Uncharted

by Graeme Connell

  The depth of her own feelings for Brewster surprise her. He’s done nothing to lead her on, but there is something about him she cannot place. He’s grown on her since that first meeting at the park. A bit of a charmer, she thinks, clever and a smart man to be with. She found herself making excuses for them to meet. She admired the way Brewster always tried to communicate better with her, looking at her when he spoke, willing to try a few signs and repeating his comments when she did not detect his phrasing. He was quick with his notes for clarity, and he was usually very courteous. He even understood some of her French expressions. But why the blow-up?

  If she did decide to get back into the project, she’d have to be a bit more guarded to avoid being hurt again. Hearts cannot rule in business, and the book is all about business. She finds it difficult to recall when she’d spent so much time with a man since Pierre left. True, she’s flirted with doctors and male staff at the hospital from time to time, but nothing more. That is her workplace, and she means to keep it that way.

  Who wants a deaf woman?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Brewster freezes. Directly in front of him, a mule deer lifts his head and stares, transfixed. No movement. He holds the young buck’s gaze and can see the fuzz on the sprouting antlers. This is beauty in the forest, and it’s a treasured moment a camera cannot capture. The deer drops his head and continues to browse on the grassy meadow. Wow, Brewster thinks, not wanting to move. The deer lifts his head, unfazed, and quietly high steps into the shelter of the aspens.

  Glorious morning. The sunshiny blue sky casts good light into the undergrowth. Maybe today the striped coralroot will show itself to the world. Brewster is energized.

  “How I wish you were here, Melanie,” he says, hoping the deer might still be within earshot. “You’d be able to see this plant. There has to be a specimen here somewhere. Please, please.”

  As far as he knows, Brewster has searched all of their frequented locations. He has not been able to pinpoint the spot where he’d photographed it before in the park. That one time Melanie had found it, the mid-afternoon light was so poor he’d not been able to get a macro photograph. There’s no reference as to its whereabouts in her notes. If only he could remember where it was. He’s searched for the past 10 days—in the rain, in the sun, regardless of the weather. He’s determined to find the plant, photograph it, and then hopefully get Clotilde fully engaged again, drawing the plant in its natural Fish Creek habitat.

  He is happy that Louise has been able to convince Clotilde to keep going. Her work is almost complete, save for the elusive striped coralroot. Like him, her interest over the past couple of years means that the hurdle of portraying 100 flowers of the forest is within reach.

  One thing the blow-up has revealed is his liking for Clotilde. He wants to see her and be with her, though he knows he’s carrying a lot of baggage, which at times doesn’t make him a very good companion. Maybe when the tension of the project is over, they will find a new and better connection. Until then, he realizes he has a lot of thinking to do and steps to take to corral his grief. He’s glad though that Clotilde levelled with him, calling him a self-absorbed nutcase and shut the door in his face. It was a good wake-up call about how his moods affect other people.

  Brewster pauses on the gravel path. In front of him on the sunny side is a nice, healthy grouping of his blue asters—the showy aster, probably. He never could tell them apart. He looks around, and there’s no one near. “Melanie? Are you signing me now?”

  The only sound is the crunching of the tiny stones under his feet as he pulls his gear behind in the roller-wheeled camera case. Another search day done. Perhaps tomorrow. But it’s already mid-July. Too late? Then again, the plant doesn’t always show itself each year, and the spring floods may have ripped the plant away or buried it in the fine, choking silt. Like all orchids, the coralroot fascinates in that it needs fungi in the decaying forest floor matter to grow. If the fungus is not there, then there’s no coralroot. And who knows what changes can occur from year to year? He is sure he’s scoured every possible site. He begins to doubt his stance on finding the plant in the park. Should he acquiesce and use the Kananaskis picture?

  Tomorrow. Maybe it’ll show tomorrow.

  #

  There are only a couple of other vehicles in the car park when he arrives. Still early for much of the mid-week crowd. He feels as though he has this wonderful place to himself today. He sits on the tailgate, drinking his coffee and reviewing his plan of the pathways. The routes he’s already searched have been marked. Where else is there?

  Today, he’s out to check a couple of places where they’d wandered deeper along the bike trails. His biggest discomfort may be mosquitoes. The trails of his new search cut through old and new forest, spruce and poplar. The undergrowth is largely dogwood, saskatoon, wildrose and wolf willow. Perhaps this is where he might find the elusive coralroot poking up through the decaying leaf and needle detritus.

  He closes up his vehicle, pulls up the handle of his camera case and heads east, first along a paved trail and then on to the gravel path to a bridge over Fish Creek itself. He looks afresh at his reject pictures as he walks. The plant does not have leaves; it’s a funny, pinkish-yellowy stalk sticking up maybe 30 centimetres or so. He smiles. He’s really looking for a stick, and there are plenty of those around, so a flowering stalk would help. It’s a beautiful morning, clear and warm. He’s feeling good about things, but has no idea why.

  He crosses the bridge and reaches his key point of interest. He heads off trail and carefully uses his hiking pole to push aside the undergrowth around and near the bases of the spruce. His search absorbs him, and he’s thankful that there are fewer visitors around. He’s left his black bag with the handle sticking up at the side of the path.

  “What are you doing?” a small voice calls. “Have you lost something?”

  Brewster looks across the undergrowth back to the path. “I’m looking for a plant,” he says, thinking this is a pretty lame thing to say. He gently retraces his steps to see a girl about seven years old looking up at him from under a huge-brimmed pink straw hat.

  “I thought you were Tigger,” she says. “I’m looking for Tigger, but I think his house is back there in the big trees. Have you seen Tigger?”

  Brewster thinks for a minute and reconnects with the adventures he had in the park with Harris and Hannah.

  “I haven’t seen him today,” he says. “Perhaps he’s gone to visit Kanga and Roo for lunch?”

  “Yes,” she says. “He does that a lot.”

  “Have you seen Pooh or Piglet around?” Brewster asks.

  “Well,” the little girl says, “not today. We just got here, so I haven’t been to their place yet. What plant? You said you were looking for a plant.”

  “It’s called a striped coralroot. It’s an orchid, and it looks like this,” he says, handing her his photographs. “Are you lost? Where’s your mom and dad?”

  “Oh they’re over on the bridge. They said I could go for a walk ’cause there aren’t many people around. But I have to stay on the path.”

  “Let’s go see them,” Brewster says, wondering how to end this encounter. “Um, what’s your name?”

  “I’m Lily,” she says without looking up from the pictures. “I’ve seen this pretty flower over by Owl’s house—it’s all stripey. I’m not allowed to pick it, my Mom says. Not allowed to do that in the park ’cause it will die.”

  Brewster smiles at the girl’s imagination, reminding him of Hannah at the same age, full of wonder as she played in the park with Harris. The same games.

  “Well, there you are, young girl. You had us worried.”

  Brewster looks up to see a woman coming along the path with a man in a wheelchair.

  “This is my new friend,” Lily calls. “He says Tigger has gone to Kanga’s house for lunch.”

  “I’m
sure he’s right,” the man says. “We’re going over to a picnic spot by the river for lunch. Sorry if our Lily has been a bother to you,” he says to Brewster as he spins the wheelchair around.

  “No worries,” Brewster says. “I’m searching for a particular flower to photograph for a book I’m working on, for the park administration. It’s about the wildflowers that grow here. I’m determined to find this one, last plant because it was important to my wife.”

  “It’s just like my fairy flowers by Owl’s house,” Lily says again, this time tugging his sleeve. “I can take you there.”

  There’s an awkward silence. Brewster grabs the handle of his case and makes a move.

  “Please, Daddy. We can all go to Owl’s place, and then we can go have lunch,” Lily says. “This is really special. Please?”

  “We’re the Palmers,” the woman says. She smiles and offers her hand. “I’m Holly, and this is my husband, Wendell.”

  “Brewster,” he says, shaking her hand. “Brewster McWhirtle.”

  “Come on, Lily. Take us to Owl’s place,” Wendell says, and they follow her back across the bridge, past the barns and along the path that borders the river. Lily skips ahead and darts into the undergrowth towards the riverbank.

  “Here,” she shouts. “Here it is! Just like your picture.”

  Brewster is overwhelmed as he bends over the tiny plant, nothing more than a cluster of easily missed, pinkish sticks in the ground with a cascade of striped flowers. He looks at Lily’s parents. “I’m dumbfounded. How did she know? I would never expect anyone, least of all a little girl, to spot and remember this plant,” he says. “I’ve spent the past 10 days wandering around and looking for it. I think I was here in this same spot just a few days ago. There was light rain though.”

  “I lost my ring here,” Lily says. “But we had to go home before I found it. Yesterday, Owl showed me to come here by these fairy flowers.” She sits beside them, smoothing out her colourful cotton sundress. She holds her hand out in an almost reverent touch to the coralroot.

  The lighting is perfect to create an eye-catching vignette. Brewster lifts his camera and asks Holly and Wendell if he can take the photograph. They nod and watch him as he quietly shoots several frames. “I’ll print you a copy,” he says, standing back to take some general location shots.

  Holly and Wendell smile. “She has quite the imagination,” Holly says. “We were here a couple of days ago, and Lily was skipping through here hoping to see a garter snake when she lost her chunky star ring the hospital gave her for being brave. It’s very special to her.”

  Brewster nods and smiles, not sure what to say or do. “Thanks, Lily,” he says. “I’m coming back tomorrow to take some more pictures of that plant, and I have to tell the parks people to invite their artist to come and make some really great drawings for a flower book.”

  Lily beams and points at nothing more than her imagination up on the nearby poplar tree. “Thanks, Owl,” she calls. “See you tomorrow.”

  They walk back to the parking lot, and on the way Holly and Wendell open up about their daughter, the illness that keeps her in hospital and the car accident that put Wendell into the wheelchair.

  “It’s been a rough couple of years,” Holly says. “But we are so thankful for every day we have together. Wendell may never walk again, and we trust God that Lily will get better. She loves these short visits to this park. She’s free, and if tomorrow is sunny and warm, we might get to have her here again. She never wants to go anywhere else.”

  Chapter Thirty

  My Dearest Melanie,

  This has surely been an interesting spring and summer, and one in which your presence has been sorely missed. I have not known which way to turn. It doesn’t matter where I look; I see you with every bunch of blue asters I come across. I wake in the night, and my hand feels across the bed for you, but it is empty. I’d give anything to feel your arm around me, to wake in the morning to hear your sleepy “Good morning, sweetheart.” When people mention you, I tend to tear up. It is so hard to find myself alone and without the one person in this world who knew me perhaps more than I know myself.

  I felt like escaping the city a couple of weeks ago, and I headed down to Waterton. I’m so glad I did. You and I loved it there. It was quiet, even though it did get a bit windy. It was a lovely afternoon on the first day, so I took a trip on the boat down the lake reliving the time when we did it together. Saw a moose and a couple of bears. Lot of people on the boat. Comforting, really, that I was amongst people who did not know me or you. Glad I took a couple of chocolate bars with me and a bottle of water. Next day, it was really windy and the water choppy. I know it would not have been a day for you on the boat. I was tempted to go out again just for the thrill, but I opted more for a drive up to Cameron Lake. Not as windy up there. Found a beautiful crop of glacier lilies that we called the dogtooth violet. I took a few pictures with the small camera. Wind was troubling, but I did get a couple of good pics after sheltering them with the golf umbrella we keep in the car. I had a feeling something or someone was watching me lying there on the ground, and I looked up to see a Steller’s jay sitting on a spruce branch. He looked gorgeous, and I managed to get a couple of shots away before he took off. I’m glad it wasn’t a bear taking an interest in my activity.

  I got back home and found the shock of my life. Our place was transformed. I plead guilty, my love, to the fact that I’ve not lifted a finger to look after the gardens and the lawns, because you are not here. The place was looking really ragged compared with the way it bloomed under your tender care. There’s been no one to go out and water in the mornings, no one to talk to the flowers. Weeds have had a bit of a field day. The grass was long and unkempt. I hadn’t even trimmed the back hedge. I’m so sorry I let it all go. But here I was, turning into the driveway to find five large paper bags stuffed with the work of an unknown group of people.

  I confess to be being a bit ticked at first that these fairies had interfered in my life. After walking around the place, though, I calmed down and muttered a quiet word of thanks to God for whoever was caring enough to give up their time to make a difference.

  I must confess to being a bit selfish, only thinking of myself and what I was feeling. A lot of people miss you. Hannah and Harris miss you. I’m slowly learning that life goes on and that people are dying every hour of every day; “passing” seems to be the favourite word these days in the obit columns. I often wonder if they had such a violent departure from this world. I think I’m learning to accept that Jesus was there with you in that blink of an eye between this world and where you now find yourself. If only I could be sure.

  The gardens look really nice today. We’ve had a bit of rain, but today the sun shines. The chickadees and the nuthatches are back at the feeder now that I’ve taken the time to buy more seed and fill it up for them. I remember how you used to say that every time you went out to the garden, the chickadees arrived with their music. Now when I go out there, I’m joined by their cheerful chirping. I’m happy that I’ve found you in the garden, poking around, pulling weeds or dead-heading some of the blooms. You are part of the garden.

  I told you in a couple of my earlier letters that Jo is overjoyed at taking over ownership of your beloved Blue Aster. She stopped by with young Mikey the other evening after closing up. She brought a couple of arrangements because she figured the house probably needed some new colour. She really is our extra daughter. She chattered along and reminded me of you as she outlined her new promotion plans and how the shop is doing better this year. You certainly laid a good foundation there, Mel. Your touch is everywhere.

  I found out this week that the garden fairies were Claire and Heath and some of their friends. Heath wouldn’t say who, but I guess they were all part of that prayer group you used to be with. When I asked, he said something about how the left hand doesn’t need to know what the right hand is doing. He smile
d at me and told me to accept what I’d been given. I’m not too sure how to take that, and I wonder if there’s a deeper meaning.

  I think I told you about selling the business. That will go ahead, I believe. Joel is taking care of the nitty-gritty. I’m still going over to the Rhodes for their small group night. I’m not much of a contributor; still very cynical and questioning the presence of God. Might get back to the church sometime soon. I think I’ve come to realize that perhaps my faith is still intact, even though I’ve been off the map all this time you’ve been gone. I’ve questioned and fought, wallowed in a mixture of bitterness and anger that is not doing anyone any good. I’ve allowed my emotions to rule, and now I’ve slowly come to terms with the fact that it was not God who left me—I left Him. I’m so sorry, dear, sweet Melanie. Your love for Jesus was so real.

  I really made a mess of things with Clotilde too. She won’t have anything to do with me now, and the only way our book is going ahead is because she works directly with the park people and not with me. Her illustrations are awesome, and I wish you could see them. I know she could hold her own in any botanical art circle. And she’s self-taught too. Picked the style up from her fascination with the detail in medical drawings. Really odd transition, isn’t it?

  I’ll send her a note and hopefully encourage her to reconsider. A sick little girl showed me the location of a striped coralroot she’d found in her Tigger’s forest. It’s a good example, and I’m hoping Clotilde will come down and do her work. It’s all because of this flower, a favourite of yours, that I blew up at her. To me, the striped coralroot is the most significant flower in the book. It’s a lonely and a strikingly beautiful plant. I want my new pictures to show up the red striping and the pink-yellow translucent sparkle of the tiny flower. I know Clotilde will be excited about the plant if I can just get her to come and look.