“Well, I should head to the hospital and catch up with your friend. Bernadette, is it? I’ll let you folks try to get some sleep.”
“Could you please give this to her?” Tess asked, handing over a reusable shopping bag with clothes poking out. “They’re his toiletries and a change of clothes.”
She shook their hands in turn and gave them cards.
“No problem. If you think of anything, just call me.”
Tess was the first to speak as Tipton disappeared out of earshot into the basement.
“You came home.”
Henry looked back at the stare again.
“What do you mean?”
“Your ‘errand’. What was it? You came home.”
“How do you know I came home? I had to take care of something personal.”
“All suddenly like that? Your bike was gone when we got back. It wasn’t locked up next to the stairs, so you must have come back for it after you left us at Granville Island.”
“Okay, so I took my bike. I don’t have a car. What of it?”
“What of it? You just told a police officer that you were not here.”
Henry shook his head. “I just don’t want to have to explain where I was. It’s private.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s private.”
Long, silent seconds passed as they looked at each other.
“Tess, please. It has to do with my work, why I got fired. I just don’t need more people digging in that. And I don’t want to put you in an awkward position.”
“Would I approve?”
“What?”
“Would I approve?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“You’re asking me to trust you. You say that it’s better for me if I don’t know. I’m asking whether—based on what you know about me—I would approve or disapprove of whatever you were up to today.”
Henry looked Tess in the eyes, and said, “You’d approve.”
“I’d better, Henry. I’m a good judge of character and I’ll take a chance on you. But tell me or not, I didn’t say anything to that police officer. So I’m a part of your story now, too.”
Chapter Nineteen
Ordinarily, Bernadette Pruner enjoyed mornings the most. There was a slowness to them that suited her. She could hear the house waking up. Tess’s alarm went off at six on weekdays. The song changed frequently, and Tess had an eclectic musical taste which belied her age, all of which suited Bernadette just fine. Henry sang in the shower and talked to his cat. She couldn’t understand what he was saying, but some mornings it was a heated debate.
Even though she couldn’t hear Ron’s suite at the best of times, there was still a palpable silence in the house this morning after last night’s activities.
She looked at the clock in her kitchen as she filled a mug with coffee. There would be shift change in the Intensive Care Unit at nine, and they had explained that Ron would be having some tests after that. There was no visiting until noon.
She used to take the entire pot of coffee out to the garden in the back of the house. Since the pain had started in the early spring, it was enough to manage just a mug and the stairs.
Three Adirondack-style chairs waited faithfully for her company, rain or shine. Weather-worn and missing paint, they hadn’t moved since she and Ron built them years ago. This morning, she sat in hers and surveyed the yard. The last of the fall vegetables were coming in, and the first windfall apples gathered beneath the gnarly old tree next to the fence in the back of the property.
She looked up at 1584 Richardson through the steam rising from her mug as she sipped. This old house had long ago become as much a friend as a home. In the window, little Frieda was looking down at her. They smiled and waved at each other, and Bernadette motioned for her to come outside. The young girl dropped out of sight, only to reappear around the corner seconds later, wearing a white martial arts outfit, with a green belt.
“Good morning, Frieda. Do you have a karate class this morning?”
“I used to take judo, but I stopped,” Frieda answered, as though that was a complete explanation for her fashion choice. “Did you grow all of this?”
“Yes, I did. Well, I had some help. Ron helped me build the raised beds years ago, and they were getting old. So last year Tess and I replaced them. It was quite a bit of work taking them apart, moving all the dirt, and building new ones.”
“Is Mr. Benham going to be okay?”
Bernadette admired the plain-speak of children. “It’s a lot for someone his age, so he’s going to stay in the hospital for a bit and he may need a procedure. But I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Are you going to visit him?”
“I’m going before lunch.”
“Can I come?”
Bernadette looked closely at Frieda. The young girl appeared sincere and concerned. “Of course you can. If Henry brings you. Did you meet Mr. Benham?”
“No, but I saw all the ambulances and firetrucks and police last night, and I just want him to be okay.”
“Well, I’m sure he’d love visitors if he’s feeling up to it.”
Frieda seemed happy with this response, and she wandered closer to the garden.
Bernadette watched the young girl inspecting the prehistoric-looking thick leaves and stalks of kale and Brussels sprouts. Still, it was clear Frieda’s mind was elsewhere.
“I learned how to lash poles together when I was your age. I was a campfire girl.”
“I’m a Scout,” Frieda said, without looking back. “Is that kind of the same?”
“I’ll bet it’s close. I’m sure we had Scouts. Are you a gardener?”
“No. We live near a park, but my parents don’t have a garden. Our backyard is just a stone patio for barbeques.” Frieda hopped on one foot on the flat step stones that carved a path between the beds. “Can I water for you?”
Bernadette shook her head. The days had been drizzly recently. Watering took care of itself in the fall. She motioned towards the apple tree. “You can give me a hand collecting those apples before the birds and racoons get them.”
Frieda rolled up her thick, reinforced cotton sleeves and punched her right fist into her left palm. “Let’s do it.”
Bernadette found a pair of empty steel buckets and they began picking the crisp-looking bounty from the ground.
“Are they bad?” Frieda asked, inspecting a rosy apple for blemishes.
“No. Pink ladies ripen late. These may even be a bit early. Watch for holes, though.”
“Don’t you want the ones in the tree?” Frieda asked, eyeing the trunk and branches for climbing.
“They’ll fall when they’re ready. But if you see any really pink ones and you think you can reach them without killing yourself, you go ahead and knock them down.”
Frieda shot up the tree and weaved through the tangle of unmanicured branches, inspecting and tossing the occasional apple to the ground.
“There are tons,” she said. “Are you going to make pies?”
“Cider,” she said. Last year’s batch had been her best yet, but it never lasted long. “If you want to make a pie for Thanksgiving, we can send you home with a bucket.”
A fall chill blew through the yard, and Bernadette shivered, feeling jolted back to reality. She returned to her chair, watching Frieda climb and the odd apple plunk onto the lawn. How could this be such a perfect morning, while Ron lay in some hospital bed? A wave of guilt passed through her. Bernadette looked back again at the house.
It would break my heart to have to leave.
This time, Henry was in the window, and he raised his coffee mug in a toast.
When she was done, Frieda carried over two buckets of apples and took the second Adirondack, wiping her brow with exaggerated exhaustion.
“I built these, too,” Bernadette said, tapping the arms of her chair.
“Wow,” Frieda said, looking at the rest beneath her left arm. “You’re really handy. How did you
learn to do all of this?”
“When you don’t grow up with much, you have to learn to do things yourself.”
“You just figured this out?”
“This was one of those things that Ron taught me.”
“Did you grow up together?”
“Oh, no,” Bernadette said, pausing. “I met Ron just around the time that I moved here.”
“Where did you move from?”
“I grew up in Portland.”
“Cool.”
Bernadette shook her head and smiled. “Back then, it wasn’t the hipster mecca you see on TV now. Portland was rough around the edges with rusty industrial trains and lots of people just trying to make ends meet. My mother was a hard worker. She held down two jobs just to raise my sister and me.”
“Were your parents divorced?” Frieda winced at her own question.
“No. My dad was in the military, but he died in an automobile accident on the base when I was only three. That’s when we moved to the city and started over.”
Her Canadian life was similar, Bernadette thought. She had reinvented herself here, too.
The difference is that now I’ve learned to want for very little.
She loved this house, and Ron was right. She had chosen well.
“I totally want to see Portland,” Frieda said. “It’s on my list. You’ve probably been tons of places.”
“Honestly? Growing up, I never looked very far ahead. I wasn’t even aware there was a Vancouver outside Washington State. Now, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
“Ron and I drove to Calgary once, to go to the Stampede. The rodeo itself was fine. But it was the driving through the mountains and carrying on to the badlands that was magnificent.”
“I want to see Drumheller, too.”
“You’d love it. The landscape is like another world. And there are so many fossils.”
Frieda’s head bobbed in agreement. “Do you guys still go on holiday together?”
Bernadette looked at her hands. Her knuckles had begun swelling in the last year, and they creaked a little when she flexed her fingers.
“No, Ron’s health makes it tricky to travel. He doesn’t own a car anymore, and I don’t have a license.”
“You can’t drive?” Frieda was aghast.
Bernadette laughed. “I used to drive. I just never got my driver’s license in Canada. Besides, everything I need’s right here. In fact, until recently, I bicycled everywhere. I can walk for groceries. The bus downtown is quick. And if there’s something big we need, one of Ron’s daughters will drive us around.”
“Have his daughters been told he’s in the hospital?”
“They have. And if you come visit today, you may meet Bonnie.”
Bernadette looked at Frieda and said, “You’ve got to take care of yourself, your home, and the people you love, no matter what.”
Frieda looked back, and Bernadette turned away.
You’re getting heavy, Bernie.
“This is your home, right?” Frieda asked.
“Of course.”
The young girl picked at the arm of the chair. She turned to look at Bernadette before she spoke again. “But you’re renting, right? I mean, you don’t own this house. A company does.”
Bernadette inhaled sharply at the reference to the holding company.
“You’re very clever, Frieda.” She leaned over the arm of her chair to get closer. “It doesn’t matter who owns any of this. We are all just borrowing things while we’re alive. This house was built before I was born and someone else called it home then. I’ve done so many repairs to this old house that this will be the part of me that lives on after I’m gone. Hopefully, people will call it home for a very long time.”
She watched Frieda study the house, deep in thought.
A smile broke across the young face. “If Hen’s still living here, you should totally haunt him, okay? That’d be funny.”
“Agreed,” Bernadette said, chuckling until the ache beneath her ribs told her that she was done sitting for now. She got up and walked through the garden.
I should give that medical marijuana a chance.
She laughed at the memory of sitting in the garden with Ron, laughing and getting high. In these same chairs, decades and several coats of paint ago, they’d smoked their fair share. It sometimes made her paranoid, though. She worried about what might await her, were she to return to the States.
All of this would be left behind. This life, this city, Ron, this house.
In the silence, Bernadette watched Frieda withdraw into her own head. The young girl transformed from jovial to thoughtful and then to worried.
“Is there something on your mind?”
“I lost something,” Frieda said, rubbing her right shoulder. “The brooch that held my cloak on.”
“Do you remember how you lost it?”
“I think so. But I called the place where I thought I left it, and they said it’s not there.”
“I’ll tell you what.” Bernadette tapped Frieda’s knee. “I have a brooch or two. Nothing fancy. You can borrow one while you’re staying with Henry, or until you get yours back. How does that sound?”
Frieda squinted at Bernadette, who was backlit by the morning sun. She seemed to perk back up a little. “For real?”
“Yup. Let’s go find one for you right now.”
Upstairs, in Bernadette’s bedroom, she unlocked a drawer of an old roll-top desk. “Don’t be fooled by the lock and key. None of this jewelry is worth anything.”
Bernadette found three trinkets for Frieda to choose from. Two were pin brooches, and the third was a medieval-looking Celtic brooch with a ring and a long, thick pin.
Bernadette couldn’t miss Frieda’s eyes locking on the Celtic brooch. “You like that one, don’t you?” She handed the piece to Frieda.
“It’s beautiful.”
Frieda turned the tarnished steel costume jewelry over in her hand. It was unadorned by any glittery jewels, and unengraved.
“It’s very special. Let me show you.”
Bernadette led them back down the short hall, adorned with paintings and a pair of photos in generic black metal frames, one black and white, one color.
“Can you see?” she asked, pointing at the faded, color image.
Frieda stood on her toes and squinted at the woman in the photograph.
“I bought that brooch on our trip to Calgary. The sun was so bright that I used it to keep a scarf over my head.”
Bernadette looked at her past self. She had been petite in those days. Her long, chestnut hair stuck out beneath the rose-colored, makeshift head cover. It wasn’t elegant, but the young Bernadette was too happy to care. She and a handsome middle-aged man stood at the top of a canyon, his arm over her shoulder. She grinned at the camera. His head tipped forward in laughter. The colors in the photo had faded over the forty-odd years, but she could still tap into those old feelings. Ron had conceived of it as a trip to help her relax, and she felt her shoulders sag even now.
“I see it,” Frieda said, pointing at the brooch in the photo, small but clear. “You were very pretty.”
“Thank you.”
“You should keep this, though.” The young girl held the brooch out to Bernadette. “It’s special.”
“It is. But I want you to have it.”
Frieda threw her arms around Bernadette. The sharp pain in Bernadette’s side ran all the way up her neck, and she thought for a second that she might pass out.
Bernadette separated herself and straightened her blouse.
As she saw the old brooch in the small young hand, she was struck by the accumulation of all that she’d given up this morning. Not simply the brooch, but pieces of her past. So much about herself. Thoughts of Ron, lying on his floor, feelings of guilt, questions about the company. It was all so overwhelming that she was letting her guard down.
“Now, go downstairs. I’ll see you at the hospital.”
“Okay,” Fried
a said, suddenly serious. “But can you come with me first? I have something to show you, too.”
Chapter Twenty
Henry poured fresh coffee into Tess’s mug, asking, “Then who did?”
Tess sat cross-legged on a chair at the table, backlit by the sun. She shrugged. “I don’t know. I was upstairs with you. But someone called 911.”
“Do you think it was Frieda?”
“I didn’t say that.” She blew steam off her coffee. “The only other person that could be in the picture is someone who was there. But why would you call 911 and then take off?”
“What if they hurt him, accidentally or something? Did it look like someone had gone through his apartment when you were down there? Someone looking for something. Valuables?”
“Not that I could tell. But have you seen in there? He was just a guy living on a pension. It’s as tidy as you’d expect. And what would he have worth stealing?”
Henry shrugged and took the seat opposite Tess.
“What concerns me is whether they found what they were looking for. If this is a case of someone stealing random stuff for drug money, then we should talk about getting a lock on the main front door.”
“I agree. But when do we bring this up with Bernadette?”
As if in answer, Shima meowed and jumped off the couch. Frieda entered, Bernadette in tow. Without a word, Frieda hurried into the bedroom and closed the door, Shima slipping in behind her.
“Is everything okay?” Henry asked.
Bernadette joined them at the table, waving off an offered mug. “Everything’s going to be fine,” she said, looking at the bedroom door.
“Have you heard any news?”
Bernadette’s voice was dull, less cadent than usual. “Ron should be alright. He was sleeping when I left last night. They’re keeping him to undergo some tests, and he might need surgery for a pacemaker.”
Tess’s face wore a pained expression. “He damaged his heart?”
“No. They’ve been eyeing him up for the pacemaker for a while. Whatever this was, it must have been the last straw.”
“Did he say what happened?” Henry asked.
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