#
Brewster limps with his cane along the path. He doesn’t hear the cyclist come up behind and swish past. He wobbles to the side in fright and yells at the speedster, who turns and gives him the finger. “So much for having a quiet time in the park,” he says. He smiles at the oncoming young woman jogging behind her large, three-wheeled buggy and its sleeping passenger.
“Wish we’d had those things around when our kids were that age,” he says to the imaginary Melanie at his side. He doesn’t want to go home; he’s upset. He knows his daughter is only trying to help. Now he’s mad at himself for being such a twit. “C’mon, Mel. You’ve gotta help me out here.”
The park trails and pathways have been his place of peace ever since the accident. It’s where they’d spent many happy hours walking, talking and finding the hidden gems underfoot. Having left the house in a snit, he’s embarrassed to return. He hears his wife telling him, “Suck it up and get over it.” The familiar gravel path crunches with his clomping. “We came a long way, Mel. Why did you go so soon? We came through all those troubles so long ago, enjoyed a life with our two amazing kids. We had a wonderful future ahead of us. We were in a new time together, like we were one.”
He’s so busy with his crowded mind that he doesn’t notice the woman in the wide-brimmed, floppy straw sunhat until it’s too late. He swerves to avoid her. With his arm in a cast and resting in a sling, he unsteadily bumps against the red backpack slung casually over her left shoulder. He reaches out to steady her and apologizes profusely. She doesn’t speak and stares at him, shocked. He hurries on, embarrassed at being so clumsy. He half turns to look back, but the woman is slowly walking along the side of the path, looking into the underbrush as if she has lost something. She appears unfazed.
“Selfish,” he says to a chickadee ducking and diving from branch to branch in the aspens. “Hannah has a point. Perhaps she doesn’t like coming home to the house so full of you, Mel, with all your things about as if you’re still here. I know you’re not going to walk through the door one day, but I just can’t erase you.”
Brewster’s cell phone buzzes. “Helping Jo. She has a big wedding. Hugs.” His eyes water.
The water ripples over the rocks and deadfall from the spring floods. It’s a peaceful place on the bench he and Melanie shared so often, eating their lunch during their flower expeditions. He looks up as the woman in the hat walks by. Beauty in the woods. He gives her a smile and waves as some sort of consolation for crashing into her. Thankfully, no harm done, he thinks as the woman nods an acknowledgement. He enjoys the sun, takes off the blue beanie covering his bandaged head, closes his eyes and feels a comforting warmth as he dozes until the sun makes way for shadow from the trees.
Brewster sighs, rolls the stiffness out of his neck, stands, stretches and limps his way to the parking lot. The woman in the big floppy hat—I wonder if she found what she was looking for. Flowers, perhaps?
Chapter Six
Louise Reverte enjoys her late morning starts. With summer approaching and evening study groups, she knows that for at least a couple of days a week, she has the pleasure of walking to work. Living close to the park has its advantages. This morning she starts out in plenty of time thinking about the main part of her day: she has a monthly management meeting followed by a quiet afternoon that will allow her to finalize her materials and thoughts for her first volunteer get-together of the season that evening.
“Who’s the guy sitting out in the Jeep?” she asks the conservation officer as she plonks her briefcase at her desk. “He’s in the visitor spot. Are we expecting someone?”
“I don’t know who’s out there,” Calvin says, “but the Jeep has been there maybe half an hour or so. I didn’t know there was anyone in it. We do have a guest for our meeting today. José has set up a photographer to give a presentation on a possible wildflower project.”
“Sounds interesting. I for one would like to see a few of our park flowers on the walls around here. Our offices are a bit barren for an urban park. Our meeting still scheduled for eleven and over lunch?”
“Correct. Couple of managers in from Edmonton to review our plans for the summer—and of course, budgets,” Calvin says. “I certainly hope they’re not asking us to cut. We’re pretty bare-bones now.”
Louise laughs. “I think you’ll be okay. It’s usually the education budget that gets whacked first. I’m so glad we have such an enthusiastic and knowledgeable group of volunteers. They’ve been with us for years now.”
“Maybe the fellow out there is one of the head office types, waiting for the rest of his group to turn up. Anyway, gotta check the room setup. See you in 30.”
#
Louise welcomes the extra time she has to prepare given the agenda, which includes visitors from head office, department managers, budgets, summer program approvals, her wish list and the coordination of park volunteers. She piles her folders together and looks up in fright as a man crashes into one side of the double doors before opening the other.
“Oh, dear,” Louise exclaims. “Are you okay? You look as if you’ve been in the wars. Perhaps I should unlock that door as well—it catches a lot of people. Must be something to do with being left- or right-handed.”
Brewster waves at a chair and sits down to recover. His head hurts, the arm in a cast hurts because it carried his brief case and the extra wobble on his leg has jolted pain into his ankle. He feels flushed and removes the knitted beanie, revealing the bandage.
“Oh, my,” Louise says. “Look at you. How can I help?”
Brewster introduces himself, smiles and allows Louise to carry his briefcase as she ushers him into the meeting room. He scans the faces: four women and two men. No José.
One of the women steps forward and hesitates about shaking hands when she sees one hand and arm in a cast and the other hand propping him up with a walking cane. “Welcome,” she says with a smile. “You must be Mr. McWhirtle. So glad you could make it. My name is Tanya, and I’m the senior education officer.” She introduces the others, adding, “José can’t be here because he’s dealing with a situation down at the other end of the park.”
Smiles around the table follow the warm welcome. Brewster looks toward the exit as Louise tells the group about him crashing into the door.
“Good morning.” He coughs. “About all this. I can say that tumbling down the stairs and ending up in the hospital is not a good way to start the week.”
“José has told us so much about your work and the interest you have in the flowers found in this park,” Tanya says, drawing his attention back to the group. “We’re rather keen to have these walls covered in good pictures of what can be found here. There’s always lots of attention to the obvious stuff like the animals and the trees and the bugs, and why we protect the ecology. But not too many people know about the flowers. So, over to you. We’re keen to know about your work.”
Louise connects his laptop to the television monitor. Brewster clicks open his file and stumbles through his pictures, displaying the brilliant colour the many orchids and flowers he and Melanie have catalogued during three years of park visits. He pulls plaque-mounted pictures from his briefcase and passes them around the group. He feels like an uneducated idiot for not knowing enough about the flowers he’s featured in his presentation.
The room has been very quiet. Are they bored to tears? he wonders as he seeks to fade out of sight. Then it seems like everyone present wants to ask questions. Where did they find the flowers? What section of the park? What camera does he use? How about the lighting for the close-ups? How does he print and get the plaques made? What other flowers does he have? Are they all Fish Creek Park pictures?
This back-and-forth goes on for a good half hour. Brewster relaxes and enjoys the conversations around the table.
“What sort of costs would we be looking at for you to decorate our walls, and to possibly allow u
s to use some images in our printed materials?” Tanya asks. The woman who brought him into the room—what is her name? Louise. Brewster looks to her. The others fall silent—an almost deafening, expectant silence.
He’s tongue-tied and stumped. José had mentioned costs, but he’d put it aside, not thinking the issue would be raised. He looks beyond the group to the treescape out the window. He knows that as soon as he speaks, he’ll choke. Just thinking about what to say brings moisture to his eyes.
“Well, I, er,” he says, trying to control his emotions. “Let’s see. This project started with my wife. With Melanie. She was the brains behind it, and we did it for our own fun. I’m not able to readily identify the flowers, though I can help find them. Um, because Melanie is no longer with us, I can just let you have what you want for the good of the park and the pleasure others will get from them. She really wanted the kids to know about the flowers and why we have flowers. ‘Beyond decoration and honey,’ she used to say.
“So there’s no fees. I’ll finish what we’ve started, and I’ll seek your advice in locating any missing plants and when to find them at their best. I know Melanie has left a list of the flowers she wanted to document this year.”
“Brewster, we’re not quite sure how we want to use your material,” Tanya says. “We wanted to see what you have and how we might be able to use it in our programs. No need to worry about names—there are lots of people around here who can jump in with that. Your photographs are amazing.”
“Melanie has compiled a lot of information, like where and when we found many of the flowers,” he says. “I’m sure I can work most of it out and attach it to each picture.”
Louise helps him leave the room and head through the main doors to his vehicle. He’s flushed and sweaty. Maybe he overstepped the mark in suggesting they might consider a park bench in memory of his wife, overlooking the river in the place where they’d often stopped for their snack in the sunshine. He didn’t know how to read their reaction, the quiet hush. Perhaps he said too much, choking on emotion. Why did that have to happen?
“Well, Melanie,” he says in his Jeep. “I’ve gone and done it. I’ve given your project to the park. I think they are very excited about it and the material we collected. They wanted to pay me, but that doesn’t bring you back. It’s better that they just have the pictures so that maybe your love and fascination of the flowers will transfer to others, just as you always wanted.”
#
José calls a couple of days later. “Well, Brewster, you certainly know how to win friends,” he says. “The team loves your idea, praised your offer, and took the plan to the administration, who said to go for it. I knew they would. You are so generous, and they couldn’t believe it. Are you sure all you want is a bench in the park in return for all that work?”
Better than an illegal rock, Brewster thinks as he hangs up the phone, feeling much better with himself. He goes to his computer and thinks about how it will come together. Back upstairs, he looks for Melanie’s list of the missing flowers. He tenderly approaches the untouched materials on her desk. Hmm, bit dusty. Hannah wanted to tidy it up, but he’d not allowed her near her mother’s things. He tenderly explores, knowing that the to-do list will be on a scrap of paper, as per her style. But where would she have left it? He rifles through the many Alberta plant books and thinks back to their last outing. They’d made plans for the very day that she …
Brewster stops. The thought scares him. Now he knows where the list might be. His camera bag? No. Maybe her shoulder pack, hanging on a peg near the front door. Like most of her things, it’s been untouched for a year. Her field book is there, and so is her camera. His eyes water as he lifts the field book and leafs through it. Her neat, precise printing. He recalls how he’s never really had a look at her notes before. They’d always exchanged things verbally, working on accurate identification from the back-and-forth conversations, checking their pictures. He does not like what he’s doing. It’s like looking into her soul, the very things that were Melanie. He picks out the day’s to-do list, carefully closes the notebook, snaps the green band around it and drops it back into the bag. Maybe Hannah will want to have that.
“Well, Mel,” he says, “I’ve found your list and am glad to have the expected dates to find these missing ones from our collection. I’m sure the park people will be able to help me locate them. But your eyes were so special at spotting. That was surely your gift. I know we’ll find the striped coralroot this summer, and perhaps a reshoot to get the perfect shot of a bracted orchid, or frog orchid as you called it, just to confuse me.
“Now, Mel, I wonder when I’ll get to see your bench? Will you mind me sitting on it?”
Chapter Seven
Clotilde Chiasson is in the garden clearing the beds of the leaf clutter her mother had spread before the winter snow. This is the first time she’s tackled the yard work alone. It’s always been the two of them, mother and daughter, preparing the soil and planting out new annuals amongst the perennials to bring newness and colour to their private oasis. Now it’s just one more thing she has to get used to doing alone. She’s trying to reorder her life around her home, her hospital visiting and her pursuit as a self-taught botanical artist.
Sunny spring days lure her to her gardens and the garden centres as the days advance in this seasonal renewal; buds begin to swell on the branches, the promise of leaves and blossoms. She watches a robin bob over the grass, stop, tilt his head, et boum, beak down into the green to land an early lunch. A couple of chickadees make their nest in a garden post, and finches flit through the trees as she dethatches the lawns. Tulips and daffodils bravely poke their way through the soil to daylight. They’re always ready to get out and about following the hardy, furry little prairie crocus into the sunshine, its purple flowers a herald of spring. She enjoys digging in the damp, dark, rich-looking earth and is glad her mother insisted they develop a gardening habit together.
“A garden is a treasure,” her mom had always said. “For out here among the plants, you see life. If it wasn’t for the plants, you wouldn’t be standing here.”
Her mom’s passion has become her own. “Yes, Mom. I get it. We see plants for their beauty here in our garden, but all living creatures on this planet depend on plants and flowers to survive.”
It’s this thought that drives Clotilde to pursue perfection in drawing the flowers of the forest, the wildflowers that few people get to see in the park’s understory. Her favourite pastime in the warmth of summer days is to spend time in the nearby Fish Creek Provincial Park finding and drawing the flowers, petals, stems and leaves in every detail. Flowers might be lovely for the human eye to appreciate, but to the plant they are all about reproduction. The design, colour, size and shape of flowers attract many species of bugs and insects just so they can repopulate. So really, I’m an artist whose subject matter is sylvan sex!
The pocket of her jeans vibrates: a new text message. Her lifeline.
“Hi, C. We have a new young patient, Anil, who’ll be with us a while. Totally deaf. He’s so desperately alone. Can you help the little guy?”
It’s late evening by the time Clotilde gets back home. She luxuriates in the shower, the hot water smoothing the fatigue from her body. It has been a long day, yet she’s happy that she’s made a small difference for the young boy.
Severe burns to much of his 10-year-old body, immense pain and his big brown eyes showing another silent pain. He mostly nodded as she patiently worked with him, telling him through lip-reading and sign language what the nurses and doctors were doing to help heal him. It’s been a tough day, especially with police quietly hovering and trying to piece together what had happened in that south-east townhouse.
The boy’s aunt is also in hospital with similar injuries. All Clotilde knows is that there’d been a fire, an explosion at a backyard barbecue. Anil did not want to say much; he was tired, very scared and hurting. Her job
is to befriend him, calm him, gain his confidence and allow the medical team to ease into their care and treatment. Tomorrow she’ll tell Anil about her garden. Maybe he’ll be well enough for a wheelchair tour of the hospital where she can, in their wordless world, talk about the nurses and the doctors and what they do. It’s something she’s always done with other patients, young and old.
She sips her lemon and ginger tea at the drawing board, and she looks over the work she’s done, detailing the tiny, delicate, star-shaped flower of the blue-eyed grass. Though inconspicuous, she is always delighted to spot this perennial in the grassy meadows and along the edge of the pathways. Even when in bloom, blue-eyed grasses are hard to find, and it depends on the time of day because the flower tends to open in the early morning and close at noon. She looks at the watercolour she’d painted a year before and reads the lines her mother wrote.
In sunlit meadow by the lake,
A tiny flower cheers the morn
And sways to the quiet breeze.
How lovely is this blue-eyed bloom,
A frail splash of prairie wealth
That shyly eyes the passer-by.
Clotilde smiles at how her mother often created a verse to celebrate the beauty of the landscape. She loved flowers, wildflowers especially, and when things had been good, they’d spend hours searching in the woodlands. She’d filled notebooks of where and when she’d seen the plants. and she’d often take Clotilde and her dad back each year to make sure they were thriving. The flowers were family to her.
It was because of her mother that she’d pursued her private study of botanical artistry. Her illness and sudden deafness might have closed the door on her nursing career, but it had fully opened her eyes to the world of plants. She’d moved from nursing people to health, to valuing the dependence of all living creatures on plants and their flowers. She makes a mental note to chat with her son Ben. Would he have the environmental interests of her parents or is he more inclined to follow his dad’s interests in politics and law. She looks forward to their next FaceTime rendezvous when she’ll be updated on all the family adventures he has with his dad.
Uncharted Page 4