The positive good-girl voice in me perks up. “You know, I’ve learned two great lessons from being with Scott: I know that my heart is able and willing to open up and love even after losing Jim, and I will not abandon myself in the name of love.”
Dad nods.
Robyn teaches more of the classes so I don’t have to be in front of the students as much. The month crawls by. On February 1, the end of term, I pack up and drive to Whistler for my five-month leave of absence.
I call Scott and drop by his place. He is quiet, contemplative, resigned, as if he is waiting for me to lose hope. We go on hikes and sometimes we have sex. Afterward, I feel ill. Emptier. But I will do almost anything to avoid more loss. The monkeys in my brain hoot and holler and swing maniacally.
I coach myself. Enough of Scott. Don’t use him as a distraction. You have your own work to do.
Thoughts writhe in my mind like snakes, seeking a pattern and strangling one another in the process. Why am I frantic? Because I try to convince myself that I am worthy of love. Maybe letting go of Scott represents more than the relationship. I need to start fresh and stop clinging to what is familiar. Take a break from this house Jim and I built. Jump. Make a decision and embrace it. Take responsibility for my life. There’s no one else to blame. Scott is no longer a part of my life, so wish him well and move on. Don’t try to change the way he feels. There’s nothing wrong with me. Stop wallowing. Get on with the things I want to do: art, wilderness trips, travel. Write a book; study alternative medicine.
In my journal I write pages summarizing my relationship with Scott and who is to blame for what. I come out much better than he does. My anger subsides, my pen slows and I finish with a blessing to Scott:
I loved laughing with you, skiing with you and dreaming with you. I loved when you were tender and loving with me – when your heart was open. You are a good person: sensitive and well meaning. I’m sorry that our journey together is over. I thought we were going to grow old together. You are not a part of my life anymore and that is heartbreaking. I will try to accept that and wish you well.
I wake up the morning after writing that entry with a vivid dream about Jim and Scott fresh before my eyes and reach for my journal to write it down.
In the dream, I am at home in Whistler working on the computer. Jim and Scott are rock climbing a new route nearby that Jim and I climbed the day before. A ghostly transparent figure of Jim appears before me. By the way he looks at me I know that something is wrong. He floats away, looking back to see if I follow. My family and friends yell after me that I don’t know the way, that I will get lost. But I know the way like my own heart and climb up the rock after Jim. When I catch up, Jim turns to me and motions above him. I climb past Jim, focused on each move, worried about Scott. I see Scott’s body lying flat against the rock. As I approach, he turns with a resigned look, hanging from his arm that disappears into a fissure in the rock, as if he is being swallowed. His face tells me not to worry, but he looks like a child trying to be brave. I think of options: amputation … but he is buried too deep. We look at one another and it is clear that this is it. This is as far as he can go. He tells me with his eyes to go on without him. I float back down to Jim.
It’s been a long time since I dreamt of Jim. It feels like we had a visit.
THIRTY-EIGHT
DO WHAT’S GOOD FOR SUE
One sunny day, I walk to the village on the valley trail to meet Dad for lunch at the Italian trattoria. My mind wanders to images of Tuscany and me cooking with tomatoes right from the vine and smearing sauce across my apron as I juggle several pots on the stove. While I wait to be seated at the restaurant, I notice right there in the entrance several brochures for cooking schools in Tuscany. I finger the glossy photos and ponder the serendipity. When I inquire, I find that the eight-day session is out of my price range.
A few weeks pass and the woman I spoke to at the restaurant about the classes calls back to say they have had a lot of cancellations because of the impending war in Iraq, so many that she can offer me a screamer of a deal. It takes me 15 minutes to get a flight on points and confirm my dates. I Google “art schools in Europe” and enroll in a week-long studio in medieval Anversa, Italy, after the cooking course. A week does not seem long enough, and so I find another six-week art school in Aix-en-Provence, France. I will go to Italy for two weeks and then France for July.
I arrange medical insurance, travellers’ cheques, buy new clothes, pack, prepay bills and call my aunt to see if she can look after Habby. The familiar pre-trip routine eats away the days until there’s one week to go. One item remains on my to-do list: Jim’s ashes.
On April 29, 2003, the fourth anniversary of Jim’s death, I face down the wooden Haida box on the shelf in my bedroom and hike to the lookout point on the trail behind our house. “Our” house. Jim and Sue’s place. Not my house. It’s been four years since Jim was killed and some of his ashes are still in my bedroom. Habby bounds ahead of me. Looking out over the lake, I hold the box against my belly and stare, silent. I’ve run out of meaningful things to say about grief, death and love. I am empty. I need to fill myself up. Finally I open the bag inside the box and scatter the ashes like birdseed. It takes too long and I grab handfuls and toss them so that whitish grey mounds form on the ground. Near the end, I pull out the plastic bag, upend it and shake until it is empty, like I do with the cracker bag in the sink. The last of Jim’s ashes. Done.
I will go to Italy and France to learn, to do things that are good for me, good for my soul. I am proud of me for taking this step. Learning can be an effective antidote to depression, disinterest in life and loneliness. I will shed an old skin, shake free of my own chains.
This trip will be good for me. I am ready for a loving relationship with someone who is available. Keep me strong, Jim. Keep reminding me of what is genuine.
Villa Delia perches on a hill surrounded by 30 hectares of olive groves, grapevines, vegetable gardens, brilliant yellow sunflowers and luscious red poppies, delicate as lips. An authentically restored 17th-century country estate, some of its olive trees are 120 years old. Pope Pius vII exiled here during the Napoleonic Wars.
Signor Sylvano, our host, smiles with his eyes as he shows us the grounds. He gestures at an employee bent over in the vegetable garden. “Most Italians want a small plot of land where they can put their hands in the earth.”
I nod and track the vineyards and sandstone villas with terracotta roofs floating in the distance in a haze of soft yellow hues. Dark-green cypress trees outline a tapestry of rolling hills like a fringe. The soil burns red from the long-ago heat of a volcano.
I’m in the heart of rural Tuscany.
The romantic countryside makes me feel alone. I want to nudge Jim and whisper, “Isn’t this beautiful?”
Dad asked me once, “Why do you want to travel? You won’t find any answers, you know.”
“I know but it’s good for me,” I laughed and changed the subject. Later I replayed the conversation and had time to prepare the response I wanted to give. Travelling gives me perspective and opens my eyes to different ways of being. It reminds me of all I have to be grateful for. And being grateful helps me to love. And be loved.
I breathe in the smell of rich Italian earth and feel the warm breeze on my skin. It’s beautiful, I tell myself. Life has its magical moments even though Jim is dead. Enjoy. Self-pity will get you nowhere.
My elbows brush the walls as Sylvano leads me up a narrow, winding staircase to my dark-wooded, brightly sunlit room. He sets my small suitcase down by the door.
“Grazie.”
“Prego.”
I survey the room. Sparkling white bathroom, elegant tiling, plush towels, antique washstand. Double bed. Too romantic for a widow. I picture myself snuggled under the white duvet with Jim, watching the yellow-orange sun through the oblong windows. I stand paralyzed. I’m afraid of being alone. I want to go home to the familiar. But I’m too frugal, too sensitive to what others will think,
too scared of failure to bail. And on some level I know there is not much to go home to.
I slink into a dress and join four Canadian couples and one American couple for our welcome dinner: a scene out of Babette’s Feast. It takes an hour to get through the appetizers – prosciutto, antipasto, chicken liver, melon and a classic pasta dish rolled up like a neat hairdo. For the main meal we pass around serving platters of roast potatoes smothered in olive oil, Swiss chard, tender beef strips blanketed in parmesan and pickled vegetables. The wine and conversation flow. Mostly about food. Gerda and Eric, a jolly, rotund couple from Vancouver describe in detail the family dinners they host. I laugh, slur my words a bit and steady myself on the back of the chair when I get up to go to the bathroom.
I am the odd person out in our group of 11. Yvonne and Mario, a middle-aged Canadian couple sitting beside me, ask me about my life. Each question evokes painful answers.
“Do you have kids?”
“Are you married?”
“No. My husband was killed in an avalanche four years ago.” The American woman seated across from me looks uncomfortable and turns away to begin another conversation.
There is a short silence as Mario and Yvonne glance at each other before Yvonne says, “I’m sorry. What happened?”
My lips and heart loosen with wine. Jim is a part of me. My wound is a part of me. I am a 37-year-old widow. I adored my husband. I would like someone to love again. I tell them about Jim’s accident and their eyes look sad, but they don’t change the subject.
I stumble to bed well after midnight, feeling lighter.
The next morning, the sun rises fiery red. The birds form a symphony of melodic whistles to ease me into the day. I stick my tongue out at the mirror. Purple. Too much wine last night. At the breakfast table, Sylvano says that today we learn the feel of cooking, which means no recipes. My face stretches into a smile to stop any quivering. How will I remember everything without a recipe? How will I know the right way to do it? I like to have a plan so that I can avoid mistakes. No recipe? It’s like going into the wilderness without a map and compass.
The cooking school runs for 10 days. The stainless-steel kitchen is about nine metres long, with individual learning stations, and pots of every size hang from the ceiling. Margareta, our teacher, instructs with a shy smile. “You don’t use a garlic press because you will bruise the garlic. You must chop it.” A younger woman translates while the eight of us scribble notes. Throughout the demonstrations, Margareta handles the tomatoes, chicken and fresh rosemary the size of a branch as if they are precious heirlooms.
I squish egg, flour and salt together with my bare hands to make pasta dough, roll it out and feed it through a machine to create spaghetti and tortellini. My confidence builds as I learn. After morning class, our creations are served to us for lunch on three round tables sparkling with cutlery, crystal and china in the courtyard. The open-air living suits my soul. A lemon tree climbs the wall above the brick pizza oven, mingling its tartness with the sweet smell of plump roses. I chew the spaghetti Bolognese slowly. The chicken legs stuffed with ricotta cheese, rosemary and new potatoes inspire me to close my eyes. The ratatouille melts on my tongue. Like sentinels lined up in front of me, four wine glasses of varying size reflect golds, yellows and reds meant to accompany each taste sensation. For dessert, pears float in Prosecco, Italian champagne. I roll away from the table, swim a few laps in the pool before our afternoon excursion and wonder how I am going to eat dinner.
And so the days go. Wake up. Eat breakfast. Go to class. Eat lunch. Go on an excursion. Eat dinner until midnight. Go to bed. I realize that I do not think of Jim, or death, or grief when I cook. I am alone and I am fine. Jim is in my heart. I listen to my heart.
Every day I learn to prepare and enjoy delicious food. I learn there’s no such thing as extra-virgin olive oil. It’s either virgin or it’s not. I work the flavours around in my mouth and taste the butter, cheese and fresh herbs. My clothes cling to my curves. I let go to the pleasure of feeding my hunger.
In Siena I marvel at the domes, arches and tile mosaic floors of the Duomo, which was begun in the 13th century and took three hundred years to complete. I climb the narrow marble staircase of the tower, Il Torre, to get a bird’s eye view of the cobblestone road that circles the main piazza. In front of Il Palazzo Pubblico, the town hall, the Piazza del Campo serves as a slippery racetrack twice a year to those bold riders and horses competing in Il Palio. The different neighbourhoods of the city prepare jockeys all year for the races, and the names of the competing horses are drawn just days before each event. It takes several hours to settle them at the start line. In one and a half minutes, they race three laps around the square, negotiating 90° turns downhill. Horses and riders have died.
It seems nuts, but then most people consider rock climbing and mountaineering to be crazy, risk-taking stuff. I’ll bet more horseback riders in Il Palio have died than rock climbers. I’m not so sure about mountaineers. I have a hard time picturing myself careening around the slippery racetrack with hundreds of other riders to contend with. The system seems overloaded. Rock climbing and mountaineering feel more comfortable.
In Florence I sit for two hours on a stone bench staring at Michelangelo’s statue of David. Over five metres of smooth, rippling, white-marble muscle. David is meditative, almost worried-looking with a furrowed brow. His slingshot is over his shoulder, partly hidden, and the rock he holds in his hand is out of view. Such a strong being exuding such humility. David’s characteristics remind me of Jim, of my unified goal of living with an open heart, of what’s important in life. I want to run my hands all over his naked body to absorb his strength.
On the last day of school, I feel weary, melancholy and indecisive. For eight days I have fed myself well. I feel full and empty at the same time. I want to feel good like I did when Jim was alive. But feeling full does not get rid of the pain. I do not need to eat so much. I want to make the smallest footprint possible and use only what I need. Indulge once in awhile, but moderation is important and moderation takes discipline. This is who I am. I hug Yvonne and Mario goodbye and am grateful that I have learned to love food again.
THIRTY-NINE
DRAWING FROM THE HEART
I board a slow train bound for Rome on phase two of project Do What’s Good for Sue. For €100 a taxi driver takes me the remaining 120 kilometres east of Rome to the small village of Anversa degli Abruzzi, in the Sagittario River valley. The driver drops me as close as he can to the address I give him, and I stumble down the steep, cobbled alleyways lit by old London-style lanterns. Ovid, the Roman poet, resided here, and it feels as if I am stepping into a medieval play. One hundred people live in the village, and the ones I see at the main piazza outside the only bar return my greeting, “Buon giorno.” There is no trace of tourists.
Patricia, the art teacher, meets me at my apartment wearing jeans, and I study her auburn hair as she leads me around my new home as if it is her own. In my bedroom there is nowhere to hang clothes, the bed sucks my body in like quicksand, the plaster is cracked and I wear a sweater to keep warm. This is no Villa Delia. But the view from the creaky window plummets to the valley floor and then climbs like a fighter jet straight up the mountainside. My roommate, Laurie, is an upbeat 27-year-old “corporate consultant in transition” from New York. The other three American participants cancelled because they did not want to travel, given the war in Iraq.
The first day of class, Laurie and I walk five minutes to the studio, on a path that hangs on the side of the hill. An arched, wooden double door opens into the first floor of the studio, where the cement floor is splattered with different colours of paint. A kitchen lines one side of the room and shelves of art supplies range the other. Rosa, a middle-aged Italian with a ponytail of long grey hair, wearing a stained apron covering an ample stomach, turns from the stove. “Buon giorno. I, Rosa, the cook.” She waves a wooden spoon in the air and returns to her cooking. Patricia and her younger friend Kati
e, a photographer from Paris, rise from the table to do introductions.
Patricia pulls down a wooden staircase, and we climb to the second floor, the attic. Floor-to-ceiling shutters push out onto a teeny balcony. Easels stand patiently and a still life of a pewter jug, a blue-and-white patterned clay pitcher, three bunches of garlic and two ripe tomatoes nestle in the folds of a sheet draped over a table in the middle of the room. There is space for three people to create comfortably.
Our first exercise is to do a charcoal drawing of the still life, without looking at it. Patricia instructs us to observe the image for two minutes before she covers it up, then we will draw “blind.” The purpose is to learn to see what is really there as opposed to being a slave to preconceived notions. This is one of the rules of survival. You can’t deal with a situation effectively if you don’t see it for what it really is. I am nervous about losing my reference point, just as I feel lost without Jim. But if I keep living as if Jim were alive, I will truly be lost.
Laurie laughs as she settles in to the task. I fidget and finger my notebook, chew on my pencil and look around the room for some way to memorize the objects. My brain darts from object to thought and back again until the scene is scattered in my brain. When Patricia covers the still life, I shift from leg to leg several times before I draw the first line. It’s too big and I scrub it out. After five minutes we compare our memory to reality. The sizes of my objects are all off. I scoff to myself that a preschooler could have done better. I’m ready to toss mine in the garbage; Laurie is curious to see what she remembered, rather than be judgmental.
Finding Jim Page 22