Uncharted

by Graeme Connell

  “You okay, sir?” the young woman asks.

  “Oh, sorry. Yes, quite okay. Just talking to myself, trying to identify which rose this is.”

  She looks at it. “That’s the wild rose, our floral emblem,” she says. “It’s also called a prickly rose.”

  “Yes, that’s it,” he says. “I get prickly and prairie mixed up.”

  She lets go of her friend’s hand and reaches for a bloom. “Best way to tell is this is just one flower on the stem. Prairie has two or more. That’s how I know.”

  “Well, thanks. My wife was the one who knew all the names,” he says rather wistfully.

  “I’m—well, we,” she looks at her boyfriend and takes his hand, “are doing a biology degree over at St. Mary’s Uni, and we do a lot here in the park. I want to go into environmental work somewhere.”

  Brewster wishes them well, and as they head off, she turns and says, “In case you’re interested, there’s a whole bunch of bracted orchids down in that ditch to the right. Lovely little things, but beware—heaps of mosquitoes.”

  Bracted orchid, he thinks. Is that the one Melanie called a frog orchid? He goes into the ditch to check and recognizes the surroundings where he photographed the summer before. He’s happy the cyclist pushed him into the rose bush.

  #

  Melanie’s bench is not occupied, and he sits down, glad it is there and thankful to the park people for acknowledging his request in such a timely way. The warm sunshine soaks in, and he closes his eyes, pondering the days he’s spent bitter at God and angry and nasty to all the people who have reached out to him. These times in the past year are beginning to bother him now.

  “How do I recover from this, Mel?” he asks. “Sure, I’m irritable and frustrated that now I have to live alone, but why pick on people who just wanted to express their love for you. Is this what depression is, just destructive pain?”

  Enough. No pity party in the park. He crashes into a youngster on a bike when he gets up and turns onto the path

  “Whoa, sorry there, young fella,” he says, grabbing the bike’s handlebars and keeping the bike upright. “Sorry about that.”

  “S’okay, Pops,” the boy yells. He dances on the pedals and disappears.

  Pops? Is that what I am now? Pops! Hannah and Harris will laugh at that one. At least that will give me something to talk about with the Rhodes tonight.

  “Those kids in the park, hand-in-hand, were just like Mel and I used to be,” he tells Claire, relating his adventures of the afternoon. “I hope they have what we had.”

  He looks at the table, all laid out for supper. The dishes, just like the one he broke. The same pattern. “Just gotta go out to the car.” He dashes out the door into the rain. It doesn’t take a minute to retrieve his plastic bag and the plate he’d picked up that afternoon at the antique shop.

  After they’re all seated, Brewster offers Claire the package. “For you,” he says with a smile.

  She places it on the table and invites Brewster to join hands with them. Heath says grace. “Thank you, Lord, for bringing Brewster to us tonight. May he find peace in your presence.”

  As Heath hands him the exquisitely prepared filet mignon, Claire opens the plastic bag. She puts her hand to her chest and exclaims, “Brewster!”

  She runs round the table and gives him a hug. “You darling. Where’d you find it? I thought I’d never be able to replace the one that, er, accidentally ended up in the garden. Look, honey,” she says, turning to Heath. “My missing cake plate.”

  It’s a wonderful meal with tiny whole potatoes, crunchy carrots and a mixed green salad accompanying the filet. It’s been a long time since Brewster enjoyed such a complete, home-cooked meal. They talk about politics, world events, city planning and Hannah and Harris until Claire rises, clears the plates and suggests they enjoy dessert. “You like lemon meringue pie?” she asks. Then she laughs and disappears into the kitchen.

  “Quite the woman,” Heath says. “I’m so glad we were able to work through things. Your Melanie was responsible for that.”

  Brewster smiles and gently changes the topic to the whereabouts of their daughters.

  “Netball practice,” Heath says. “Their coach picked them up tonight, so it worked out well we could have you over.”

  After the discussion he’d had with Claire just a few days ago, Brewster fully expects the coffee gabfest in the lounge after the magnificent pie dessert to be about his attitude toward God. But no. They enjoy light but energizing conversation about their children, the opportunities for them in today’s world and their pending vacation before school returns.

  As he is about to leave, Heath leans over and suggests that if Brewster is not comfortable about going to church just yet, maybe he wants to be part of their house group every other week. “There’s only eight of us. We talk about the previous week’s message, or whatever is on someone’s mind. We don’t have an agenda. It’s about friendship and a few nibbles that everyone contributes, and we always wind up by 10:00. Call me if you need an evening in good company.”

  Brewster walks to his car. The rain has stopped, leaving everything smelling clean and glistening in the street lights. He drives to the reservoir, keen for a walk in the damp night air along the open pathways. He wants to stay in his warm, happy place, thankful that he knows people care about him.

  No man is an island, he thinks, and he considers where that expression might have come from. He’ll Google it later, just in case it’s connected to something that might take him a step further in reining in his grief.

  Twinkling lights across the lake add to his peace of mind. “Grief will always be with you,” Irene had said. “It’s part of your emotional memory, and in saying that, it must not be allowed to control you.”

  “Perhaps I have to let you go, Mel,” he says. “I have to release you into your new life in that place you always said you wanted to be one day. This is so hard. I’m selfish. I want you to be with me.”

  Tiny spots of rain dab his cheeks, and he scurries back to the car, mindful that if he is to live at all, he must release his wife, smile for all the good times and be the man she knows him to be.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hello Clotilde,

  I was down at the park yesterday and revisited an old location to check on the bracted orchids. I do have some photos taken last summer, but think I might go back to see if I can get a better shot. I don’t think I’ve passed this one to you as yet. Have you worked on this beauty? Melanie used to call it a frog orchid. Let me know, or I can give you directions to this little plot of wonder.

  Brewster

  Brewster clicks send and heads to the kitchen for his solitary breakfast. He pulls the yogurt and milk from the fridge. The espresso machine hisses, and the toaster crackles. It’s pretty much the same routine he had when Melanie sat opposite him. He smiles at her empty chair. This was always a good time of the day. For the first time since the accident, he pauses for a short prayer of thanks, just as he used to do.

  The day is filled at the computer, selecting and editing his flower pictures to give the best possible view to the passer-by keen to put a name to what they see. Melanie’s notebooks provide general information. She’s detailed simple things like what the stem looks like, how the leaves are arranged and the ground and surrounding growth. He laughs that his lack of specific knowledge means he has to guess which description belongs to which flower. Thankfully, the enchanting Clotilde has a much better grasp of the plant kingdom. It’s a bit odd that he’s the least knowledgeable, and yet it was through him that the project started. He’s thankful for what Melanie taught him: to appreciate the ground he walks across.

  The email pings—a message from Clotilde.

  Hi Brewster,

  I’m good with the bracted orchid. Lovely little plant, and quite shy unless you know what you’re looking for. Thanks for
the tip, but we have it. I look forward to seeing your new picture.

  C

  Rats. That means I’ll be on my own for the rest of the day. Oh, well. Lots to do here.

  The email pings again.

  Brewster,

  Please call me when you have a chance.

  Irene

  Odd, he thinks. Irene’s not made this sort of contact before. He goes to the lounge, reaches for his phone and dials.

  “Brewster, thanks for calling. Fast response. What are you doing?”

  “Just editing another batch of photographs for Clotilde. What’s up? Sounds like you have something on your mind.”

  “Yes, yes,” she says, her voice quavering. “Can I come over?”

  “Why, for sure. Now?”

  “Yes. I’ll be right there.”

  “Okay, see you soon. Oh, if you’d like to stay for supper, can you pick up a loaf of bread on the way? I’m all out.”

  Brewster’s perplexed. Something is bothering his friend, and he’s not sure he’s the right person to provide any sort of help. Maybe he’s just a pair of good ears. Well, with company coming there’s time to do the dishes, tidy up and get some coffee brewing. He’s not used to having people in the house. He looks around and sees he’s living like a lazy slob. At least he can clean up the lounge and the kitchen and shut a few doors. He opens some windows to get a draft and freshen the air. He hasn’t paid any attention to the house since Hannah left, since the big tidying-up of Melanie’s belongings. Claire hadn’t said a word either—another reminder to get his act together.

  He’s at the door as Irene pulls into the driveway. She has a loaf of bread in one hand and her purse in the other. He greets her, and as she says hello, she bursts into tears.

  “Irene. What is it? Come on in.” He hugs her trembling body. Without any words, he takes the bread from her, leads her to the lounge and sits her on the sofa. She’s clutching an envelope. Tissues, tissues. Where? Oh, right there on the coffee table. Irene plucks one from the box.

  “Black, no sugar, right?” he says, handing her a coffee.

  “Thank you, Brewster.” She gently dabs her eyes and dries the tears from her cheeks. “If I had a brother, he’d be you,” she smiles, close to tears again as she sips her coffee.

  Brewster sits in his chair and looks at her. How can he provide any comfort? Moreover, what has put this organized, easy-going person in such a state?

  “Sorry, Brewster,” she says. “I never thought this day would come. Somehow it seemed far away. I’ve been up all night and wanted to call you, but you have stuff of your own to deal with.”

  He has no idea what he can say or do to bring comfort. He gets up, sits beside her on the sofa and puts his arm across her shoulder. She leans in, sobbing.

  Boy, this must be serious, he thinks. A few minutes later, he takes the half-empty cup from her as she gets up to use the bathroom. He quietly hopes it’s clean enough for her, and he’s glad that he’d put a fresh towel on the rack.

  Irene returns after splashing her face with water. Her eyes are red, and her face is puffy. “I’ll be okay now. Thanks,” she says, attempting a smile.

  Brewster is back in his chair, and Irene sits and curls her legs up on the sofa, tucking a cushion under her arm. She sighs deeply. “Bit of shock, really,” she says. “All those years of waiting. All those years of hoping and yet always knowing it would probably come to this.”

  “What is it, Irene? It’s like you’ve been hit by a tornado.”

  “When I got home yesterday, there was a message on my phone to call a company in Toronto. I thought it might be something to do with the Nicaragua thing, so I called the number. It was a lawyer.” Her voice fades, and she’s close to tears again.

  “Is it about Mark?” Brewster asks. “Has something happened?”

  “Yes.” There’s a long pause. “A lawyer. I hear it from a lawyer, of all people. I’m extremely upset, and now I’m so mad.”

  Almost without taking a breath, Irene relates what she’d been told: Mark wants a divorce as soon as possible. “I think he’s somewhere in South America. The lawyer said that now I’ve confirmed my address, he’ll courier a package to me this week.”

  “Good grief, that’s a strange one,” he says. “And you’ve never had any inkling of what Mark has been doing?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing for 20 years, and then I get this—from a Toronto lawyer, no less. He reckoned he’d been trying to find me for a couple of years. Didn’t try very hard. Good grief, I’m even on Facebook and LinkedIn! Didn’t try very hard.”

  “Well, now we know he’s alive somewhere. Divorce? Wonder what’s brought that on?” He just wants her to talk it all out.

  “I was so blown away by what he was telling me that I didn’t catch it all. Anyway, even the lawyer doesn’t know it all. Just says that he’s been favoured with instructions. Ha. Favoured with instructions from Mr. Steele. Ha.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “We’ll see what’s in the package the lawyer is sending me,” she says. “I’m really sad—no, horrified and hurt—that my life has come to this, even though the writing has been on the wall for a hundred years.”

  She adds that she’d love to know what Mark has been up to all these years, but then again, she wouldn’t. Irene continues to vent until there are no more words to say. She stretches and curls up on the sofa. Brewster watches as she falls asleep.

  He gets a blanket, covers her and heads to the bedroom to make his bed and clean up other parts of the house. An hour goes by, and she’s still sleeping. It’s dark now, and he wonders if he should make a meal or leave her.

  She’d said she’d not slept through the night. She must be totally bagged. The shock and no sleep. He gently lifts her from the sofa, carries her to the bedroom, lays her on the clean sheets and draws the covers over her. She barely stirs. He leaves her and quietly closes the door.

  A boiled egg and toast from the bread she’d brought over provide him with a welcome supper. If she wakes, I’ll do the same for her. He turns on the television and watches the news. That done, he tiptoes to his bedroom and peeps in. No movement. She is lost to the world.

  The closet in Melanie’s office yields a duvet, and he settles on the sofa. He’s glad that his friend has a place to talk herself out. A rough night has smoothed into comfortable rest. He’ll take the morning as it comes. “Been a good few years since I did this, Melanie,” he murmurs. “Maybe when you had that gallbladder operation.”

  He wakes around 2:00 a.m. It takes a while to figure out why he’s on the sofa. Then he remembers and peeks into his bedroom to see an empty bed. He looks out the lounge window.

  Her car is gone from the driveway.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Three days later, Brewster closes the front door behind him and breathes deeply. Home. It’s been a hectic but satisfying day at the office, catching up on business and sharing with Joel all the things involved in a possible sale of the building.

  He puts his supermarket supper-to-go into the toaster oven to keep warm while he changes into his sweats. Tonight it’s a rib dinner with mashed potatoes, gravy and peas. He takes the time to make up a salad of lettuce, carrots, slices of red and yellow peppers and raspberry vinaigrette. He even takes the time to set a place at the dining room table, lays out the newspaper he didn’t get a chance to read that morning and settles in for his solitary meal. As he gives thanks, he asks God for wisdom while Irene works through her unexpected circumstances.

  He thinks about a dessert and wishes now that he’d picked something up at the supermarket. The fridge yields a container half full of soft ice cream. He opens it; lots of crystals. He sniffs it, pokes his finger in and tastes. Should be okay. He scrapes away the crystals, puts a couple of dollops into a bowl, figures it looks lonely and adds a couple of teaspoons of raspberry
jam on top.

  “Colour is good,” he says before stirring it up. “Well, at least it’s tasty, but not sure I’ll do this again.”

  He thinks he can hear Melanie laughing and saying, “Typical man. If you’d looked a bit further into the fridge, you’d have found a bottle of caramel topping.”

  Did he just hear her? He goes to the fridge anyway. Sure enough, there at the back on the second shelf is a bottle of caramel fudge topping, probably left (like the ice cream) by Hannah.

  #

  With his dishes washed and dried, he heads to his computer, where he finds two messages of immediate interest amongst the newsletters.

  Hello Brewster,

  I’ve got the package from the lawyer. I’d like to go through it with you tomorrow, if I can. He’s asked for all the signatures to be done ASAP, but I want to bounce this off you before I do. Let me know a good time. I’m flexible all day.

  Irene

  He rocks back on his chair. How to respond?

  Irene,

  How about we meet at my office? I have to be there all day tomorrow, so why not drop by about 10-ish? Happy to help you through this.

  Brewster

  A brief, cheerful note from Clotilde. One more step in completing the wildflower project. He smiles as he reads.

  Hi Brewster,

  I’m down to my final drawings based on your previous attachment. I think we should get together and review where we are at. I think we need one or two more studies to complete the 100 wildflower theme. Can you do Monday at 11:00 a.m. at the library?

  Clotilde

  Clotilde,

  Fine by me. I look forward to the review of everything we have. Nice to know we’re just about there.