Would I Lie to You

by Mary Lou Dickinson

  Now, Jerry could scarcely eat and he slept more all the time. It was a year since the surgeon had cut into him and found the cancer had spread beyond the scalpel’s reach. He had been able to remove some of it and, for a while, Jerry had seemed better. After a round of radiation, Sue had even begun to believe that his health would continue to improve. But now she wondered. That was why she had made the appointment with the psychic. She had needed to know something no one else could tell her. Or would tell her. She sometimes wanted to yell at the doctors. They gave answers to her questions that were always vague. Now, her head and stomach ached. She reached for the Pepto Bismol and sipped a capful from the pink bottle.

  “Is your stomach bothering you?” Jerry asked.

  “As a matter of fact, it is,” she said, unable to hide her irritation at the question.

  Jerry turned away, sat down, and put his head in his hands.

  She kicked at a pile of books under the table and watched them slide across the floor. Strung out like a taut wire, she felt ready to crack at any moment. It was not Jerry’s fault. None of this was. But she did not like feeling she might be caught out, especially when she had only gone to see the psychic with the thought that it could help them.

  “Oh yeah, sure,” Jerry would likely reply. “How could something like that help me?” What he needed was a miracle. They both knew that. That was the tragedy of it all. Propelled toward a certain end, she had stopped paying attention to anything but her own fear. She started to pick up the books, trying to hide the fact that she was stifling sobs.

  “Sue, just plain Sue, I hardly think so,” Jerry used to say.

  She used to think he would suddenly realize all her flaws and the criticism would begin. She was wary, knowing how charming a man could be at first and then turn into a bully. Instead, her husband had turned into a man who would not live much longer. She hated that he was going to die. But she could not stand to watch it happen either and sometimes she wished he would get it over with.

  “Oh, Christ,” Sue said. “I’m sorry.” What guilt could do, she thought. Here she was snapping at him because he had asked her an innocuous question.

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  “It’s okay,” she said finally. They seemed to irritate each other more often even when there was no tangible reason. And if she brought up some of the questions she would like to ask, that would likely incite another misunderstanding. She wished she had asked more about his first wife. He might die before she had a chance to find out. All she knew was that he had been married many years before. Although they had been wildly in love, he had said it was more like playing house than marriage. And then his wife was killed in a freak accident when a car had mounted a curb and pinned her against a building. If Sue asked him about that now, maybe Jerry would think she had not been listening when he had told her about it on one of the city walks they had taken exploring different neighbourhoods when they were first getting to know each other.

  Maybe it was also because she did not think much about the earlier part of her life either; the part before Jerry. It felt as if it had taken a long time to move beyond the dreadful insecurities of her twenties. She had not probed deeply to find something she could do that gave her life a structure. Her favourite subject in high school had been history, but she was good at the sciences and there had been a need for teachers in that area. So, she had become a high-school physics teacher. She liked dealing with something she could write down as an equation. Liked to teach the material in such a way that the students understood how a particular point was reached. Isaac Newton himself had said he stood “on the shoulders of giants.” Ideas had been in the air and the ideas of one scientist led to the next one’s discovery, history in the making, people in any age always verging on discovery. She was able to incorporate her interest in history into her work by pointing out these connections to her students. Now, when people learned of her budding interest in art, it surprised them. But it had surprised her most of all.

  “I feel sick,” he said.

  She watched him make his way across the kitchen and over into the living room. He was weaving, almost as if he had been drinking.

  “Do you want help?” she asked, following him in case he lost his balance.

  “I’ll just lie down on the sofa,” he said.

  “Okay.” For a moment, Sue continued to watch him. When these flashes of sudden weakness arose, she often seemed to be caught unprepared, and she had to be careful that he did not suddenly accuse her of being too solicitous. So, once he was settled, she went upstairs to their bedroom. She would fix her dark hair up in a swirl and surround her face with small curls, knowing how much that used to please him. Even though he might be too sick to notice.

  When Sue returned to the living room, Jerry’s eyes were closed. There were dark shadows across his sunken cheeks. She turned to leave the room.

  “I’m awake, Sue,” he said.

  “Can I get anything for you?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Jerry said. “Surprise me.” A wan grin crossed his face.

  Shivers moved through her as she moved toward him and ran her hand through his curly hair. She kissed his forehead. “It’s good to see you smile,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  *

  Sun glinted on the front windows as Sue headed up the flagstone path on her return from a short walk. She was sure Jerry would be sleeping again. He’s going to die, she thought. It was not a nightmare she had awakened from, but what was going to happen. The psychic had not said so, but she could hear his voice nonetheless as if he were there so someone else could tell her. And, anyway, she had known it for a long time. So had Jerry.

  “All the things I wanted to do with the rest of my life,” he had said. “This isn’t fair.” He had punched the counter that day, sending a mug of coffee crashing to the floor.

  “You’ve already made a difference, Jer.” She had calmed herself by breathing deeply. “I love you,” she said.

  “So many more years I would have had with you.” Then he mouthed his response to her last words. “I love you, too, Bird.”

  He never called her “Hon” or “Sweetheart.” Those names she associated, for no good reason, with suburbia. She was his “Small Bird,” his “Chickadee,” names unique to their relationship. She wanted to bury herself in a book or a piece of music to make her forget that one day soon her husband would leave her, that she would be all alone. How could she have imagined that going to a psychic would make any difference? What foolishness. Still, colour had begun to fill her life in a most satisfying way. She might dream of the impossible in wanting her husband to recover, but her need for colour was already finding expression as it filled the void that stretched wide open ahead of her. She needed colour. Golden sunshine. The white bark of the birch with flecks of purple and green. Sky. A jet contrail, a pale white strip against an expanse of blue, high above.

  “There you are,” Jerry said when she came through the door. “I’ve missed you, Bird.” Music filled the room. Jazz. He had not listened to jazz for a while. It was Joshua Redman. It was almost as if the music flowed magically through the saxophone, each note and phrase touching her with its perfection. She never had the ear for music Jerry had, but she knew when something moved her.

  “There were a couple of phone calls,” Jerry’s voice greeted her now. “I wrote messages.”

  Sue smiled at the sound of his voice so clearly saying he had been able to deal with the calls. This was one of his better days. Sometimes he let the answering machine take messages. Some days that was all he could do.

  “Did you have a good swim?” he asked.

  Sue went regularly to a nearby pool and Jerry must have thought that was where she had been. “I was shopping,” she said.

  “Isn’t it Halloween today?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Sue said, although dates and even
ts were a blur these days. She had almost forgotten to vote in the federal election, and was surprised the next day when the Liberals had won so handily. The electors had overthrown the first female prime minister and left her without a seat in the House of Commons. It seemed they were really punishing the former prime minister who had relinquished control of the party already.

  “I almost forgot about Halloween this year, but when I remembered I bought chips and chocolate bars. And I brought home a pumpkin, too.” The store at the intersection of their street with Bloor had the orange squash in a pile on a table outside the door. There were larger ones on the sidewalk. “I left it on the front porch. I’ll bring it inside to cut eyes and a mouth in it.”

  “Oh, good,” Jerry said. “Can I carry it in for you?”

  “It’s not too heavy. I brought it home without rolling it along the street.” Sue visualized an orange ball pushed slowly with an outstretched foot and passersby stopping to stare. Surely the stuff of slapstick comedy.

  He laughed and she was glad that he was amused by that scenario.

  “What are you going to do with the pumpkin?” he asked, after she had brought it inside.

  “Just watch me,” she said, pleased as his face lit up again. She drew a cat’s face on the surface, then carved out the pieces. Afterwards, she put a candle inside and the cat smiled mischievously, as if he had a secret.

  “I’ll help put it on the porch,” he said.

  The gremlins appeared at the door as dark began to fall. By then, jack-o’-lanterns were lit at most houses and children of various ages traipsed along the street in their costumes. The little ones climbed the stairs awkwardly, gripping trick-or-treat bags. A princess. A puppy. Shy children tentatively said, “Thank you.” The parents stood on the walk near the street, watchful. From where Jerry lay on the sofa, dozing, he could see the callers and occasionally raised his head enough to comment.

  “Are you a pirate?” he asked one small boy.

  “Yes.”

  Sue could tell both Jerry and the child were delighted.

  “That was one of my favourite costumes when I was a kid,” he said to the boy.

  The older children descended in hordes toward half-past seven. They rushed from one house to another in a clamour of noise and laughter.

  After Sue gave out all the treats, she turned off the lights.

  “What would you like to eat tonight?” she asked.

  “Roast beef,” he joked, “with Yorkshire pudding.”

  Sue chuckled, knowing he was rarely hungry anymore. Beef consommé perhaps as a substitute. He still managed finely cut meat and vegetables some days. Going out to the kitchen, she spied the cassette tape Hans Jonker had given her where she had left it inadvertently out on the counter the other day. She tossed it into a drawer filled with recipes, fuses, string, and some old pill containers. She did not imagine she would ever play it. The psychic had been an interesting man, but likely a charlatan like others she had heard about.

  Jerry. Jerry. Jerry.

  They had had so many plans until the diagnosis of cancer. Even then, they had taken a trip out west where in the mornings on the coast, their bodies touching in bed, they had listened to the thunder of the Pacific pounding on the beach just beyond their window. Later, wearing green nylon ponchos, they had walked on the beach in the rain, watching sandpipers run along the shore, leaving little three-pronged foot markings on the wet sand.

  Sue had wanted to go to the far coast of Vancouver Island and Jerry had promised to take her. She had known by then they would never make it to Tuscany or Provence together. Or even back to Quebec City where they had wandered the narrow streets of the old town, exploring the historic buildings. They had moved among the throngs milling on the boardwalk in front of the Chateau Frontenac. The Plains of Abraham, where they had followed trails above the river, had been a mass of golden leaves the year before. They had spoken French to the owner of the small hotel where they had stayed. He had told them the names of restaurants, some of which were well-kept secrets of the locals.

  There were still so many things left unexplored.

  Sue put the consommé down on the table beside Jerry, glad to see a contented look on his face. The thought that they would soon have to talk about his funeral flitted through her mind.

  “Do you mind if I go out for a few minutes to see what’s going on at the other houses?” she asked. The thought of talking about what would occur after his death, or about his death, made her shudder.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  Just that weekend, they had had to turn the clock back one hour, and dark had begun to descend much earlier. Leaves shone in the lamplight. Skeletons hung from trees at one house, like small bobbing buoys. At another, lit pumpkins lined the walk. Some of the adults also wore costumes. Sue did not want to go back inside the house. When there had still been more time, they had had long discussions about their lives together and how that soon would end, but since it had never felt quite real to her then, she had been able to manage those conversations. Now, it felt as if the next time she came out onto the street it would be winter and a season would have passed almost overnight.

  “How was it?” Jerry asked, his face heavy with fatigue.

  “People are having a good time.”

  As he smiled, the trace of freckles across his cheeks crinkled. “I love Halloween,” he murmured.

  “I know.”

  “I fell asleep when you were out,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes following her. “When I woke up, I thought I’d like to talk about our plans. You know, for after. I want to be cremated,” he continued. “I think I’d like some kind of memorial later. A celebration.”

  Relieved that she did not have to raise it, Sue hoped she could have this talk with him now without breaking down.

  “Where?” she asked, brushing her hand through her hair. She could see in the pane of the nearby window that the bangs fell on either side to form a part and that there was a white streak through the front wave that she had been told looked striking. Jerry had often said so.

  “If we don’t get around to deciding, I’d be glad with anything you come up with.”

  “But I don’t want to decide something that important for you.” She bit her bottom lip and waited for him to answer.

  Instead, he looked bewildered, even hurt. “Why not?” he asked.

  “It’s something I’d rather you knew about.” Still, concerned that she might upset him further, Sue tried to think of some place that would feel comfortable to him. “Maybe on the island?” All her memories about the archipelago across the bay from downtown Toronto were ones of relaxed exploration and discovery. Before she knew Jerry, she had often cycled there and found a spot to read on rocks just below the boardwalk. It was a place where she had watched sailboats dance in the waves on fine summer days and kayaks with lone paddlers streak down the shoreline.

  “Yes,” he said. “Near the water. Where we were married. Martin could make reservations for the clubhouse.”

  He flashed a conspiratorial smile, one she had not seen in a long time. One that indicated they had resolved something significant. And then, he fell asleep again. Just like that. His face was lined and craggy, but he still looked peaceful in sleep. She had a momentary image of finding her husband gone. A body. Gradually getting cold.

  “I’m not ready,” Sue murmured.

  “I know, love.” Jerry was not asleep after all. He had only closed his eyes.

  “No funeral?” she asked.

  “Yes, I guess. It would be a formality,” he said. “Look, Sue, there’s something I’d like to tell you.” He looked suddenly worried.

  “What is it, Jer?” What did he want to tell her that she did not already know? Anything was possible, she supposed. She had protected aspects of her own life she had found im
possible to explain. After a while, it had become too large a hurdle, something she feared might change everything. Would Jerry have been less loving had he learned about that early pregnancy?

  Sue thought about Jerry’s childhood in small town Ontario where he had first known Martin. Surely, a man who had practised family law and accepted legal aid so he could see clients from across the spectrum would have been able to hear her story. What had restrained her had been threats her mother had made that could still make her tremble. Even at the prospect of telling her husband. She had revelled in his love of wine, of fine food, of music, of walking on the Bruce Trail. Of the tiny cabin they had near the water on a lake up north. Of how sensuous and affectionate he was. And she had chuckled when she had seen his hand go to his head as he spoke to scratch at some sudden itch, then toy with a tuft of hair. Or to his forearm. Maybe his leg, just behind the knee. His crotch. She knew he could also become impatient at times, but that was not why she had not told him.

  “You know that I’ve made you the beneficiary of my will.”

  “Yes, but if you want to change anything, just tell me,” she said. He had always been generous with his good fortune and could well have made arrangements he had forgotten to tell her about.

  “I don’t,” he said. “But after I die there could be some disputes when Martin, as executor, goes looking for anyone else who might have a claim.”

  Suddenly, she thought of the psychic’s words, but she still thought he had been so wide of the truth that she discounted them. It occurred to her the man might have confused her own hidden past with Jerry’s. That must be it, she thought, but she was still baffled by Jerry’s words.

  “Is there anyone who might have a claim?” Something about the way he had said it put her antennae suddenly on alert.

  “I don’t know,” he said.