by Kate Hilton
He had his bar materials with him, but a week into our stay, Matt hadn’t cracked a book.
“Are you going to study?” I asked him.
“Are you going to call Hugh?”
I put up my hands. “It wasn’t a suggestion,” I said. “Just a question.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry.” He pulled me into a hug.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s stressful. I know. You don’t have to make any decisions today.”
“We can’t hide out forever, Avery,” he said. “We need to make some kind of move soon. The temperature’s dropping, for starters. In a couple of weeks, it’ll be too cold to stay here.”
“Did you hear something?” I said.
He laughed. “That was so transparent, it was sad.”
“No, really,” I said. “I think someone’s here.”
I heard a car door slam then, and a familiar voice calling. “Avery? You decent?”
“Who the hell is that?” said Matt.
I smiled. “An old friend,” I said.
I went to the door, and there was Peter, coming down the path. I threw open the door and ran to meet him. “Peter!” I said. “What are you doing here?”
Peter scooped me up and swung me around. “Not so big now, are you, New York?” he said.
“I’m so happy to see you,” I said. “But why are you here?”
“I have a client in Bracebridge,” he said. “He’s been bugging me to come up all summer and tour his manufacturing plant. And so I called your mom to see if she wanted me to check on the place while I was in the neighbourhood, and she told me that you were holed up here doing some sort of survivalist thing. So I came to see for myself. And this must be your law student friend?” His eyes tracked over my shoulder.
“Matt Nathanson,” said Matt, coming around my side and holding out his hand. “And you are?” It would have been hard to miss the protective tone in his voice.
“This is Peter Haines,” I said. “That’s his family’s place down there.” I pointed vaguely in the direction of the Haines’s cottage. “Sorry,” I said to Peter. “It was your place, I mean.”
“C’est la vie,” said Peter. He looked at Matt. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Thanks for taking care of Avery for us.”
“I can take care of myself, as you know perfectly well,” I said, while Matt said, at the same time, “It’s my pleasure.”
“Hmm,” said Peter. “Interesting. Do you have a drink for a thirsty traveller?”
“Come in,” I said. “You still a G and T man?”
“Yes,” said Peter. “Are you still a rum and Diet Coke girl?”
“No,” I said.
“Interesting,” said Matt.
“Peter’s a lawyer,” I told Matt as we settled in the living room with drinks.
“Guilty as charged,” said Peter. “Martine mentioned that you’re studying for the New York bar, Matt.”
“I’m supposed to be studying,” said Matt. “Candidly, I’m having some second thoughts about going back to New York.”
I was stunned that Matt was confiding in Peter; it was as if “lawyer” were a secret password. But I thought it would be good for Matt to open up to a professional colleague, so I made a conscious effort not to be hurt.
“That’s hardly surprising in the circumstances,” said Peter. “And it’s going to take more than a few weeks for the WTC firms to bounce back. No one will blame you if you decide that you want to change course. You may find that your firm is even relieved to have one less person to deal with.”
“Do you think so?” asked Matt. “It won’t hurt my reputation?”
“I’m positive,” said Peter. “I was on the phone with three top-tier firms last week. They’re all reeling, no matter what they say publicly.”
“I was thinking that I might look for a job in Toronto,” said Matt.
“What?” I said. “That is a huge decision, Matt. You need to take some serious time with that one.”
“Say the word and I’ll make some calls for you,” said Peter.
“Really?” said Matt.
“Really,” said Peter. “Avery and I go back a long way. And anyway, you’re obviously a good influence on her. I’ve been telling her to go to law school for years.”
“I’m not going to law school, Peter,” I said.
“And I’m not going to say I told you so when you do,” said Peter. “So, what are we having for dinner?”
“Matt,” I say into the phone. “Matt, he fired me.”
“That son of a bitch,” says Matt. “That fucker. I knew he would find a way to turn this on you. Where are you?”
“I’m in a bathroom in the lobby at city hall,” I say. “Security tried to escort me out of the building, but there are reporters outside. I said it was a public building and I wouldn’t go outside.”
“You did the right thing,” he says. “I’m coming to get you. Go and stand by the door to the laneway. I’m fifteen minutes away.”
“He fired me,” I say. “He said—” I stop. I find I can’t breathe.
“Breathe,” says Matt. “Just breathe, Avery. You can tell me all about it in the car. All you need to do now is get yourself to the door and wait for me. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” I say. I’m cold suddenly. My teeth are chattering. I wonder if the air conditioning is jacked up too high in the building, and if I should call someone in Facilities about that, and then I remember that it’s none of my business anymore. My chest hurts, too, as though I’ve strained a muscle. I couldn’t have, though. My cardboard box is light. In the end, there wasn’t much to put inside it: three framed photos, one of me with Tara and Jenny, one of me with Matt, and one of me with Peter on election night; a coffee mug from the campaign; a small vase from my mother; an extra cardigan; and a pair of inoffensive black heels.
I sit for a while longer in the safety of my bathroom stall with my box on my lap. I’d rather be here than out in the foyer. I hear the door open and close, see shoes come and go from the neighbouring stalls, hear the private sounds of various bodies doing what bodies do in bathrooms. I watch the minutes tick by.
A voice says, “Can you believe it? I met her once at a town hall. She seemed normal, not like some incompetent psycho-bitch.”
“You never know,” says another woman. “Still waters and all that. They’re saying she took bribes in return for recommending bids to the mayor.”
“Who can’t keep his pants on, apparently,” says the first woman.
“Which makes him different from every other male politician how?” says the second woman.
The first woman laughs. “I feel kind of sorry for her. Her career is over. Chief of staff one day, punch line the next. Brutal.”
“That’s politics,” says the second woman. “That’s why I stay out of it. I take my holidays and accumulate my pension and keep my head down. And I bet you any money that Avery Graham is wishing she’d done the same thing.”
The door swishes and it’s quiet again. I’m frozen. I know Matt must be waiting but I can’t seem to stand up. I curl over my box.
“Avery,” says Matt. “Are you in here?”
“You can’t be in here,” I say. “It’s the women’s washroom.”
His voice is gentle. “Don’t worry about that,” he says.
“How did you find me?” I say.
“You told me where you were when you called. I waited outside and then came looking for you.”
I open the stall door cautiously. “Is anyone else here?”
“No,” he says. “I put a pylon in front of the door.”
“Where did you find a pylon?”
“I’m resourceful,” he says, taking the box from me and putting it down on the floor. “Avery,” he says. “I’m going to get you out of here and into the car, but you need to know that there are reporters in the lobby looking for you.”
“Oh my God,” I say.
“I’m going to take the box, and you’re goin
g to hold on to my arm and not talk to anyone. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Here we go,” he says and we walk out.
“There she is,” I hear, and there are bright lights everywhere that hurt my eyes, and bodies pushing in on me, and everyone yelling horrible, horrible things.
“What do you know about Adam Rothman’s sex club, Avery?”
“What do you have to say about Melanie Christie’s allegation that you’re the worst boss of all time?”
“Were you involved with Adam Rothman?”
“Is it true that you called Melanie Christie a slut in front of the entire staff?”
“Did you take bribes from Adam Rothman, Avery?”
And I hold on to Matt’s arm as if the world is ending and let him lead me away from the life I knew.
{CHAPTER 21}
Thursday, July 20, 2017, and July 1989
We are on the highway, driving north again. Having made a brief stop at the house to pack some bags, we’ve left town for the cottage. Matt has taken care of everything. I am overwhelmingly tired. In the car, I close my eyes, drift off to sleep, and wake up with a jolt an hour later, Matt’s hand on my knee.
“It was a dream,” he says.
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.”
He glances over. “You called out in your sleep,” he says.
“Oh,” I say. “Right.”
“We’ll be there in another half hour or so,” he says. “Close your eyes again if that’s what you want to do. I don’t mind.”
I adjust myself in my seat. “No,” I say. “I want to be awake.”
We are off the main highway, well into the country, and sailing past fields with rolls of hay, and small, isolated houses where I imagine people living smaller, simpler lives. But perhaps they don’t. Perhaps no one does.
“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be,” I say.
“You’re in shock,” says Matt. “You’re exactly who you were yesterday.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
We pass the general store and turn. “Do they still rent movies there?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” says Matt. “It’s been a long time since we did that.”
“Are you getting sick of rescuing me from my own stupidity?” I ask.
“You didn’t do this, Avery,” says Matt. “Peter did this. And I’m not rescuing you. I’m helping you. That’s what people do when they love each other. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
We drive onto the property and park on the field. My mother appears first, wrapping me in her arms as soon as I step out of the car. “Oh my darling,” she says. “My poor baby.”
When I step back from my mother’s embrace, Tara pulls me into a fierce hug. “Asshole,” she says. “Not you.”
I laugh, a weak effort, but a laugh nonetheless.
I feel a hand on my arm. Jenny says, “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
I shrug. “You saw it coming,” I say.
“I wish I’d been wrong,” she says.
“I’m declaring cocktail hour,” says Matt.
“You are such a useful man to have around,” says my mother.
“I’ll take the bags up,” says Matt. “And then I’ll make the drinks. You guys relax.”
Matt and my mother head into the cottage, and the three of us are left standing in the clearing.
“Shall we go and sit on the verandah?” asks Tara.
I’m restless from the drive. I want to walk. I want a distraction. “You know what?” I say. “I want to see Jenny’s studio.”
“I . . . okay,” says Jenny. “Of course. Come on. I’ll show you.”
“I’ll see if Martine needs help,” says Tara. “See you in a few minutes.”
Jenny leads me down the path to her cottage. Where the tool shed once stood, there’s now a cabin, with large windows and a skylight. Jenny punches in a security code and opens the door. She looks apologetic. “Insurance,” she says.
We enter.
On wall is a painting I recognize from the news coverage. But Stamp is larger than I realized, and more potent. There is a photographic realism to the figures, at once startlingly contemporary and hearkening back to the Dutch portrait masters. It’s the complexity of the emotional states that is most arresting, though: the man’s total reverence, even love, for the object of his attention, the stamp, and the girl’s boredom, disappointment, and hope, are all somehow present in the picture.
“It’s unbelievable,” I say. “It’s extraordinary. Why is it here? It should be in a museum.”
“It will be,” says Jenny. “There are a few institutions interested in it. But it’s been on tour for a couple of years, and I wanted some time with it before it found a permanent home. My agent wants to do an auction in September.”
“It’s Don’s Penny Black,” I say, stepping closer to the painting. “He’s holding his Penny Black.”
Jenny looks pleased. “You remember,” she says.
“It was the jewel of his collection,” I say. “I must have heard him say that a thousand times. You stuck the real thing in your painting?”
“It was mine,” says Jenny. “And that was what I wanted to do with it.”
“I’d call it a heroic end,” I say.
“Let me show you one other thing,” says Jenny. She leads me over to the far wall, where a small painting is hanging. “This one wasn’t in the show,” she says. “It was the first of the series, but it isn’t for sale. This one is mine.”
The painting shows two girls in the water, near a dock where a third girl sunbathes in a yellow bikini. Their hair is slicked away from their faces, and droplets of water shimmer on their faces and arms, which are the only parts of them that are visible above the surface of the lake. The girls are looking intently at an object clutched in the fingertips of one.
“No way,” I say. “Is it the piece we found that day?”
“The very one,” says Jenny.
I move closer. “What is it called?”
“It’s called Shard,” she says.
And with that, fragments of memory appear, like found objects on the lakebed, watery and indistinct until they are raised up into the light.
I don’t want to be at the cottage. I don’t want to be anywhere. I stay in my room and read books, mostly. I won’t go near the dock. I hate the sound of bodies hitting the water.
We haven’t been here this summer, not since the accident. We’ve been home, in the city. I’m spending time with a therapist named Kaye, who wants me to talk about my feelings. I want to be left alone.
My mother’s grief is raw and terrifying. I hear her sobbing at night and I bury my head under the covers to block the sound. Ethan is mercifully silent. I’ve barely heard him speak since the funeral.
But Kerry has persuaded Mom that we need to get some country air. She is worried about us, and wants to have us here so she can make a fuss over us. I think she is being selfish. If she’s so worried, why doesn’t she come and see us at home? Mom says that Kerry is right, that we need a change of scenery, so we’ve come up for a week.
Jenny and Tara are here every morning to see if I want to leave the house. I don’t. Their efforts are flagging day by day. I can wait them out.
One afternoon, Greta bursts into the kitchen. Her eyes are red and streaming. “Where is your mother?” she asks.
“In the garden,” I say. “Around the side of the house.”
She goes back out the way she came in, and I hear my mother’s voice. In a few minutes, they both return, my mother looking more purposeful than I’ve seen her in weeks.
“Avery, honey,” says my mother. “The grown-ups need some private time. Could you go out for a little while?”
I want to argue, but I don’t. I’ve never seen Greta so upset. I step out onto the lawn and linger for a minute, listening.
My mother says, “Are you sure he’s made up his mind
? It’s a huge transition for him, having Peter in his life again. Trust me, Greta, it’s not a time to make these kinds of decisions.”
Greta sobs. “He promised me he would adopt her. How could he do this to me? How could he do it to her? How can I stay with him after this?”
“Does she know?” says my mother. “Does Jenny know that he won’t adopt her now?”
“I think she heard us fighting,” says Greta. “I don’t know what she knows. I can’t find her. God, Martine. I wish Peter had—”
“Shhh,” says my mother. “I think we have an audience.” She appears at the door. “Avery,” she says, “Were you listening to our conversation?”
“No,” I say.
“I’m glad,” says my mother. “Because it is Greta’s private business and none of yours. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Good,” says my mother. “Now go for a walk, please.”
I head into the woods, following one of the trails that lead up to the ridge where the berry bushes are dense with fruit. I climb higher, my breath noisy in my ears. I’m surprised to find myself winded. I’m out of shape, and I’m relieved no one is here to notice.
There is a flat rock ahead, and I sit down. As my breath quiets, I become aware of other sounds around me: chipmunks darting through the undergrowth, a woodpecker somewhere nearby, and a propeller plane in the distant sky. And another, more human sound: someone is crying.
It is easy to lose your way in the woods if you count on your ears to tell you where to go. But there is a clearing nearby, with a rotten log where Ethan used to store beer and a dirty magazine, until Jenny and Tara and I found it and I told Dad. I remember the way: left of the flat rock, past the witch tree with its long branchy fingers, and behind the juniper thicket. And there I find Jenny.
“What’s wrong?” I say.
“What are you doing here?” she says at the same time.
“I got kicked out,” I say. “The moms are having a private chat. They wanted some alone time.”