He lifted his glass. “A toast,” he said. “To all of you, our wonderful friends and neighbors.”
My mom lifted a fork, watched it hover in the air in front of her. Benny saw. Carol saw. Liz saw. Nadia saw. More and more people saw. And still the fork hovered.
“I’m doing this wrong,” she whispered to Mark, “but I don’t know why.”
“She’s got the right of it, folks.” He set down his glass and picked up his fork. “As Ruby says, to hell with the wine, let’s eat!”
“Let’s eat,” Benny called and raised his fork to her. “You’re a corker, Ruby Donaldson, a real corker.”
People were still talking about how good the food was while they pushed back tables and chairs and made room for the DJ and dancing. I met up with my mom in the ladies room and gave her the pill in my purse. “It’s late, I’m sorry.”
“No worries,” she said, swallowing the pill with water from the tap and wiping her mouth on the way to the door. “First dance is coming up. Wouldn’t want to miss it.”
At midnight, my mom threw the bouquet, Mark threw the garter, and then the bride and groom left to catch a water taxi into the city and a two-night honeymoon at the Fairmont Royal York. The caterer was serving coffee and tea with plates of wedding cake, and I was exhausted after dancing the fling with Liz, hip-hopping with Jocelyn, waltzing with Mark, and slow-dancing with Joe, who was a really good dancer.
“Have you kissed him?” Liz asked me in the bathroom.
“No.” My face went warm right away. “But I’m thinking maybe tonight.”
“Maybe tonight?” Liz grinned and lifted her hair from the back of her neck, trying to cool down after dancing with the drummer. “You have to tell me everything, you know that. Speaking of telling all, Mark asked me to work with him on the Swan Affair. See if we can get the police to back off on you girls.”
“Good luck,” I said as the bathroom door burst open, and Mary Anne grabbed my arm.
“It’s your mom,” she said. “You need to come now.”
Liz followed us out. “I thought they left.”
“They did. Shut up and keep walking. Don’t let on that there’s anything wrong.”
The three of us went through the clubhouse, nodding to guests and refusing offers of cake. Making our way to the door as quickly as possible without raising alarms. “Where is she?” I demanded as soon as we were outside. “Where’s my mother?”
“Over by the canoe club. Mark said they went back to the house to change and pick up their bags for the hotel. She was ready before him, so he told her to wait in the kitchen, but when he got down there, she was gone.”
“Gone?” I asked as we hurried along the street, everything around us now black and white, and a horrible grey in the yellow glow of the streetlights.
“He went looking for her right away.” She stopped us by the rack of canoes across from the club. “He found her quickly enough, but she didn’t know who he was. She wouldn’t let him touch her, she started to run. He was terrified she’d get lost again, so he called and asked me to get you girls and to be discreet about it.” She pointed to the canoe club building. “They’re back there. He won’t leave her, but she won’t go anywhere with him.” She lowered her arm. “He’s hoping you can get her to come home.”
Liz and I ran around the side of the building. It was darker back there, harder to see. “She’s here,” Mark called, and we moved toward the shadow by a rack of canoes. He was breathing hard, raking a hand through his hair. “She doesn’t know me,” he said. “She doesn’t know who I am.”
Liz put an arm around him. “She will. I know she will.”
“Grace?” my mom said, her voice shaky, soft. Like she was really afraid and going to cry. “Grace? Is that you?”
I still couldn’t see her. “Yes, Mom, it’s me. What are you doing in there?”
She came out from behind the canoes. “I don’t know,” she said, looking around. “I don’t know where I am.” She turned back and saw Mark standing there, as helpless, as lost as she was. “Mark?” she said.
He groaned with relief. “Ruby, you had me so worried.”
She walked toward him, laid her head on his chest. “I’m so tired, Mark. I’m just so tired.”
RUBY
SHOW ME THE ICE FLOE
The blog for people who know what they want
By Ruby Donaldson
Number 30 in a series. Or is it 31?
Shhh. Big Al is sleeping again. He’s been wide awake since the wedding three weeks ago, and so far I have fallen into every booby trap the bastard has set. Losing things, impatient with everyone, forgetting more than the names of celebrities, believe me.
But oddly enough, this feels like a good morning. Mostly clear. The fog thinner, like mist when it rises from the lake. Not enough to obscure important things, just enough to soften the edges. But it won’t last. Big Al will pump up the volume on his fog machine and once again I’ll be wandering around in a thick soup, bumping into that bugger at every turn.
Of course, Hope is still there at the corner of my mind. Telling me to have faith. Assuring me that a mircle is right around the corner. Or at least in the offing. Perhaps. If we’re lucky. Okay, probably not, but that’s not her point. Her point is that I must hold on because what I’m contemplating is selfish and wrong. Think about the people who love me. How will they feel if I hope on the next Ice Floe?
Relieved, if they’re honest.
Since the wedding, everyone has been on Ruby Watch. Even poor Jocelyn on days when Mark and Grace have to work, and Mary Anne has meetings in the city. No one talks to me about it, but I know they’re all worried about what happens in a few weeks. Fall is coming. You can feel it in the night air, bringing high school for Jocelyn and a new semester for Mary Anne. Who will babyst me then? Who will give up their life to tend to mine?
Let’s face it. I’m a pain in the neck for everyone, including myself. Naturally, Hope doesn’t want to hear that. Hope wants me to believe there are options, but Hope lies.
I have been to Dr. Mistry again, and she is the only one who is not surprised by my sudden decline. It’s true that some people will go on for years, the illness always chugging ahead, but more slowly than it has for me. Giving them the time that Mark and Hope have dangled in front of me like a carrot. Keep coming, Ruby, keep coming, you’ll reach it, don’t worry.
But I won’t reach it. Unlike Hope, Big Al is honest with me. He has me in his sites and he is moving in for the kill. I know the options, the choices, and they come down to this:
Take my life back from Al while I can or go quietly into that fog and disappear forever.
I don’t know about you, but for me, the fog is more frightening than anything I could encounter on the Ice Floe.
So here I am. I know it’s eight a.m. because the clock beside the bed tells me so. Outside, the sky is grey and clouds are gathering. Storm’s coming, as Grandma Lucy used to say.
Downstairs, Mark is making coffee, making breakfast. I’m in bed alone with my laptop and the sign on my ceiling—Go canoeing—because Mark’s letting me sleep in, letting me ignore the sign because I had a rough night. Nightmares, restlessness. That means he had a rough night too, but he doesn’t have the option of sleeping in. He has work to do, a wife to support. A wife who is sliding downhill faster than either of us imagined possible.
But it’s a good morning and I remember bits and pieces of the wedding. A piper. A fairyland. Mark in a kilt. What I don’t remember comes to me in pictures, popping up on my lptop screen, and in the special frames that Mark bought and put all around the house. There is one on the dresser. I see Mary Anne pop into the screen, wearing more pink than any woman should ever wear, yet looking fabulous as always. And Jocelyn, so pretty in a green dress and almost normal hair. And then Grace. Beautiful Grace. Even that horrible dress can’t take that away.
Now comes a picture of people I should recognize but don’t. Guests, I suppose. The important thing is that in ev
ery shot, people are smiling and happy. Enjoying the party.
And there’s me, smiling too. I look happy. I look good. For a fifty-something bride. Where is that tartan sash now? I’d like to find that sash.
Now there’s one of me and Mark together, under the arbor. I feel myself smiling just like I was in the picture. I like that kilt.
Another shot under the arbor. Mark sliding the ring onto my finger.
Looking down at my hand, I see it’s there still. White gold, engraved on the outside instead of the inside. So I don’t have to remember to take it off to see the words. As fair you are, my bonnie lass, so deep in love am I. A Robbie Burns poem. I’ve known the words by heart since I was little. Funny that Big Al hasn’t stolen them away. Look, there’s Liz.
It’s a good picture. She’s not so thin anymore. Not so pale. Stunning was always the word that came to mind with Liz. Stunning with her black, black hair and her dark gypsy eyes.
There she is again with me and Grace and Jocelyn. All the Donaldson women making faces at the camera, sucking in our cheeks, lolling our heads, definitely not proper wedding poses, and all because Liz is with us I’m sure, egging us on the way she always did. I start to laugh as we must have been laughing when someone took the pcture.
I hear the door downstairs open and close. Mary Anne’s voice. Mark going for his paper. No other voices, so the girls must be out biking or looking for birds. Did Grace and I ever get on a ferry? I don’t think so. I’m sure I meant to. Mary Anne’s voice again. I should get up.
There’s Liz again, with Grace, dancing the Highalnd fling. Liz came to the wedding. And she comes to the house now too. I know because Mark writes it on the sign above my bed. Go canoeing. And below that is another line—Liz has been here this many times ++++ |. Six times.
Each time she visits, he puts another line on the sign. Six visits since the wedding. Six is a lot. I wish I could remember even one.
Mary Anne is puttering away downstairs. Puting on the kettle, making tea.
Time to go.
I read over my entry. Clicked Exit. Again the box came up. Post? Again, I clicked No, do not post. And entry number 30 or 31 disappeared like all the others. Poof. Gone. Time to go.
Rising slowly, I stood a moment. Stretched. Despite the rough night, I felt good. Stronger than I had in a while. Perhaps because I had a goal today. Something I had to do. Go canoeing.
I changed quickly into jeans and a T-shirt then lit up one of my hidden joints and took two puffs—not because the pot was doing anything to stop Big Al, let’s be frank—but because I liked the way it relaxed me, if only for a little while.
After two puffs, I stubbed out the joint, pinched the end, and shoved it into my pocket with the lighter. For later.
Grabbing my notebook, I saw Benny pop up in the picture frame. Waving to me. You old codger. What were you and my grandmother up to anyway? I’ll never know. Another Donaldson mystery. Like what really happened to my mother. Did she fall or did she jump? Grandma Lucy never talked about it, never let me talk about it, but I think she jumped. I think that subway train was her Ice Floe. I’ll just never know why.
Mary Anne must have heard me coming down the stairs because she was there at the bottom, smiling, wishing me good morning. Looking a little wary, not sure what mood the beast would be in. Did we start tap-dancing now, or could we have tea first?
“Good morning,” I said, and smiled.
Mary Anne smiled back. “Your meds are ready.”
She had them lined up on the table, a glass of pomegranate juice beside them. There’s a good girl, Ruby. Take the pills nicely.
That was Big Al waking up. Walking around, touching things. Bastard.
“Any tea in that pot?” I asked, swallowing the meds and vitamins. No need to raise suspicions. I peeked out the window at the lilac. “Those babies flying yet?”
“Not that I saw, but Grace says they will any day now.”
Too bad I wouldn’t get to see them.
I glanced over at the door. The paddle was there. The life jackets were there. Mary Anne was watching me, suspicious. Or was that Big Al adding a touch of paranoia to the mist?
“Mark’s gone for his paper,” she said, assuming I wouldn’t know. Bitch.
For God’s sake, Al, could you give me a minute?
I took the mug of tea she offered. That was when I saw the hurdle—how to get out that door alone, with Mary Anne in the way. I wandered to the window. Watched the storm clouds gathering and turned back to her. “You know what I have a taste for? One of those fabulous cookies from the bakery at Sobeys.”
She laughed. “White chocolate macadamia? I always have a taste for one of those.”
I picked up the phone. “I should call Mark, ask him to bring home a few.”
She waved a hand. “I have some in my freezer.” Big Al and I were hoping she’d say that.
“I’ll be right back,” she said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
I didn’t go anywhere. Merely grabbed my paddle and a life jacket. Carried them upstairs, opened the window, and let them go. Watched them fall into the bushes where they’d be easy to find later. If I was lucky.
I raced back down the stairs, reaching the kitchen just as Mary Anne came in with the cookies, her smile bright, the way it was the day she brought over the first little bag of pot.
“We shouldn’t,” she said as she opened the package of cookies.
“But we will,” I said, and we laughed and ate them still frozen.
I finished my tea while Mary Anne chatted about the upcoming school year, the hopes she had, the disappointments she already knew were in store. Watching her fluttering fingers, her easy smile, I couldn’t help thinking that men were stupid, by and large. Mary Anne was a beautiful, fascinating, intelligent woman, a catch by anyone’s standard. Yet she’d been on her own for years, and for the first time, I wasn’t jealous when I thought of her living next door to Mark, seeing him every day. For the first time, I hoped they did find each other, because neither one of them deserved to be alone.
I checked the clock. Ten minutes until Mark’s ferry returned.
I pushed my cup aside. “I thought I was ready to get up, but I’m feeling tired all of a sudden. I think I’ll go back to bed.”
“Mark said you had a terrible night.” She walked with me to the bottom of the stairs. “You go back and lie down. I’ll let Mark know when he comes in.”
I put my arms around her. Hugged her. Kissed her cheek. “You’re a good friend.”
She laughed. “I try. Now get up there.”
Climbing the stairs, I heard her sit down at the table. Probably having a second cup of tea. Counting the seconds until Mark returned. Closing the bedroom door, I crossed to the window and opened it again. Went to the closet, reached way into the back, and took out the emergency escape ladder—the one I bought when I renovated the second floor, along with a carbon monoxide monitor /smoke detector. Funny the things the brain holds on to—or maybe Al was giving me that break.
Taking the ladder to the window, I placed the grips over the sill. Let the rest of the ladder down slowly, quietly, leaning over so the steel didn’t clatter and bang against the house. My heart was beating hard and fast, pumping adrenaline and much-needed courage into my veins as I peered down the length of those metal rungs. If I fell, it probably wouldn’t kill me—just put me in the hospital with broken parts, multiple restraints, and an IV drip of extra-strength antidepressants so I couldn’t hurt myself again. But what was my alternative? March past Mary Anne? Body-check her if she tried to stop me? Hardly, which meant it was the ladder or nothing.
The wind had a cold edge to it now that made me shiver. Reaching over to the dresser, I grabbed Mark’s sweatshirt, and pulled it on over my T-shirt. The sweatshirt was big and bulky, but warm, and the hood would be good when it started to rain. Checking to make sure no one was outside in the neighboring yards, I threw one leg over the sill, let my foot find the first rung. Gripped the handrail with t
rembling fingers and threw the other leg over. Found the rung and started down, slowly, looking up, not down. Breathing a sigh of relief when one foot finally touched the ground.
Gathering up the life jacket and paddle, I looked around one last time, then made a dash for the hedge that separated my backyard from Mary Anne’s. Pushed through the branches and kept going, through her yard and out to the street. Turned right and broke into a run. Heading for my canoe, making my own getaway, kind of wishing I had a swan.
I heard the Ongiara approaching as I hauled my canoe into the lagoon. Tossing in the life jacket, I laid my paddle across the gunnels and took my place in the stern. The clouds were growing heavier, darker. The wind was coming up stronger. Out in the lake there would be white caps, but here in the lagoon, the water was calm, the paddling easy.
Sailboats were heading in, along with motorboats and aluminum runabouts. I was the only one heading out, but no one knew that. I was just a little red canoe in the lagoon—destination unknown.
The dock was deserted, the ferry already on its way when I paddled out into the bay, keeping my strokes measured, even—conserving my energy for later. With my head completely clear, I steered the canoe through the Eastern Gap, taking the route Mark and I had been following for weeks, and grateful the current was on my side.
The lake was rough and the going hard once I reached open water and I pushed myself and the paddle to the limit—wishing Big Al would pull his weight for a change. By the time I made it past the Ward’s Island beach, I was already tired and hurting, but my timing was perfect. The sailors were all safely home and the threat of rain had driven the tourists away from the beach and the boardwalk. There was no one around to raise an alarm, report a lipstick-red canoe heading out farther and farther into the lake.
The storm blew in stronger and the canoe rose up on the waves and crashed down the other side. Water rushed over the bow, and she wobbled and struggled to stay upright, to follow me out where I wanted to be. The wind grew colder and the rain started falling, stinging my face, my hands. I pulled Mark’s hood up over my head, and the sleeves down over my fingers. I could smell him all around me as the canoe tipped from side to side and the waves grew higher and higher.
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