by Gail Bowen
Roy had been listening intently. “I hear what you’re saying, Gary, but Joanne and I were watching old footage of Sally as a kid and I saw a profound change in her, a devastating loss of innocence, the year she became involved with Izaak Levin. She may have benefitted from him, but she suffered too.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Roy,” Gary said. “I didn’t know Sally for long, and I only know what she told me. Sadly for us all, she’s not here now to share more of how she experienced life.”
“If all goes according to plan, Joanne and I will have twelve hours to tell our story,” Roy said.
“Time enough to turn the cube of reality and show that no single truth explains any of us,” I said. “Certainly, there is no single truth that explains Sally.”
The college bells struck the half-hour. Reflexively, Gary checked his watch. “I’m going to have to cut this short. I’m meeting that student in my office and I don’t want to keep him waiting, but I would really like to help you in any way I can. Sally deserves that.”
“She does,” I said. “Gary, I’m glad she had you in her life.”
“The pleasure was mine,” he said softly. “Joanne, there’s something you should know. The last time Sally and I talked was less than a week before she died. She was in a strange mood. It was almost as if she knew what was ahead. She was more at peace than I’d ever seen her. She said that now you and Taylor were part of her life again, she was complete. And then, Sally being Sally, she gave me that wicked smile and said, ‘Well, as complete as I’ll ever be.’ ”
* * *
—
Neither Roy nor I spoke until we were in the car and on our way to the airport.
“That was quite a day,” he said.
“It was,” I agreed. “Zack would say it doesn’t take many days like this to make a dozen.”
Roy reached over and touched my arm. “But you’re okay?”
“I am.” I took a deep breath. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ll be glad to get on that plane.”
CHAPTER
10
Brock picked us up at the airport. As always, he was warm and considerate with me, and after we arrived at my place he and Roy walked me to the door. When I was inside, I turned to say goodnight and saw that they were walking hand in hand towards Brock’s car. On the drive back, they’d decided they would go to Roy’s apartment, order the Pikillia Platter for two from the Copper Kettle, and watch Die Hard, which they agreed was the ultimate holiday movie and contained the ultimate holiday song, Run-D.M.C.’s “Christmas in Hollis.” Love was in the air.
Our family’s evening plans were less action-packed but not without appeal. The casserole of lasagna I’d earmarked for nights like this was already out of the freezer and in the oven; the table was set. Zack had changed out of his lawyer clothes, and he and Taylor were chopping vegetables.
When I bent to kiss the top of Zack’s head, he said, “There are martinis in the fridge. Why don’t I pour them, and you can pull up a chair and tell us about your day while our daughter and I finish what promises to be a salad to remember.”
“Hold that thought,” I said. “There’s something I want to get for Taylor, and if I have a martini, I’ll lose my initiative.” I headed for the garage. It took a while to find the doll Sally had given me. As always, it was in the last place I looked, still in its packing box.
When I came back, Zack exhaled with mock relief. “I was just about to send a search party out for you.”
“I would have welcomed them and asked them to help me unpack the boxes I never seem to get around to.”
“Do you want me to call somebody?” Zack said.
Taylor raised her hand. “Hello. I’m here,” she said. “You don’t have to call anybody, Dad. Jo and I can do it.”
“In that case,” Zack said, “let me get us all the beverage of our choice, and we’ll see what’s in the mystery box your mother brought in.”
We settled around the kitchen table and sipped our drinks. “It was a full day and there’s plenty to report,” I said. “But after lunch, Roy and I went to Sally’s studio on the riverbank. Taylor, when I was there, it suddenly hit me that we’ve never really talked about that studio.”
“I think we did,” Taylor said. “It was a long time ago, though. It’s cool to know that it’s still there.”
I pulled out my phone and handed it to Taylor. “I took some pictures,” I said. “The university has a year-round artist in residence program, but no one’s using the space again until mid-January, so Roy and I were able to take our time. The studio is on Spadina Crescent—a great location on the west side of the river. The university’s just across the bridge, the old Mendel Gallery is down the road, and the Remai Modern Art Gallery is a ten-minute bike ride away.”
Taylor and Zack were looking at the photos. “Wow, that studio is huge!” Taylor said.
“That’s because it used to be a house,” I said. “Sally had the living room, dining room, and two of the bedrooms ripped out. All that’s left of the original bungalow is one bedroom, one bathroom, and the kitchen. The rest is studio space.”
As she looked at the photos, Taylor’s brow wrinkled in concentration. “Those windows overlook the river, right?”
“I took a video of the view,” I said. “My photography is not great, but you can see the ice is still forming and the water’s flowing. A river is never static. It reminded me about you wanting your paintings to be more fluid, with more air and light in them so people can feel what you painted instead of just looking at the canvas.”
Taylor’s expression was pensive. “So you think I should go to Saskatoon and check out the studio?”
“That’s up to you,” I said. “You’re exploring options, and that seems like a good one, and not just because of the proximity to the river, but because your mother made art there for so many years.”
“Were you there often, Jo?” Zack said.
“No. Until today, the only other time I was in that studio was the morning after a gallery Sally owned burned to the ground. I’d gone with her to see what was left of it. It was snowing hard. Sally wore a brilliantly coloured blanket coat she’d brought back from New Mexico—the only splash of colour in that white, white world. One of the firemen brought Sally what was once a lovely porcelain doll. It had been ravaged by the fire.
“That day, Sally agreed to come stay with us, but she said she needed to check her messages first, and as Sally listened to her messages—most of them obscene, threatening, or both—she worked on the doll, cleaning the soot off with solvent, using some sort of cream on its face and hair. When she was satisfied, she cut a piece off an old scarf, wrapped it around the doll, and gave the doll to me.” I handed the box to Taylor. “That moment encapsulated Sally,” I said. “No matter what was done to her, she never stopped making art. Taylor, I know she’d want you to have this.”
Taylor removed the doll from the box. The sarong had come loose. Her hair was just a singed frizz and a small patch of paint had flaked off her cheek, but her brilliant blue eyes were still bold. Taylor tightened the sarong and then held the doll at arm’s length so she could look at her again. “Thank you, Jo,” she said. “I’m going to put this in my studio to remind me never to give up on my vision.” Taylor kissed me on the cheek. “Something I’ve learned from my two mothers.”
* * *
—
The lasagna, salad, and garlic bread were on the table and we’d just begun to eat when our landline rang. Only family or close friends ever called it any more, so I answered.
When I returned to the dining room, Zack looked at me questioningly. “That was our oldest granddaughter,” I said. “Madeleine reminded me very politely that tomorrow is a teacher prep day at St. Pius X, and I had promised that she and Lena and I would go to April’s Place and help with crafts in the morning and then the three of us would go skate shopping and try out the rink in Victoria Park.”
“That rink is great, especially at
night when all the office buildings have their Christmas lights on,” Taylor said. “I think I’ll buy new skates this year.”
“Have you outgrown your old skates?” Zack said.
“No. My feet haven’t grown since I was fourteen,” Taylor said, “which was when I chose the fluorescent purple figure skates with hot pink laces that are the only pair I own. I’m eighteen now. I think it’s time I left fluorescent purple and hot pink behind.”
Zack sipped his wine. “Are your purple skates comfortable, Taylor?”
Taylor knew her father well, and she smelled a rat. “They’re comfortable,” she said carefully.
“Do they still offer everything that you want from a skate?”
“They still offer everything I want from a skate,” she said. “Dad, I know where this is going.”
Zack nodded sagely. “Good, because this is what is called ‘a teachable moment.’ The purple skates are comfortable. They offer everything you want from a skate. You’ve heard the old adage: ‘Better the skate you know than the skate you don’t know.’ Forget about new skates that may cause you untold grief. Stick with the skate you know.”
“And by extension,” Taylor said, “since I’m comfortable living here, and since living here gives me everything I want from a home, I should forget about Saskatoon or Toronto or New York and stay with you and Jo forever.”
Zack beamed. “Exactly. I knew the skate analogy would make it clear. So that’s settled. Now, could you please pass the garlic bread?”
* * *
—
On the label of the DVD I brought home with me, Ben Bendure had written the dates and description of the events he filmed. The three words on that label called forth a rush of images. Thanksgiving: MacLeod Lake. Autumn is often kind to Ontario cottage country: the skies are vibrantly blue; the lakes are clear; the leaves on the deciduous trees are a riot of gold, orange, and crimson; and cottagers are given a final chance to savour a spectacular dazzle of colour and light before winter, with its monochromatic palette, sets in.
Ben was big on establishing shots, and the footage with which he opened this home movie quickened my pulse. The camera was focused on our boathouse and dock. The point of view was that of someone arriving in the motorboat that ferried our family and the Loves back and forth from the mainland to the island. As the boat moved nearer to the shore, the driver cut the motor; the thrum of the outboard gave way to the slap of waves against the boat, and I could almost smell the fishy-weedy tang of the lake.
My father was standing at the boathouse door, and as the boat docked, he came to meet it. He was holding a baby, and I knew from what Ben had told me that the child in his arms was me. By the second Monday in October, I would have been almost two weeks old. There was a break as Ben climbed out of the boat. The next frames were of my father holding me out to the camera and, in an uncharacteristically tremulous voice, introducing me. “Here she is, Ben—Joanne Farlinger Ellard.”
The camera zoomed in for a close-up of a pretty baby with a thatch of black hair, nestled in a blue crocheted blanket.
Zack hit Pause. “Look at you,” he said softly. “The baby who would change my life.”
“That goes both ways,” I said.
Taylor was leaning towards the screen to look more closely. “So perfect,” she said.
Zack pulled me closer. “Beautiful then. Beautiful now,” he said. “Now, let’s get back to the action.”
Des Love had joined the group. His hair was windblown, and he ran a hand through it. “Choppy water today,” he said. “Ben and I had a bumpy ride. He held out his arms. “My turn to hold Joanne,” he said. My father handed me over. It was an image that had a powerfully ironic resonance: my two fathers and me in the middle, oblivious.
Most of the Thanksgiving footage Ben shot that year was an unbroken stream of pleasant moments shared by friends blessed by good health and good fortune. At the lake, Des began every day with a run around the island that finished when he dove from our shared dock into the water and swam for twenty minutes. Ben’s shots of Des pulling himself out of the cold water after his swim, stretching and beaming at the sheer physical joy of being alive, brought a lump to my throat.
The rhythm of day-to-day life on the island captured by Ben’s camera was remarkably like that of all the summers I would come to know. Life was quiet. Once a day, the radio was turned on to hear the CBC news, but there was no television and no one listened to music. People took walks. Des painted; my father worked on a biography of Dr. Norman Bethune that he seemed to begin anew every summer; and my Grandmother Ellard, Nina, and my mother read. Their reading tastes were diverse. My grandmother was fond of family sagas, my mother read psychology texts, and Nina read books about art and architecture. The three women were not close, and I can’t remember ever hearing them discuss what they read.
Food was a preoccupation. The early 1960s were the days of hostess skirts, six-course meals based on menus from Gourmet magazine, and mandatory liqueurs after dinner. Nina, my mother, and my grandmother were all competitive, and they were excellent cooks, so we ate well. I loved watching them prepare food: Nina painting violets with egg wash before she twirled them by their stems in powdered sugar to create candied violets to set off her crème brûlée; my grandmother chiffonading sage for the herb butter she slid beneath the skin of the Thanksgiving turkey; or my mother, Caroline, preparing her acclaimed smoked salmon mousse. When I was three months old, a guest who had drunk well but not wisely at my parents’ New Year’s party fed me a spoonful. Smoked salmon mousse was my first solid food, and it’s still one of my favourites.
That year, guests had been invited to share the Ellard/Love harvest celebration, and Ben’s camera caught a revealing moment. When she was in the mood, my mother was a witty and compelling storyteller. She’d had an easy childbirth, and she was relaxed and glowing as she chatted with the dinner guests. Sitting in our family room with my husband and daughter, I was mesmerized by how lovely Caroline had been when she was young and sober.
She had just started telling a story about coming out of the anaesthetic after my birth and seeing a nun in full habit walking down the hall with a case of O’Keefe’s ale under each arm. When the mewing cry of a newborn pierced the room, the camera stayed on Caroline as, ignoring the crying, she continued her story. The cry was insistent, and my father stood to go to me, but when my mother touched his arm he sat down. Des sprang up from across the table. “I’ll take care of this,” he said. When my grandmother started to follow him, Des waved her off. “Stay and hear the end of Caroline’s story,” he said. “I want to get to know Joanne.”
At first, Ben’s film of the following year’s Thanksgiving seemed much the same as the one we had just watched. The foliage on the mainland surrounding MacLeod Lake was as vibrantly hued; the blue of the sky was still intense; Des’s enthusiasm for his Thanksgiving swim was undiminished; my father continued to write his biography of Dr. Bethune; my grandmother, Nina, and my mother continued to read and to create extraordinary meals. The Thanksgiving table was still beautifully set and the turkey was perfection.
But there were signs that all was not well. There were no guests for Thanksgiving dinner. Nina was pregnant and plagued with morning sickness that lasted well into the day. My mother, withdrawn and sallow, seemed to be never without a drink or a cigarette. Ben kept the camera off both Nina and Caroline, but there was plenty of footage of me walking tentatively but with great determination, leafing through storybooks with my grandmother, or being pushed in my stroller by my father or Des as they ambled along the shore.
My Grandmother Ellard had planned a barbecue on the beach for our two families, to celebrate my birthday, which had been on September 29. The party was not a success. Nina had brought a beautifully wrapped doll. When I began to tear at the toy’s packaging, Nina took it and the doll away, explaining that the doll was a collector’s item and worthless without the box. She and Des had a tense exchange, and Nina stalked off and didn’t retur
n. My mother sat with her drink and cigarette, present but absent, lost in her private world. My grandmother, my father, and Des sang “Happy Birthday,” but despite their best efforts, the result was thin and without spirit.
In mid-October the sun sets at around six-thirty, so after dinner and the cake cutting, there was a bonfire. The flames appeared to mesmerize me, and Ben kept the camera on me as I sat on my grandmother’s lap, a watchful child whose face was alternately lit by the flickering flames or lost in the shadows.
The film ended with that image.
When Taylor turned on the lights, her face was concerned. “Jo, you didn’t smile once in that film—not even when they brought out the cake at your party, and you didn’t cry when Nina grabbed your present. You just took it all in.”
“I guess even then, I had learned to read the signs,” I said.
Zack frowned. “It shouldn’t have been that way.”
“Maybe not, but that’s the way it was,” I said. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Taylor had never been easily deflected. “I understand why Ben kept his camera on you when you were watching the bonfire—the way the light and shadows played on your face said all the things you didn’t have words for.”
I took her hand. “But, Taylor, now I do have words, so I can tell you that I’m a happy woman.”
* * *
—
That night as I lay in bed beside Zack, listening to his regular breathing and watching the branches of the trees along the creek shiver in the wind, I knew that in telling Taylor I was a happy woman, I had been truthful. But the image of that watchful child whose face was sometimes lit by flickering flames, sometimes lost in the shadows, stayed with me, and my mind gravitated towards the question that I had asked myself many times over the years. How did I get here from there?