by Gail Bowen
“It didn’t go too far,” he said.
“Keep it that way,” I said. “Angus, you know I try to stay out of your private life. All the time you and Leah were together, I trusted you to handle the situation.”
“Be respectful. Be responsible,” he said.
“You’ve got it,” I said. “And it still applies.”
That night we had enchiladas for dinner because we always had enchiladas for dinner on Christmas Eve. It was a tradition that endured because in the first year of our marriage my husband had decided that eating Mexican food, listening to Mel Torme, and making love in front of the fire was a fine way to usher in the holiday. Now, even though I could only manage two out of three, it still was.
Our church’s early service was at 7:00 p.m. At 6:30, I was rummaging through my closet trying to find something that didn’t need ironing when there was a tap at my door. It was Bryn. She was wearing a demure black wool jacket, matching pants, and buttery leather boots. Around her neck was a woven gold chain that held a tiny cross. She was the epitome of pious chic, but there was uncertainty in her eyes. “Is this outfit appropriate?” she asked.
“It’s perfect,” I said.
“We don’t go to church,” she said. “I didn’t want to wear the wrong thing.” She hadn’t shifted her gaze from my face. Her thick eyelashes were painterly smudges against her pale skin, and her eyes were as warmly liquid as dark honey. “I know I worry too much about how I look,” she said.
“We all do.” I smiled at her. “Now if I’m going to come up with anything that makes me look one-tenth as attractive as you do, I’m going to have to get back to my closet.”
“I can do that for you,” Bryn said. She stepped into my walk-in closet and, after a few minutes of silent appraisal, selected a simple black turtleneck and a black silk skirt with a pattern of red poppies. “If you have some mid-calf boots with an interesting heel, this will work,” she said.
She was right. Five minutes later as I checked the mirror, I knew I had never looked more pulled together in my life. I was doing a quick makeup repair when the doorbell rang. I walked into the hall, but when I heard the murmur of voices, I shrugged and went back to my lip liner.
Bryn was standing by the front door when I went downstairs. As soon as she spotted me, she slipped something into her purse.
“Who was at the door?” I asked.
“Nobody,” she said.
“I was certain I heard voices,” I said.
“Well you didn’t,” she said brightly. “You really didn’t.” The tilt of her chin defied me to press the point. I let it go, and the phone call I received five minutes later made me glad I’d exercised restraint.
It was Dan Kasperski sounding more agitated than I ever remembered him sounding. Mindful of eavesdroppers, I asked if I could call him back. When I did, he wasted no time on preamble. “Kevin Hynd spent most of the afternoon watching the footage Bryn’s father shot of her. He was alarmed enough about what he saw to ask me to review some of the tape and give him a professional opinion.”
I felt a coldness in the pit of my stomach. “Is it that bad?”
“Jo, you have to talk to Bryn’s stepmother about getting her some help.”
“I was hoping you’d volunteer,” I said.
“You’ve got it,” he said. “Bring her in tomorrow.”
“Christmas Day?” I said.
“Ticking time bombs don’t stop for statutory holidays.”
When I came downstairs, Jill, Bryn, and my kids were already wrapped up for outdoors, ready for church. Lit by the twinkling lights of Taylor’s tree, they looked like carollers on an old-fashioned holiday card. Heart pounding, I hurried into my outdoor clothes and joined them. It was Christmas Eve. Divine Intervention was not out of the question, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
Taylor loved the lustrous magic of the Anglican service of Lessons and Carols. At that service, all the elements that caused her eight-year-old soul to soar were in perfect alignment. She loved music, and her favourite was “Once in Royal David’s City,” the traditional processional hymn. Every Christmas Eve, she would sit on the edge of the pew counting the moments until the boy soprano who sang the opening verse a cappella was finished so she could raise her strong clear voice in song. She was an artist who saw the world in terms of colour and composition. She loved the perfect rosy Renaissance feet on the doll that lay in the fresh hay of the creche on the altar, and the juxtaposition of the tiny haloed baby with the soaring black cross that hung above it. And she loved the candles that flickered dangerously in our hands and the way the incense mixed with the scents of pine and perfume. Most of all, Taylor loved communion. She gave me the blankest of gazes when I mentioned transubstantiation, but at some deep level, she understood the thrill of a world in which wafer became flesh and wine, blood. That Christmas Eve as Father Gary ruminated on Plato’s observation that we live in a time when it often seems the sheepdogs have become the wolves, Taylor fidgeted, but when he called us to the communion rail, she grabbed my hand.
The whole process intrigued her: Father Gary’s explanation that our church has open communion, and that visitors of other faiths were welcome to take part; the promise that those who needed healing could come to the communion rail at the last for special prayers and blessing; the choir’s chant asking the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world to grant us peace.
Bryn was rapt too. As Father Gary talked about the sacrament of communion, she listened, lips slightly parted, her hand on the pew, fingers touching my son’s. But when our turn to go forward came, Bryn stayed in her place. When Jill whispered to her, she didn’t move.
The sacrament of communion has always brought me the kind of comfort suggested by its Latin root comfortare, “to strengthen.” That night despite the familiar words, the taste of wine, and the stillness of the scented air as we knelt at the altar, the usual sense of slow-blooming peace eluded me. As we walked back to our seats, the knife-edge of panic was sawing away, sharper than ever.
I couldn’t shake the memory of Dan Kasperski’s words. My mind was racing. I was so immersed in the problem of how Jill could deal with the daughter she adored that I didn’t notice that Bryn herself had slipped away. She was already at the altar when I spotted her. Communion was over. She was alone. She moved with fluid grace past the communion rail, knelt under the cross suspended above the altar, then prostrated herself beneath it. Father Gary was a gentle and sensible man. He knelt beside her, prayed with her, then put his arms around her and helped her to her feet. Bryn walked back down the aisle with her head high. As she slipped back into her place in the pew, the slightest glimmer of a smile passed her lips. “I’m forgiven,” she said. “It’s all right. I’m forgiven.”
CHAPTER
9
Bryn’s convenient conversion might have brought her peace, but it did not usher in a period of amazing grace for the rest of us. From the moment we came back from church, the evening grew steadily worse.
I hadn’t even taken my coat off before Angus grabbed my arm, pulled me aside, and whispered, “I need to talk to you, Mum.”
“Go for it,” I said.
“In private.”
“Come upstairs, then,” I said.
My son didn’t beat around the bush. After we walked into my room, he closed the door, threw himself on the bed, and started talking. “We didn’t do that much, Mum. It was just – you know – the usual.”
“You’ve lost me already,” I said.
He kept his eyes resolutely on the ceiling. “Bryn and I didn’t do anything that should have made her flip out like that during communion.”
I sat down on the bed. “You think what happened with Bryn tonight was your fault?”
“You’re the one who told me there was more to sex than mechanics,” he said. “Remember ‘always treat the other person responsibly and respectfully.’ ”
“I remember,” I said. “But don’t be too quick to don the hair shirt about this
one, Angus. Bryn’s had a lot to deal with lately. I think everything just caught up with her tonight.”
Relief washed over my son’s face. “So it wasn’t what we did?”
“You’re not off the hook,” I said. “You’re eighteen years old. You know how powerful sexual feelings are.”
“That’s why I thought it was my fault,” he said. “Bryn told me…” He flung his arm across his forehead. “I can’t talk to you about this.”
“Okay,” I said. “But, Angus, we’re dealing with major problems here. If you know anything that can help, maybe you should reconsider.”
“Can you promise to keep this between us unless it’s absolutely necessary to tell somebody else?”
“That seems reasonable,” I said.
Angus took a deep breath. “This afternoon Bryn told me she was still a virgin, but she didn’t want to stay that way.”
“So you were about to grant her wish when we came in,” I said.
“No.” He slammed his fist into his hand. “I wasn’t about to do anything. Look, Mum, I’m not going to bullshit you. Bryn is really hot. But she’s a sketch…” He picked up on my blank look. “You know, off centre. But the big problem is she’s just not Leah.”
“I thought Leah was over,” I said.
“So did I,” he said. “But this afternoon… fuck, Mum, it’s so weird talking to you about this. But with Leah, everything, not just – you know – intimacy, everything felt right. This didn’t.”
“Trust your instincts,” I said.
“Back off with Bryn?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Be her friend, but don’t be alone with her.”
Angus gave me a lopsided grin. “Of course, I would have figured this out myself sooner or later.”
“Probably later rather than sooner,” I said, then I gave him a quick hug.
When Angus pushed open the door to leave, Bryn was standing so close he almost hit her.
I walked over to her. “Are you all right?”
“I was just going to get ready for bed,” she said.
Jill came up the stairs, took in the situation, and dropped a protective arm around her stepdaughter. “Wrong door, sweetie. Our room’s next door.”
Like a weary child, Bryn lay her head against Jill. “I’m tired,” she said. “I guess I just got confused.”
Five minutes later, Jill was back in my room. “Bryn’s asleep. She was so exhausted I had to help her get into her pyjamas.”
“It’s been a long day,” I said.
“They’re all long days for Bryn,” Jill said. “Jo, what am I going to do?”
It was an opening, and I took it. “You’re going to get her some help.” Jill’s gaze never wavered as I told her about Dan’s call. When I finished, she said, “Bryn’s run out of options, hasn’t she?”
“Dan seems to think so.”
“She doesn’t trust anybody,” Jill said. “How can I get her to talk to Dan?”
“I’d start by telling her that Dan has seen the footage Evan shot and that he believes what her father did to her was heinous. I’m not an expert, but I think Bryn might open up to someone who knows the worst and is still on her side.”
Jill leaned towards me. “You’re right,” she said. “But the person Bryn opens up to should be me. I’m the one who should tell her that I know everything and I still love her. I’m going to call Dan and ask him if I can come over and look at the films tonight.”
“Not tonight,” I said. “You’ve had enough. We can slip over there tomorrow afternoon. Barry and Ed have invited the kids and me to their brunch, but Angus and Taylor will have a great time on their own – so will Bryn.”
Jill raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t they? Barry and Ed give the best parties in Regina. You, of course, have no interest in champagne splits, lobsters flown in from Nova Scotia, and Barry’s famous croquembouche.”
“We can stop at Tim Hortons on the way home from Dan’s,” I said. “You can buy us each a box of Timbits.”
After I’d showered and put on my most comforting nightie, I settled into bed with A Christmas Carol, hoping that the words I had read and loved every Christmas since I was ten years old would work their magic one more time. But even the thrilling resonance of “Old Marley was as dead as a doornail” couldn’t banish the memory of Bryn, prostrate beneath the altar. As I pulled up the comforter, I wondered if, like Ebenezer Scrooge, I was destined to carry my own low temperature always with me. My sleep was spectre-ridden, but my spooks weren’t guides to enlightenment – just embodiments of scary possibilities. I awoke the next morning heavy-limbed and heavy-spirited. It was a Christmas morning I would gladly have skipped, but Taylor was one of life’s celebrants. She burst into my room with a holiday shine. “Time to get up. I thought we could take our stockings into the hall, so we could listen to the new tree while we looked at our stuff.”
“Swell,” I said.
“I knew you’d love the idea,” she said. “Now come on!”
As we huddled in the hall in front of a tree glittering with images of the famous dead, listening to endless tinny repetitions of “The Way We Were,” I was not optimistic about my chances of making it through the day. But my spirits improved when we moved into the living room. It’s hard to be gloomy when people are ripping open presents, and we had a mound of presents to rip through. We had all collaborated on Angus’s gift, the electronic drum kit that Dan Kasperski had assured me was the very thing for a beginner. Because we’d planned to be at Mieka’s for the holiday I’d given him the gift early. By Christmas morning, Angus had already been through three sets of sticks and cracked a cymbal, but he had gag gifts to crow over, and he did loudly and lustily.
Taylor’s eclectic interests were reflected in her presents: cool clothes from Jill and Bryn; uncool clothes and an art print of Pegasus by Frank Stella from me; a Barbie with a homemade dress for every day of the week – all crocheted in the same retina-searing bubble-gum pink – from our friend Bebe Morrissey. A first edition of Noel Streatfield’s Ballet Shoes and a pair of aqua dance slippers from our old friend Hilda McCourt; a painting of the bears of Churchill from my son Peter, who was working in the north; and a gift pack of glitter nail polish from Angus.
When the pile beneath the tree had diminished, Jill went upstairs and returned with a large flat package. She handed it to me and said, “For you.”
“You already gave me that gorgeous sweater.”
“Anyone with a wallet full of plastic and impeccable taste could have chosen that. This is something I made myself.”
“Since when did you get crafty?”
Jill scowled in mock exasperation. “Just open your present.” I tore off the paper, prepared for a joke, but Jill’s gift touched my heart. It was a collage of photos of the two of us, starting with the days when I had been a young political wife and mother and Jill had been my husband’s press officer. In the twenty-five years of our friendship, we’d shared some amazing moments, and Jill had selected photos of both the public and private times with care. There were photos of the nights when we won elections and of the nights when we’d lost; of my kids knee-deep in the gumbo of a prairie barnyard during a campaign when the rain never stopped; of Jill and me at a glittering dinner with a prince; of all of us at a deep-fried turkey potluck in a town that no longer existed; of births and deaths; weddings, funerals, baptisms – in short of all the small ceremonies that make up a life. Across the bottom, spelled out in letters cut from shiny paper, were the words “The Best of Times.”
I was fighting back tears when I turned to Jill. “I love this,” I said.
“I’m glad,” she said. “I was going to call it ‘The Best of Times. The Worst of Times.’ ”
“But you ran out of shiny paper for the lettering,” I said.
She grinned. “Nope. I just realized that even the bad times were good because we were together.” Jill caught Bryn’s gaze. “That’s the way it’s going to be for us too, baby.”
“You’
re embarrassing me,” Bryn said.
“Sorry.” Jill knelt and reached far under the tree. “A final present,” she said, “and it has your name on it.” Bryn took the package and opened it. Inside was a silver bracelet: wide, handsomely designed, and clearly pricey. Bryn balanced the bracelet on her fingertip for a few seconds, then dropped it back in its distinctive David Yurman box. “I don’t want it,” she said. “I’m not my mother. I have nothing to hide.”
Taylor frowned at her. “When you get something you don’t like, you’re just supposed to take it and say, ‘Thank you for thinking of me.’ ”
Bryn threw the bracelet into the pile of discarded wrapping. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
Jill swallowed hard, then retrieved the box and took Bryn’s hand. “You’re welcome,” she said. “Come on, let’s get some food into us.”
“Then we go tobogganing,” Taylor said. “We always do that on Christmas morning, then we come home and everybody’s supposed to have a long bath so we’re not bouncing off the walls at Mr. Mariani’s party.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Jill said.
It was the most glorious morning of the winter: a Grandma Moses landscape with a high blue sky, a round yellow sun, and snow so white it hurt my eyes to look at it. As we walked along the creek path, Taylor took the lead, planting her feet carefully to make footprints that were clean in the snow. As Bouviers do, Willie used his front paws to swim through the drifts along the way. Bryn started out with Jill but fell back to walk with Angus, who was dragging the big toboggan.
When they came to the first and most dangerous of the toboggan runs, she grabbed his hand. “Let’s go,” she said.
Jill stepped closer to check out the ice-slick slope. “This is your first time, Bryn, maybe you should start with something gentler.”
“Jill’s right,” Angus said. “That slope’s a killer.”
Bryn wrenched the sled from Angus, ran to the top of the hill, and threw herself on the toboggan. Within seconds, she had bellied down the hill and across the frozen creek where she rammed the bank and was thrown back on the ice. For an agonizing minute, she lay there, then she pushed herself to her feet, dragged the toboggan back across the creek, and climbed the hill. As she stood before us, flushed with triumph, she was lovelier than ever. The cold burnished her beauty, drenching her cheeks with colour, glancing off the sheen of her hair, but there was a wildness in her eyes that was hauntingly familiar. As she pulled the toboggan to the top of the run, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The day before she had told my son that she wanted him to take her virginity. Clearly, Annie Lowell’s daughter had entered the high-stakes game of reckless hedonism that had killed her mother. Dan Kasperski had called Bryn a time bomb; it seemed that somehow the fuse had been lit.
