Fiona moved to the windowsill, where a long-abandoned cup of tea had started to grow mold. She held the offending mug up in the dust-mote-studded light. “Gross.”
“Yes, fine, that is gross.” Ilsa walked over and took the mug from Liane and dumped it in the tiny sink, rinsing the horrid little chunks down the drain. Then she turned on the kettle and watched in silence as Fiona started to move chairs, pick up pieces of laundry. “Hey, I have Le Palais des Thés Imperial,” Ilsa said. “I know how much you love it.” The kettle was vibrating now, the water inside in controlled chaos. Click. Then it stopped. Only a small puff of steam betrayed the abandon of the moment before. “Do you want some?”
“Sure. Do you have milk? Wait. Never mind. Forget I asked.” Fiona walked over to where her sister was making the tea. “Hey, is that a new tattoo?” Ilsa’s other wrist was now encircled in a ribbon of ink, too.
“Yes.”
“What is it this time?” Fiona hoped her voice conveyed interest, that she didn’t sound judgmental. She was trying not to.
“A Cézanne quote. Nous vivons dans un arc-en-ciel de chaos. We live in a rainbow of chaos.”
“It’s . . . nice,” Fiona said, feeling like she was being too careful with her sister. It wasn’t natural. She wished there was something she could say to explain and then eradicate everything that had ever happened between them. But she couldn’t, so she blew on her tea until it had cooled enough to drink. They made small talk, about the weather, about the kids, about what trip Helen was taking next, about Liane and her new almost-stepchildren. Then her cup was empty and she picked up a rag and started cleaning again.
At the drafting table Ilsa used as a desk, Fiona had to move a towering pile of mail.
“Oh,” Ilsa said. “I can help with that, at least.” Fiona was looking down. On top were four large envelopes, emblazoned with bold-font entreaties to please send letters. Ilsa had reached the table and made a move to hide the letters at the bottom of the pile.
“You don’t need to hide them. I saw them already. Wow, how many of those foster children do you have?” she asked.
Ilsa sighed. “Four.”
“Four? How can you afford that? You haven’t . . . I mean, you haven’t even tried to come up with any sort of a settlement with Michael, so how are you paying—”
Ilsa shook her head quickly. “I can’t, I can’t do that right now. The guilt will kill me.”
“But, Ilsa . . .”
“But, what? I can’t. I just have to wait. One day we’ll figure it out. I don’t deserve anything from him. I can’t, I just can’t.”
“Of course you deserve something.” Fiona felt surprised by her words. But she meant them, she realized.
“You don’t think it’s unfair? You and Tim wouldn’t accuse me of trying to take him for all he’s worth if I took him to divorce court now?”
“I can’t speak for Tim at the moment. But I wouldn’t accuse you of that.”
Ilsa was silent. Then she reached forward and put her hand on top of her sister’s. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”
Fiona looked down at their hands. “We’re a pair,” she whispered. They stayed like that. She wasn’t sure for how long.
“How are things going?” Ilsa finally asked. “The counseling.”
“Terribly. It’s absolutely awful.” She laughed a dry laugh. “I don’t think it’s going to work. I might have to move in here with you.” She tried to laugh again but couldn’t manage it.
“You could never live in this filth.”
“Maybe you’d have to move in with me then.”
“Fiona,” Ilsa began. She sighed and clasped her hands together, almost as though she were about to pray. “You and Tim . . . you will get through this.” She closed her eyes now. “He’s such a good man,” she said. “I know he kept a huge secret from you, but I’m sure it was so hard for him. And also—and also, there’s something I should tell you. Maybe it will help you understand just how loyal he is, how good he is. There was this one night—”
But Fiona interrupted her. “Don’t, Ilsa. It was so long ago. Just leave it, okay?”
Ilsa opened her eyes wide. “You knew?”
“Of course I knew. Tim told me that very night. But his honesty with me, at least under some circumstances, is not really the point anymore. A good man he might be, but I’m not sure either of us is good enough to reconcile at this point.”
“You have to do everything in your power, Fiona,” Ilsa said, her voice very soft.
“But why me? Why do I have to be the champion of our marriage? Why can’t it be him?”
Ilsa shook her head. “Because he’s not as strong as you are. No one is.”
Fiona looked back down at the stack of envelopes. She blinked quickly. She tried to be as strong as her sister thought she was. “You know, just because you feel guilty is no reason for you to be squatting in your studio—”
“I’m not squatting!” Ilsa interrupted.
“Whatever it is. I’m just saying, you really don’t need to punish yourself anymore. You should get a place to live, a place for Ani and Xavier to visit.”
Ilsa didn’t say anything.
“I’m sure Tim would kill me for saying this, but—well, you really should be getting a lawyer. I can help you if you want. Because Michael might be my husband’s best friend, but . . . you’re my sister.”
Ilsa touched Fiona’s hand again, squeezing it quickly. Then they cleaned the studio together.
• • •
Later, Fiona would think that it always seemed to be when she was out gardening that the really awful calls came in. Although, so far in her life, she had only had one phone call she considered truly awful. After this afternoon, two.
“Hello?”
“Fiona. It’s Liane. Something has happened. To Beck. A boating accident. He’s hurt. They’re airlifting him to SickKids Hospital now. You and Tim need to—you need to come. Right away. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Liane was crying.
• • •
How did they get to Toronto? There must have been planes and cars involved, but as Fiona walked toward the front entrance of the hospital, the logistics of how she got there were completely lost to her. She walked faster, ahead of Tim. She looked back at her husband and said, “Tim. I need to run. I need to see the boys, right now.”
“Then run,” Tim said, his voice weary. He was walking slowly, like the trip there had aged him, like he was the injured one. “I’ll catch up.”
She knew that what she should have done was walk into the hospital at her husband’s side. She knew that her son was in surgery, that she wouldn’t be able to see him, that there was absolutely nothing she could do, but she still ran. Cole needed her. Eliot needed her. Eliot. Oh, Eliot. What will become of you now? What if Beck doesn’t— She silenced the thought by running faster.
She found them, eventually, in a waiting room on the sixth floor.
“Where’s Tim?” someone asked, she wasn’t sure who.
“He’s coming,” she said. “He’s right behind me.”
And then Helen stepped forward, stepped between her and her two boys, who were sitting, staring ahead, appearing to be in shock, which they probably were. Oh, boys. Oh, my boys. Oh, my god. The pain she felt nearly knocked her backward with its force. She now understood why people said they were brought to their knees by something.
“I’m sorry,” Helen was saying. “Fiona, I’m so, so sorry.”
“My god, is he . . . gone?” Pain, pain, pain everywhere. How was she still standing?
“No, no,” Helen said. “That’s not what I meant. I meant I’m sorry because it’s my fault, all my fault. Getting the stupid boat, not watching them carefully enough. I’m so sorry.”
Fiona stood staring at her mother, taking her in. It’s my fault. And it was true, there was probably a t
ime Fiona would have blamed Helen completely, for this, for everything. But now she said, “Of course it’s not your fault, Mom. Please don’t blame yourself.” And she allowed her mother to hold her and hug her the way she desperately wanted to hug her sons, because she understood that that was what her mother needed. And also because this was what she needed from her mother. When she knew it was enough for both of them, she moved across the room to her boys.
“Boys,” she whispered. “Boys. It’s going to be okay. Mommy’s here.” And they both stood and pressed against her. “It’s not your fault,” she said to both of them. “It’s not your fault, either. Got it?”
• • •
Tim arrived and they spoke with a nurse. Beck’s doctor wasn’t available, of course, because he was performing the surgery. The words Fiona remembered the nurse saying: head injury, brain trauma, small hemorrhage. Small, the nurse said again. Fiona had no concept of what the diameter meant. Hopeful, the nurse said. Well, she said something other than “hopeful,” she must have put the word into a sentence, something like, “The doctors are very hopeful,” but Fiona was having trouble processing the words the woman was saying because she knew that somewhere in the hospital her son was lying on a gurney, and his skull was open and vulnerable to the world instead of closed and protected the way it should be, and his brain was bleeding and they were trying to stop it. Small, big, it didn’t matter, there was a hemorrhage, and they were trying to stop it, but they might not be able to, or they might do damage in the process, which meant she could lose her boy in other ways even if she didn’t lose him completely.
What made it more painful was that everyone seemed to think it was his or her fault, and it wasn’t. It wasn’t Eliot’s fault, even though he had been driving the boat. And it wasn’t Cole’s fault, even though he had been somewhere else, and had whispered to her that if only he had been with his brother, this wouldn’t have happened. And it wasn’t Helen’s fault, for getting the boat in the first place.
It was Fiona’s fault, because she had become so wrapped up in her own life she had forgotten about them, she had left them alone to make the bad choices that children, and teenage boys especially, were wont to make.
She closed her eyes. She pressed her lips together. But she couldn’t stop the tears, and realized she didn’t want to. If he survives, I’ll do anything, she said, and realized she was praying. She couldn’t remember the last time she had prayed. Dear God, please help me. Please help my son. Please be with those doctors, please guide their hands. Please be with us all. Please be with Tim. Please help me. Funny, she thought to herself, her thoughts growing a little less blurry. So many of us say we don’t believe in God, but we do. When the chips are down, we do. We get right in the foxhole. Dear God, please be with my son. Please help him. Please save him. Please save all of us.
• • •
The nurse had said the surgery was going to take another six hours at least. Six hours. Fiona didn’t know if she could bear it, but what choice did she have?
They sat in the waiting room. They drank tea. They did not eat. The boys were silent, but every ten minutes or so she would reach for one of their hands. And then finally Cole said, “I need to go for a walk. Come on, Eliot, let’s go.” And he looked at Fiona, and then at Tim. “Is that okay?” her little boy said. “Of course,” Tim said, and Fiona realized she had said “Of course” at the same time, and that Tim was reaching for his wallet and handing them both what seemed like way too much money. “Get yourselves some food, when was the last time you ate?” This was usually her department.
The nurse had suggested going for walks, even getting outside for air, but Fiona didn’t see how she could possibly leave the hospital. What if something happened and she wasn’t there?
Still, after twenty minutes with the boys still gone, she realized she needed to walk, too. “I think I need to get a little air as well,” she said, and stood. No one offered to go with her, but she knew this wasn’t because they didn’t want to. They were waiting for her to ask for company. She didn’t.
She took the elevator down and ended up in the main lobby, where she had been, hours that had felt like days, before. She saw the Starbucks and went to stand in the line.
Maybe I’ll get a muffin.
But halfway through the lineup, she realized she didn’t want a muffin. There was a lump in her throat she knew she would be unable to swallow over. And she didn’t want to stand still.
She walked toward the front doors of the hospital and out into the sunlight. She continued to the street and stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the hospital. Somewhere, in there, lies my son. Inside there is my family. Somewhere, my other two sons are walking, or sitting, or talking, or not talking. Somewhere in there, something small is bleeding, and they’re trying to stop it.
She turned away from the hospital. She looked at her watch. Three more hours. She started to walk. She was surprised by the fact that Toronto still felt like home, by the way the CN tower quickly became a landmark, a beacon, by the way the familiar buildings seemed to hold her, to keep her from stumbling or falling to the ground and screaming up at the sky. She passed the other hospitals, Mount Sinai, Women’s College, and she thought, There are other people in those hospitals, other families, other children, other people dying, or not dying, or being born, or not being born.
She headed down University. She turned right on Queen. She walked past the stores, the bars, the restaurants, the street musicians. She did not process what had changed and what had not since the last time she had been in the city. She turned left on Spadina.
Eventually she got to the bridge. She stopped, stood at the edge, looked down at the train tracks, then across and toward the lake. A haze hung over it. A plane was descending to land on the airport on the island. For a moment she felt panicked that she was so far away from the hospital. She looked at her watch. Two and a half more hours. She kept watching the plane until it disappeared from sight. Then she watched the white shapes of the seagulls, feathers shining in the sun, flying up, down, around, over. They seemed beautiful from afar, even though she knew they weren’t.
Finally, she called Tim. He answered right away. “Fiona. Where are you? Are you okay?”
“Has there been any word?”
“No. Nothing.”
She swallowed over the lump. “Do you remember when we lived here, and do you remember when there was the blackout, when I still worked at the school and you worked on Bay Street, and . . . do you remember all the phones were out, and I didn’t have a cell phone, and we had no way to reach each other?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what we decided that night, by candlelight, when we finally did make it home to each other? Remember what you told me? You said we needed to have a disaster plan, as a family. I think you were still thinking about 9/11. You said, ‘If something bad ever happens, get the boys and go to the bridge at Spadina and Front.’ Remember? And I said . . . I said, ‘Something bad, like what, like the end of the world?’ And you said, ‘Yes, if it’s the end of the world, go there, and I’ll come find you.’”
Silence. And then Tim said, “Yes. I remember that.”
“Well, I’m there. It’s the end of the world, and I’m on that bridge. Will you please come find me?”
She waited. He did come, and when he did, they hesitated, but then they reached for each other. She started to sob, not caring what the people walking past them might think. It’s the end of the world, she wanted to say to a girl who looked askance at them as she tapped at the screen of her cell phone. It’s the end of the world, you should go be with the person you love. Instead, she buried her face in her husband’s shoulder. When she didn’t think she could cry anymore, she lifted her head.
“When all this is over, when Beck is recovering . . .” she said, keeping her voice firm, because he would recover, there was no other option. “When things have settl
ed a little, we should sit the boys down and we should tell them everything together. We should even tell them who their asshole of a grandfather is. They might get a kick out of that, right?” She laughed in the way only a person who has just been sobbing can laugh. Tim laughed, too. She had told him about her father, during therapy, and he had marveled over how many of the band’s albums were in the house, yet Fiona had never said anything. “And then . . . you should invite her to come stay with us for a while. Samira. Invite her here. It’s the right thing to do. ”
Tim reached for her again. The embrace was different this time. “Thank you,” he whispered. She could still feel it between them, everything that had been said and done, all the ways in which they had taken each other for granted, all the hurt and resentment. But the flow had stopped. The hemorrhaging was over. Maybe they would never be the same again, but they would survive this. She would champion her marriage and she would succeed, because Fiona did not fail.
17
Black Vulture (Coragyps atratus)
Black vultures discourage infidelity. In fact, all nearby vultures attack any vulture caught philandering. These creatures do mate for life in the social sense of living together in pairs, but they rarely stay strictly faithful, and many males often end up raising offspring who are not their own, sometimes unwittingly.
Hi, it’s me! I have news,” Liane said.
“You’re getting married. You’re pregnant.”
“Nope. Laurence and I are not getting married. We’re going to live in sin forever.”
Ilsa laughed. “Well, then. Congratulations on your nonengagement.”
“Thank you very much. Would you like to hear our reasons?”
“Of course.”
“There’s really only one main reason: because we want to wake up next to each other every day for the rest of our lives and know that we’re there because we want to be, not because we have to be. And because we don’t want the girls to think that marriage is the only option, that you have to do it out of duty, that you have to contractually tie yourself to someone in order for love to mean anything.”
Mating for Life Page 28