Scammed

by Ron Chudley

  “Y—yes . . .”

  “How did it go? How’s Dad?”

  “Greggie . . .” The childish diminutive, which only she used, came out like a half-strangled squeak, followed by a gulp and then dead air.

  “Yes, Mum? What?”

  “Greggie—Daddy’s dead.”

  He heard the words clearly enough, but for a numb instant they had no meaning. When comprehension dawned, his first thought was that this was a prank, payback for his earlier lack of attention. At last, reason took hold, demolishing that sad evasion. “Dead?” he breathed. “I don’t understand. I mean—how?”

  The reply was a renewed sobbing. Another voice came on the line. “Mr. Lothian? Hello. This is Dr. York. I’m very sorry, sir, but I have to tell you that while under anesthetic, your father’s heart just stopped. All the proper measures were taken, of course, but he could not be revived. There were no prior indications this might occur, but, sadly, such things do sometimes happen with the elderly. I’m so very sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “However, it’s your mother I’m concerned about right now. She’s naturally very distressed and all alone.” The tone grew flat. “And she seems convinced that you are too busy to come to the hospital.”

  Greg felt his face flush. “What? Goodness, no. That’s not the case at all.”

  “I’m glad. Then would you please come as soon as possible? Your mother needs you.”

  “Yes, yes. On my way,” Greg said, but the connection was already broken. He put the phone down and stared at his desk in a stupor. The computer and the stack of files, the focus of his life until moments ago, seemed alien, yet they still possessed power, taunting him about the relentlessly looming deadline.

  “Damn you, Dad!” The words slipped out, low and bitter, followed by the thought, If you had to die, why did it have to be now? Then, appalled at himself, he hurried out of the office.

  The journey to the Victoria General took nearly twice as long as the previous night. In early afternoon, the expressway leading out of town was already clogged, and it was forty minutes before he reached the Helmcken turnoff. Finding a parking space took more time. When he finally entered the hospital, it was nearly an hour after his mother’s call.

  The waiting area to which Greg was directed at first appeared empty. Then he saw a figure in a far corner, slumped over and seeming pathetically small. Only when he arrived did she look up. At sixty-five, Mary Lothian was still an attractive woman, but now her body looked wasted, her face a sunken mask of grief. Her eyes were dark holes above sodden cheeks, and as soon as they lit on her son, they overflowed again. “Oh, Greggie,” she whispered, “Daddy’s gone. And it’s all my fault.”

  That old refrain: if there were any fault, it lay with the lifelong ill temper that had, by all accounts, got his father into this mess. Crouching beside his mother, Greg put his arms around her, hugging her tightly. She clutched him with almost embarrassing abandon, which also made him feel unexpectedly tender. They remained entwined until his mother said at last, “Oh, dear. We must call Jill.”

  Greg’s sister lived with her husband in Vancouver. Unlike Greg, she’d inherited a modicum of artistic talent, but had turned this toward practical ends. Starting in the graphics department of an advertising agency, she’d grown into a very successful account executive. Though she’d never got along with their father either, she had a similarly abrupt temperament. And it was with the old Walter Lothian “Don’t mess with me” tone that she answered her phone now. “Jill Conroy.”

  “Hi, Jill. Me again.”

  “Greg! Why on Earth . . . ?” She broke off: evidently, her mind had been a long way away from the drama on Vancouver Island. “Oh—yes—right. How is Dad?”

  He told her.

  After it was done, he realized that his sister sounded less shocked than he’d anticipated, though he couldn’t tell over the phone. He’d gone to the far end of the waiting room, where he could keep an eye on his mother while getting the worst part of the call over with. Now he started to walk back. “We’re still at the hospital,” he concluded. “Will you to talk to Mum?”

  “No!” Jill said hurriedly. “I’ve a client here, and I can’t handle it now. Tell Mum I’m sorry about Dad and I’ll call her at home tonight. You’ll be taking her back there, right?”

  That gave Greg the opening he needed. “Jill, we have to talk about that. It’s the end of April. You know what that means?”

  Jill’s voice was flat. “What?”

  “For Christ’s sake!” he said too loudly. His mother looked startled and he gave her a reassuring wave, moving farther away again. “Jill, listen—it’s tax time. Till midnight tomorrow, I’m absolutely snowed. I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t even be out of the office now. You’ve got to come over and help me here.”

  After only the slightest pause, his sister said, “Sorry, Greg. Not today.”

  “What! Please, listen . . .”

  “No, you listen!” Jill said, with a clipped emphasis so biting that Greg winced. “I’m just as busy as you and my job’s just as important. I don’t care if it is ‘tax time.’ You’re the one who’s there, so you’ll just have to cope. Tell Mum how sorry I am—and that I’ll call her tonight. Bye.”

  His cell went dead. He shoved it away and returned to his mother. In the interim, someone had brought her tea, which she held as if it were a foreign object.

  Greg passed along his sister’s message, while his mind churned. With almost physical awareness, he could feel the seconds ticking toward tomorrow’s midnight deadline. How many returns did he have to file before then? Too many, that was all he knew. “Mum . . .” he began.

  Mary Lothian put down the tea mug with a clatter and rose to her feet. She looked tottery and frail, but her eyes held moist determination. “I want to see him,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Daddy. Before we leave, I must see him.”

  “But,” Greg began, then gave up. His mother might be a passive soul, but there was a certain look she occasionally got that meant argument was useless. He went on a hunt, eventually finding someone to deal with his mother’s wishes. He and Mary were ushered into a small room, tucked discreetly at the end of a side corridor. In it was a lone gurney bearing a sheet-shrouded figure. The accompanying nurse silently drew back the cover to reveal the face of the deceased.

  In death, Walter Lothian had a remarkable expression; he actually looked benign, as serene as the paintings for which he was renowned. Greg was astonished, recalling all too vividly the anger that was his last memory of the living face. The contrast now was uncanny; it was like looking at a different person. His mother didn’t seem so surprised; perhaps, Greg thought, she’d known some private, gentler Walter. That would explain why she’d put up with so much from him over the years. Or maybe he’d once been like this tranquil fellow on the gurney, and she was the only one who remembered. But no, he decided, the difference was likely just the result of gravity. Even the most restless spirits got smoothed out by a visit from the Grim Reaper: not so much relaxed as—gone.

  Mary gave her son another surprise: in contrast to her earlier tears, she was quite calm. She stood for a time, silent and still, gazing dryeyed at her husband’s earthly remains. Finally she leaned down and kissed him tenderly. “I’m so sorry, darling,” she murmured. “Please, forgive me.”

  Greg sighed inwardly. If his mother was still stubbornly determined to believe herself responsible for his dad’s death, he supposed she was only running true to form. But it was certainly best not to dignify the fiction by appearing to pay too much attention. So he said nothing, standing quietly with his hand on her arm and waiting. His only thought was regret: in all the times he could recall being with his dad, this was the only one that remotely resembled peace.

  THREE

  Greg informed his office of the situation at the hospital, but told them not to be concerned. After taking his mother home, and finding someone to look after her, he’d be returning
immediately. His intention then was to stay as long as it took, into the small hours, if necessary.

  The only thing that the plan didn’t take into account was his parents’ old minivan. It was sitting out in the hospital lot and his mother insisted she couldn’t leave it behind. Since chauffeuring her home in the van would make a swift return to town impossible, there was no alternative but to follow in his car. It was getting on to rush hour, so the trip on the winding Malahat Drive was painfully slow, all the more so because the new widow crawled like a zombie.

  The fifty-kilometre drive north to Duncan took an hour, with another twenty minutes to reach the spot, upstream on the Cowichan River, where the family had a small acreage. The entrance to the property was off a rural byway, the driveway curving though a stand of fir and cedar to an open area beside the water. There the Lothian house stood, fully exposed on the river side, but backed by the dense woods, out of which it appeared to have thrust its way.

  The vehicles arrived in time to intercept a figure coming around the building, from the direction of Walter’s studio. It was a woman, dark-haired and petite, probably in her late twenties, with round, open features that to Greg were vaguely familiar. She glanced at him as he got out of his car, but her main focus was on his mother in the minivan.

  Since Mary didn’t move immediately, the woman went to the driver’s door and opened it. The two stared at each other wordlessly. Communication must have passed, however, because the woman whispered, “Oh, God! Really?”

  Stony-faced, Mary nodded.

  “Oh, Mary, I’m very, very sorry!” the other replied. Then his mother tumbled from the car, and they were holding each other hard.

  The newcomer turned out to be Lucy Lynley, whom Greg had known all his life but not set eyes on for years. Her parents had bought the adjoining property, downriver, and Lucy had been born there. As the only close neighbour, she had hung about the Lothian place, tagging along after Jill, who—three years older—had tartly tolerated her. Older still, Greg had had less contact with the irrepressible little girl. He remembered her for not being afraid of his dad—who, in turn, was far more tolerant of Lucy than of his own offspring. But at thirteen, she had been sent to school in Vancouver, and though she’d come home for holidays, Greg had rarely seen her after that. Now here she was, to him a near-stranger, though this was clearly not the case with his mother.

  After a long time, the women disentangled. With hardly a glance in Greg’s direction, they headed into the house. Feeling a trifle left out, he followed. Not till they were in the kitchen and, unbidden, Lucy was putting on the kettle, did his mother make introductions. “Oh, Greg, dear—Lucy,” she said briefly. “Do you two remember each other?”

  They both acknowledged that they did. Lucy, apparently very much at home in the house, smiled warmly. “I’m awfully sorry about your dad, Greg. It’s a terrible shock. I’m going to miss him very much.”

  Greg was astonished. He remembered Lucy as an unusually candid person—which somehow endeared her to Walter, who’d squelched any such tendencies in his own family—so he had to believe her sincere. But missing his father? That idea was novel, to say the least.

  As if reading his thoughts, his mother said, “Lucy moved back home when her own dad died, Greg. She’s become a wonderful friend.”

  “Really?” Greg said, realizing that surprise had blinded him to the solution of a major problem. “Lucy, it’s wonderful to meet you again, and I’m very glad you’re here. Listen. could you—er—stay with my mum for a while?”

  Lucy glanced at Mary, who shrugged. “Greg’s just itching to get back to work.”

  Greg felt himself reddening. “It’s not that I want to,” he said hastily. “But I’m an accountant, and it’s the end of April. Income tax time, you know. There’s an absolutely huge pile of returns that have to be filed before midnight tomorrow.”

  “I understand,” Lucy replied. “Your mum already told me about you.”

  “Great. So do you think you could do that—keep her company?”

  Lucy’s initial response shocked him: she laughed, then put her arms about his mother. “Greg, what do you think? Of course I will. I was going to offer anyway.”

  The whistling of the kettle drew her back to the stove, covering the moment of embarrassment. Greg’s mother took his hand. Though her eyes shone with moisture, her face was composed. “Thank you for everything, dear,” she said quietly. “I know how hard it’s been—especially since you and poor Daddy didn’t always see eye-to-eye—but you’ve been wonderful. I’ll be all right. Lucy will be with me.”

  “Good.” Relief let his mind begin to resume its usual preoccupations, reminding him of the other unfinished business. “Mum—er—it seems you forgot to send me the tax stuff. Want me to pick it up while I’m here?”

  His mother looked surprised. “Tax stuff?”

  “You know, your receipts and . . .”

  “I know what you mean, dear. But I’m sure I sent it. I mailed it at least a couple of weeks ago.”

  “That’s funny. Oh, well—don’t worry. When it arrives, I’ll get on to it. Bye, Mum. Call you later.”

  “Thank you. Off you go now.”

  Greg hugged his mother. She clung hard but briefly. Then, with a last peck on her cheek, and more awkward thanks to Lucy, he left the house, heading for his waiting tax returns.

  FOUR

  As it turned out, Greg met the tax-filing deadline without further incident. On the night of his father’s death, he returned to the office and did indeed stay till the small hours. But after that he was well caught up, so on the following day, April 30, several hours before midnight, every last return was completed, checked, filed and sent zipping over the Internet to the domain of Revenue Canada.

  It was only then that the full impact of what had transpired hit him. On his way home from the office in the early evening, stopped at the light at the intersection of Oak Bay Avenue and Foul Bay Road, he realized that he was feeling almost weepy. Surprise at the unexpected emotion was mingled with a sudden guilty concern; since he had left his mother yesterday, work had consumed him so completely that he had not even called her, as promised. Though phoning while driving was against his principles, he pulled out his cell anyway. After a couple of rings, a voice said, “Hello?” Not his mother, but a voice that it took him a moment to remember must be Lucy Lynley’s.

  “Oh, hey, Lucy,” he blurted. “You’re still there?”

  Lucy gave her disconcertingly frank laugh. “Of course, Greg. What did you expect? I said I’d look after your mum.”

  He remembered that. Also that yesterday, frantic to get back to work, he’d more or less dumped his mother on their neighbour. Embarrassed, he muttered, “Right, yes, I’m sorry. How is she doing?”

  “What can I say? As well as can be expected. She’s napping right now. How’s your tax thing going?”

  “All finished—thanks to you.”

  She laughed again. “Thanks to your own hard work, I’m sure. When will you be here?”

  Greg realized that it wasn’t just exhaustion that had left his mind in such a jumble. He must be suffering from delayed shock, since he’d not even begun to think of what he had to do. “Actually, I’m headed out of town now,” he lied. “If the traffic on the Malahat isn’t too bad, I should be there in an hour.”

  “Okay. But drive safely. Your mother needs you in one piece, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Thanks, Lucy, You’re very kind.”

  “Nonsense. I’m just doing what anyone would. See you when you get here.”

  “Yes. Goodbye!” Then, with a gesture that gave him uncharacteristic satisfaction, he made a U-turn right in the middle of sedate Oak Bay Avenue.

  • • •

  He arrived as the last reflections of sunset were fading on the Cowichan River. Briefly he sat, staring at the house, a fresh layer of reality surfacing as he realized that his mother would now be living here alone.

  The place had started as
a log cabin, one of the first homes on this section of Riverbottom Road, built before the Second World War. Later owners had added a frame addition on one side, and cleared the land to give a better view of the river. Walter Lothian had acquired the property in the 1970s, when his paintings were beginning to gain national attention. Growing prosperity had allowed him to add yet another wing, a post-and-beam structure with a more-than-passing resemblance to a Coast Salish longhouse, plus a substantial studio, connected to the main building by a breezeway. The resulting agglomeration had mellowed with time and weather into a pleasantly harmonious whole, a fitting abode—as noted in arts supplements—for an important Canadian painter. In his youth, Greg had disliked the place, with its artsy clutter, and hated the isolation. Only later, after he’d created his own orderly space in Victoria, did he occasionally miss it, though nothing would have induced him to live there again.

  Now, in the dying day, it looked, paradoxically, both brooding and cozy. Light glowed through the living room windows and in the front hall. Greg got out of the car, crossed the broad front deck and entered quietly. His mother must have awakened, for her voice could be heard from the kitchen. Greg headed in that direction, then paused. Though he couldn’t make out what was being said, something about the tone made him apprehensive—and feel almost as if he were eavesdropping. He retreated to the front door and slammed it, calling loudly, “Hello! I’m back.” Only then did he walk into the kitchen.

  His mother and Lucy were sitting at the table, a pot of tea between them. Both women looked around as Greg appeared, and he stopped short, caught by their expressions. Mary looked stricken, her face matching the tone that he’d heard from the hallway. What stunned him was Lucy. Gone was the sedate young woman he’d met yesterday and later talked with. The person who confronted him now was pale with shock and some deep emotion.

  Greg had only a moment to register this, for Lucy composed herself and rose swiftly.