He knelt down on the floor. His gaze was strange, as if he wasn’t sure who I was. “You can’t go,” I said, crying hard. “You mustn’t leave me.”
Jakob raised his eyes to the ceiling and took a breath. After what seemed an eternity he looked at me. “You are some woman, Dr. White. As perverse as they come.”
I nodded and wiped my nose. “I’ve treated you so badly.”
He shrugged and was about to say something when we heard the landlord’s step upon the stairs. He called up, no doubt hoping for scenes of dissipation.
Jakob passed me a handkerchief. By the time the landlord got his head through the door I was halfway presentable. “We were on our way out,” I said as he stared with suspicion. The room was cooler now and full of sunshine, but it was clearly time to leave. Despite the open window the landlord was sniffing for proof of Jakob’s cigarettes.
“Come, Mr. Hertzlich,” I said, taking his arm. “You’ll be my guest for tea.”
“YOU MEAN THAT OLD man I met was your father?”
“Honoré Linière Bourret,” I said, stirring the cloud of milk in my cup.
“After you journeyed all the way to Calais he would not acknowledge you?”
A young waitress wiped down the tables at the front of the café. She hummed to herself, taking pleasure in the simple task, a sight that for some reason I found comforting.
“He’s a scoundrel, Agnes. There’s no other word for it.”
“It’s not that simple,” I said, my eyes following the girl as she reached and cleaned. “The townspeople like him well enough. He built a life over there. He won their respect.”
Jakob reached over and placed his hand on mine. “Scoundrel,” he mouthed silently.
I shook my head. “Thinking that way doesn’t help. Vilifying a person is the obverse of the coin of idealizing him. That is a lesson I have had to learn.”
Jakob took my hand and gazed at it. After a moment he looked up. “What do you intend to do now?”
I shrugged. “The only plan I had was to track you down. Beyond that I have no idea. It feels a little like the earth has cracked open. The things I used to be certain of have suddenly ceased to be.”
Jakob smiled. “Sounds practically mystical.”
“Hardly,” I laughed. “I just opened my eyes for the first time in fifty years. It certainly took me long enough. I had built my life on a dream. My picture of my father and of Sir William Howlett had little to do with reality.”
He made a face. “We all have blind spots. And who is to say what is real?”
“My blindness wasn’t a spot, Jakob. It was the whole picture. I built my entire life, don’t you see, to please a man who did not exist.” I was shy to admit this, but Jakob seemed neutral. There were no signs of judgment.
We sat in silence for a minute or two, simply looking at each other. Jakob Hertzlich’s eyes were particularly warm and dark that day, set off against his full brown beard. I reached out and stroked the wiry bristles. He responded by taking my hand in his and kissing the palm. Then he smiled and signalled the waitress to bring more hot water for our tea.
AFTERWORD
Although this novel takes its inspiration from the work and professional life of one of Montreal’s first female physicians, Dr. Maude Elizabeth Seymour Abbott (1869–1940), the characters and events imagined here are purely fictional.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank the Conseil des arts et des lettres du Québec and the Banff Centre (specifically Fred Stenson and the Banff Wired Writing Program) for generous support while I wrote this novel. Caroline Adderson, Linda Leith (who came up with the title), my gifted and dedicated editor Marc Côté and my closest, most constant reader, Arthur Holden, made invaluable contributions for which I am deeply grateful. To these and other friends and family who read the manuscript in early form, my heartfelt thanks.
The Heart Specialist Page 30