Tell Anna She's Safe

by Brenda Missen

  She couldn’t bring herself to get up. The silence was a drug. Tim wasn’t banging around upstairs or slamming the front door at four in the morning. He wasn’t even slamming the door on his way back in to see her. She had forbidden him to come before noon. Even when there were no driveways to plow. Mornings were to be hers again.

  In fact, he wasn’t coming over as often as she’d been expecting. It made her want to go see him. She was glad to find this desire back in her heart. It was a necessary shift: to be granted enough separation to breed the desire for reunion. Maybe they could start over from two separate houses, the way most people started. Begin dating. See if there was enough there to draw them together again. And keep them together. It wouldn’t be so in-your-face. She could see other men, he could start meeting other women….

  She dressed and went upstairs to do her meditation in the little sitting room. Her earplugs weren’t where she thought she’d left them, but she didn’t search very hard. She didn’t need them. There was no one else inside, and only sound-deadening snow outside.

  Dead snow. There hadn’t been a snowfall for the past week. More ironies: as soon as he’d moved out he’d stopped needing to get up at four a.m. But this separation, she reminded herself, wasn’t just about getting uninterrupted sleep. And meditation was not about letting her thoughts run wherever they wanted. She slowed her breathing and focused on each intake and release of air.

  The sound of the front door closing brought her back with a jolt. Darn him. She’d told him not to come before noon.

  She met him in the front hall, taking off his boots. “What are you doing here?”

  She knew from the look on his face before he opened his mouth. He needed money. Three thousand dollars.

  “For God’s sake, where is it going? This is the last time I’m bailing you out.”

  She wrote the cheque and stewed all afternoon, Tim’s cliché mocking her in her head: You gotta spend money to make money.

  No. Not her money. Not anymore. This was going to stop.

  She ran downstairs to the computer.

  Then she drove over to Tim’s, let herself into the dark apartment when he didn’t answer the door.

  Tim was a lump in front of the TV.

  She screamed out the conditions on the agreement she was going to make him sign: “You will pay back the ten thousand into my line of credit. You will pay thirty percent of your income to me over the year. You will disclose all the sources of your income to me. You will pay all the interest on the line of credit.This is the last time I will pay it. It’s your responsibility. You will not ask for, or take, one more cent from me.”

  She shoved the contract and the pen in front of him.

  “I’m doing the best I can, Lu—honest! The truck broke down. I had to get it fixed right away—I can’t not have my plow working. I got commitments.”

  “You got a commitment to me. Now sign that contract. I’m fed up.”

  She watched the tears stream down his face. She hardened her heart against those tears. She watched him sign his name. She scrawled hers next to it. She felt nothing but a cold hard emptiness. Emptiness that even her own tears on her way home couldn’t fill.

  *

  “THE CONVERSATION I REMEMBER THE most from that time,” said Curtis, “was when he was just about to move back in.”

  “So he did come back. That explains his calling me from her house when she went missing. I never heard anything more about their relationship after she told me he’d moved out. Sometime around Christmas, right? Maybe early January?”

  Curtis laughed in a self-deprecating way. “Don’t ask me about dates. Whenever it was, I don’t think he lasted much more than a month on his own. We had dinner just before he moved back in. It was in February. That I remember because we had an unusual deep freeze that month, and her pipes froze. I always warned her that might happen. The basement wasn’t very well insulated. I was working at the bookstore by then and she called me there to ask me to come over to fix them.”

  *

  “WHERE’S MR. BROCKMAN REPAIRS?” HIS voice was mocking, but she could tell he was pleased she had called him and not Tim.

  “I’ll tell you about that when you get here.” She stopped herself. “That is, if you wouldn’t mind coming over.”

  “No problem,” said Curtis in his lazy, seductive voice.

  “I’ll cook you supper.”

  “You’re not serving up Tim Bourguignon are you?”

  She laughed. “No, Tim is still very much alive. He’s not likely to be here this evening, but if you’re worried, we could go out.”

  “I’m not worried if you’re not worried.” She could almost see the shrug that would have accompanied these words.

  She wasn’t worried. Since moving out, Tim never came over on Friday evenings. He had finally made some friends and usually went with them to Hurley’s or another bar. She wasn’t sorry not to have to deal with his coming in at three a.m. or his morning-after hangover.

  She also wasn’t sorry the pipes had frozen. She’d been so busy catching up with work after Tim had moved out that she hadn’t had time to socialize the way she’d intended. But she also hadn’t thought there was any urgent need to take advantage of his absence. Unfortunately now there was: he was moving back.

  By seven she had running water again. By seven-thirty she and Curtis were ensconced in a booth at My Cousins on Elgin Street, sipping wine and waiting for their dinners to arrive. Curtis had convinced her she didn’t feel like cooking. Now he slouched back in the booth. The familiarity of his lean frame and posture gave Lucy a pang.

  “So have you guys broken up, or what?”

  She recited her stock line. “Tim’s had his own place for a month now. We’re still seeing each other. We just needed our own space.” Then she leaned forward. “I understand now.”

  Curtis sat up, smiled his slow smile. “What do you understand now?”

  “I understand why you needed your space. Understand how needy I was, how I drove you crazy.” She sighed. “The shoe’s on the other foot now. Big time.”

  She half expected a smug retort. She almost wanted Curtis to judge her. But there was sympathy in his eyes, and his voice was gentle. “It’s tough having someone in your face all the time, isn’t it?”

  She felt her throat tighten and hoped she wouldn’t cry. “I guess I had to draw someone needy to me to make me finally see it.”

  Curtis was nodding. “Mirrors—they’re our healing. So,” he added, “the official line is you’ve got separate places now to have your own space, but really you’re easing out. Right?”

  For a moment she was annoyed by his presumptuousness. But it was refreshing to have someone read her inner thoughts. He did know her. He always had.

  But she shook her head. “Actually, it looks like he might be moving back next week.”

  Curtis raised an eyebrow. “So much for getting your own space.”

  “I don’t really have a choice. There was a break-in where Tim lives. He’s in the basement. The landlord lives upstairs. The landlord’s TV and VCR and stereo were stolen. He’s asking Tim to move out because—”

  “Because he thinks Tim did it?” Curtis looked amused

  “Because,” she repeated, “he wants his son to move in.”

  “And why do you feel obligated to take him back? He’s not your legal responsibility.”

  “He’s got nowhere else to go.”

  “But you’re enjoying having your place on your own.”

  “Yes, but….”

  Curtis’s eyes held hers. He spoke in a quiet voice. “Rescuing isn’t always a good idea.”

  She bristled. “I’m not rescuing.”

  “Doing something for someone when you don’t want to be doing it is a form of rescuing.” His smile was rue
ful.

  “It would just be temporary.”

  Curtis was shaking his head. “Once he comes back—”

  She cut him off. “I’m still thinking about it.”

  “Think carefully,” said Curtis.

  She did think carefully. She wasn’t trying to rescue Tim. She was trying to contain him. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—do it forever, but for a little while longer she would protect the world from Tim Brennan.

  And get her money back.

  *

  CURTIS DIDN’T SEEM TO KNOW anything more about Bill Torrence. But I needed to know how Torrence had fit in at the end. And what had Quinn said about forged cheques?

  I wondered if Trish knew? I called her the next day from work.

  She seemed reluctant to talk to me. I didn’t press her.

  That left only one person who could tell me.

  I stewed about it for days. He’d said he couldn’t call me, but he’d never said I couldn’t call him. I would do it at work, of course, but I needed a legitimate reason. I couldn’t just call up and say, “I need to hear more about the case you’re not supposed to be talking to me about.”

  I made up my mind. I would tell him I needed to talk to him about Lucy—that I had more information. He would, I hoped, forgive me when he found out my real reason for calling. He’d always been sympathetic to my needing to know the story.

  I called the station. My heart was pounding.

  Sergeant Quinn wasn’t available, I was told. Would I like to leave a message?

  I didn’t have the nerve.

  21.

  THE TEMPERATURE PLUMMETED. THE CURRENT slowed the freezing of this section of the river, but thin ice built up along shore. Snow piled around the house. Many days I worked from home to avoid the treacherous drive. I was antsy for the trial to get under way, but I heard nothing from Lundy or Roach. Or Quinn. Curtis took off to Mexico at the invitation of a friend who lived there. It was after he left and I was trying to flesh out the information I knew about Lucy that I realized I’d never asked him about her Easter visit. How had that slipped through the cracks? I knew the answer. There had been so much ground to cover.

  I called Trish again. We hadn’t talked much about the sternum injury or what had caused it. But this time Trish was more than just reluctant to speak to me. “I’m sorry, Ellen, I can’t meet with you. I never thought about the trial. But I realize we’re all going to be witnesses, and I shouldn’t be speaking to you.”

  “I would keep it confidential. I would never reveal we’d talked.”

  “I’m sorry, I just can’t take the risk.”

  I hung up the phone, wondering if Marnie was the real reason she wouldn’t talk to me. If Marnie had been involved, it couldn’t have been premeditated on her part. She must have got caught up in something. Through contact with Tim that weekend maybe? Had Trish started to tell me Marnie had seen him on the weekend? She’d said Marnie and Tim had lots in common. Like hunting. The word gave me the creeps. Had Marnie gone over to Tim’s that weekend for something to do with bow hunting? I had no answers. And, now, no means of finding them. All my sources had been cut off. There was, as Quinn said, no point in stewing. The truth would come out eventually. But I might have to wait for the trial for that. And the hearing hadn’t even been set yet.

  Without Lucy to concentrate on, my head filled again with cross-examination scenarios. Now, in addition to exposing me for a flake, the defence lawyer in my head discredited me for talking with other witnesses and, worse, for having intimate contact with Sergeant Steve Quinn. I threw myself into work and winter activities. Skiing in the park. Snowshoeing on the railway tracks with the dogs. Coffee with Mary Frances.

  Slowly, gradually, I relaxed into the white dormancy of winter.

  The call came, finally, in late March. It came from Quinn. He was formal, business-like, and brief. The pre-trial hearing was going to get going in April. He had been assigned to line up the witnesses. Could I come in for an interview with the Assistant Crown next week?

  Three days later another call came. This time from Marc. Belle had had a stroke.

  I was shocked. I hadn’t even known it was possible for dogs to have a stroke. And she was still young. Marc assured me there was every chance of her recovering. I was going to make sure. Over his half-hearted objections I brought her to my place.

  After a few days, Belle’s appetite came back and, after a week, her bark. I stopped having to carry her up and down the stairs. She was able to walk, slowly, down to the river and back. Her head had a decided lean to the left.

  On the ninth evening after I had brought her home, she had another stroke.

  I sat with her on her quilt, talking to her, running my hands over her soft fur. She lay still. Too still. I pressed my head against her chest. Frantically I felt for her heartbeat.

  And then I smelled something. A fragrance. Familiar. And I knew its name: patchouli.

  I looked around for the source of the scent. And saw Lucy standing in the doorway.

  Belle suddenly sat up and sniffed the air. She looked across the room to Lucy.

  I looked down at Belle. I looked back at Lucy.

  Lucy smiled at me. Then she beckoned to Belle.

  Belle stirred in my arms. She struggled to her feet. She licked my nose. And then she trotted over to Lucy. She didn’t hobble, her head didn’t lean. She stopped in front of my dead friend and wagged her tail.

  Lucy gave me another reassuring smile. Then she turned, and Belle followed her out of the room. Out of space and time.

  I found myself on the floor, holding my Belle’s still-warm, unmoving body in my arms.

  Lucy’s presence stayed in the room. I had never seen her so calm. Had never seen such a beautiful smile on her face. Her fears were gone. And mine, now, too. There was nothing to be afraid of. Her visit wasn’t a hallucination or my imagination. It was a gift. The gift of knowing that Belle was in good hands. And that Lucy was okay now too.

  But they were both gone.

  I buried my face in Belle’s fur and let the tears flow, unchecked. She was too young.

  Lucy had been too young too. Why hadn’t I insisted Quinn and I search those barns that first night? Why hadn’t I made more of an effort? Why had I let my doubts get in the way?

  Grief came rising to the surface. At last.

  I rocked myself back and forth and sobbed as I had never in my life sobbed.

  22.

  “DO YOU SWEAR TO TELL the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  I had opted to swear on a book I didn’t hold sacred. The court attendant holding it out was smiling. She seemed to know the procedure was unavoidable, the question ludicrous, and my answer necessarily the first lie. The court’s interest was only in the bare bones of the truth: the “facts.” I hoped that was as far as I would have to go. The pre-trial hearing had begun.

  Above and to my right sat the judge. Facing me were the two Assistant Crown attorneys, Steve Quinn, and Mr. Blair, who would have the pleasure of cross-examining me later. The rest of the courtroom was filled with high-school students, here to learn the workings of the Ontario court system.

  They were dispassionate observers, a role I had given up a year ago.

  Before I sat down, I glanced beyond the Crown’s bench to a glassed-in box. It was the first time I had laid eyes on Tim Brennan in almost a year. It was important to meet his eyes. I couldn’t speak in this court unless I did. That was the only thing I had any certainty about—that I had to, that I could.

  He looked straight back at me. No expression on his face.

  I took my seat then, out of his line of vision.

  The Assistant Crown, Deanne Fortier, rose from the bench. She was blonde and petite and had a sympathetic smile and the trace of a Québecois accent.


  “Ms. McGinn, I understand you are a researcher here in Ottawa?”

  It was the end of class for the high-school students. They filed out of the courtroom. They weren’t drained or shaky, or anxious for the Assistant Crown’s smile of reassurance. They were looking forward to their weekend. They weren’t worried about being cross-examined on Monday.

  I glanced at Tim sitting in his glassed-in box, waiting to be led away. He raised his eyebrows and adopted a sympathetic expression. I didn’t return it.

  I approached Deanne Fortier. I was keeping both Steve Quinn and the defence lawyer deliberate blurs in my peripheral vision. For different reasons. But it wasn’t making any difference. I could feel their focus on me. Also for different reasons.

  Deanne was in a rush. She gave me a kind look over the load of thick binders in her arms. “Technically I’m not supposed to speak with you now that I’m finished the examination. But don’t worry, you did fine.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t let Blair intimidate you on Monday. Answer only what he asks you. Don’t volunteer anything.”

  I couldn’t help looking over at the defence lawyer. He was speaking in low tones to his assistant. Every few minutes they sent glances my way. They were clearly planning their strategy, confident they could expose me.

  Deanne started down the aisle. “Bonne fin de semaine,” she called back over her shoulder in a teasing sing-song voice.

  I sent a quick glance in the direction of the other source of attention on me. And felt my face flush when his eyes met mine. Aside from the brief phone call, it was our first contact in over six months. He hadn’t been present at my interview with the Crown.

  I was too self-conscious to speak to him in the courtroom. I headed down the aisle after Deanne Fortier, all too aware of him following me.

  He caught up at the door to the anteroom and held it open for me. At the second door, he took the handle but stood with the door still closed. “You look like you could use a drink. And maybe something to eat. I’ve got an hour before I have to be somewhere else. I’ll take you across the street to the Lord Elgin.”