Extensions

by Myrna Dey

  “He probably tried, but from what Mother said, Lizzie was completely overbearing and he hated scenes. At least he fought for her to go to school until Grade Eight because he recognized her ability. Like Janet, she left home as early as she could and found a job as a waitress at the Nanaimo Hotel.”

  “Wasn’t that where she met your father?” asked Gail.

  Dad nodded. “Miles Dryvynsydes was a miner too — a reluctant one — and she said they would always be grateful to the teacher who remembered his ability and recommended him for a job in a bank in Nanaimo.”

  I butted in, to show I did listen to my grandmother sometimes. “Sara often said that teacher changed the course of their lives. She loved dwelling on twists of fate. Didn’t they elope just before he got transferred to Alberta so they could start their life as a couple?”

  “It was to a little town called Milo, and from there they moved all over southern Alberta. I was born in Milo and Janetta in Medicine Hat.”

  Dad’s pile of records had finished, so I slipped some Sarah McLachlan into the CD player while he was talking. “But that’s probably enough of the Dryvynsydes family tree. We’ve monopolized the whole night.”

  Monty spoke up. “Not at all — it’s fascinating. Remember, I was there for the first clue — the photo. And as a twin myself, I know how brutal that separation would be.” Ignoring Gail’s comment “That would be news to Wolfe,” he asked, “How did both think the other was dead?”

  “Sara said Aunt Lizzie told her Janet had died of the second wave of influenza the following year.”

  “And according to Wendell, Janet believed the same thing of Sara.”

  Dad, always fair-minded, said, “I hate to think either family made it up. They were both poor, and in those days, Victoria was a world away from Ladysmith if you didn’t have the means to travel. Jane says in her letters the brothers did not go out of their way to see each other. Both families might have heard through a relative that the other sister was dead and did nothing to confirm it. Don’t forget the wives weren’t thrilled to have the girls in the first place.”

  “What about Laura?” Monty asked.

  “When I was six, Mother had a telegram saying Uncle Thomas had died. I remember the date — September 18, 1936 — because Janetta was born the same day. Mother was quite upset that she couldn’t take the train to his funeral, but with a new baby she wasn’t allowed out of bed. She told me later she and Dad sent money to Lizzie for funeral expenses. And I know she sent money in Christmas cards after that. No word from that family until at least ten years later when Laura sent an announcement of her mother’s death — very flowery about Lizzie being at home in the arms of Jesus. Lizzie had taken Laura into some fundamental religion. Come to think of it, that’s when the bundle of letters might have arrived.”

  Dad straightened his shoulders, his face brightening at a released memory. “You know, that’s right. We had just moved to Vancouver from Red Deer and there were still crates to be unpacked in the house. The package must have been forwarded from the Red Deer address. I was a moody seventeen-year-old, angry at leaving my friends behind to start a new school in this big city. The last thing I cared about was some unknown aunt or even a packet of letters, but I do remember Mother sitting down on her Queen Anne chair with her apron on in the middle of all the unpacking to inspect them. I’m afraid my interest didn’t go any further than that — until this year.

  “But how did Laura — or Lizzie — end up with them?”

  Dad shrugged. “Can’t say. As far as I know, there was just the death announcement with the letters. A few years later when Janetta married Lawrence and moved to Nanaimo, Mother asked her to look Laura up in Ladysmith; you’ll have to ask Janetta for more details. I have a vague recollection of Mother saying the house was full of scriptures and crucifixes and Janetta wasn’t welcome.”

  “Sara was generous to bother with them after those years of meanness,” Gail commented.

  On my way to the refrigerator for the shrimp ring, I called back, “The hardest thought for me is that Sara and Janet were both working in hotels a short train ride apart without knowing it. What a comfort they would have been to each other.”

  “That’s not the worst of it,” said Dad quietly. “If Janet and Matt Mingus went back to the family homestead before the war, that means the twin sisters were only an hour apart when we lived in Medicine Hat in the thirties. They might well have passed each other on the street, when the Minguses went there to shop.”

  “Think of it,” said Gail. “Sara and Janet in the same store; Sara maybe even glancing her way as she leaves. You don’t know your own face as others know it, especially if you’re not looking.” Her shoulders under her poncho shook a little.

  “Dad and Wendell would have been playmates growing up,” I said, returning with the food.

  Just then the phone rang and Gail’s mother asked to speak to Monty. Clancy wasn’t settling down and wanted to say goodnight to his daddy. Monty took the phone and disappeared into the kitchen. I told Gail this was a good time to put a book mark in the saga of the sisters. We wanted to hear about her family. I pulled my little friend off the couch and hugged her tightly. “What a favour you’ve done for us, putting all this in motion.”

  “One phone call — what’s that? I didn’t know investigative reporting could be such a thrill. Maybe I’ll use it as an assignment if I ever get around to journalism.”

  Monty returned and I steered the conversation to their lives in Willow Point: Gail’s new positions as president of the Arts Council and Minor Hockey Association, Monty’s act of bravery in rescuing a snow-mobiler who had fallen through the ice on a nearby lake. At their urging, Dad brought out his illustrations in progress, promising the first autographed copy of Sissipuss to Clancy and Macy, should it ever find a publisher.

  Of course, Dad had to bring up my history mark and I had to act embarrassed. He explained how I used Jane’s letters as historical references until I gave him a warning glare. We were back in our family history again and I didn’t want the year to end on this self-centred note. He got the message, promptly jumping up to set out champagne and glasses. Midnight was creeping up. I brought in the warmed quiches and sliced them as finger food.

  Monty asked for New Year’s resolutions.

  I quoted Sara saying that a thought was the hardest thing in the world to change or be rid of — harder than any diets or exercises. Ray came to mind for so rarely coming to mind anymore.

  “No more negative thoughts,” said Gail, chanting it like an anthem.

  I wasn’t finished. “As a remedy against harmful thinking, I hereby store the spirit in this room at this moment in my Save file.” With my thumb I pushed the centre of my forehead where Sara said our third eye perceived what the other two didn’t. “I can call it up whenever I need consolation.”

  “This is getting weird,” said Monty, “but why not, it’s you, Bella.”

  Dad turned on the TV to make sure we were right on the stroke of midnight. When the crystal ball hit the ground in Times Square, we all hugged and toasted the new year with champagne.

  A few seconds later, the phone rang. I expected it to be Gail’s parents and answered without checking.

  “Happy New Year from Hawaii,” said Warren Wright.

  My stomach gave a little flip as I walked into the bedroom, away from the curious eyes and ears. “You’ve still got a couple of hours to go. No big party going on?”

  “There are a few people at the condo, but I’m taking a walk along the beach thinking of you.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  A robust laugh from Monty in the next room changed his tone. “Sounds as if you’re busy.”

  “My best friend and her husband are visiting from Saskatchewan.”

  “I won’t keep you from them. I’ll be home next week. Maybe we’ll get together.”

  “Sure.”

  My blushing face gave everything away and Gail demanded details. I insisted there
wasn’t much to tell, but I knew Monty would never let me forget I was going out with one of my felons. “Soon you’ll be forbidden from visiting prisoners in cells.”

  Gail started yawning and gave Monty a nudge. Morning came early for Macy and Clancy. Instead of responding, he asked for a pen and paper and began to write.

  What we know so far: Source of photos. Janet’s and Sara’s whereabouts and lifespans from personal testimony and witnesses. Mother Jane’s life from letters and witnesses.

  What we need to know: How letters from Jane ended up where they did. Roland? What happened to him after being last seen lying drunk by his daughters at age eight? Rap sheet on Roland.

  He tore out the page and handed it to me. I started feeling guilty again about the interest these two were taking in my investigation until the keen look in Monty’s eye reminded me of why he was such a good cop. I could not let the team down and promised to phone Mona Mingus in Calgary. She was our only hope for any more clues. Gail suggested meeting tomorrow — this afternoon — at the Polar Bear Swim at English Bay. We both knew we would never find each other in the crush of spectators, but it made saying goodbye easier.

  Dad looked tired so I shooed him to bed, assuring him I would clean up. Before he turned in, he said he had asked his finger about whether he should go to the Polar Bear swim and it told him no, for me to go ahead without him. I took this as a signal to bring up the possibility of moving back to my apartment, but not tonight. Alone in the kitchen, I had an absurd image of our family quirks. Would pressing foreheads and rising fingers eventually lead to communicating through a game of “head and shoulders, knees and toes” with no words at all? I giggled myself through the dishes.

  JUST WHEN I WAS FEELING SMUG about leaving shift work behind, our team got called in. I was about to find out the trade-off involved in giving up regulated hours.

  It was the morning after New Year’s Day. Tessa was telling me about the party I missed when Wayne announced an infant abduction on Colleen Street. He grabbed his jacket and took off with Tessa in one vehicle while Dex and I followed in another. Sukhi was still on holiday visiting his wife’s relatives in Kelowna. The two-storey house in question stood in a middle-class neighbourhood, but had been redone in grey stucco — the old-fashioned kind where tiny pebbles are thrown onto wet cement — black shutters and cream trim. Located at the curved end of Colleen Street, it gave the impression of not wishing to stand out in its good taste among the split-levels from the ’70s, some freshly painted in taupe or celery, some left with their original orange or turquoise trim. The site was swarming with patrol cars and officers; one was cordoning off the yard, three more were in the back, and another was trying to calm a woman in her bathrobe at the front entrance.

  “My baby, my baby,” she cried in an accent. “I thought it was the paperboy.” She stopped to sob against the constable’s stiff vest and he patted her shoulder lightly. Male officers were cautioned against making this kind of physical contact. Women in distressed states could — and did — easily misinterpret such gestures. Without hesitation, Tessa gently took the woman’s arm and guided her through the foyer toward the staircase.

  “Come, Mrs. Kubik, I’ll help you dress and we’ll take you to the hospital to be with your baby.”

  Tessa impressed me more every day; she always seemed to do the right thing. I had been in these situations many times myself as a first responder and the procedure was second nature to me, but this was my first call with Serious Crimes, so I followed Wayne and Dex through the house, whose owners clearly had expensive tastes. I had shopped with Retha, after all, and knew high-quality leather sofas when I saw them. A stainless steel kitchen opened onto a back patio through French doors, and we used them to join the other members examining the fish pond and grass around it for clues. They told us what they knew so far.

  At 7:30 AM, Selena Kubik, Caucasian female, thirty-nine years of age, native of the Czech Republic, answered the doorbell with her four-month-old son Anton in her arms. A Caucasian male, mid-to-late thirties, stood outside and without warning, snatched the baby from her and ran around the north side of the house. She took the shorter route through the house to beat him, grabbing the portable phone from the kitchen cupboard and dialling 911 to scream her address as she ran, but in the few seconds it took to reach the back patio, he had disappeared. She found her baby lying unconscious, face down in the murky winter water of the pond. He had a gash on his head. The emergency team arrived within minutes, but Mrs. Kubik’s agitated state interfered with the swift measures necessary; she had to be restrained so the ambulance could take the baby to Burnaby General.

  This was where we came in. Just as Wayne said Tessa and I would take Mrs. Kubik to the hospital in one of the cruisers, the two of them appeared from upstairs. Dressed and made up, Selena Kubik was more chic than pretty, in an angular, high-strung way. Her black hair was held back with a clip; her jeans had a perfect flare over mahogany leather boots. The grey turtleneck looked like cashmere and her espresso leather car coat was probably tanned from the same herd of exotic cattle as her furniture.

  In the back seat of the cruiser, I noticed her face had gone from hysterical to stony; had she popped a tranquillizer in the bathroom? I took the wheel and Tessa began to share what she had learned, including Mrs. Kubik in the conversation.

  “Her husband is out of the country on business. He called her yesterday to say he would be home late tonight.”

  “What business?” I asked.

  “He is an engineer. He has been in Kosovo building bridges.” Her voice was deep and throaty, like a European spy in a James Bond movie.

  “No cellphone?”

  “It is off. He is in transit.”

  “Blackberry?”

  She shook her head. “I do not text.”

  I sensed her impatience with my questions at the same time as Tessa touched my leg gently to let me know they had been through this. Soon we were at the Burnaby General Hospital and pulled into an emergency slot. The car was in uniform, but Tessa and I were not, thus we were able to escort Mrs. Kubik to pediatric intensive care quickly and discreetly. A nurse took her to the baby’s room where Cory, another member, stood guard outside. Sometimes an abductor tried again, especially if it was a husband. A flash of the inaccessible engineer re-entered my mind. Cory nodded toward the door and Tessa and I took turns peering through the glass. All we could see of the baby through the clear plastic crib were his black hair and tubes and wires extending from his motionless body. Moments later, two physicians — a young pretty woman and older man — came up from behind and went into the room. The four of them — Mrs. Kubik and the nurse on one side, and the two doctors on the side closest to us — stood clustered over the tiny boy. The older physician put his hand on Mrs. Kubik’s shoulder and pulled up a chair for her next to the crib. Leaving her with her baby, the three then came out of the room together. When Tessa and I showed our badges, the lady doctor stepped away from the door and spoke.

  “He’s barely hanging on. The contusion on the side of his head came from a pretty hard blow. Bad enough, but then the water — a baby can hardly survive trauma like that. We’re doing everything possible. Prayer might be all that’s left.”

  The doctor patted my arm and walked back to the nursing station, giving Tessa and me another chance at the glass window. Selena Kubik sat stroking her child’s black hair from the chair, the same vacant expression on her face. People dealt with crises in different ways and in various stages. Stupors were not uncommon — the mind’s method of distancing itself from pain. I tiptoed in to tell her we would leave her here and be back later. Was there anything she needed?

  “No,” she said without looking up. “Thank you.”

  I stood next to her for a moment watching little Anton Kubik, who was unaware he was fighting for his life. Smiling in his mother’s arms one minute, smashed against the side of a pool the next. I thought of Macy and Clancy at this age — or any age — and what Monty and Gail would b
e going through. Visions of Sara and Janet also pressed in, of the blows they took through death and separation. A sudden cramp gripped me in the area around my heart.

  On the way back to Colleen Street Tessa filled me in on what she had learned from Selena upstairs between sobbing spasms. She had been in the kitchen feeding Anton when she heard scraping outside the front door. She thought at first it was a paper boy with flyers. But she heard it again and opened the door. A strange man was standing there. It was just getting light on an overcast morning and she could not see his expression clearly. She believed he was trying to rob the place when she surprised him. Alarmed, he said a few words in a foreign language, then grabbed the baby from her arms. He ran around the side of the house and she thinks when he heard her screaming inside, he got scared and threw the baby in the fish pond.

  “Description?”

  “Average height. Dark hair.”

  “Caucasian?”

  “She thinks so. Could be central European like herself, though she didn’t recognize the language.”

  “How many does she speak?”

  “A lot more than we do. Czech, English, French, German at least. She wondered if it was Albanian — a Kosovar.”

  “What’s the Kosovo connection? Isn’t that where her husband is? Do you smell something fishy about that relationship? Wouldn’t you think a husband that far away would leave a line of communication open to his wife and baby son?”

  Tessa shrugged. “Sounds more like she doesn’t want to use it. What can he do in the air?”

  “Seems strange to me.”

  Tessa shrugged again, as she turned back onto Colleen Street. Next to our unmarked cars, we recognized the forensic identification team vehicle. The two members whose cruiser we had taken met us on the sidewalk to reclaim it. They would be back shortly for guard duty and alerted us that media vans were on their way. They often picked up news from police scanners; luckily they knew enough to wait for our publicity spokesman Tony and not to expect anything from us. Ident was already in the backyard with gloves, vials, and plastic bags, questioning Wayne.