The Particular Appeal of Gillian Pugsley

by Susan Örnbratt

  “Here. Use this instead. You’ll never find your page like that, and besides the clover will crumble and get lost in those words forever.” He opened his pocket watch then carefully set the four-leaf clover inside the case cover. Gently closing it, he let the chain dangle from his finger as the watch swung like a pendulum. “There. Now you have a bookmark.”

  Gillian gazed up at Christian, feeling such an intense love it was almost painful. “A good luck bookmark,” she sighed.

  Chapter 11 - 2003

  I used to long for riches

  The key—or so I thought –

  To all the things the world has got,

  To smooth life’s tortuous road.

  But passing time has proved to me,

  The things I value most,

  Are yours, or mine and have no price,

  Though priceless in their worth.

  A kiss of love, the smile of a friend,

  The clouds are silver lined.

  And whether to castle or cottage they come,

  Each brings something no riches can buy.

  Chapter 11

  2003

  Saturday morning is proving to be optimistic here at the farm. I woke up after all and that’s something poor old Angus couldn’t do the morning I found him next to me, motionless. He hadn’t even twitched in his sleep, but it was his time and I was grateful he hadn’t suffered the way I’ve been. Quite frankly, I’m pleased I have another day. I refuse to let damp socks ruin the attire.

  Though the doctors may well be annoyed with me, insisting that I reconsider at once being admitted sooner than later, that remains their problem. As a matter of fact, I think I’ve stumped them that I’m not already packed and shipped away to the heavens. Granted, I refuse to leave this world being told what to do in my final hours; I will dawdle as much as possible. I know it’s only a matter of days before I must say good-bye to this lovely horse farm forever, but until they drag me away, I want to feel the countryside in me. If that means falling dead in the neighbor’s cornfield, causing a swarm of locusts in the flat cold of late November, gnawing on me till there’s nothing left, then so be it. At least I will have left this world in the open air.

  “Grandma?” A tapping at the door pleases me. I always like to have a bit of company. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say, trying to turn up the volume, but I’m afraid low is the only setting I have these days. Gilly pokes her head in, looking concerned that she’s taken me from sleep. “Don’t worry, dear, you didn’t wake me.”

  “Kate said you were napping, but I really wanted to talk to you.”

  “About your book?” I ask curiously.

  “Well …” she says as her eyes turn away from me, “maybe, but not now. Actually, I wanted to take you somewhere.”

  “That’s getting more difficult, I’m afraid, and I’d like to avoid a stroll through the cornfield across the road.”

  Gilly’s brow pinches together. “There’s no corn this time of year, Grandma,” she says patting my hand as though I’ve lost my mind.

  “Where do you want to take me then?”

  “That’s a surprise,” she smiles with a naughty gleam. I can see it in her eyes even behind those dark rims. “You don’t need to worry about anything. If you’re going to the hospital soon, there’s no way I’m going to let this opportunity pass.”

  Opportunity? I’ve always loved that juncture somewhere between surprise and freedom, and goodness knows opportunity is freedom.

  “Well, you don’t need to twist my arm. If I know you, taking me out in this state,” I mumble, eyes whisking over my boney limbs, “it must be for good reason.”

  “Of course it is, Grandma, and what state?” she lies skillfully, “You’re still a vision. I know Grandpa would agree if he was still here.” We both smile at the thought of him.

  “Have you told Kate?” I ask, worried she might dissuade my granddaughter especially with the weather being what it is.

  “Yup, all covered.”

  Secretly anxious that Gilly would be taking me to a crowded place when I can hardly stand let alone focus on more than one voice at a time, she surprises me by helping me into a snowsuit… I repeat, a snowsuit, of all things! If her plan is to plonk me on that old splintered toboggan—I still prefer that word to sledge no matter where my loyalties might lie. I sigh, suddenly feeling dozy. Losing my train of thought irritates me. Where was I? Right… the toboggan… on which we used to sail through the winter many moons ago… she is either conspiring to end my misery with this glob of cancer or she’s forgotten that I’m eighty-nine years old.

  I look at her as she rounds the driveway and out onto the main road, as confident as I used to be behind the wheel. Snow is piled at the sides but the road seems clear enough after the ice storm the other day. It’s unusual for late November. Reminds me of the seventies when Angus and I had to cross-country ski just to pick up a carton of milk at Mac’s. I always loved the feeling of being snowed-in, and London never disappointed in those days. But ice storms are only beautiful from the quiet of one’s lair.

  As I look out the car window, trees snapped in half lay fruitless on the ground. Yet the one car that’s passed us barreled through with an edgy confidence. It makes me want to pull the collar of my snowsuit high around my neck like a guardrail. Admittedly, gazing out the window I wonder what on earth my granddaughter is thinking taking me out in this. Though the alternative leaves me dry. Anyhow, she’s bundled me up like a furry banana, so tightly I’m not sure I can breathe, but she’s certainly snatched my attention.

  Just when I think we’re out for a long drive, it turns out we’ve only gone ‘round the property to the far end. Gilly swings off the main road onto my son’s old dirt trail that’s blocked by a long steel netted gate. Perhaps it was put there to contain the sheep that used to graze on the property before my son bought it. At any rate, Gilly darts out of the car to open it. She looks like a real country girl when I see her do things like that, a furry sort of wellington to her knees, rubbery and warm-looking, a long parka to keep the bottom toasty, and a tuque pulled over her ears. She jumps back into the car then rolls along the trail that’s just two strips of dirt, wide enough for a tractor. Today it’s covered in a thick layer of snow as it winds through a wooded area filled with white trilliums in the springtime. I used to come here with Angus just to see the forest floor waving hello in the breeze. And if I squint my eyes now, the white of the snow could almost pass for them.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask curiously.

  “Shhh, no questions, Grandma. But you’ll have to do a little bit of walking,” she sighs. “Don’t worry, though, just hold onto me nice and tight.”

  For the first time in too long, I feel that kick of excitement.

  Narnia. That’s the only word that comes to mind as I walk with my arm coiled in my granddaughter’s. She’s nearly sewn into me she’s gripped so hard. But a path of hay has been laid down just for me, I think. And with boots that could easily be mistaken for snowshoes, I manage well enough. I don’t know why the hospitals keep patients pinned to their rooms when just a breath of this icy air is like a shot of whiskey. Wakes you up! The proof is in the puffs of air billowing from your mouth—a glorious reminder that you’re still alive.

  The path has straightened and though I’ve seen the woodland much like this before—a gaggle of trees heavy with snow and the sky as blue as blue—I suspect there’s something else brewing.

  “We’re almost there, Grandma,” Gilly says trying to hide that tingle in her voice that comes with surprising someone you love. I remember feeling it the day we gave Ballerina her new home. Such a sweet feeling! So much more delicious than doing something for yourself. Of course, I’ve always got back ten times what I’ve given. But I do feel that jolt of excitement again as I hear the crunch of snow under my feet. The hay has fallen away as we reach a cluster of branches wrapped in thick ice.

  “I don’t think we can go any further, d
ear,” I mumble.

  “Just wait,” she says as she pushes apart a slew of branches that have wound themselves like grapevine, whorls of icy sculpture.

  As the crackling sound of ice breaking rings in the air, Gilly makes an opening just wide enough for the two of us to slip through.

  As I move forward, it feels as though I’m going from one world into an entirely new one, stepping into a book. The frigid air suddenly warms me though it’s colder in here than all my winters put together. Only a few, select times in life have left me as astonished as this moment. Even Gilly stands beside me without a word leaving her lips.

  The heavy snowfall yesterday has left this place nearly untouched as icy branches have woven into a canopy above us, like a glassy cage of spun sugar. Specks of blue sky try to fight through but lose out to skinny rays of sunshine. The crackling in the opening behind me is quiet now and all I can hear is my breath. Small clouds puff from my mouth. I’m alive!

  Has the brush of the woodland now traced in ice, all gathered here to make this hideaway for me? I glance at my granddaughter thinking, yes but with a little magic from Gilly, I’m sure.

  As a fat starling slips through an opening, curious to see who’s joined in on the fun, I watch like an excited child. It hops along the white floor, the room curtained in glittery ice, as my gaze follows it to two garden lounge chairs placed in the center. Both are draped in sheepskin and sleeping bags with blankets propped at the ends. Between them sits a small table with a thermos and two mugs. And between those, “My poems!” I gasp.

  “What do you think, Grandma?” Gilly sighs.

  I don’t have words. All I can feel is the welling up of tears in my eyes as one finally splashes down my cheek, nearly turning into a tiny icicle. I can’t believe she’s done this for me, and in the same breath, I can. “Here, let me help you,” she says, supporting my arm as we approach the chairs.

  “How did you find this place?” I eventually ask.

  “Sebastian and I found it yesterday when we were out walking.”

  “Oh, how is he?” I say, fond of her newish boyfriend. “Why don’t you bring him ’round to see me?”

  “He’s fine, and I will, I promise. I’ve just been so busy.”

  “I know you have.”

  “He helped with all this,” she says motioning to the lounge chairs and blankets.

  “How kind of him. He’s a real dish that one.”

  “You think so?” she asks, feigning surprise by my comment. She can’t fool me.

  “My dear, I’m old, not blind! You need to keep that one, I’m telling you. There’s more in those eyes of his than simply wanting a good roll in the hay.”

  “Grandma! You’re terrible!”

  I take my granddaughter’s hand. “It’s true, Gilly. That boy’s in love with you, I know it.”

  Gilly’s grin widens and I can see that she feels the same. “Ask me anything and I’ll tell you the truth,” I say pointedly.

  “Okay, why did you really leave Christian?”

  “I meant about you and Sebastian and using your feminine wiles on him to good effect.”

  “You promised,” she snaps.

  “I lied,” I say pursing my lips and brow into a good scowl.

  “Okay. As recompense, you have to name ten lies you’ve told me over the years.”

  “Oh, a challenge! I do like those!” I say biting my lip with my horsey dentures. “Let’s see. Do you remember I plucked your eyebrows for the first time and said that that bald spot had already been there?” I say with my now hairless brow arched as high as my scalp and a cheeky, furtive glare to go with it.

  “I plucked yours, too, and I said the same!” She scowls back.

  “Indeed. Now look at me.” A giggle almost gives me away. “Let’s see, another one. I haven’t defeated you at ping pong fifty-two times either,” I say. “It was only forty-three. But who’s counting?”

  “And I let you win,” my granddaughter spits.

  “I never liked that boy who took you to your high school graduation dance.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “You look silly when you dance.”

  “So do you!”

  “I like you best when you tell stories of malfunctioning, Montezuma’s revenge-ridden bowels no matter how many times I tell you it’s unladylike.”

  “I knew it!” she bellows, nearly bursting.

  A moment of silence eases our laughter as we nestle in our den, steam curling up from our cups.

  “Isn’t it wonderful when your cheeks ache from smiling?” I add.

  “Even better when they ache just at the thought of someone,” Gilly says, squeezing my hand.

  Silence now whirls around our wintery cage—our cups now empty. I can feel the silence nudging my granddaughter until finally she asks me something I have been expecting.

  “Grandma, I’ve been wondering something.”

  “What is it?”

  “I hope it won’t upset you but …” she hesitates. “Are you afraid to die?”

  I glance away trying to sort out my thoughts. “Well, I try to think of it like this. Even in my darkest moments, even when I’ve been angry with the Lord, I’ve never actually doubted Him. I know you feel quite differently, dear, about all that. But for me, it’s comforting to believe that He is there waiting for me. If I’m not afraid of Him, then I’m not afraid to die.”

  “Is it really that simple?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. And even if you never feel the same about the church as I do, you can at least be comforted knowing that I will be there waiting for you,” I say, smiling easily.

  Gilly turns away for a moment. Perhaps she’s trying to gather some strength, not wanting to flood the cage with tears. Yet her movement draws my attention to the table between us. I can avoid it all I want but it’s not going to skitter into the bushes with that starling. I glance at my leather folder tucked inside a Ziploc bag.

  “You want me to read those, don’t you?” I ask.

  Gilly wraps her hands around the mug, warming them. “I need to hear the words from you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m afraid this novel is coming too easily, that I’m missing something between the lines. I haven’t even written a plan, Grandma. What kind of novel starts without a plan?”

  “Perhaps one coming from the heart.”

  “But I’m writing like a fiend. I can’t stop, and I don’t even know what I’m writing until it’s on the screen in front of me.”

  It’s true. She stays up writing until the wolves go to sleep. I see her by that window every night. I crunch what’s left of my brow together, baffled. It’s such a strange phenomenon with writers, the way a story starts to breathe life, the way the characters become real, the way a writer becomes a servant to the story as much as its creator. Writing a story becomes no different than trying to sort out the structure and details of our own lives. If I go to the shop now, how will that affect my child who is needing to be fetched at noon, all while trying to keep secret a surprise party we’ve planned for him for that very afternoon. These problems need to be carefully solved, arranged, and shaped. And that’s what’s happening to Gilly; I know it.

  “And you think my voice will make a difference?” I ask, partly afraid that she’s on to something, that my voice will shake out the real meaning behind my words, the truth that I don’t want her to hear, not even from myself. It’s a battle that I continue to fight because underneath it all, I want her to know everything. And she will when the time is right.

  My granddaughter smiles lightly. “Maybe, but of course you don’t need to read them to me if you don’t want. It’s just…” She stops, momentarily tucking a strand of hair into her tuque. “Sometimes I wish you could get into my head, not so much because of the book but because I’m afraid you may never know what you’ve meant to my life.”

  “But I do know. That’s the one beautiful thing about growing old. You slowly come to realize the important thing
s in life. You begin to see the truth in people, what makes them worthy of your devotion. With you, it’s been different. Perhaps it’s something impossible to articulate, but I’ve felt our connection since the first time I saw your tiny face.”

  Gilly reaches out to my hand wrapped in a down mitten. I like being cocooned in this sleeping bag. It makes me feel the tang of childhood again when I used to sleep under the stars on warm summer nights with my siblings. I think we only did it once, in all honesty, but it was enough to remember the honeyed feeling of summer. Now it’s far too cold for a dying woman; the stars have been replaced by glittery ice. But I’m still living. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere other than where I am at this very moment. And there’s no one I’d rather be with.

  I sigh, the icy air very nearly clearing my lungs. “Kate doesn’t really know you’ve taken me here, does she?”

  “No,” Gilly admits.

  “I thought so.”

  “She’d never have let me take you in your condition, not somewhere like this.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t tell her the truth. Sometimes the truth can be more upsetting than a small white lie, especially when you’re trying to protect the ones you love. It’s our little secret, dear,” I say now patting her hand.

  I reach for my leather folder then begin to read from the blue notebook inside, my glasses propped on my nose. Turning the pages proves painful not only to my stiff arthritic fingers, but with each poem come memories that even cancer can’t eat up. Even through the pain it feels right to read the poems aloud. It’s something I hadn’t expected—three surprises in one day. And it’s good, I suppose, if my voice shakes out the truth. Perhaps it will ease Gilly’s mind about my story. After all, she’s never written a novel before, and I’m proud to bits she’s taken it on. Of course she’s got the time now to do it before starting with a career that will swallow up her days. And I know it’s stealing time from her new relationship. Despite that, I know she wouldn’t do it unless she was driven, unless it was in her blood. Moreover, it’s fantastic training for her destined career as a journalist.