“That dear lady died almost 18 months ago. This one thing she gave me will always stay with me. My illness affected my father, my mother, my son, my husband, and his new wife. There’s no ‘why me’ in this. Mom showed me hope. She was a very spiritual woman. She was always at her Bible, especially after Dad died. She would always tell me to never lose hope, to have faith in the things unseen.
“And even at her lowest point, not long before she died, she quoted me this passage from an Emily Dickinson poem.”
Hope is the thing with feathers,
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops at all.
Clotilde looks across the room and takes a sip of water. “Enough about me. I want to introduce you to a new and very special friend of mine. He’s special because of the generosity of the industry you all work in, because of the generosity of you people and your colleagues here and in many places across Canada, and because of the staff at Toronto Pearson International Airport. I want you all to meet Bebo.”
The little white poodle bounces to her side when she gives a simple hand signal. He’d been sitting nearby with Alison. Though she cannot hear a thing, Clotilde looks out on a crowd of people smiling and clapping, and she feels a new energy. Everyone loves a spirited, faithful dog.
“Yes,” she says. “He’s a lovely companion and has made a massive contribution to my life in the six months since Alison arranged to have me trained and partnered with him. He’s a treasure for sure, but I must remind you that he is a working dog. When he has his jacket on, he is working, and he knows it. I can take if off, and he knows that is the time when he can play. I’m sorry that I cannot pass him round. He cannot and must not be petted during his working hours. Watch him now as Alison texts me on my phone.”
Bebo, sitting upright at her feet beside the podium, hears the phone signal, looks to her and pats her leg. “Telephone, microwave, oven, doorbells, alarms, bike bells on the pathways, traffic and yes, even people calling me. Bebo is my ears and has given me a new life. He carries his service dog licence and other credentials in his backpack. Most times people are very positive about his presence.
“My final comment here this morning is around me speaking. I’m constantly asked why I can speak and yet cannot hear. I spent 22 years speaking two languages every waking moment. I’ve had to get used to speaking evenly, as I have done today. My problem comes when I get frustrated, upset or anxious, and I lose control of my voice levels. Because I’m deaf, I have extreme difficulty controlling my voice levels. It goes up when I’m anxious or frustrated, and this is always interpreted as me being angry and out of control. That is how I ended up in difficulty at Toronto’s airport.
“It is Alison, of the Airport Authority, who has been my guide here today. I thank her for her attention to my problem and taking it forward to help others understand that among the travelling public, there are many who require extra consideration. I’m sure you are all aware of this. Our occupations—me as a nurse and you folks in the airline industry—are confronted daily with how our actions affect people in different ways.
“Thank you so much for your generosity in giving me Bebo and in listening to me. I wish I could have heard what I said.”
Clotilde smiles and steps back from the podium, Bebo’s leash in her hand. Her audience stands, and she can see them clapping. She waves and leaves the stage with Alison, finds a chair and collapses, flushed and near tears.
It’s just a pause, though; Alison beckons her to get up. “They want to see you again,” she says, looking directly at Clotilde. “They are still clapping. You have to go out again.”
They walk hand in hand to the podium, and partway Alison stops and ushers Clotilde and Bebo forward. Clotilde sees the audience still standing and clapping. She’s totally lost on what she should do. She smiles, waves and notices a young man walking forward, wending his way through the tables and seats to stand on the opposite side. He looks at the audience; she sees him speak, and the crowd sits. He turns to her with the room in total silence, and with absolute dexterity he signs, “On behalf of my colleagues, we want to thank you for your time and for your quiet words of encouragement to us. You have brought new meaning to us in both our work and personal lives. You’ve told us about people who live in a world of silence, and who face many challenges. You have showed us much today, and for that we are truly grateful.”
He steps toward her and presents her with a new leash for Bebo, all leather and featuring the airline’s logo. Tom comes to the podium and, with the young man signing as he speaks, presents Clotilde with a company blazer.
“Clotilde, you are now an honorary member of our airline. Thank you for enlightening us all and sharing your world with us, and for encouraging us to think of the public we deal with every minute of every day and how we can try to make a difference.”
Chapter Thirteen
Golden is truly golden in the midday sun as he pulls off the Trans-Canada into Tim Hortons. Time for a bathroom break, a refreshing splash of water on his face, new coffee and maybe a bowl of something—chilli or soup, maybe. Uh-uh, wrong time to hit Timmys. The line-up is out the door. He excuses his way past to get to the washroom. There’s the usual line-up for the women’s, and he hovers to wait out the couple of fellows inside the men’s.
Brewster spends 15 minutes in the food queue and with nowhere to sit he takes his lunch outside hoping for a spot on the grassy verge. That too is crowded. He looks around and finally makes himself comfortable in the sun on a concrete parking barrier. A busload of tourists pulls in to add to the congestion. A fully leathered biker draws up, lifts his shiny silver and black Harley onto its stand, takes off his helmet and leather jacket and drapes them on the seat of his bike. He nods at Brewster and joins the line-up outside the door.
The chilli is good. Brewster soaks up the sunshine, feeling the soothing heat on his arms and through his blue polo shirt. He enjoys the happy buzz of the crowd. As the level drops in his bowl, so does the upbeat feeling he had when he first pulled in.
Motorbike Man emerges from the human crush with his coffee and doughnut, goes to his bike and turns up the speakers. The country music punches out over the parking lot, and a couple of women laugh and joke in an impromptu line dance before joining the queue. It’s happy times in the sunshine.
“How’s it going with you?” Motorbike Man asks. “You look as though you could use a friend.”
Brewster looks around and realizes he’s being spoken to. “Oh, me?” he says. “Going good, just got a lot on my mind.”
“Pardon me for saying,” Motorbike Man says, “but you look a bit like a flea on a hairless dog—and on a brilliant day like this. You travelling?”
“Yep,” Brewster says, wishing this really chatty fellow and his country music would quietly disappear. He does not want to get into small talk. “Just bit of a road trip for a few days, and then back to Calgary.”
“Yeah. I was in Banff last night, and with this weather, I decided to take a long ride. Might go south to Invermere, or I might go on to Vernon.”
“You’re pretty trusting, leaving your stuff on the bike with all these people,” Brewster says, hoping to keep the conversation away from himself.
“No worries, really,” the man says. “Funny thing is not many people would rip off something from a parked Harley with the music playing, ’cause nobody really knows who’s watching.”
“Good point,” Brewster says, draining his coffee. “I reckon I’ll get on my way now; heading to Kelowna for the night. Enjoy your ride, whichever way you go. And it’s supposed to get hotter as the day wears on.”
Brewster saunters over to the garbage and drops in his lunch packaging. A squirrel squeaks across the grass, and crows hover around hoping for a morsel here and there from the crowd on the grass.
He’s glad he’s taken this journey
through the mountains. Hannah’s words come back to him: to move on, just like she and Harris have done. He’s already aware of one thing: it’s up to him to make the change.
“How? How? How?” he says, stepping into his Jeep. The sun has warmed his spirit, and the unplanned jaunt through the mountains has softened his soul. The kids are grown and have gone on with their own lives. He’s proud of them for what they are doing and how they have handled the sudden, tragic death of their mother. He should take heart from that, learn and adapt. Back home, the Fish Creek Park project has offered him an opportunity to complete the one thing that he and Melanie had so much enjoyed together.
“Trouble is, Miss Melanie, you were the brains of the outfit,” he says, checking his side mirror as he merges back onto the highway. It’s as if his wife is in the car with him. “All I did was follow your lead and take the pictures. But you knew what we were looking at, and looking for.”
As he picks up speed, he allows his thoughts to drift back to the park project. He’s concerned about how he might complete the hunt for any remaining wildflowers now that he’s made a semi-commitment to the park people. Surely they will know where he might find the plants on Melanie’s checklist.
He went past Golden and on through highway avalanche tunnels. In one side into darkness, and out the other into sunlight. Is this life? Is this his life? Is he trapped in a tunnel? The train tracks move along, always not far from the Trans-Canada. The long tunnels are maybe the longest in the country. They’re so long that air holes have been drilled, and huge fans circulate air to let the diesel electric engines breathe. Without that, they’d die, trains marooned in a dark tunnel. Even trains have to breathe, have to escape the darkness.
Where will he find his new breath, new light, new life?
The mountains stand out in all their glory against a radiant blue sky as he winds through Glacier National Park and the steady rise to the top of the Rogers Pass. He thinks about the rise and fall of the highway, from 5,400 feet at the top of the Kicking Horse, down to 4,100 feet at Field and then on down to something like 2,500 feet at Golden. The sign at the Rogers Pass summit reads 4,300 feet above sea level.
The route through these mountains, the up and downs, curves and flats, and asphalt and steel winding through avalanche country match his own emotional geography. This rugged country, bathed in brilliant summer sunshine today, recovered from last winter’s avalanches. Am I still deep under the avalanche of Melanie’s death?
Nearing Mount Revelstoke National Park, his thoughts drift to horses and wagons, men and shovels, the early road builders and their toil, a sharp contrast to the highly powered, motorized road maintenance crews he slows to pass. The tree-cloaked ranges reach into the blue, his red vehicle less than a speck in the grand scheme of the mountains.
The Jeep shudders and coughs, and he feels the engine gasping. “Rats,” he says. “She’s sounding very rough, kinda like stalling or misfiring.” He slows, looking for a safe place to stop. The instrument panel shows the temperature at max. The engine trouble light is on. The squawking electronic alarm fills the interior. He pulls over, cuts the engine and gets out. There’s nothing to see when he flips open the hood, but there’s plenty to smell: a sickly sweet odour that to him spells doom.
“Well, this is just plain crazy,” he yells, kicking a tire in frustration. He’s grateful for the extra wide verge where avalanches have been cleared away. He’s alone, miles from anywhere, and nothing has passed him either way since he pulled off. He sucks on his water bottle and scratches for the owner’s manual in the glove compartment. This has not happened to him before, never in his 40 or so years of driving. And this is just a 2-year-old vehicle! He’s plenty mad because he’s just had it serviced. This should not be happening.
The manual says to call Roadside Assistance, but he also has Alberta Motor Association coverage. What to do? Either way it takes a phone call, and he worries if there’s a signal this far into the mountains.
He leans against the vehicle, reading the manual. A motorcycle barrels past. Then it slows, swings round and pulls up in front of him. The rider noses his Harley into the bank, slowly gets off and walks to the Jeep to peer into the engine.
“Phew,” he says. “With a stink like that, I reckon you’ve lost your water pump.”
Brewster recognizes the Motorbike Man from Golden. The speakers on his bike are blaring some song from the Man in Black.
“I thought you were going the other way,” Brewster says. “Thanks for stopping. Not much traffic today. I’m just about to call Roadside Assistance. I think that’s the best call to make, rather than AMA in these circumstances.”
“True,” Motorbike Man says. “I’ve heard Chrysler is pretty good about that. I’ll wait till you get through.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” Brewster says. “Don’t want to put you out. I’m sure I’ll be okay. How far do you reckon we are from somewhere?”
“I’d say about 30 clicks to Revelstoke,” he says. “Not sure if there’s a dealer there. Give it a try.”
“They seem to have everything under control,” Brewster says after he gets off the phone. “A tow truck will be out to get me and the Jeep and take it in to the nearest dealer at Salmon Arm. I’ll just wait here in the sun.”
Brewster offers to share his freshly filled thermos coffee with Motorbike Man, who does not appear to be in a hurry to be on his way.
“I’m glad this little turnout showed up just when I needed it,” Brewster says, looking round the rock walls of his mini gravel pit. “Just as well this didn’t happen further up the road, like in the snow sheds.”
“Might say someone’s looking out for you. By the way, name’s Jess. I live in Okotoks. You?”
Just as Brewster is ready to identify himself, the haunting song “Hallelujah” comes through the bike speakers. A big and sudden change from the Man in Black. The men are quiet.
“That’s neat,” Brewster says. “Who’s singing?”
“It’s kd lang. She’s big now, gone all the way from small-town Alberta to the world stage,” Jess says. “I just love that version. Written by Leonard Cohen. He’s Canadian too. But kd lang sings it to perfection. Very moving.”
“Got that right. Didn’t she sing that at the Olympics?”
“You got it—opening ceremony in Vancouver couple years ago. Billions of people heard it that time. Song’s been around a long time, since the eighties I think, but she brought it back to the top. Never get tired of listening to it myself.”
Silence.
“Um I was gonna say, I’m Brewster. Live in Calgary; been there most of my life. Wife and I had a business for about 10 years until …” He chokes.
“Lose your wife, eh? Sorry to hear that. Recent?”
Brewster stands up from where he’s been leaning on the Jeep. Jess stays half seated on his bike and watches Brewster move to the back, lift the tailgate and pull out a folding lawn chair. He returns to where Jess is, arranges the chair into the sunshine and sits. He’s not sure he wants to open up to a stranger, but the fellow seems pleasant enough, even though he’s dressed in black leathers and rides a Harley.
Jess pulls a couple of chocolate bars from his pannier. “Let’s enjoy these, and I’ll be on my way. Tow boys’ll be a couple of hours getting here, I reckon.”
Blue jays and whisky jacks cackle in the pines. Chickadees flit through the aspen across the highway. Every now and then, there’s a burst of traffic in either direction, and then there’s quiet. The only sound now is the crinkling as both men unwrap their chocolate bars.
“Thanks, Jess,” Brewster says. “This is good. Melanie died a year ago. She was killed on a crosswalk.”
“Oh, man. That’s tough. Sounds like you two were pretty close. Funnily enough, I think I remember that. Someone from Okotoks, wasn’t it, or Black Diamond?”
“Yeah, somewhere south of the city. Poor wom
an. I lost my wife, and the kids lost their mother, but she has to live with it. Got a young family too. Even though the orange overhead pedestrian light was flashing, she didn’t slow down after changing lanes and didn’t see my wife in front of the stopped car. Ploughed straight into Melanie, killing her instantly.”
Brewster scuffs his shoe in the gravel. Jess looks across the highway. The awkward silence of two men not knowing what to say to each other.
Why did I tell him that? Brewster argues with himself. It’s bad enough without blabbing about it.
“I guess that’s why you’re out here on the road,” Jess says. “I thought in Golden you were doing it hard. Ah, how are the kids?”
“This excursion is my daughter’s idea,” Brewster says. “She says I gotta get it together like they have, instead of moping. She figured a road trip might help, to see the places where Melanie and I visited and enjoyed. Now, this. It makes me out a double loser.”
“Hey, don’t go down that road, man. It’s a dead—um, I mean, no exit. My wife, Janey, is a counsellor. She knows how to put up with me.”
“I really thought Mel and I would grow old together. Y’know, that Rockwell image of holding hands in our rocking chairs by the fire?” He smiles at the thought of it. “Our son and daughter have dealt with it well. The oldest, Harris, headed back to his sailing school in Australia right after the funeral. Hannah is so like her mother, and she’s at Acadia University in Nova Scotia. They both called me on the anniversary, and we had good talks. I was the wimp and couldn’t stop the tears. They’re good kids, doing what’s in them to do and pushing ahead, growing into their unique lives. Of course they want me to do the same.” Grinning, he adds, “And they are very blunt about it!”
Jess stands and stretches. “Sounds like you’re getting good advice there. You’ll be fine. If you’re ever in Okotoks, you can always find me at the motorcycle shop.” The starter whirrs and the bike growls to life. He revs the throttle, drowning out John Denver’s “Annie.” “Tell ya what. Wherever you are tonight, you should write your wife a letter. My Janey would suggest that, I know.” He wheels his bike around, smiles and idles out to the highway. With a short skid in the gravel and a wave, he is gone.
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