display room. Everything just so. She shook off her sandals and dug her feet into the rust-coloured carpeting. There were things to do—booking a hotel in London; calling Marielle about her family’s cottage in France, which would be free for a week in July; talking to Emma—but she sat in the strange, lifeless living room and thought about Adam in his hospital room, fighting to come back.
Back where, though? she wondered. In the depanneur, Adam had told her he wanted to get back to his roots. To Sri Lanka. The fact that he’d never been there in the first place seemed a contradiction at the time, but now she wasn’t sure. She imagined him struggling against his restraints—white sheets, IV, halo—and battling distance and darkness to get to this place he’d never been but felt connected to nonetheless. Thrashing to get there.
Again the extravagant desire to do it for him came over her. But she knew she couldn’t. It wasn’t the foreignness of the destination that was preventing her right now, or the danger, or even the fact that her connection to Adam and his family had virtually dissolved. The barrier right now was Patric
k Locke. A name, with no more substance than the map on page seventy-two of Alastair’s atlas. Her mother had lost track of him entirely, could scarcely remember what he looked like, and suspected he was no longer in Scotland. He was keen on travelling, she’d said. When Clare pushed her for more details, Isobel had added that he had a blacksmith’s handshake—a strange thing for her to have remarked on, but then again, under the circumstances, handshakes had been manageable, whereas a simple mention of hands—“He had strong hands,” for instance—had the potential to sink the conversation in awkwardness. “The physical part of a marriage just isn’t as important as people make it out to be” was the closest Isobel came, in the entire disagreeable exchange, to an acknowledgment of sex. Brushing invisible crumbs from the placemat in front of her, she’d seemed determined to present her story and its characters as tidily and concisely as possible. Of the hard facts of her biological father’s existence, Clare knew only that he had lived at one time on the Stanwick high street, over a pharmacy, that he’d worked for Papa McGuigan, and that if he hadn’t died in the meantime, he’d be fifty-three years old. According to Isobel, he knew nothing of Clare. There wasn’t a thread of connection between them. Still, it was plain to her that travelling to the place of Adam Vantwest’s roots while Patrick Locke remained a mystery would be wrong.
She closed her eyes and put herself back in the depanneur with Adam. You’d tell me to go looking for him, wouldn’t you? she began. You’d say I have to reconnect with my roots. But before the Adam in her head could answer, she heard footsteps in the hall. She opened her eyes, and her mother appeared at the living room entrance, dressed in her denim housework slacks and cradling Alastair’s hole-in-one trophy in her arms.
“I thought I heard you come in,” she said.
Clare wriggled her feet back into her shoes. “Where were you?”