Tears in the Grass

by Lynda A. Archer

  Elinor needed to be out of the city before Louise’s discovery. If she was lucky, Louise and Alice would rush to Elinor’s house. That would give Elinor time to get farther away, to be on her way to the Manitoba border. Going west to Alberta and British Columbia had never been a consideration. She’d always sensed that Bright Eyes was taken east, where life, in those days, was more civilized — more towns, villages, and farms for a new family and stolen child to get lost in.

  She turned and stuck out her thumb for the approaching car. She cursed the long turquoise Chevy as it sped by. A few minutes later, a pickup truck with two dogs in the back didn’t stop, either.

  She turned from the road to the culvert and the fields beyond.

  Flat. Flat as far as any eye could see. Snow sculpted into sweeping curves by wind; yellow stubble, remnants of the harvest, poking through here and there. In spring the stubble would be turned over, and by midsummer the shimmer of golden wheat would run between every road, all the way to the American border.

  She was barely moving now. The wind had picked up, and even though the sun was strong, she felt the cold more. She could die out here. Shove that thought from your mind, she told herself. As soon as you find Bright Eyes, give her your message, then you can be with the Creator.

  There was a cream-coloured lump by the roadside up ahead. Elinor quickened her pace for a few steps then slowed again. On the other side of the highway, a clump of Canada geese, flying low, wings flapping in long swoops. Remembering that they mated for life, Elinor thought of Joseph and felt warmed. There had to be a reason the Creator had taken him at such a young age, but she’d never been able to figure that out.

  The lump on the roadside was a canvas bag the size of a stove, stained with grease and oil, and on it big red letters — DOC — that had no meaning for her. At the end of the bag, which was pulled tight with a cord, the toe of a brown shoe poked through. She kicked at the bag, pushed at it with her hands. Not too hard, not soft, either; bulges and lumps. Possibly the thing was filled with shoes. It didn’t matter. She needed to get off her feet. Like a bird settling into its nest, she wiggled her bottom onto the bag until she was reasonably comfortable.

  She needed a smoke. A cigarette would wake her up, warm her. She wished she had one of her own, not those store-bought things with the old tobacco that tasted like sawdust. She tried to open the package without taking her mitts off, but it didn’t work. She yanked off a mitt with her teeth and slipped a cigarette from the package. Her fingers were freezing. Back turned to the wind, she hovered over the cigarette and the tiny flame, sucking in a long drag until the tip of the cigarette glowed. Then she was coughing and hacking. She hated these store-bought things.

  She pushed at the canvas and thought she could feel the outline of a shoe. And another. She traced the letters with her thumb. Who bundled up shoes like this? Why weren’t they on people’s feet?

  “D-O-C, D-O-C.” She whispered the letters. Surely it had something to do with government. Governments came up with the stupidest schemes.

  She had almost finished her cigarette when the semi pulled onto the side of the road, five or six car lengths ahead of her. The burst of air almost knocked her over and she couldn’t breathe from the swath of dirt thrown up. Her ears hurt with the squeal of the brakes. This was her ride; she knew it.

  The driver hopped out and strolled to the back of the truck, kicking at the tires, peering under the trailer, tugging on the lock on the back doors. He shuffled toward the front of the truck, scuffing at the road as he moved along. He stopped by the passenger’s door. His back toward Elinor, he leaned forward, then stretched back. The yellow stream glinted in the sunlight.

  The man stretched his arms over his head, punched the air, bent down, and swatted at the toe of his brown leather western boots. He slouched against the truck and pulled a pack of cigarettes from the chest pocket of his jean jacket. Tall, stocky in legs and body, he wore a red baseball cap and blue jeans.

  Elinor moved toward him. She had to believe the Creator would take care of her. In the ditch, or in this man’s truck. When she was within ten feet of the man he tossed his cigarette into the snow, turned, and took a step to the front of the truck.

  “Hey!” Elinor called out. The man continued. Elinor called louder.

  The trucker swung around. He had a dense red beard, a gold chain around his thick neck.

  “What do you want?” he asked. He had an accent, English or Irish. Elinor could never tell the two apart.

  Now, in the shadow of the man, Elinor saw he was almost twice her size. “I need a ride. To the east. Can’t pay you much, but I’ve got stories to pass the time.” She smiled.

  The man was shaking his head. “We’re not supposed to pick up hitchhikers. They’re usually bad news.”

  “You can check me for weapons if you want,” Elinor said, extending her arms. “I’m ninety years plus. I need to get to Ontario, maybe beyond that. I haven’t got much time left. I promised my daughter I’d find her before I died.”

  “Like I said, against the rules to pick up hitchhikers.”

  “I really need a ride,” Elinor said. “What harm can I bring to you? You’re twice my size. I’m the mouse; you’re the elephant. You could squash me in an instant.”

  The man took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair. He kicked at a stone and sent it into a snowbank. “I don’t stop much. I’m on a tight schedule. Do you eat a lot?”

  “Hardly a thing.”

  “I’m not much of a talker. I like it quiet.”

  “I can be quiet. I just need a ride.”

  “Hope I don’t regret this. Get in.” He opened the door and went around to his side.

  Elinor contemplated the red-and-grey upholstered seat. The step to climb up was three feet off the ground. She lifted her weaker leg but couldn’t get it high enough. She almost fell over. The man was stuffing his jacket, lunchbox, a couple of magazines, and a blanket into the cupboard behind him. He shoved paper cups and napkins into a paper bag.

  The engine rumbled and the truck vibrated. The smell of diesel and the scent of deodorizer from the paper pine tree that hung from the rear-view mirror were making Elinor sick. The trucker told her to grab the handle near the door. She grabbed it with both hands but still couldn’t get herself onto the step. He revved the motor, adjusted the side mirror. Hot air burst onto her face. She started to panic; she had to get inside. She tried again, but her arms were too weak. She was so tired. She thought she might cry.

  “Damn it!” she said. “Can you give me a boost?”

  He shook his head. “Thought I was taking on an adult, not a kid.”

  He jumped down from the truck and came around to her. He lifted her up and plunked her on the seat. “You can thank my grandmother for this. She taught me well.” He slammed the door.

  22

  Louise stared at the empty bed, the wrinkled white sheets. She swept back the curtain of the closet looking for, what, she didn’t know. Only the faint scent of tobacco remained. She pawed through the drawers in the bedside dresser. A button, a pebble, and a cigarette butt. Everywhere she looked, nothing. She asked the nurse if her mother had left a note. How could no one have noticed her absence?

  “When did you last see her?” Louise asked.

  “She was here at breakfast.” The nurse, half Louise’s age, smiled. “She ate everything. The past few days she was eating it all. No complaining. Often, she’d ask for seconds when we came to collect the tray. We would have been discharging her soon. I’m sure she’s not far away. Lots of old folks wander off. They get confused. Can’t figure how to get back. Or they find a comfortable couch and fall asleep.”

  Not my mother, Louise thought. Elinor had been hoarding. Saving up for this scheme of hers, whatever it was. At ninety. Had she gone right around the bend this time? Yes, her mother had gotten stronger over the past week, but she wasn’t that strong. Was this a protest so she could go back to her own house?

  “You’re sure
she didn’t leave a note?” Louise asked. “Maybe with a nurse who’s gone off duty? Did she confide in anyone? Was there a favourite nurse?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. If you’ll excuse the comment, I think your mother hated all the nurses equally. It was only in the past few days that she seemed to be more settled, less argumentative. And she was out walking the halls, going down to the lobby more regularly. We don’t lock patients in their rooms. We encourage them to get moving as soon as they can. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Louise nodded. She wanted to kick something.

  From the window that overlooked the parking lot, she watched Alice getting out of her truck. Her parka was unzipped. A long red scarf hung to her knees, where it met her black boots. What was Elinor wearing? Louise asked herself. Or was she tucked in at someone’s house? An old friend? A new friend? Her mother never seemed to have difficulty picking up people. As cranky as she was with her family members, she exuded warmth and welcome with people in stores, on the street, on the road. If she was holed up at a friend’s, Louise had no idea who that might be or where they were. And the worst of it was, they’d lie if Elinor asked them to. Perhaps Lillian knew something.

  Alice disappeared from Louise’s view; five minutes later she was in the room.

  “Dad said you’d be here,” Alice said.

  “This is probably the last place we should be.”

  Alice unwound her scarf, tossed it on the bed. She said she shouldn’t have brought all the clothes — coat, boots, sweaters, and socks — that Elinor had asked her for. But she kept complaining, telling Alice it was freezing in the hospital. Every time Alice visited, Elinor had the window open, and when Alice tried to close the window, Elinor protested, telling her the air in the room was too dry and stale; the nurses wore too much perfume. So Alice brought her clothes.

  “I knew she hated the idea of going into a home. I guess I was naive, thinking we’d find someplace she’d like,” Louise said. She swatted at the pillow on the bed. “It’s freezing out there; she’s skin and bone. She could be dead in a day.”

  Alice suggested they go to Elinor’s house. Even if she wasn’t there, perhaps they’d find a list of her friends, their phone numbers.

  “She is so wily,” Louise said. “She could convince a dog to give up its bone, a wolf to move away from its kill. Why would she do this? She’s after something.” She bent down to check under the bed and snatched at a crumpled yellow paper. Seated on the edge of the bed, she flattened the paper on her thigh. Roper—discharge note. James—enema. Denver—pain meds after lunch. A nurse’s checklist. She scrunched the paper into a ball and threw it into the garbage can.

  “Do you recall anything she talked about that might be a clue to where she’s gone? She talks to you easier than me,” Louise said. She hated to admit that. Probably there were lots of people her mother spoke with easier than her daughter.

  “Nothing. She hated it here. She wanted to go home. And she wanted us to be doing a lot more to find Bright Eyes. Go to Ottawa. Talk to the minister of Indian Affairs. Search through church archives. Call the archbishop. Visit every reserve in Saskatchewan.” She shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Pretty much drop everything else in our lives.”

  Louise ran her hand over the sheet, pressing out the wrinkles. “Well, now we know. We were not paying attention. We weren’t doing enough by her standards. She has taken matters into her own hands. The problem is, that could kill her.”

  The hospital cafeteria was deserted, save a pair of doctors in green scrubs against the far wall. The facility was closed for food until lunch, but tea, coffee, and juice were available. Louise poured herself a cup of coffee and took it to a table. She sat with her hands wrapped around the cup but didn’t drink. It was her fault, she told herself. She should have guessed her mother would do something like this. She was terrified of hospitals. And she didn’t trust Louise to take care of her. They should have had someone at the hospital with her all the time. Charlie would have done that. Louise should have called her brother. She lifted her cup and put it down without drinking. What was she going to do? What did anyone do when a loved one disappeared? Call relatives, call friends, call the police, run notices on radio and television. Of course she would do all that, but she knew, better than most, that if a person wanted to really disappear, they did. She’d done it herself. Now was not the time to think of those matters. She lifted her cup, but her hands were shaking as she took a swallow. She banged her cup onto its saucer.

  “Mom. Are you all right?” Alice said, slipping into the chair across from Louise.

  “Oh, not really. I think this is all my fault.”

  Alice sipped her orange juice. Fault was not something her mother easily assumed as far as Alice could remember.

  “Why does it take us so long?” Louise said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “So long to get it. I’m past sixty, you’re almost thirty. Some days I think we hardly know each other. Why is that? What’s your favourite music? What happened to that boyfriend you had a year ago? Do you enjoy teaching? Do you have a best friend? Why does it have to be this way? My mother and I have been sparring for decades. She never told me about Bright Eyes. All this time I’ve had a sister walking around somewhere, you’ve had an aunt. And, of course, my mother had a child ripped away from her when she was little more than a child herself. I haven’t been a good daughter.”

  “I don’t know …” Alice said.

  “Yes, you do. It’s you Gran talks to about the old times. You listen to her stories. Everybody needs to be heard.”

  “So, why haven’t you listened to her? There are lots your age who never left; they stayed close.”

  Louise nodded. “It’s true. And the mean part of me says, “‘look what became of them.’”

  “So you wanted different things. You made a choice.”

  “I sure did,” Louise said. She pressed her lips together, stared past her daughter to the stocky, dark-haired woman who was filling the salt shakers.

  “Where do we go from here?” Alice asked.

  Nursing staff had started to trickle into the cafeteria. Scents of tomato and onion were rising from the kitchen.

  “She’s not told you of any secret hiding places?” Louise said.

  “No. She loves her little house, the garden, the deer that come by.” Alice grinned. “And, of course, she’ll spend time in the outhouse. Seems odd to me, but she says it gives her comfort.”

  Louise slid her hand across the table, gripped Alice’s. “You’re a good granddaughter.”

  23

  Elinor awoke in the darkness, covered with a blanket that smelled of mothballs and grease. Where was she? Was it Joseph next to her, humming along with the music? She squeezed her fingers together inside her mitts. She was too hot. Her head hurt; the toque was too tight. Her cheek and the side of her nose were cold against the window glass. She cranked her body upright, peered through the windshield, and started when she shifted her gaze to the man behind the wheel. What had she been thinking? He was huge. If he had a mind to, he could snap her in two like a pencil.

  She was hungry and she had to pee.

  “Have a good nap?” he asked.

  “How long did I sleep?”

  “Couple of hours.” He laughed. “You’re great company.”

  She pulled off her mitts and toque, wiggled her toes in her boots. She wished she could take off a layer of clothing, but she didn’t want to expose herself to questions from the man.

  In the truck’s headlights, snow swirled and slithered over the pavement. In the distance, across the field, she glimpsed a solitary light from a farmhouse. She missed her house.

  “Did you say something?” he asked. “Hey, I don’t know your name.”

  She hesitated, uncertain about giving her real name. If she gave him a false name it might give her a few more days before Louise tracked her down. For most certainly she would find her; of that, Elinor had no doubt.

  “Mar
y … Mary Goodtree,” she said. Mary had been her mother’s name; Goodtree she made up.

  The man extended his right hand. Elinor’s hand was the size of a child’s in the midst of his. She appreciated the warmth. And she was reminded of Joseph’s dry, calloused palms. Perhaps it was a sign. A good sign.

  “I’m Edward.”

  “You weren’t born in Canada,” she said.

  “No. Family’s from Ireland. Came to Canada when I was ten.”

  She wished she could see a bunch of lights telling her there was a town or village coming up soon.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Coming up to the Manitoba border. I’ll be pulling over in a bit for some shut-eye, then an early start in the morning. Where exactly are you wanting to go? And if you’ll excuse me asking, what on earth is a woman your age doing hitching a ride? Don’t you have family who could help you out?”

  “They’re all dead. That’s why I’m trying to find this last child. I haven’t got long.”

  “What the hell?” Edward’s thick fingers gripped the steering wheel hard. He braked and geared down. The truck moaned as if it resented the slowing.

  On the road ahead of them, barely visible, flares, a police cruiser, flashing red and white lights.

  Elinor stretched out her legs. She drew in a deep breath, told herself to stay calm. She knew her daughter had contacts and was pushy, but surely she’d not called in the police already.

  They came to a stop. The snow was falling thick and hard, a dense curtain of fuzzy, swirling flakes of snow. Impenetrable. It was difficult to see beyond the hood of the truck. Edward opened his door and the frigid air surged into the cab. On the radio the announcer spoke of a winter storm coming up from Texas. “Expect two feet of snow by morning. Zero visibility on the roads.”