Marie turned and smiled down at her. Her smile was like the sun and it warmed Suzette so. It held such promise.
Suzette said, “Madame Babel asked me to give this to my mother.”
But Claude, who had been smoking and reading in an armchair in the tiny den next to the kitchen, shook out his newspaper with such violence, Suzette expected to see black letters falling out of the pages and onto his lap. She remembered how his jawline had tightened and bunched, as if marbles were under his skin.
Marie’s smile flat-lined. She took the note from Suzette’s hand and tucked it into the pocket of her apron. Glaring at the back of Claude’s head, she said, “No, Suzette.”
She turned her back and hunched her shoulders over the bread dough. Suzette’s heart cracked and something bled out of her in that moment.
Marie’s voice went cold. “Do not call me mother. Just… Marie.”
Suzette had tried to think of what she did wrong. What bad thing had she said or done to make her parents so cross? Hadn’t Claude, just last night, as every night before that one for as long as she could remember, carefully tucked the blankets around her and kissed her forehead and cheeks and nose? That very morning Marie had made Suzette’s most favourite buttermilk pancake ever – an especially fluffy one with raisin eyes and a string of red licorice for a mouth. She was sure Marie’s eyes had sparkled with delight when first presented with Madame Babel’s note. Was the note very bad? What was so bad about the name mother? Wasn’t that who Marie was?
Her heart beat frantically as she stood there, staring, barely breathing; waiting for an explanation or a lecture or punishment—anything but that cold silence. But Claude and Marie seemed to have thick glass walls around them. Nothing more was to be said. Suzette went into her bedroom closet, closed the door and cried herself to sleep.
She wished she could forget about it, but the memory stuck like burs on a dog’s behind. Suzette tucked the photo into a pocket of her duffle bag and turned her attention to the blank page in front of her. She wrote a brief note, tore it from the notebook and handed it to Strauss. “I’ve signed and dated it. Will you keep in touch? Let me know how things turn out?”
“Of course,” he said, a warm grin lighting up his face. “Absolutely.” He quickly read the note, folded it in half and slipped it into a sleeve inside the cover of his day timer.
“And you’ll remember about checking to see if Anaaya and I are related? Do you need a blood sample or something from me?”
“Tell you what, when we’re done at Wolf Point, I’ll stop by and see you on the way back to Toronto. I’ll tell you how everything went and I’ll get a swab from inside your cheek. That should be sufficient. I can show you pictures and you can ask me anything you want about the excavation.”
“Sounds wonderful. When will you go up there?”
“We can be ready to fly out on Thursday.”
“So soon?”
His cheeks reddened. “We were prepared for a positive outcome. The work is rather time-sensitive. We need some preliminary data in order to put together a solid proposal for funding for the rest of the project. Granting agencies are not flexible with their application deadlines and we don’t want to miss our window.
“I see.” As a retired academic, Suzette was well acquainted with the rigors of federal funding competitions for research in the arts and sciences. She certainly didn’t miss that part of her career.
“We’ll take a flight from Toronto to Kuujjuaq and go the rest of the way by ice plane and dog sled team on Friday morning.” He smiled broadly. “I can’t wait to inform Dr. Webber and the rest of the lab. This is so great.”
“Well, good. I’m glad. And I’m glad you came to see me.” It seemed that Stephanie’s judgment wasn’t as poor as Suzette had previously thought.
“So am I, Dr. Beaujould. So am I.”
Strauss stayed with Suzette for another twenty minutes. When it was clear they had both run out of things to say, he stood up and held out his hand to her.
“Thank-you so much for your time,” he said, letting her delicate hand linger in his for a moment. “I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate this.”
“Oh, stop. You’re welcome. You’re welcome.” She pushed her thick gray hair behind her ears, making no effort to conceal the blush rising to her cheeks.
“Please get well soon and when I see you again I hope it won’t be in here. And I promise, I will come see you. I won’t forget.”
“Thank-you. You’re too kind.”
“Alright, well, goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Evan. And good luck up there. I’m sure you’ll need it.”
“Thank-you,” said Strauss, bobbing and dipping respectfully before slipping through the door.
The room seemed quieter and emptier than ever.
***
November 29, 1918 (Suk-Luk)
The woman from the store returned with a tin cup and bent down to help the boy drink. Marie stood up and faced Ammon.
Ammon coughed into his handkerchief and spoke with a scratchy voice. “They want us to help their mother and their baby sister who are still alive. Their younger brother and father have already died.”
Claude swallowed and put his arm around Marie’s waist. She was a nurse, but she could be sensitive about such matters, especially as they involved small children.
Ammon continued, “He says dogs attacked them and tried to eat them as they ran to the river, but their family’s lead dog protected them and chased off the other dogs. They followed the river to get here.”
The priest locked eyes with Claude. No words passed between them. Claude knew Ammon would never ask him to endanger himself, but the question hung silent in the air. Marie touched Claude’s shoulder.
Claude said, “Tuuq and I will go.” Glancing at Tuuq, he added, “That is, if you’re willing.”
The Beaujoulds had learned early on in their missionary visit that Tuuq was their most trusted resource for all things to do with Nunavik and its people. But more than that, he had become a dear friend. Claude had learned more from Tuuq’s open heart and willing spirit than from the gospels themselves.
Tuuq nodded and said, “I will go, too.” Like many of the Inuit in Nunavik, Tuuq’s French was impressive.
The Inuit of Wolf Point were mostly Catholic converts who had traveled from the western coast of Ungava Bay to winter at a spot close to the mission in Suk-Luk, where they could attend church services. It was hard for Claude to reconcile how God could allow so much suffering among a people who had received the gospel and its ministers with such gentility and grace. He felt shamed by their personal sacrifice and would not refuse to endanger himself for the few survivors who might still benefit from his help.
Marie squeezed Claude’s arm and said, “I’m coming with you.” Claude’s muscles tensed, but he knew it would do no good to resist. Besides, Marie’s skill as a nurse might prove useful.
***
March 7, 1991
After dreaming that her dentures had trotted across the floor and leapt up onto the windowsill where they barked like a German shepherd, Suzette’s eyes fluttered open to the sound of dishes clattering on trays. She recognized the familiar sound of the breakfast cart trundling down the hallway. The door swung open and a dietary aide dressed in blue scrubs and what looked like a large white shower cap nudged through the door carrying a tray. Ancient and scrawny, she reminded Suzette of a stick bug. Suzette glanced at her own stringy arms and thought, God, do I look like that? The aide deposited the tray on the table next to Suzette’s bed and left without saying a word.
Seconds later, Gwen came lumbering into the room, her long micro braids bundled into a fashionable twist on the top of her head.
“Hello, my lady,” she said as she pushed open the heavy avocado-coloured curtains covering the window.
Gwen was Haitian and wide as a house. And there was no question about it - she had full command of the floor, with its mix of young and old nurses.
; Turning her extensive bulk in Suzette’s direction, she clucked her tongue and shook her head. “No sunshine today, my lady.”
Suzette’s belly rumbled at the sight of the yellow yolk under the translucent skin of her poached egg and she thought that was sunshine enough for her. She held out her forefinger, which Gwen cleaned with an alcohol swab, before lancing it and drawing a tiny sample of blood.
The glucometer beeped and Gwen made a note in Suzette’s log. She pulled two bottles of insulin out of her pocket and mixed them in a syringe. Suzette lifted her hospital gown to receive the injection in her abdomen. The mixture of long and slow-acting insulin would help her body metabolize the sugars in her breakfast and keep them stable at least until her next meal, if not longer.
“And here’s your amoxicillin.” Gwen passed Suzette a medicine cup with one large orange and red capsule.
Suzette swallowed it down with some water and said, “All gone.”
“Okay, my lady. Have a good morning,” Gwen said, heading with great effort towards the door.
Suzette scarfed down her poached egg, wiping the bowl clean with pieces of buttered toast. Then she ate the sugar-free jelly straight from the tiny plastic container. She drank all of her tea while it was still hot and asked for a refill, but before she could drink half of it, she was stricken with a sudden urge to leave. She tried to read, but memories of Evan Strauss’ visit foiled her ability to concentrate on the Thursday issue of Le Droit. She pressed the call button on the bed’s railing.
After a few minutes that felt like hours, Gwen returned. “Yes, my lady,” she said, easing her girth over to Suzette’s bedside. Her voice reminded Suzette of a warbling bird. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to go downstairs for a little while. Go for a bit of a walk.”
Gwen pursed her lips and looked down at Suzette through gold-rimmed reading glasses. “A walk, eh?” She pinched Suzette’s wrist between her meaty thumb and fingers, while looking at the watch she wore on a chain around her neck because her wrist was impossibly large to be enclosed by any watchstrap. “Mm,” she said, still appraising Suzette in that suspicious way she had. Next, she pulled out a stethoscope and pressed it to Suzette’s bony chest and back, listening. Suzette obeyed Gwen’s commands to breath in here and out there, and in again here and out again there. Next she pulled the chart from the end of Suzette’s bed and read it. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. She gave Suzette a wary look and said, “You feel okay?”
“Right as rain,” said Suzette, drumming her fingertips on the tray table. She had been restless as a toddler ever since Evan Strauss came to see her three days ago.
***
November 29, 1918 (Wolf Point)
Mangled corpses, some with their heads or hands missing, lay strewn about like trash. A few dogs stood guard over their bounty, snarling and snapping at others who came too close. It didn’t seem real. Claude had seen his fair share of death, working in the mines, but nothing could prepare him for this. He looked up at the sky and drew in a deep breath, praying not to vomit.
He reached for Marie, but she had moved away from him, towards a group of small dwellings. If she was distressed by the carnage, she didn’t show it.
Tuuq emerged from one of the larger houses opposite the group of smaller ones and yelled something to Claude and Marie. The wind was gusting and all Claude heard was, “Bodies piled inside... ” Tuuq freed his rifle from the sling he wore diagonal across his back. He was waving and yelling at Claude and Marie to take shelter, as they were both unarmed.
Tuuq raised his rifle and fired several rounds into the air, which startled some of the dogs and set them to fleeing. Others refused to leave the bodies alone and had to be shot. Ravens quickly got to work on the corpses of the dogs and the human remains that were now free for the taking.
***
March 7, 1991
Gwen raised her eyebrows at the tray of empty breakfast dishes and sighed heavily through her nose. “If you feel okay, I suppose it’s fine for you to get up and walk about for a little while.”
“Fantastic.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a wheelchair? I can get Irena to take you down.”
Suzette nearly spat. “No, thank-you, dear.” Irena had committed the unforgivable offense of sponge-bathing parts of Suzette’s body no one had seen in years, while Suzette lay in a drug-induced stupor. “I can walk. Alone.”
“How about a walker? Just so you have something to support you.”
Suzette shook her head.
Gwen backed up slowly, shrugged her humongous shoulders and said, “Okay, my lady, but take it easy. Please.”
“Of course, I will,” said Suzette, watching as Gwen squeezed herself back through the door and into the hallway. “Thank-you,” she called out in a weak voice, careful not to trigger a coughing spell that might send Gwen stampeding back into the room.
She slid out of bed and put on her housecoat and slippers. The floor seemed to be tilting upward – she must have stood up too quickly. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited for the dizziness to pass. Her chest felt tight again and her mind wandered to her people. Her people? When did she start thinking of them as her people?
Strauss had mentioned that most of them would likely have died from pneumonia. She tried to imagine being as sick as she was now and having no medication and no nurses to help her. She thought of the nights she lay awake, wracked with chest pains or coughing until she barely had strength to raise a cup of water to her trembling lips. Was this how they had suffered?
Her thoughts drifted to Claude and Marie. Though at times her heart ached with longing for them, it was divided: one half loving and the other resentful, the two halves separated by a thin barrier across which Claude and Marie staggered back and forth like drunken soldiers.
In the months and years following their deaths, many difficult questions she dared not ask while they were alive had become impossible to ignore. Why did the Beaujoulds take her, only to designate “father”, “mother”, and “daughter” as words forbidden to pass between them? Was their adopting her truly a kindness or an act of pity or of piety or some selfish whim? At first she was shamed by what she considered to be pettiness and ingratitude on her part, but over time the questions seemed less trifling to her.
She knew little of the people of Wolf Point or those dreadful weeks during which they had all disappeared like the morning dew after the sun comes up. Her mind bore through that great nothingness, drilling deeper for some clue, some repressed memory of something the Beaujoulds might have told her—a name, a picture or an artifact they might have shared with her. But there was nothing.
***
November 29, 1918 (Wolf Point)
“Claude,” Marie yelled into the wind. “Claude!”
“Yes, yes, Marie. I hear it, too.” Claude’s boots crunched in the snow as he clopped over to where his wife stood like a statue in her down parka. He flinched at the sound of Tuuq’s rifle and the yelping and barking that followed each shot. The fur lining of Marie’s hood was so thick he could barely see her face straining against the brisk wind to pinpoint the direction from which the sound was coming. Claude knew what Marie, tortured by the barrenness of her own womb, wanted desperately to hear.
“Shhh! Stop that,” she snapped, flapping her gloved hand at Claude’s noisy boots. “Over there. That house.”
They both leaned into the wind and listened. “It’s the baby. The baby girl,” Marie shouted, her words broken by the cawing of hungry ravens. Claude reached for Marie’s hand and led her slowly towards the entrance of the sod house.
***
March 7, 1991
Suzette’s vision blurred and she felt something wet on her face. She dabbed at the tears with the sleeve of her housecoat and looked at the wet spots in the fabric as though she had never seen such things before. She blew her nose and lifted her chin. Thanks to Evan Strauss, she now knew the name of at least one person from the Wolf Point settlement and that
name burned itself into her brain as if by a white-hot branding iron. Anaaya.
She took a few wobbly steps and wondered if this was really a good idea. Her next couple of steps felt better and she decided to go ahead as planned. She took her change purse from the duffle bag and shoved it into the pocket of her robe. She managed the walk to the elevator and the ride down, but by the time she scuttled out into the hospital’s bright lobby, she felt like she was inside a kaleidoscope of floors, walls, and people. She grabbed onto the railing that ran along one wall and closed her eyes, concentrating on her breathing, careful not to trigger a coughing fit.
The dizziness and nausea soon passed and Suzette set her sights on the tuck shop up at the end of the corridor. She surprised herself and made it all the way without having to stop and sit a while at the clinic located midway between the elevator and the shop. She smiled at the shop’s layout of book tables; refrigerated bouquets; shelves of trinkets and greeting cards, all imprinted with encouraging messages. Everything was designed to give hope and comfort, and Lord knew she could use some of both.
She sidled over to a rotating jewelry display. Her breath caught in her throat when she spotted a silver angel pendant among the tiny replicas of crosses, hearts, and praying hands.
She reached out a shaky finger to touch the pendant and remembered the bible and soapstone angel she had buried Claude with. Marie was also buried with a bible and wearing a sterling silver angel pendant, similar to this one. Suzette had tended their graves regularly and when she could no longer manage the bending and kneeling, she paid a small fortune to have it done for her by the cemetery groundskeepers.
A sales clerk in a blue volunteer smock leaned over the counter and said, “Hello. Can I help you?” Her auburn hair was gathered in a French braid that reached just below her shoulders and her hazel eyes had an uncanny resplendence, as if lit from within. “The angels are beautiful, no? I bought one for my auntie. She has breast cancer.”
Walking Through and Other Stories Page 24