Uncharted

by Graeme Connell

  Claire seems to be growing increasingly anxious. “Please, Lord, what am I to do? You asked me to come here, but I don’t know what to do or say. Should I just leave quietly?” She is close to tears and seems embarrassed to be left standing there, holding her cup.

  “Melanie told us about that chair,” she says, walking softly into the lounge, “and how you could both fit in it and snuggle and pray together. She called it her wonder chair.”

  “You still here?” he says. “You should be gone.”

  But Claire wants to tell all of her message from Melanie. “There are no answers to all your questions,” she says. “Jesus was with Melanie when she was hit by the car. She says her body was wrecked, but she did not suffer or hurt, and she’s worried because she knows your pain. She says you promised to love her, and you did. Now it is time to move on, to trust Jesus with your pain and your days, just like you used to do. Jesus has not left you. You simply have to talk with Him.”

  He hears her words as she continues to talk about the faith and hope he’d shared with Melanie. Of how they’d read the Bible together and believed in the word of God, knowing that He was first in their lives and would always be with them. He could not get his head around the fact that Melanie had been taken from him. This was not the life they’d hoped and prayed for—just the opposite.

  “Faith is not a matter of what you have,” Claire says. “Faith is what you have not seen. Jesus gives us that faith and the hope of days to come. Melanie told me this not long after we met, and it certainly helped with me and Heath.”

  Her words reach deep within him and find all the times he and Melanie sat together in that chair. When they had argued and not talked to each other; when they’d hurt and come together; when they’d cried and shed tears for the love of Christ.

  Claire talks on and off for a while. “The only answers we can get when we ask God questions or get angry are in His word.”

  Brewster breaks his silence. “Doesn’t make sense—just doesn’t make sense.” He’s pretty cynical about everything, but he keeps his words to himself. He says nothing, afraid he’ll blow. He closes his eyes, not wanting to yield, only wanting to let go of the hurt.

  “Brewster, you are a good man. Goodness, Melanie told us that so often when we met. Don’t let bitterness rule your life. Let Christ connect your head and your heart and enjoy your fellowship with Him. Just remember what you have learned, and most of all the cross and what that means.”

  Claire tiptoes quietly from the room and without a sound leaves the house.

  #

  It’s dark when Brewster opens his eyes. Must’ve dozed off. Was all that a dream? But no, there are our cups. Yes, we had tea, and she told me to get my act together. Well, she reckoned that’s what Melanie wanted her to say. And that God had somehow forced her to come here.

  He closes his eyes again, not wanting to get out of the chair that held so many dreams and so much warmth of a person with whom he once shared it. “I love you, Melanie,” he says. “We’ll always be together, but how do I continue by myself?”

  Her Bible is still on the coffee table; Hannah and the packers had left it alone. It has not been touched since the day she left to get her hair done. So long ago. They’d even read it together that very morning over coffee. He reaches for it and thinks about their conversation about moving forward, knowing that they could not live in the past. Her Bible is bookmarked at the place the apostle Paul talks about reaching forward to the things that are ahead.

  Was that prophetic? he wonders as he looks at the page they’d last read together. That faith is a journey forward? Claire’s words push him to think of all that has transpired in his life since the accident. Anger, bitterness and isolation—and yet with all that, not a thing has changed, and certainly Melanie has not come back. He knows that will never occur.

  What’s a man to do?

  Tears roll from his tired eyes. He’s alone in the room, yet he feels a hand on his shoulder. His back and shoulders feel unusually hot, and he begins to weep uncontrollably as the tide of grief surges through him. Encouraging promises from the Bible come to mind. He hears Melanie reading them, and tears stream down his face. His mouth waters, and he cannot speak for crying. His body shakes, and he mumbles quietly the words of an old song, “O lamb of God, I come, I come …”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They’re in here somewhere. Brewster rummages through his drawers and then heads to the laundry room, searching for his long-forgotten jogging shorts. He finds them in a pile of washed, folded clothing left by Melanie. He realizes now how he’s existed in a cloaked numbness. This morning, he’s fresh and feeling a new energy, and he heads out for a quiet run just as he used to. Trouble is, he has only a vague recollection as to how he got through the night. Claire was here, and he fell asleep in the chair. But getting to bed, sleeping right through the night for the first time in a year, waking refreshed and wanting to run? Maybe he’ll remember how it all happened by the time he reaches the park.

  #

  A couple of hours later, he steps from the shower and checks himself in the mirror as he towels off. His hair has grown back, and his arm is free of its cast. Yes, he’s the same man who looked in here yesterday, but today there’s something different. The run was a struggle, covering maybe three of his five-kilometre circuit. He had to favour his injured ankle and reawaken long-forgotten muscles. Today he has work to do: attack the wildflower project afresh, honour his wife and re-invoke the passion she shared with him for flowers, their garden, The Blue Aster and the park.

  Over the past few weeks, he’s tried to remain buoyed by Irene’s encouragement to keep going when all he wanted to do was stop. He picks up Melanie’s notes and begins to rewrite them to accompany his pictures, noting location, time and day, as well as weather and her personal quips like “lovely to see again,” “a rare one,” “common,” “fascinating,” “important” and “need more information.” He pauses to read and reread the extra notation she’s included in her notes for blue-eyed grass.

  As for man, his days are like grass,

  As a flower of the field, so he flourishes,

  When the wind has passed over it, it is no more,

  And its place acknowledges it is no longer.

  —Psalm 103:15–16

  Now, when did she put that there? He finds similar quotations throughout the notebook. She loved her Bible, and she loved the creation, the value of flowers in the plant kingdom, in the life of the planet. He quietly acknowledges all she has taught him about how thrilling life is.

  He adds the quotation to the batch of notes and pictures he emails to Clotilde. “See you this afternoon at the library,” he adds.

  Clotilde suggested the meeting, and although he knows it’s to talk about the flowers and their project, it’s a good excuse for him to see her again. Communication is challenging, and he knows he has to always remember to look at her when he speaks. But he must move his lips differently because a lot of the time, she doesn’t get it. Maybe he mumbles too much. He writes notes and tries to put aside his mild frustration at the miscommunication.

  She’s a beautiful woman, and this causes him to feel a little uncomfortable, always looking directly into her face when he speaks. He wants to know more about her but doesn’t know how to ask, and he shouldn’t ask either. This is just another business meeting. Let’s face it, Brewster: you’re attracted to her. Today will be a quick meeting. A check on the transfer of documents and progress to date on the goal of 100 wildflowers they’d nominated for the book.

  #

  “Hello, Mr. McWhirtle. Nice day out there,” the ever-cheerful Jane greets him as he enters his office. He smiles and thinks this must be some sort of code as Joel greets him from his office doorway.

  They spend a quiet hour shooting the breeze and going through the business issues since their last meeting. All is well. Brewster is than
kful his business runs so well with Joel at the helm.

  “I should have all the paperwork to hand over the shop to Jo and Danny next week,” Joel says. “Man, they are one excited couple at what you have done for them. Jo is over the moon. I’ve been able to settle everything out for a dollar.”

  Joel raises the issue of selling the building and is surprised when Brewster simply asks for more information, adding that perhaps he could send the inquiry to his email. “I know I said no deal last time, but perhaps we should take a closer look at the offer,” he says. “I’ll chew it over. Have they given us a time limit?”

  “Not in so many words,” Joel says. “I do have the feeling that they might be looking around in this area. They’ve upped the offer. We should look seriously because it won’t come round again.”

  “I’ve no reason to sell, and Lord knows you’ve done all the work here for the past year,” Brewster says. “I guess with Melanie gone, I’ve lost interest and just want to move on—to what, I don’t know. Perhaps Harris needs some support in Australia. I’m not sure what Hannah will settle on after university. I doubt whether she will be back here. I have the wildflower project to keep me going at present, but in a few weeks that will finish. I’m a bit lost, I suppose. Send me the info, and I’ll get back to you within a day or two. Oh, no—the project. I’m supposed to be at the library soon to meet with the deaf artist. Gotta run.”

  #

  She’s sitting at a table as he walks into the atrium. She looks up, smiles and stands. “Cappuccino?” Brewster nods and smiles back. Good grief, she’s beautiful. Dark hair and her soft olive complexion. He finds himself looking at her shapely legs. He turns away, feeling guilty, as though he’s seen something he shouldn’t have. Why does this woman have to be deaf?

  She sits across from him. She is radiant, and a slight whiff of perfume reaches him. He looks away, trying to focus. He hasn’t felt like this in the presence of a woman for a long time. He’s embarrassed as he reflects on all that he enjoyed with Melanie.

  “I love your pictures and the notes,” Clotilde says, a slight French lilt in her voice. She looks directly at him, and Brewster is mesmerized.

  “Thank you,” he mumbles, and realizes she could not hear or see his lips. He smiles and repeats, “Thank you.”

  Clotilde smooths out her file. “This is terrific. I have finished these 20 you sent, and they can now go to Louise for the park input and documentation. That leaves us with about 80 completed.”

  “Will we get there this summer?” he says, forgetting to look at her. He lifts his head, repeats and knows immediately that she did not get what he said. He writes a note and passes it across.

  She smiles and nods. “I have sketch work done for the balance, I think. I’ve been down there most days, and I’ve been able to do the fieldwork I like.”

  Why is she deaf? he thinks again. Why am I so rattled around this beguiling woman? He mumbles and fumbles and scribbles a note to say that he will have the final 20 pictures and notes to her within a few days. Then his part will be done, and he can go back to his business. Maybe.

  Clotilde looks at him. “Why did you put that Bible verse in?”

  “It was in Melanie’s notes,” he says, this time speaking slowly. She nods. “Melanie used to write Bible verses in lots of odd places, like on photos of flowers or notes on the fridge. Just to encourage me and the kids, I think.”

  “What about you?” she says. “Do you go to church? Are you a Christ believer?”

  “I used to go to church, until Mel got killed. I’ve been pretty upset since then, and I’ve just walked away. Nothing seems to make sense.”

  Clotilde nods with a look of understanding.

  “I’m a bit shaky as a believer right now,” he writes.

  She reads and looks up. “Why shaky? I believe, and I want to go to church again like I did before I went deaf. Jesus is my life, really, but I haven’t come across a church where I can be comfortable as a deaf person. What about your church?”

  “Well, I, er, I don’t know. But I’ll find out for you.”

  “It is so difficult for me. I can feel the worship music and the singing, but I can’t see the person who is doing the speaking. I have to rely on the closed captioning on the television. That doesn’t always work for me, and I’m a bit wary.” She laughs. “My husband used to say they were a bunch of bozos wanting money from shut-ins and blue-rinse widows. Not very kind. I went to one church, and they tried to tell me it was because of something I did, or that it was some sin of my parents. That’s a lot of rot. I’m deaf because I got meningitis. It happens. Really, I’m comfortable with who I am. I’m not a victim, and I don’t see myself as having a disability. I’m deaf—that’s all. My only thing is that I’m alone since my parents died.

  “I still have contact with Pierre—he was my husband—and my son Ben, but that’s not the same. They live in Vancouver, and it’s hard for them to communicate with me. We’ve tried things like FaceTime and Skype.”

  Brewster takes it all in. He feels a lot like a gawky schoolboy having to look into her face as he speaks, her dark shiny eyes smiling at him. He watches her tiny hands control the pencils as she gives a quick demo of how she draws. He notes her focus and delight as the colour shapes a petal. She has precision so exact that he can’t really tell what she is adding.

  What was it Irene said? Learn to sign.

  Brewster wants to keep Clotilde engaged, keep her in front of him for a while longer even though their meeting is all but over. He talks about being alone. She nods. “I’m not so much lonely now that Melanie has gone, but I do feel totally alone.” Maybe, he thinks, I shouldn’t let my life with Melanie overshadow or sour my liking for this adorable woman I have the good fortune to work with.

  Clotilde bundles up her files and stuffs them into her briefcase. “This is a good project,” she says. “I’m enjoying the challenge and the deadline.”

  Brewster enjoys the openness and candour of his collaborator—refreshing and in no way telling him what to do. No demands. He enjoys walking beside her to the car park. There’s that voice in his head: Learn to sign. He realizes this is a must if he wants to enjoy Clotilde’s company after the project.

  #

  The day has been remarkable, and he finds himself very reluctant to go home to his empty house. He thinks about picking up a supermarket meal to go, or perhaps he should try the hotel trick again. Aloneness strikes, especially after what had turned out to be a warm and productive day.

  Supermarket to go meal wins and he stops in to pick up a beef dish and salad. He adds a loaf of bread, vanilla ice cream and a can of apricots. The last thing he wants to do is eat on his own, but what else can he do? He sits at the coffee table in his big chair and slowly works his way through his package meal. He loads a dish with ice cream and apricots and clicks to CBC National on television. Not satisfied with that, he picks up Melanie’s notebook, finds Claire’s number and calls.

  “Claire? Hello, this is Brewster. I just called to thank you for coming over the other day and saying what you did. I do hope I wasn’t too rude to you. You spoke the truth, and I will try to get it all together. So, again, thanks.”

  “How about coming over for supper tomorrow night,” she asks. “We’d love to have you over.

  “Well, um, yes, I could,” he says. “ I’ve just demolished a meal to go from the supermarket, and my cooking is not great. You were obviously a good friend to Melanie, and I do appreciate your words of encouragement. I want to make that change.” He begins to choke up.

  “Okay, then, till tomorrow, say about 6:30 p.m.,” she says.

  He hangs up, visualizes a cake plate and wonders if the antique store would know what he was talking about.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Hello, Irene. Brewster here. Please call me. I’ve got a man question.” Brewster laughs at his own message. “Ma
n question.” That’ll appeal to her. And sure enough, it does. That evening she calls him and responds to his simple question of what he should do when he visits Claire and Heath for supper.

  “It’s like this,” he says. “A few days after Melanie’s accident, this lady turns up at my door with yet another cake. I was angry and bitter, and the last thing I needed was to have to be nice and visit with one of Mel’s friends. I waved my hands around and knocked the cake plate from her hands, and it lay in pieces on the concrete path. She left in tears.

  “She bravely visited me the other day. I didn’t recognize her at first until she smiled and said, ‘No cake this time.’ I apologized for my terrible behaviour and my rejection of her kindness. I thought maybe I should replace the plate. It’s an old plate, and I’m sure I can find a replacement at the antique store. What do you think?”

  “Off the top of my head, I’d say do it.” Irene hesitates. “On one hand, it’s not necessary; you’ve apologized. Then again, it might be nice to show you value their friendship.”

  “I found a piece of the plate still in the front garden,” he says. “I’ll go check it out and decide then.”

  #

  Peering into the grass and undergrowth as he walks along a favourite path is a peaceful park pursuit for Brewster. He chats quietly with the woman who’d made his life a joy each and every day, and he tells her about Irene’s comments on grief and how it never leaves. “The big how, Mel, is handling it. What is emotional memory, and can it ever be erased? There’s no reformat button that I’m aware of. Nothing to give me a reboot to peace and wholeness.”

  Park users distract him every now and then, and he wonders how many of them know about the flowers that thrive underfoot. A zooming cyclist startles him and all but pushes him into the blooming wild rose bushes. Crushed and furious, he’s about to let fly but thinks better of it. The pathway really belongs to everyone, although he concedes that cyclists could slow down, ring their bells and exercise care. He takes a second look at the rose bush and tries to remember the difference between Alberta’s wild rose and a prairie rose. Could be either; both are roses and both are a pink colour. Peering at the petals, he knows he should be able to tell the two flowers apart. “What, Melanie? What?” He speaks aloud and surprises a couple walking hand-in-hand along the path.