The more I try to convince her that I am perfectly all right, the more set she is on staying. Jane is thrilled. She has been visiting every few weeks since she broke up with her new man.
“After all these breakups, shouldn’t you give up?” I say to Jane.
“Not a chance,” she says. “I know he is out there somewhere. Just have to find him.”
When Jane comes to Toronto again the following weekend, Helena and I suspect that she found him and wants to tell us in person.
As we sit in my rose garden on a sunny Saturday morning that feels more like July than late September, Jane pulls out the letter from Anna’s lawyer and announces that Anna’s will has been resolved. Jane is the owner of Anna’s house on Pine Crest Road, a short walk from mine.
That afternoon, with Jane in the lead, we head to the stately arts and crafts house, which had been Anna’s lifelong pride and joy. We walk toward the front door along the cobblestone driveway under the mottled shade of a large oak — walk slowly, ritualistically — and this driveway we know so well feels new. No longer Anna’s. It is now Jane’s driveway.
Helena wraps her arm around my shoulders. “Bloss, let’s check out the backyard.” She calls out to Jane. “We’ll meet you down by the old garage.”
Jane pulls out a set of keys from her purse. “Come with me. I can’t do this on my own.”
“You go on in. It’s a big moment for you,” Helena says softly, her eyebrows raised in an encouraging slant.
Jane walks to the front door and Helena and I take the winding path along the side of the house that leads to the backyard. Although two years have gone by since Anna’s death, every corner of the house is clean and tidy as it always had been. The maintenance company Anna arranged before her death has been taking care of the place, but while the court case went on, we did not feel comfortable visiting Anna’s house. Now, it all feels new somehow. I am reminded how Anna’s garden receives more sunshine than mine, and her flowers bloom longer in the fall. The summer phlox, in shades of pink and purple, is still in full bloom. The butterfly bushes are haloed by flitting monarchs stockpiling on pollen before their journey to oyamel fir forests of Mexico. And the sweetly-scented breeze rising from the slope leading to the valley below is intoxicating.
Some of the backyards of the houses on this side of Pine Crest Road slope down a couple of stories to the street in the valley below, where they have their garages and coach-houses — many left overgrown. When we were children, Jane and I played house at the patches we cleared among the goldenrod and queen’s lace and the dense shrubbery. We called it our enchanted garden — the bees and the butterflies were our fairies.
“I’ll go see how Jane’s doing,” I call out to Helena. I’d like to walk down those overgrown steps with her, as we have done many times before.
* * *
I return to the front entrance of the house. Jane is still there, hesitant. She raises the brass ring beneath the lion-head knocker, then gently lowers it back onto its groove. She peers through the light yellow tulip in the stained glass pane of the door. Then she slowly unlocks the door and steps into the hallway. She waves me in, signals me to follow. I cross the threshold — the oak grain of the step is still gleaming. Jane and I had stripped the old varnish and had refinished the wood not long before Anna died. I take Jane’s hand and we inhale the familiar scent of furniture polish.
“I almost expect Anna to welcome us with open arms,” Jane murmurs. Then she wrinkles up her nose and makes her wet-kitten face. “I mean my mother . . .” She stops mid-sentence and shrugs.
I wrap my arm around her shoulder. “You’ve always called her Anna. You can’t expect to change things now.”
She nods and walks over to the kitchen window and opens it to let in fresh air. Then she rushes out through the side door into the backyard. She will not allow tears to ruin the moment, no.
I follow, and we pause quietly on the back porch before returning to the kitchen.
On the counter is a yellow envelope with Jane’s name and “open me” written in capital letters. I pick it up and hand it to her. She shrugs, pulls a kitchen knife out of a drawer, and slides it in. She pulls out a handwritten page, and I step back out onto the porch. A few minutes later I hear crying. I rush back in. Jane is holding the letter in her hand, tears streaming down her cheeks — but she is smiling and snivelling at the same time while her shoulders are rising and falling with sobs. I’ve never seen Jane cry. This is the first. And she is smiling? She hands the letter to me and nods to me to read it.
My dearest Janey,
My regret, my only regret is — not being a proper mother to you.
You gave meaning to my life. And whatever mistakes I’ve made, hope you can forgive me.
I’ve carried my gargantuan secret for so long, I could not let go — could not release it out into the world not knowing what damage it could cause. The universe does not like secrets. It conspires to reveal the truth. Yet I kept it. Kept the miracle that shaped my private life — out of my public one.
I have been tempted and driven and often obsessed to the point of madness with the desire to call you Daughter, my sweet Janey, my love. To tell you how you are my reason for living. You have the right to know.
But the thought frightened me. Revealing it would be like throwing the book that is my life — the book I carefully arranged page by page, event by event, with no gaps left in the plot — into the wind and all the loose sheets blown into disarray that could never be put back together to tell the same story. What if you could not forgive me? What if you decided never to see me again? What then?
No, don’t go there, I told myself. Things have been going well. Don’t open this Pandora box. It could lead to consequences much worse than living with my secret — this division into two lives. It has worked well so far. I must curb the desire to open up to you, I convinced myself. Even if you are part of it.
Sweet Janey, will you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?
Your mother
Jane and I hug and gaze into each other’s eyes for a long while, silently — and we both know this is one of those moments when words are obsolete.
We walk down the winding steps to the naturalized lower part of the yard overgrown by grass and sweet alyssum that seeds itself year after year. The stairway leads to the stone-rubble garage, and we step back in time. The disparity between the orderliness above and the wilderness below is accentuated by the dilapidated structure shrouded by trees and shrubbery.
Jane’s girlish smile tells me we’re thinking the same — about playing hide-go-seek with neighbourhood children. I can still hear Anna’s warning to stay away from the rundown building, the same one we’re about to enter.
This had been one place left to itself — we’d never seen anyone enter or leave. We’ve always called it a garage, although at one time it was a coach house. Weeds, like hanging flower baskets, bow from wall cracks. Shrubbery pokes out of the crevices in the stone rubble foundation like swords wedged in by some ancient soldiers. I peek through the small rectangular window, but the frosted glass insert allows only a multi-coloured blur.
Jane turns the tarnished brass handle of the weathered door, but it does not budge. She jangles an assortment of cast iron skeleton keys suspended on a metal ring as if she were a prison guard. She picks the one with a yellow tag, inserts it in the keyhole, joggles it until it catches, and the wooden door gives with an ominous groan. We step into the dusky interior and it takes a few moments for our eyes to adjust. The open rafters give airiness to the space, which is incongruous to the squat appearance from outside.
Helena has been inspecting Anna’s garden figures — a stone dragon the colour of seaweed, a Buddhist temple, a girl with an umbrella. As she approaches, her new running shoes make squishing sounds as if she is walking on wet grass. She steps into the garage, glances around the room, and shakes her head. “When David
was alive, this place was stuffed with supplies for making demonstration signs.”
Jane props her hands on her hips. “This sure isn’t what I expected. Somebody’s cleaned it up. It couldn’t have been like this for the last forty years.”
The whole interior is covered with a light coating of dust, but otherwise, the place is uncluttered. The outside walls are lined with metal shelves filled with plastic storage boxes, some with tools and all kinds of do-jiggers poking out. A rocking chair, a wicker cradle, a carved wooden hope chest — the type brides brought with them on a ship from some European country — and a stack of blue metal trunks take cover under a small green tarp folded and laid over top.
In the middle of the room, under a drop sheet, is a square object that hints at a low coffee table. Jane and I exchange puzzled looks and step closer. Jane lifts the cover to reveal a block of dark granite about a yard square. The top is chipped and bruised. Its weight has sunken the cobble stones beneath it and the frost of many winters has heaved it so it appears lopsided. And like a mosaic, the gaps between the pavers around it are filled with white marble chips.
Helena kneels next to the granite and passes her palm over the battered surface. She rests her forehead on her folded arms. Jane and I rush to her side, but the wave of her hand tells us that she needs this moment to herself.
CHAPTER 48
August 2017
JANE AND I sport the sixties garb we’ve gathered searching through Anna’s and Liza’s cedar chests and scavenging used clothing stores. In a gold mini-skirt and a mod sequined tank top, Jane looks glamorous. She’s kept up her jogging and is as fit in her fifties as she was in her thirties. A large copper tree-of-life pendant suspended on a leather string sits on her chest. Her shiny white go-go boots and a pair of enormous rhinestone sunglasses complete the look, and I think it a pity she did not live in the sixties.
She is equally impressed with my transformation — a creamy peasant blouse with a long, flowing paisley skirt in earth tones, a seashell necklace and a multi-strand bracelet, a wide suede belt and matching ankle booties that could double as house slippers. And a multi-coloured scarf tied as a headband.
Helena is her usual self. She picked out one of her frumpy skirts and Indian cotton blouses. With a permanently creased beige cotton vest and Birkenstocks, long silvery locks flowing over her shoulders, and a daisy behind her ear, she looks the part. We admire our reflections in the hallway mirror as we wait for Chester to pick us up.
This is the first day of Toronto’s weekend-long Art-of-the-Sixties Festival. Over two days and nights, non-stop art exhibits, concerts, and literary readings will take place at various venues throughout the city. The Art Gallery of Ontario and the Toronto Arts College are featuring displays which will remain open around the clock.
Chester has taken on the task of driving and planning for parking spots along the way in hopes of covering more ground than going in and out of the subway. Helena has set out an itinerary. We were able to cross off a visit to the restored Flower Power and No Shoes as we had attended the earlier reinstallation ceremonies.
As we wait for Chester, we peruse the Festival agenda. Canadian musicians and authors, many with humble beginnings in the sixties, are featured at concerts and readings with proceeds going to charities and non-profit organizations.
Jane does not want to miss the Neil Young concert. She tells us it’s because it will fund a program that builds green affordable housing in the inner city. But Helena and I know it’s because she gets weak in the knees every time she hears that cracked falsetto voice of his. Though I understand. I don’t want to miss Gordon Lightfoot’s performance. Not only because it will raise funds to add three hundred beds to shelters for the homeless, but also because hearing him sing his “Canadian Railroad Trilogy,” or “Couchiching, Couchiching,” inspired by the lake at Orillia, his home town, where I spent many summer vacations, would be thrilling. Also, this would be the first of the series of concerts in support of Canada-wide social justice issues — a collaborative venture with David Suzuki and First Nations people — and I’ll do all I can to support it.
Helena is determined to hear Joni Mitchell’s poetry reading at Massey Hall which will fund a tree-planting initiative for city parks and open spaces. During her recent show in Toronto, Joni stayed at the Chelsea Hotel and was awed by Lake Ontario and the expanse of greenery of Toronto Islands. When she passed by Dundas Square across from Eaton’s Centre, the grey pavement reminded her of a parking lot. She managed to convince the city to designate the eastern wedge of the Square as a parkette, and to plant trees and install flower beds and benches.
And we’ve all marked Margaret Atwood’s evening of readings at Hart House as a must. It would be followed by an open mic, and would raise funds for a women’s shelter for victims of domestic violence.
We certainly cannot miss Leonard Cohen’s concert — the funds are designated toward the purchase of musical instruments for children from low income families. Besides, we’ve been life-long fans. And here’s another must-do — a Ricky James tribute concert in support of a drug rehabilitation centre. Knowing about Ricky’s and Anna’s passionate love affair gives us the right to call him Uncle Ricky — how could we possibly miss this event? In all, the Festival offers over fifty concerts, readings, and art exhibits. And we’ll be riding on caffeine if need be, to cover as much as possible.
The highlight of the Festival will be the unveiling of the installation at Nathan Phillips Square to honour Alice Munro. It’s a tower of books about ten metres high, formed by a stack of fluorescent lights with titles of her short stories for which she became the first Canadian to win the Nobel Prize in literature. Next to the tower is a “read-in shack” — a gazebo that will accommodate non-stop readings by authors. The donations will support the city’s literacy programs for disadvantaged children.
The Festival also includes a self-guided tour of Art-of-the-Sixties that runs through city parks and galleries. Some of the major exhibits such as the sculptures installed during the 1967 Art Symposium in High Park are listed as a must-see and include the audio tour which had been installed at selected locations over the past year.
Chester swings his Honda into my driveway and steps out of the car. We hardly recognize him — he is sporting a shoulder-length black wig, mirrored shades with round lenses, a tie-died purple tunic, and a fringed suede vest over it. And bell-bottom jeans. A large Love button is pinned to his breast pocket. As he approaches the front door he raises the fingers of both hands in a peace sign. We laugh so hard our stomachs hurt.
Chester enfolds Helena into a hug. “Gorgeous as always, Mother-Muing.”
And we’re off.
We voted Helena the group’s official guide, as she had lived the sixties. She suggests we begin the tour at Femina, which had been reinstalled in the newly completed atrium at Women’s Centenary Hospital. We enter the atrium and are dwarfed by the voluminous space. The white marble sculpture about two metres high, for decades relegated to a corner of the hospital’s old lobby, is now the centrepiece of the new atrium. The familiar figure — an abstract, elongated shape of a woman — is set in a reflecting pool about five metres wide. Every so often, jets of water rise from the pool’s rim and cup the figure as if in a lotus flower.
This is the first time I see the figure since it has been moved from the old lobby. While at the hospital, I had spent much time near Femina, as it offered me comfort I could not explain to anyone — not Chester or Helena, and not even Jane. I have shared my white sculpture dream with them, but have not told them this marble figure is as in my dream. Perhaps they would’ve understood. Yet, this sublime emotion I submerge in each time the white figure comes to me in a dream is too personal. I fix my eyes on the sculpture’s face and feel a presence. Otherworldly. Who could possibly relate to my vision?
The sculpture stands on a round marble base that elevates it above the water. The plaque on the pool�
�s rim reads: “Femina was a collaborative project of the Toronto Arts College students. In 1971, it was donated to the hospital to commemorate its founders. She symbolizes the strength of all women, and embodies the commitment to women’s progress in arts and sciences.”
As the water spouts erupt, the still surface of the pool shatters, and the marble figure sways in the reflection of the azure tiled bottom of the pool as if it were a deep blue ocean. She bends and shifts fitfully, like some mythical stone woman brought to life.
I am spellbound. “In my dream, she’s just like this. Except she’s planting coral. And last night, I saw her face.”
Jane lifts her rhinestone sunglasses to the top of her head. She puts on a cheerful look. “What are you saying, Bloss? Did you have your sculpture dream again last night? You know, Cellini’s ‘Cornucopia.’ Botticelli’s ‘Birth of Venus’.”
Jane the pragmatist, a non-believer in signs and dreams.
I walk over to the sitting area and settle into a brown leather sofa. Helena and Jane join me, and Chester leans against the window ledge, each silent in thought. The morning sun clambering over the high-rises casts shattered-glass wedges throughout the atrium. The few who come and go tread gently without a word on this Saturday morning, as if they’d all taken a vow of silence.
Chester glances at his watch. “Got to feed the parking meter. How ‘bout some muffins and coffee, ladies? There’s a place across the street.”
“Let’s meet there in a few minutes,” Jane says getting up from the bench and approaching the pool. Chester jingles the keys as he heads to the door, and we gather around Femina.
Jane studies the figure. “Some people believe she symbolizes a nurse. Or a nun. It’s her mantel and head piece. Her veiled face.”
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