Walking Through and Other Stories

by Francine Fleming

  The weeks went by. Tricia refused to return Carlos’ calls. On Valentine’s Day, realizing she was going to be late for work, she pulled off the road and stopped to telephone her co-worker Merle. Up popped the text message. She opened it and read, “Happy Valentine’s day Tricia. I love you, and I am missing you terribly. You asked for time, so I’m honouring your wish. I just hope you will have the desire to call me soon.”

  That night as she laid in bed, she imagined herself out to dinner with Carlos, and then dancing the night away. Only her pillow knew how much she cried.

  Two days later, her phone rang. It was Richard calling.

  Tricia answered, “Hello Richard, how are you, and Denise?”

  “We’re both well, but we have some bad news, and before I go any further, Carlos is okay.”

  “Thank God.”

  “It’s Aunt Stella. She passed away late last night. She never got over the flu and developed pneumonia. At age eighty-nine her immune system was too weak to fight any longer.”

  “Oh Richard. Dear Aunt Stella. I’m so glad we spent some precious moments together during the holidays.”

  “You will come back for her funeral, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  After her conversation with Richard ended, she prayed again. “Dear Lord, how can I face Carlos? I know he will attend the funeral. Oh God, please strengthen me.”

  ***

  On February 22nd, Tricia again walked through the doors of John F. Kennedy Airport. Again, she looked for Richard or Denise. They had said one of them would pick her up. She was careful this time to wear lower-heeled boots. She continued walking, mumbling as she went along “Oh no, oh no, this can’t be happening again! Knees stop shaking. Richard, Denise, where are you?”

  She stopped to grab a couple of tissues from her purse and gently dabbed her forehead. She then ran her fingers across her forehead and through her hair. Just as she thought, her hair was beginning to go frizzy. “Awful hot flashes.” she mumbled.

  Tricia started walking again, her eyes scanning the area. Her heart pounded loudly in her chest as she walked. She could feel the hot flashes getting worse. All kinds of thoughts rushed through her mind. Richard and Denise have so much to do with the funeral and everything. I hope they haven’t forgotten, after all I did change the date. Perhaps they’ve been delayed at the hospital. Oh no, the captain did warn us of the snow and that it was supposed to get worse. I hope they didn’t have an accident! Suddenly, she had a sinking feeling that they had sent someone else to meet her.

  She continued scanning the crowd. Then, she saw the familiar face and the hand waving. Her legs felt wooden as she wobbled over to him. “Dear Lord, how do I handle this?” She silently prayed. Ba bum, Ba bum. She was sure those around her could hear the loud beat. Mixed emotions flooded her heart as he started towards her. Anger, sadness, and, perhaps most surprisingly, a sense of familiar comfort and love, which she tried to ignore as her heart continued to pound in her chest.

  “Hello,” said Carlos.

  “Hello,” said Tricia, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks.

  He reached for her luggage. “I’ve missed you.”

  ***

  October 17, 2015, New York, Tricia Spencer-DaSilva plucked one red long stemmed rose from the many bouquets around, kissed it and placed it on her husband’s grave. As she did so she recalled the words she had written in a letter to Carlos, and placed in the casket.

  My darling, as suddenly and unexpectedly as you came into my life, you left. I thank you for loving me, and for never once making me have to doubt that love for me. You made me laugh, and you made me so happy. You brought out the best in me, and my darling, most of all, you made me feel whole, complete. The love you and I shared will never die. Sleep my love, until we meet again.

  Christina, followed by her husband, Derek, and their two boys, Carlos, and Jonathan, plucked a rose and did the same as Tricia had. Gina and her husband, Tom, followed. Next, was Kirk, his wife Sharon, and their son, Justin. Katrina, her husband, Mike, and their twin girls Casey and Kelly followed, then Richard and Denise with their beautiful daughter they had named Tricia Ann-Marie, after their favourite aunt. Other mourners followed, then left after hugging family members.

  After some time, Carlos’ loved ones all walked away, still in shock that a healthy man could just go to sleep and not wake up. “Natural causes,” the coroner had said.

  Christina took Tricia’s hand as they walked. “Tricia,” she said through her tears. “Thank you for loving dad so much and for making him so very happy for the past nine years. I love you for that, and I’m sorry your time together was so short.”

  “Thank you, Christina, for everything, and for being a wonderful step-daughter. I thank you for your support when your Auntie Gina did not want me in your dad’s life.”

  Christina stopped and hugged Tricia. “I know dad loved you and I’ve always trusted his judgement. If he loved you, that was good enough for me. Oh Tricia, I already miss him so much.”

  Wiping a tear, Tricia replied, “I do too, but he’ll live in our hearts forever. And the love we shared, will never die.”

  They continued walking toward the cars. Tricia continued. “I loved your dad with all of my heart, and he showed me, every day, how much he loved me. Do you know that he bought me a dozen long stemmed red roses every week?”

  “That’s dad, he was so warm and generous.”

  “Your dad and I were both fortunate to see our families extended. We enjoyed two weddings and six christenings. I’m especially glad that he got to hold his grandchildren, and his beloved god-daughter, young Tricia, in his arms. They brought him so much joy. Between the two of us we’ve five grandchildren, and that’s such a blessing. Christina, we may have had only nine years together, but they were the happiest years of my life. For that, I thank God.”

  Bone Keeper

  By Paula Smellie

  Yesterday is ashes; tomorrow wood. Only today does the fire burn brightly.

  - Inuit proverb

  Bone Keeper

  March 4, 1991

  “Dr. Beaujould?” The young man stood at the foot of Suzette’s bed wearing a sheepish look. Whether this was for interrupting her breakfast or a reaction to the flirtatious overtures of the pretty nurse who had deposited him in her room, she couldn’t tell.

  Running her eyes over his mild face with its trim beard and patches of acne, she certainly didn’t see what all the ooh-la-la was about. The man was of average height, with a narrow frame, and shoulder length hair that chafed at Suzette’s traditional upbringing.

  She sighed heavily. “Oui, c’est moi. Et vous?”

  Hoping the stranger would not prolong their encounter, she perched a pair of reading glasses on the end of her nose and reached for the day’s issue of Le Droit.

  She was getting old and to her that was akin to rotting while still alive. She silently cursed the vertigo that confined her to bed long enough for pneumonia to set in; cursed the obnoxious ticking of the wall clock, the nurses who talked to her like she was a baby or deaf; and cursed, most of all, the passing of time for snatching away those she loved with its greedy hands, leaving her no one.

  Suzette spread out the paper on her lap, smoothed it with her hands and looked up. The stranger offered her a closed-mouth smile that crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes.

  “Je m’appelle Evan Strauss… aaah… Je suis de… Toronto.”

  Suzette pooched out her lips and watched his eyes scan the tray of half-eaten toast and eggs in their salmon-coloured melamine dishes.

  “Je suis… désolé… à… aaaah… à d’inter-rom-pre votre… petit…déjeuner… mais je… je…”

  His French sounded like a thick finger plunking the keys of an old-fashioned typewriter. Suzette was determined to end this slow death by bad French.

  “English is fine, please. I am fully fluent.”

  The young man exhaled and relaxed his grip on the black portfolio case he wa
s clutching.

  “Thank-you,” he said, stepping around to the side of the bed. “Again, I’m Dr. Evan Strauss,” he said, extending his hand to Suzette.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he continued after a brief handshake. His hand was warm and dry and his grip was firmer than Suzette expected from a person of such meager stature. “Your assistant, Stephanie, said you would want me to come see you in person about this. She advised me to come see you here.”

  Suzette wrinkled her brow. “Here” was a private room at St. Joseph’s Hospital in the town of Belle Rivière, Quebec; where Suzette was recovering from a nasty case of pneumonia.

  “Did she tell you I was coming?”

  Suzette’s back tightened. “No, actually, she didn’t.” The possibility that Stephanie had called while Suzette was asleep or down in Radiology getting her chest x-rayed made the situation no less irritating.

  Strauss’ cheeks reddened, but Suzette caught a glint of humor in his eyes.

  “Well, then, I should explain myself, shouldn’t I?” A lock of ruddy brown hair flopped over his face and he smoothed it back behind his ear. “I’m an immunologist from Toronto. I came across your name while doing research on the 1918 Spanish flu deaths in Nunavik.”

  Suzette closed her eyes and rested her head back against a pillow. “Let me guess,” she said. “Northern Medicine? October 1968?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Strauss, his voice tinged with excitement.

  “God, that was ages ago. Where did you dig that up?”

  “Robarts Library in Toronto. Microfilm.” He looked pleased with himself. “It was an amazing feature.”

  “Oh, yes. It sure was.” Suzette waved her boney brown arms for dramatic effect. “Amazing Stories of Survival or Amazing Survivors’ Stories or some such nonsense. Fifty Years Later….” Her voice trailed off.

  Strauss cocked his head and squinted his eyes. “I’m sorry. Nonsense?” He gestured towards the chair beside Suzette’s bed and asked, “May I?” She nodded and he folded himself into the chair.

  “Oh, yes,” Suzette continued. “Wonderful nonsense. At least my part of it was. I gave them the interview and yes, my story is unique and touching and all that jazz, but it’s hardly a story of survival, at least not in the context of that flu.”

  The truth was, she owed her survival to Claude and Marie Beaujould, the childless missionary couple, who adopted her after her birth mother died of influenza.

  Suzette covered her mouth with a tissue and stifled a cough. Again, she silently cursed the vertigo that had put her on her back for days, allowing fluid to build up in her lungs and become infected. Opportunistic. That’s what the doctor had called her pneumonia.

  This was her most serious health crisis to date and it made her contemplate her own mortality more than she cared to admit. She no longer believed in “a better place” where she would be reunited with Claude and Marie. Nor did she believe in a spirit world where her birth mother and the rest of her deceased tribe would be waiting to receive her. For her, death was the promise of loneliness made complete.

  Irritated by these thoughts, Suzette said, “You didn’t find what you were looking for in the article? What was so important that you needed to come all the way here? I’m sure Stephanie could have helped you, no?”

  Strauss shifted in the chair and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

  “No, not really. As the last surviving member of your community, only you have the authority to help me with this.”

  Suzette smelled the remnants of her poached egg and tasted vomit in the back of her throat. She was sure impatience leaked from every pore in her face, but she didn’t care. Strauss looked too young to be a scientist. Who was he to invade her personal space like this, poking around in the neglected closets of her life? She fought the urge to send the tray of half-eaten food flying to the other side of the room. She would find a way to make Stephanie pay for this intrusion.

  “What exactly are your credentials?”

  Strauss fidgeted with the zipper on his portfolio case. “I’m a postdoctoral fellow in the Department of Immunology at the University of Toronto. I work with Dr. Alan Webber.”

  Suzette stared, her small dark eyes unblinking.

  “You’ve probably never heard of Dr. Webber.”

  Suzette blinked.

  “He’s quite well known in the infectious diseases community. His research on the efficacy of the flu vaccine after repeated vaccinations created quite a buzz last year. He was featured on CBC News not too long ago.”

  Suzette shrugged and hiked her eyebrows. “And where do you fit into all this?”

  “Dr. Webber hired me to lead an investigation into the pathology of flu pandemics, in particular, the pandemic of 1918. I have funding from the Canadian Institutes of Health Research and I’m two-and-a-half years into my fellowship. I’ll be wrapping things up over the next four months and then I’m off to the University of Edmonton where I’ll be working in the Division of Infectious Diseases.”

  “Congratulations,” Suzette said drily.

  She stared down at the issue of Le Droit, still open in her lap. It was all bad news on the international scene: oil fields were on fire in Kuwait, Soviet troops had entered Lithuania, and the Sudanese people were stifling under the heat of Islamic law. Closer to home, someone had stolen a March of Dimes coin collection tin from the snack counter of the local ice rink. Shaking her head, Suzette reached for her teacup and looked out the window instead.

  Strauss continued, “I could get a letter of introduction from Dr. Webber if you’d like. Stephanie didn’t think” - but Suzette cut him off with a loud clearing of her throat.

  She looked at him over the top of her reading glasses and said, "You’re a long way from home, Dr. Strauss. What can I do for you?”

  "Well, when I spoke to Stephanie, she didn’t think waiting until you were home or phoning you here were good ideas. Due to the sensitive nature of my request, she recommended that I come here and see you straight away.” He paused and his eyes searched her face. “It has to do with the burial ground at Wolf Point.”

  Suzette’s heart clenched. She raised her eyebrows and said, “Oh?” Looking away, she felt his eyes on her like the red laser sight from a gun. Strauss seemed to be waiting for permission to continue. Her skin felt clammy. “Fire away,” she said.

  “Dr. Beaujould, I’m here to ask your permission to disturb one of the sites. It’s not part of the main burial ground, but it’s very significant."

  ***

  November 10, 1918 (Suk-Luk)

  Captain Ludvik Brunner tugged at the sweat-soaked collar of his jacket and cold air stung his neck. The S.S. Apolina had come to port in Suk-Luk not more than thirty minutes hence and already her deck was lively with villagers making merry, for the arrival of vessels bearing goods was always a cause for celebration in such remote places.

  “No, boys! Stay away from there!” Brunner lunged after two young boys who had dashed past him towards the ship’s fore end. “Stop!” They didn’t seem to hear or perhaps they didn’t understand his feeble attempt at Inuktitut.

  Brunner would normally have paid them no mind, but the passenger laid up in a tiny berth atop the S.S. Apolina’s foredeck was ailing sorely and Brunner was concerned the man’s illness might be the same one that had already claimed many lives in St. John’s and its adjacent coastal villages. The sick man, Hans Mueller, was an Oblate missionary, charged with overseeing the dispersal of mail and supplies from the larger coastal missions to smaller communities like the one in Suk-Luk.

  In all truth, Brunner was eager to get this man and his sickness off of the Apolina, but that would have to wait. Women with baskets of dried fish perched on their hips and men with furs and pelts slung over their shoulders already lined the docks, waiting patiently for an invitation to do trade.

  Many of them had come from the new settlement at Wolf Point located a couple of miles upriver from Suk-Luk, right next to the water. Its small roc
ky shoreline had no port and could not receive any vessel larger than a modest sloop. Topping 150 feet, the Apolina’s hull would have to drop anchor far away from land. And so the residents of Wolf Point made the trek to Suk-Luk on foot or with sled dogs. But the collective joy among these resourceful people made it impossible for Brunner to distinguish those who had made the difficult journey from those who had not.

  A few youths leapt on board, leaned over the ship’s railing and shouted taunts to their friends down below who lacked the courage to join them.

  There was talk in St. John’s of an armistice. The world powers had tired of sending their young men to the slaughter. Or perhaps God himself had intervened, making the world too sick to carry on with its bloodshed. The deaths of so many seemed senseless to Brunner, but he supposed this was the price of freedom. No, not freedom, but something akin to Melville’s democratic dignity, which on all hands, radiates without end from God; Himself. Brunner’s tattered copy of Moby-Dick was the only bible he needed.

  He side-stepped a clutch of barrels that had just been carried up from the cargo hold and nearly knocked over an old man, who was on his knees by the rigging, smiling up at the sky.

  It was unusual for any vessel to make the trip through Ungava Bay and up the Koksoak River in winter, but the mission in Suk-Luk required supplies that couldn’t wait until summer.

  Though not an icebreaker like Russia’s vast and mighty Svyatogor, the Apolina was a powerful steamship, built to withstand blows from ice several feet thick—a far cry from those ocean tramps that got stuck or stove-in by ice— and her captain was no less stalwart.

  The winter had been agreeable so far; only modest discs of new ice drifted on the water. Pack ice had only just begun to form along the shore, and that had cracked like sheets of hard candy beneath the Apolina’s hull, reinforced as it was from prow to stern with extra planking and steel bands. Even so, Brunner did not want to linger here. By December first the entire bay could freeze up and he might be forced to winter at Fort Chimo.