“Yes. But ‘should have’ is a tall order. It doesn’t correct the past. Angie was lost for as long as I knew her. Our mother never wanted children. We were a disappointment to her. So was our father. We clung to him like a raft in the middle of the ocean, but he capsized. He just didn’t have the right stuff to keep us going.”
“How did you get over it?”
“I never did. That’s my point. Neither did your mother. But I was able to force myself to go on. I had more strength, for lack of a better word. It was as simple as that. But I never got over Dad’s death, or Angie’s. I loved them too much. I promised Angie I would be there for you and your sisters. I want you to know as long as I’m alive, I’ll keep that promise. I’m here for you.”
“I know, Willard. Thank you.”
We sat in silence for awhile, letting our love for each other work its healing magic. I wasn’t sure what to make of what he had told me. We aren’t meant to understand everything at once. Just when I thought I had a handle on events, some new aspect would present itself and throw my limp understanding into an unforgiving light.
Grampie had committed suicide. I hadn’t considered that possibility. I had always assumed Mommy’s unhappiness was a direct result of Daddy’s infidelity. Now I had to face the possibility my beloved mother was merely one more flawed product of a flawed parentage. Daddy did not create her destiny for her. Her lines were written out long ago, by a cold mother and a weak father. The hard wiring for depression was fixed in her brain as a child. Daddy did little to help her, just the same. I was still comfortable blaming him, at least in part, for Mommy’s death.
And what about Gail? Was Mommy responsible for Gail’s death? Did she draw the pattern in Gail’s young brain that would lead her to self-destruct? Probably.
But again, Daddy was still to blame, at least in part. He enabled Gail’s behaviour. He gave up on her. He let her believe she wasn’t worth the effort.
Yes, I could still blame Daddy. My understanding of my world had not been shattered by Uncle Willard’s revelation. Just shaken a bit.
Uncle Willard’s jaw went slack. I considered leaving him to sleep in Daddy’s chair, but I was afraid his old bones might hurt in the morning. I woke him and pulled out the daybed for him.
“Mona,” he said, “don’t judge the world too harshly.”
“I’ll try not to, Willard.”
“You are your father’s daughter in many ways.”
“I’m my mother’s daughter, too.”
“Try to cultivate her softness alongside your father’s strength.”
“I will,” I promised.
There was a time when I would have argued with him. ‘I’m not judgemental,’ I would have said. ‘My father was judgemental, but I am not.’
Judgement, after all, is something best left in the hands of God. But I was no longer sure of my capacity for understanding. My confidence in my own generosity had taken a beating.
Was I judging? Did I judge myself, Mommy, Gail and Lucy? Certainly I had judged Daddy, and found him wanting.
I kissed Uncle Willard good-night and went up to the large, lovely room my father had made just for me.
It was late. I couldn’t think anymore. For once I sank under the down comforter and slept as if I was innocent.
THIRTEEN
The public memorial for Daddy at Trinity Church was a media event. Andy Rivard took charge. I was grateful for his help. I wasn’t green enough to deny the value of the publicity Daddy’s death would bring to Millennium Girl. Lucy and I would be able to live the rest of our natural lives off the profit Daddy’s greatest work would generate.
Still, I didn’t press Lucy to attend. She was exhausted. I offered to stay home with her, but she knew Andy wanted someone from the family to be present. We finally agreed she would stay in bed and I would make the necessary appearance.
Lucy was a trooper. She had cooked and cleaned and spoken with Daddy’s friends. She had been bearing her grief on her back all week long like a cross she could not put down.
She wasn’t a weak person. She just needed some rest.
And I wasn’t a cold, uncaring person. I just needed to give Daddy’s work its due. I had to stand behind it. It was the least I could do for him, for Lucy and for myself.
Sometimes one can wake up, as if from a long dark sleep, into the light of a gentler day. It can happen. I felt when I woke that morning as if a veil had been lifted, as if cataracts had been removed from my eyes.
We were what we were, Lucy and I, and Uncle Willard, too, for that matter. We were no more and no less than what the world could see, smell, touch. We were children of the universe, to borrow the old phrase. We had a right to be here.
And so I opted to be the one to put a brave face on the family that day. The best I can say is the day went according to Andy’s plan. The news cameras filmed celebrities from every continent. There were movie stars who had headlined in the film production of Under the Moon, writers of every calibre, agents and publishing giants. Our own mayor and his wife entered the Church alongside the federal Minister of Culture and other assorted government officials.
The operation was a success, but Daddy was still dead.
At one bleak moment I thought maybe I was all out of sorrow, but then thankfully it flooded me again with all of its graceful humanity. I excused myself from Andy’s side and wept in the ladies’ room, letting the warmth of my grief remind me it was a new day and I was still alive.
At last it too was over. Andy drove me home, leaving me with assurances of his love for me and Lucy. I gave him Daddy’s copy of Millennium Girl. I would print another to keep under my bed until the end of my days.
“Call me if you need anything,” he said, kissing my cheek.
“I will, Andy.”
“Your father always told me how you love to write. If you ever need an agent…”
“I wouldn’t call anyone but you.”
“I’m getting old, Sweetie. Think about it.”
“You’re not old, Andy.”
“Neither was Caesar.”
“Touché.”
I sent Uncle Willard home by cab and Lucy and I had a quiet dinner. We ate in front of the television. Lucy was awed by the news coverage of Daddy’s memorial. I think it was finally starting to sink into her head what a prominent figure Daddy really was.
To her he had always been Daddy. Now she began to see him through the eyes of the world. It was amazing to both of us.
My own fatigue was finally more than I could take. I kissed Lucy. She was still worried about the future, but I tried my best to put her mind to rest. The future would take care of itself. I was determined to start living each day as it came.
In the morning my burden felt lighter. I opened my eyes, relieved there were no funerals to attend and no sympathies to accept. My tummy rolled over once, so I reached for my crackers in the drawer of my nightstand.
Once I felt able, I got up and had a shower. The future would take care of itself. There was only today ahead of me, and only today to endure.
I chose casual clothes, beige slacks and a tan top. The sun was hot even at that early hour. I made sure I packed some cookies and a couple of bottles of water. I didn’t need Daddy’s manuscript, so that freed up some space in my large shoulder bag.
I pulled my hair back into an uncharacteristically smooth roll at the back of my head. Even in the hottest part of summer, I usually wore my long thick curls down or pulled back into a loose ponytail. At least the severe style would be a bit cooler on my neck. I rummaged in my dresser and found an old pair of sunglasses I never wore anymore.
After yesterday’s media frenzy, I was going for the ‘incognito’ look. Nondescript.
At ten o’clock I got off the train at Union Station. The morning crowds were already heavy. That was good. I walked in the morning downtown heat along the Harbourfront, thankful for the light breeze off Lake Ontario. It offered a small relief from the unforgiving sun.
The
Noon God, Daddy would have called it. The all-seeing eye of The Maker. The Lord’s own Judge and Jury. No quarter asked or offered, no mercy to be found. The sun, giver of life and taker, too, revealer of all that is dark and mysterious in its brilliant beauty.
I walked to the Island Ferry Terminal. It felt farther than it was in the heat. Harbourfront was teeming with weekenders. Already the multi-coloured sails were punctuating the lake.
At eleven I bought a ticket to Centre Island.
At eleven-forty-five we pulled away from the sun-spackled face of the Weston Harbourcastle Hotel near the ferry terminal. As we floated away from the Harbour my eyes strained behind my dark glasses to stare with the other tourists and day-trippers at the magnificent Toronto skyline. Cameras clicked at the CN Tower and the Skydome. I wandered along the deck till I found an un-crowded stretch of railing and leaned against it.
My stomach rumbled. I reached in my bag for a cookie. I ate it slowly, one hand resting softly on the front of my pants.
It wasn’t a long ride. Before long I knew the crowd would wander over to where I stood to get a better look at the approaching Island.
Now, with Ben’s baby growing inside me and Daddy gone forever, things were clearer to me than they had ever been. And yet clarity was fleeting. When I tried to grasp it and hold on, to make some sense of my life, it slipped away, leaving me muddled. Maybe it would always be like that. Certainties and doubts dancing together in the Great Hall of my mind.
Yes, I had regrets. Yes, I would change the past two weeks if I could. I would take it all back, turn back the clock, relish in the solid strength of Daddy’s laughter across the dinner table. I would listen to his opinions on Lucy’s school and I would try to believe he had her best interests at heart. I would have my baby, Ben’s baby, and I would enjoy watching Daddy play with his grandchild. I would read to my child and care for him and try to protect him from the badness in the world, all the while knowing the badness is not outside of us, but inside us, inside every one of us, and there is no real protection to be had.
Still, like Daddy tried to protect me, I would try to protect my child.
What would Daddy really think about this child of mine? I had assumed he would reject it, but maybe I was wrong. I’d been wrong on so many points. It didn’t matter anymore, all the rights and wrongs that make up our lives. All that mattered now was Daddy was gone and Lucy was growing up and my baby was a mere seven months away from this world. My child would never know his grandfather, except of course through his works, which would allow the great man to live forever. I guess he’d know Daddy through our stories, too, when Lucy and I sat with him at the dinner table sharing our memories of the celebrated author.
Whatever feelings Daddy would or would not have toward his racially-mixed grandchild were now buried with him deep under the earth. My child would never know the brunt of Daddy’s disdain. He or she would also never know the purity of a grandfather’s love. Was it an even trade? I didn’t know.
I rummaged in my shoulder bag one more time. In moments we would reach the half-way point and the tourists would swarm my end of the deck. I pulled out the black leather fanny pack and felt its weight. It would be a relief not to have it hanging off me any more. It was heavier than I remembered it being when I’d first found it. I’d meant to turn it in to the ‘lost and found’ office at the school. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
The moment of Judgement had come and gone. I did what I had to do.
I leaned over the railing as far as my pregnant body would allow, drew back my right arm, and threw the pack out into the lake. I had a good arm. I couldn’t hear the plop over the noise of the ferry on the water. Then I turned back and leaned against the railing, slowly eating another cookie while I waited for the crowd to join me.
I should have taken the pack into the principal’s office immediately. Even knowing what was inside, I should have turned it over without comment. I should have let the authorities handle it.
You might find almost anything on the grounds of an inner city high school. What I found was a black leather pack containing a Jennings Nine, a Saturday Night Special, along with a vial of some illicit drug. The pack had probably belonged to a schoolyard drug dealer.
The weapon had surprised me at first. Then it had fascinated me, not for any particular reason, except I had never held a gun before. I’d turned it over in my hand, felt its weight, smelled it.
Then I’d put it in my purse, fully intending to turn it in.
But I hadn’t turned the gun in to the authorities. It was in my purse the night I read Millennium Girl for the first time. It was there as the anger grew in my belly, seething into a pot of self-righteous rage. It was there when I called my father in the middle of the night and asked him to meet me at his office early on Monday morning.
I told him I’d finished reading Millennium Girl. That was the truth. I told him I wanted to discuss some changes. That was a lie. The book was perfect. So was my anger. My rage burned as brilliantly as the noon-day sun.
Did I have regrets? Of course. In the instant I pulled the trigger I was filled with remorse. When I saw his surprise, that look of inexplicable betrayal on his face, the hurt in those eyes that were so like my own, an abundance of love poured from my heart. But it was too late for love. The deed was done.
I wondered whether, somewhere up there, Daddy was looking down on me. Would he understand my hurt – the losses that drove me? Would he ever forgive me for judging him?
I could kid myself Daddy would thank me for causing such a dramatic ending to the grandiose life of Julius Caesar Fortune. But that was mere rationalization on my part. He was probably up there in the afterlife at that very moment, judging me like the unforgiving eye of God.
Would I ever forgive myself for what I had done?
Probably not.
THE END
About the author
Donna Carrick grew up in Canada’s military and now resides in Southern Ontario with her husband Alex and their three children. Along with their beloved family pets, the Carricks spend most of their free time in Ontario’s North Country. The First Excellence draws on their own experience in adopting a child from China.
Other titles by Donna Carrick
The First Excellence ~ Fa-ling’s Map
Winner of the 2011 Indie Book Event Award
What happens when East bleeds into West?
Gold And Fishes
International Thriller
What comes first: family, or the family of man?
The Noon God
Mystery/suspense
Living in the shadow of greatness can be difficult….
Sept-Îles and other places
A Toboggan Mystery Anthology
Five chilling tales of the North….
Connect with me Online
At Twitter: @Donna_Carrick
My Amazon Author page
My FaceBook page
http://www.donnacarrick.com/
Or at CarrickPublishing
LOGO DESIGN BY SARA CARRICK
Visit us at http://www.carrickpublishing.com/
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