Métis Beach

by Claudine Bourbonnais

  His eyes filled with water, and I choked up.

  Thanks to the documents, Len found a nurse who worked at the Lethbridge hospital where Gail had given birth. She spoke to him about a Miss Egan, that’s all she remembered. A Miss Egan from Montreal.

  “But Gail stopped using the Egan name after I was born, in 1963. She took Barron, the name of her first husband, and then, when she married Jack, she took his, Holmes. I couldn’t have known. I called every Egan in Montreal, without results. Someone finally led me to a Robert Egan in Toronto. Her father.”

  I shuddered; Len didn’t notice. He said, anger simmering under the surface, “I can’t say I received a warm welcome… ‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘What daughter? You’ve got the wrong number, young man.’ And he hung up on me. What an idiot. You know, he never even made the trip to see her one last time at the hospital. It’s so cruel.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. He was angry, but making an effort to contain himself. We were getting to know each other; it wasn’t the time for either of us to become aggressive. Knowing we shared the same distaste for Robert Egan was enough. It reassured me.

  “Finally,” he continued, “my mother advised me to sign up with the Alberta Post-Adoption Registry. You sign and you wait. Nothing happens unless the biological mother consults it herself. Unless she signed up as well. You see?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know what? Gail had registered years before. She’d been searching for me since 1975. It was 1989 by then.” He grabbed his glass and seemed surprised to see it empty, a surprise he’d display after every glass that night. “So we were put in contact. And that was that.” He wiped his eyes, “It was as if we had known each other forever. It was extraordinary.”

  Shook up, he ordered a third Bloody Caesar. I didn’t join in; clearly, my tolerance for alcohol was lower than his.

  I wanted to know more about the first time they met, and began asking questions. Len smiled, laughed, and spoke quickly, animated. “I went to Montreal. It was fantastic. Jack was incredibly kind. They have a beautiful home in Baie-D’Urfé on Lake Saint-Louis, with a large garden and magnificent trees. I went there a number of times. Five hundred dollars every time I flew over, it became pretty expensive, pretty fast. My wife Lynn doesn’t work; mine is the only salary. The frequent flights ended up becoming a burden, especially once Gail got sick. The last two years, I was going there once a month. I had to go into debt to keep going there. Lynn disapproved. I couldn’t really blame her, she was worried about us. She’s always been insecure about money, perhaps because she doesn’t work. We met at university; she was also studying economics. We got married immediately after we graduated, and since we wanted children as soon as possible, we agreed it didn’t really make sense for her to look for a job. Anyway, I spent all this money on plane tickets, and in the end, she wasn’t very happy about it: ‘You’re neglecting your own family here in Calgary! We haven’t gone on a trip in two years! And what about the pool you promised your children!’ It was true, my reunion with Gail made me neglect my family, but there was so much to catch up on, and Gail knew she didn’t have much time left. I asked Lynn to give me a chance. ‘She doesn’t have long to live.’ ‘And what if she lives longer than expected?’ she answered. ‘It’s not an unheard of thing for cancer patients.’ I was surprised by her insensitivity, and I told her that if that happened, I’d take a second mortgage on the house. After all, I was the one paying for it. I don’t need to tell you how she reacted to that.…”

  I could see the sadness in his face. He seemed like a man burdened with a mediocre marriage. He took a long drink and said, “Gail left me a small inheritance. I’ll be able to pay for the pool that Lynn and the kids want next summer.” He gave me a melancholy smile. “Will you come visit?”

  His question caught me off guard. “Um … yes. I’d be happy to.”

  He beamed at me. He emptied his glass and looked at his watch. “It’s past seven already. Are you hungry? I know a good French restaurant not too far from here. You’ll love their fettuccine Alfredo and their garlic bread.”

  “Alfredo and garlic bread in a French restaurant?” I asked, trying not to offend him.

  “Yes, and they’re excellent! It’s called the Café de la Paix.” He pronounced it de la Paiks. “Come on, I’m buying.”

  “No,” I protested. “Let your father take you out.”

  The words came out of my mouth without premeditation. My eyes filled with tears. Len’s smile wavered. He coughed and mumbled something that sounded like thanks.

  We left the Westin in the snowstorm. The restaurant was a few blocks away, so we decided to walk; there were no taxis anyway. Luckily, I was wearing the winter jacket Françoise had forced me to accept in Métis Beach; it was warm and windproof. I dug my hands into my pockets and had a thought for Françoise, and that aggressive, supplicating tone she’d taken, No! I’m telling you, it’s a gift! She had inherited my mother’s store. So what? I couldn’t care less. Françoise didn’t need to feel guilty.

  “Are you okay?” Len asked. “Cold enough for you?”

  The glacial wind whipped the snow and sent it screaming every which way. A snowstorm like in my memories of Métis Beach, and I thought of my last winter there, when I was seventeen, more than a year before Len’s birth. It was hard to believe. There was something unreal about letting myself be guided by my son in the streets of Calgary — he looked like a 4 x 4 ploughing a snowed-in street with his half-open coat, his massive, warm body that you wished you could snuggle up to. It was hard to believe he was mine, as inconceivable as a giant elm growing from a fragile seed, yet there he was, the result of a reckless night, when his mother and I were still children.

  A few minutes later, we reached 7th Avenue. Staggering slightly, I followed Len into the deserted avenue and almost lost my footing when a CTrain appeared out of nowhere, shining its threatening headlights on us like a predator’s eyes. Len laughed. “Don’t worry. It moves slowly.” My heart beating, I climbed onto the sidewalk, and then into the Eaton Centre. Restless, he pointed out the architectural elements. Calgary had a few hidden gems, like this luxury mall, a ceiling made of vaulted glass, walkways suspended between buildings so you never needed to go outside. “Ingenious,” I told him. Len smiled with pride, as if the compliment was directed at him. We returned to the blizzard through another door, ended up on Stephen Avenue, the downtown core’s pedestrian street, still illuminated by Christmas lights, lined with deserted restaurants.

  We’d arrived.

  The Café de la Paiks was a hodge-podge that pretended it was French. The only authentic thing about it was its owner, Michèle, who had arrived from Marseilles fifteen years earlier. A menu without surprises or interest. I had hoped for something a little more exotic, like frog’s legs or sweetbreads. “Ah!” the owner exclaimed, “We used to have them on the menu, but no one was interested. We had to adapt our cooking to local tastes. But things change. Oil brings money, and money brings more refined tastes.”

  Len raised his glass, “To Alberta’s oil!”

  He ordered the fettuccine, I chose the rack of lamb. Michèle suggested a red wine, an honest bottle that paired with both dishes. Our time was fleeting, and still so many questions to ask Len.

  “Did Gail tell you about us? I mean, the two of us?”

  He seemed embarrassed, hesitated before answering, “She was rather discreet on that topic. She said, among other things, that you were both too young for what happened.”

  I couldn’t tell whether he had finished his thought and decided to stop there. Trying not to be too insistent, I asked, “Did she tell you what happened?”

  He shook his head. “Only that you were both seventeen, and it happened in Métis Beach.”

  So she hadn’t told him about the so-called rape, which relieved me. Still, I couldn’t hide my disappointment, “That’s all?”

  “I al
so know she stopped having regrets when we reunited, she and I. That’s what she told me.”

  “Regrets?”

  “At having gotten pregnant so young.”

  I lowered my eyes, suddenly resenting Gail. Why had she hidden all of that from me? Why hadn’t she told me when we were living together in San Francisco? Was it what she had been trying to say that time, when she was crying over her friend Susan and the children she no longer had custody of? Abandoning your children, do you know what that does to someone? Was that it?

  Len continued, “She was supposed to marry this guy Don Drysdale. She told me she liked him well enough but wasn’t ready for married life.” He laughed nervously. “Apparently, I saved her from a marriage she wanted no part of.”

  “When did she learn she was pregnant?”

  “Two weeks before the wedding, which was then cancelled. Her mother cried and wailed to the heavens. Her father drank a bottle of Chivas Regal.” He grabbed a couple of pieces of garlic bread and buttered them generously. “That’s what she told me. You know Gail, she could be theatrical.”

  It was said without anger, more like affection. I said, almost in the same tone, “Ah, true enough!” trying to avoid thinking of our ten months together in San Francisco.

  He laughed, delighted we shared something else — having faced Gail’s rather singular character.

  His eyes lit up when our plates arrived. As we ate, the discussion lost focus. Len asked questions about New York; Gail had mentioned my time there. His surprised look, almost disapproving, when I mentioned Moïse and his exile in Canada. “Moïse, a draft dodger?” I immediately went on the defensive, and it showed. “He received Jimmy Carter’s presidential pardon, like every other draft dodger. He returned to New York in 1977. It’s ancient history now.”

  Surprised by my tone, Len looked guilty. He seemed suddenly so distraught! I apologized. “Sorry. It brings back memories … and anyway.…” I pushed back my wine glass. “I should go easy on this stuff. Talk to me about Gail instead. Where was she for the pregnancy, exactly?”

  He told the story enthusiastically and with plenty of detail — he knew more than he had let on at first, it turned out. For Gail’s parents, the problem had to be solved quickly. The solution, a Doctor Ziegler, in Côte-des-Neiges in Montreal, who would make her respectable once more for the modest sum of four hundred dollars. “Her mother escorted her to the clinic so that she couldn’t sneak off. Gail was terrified.”

  I wasn’t sure I had heard properly, “Her parents were going to make her get an abortion?”

  He nodded with a sort of childish cheerfulness that confused me. “She even described the place to me. A dark, peeling apartment. Nothing outside could have hinted there was a clinic inside. The medical personnel spoke softly. In the waiting room, sad young women wrung their hands in anxiety.

  I was astonished he knew so much, as if he’d been there himself. “Gail told you all this?”

  He didn’t seem to see the absurdity of the situation. He went on, as if it were the thing to say, “Talking about it was a sort of therapy for her. But don’t worry, the story ends well.” And he burst out laughing as I looked on, uncomprehendingly.

  I forced a smile, even if there was nothing amusing about this story. Len took it as encouragement and told how Doctor Ziegler had taken Gail into a small room and told her mother to stay in the waiting room. “He asked her whether it was her choice. He was a good doctor and cared about patients deeply. They were the ones who counted, not their parents. Gail immediately felt she could trust him.” He took a sip of wine. “So she refused, and I was born. Gail fought so I might live.”

  I was speechless. An abortion story that ended well. Len told it like it was someone else’s story. He grabbed the bottle of red and poured the little that was left into our glasses. “Should we get another?”

  I didn’t know what to say. “And then what?”

  “And then? Someone told her about a woman in Lethbridge, a widow my parents knew. Her name figured in the document my mother gave me, a woman called Pinker. By the time I began my search, she’d been dead for a long time. Mrs. Pinker hosted a home for teenage mothers, helped them during their pregnancy, and accompanied them until birth. My parents adopted me a week after my birth.” There was a long silence. “For Gail it was much harder.”

  I look at him with apprehension, “Harder?”

  His face darkened. “You know, Gail was sick. After she gave birth, she was diagnosed as manic-depressive. She received electroshock therapy. Four times.” He seemed apologetic. “I don’t think she ever mentioned it to you. She didn’t speak much about it. With me, it was different. It was a way for her to warn us, me and my children. What she suffered from can be hereditary. Thankfully, no one at home got it.…” He broke off, emotional. “By the time we got to know each other, she was being monitored by doctors and therapists. She was treated the way she should be. She even told me, one day, that she was happy for the first time in her life.”

  It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me, and indeed, I wasn’t taken aback. Yet I couldn’t help feeling sad. And guilty. I didn’t understand mental illness, and I was the sort of person who believed that if you worked harder, you could overcome it — that mental illness affects erratic people instead of making them erratic. Gail was sick. Of course I knew that — the way she had of pushing happiness away like a threat, her despair at times, so deep it banished all positive thoughts. And yet I always judged her harshly, with barely any compassion at all.

  I must have looked miserable, since Len asked me whether I was okay. I reassured him with a smile I hoped was as cheerful as possible. I said, “Did she ever tell you why she didn’t mention you to me?”

  He looked as if he was trying to remember a specific conversation they had had, making a point of recounting it word for word. He said, kindly and seriously, “She felt like she was solely responsible. You were living your life in the States, and she didn’t want to bring you into hers, a life that was topsy-turvy. She said you were living a life you couldn’t even have dreamed of as a child. She thought she didn’t have the right to make you miserable. That’s what she said.”

  He looked at me and shrugged.

  Michèle appeared with the second bottle. Len took advantage of the break to change the topic, “Let’s talk about your work. I’m very curious, how did you end up writing for television?”

  Len listened attentively. How I reached Los Angeles in August 1972; my meeting with Dick Mercer, a producer friend. Bobby put us in touch; he and Dick met at the premiere of a movie in L.A. and became fast friends. I couldn’t imagine them together, two opposite ends of the spectrum until, one day, I saw them debating movies. Actually, they were debating the underbelly of the movie industry. Stories of power, alliances, and big money. Dick was the one who told Bobby that Francis Ford Coppola had been forced to agree to direct The Godfather to clear up a debt with Warner Bros. Bobby described Dick as the best connected guy in Hollywood. The right man to give me a hand.

  “And was he?” Len asked.

  I laughed. “Dear Dick. Always criticizing me for my dark, complex scripts. Modern humanist fables, social criticism. He used to say, ‘We’re in L.A. here. Not Germany or Sweden. If you want to make art’ — he practically winced when he said the word — ‘go back to New York with your neurotic pal, Woody Allen.’”

  Len laughed, a child’s explosive laughter, encouraging me to continue. Alcohol made me talkative and funny. The first time Dick agreed to meet was on Sunset Boulevard, a bar next to a succession of gas stations and fast food drive-throughs. He was waiting for me, sitting in a poorly lit corner to observe me as I walked in. It was as dark as a coal mine in there. You walked in from the blinding sun into that smoky grotto, rather depressing, reeking of cigar smoke — his cigar, incidentally. “Hey, kid, over here.” Dick decided that since he was five or six years older than me, he had
the right to be condescending and decide what I’d drink. “I’d prefer a beer,” I told him politely, eyeing the twin dry martinis in front of him. He laughed. “Why force the waiter to run around for no reason? I’m making his job easier. I’m sure he appreciates it.” The two martinis were for him. He ordered two beers.

  Len was having fun. These were the sort of stories he liked — about people who drink too much. He wiped his plate with a piece of bread, poured himself another glass.

  I went on, telling how Dick intimidated me with his way of looking at me like I was an idiot. He gave me the old sermon about how “many are called but few are chosen” — all the while staring me down to make sure I was sincere. I also had the pleasure of listening to his rant about taxi drivers “who all have a script to sell in their glove compartment.” As well as the usual warnings, “Here in Hollywood, there’s no room for romantics. Life is hard, everyone is competitive.” His first martini downed, he asked to see my papers, as if I was an illegal immigrant; bemused, I handed them over. Dick is a man who demands, a man you obey. His wrath is a thing to behold. You should see him on set … He took an interest in my name and read it, grimacing. “Ro-main Car-rier….” He shook his head. “Ro-main Car-rier….” I blushed.

  “You can call me Roman Carr,” I told him. But he wasn’t listening. He was making strange sounds with his mouth, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if he was gargling mouthwash.

  “No, no. It needs to roll off the tongue. You need to be able to recognize it, to remember it.”

  “People have been calling me Roman Carr for years.” There was no point in arguing, he wasn’t listening.

  “You need to change it. People shouldn’t think you’re from elsewhere. Canada! A country full of socialists! Not good at all, that. And, you know, worst of all, it lacks style.” He took a drag off his cigar, blew smoke in my direction. “I got it! Roman Carr!” He said it, savouring the sound. “Ro-man Carr! What do you think?”