Uncharted

by Graeme Connell

  “Things are pretty good out here, but I was worried about you because I didn’t call you on, on …” Hannah says. “I meant to, but the day actually got the better of me—you know, the remembering, and Mom not being around anymore.”

  Father and daughter share the silence. No need for conversation. Enjoy the tele-nearness.

  “I thought I was doing well and was heading to my class when I had a meltdown, realizing it’s been a whole year.” Silence. “You still there, Dad?”

  “I am, sweetheart. Just listening and thinking,” Brewster says. “Lovely to hear you talk. You sound just like your mother.”

  Hannah tells how she was overwhelmed with grief and sat down under a tree on campus. Her tears had rolled. “I must have been there about five minutes or so, and this guy … well, he’s the chaplain. He walks by, sees me and sits right down.

  “‘Rough day?’ he asks. He just sat there, Dad. Didn’t say a word while I sobbed my heart out. He opened his briefcase, pulled out a couple of tissues and handed them to me. I cried till I ran out of tears. My mascara was a mess. He didn’t even comment, just suggested we go for a walk around campus.”

  As she talks, Brewster walks downstairs to his office and wakes up his computer. It’s been asleep for a long time.

  “It’s really beautiful here. Just like a park. The trees, the spring blossoms and all this sunshine. I miss you, Dad.”

  Brewster clears his throat and pauses. “I miss you too. So you walked around the campus with the chaplain?”

  “Yes,” she says. “We got up and just walked. That’s when I started to tell him about how we lost Mom. He still didn’t say much and just listened. It was so nice to be able to talk, whether or not I made sense. Then we walked in the quiet, enjoying the morning. Finally I say to him, ‘Thanks for listening, but don’t you have something important you should be doing?’

  “‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’m doing it. Walking beside you.’

  “We talked a bit more, and he told me about grief and stuff. Very helpful. Then he simply gave me his card and said I could see him anytime I wanted to talk. We were in the atrium by then, and he continued on his way. I sat down by the window, thinking things through.”

  Brewster coughs. What could he say? How to reach out and hug his daughter? She was so many miles away and beginning the second year of her earth and environmental sciences degree at Acadia University. The phrase “walking beside you”—he’s heard that before. Melanie, perhaps? He offered, “Sounds like your chaplain was in the right place at the right time for you.”

  “It was lovely. He seemed to know exactly how I felt,” Hannah says. “Dad, I wanted to tell you I won’t be home for Christmas break,” Hannah says. “Several of us have a chance to head to Europe on an exchange. We’re not sure if it will be France, Spain or Germany. We still have to firm things up with our professor. Do you mind?”

  “Sounds brilliant,” Brewster says. Surprisingly, he gets upbeat and starts talking about the park’s interest in her mom’s wildflowers. “That stuff your mother and I spent so much time on,” he says. “I have to give a show and tell for them next week. If anything comes of it, I’ll be kept busy this summer.”

  “Terrific, Dad. Heard from Harris at all?”

  “Your brother’s doing really well. I got an email from him a couple of days ago to say he has his skipper certification now, so big, ocean-going sailboats are under his command in the Whitsunday Islands. I think he’s looking for a berth in some major yacht race down there. Never thought our sailing excursions on the reservoir would take him as far as Australia.”

  He enjoys chatting with his energetic daughter—Happy Hannah, they’d called her. She was always bursting with enthusiasm. He’ll have to become more proficient with fingertip technology like FaceTime or Skype to keep up to date with his worldly children. Life has taken them a long way from home, yet they remain very close, and he knows they will all laugh around the barbecue again one day.

  “Let me know what funds you’ll need for Europe,” he says. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  “Okay, Dad, I will. Not sure just yet,” Hannah says. “I may have enough, or there may be a scholarship or grant or something.”

  With that, they end their call, hesitation in each of their voices. They give cheerful and quick goodbyes.

  Brewster reheats his coffee, returns to the window and looks out to the street. This has been quite a week: his rescue, interest in the wildflowers, Harris’s news, Hannah’s call.

  With a lung-filling sigh, he rouses himself and finds his photo files. Hundreds of wildflowers. Man, they look beautiful, he thinks. He decides to put together 20–25 of Melanie’s favourites for the presentation.

  The last time he looked through the pictures, disaster had struck. That’s exactly what he was doing when the doorbell rang. Melanie had wanted to check through her list to see what they could uncover as summer returned. At first he thought Melanie had forgotten her key. He’d driven her to the hair salon. She’d phoned and said she had to get some groceries and wanted to walk home in the sunshine.

  Two cops stood in the doorway.

  “Mr. McWhirtle?”

  “What’s happened?” It’s Melanie. He knew right away. How did he know?

  “We’re sorry to have to tell you there’s been an accident, and your wife died at the scene. She’s been taken to the hospital. Would you come with us to identify her?”

  It’s as if the words have appeared on the computer screen, overwritten on his picture of a striped coralroot. Whimpering like a child, he tips forward and slowly smashes his head again and again on the edge of his desk.

  Chapter Three

  Brewster is scared of each day. The moment of waking up always frightens him. He has to bother about how to occupy himself through the long hours. Somehow, he can’t shake away the loneliness, can’t shake away her silent presence, can’t shake away the fact that he is alone in the silence of their home. Nothing is going to bring her back. She has gone.

  He lies in their bed. She is not beside him. He looks up. The ceiling looks the same today as it did yesterday. Does that mean today will be the same as yesterday? Nothing; just stippled whiteness. A couple of dust hangers over by the window. A new day? Ha. The same old drift. A wander through nothingness. What is there to get up for?

  Brewster pokes a leg out from the covers and rolls to his side. His feet find the floor as he shakes off the duvet. For starters, he has to pee and drain the night away under a warm shower. Her towel is still where she left it on the bathroom rack. Her name was embroidered: Melanie, red on blue. Her robe hangs on the back of the door. Maybe it’s time he cleaned house. How, though? Does he just pick up her stuff and send it away? She’s everywhere—every shelf, wall, closet and cupboard. Her room, her table, her chair. When does it end? He buries his head in the foaming shampoo, and with his eyes closed tight, he lets the hot water soothe over him. He steps from the shower, hauls his towel off the rack and tosses it to the floor. Musty smelling. He’s glad Hannah convinced him to get a cleaning and maid service as he picks a clean folded towel from the shelf. He dries himself and wonders aloud if there’s a service he can get that will come in and magically deal with Melanie’s belongings. But how? How can he just let all her stuff, her very presence, disappear from every nook and cranny in a house they’d lived in together for 27 years?

  The house is a home, an accumulation of their 34 years of marriage.

  With his morning latte, he heads to the dining room table and flips open his newspaper. War in the Middle East, Ebola in western Africa, women missing, police brutality. Where’s some good news? Show me something.

  Where will this day go? He stands with his coffee at the front window and waves to a woman walking her dog. He doesn’t know who she is, but she passes his house most mornings about this time.

  Perhaps I should get a dog. Make me get out a
nd walk or do something. A dog. Worth a thought. Someone in the house beside me. Hannah is the dog person, though. Maybe I should send her an email later. But what sort of a dog? Doesn’t matter. They all mess up the yard and have to be taken for walks, and then you gotta pick up their poop and walk around with a plastic bag. No, a dog is not really my thing.

  He finds a spot amongst a week’s worth of dishes in the smelly dishwasher, adds the detergent pouch and turns on the machine. He rubs his chin and decides it’s time to get rid of his three-day growth, brush his teeth and stop being a wuss—a person his Melanie would not like to have around the house. He’d have breakfast at McDonald’s, do a bit of grocery shopping and see what he could do for the rest of the day.

  He imagines a combine in a wheat field as the razor buzzes and pulls his greying whiskers into the foils. He mows slowly around his face and under his chin, mesmerized by the sound of stubble meeting cutters. His skin smooths and freshens. He lifts the foils, blows the whiskery dust from the comb, replaces the foil and drops the razor head first into the cleaner. He flosses and brushes his teeth, runs the water hot and relishes the steaming cloth on his face. He rubs an aloe cream into his cheeks, under his chin, around his neck, up around his eyes and across his forehead. Hmm. New man. Another new day.

  After putting on jeans and a fresh shirt and sweater, he looks at the bed, a twisted and tangled mess of sheets and duvet. It troubles him that he’s just pulled everything together each day for a couple of weeks. Maybe it’s a laundry day, a chore he always shared with Melanie. But not now. He shrugs and leaves the messy room. Laundry can wait. Breakfast first.

  #

  As he eats his egg and bacon breakfast, Brewster finds a certain comfort in the noise and warmth of the fast food outlet. He sits back and watches people of all ages come and go, some for a breakfast sandwich, some for a muffin, and others for a coffee to go. What about those old guys over in the corner table? Are they like him, living alone?

  “Well, look who’s here, slumming it with the rest of us.”

  “Hello, John,” Brewster says. “Yep, good place to come every now and then. Gonna join me here, or …?”

  “I’m just in for a pickup,” John says. “Myra’s gone off somewhere—early shopping with the kids. I bailed for a bit to grab a quick coffee.”

  Brewster waits for the inevitable question—the one about his freewheeling bachelor life. He gets it every time he comes in contact with old friends. Today, will they chit-chat about nothing: the weather first, how the kids are doing, recent holidays. Then the question, always the question. “I’m on my way to the supermarket, and then I’m taking the car down for a lube and spring check,” he says.

  “I do have time to catch up with an old buddy,” John says, plonking himself down. “How you been? Haven’t seen you in a while. Myra was saying just the other day we should have you over for a meal. Been away?”

  “Nah, just moseying around and getting a few things organized, y’know.” Brewster imagines himself back on the scaffolding as a young apprentice plumber, holding a pipe in place with one hand and staring at the parts he needs still on the ground. “Wonder what our politicians are up to?”

  “Yeah, it’s hard to see,” John says. “The oil price diving, the economy, unemployment.”

  Brewster is folding up his newspaper as John’s youngest arrives and tugs at his father’s sleeve. “Looks like I’ve gotta go,” John says as he gets up. “Well, good to at least say hello. I’ll tell Myra and give you a call. Take care.”

  Brewster reopens his paper to read the editorial to see what might be relevant in the strange world of politics, Alberta-style. Eventually he picks up his breakfast junk, dumps it in the bin and heads out the door.

  He’ll avoid the local supermarket and avoid any chance of banging into someone else he knows. Seeing John has rattled him; he realizes just how much he’s dropped out of circulation. Curmudgeon, Mel had said. If he didn’t watch out, he’d turn into a curmudgeon, an old man who’d yell at an out-of-place snowflake.

  I need milk, and I need eggs and bread. He drives to a supermarket across town. Not likely to bang into anybody I know here. Not ready yet to talk with people. Maybe I should leave town.

  He collects his groceries and drives to the lube shop. It’s nice and quiet today; he has the waiting room to himself. He scans through the pages of a pop magazine. Scandals, divorce, beauty, better boobs, more sex, more lies, diet, and riches. He tosses it back on the pile, stands and looks through the workshop window. There’s his Jeep, up on the hoist. The technicians scurry round it. He’s been coming here for years and likes how his vehicles have always been well cared for. The staff knows him. It’s a comfort stop.

  “Mr. McWhirtle?” a voice says. Brewster turns. “Hi. I’m Gord, your technician today. We’ve finished everything, and all looks good. I will say though that perhaps you should get a new cabin air filter next time. This one’s okay for now. And you might consider new wiper blades next time round. Otherwise, you’re good to go. They’re just taking it off the hoist.” Then he’s gone.

  There’s nothing to pay as he checks out. Gotta love this service. Free lube and check-up with a new vehicle as long as he owns it. “Thanks, Bill,” he says to the guy behind the counter as he picks up his key and heads out. “You guys do good work.”

  Back home, there’s a call from his lawyer and another from his accountant. It’ll be about the business, he supposes as he puts his groceries away. All this stuff that has to be done. These are things he did with Melanie. They’d always worked together, and he enjoyed their partnership. Now it’s just him. The joy of doing anything is gone.

  He thinks about their occasional discussions around co-dependence. A decade ago, it had been a sort of topic du jour and a regular discussion among their friends, especially those in their church group. There was no reason why, but perhaps church was a place where people spoke a little more freely and were not so guarded. He thought of close friends who’d suggested he and Melanie were joined at the hip. In reality, they were quite independent. They simply enjoyed being together, and being together had little to do with thinking freely or making their own decisions.

  Now, though, he’s adrift. Lawyers, accountants, business managers. He had to handle the fallout from her sudden and tragic death. It came down to having to take her name off the papers. Take away the name, and she’s not there. Throw away her toothbrush; she’ll not be back to use it. But he did not want to blot her from the house she’d put so much into over the years.

  The house phone rings as he puts a couple of cans of baked beans into the cupboard. He lets it roll to voicemail. “Hello, Brewster. It’s Jo at the shop. Please call me when you can. We have an issue with a supplier who’s playing hardball. I’m not sure why. Thanks.”

  Jo’s managing The Blue Aster, Melanie’s shop, and he hasn’t been near the place in the year she’s been gone. He leans against the kitchen counter. Melanie’s life had always been about the flowers at work, at home and at play. Now the best bloom was gone, ripped from the garden.

  Is it time? he thinks, turns and looks out the kitchen window at the unkempt garden beds in the back yard. Yes. There’s only a slight hesitation as he reaches for the phone. He sets an appointment with his lawyer for tomorrow and calls his accountant. His plan is made. Melanie’s gardens will bloom again.

  #

  The door chimes tinkle his presence. He pauses while taking it all in, conscious that Melanie is not out back. The Blue Aster wraps him in with its perfumed energy. It doesn’t feel like he’s been away for a year. A teenager looks up from the counter, gives an awkward smile and rushes out to the workroom. Brewster greets a couple looking around the wood panelling he’d installed, lovely old greying timbers from an ancient barn. That had been Melanie’s idea, like the name. Right now he’d give anything to walk with her and see the widespread blue asters they both loved. He looks through th
e shop windows into the plaza parking lot, gazing through an art school student’s rendition of the aster’s pale purple petals painted on the glass some eight or nine years ago. It was Melanie’s world: bright, happy, friendly. He dreamily fancies Melanie stepping out of the cool room.

  “Hello, Brewster. Boy are we glad to see you,” a young woman says, wrapping her arms around him.

  “Hello, Jo,” he says. “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long and left all this to you. But I, well, I just couldn’t …”

  “No worries. Everything’s been great. I totally understand.” Jo laughs and sparkles, just like she did the day before Melanie officially opened the store. “You’re naughty, though. You could have just come by to say hello.”

  He looks into her hazel eyes and remembers her answer when Mel asked why she wanted to work in the shop. “Oh, I like flowers.” A pause. “My husband’s been laid off, and I need a job.”

  “Well, that’s three reasons,” Mel had said, ushering her into the cool room out of Brewster’s way while he stacked vases, flower holders and picture frames on the shelves.

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” Brewster says. “How’s that little boy of yours? And Danny—how’s he doing?”

  “We’re all good. That little boy, Mikey, is seven now. Danny is part-time in school upgrading from an electrician to an instrument tech. He’s doing really well.”

  With that, she steers him round and out to the back of the shop to meet a couple of new floral designers—asterettes, she calls them. The teenager is taking the new customer’s order. “We’ve got two weddings this weekend, and there’s a funeral tomorrow. We have a lot of walk-ins these days; people just want flowers to take home. You know: tulips, orchids and roses are always popular.”

  Although Jo is a few years older than Hannah, she is like a daughter. In fact, the two girls had been like sisters in the shop during their school years.