But it was not to be. A little while later, I awoke to the sound of the bell and someone pounding on the front door. I struggled out of bed and searched for my silk kimono, while Eric sputtered and groaned beside me.
“What time is it?” he growled. He reached for his watch and knocked it onto the floor. “Damn!” He leaned partially out of the bed and rummaged around to retrieve it. “Christ, it’s two o’clock.”
The doorbell rang again and the hammering resumed.
“Christ, who in the hell is making that goddamn noise? It’s killing my head.” Eric fought with the duvet, before finally winning and gaining the floor. But he clung to the bed to steady himself.
“Oh dear, did we have a wee bit too much to drink last night?” I said with no little amount of smugness.
He growled.
“Better cover yourself up.” I tossed him his sweat pants.
Making sure that the kimono covered all the bare bits, I cinched it in tightly. In the interests of propriety and warmth, I added my pashmina, wrapping it securely around me. It had been a bride’s gift from my sister, who’d been intent on sprucing up my very meagre and countrified wardrobe. I ran down the stairs, shouting “I’m coming.”
I chuckled when I heard the slam of the bedroom window closing, soon followed by the sound of my husband stumbling down the stairs behind me.
I figured it must be one of our guests from last night, who had forgotten something. No one else knew we were staying in Matt’s houseboat. Until I saw Cloë’s red-rimmed eyes peering at me through the door.
Eighteen
“I’m sho glad you’re here,” Eric’s sister gasped as she stumbled through the door. I flung out an arm to keep her from falling. “I was worried you’d already left.”
“What’s wrong? Has something happened?” I asked, alarmed by her unexpected and disheveled appearance. Her normally perfect hairdo looked as if a cyclone had blown through it while her silk blouse with its fuchsia and orange flowers clashed with her Harris Tweed jacket. And she was wearing jeans, plain ordinary discount store jeans, clothing I didn’t think she would ever condescend to wear.
“I can’t bear to be alone.”
I turned my head away from the expulsion of alcohol fumes. It was enough to make me drunk.
“I guess we’d better get you some coffee,” Eric said rather too brusquely as he came up behind me. He gripped her by the underarm and steered her toward the kitchen.
“Eric, I’m sho glad you’re back,” she slurred. “You always know what to do.”
Eric’s only reply was to firm his lips in disapproval.
When we reached the sterile brightness of the ultra modern kitchen, not yet recovered from last night’s impromptu party, he let go of her arm. But she wobbled and would’ve fallen if he hadn’t taken hold of her again. He steered her to one of the moulded leather kitchen chairs and sat her down without any hint of his usual gentle touch. I was surprised to see his annoyance with her drunkenness. He’d been the poster boy of understanding and patience in handling my drunken episodes.
“This has to be a very difficult time for you, Cloë,” I said. “Losing a child is never easy, and particularly in such a terrible way.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Sho awful. Why me? Why always me?” She tried to support her head in her hands with her elbows resting on the kitchen table. But she missed and her head slid down her arms to the glass, where she left it. She giggled. “Shee, everything happens to me.”
She was much drunker than I thought. I glanced at Eric for help, but his face remained closed as he set about making coffee.
She raised her head. “Everyone leaves me. Daddy, Mummy, Dmitri … and now Allistair. They all leave me. Even you, Eric. But you’re back.” She giggled and cast her eyes around the kitchen. “Nishe ki’shen.” Her eyes stopped when she spied a line of empty beer bottles on the black marble counter. “Got any more? I could do with shome.”
“You’ve had enough.” Eric slid a not quite empty bottle of scotch behind the Cuisinart. “How did you find me?”
“Meg said you were shtaying in Matt Miller’s houseboat. Everyone knows Matt. He throws great parties.”
Eric shot a glance of irritation in my direction.
“Please, don’ get mad. I don’t wanna be alone.”
“You must have a friend who can keep you company.”
“But family is better, isn’t it?” I interjected, not liking Eric’s attitude. She was hurting. Surely he could see that.
“Do you want something to eat? We’re about to make breakfast,” I asked.
I headed for the fridge intent on getting some eggs, but Eric stopped me. “I’ll make it. You might want to put something else on.”
Only then did I notice the flimsiness of the silk clinging to my bare flesh. I blushed, wrapped my pashmina tighter around me, and headed upstairs.
When I returned more suitably attired in jeans and a sweater, Eric was hovering over the stove intent on making perfect scrambled eggs. His sister sat with her head still resting on the table, while steam rose from the coffee mug beside her. Silence reigned but for the swish of the spatula.
I pulled up a kitchen chair beside her. “I’m glad you came. We want to help you as much as we can.”
No response as her head remained immobile on the table, her breathing steady. “Eric, I think she’s gone to sleep.”
“Christ. Like mother, like daughter.” He divided the eggs evenly between two of the three plates and added slices of smoked salmon. “Might as well eat up and then we’ll get her home.”
He placed one of the plates in front of me. It smelled delicious, but I pushed it away. “She looks so uncomfortable. Let’s move her to one of the chesterfields in the living room.”
I expected her to wake up when I tried to sit her up. Instead she slumped back onto the table without waking.
“Let me do it.” Eric scooped her up into his arms and kicked her chair out of the way with more force than I thought necessary.
I followed him into the living room, where I was convinced, given his present mood, he would dump her in a heap onto one of the leather chesterfields. But he surprised me. He lowered her gently onto the dark red cushions, careful to straighten out her arms and legs, while I placed one of the numerous kilim-covered cushions under her head. I retrieved a blanket from upstairs and tucked it around her. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing steady. Other than a slight adjustment to her position, she gave no sign that she knew she’d been moved.
“Such a shame,” Eric said, watching her. “I thought she would avoid the family curse. But I can see she’s become a drunk like her mother.”
“You don’t know that. It could be an overreaction to the death of her son.”
“Possibly, but I suspect she has problems with alcohol. I saw signs of it at our mother’s funeral.”
“You cured me. Maybe you can help her.”
“I doubt it. You were ready. If she’s anything like her mother, she likes to wallow in self-pity.”
Since Cloë had begun to snore slightly, I felt there was little danger in her overhearing us.
“I’m sorry to hear that your stepmother had problems with alcohol.”
“Sadly. In some ways I was lucky, since I spent most of my boyhood away at boarding school. I didn’t have to contend with her drunkenness, not like Cloë, who bore the brunt of it. Dad chose to pretend his wife wasn’t a drunk and my brother took off with his friends. That left my sister to deal with it. She emptied the liquor bottles Mom used to hide around the house. Whenever Mom was in danger of passing out, she helped her up to the bedroom. When I was home from school I helped, but often I found some excuse not to.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t run as far away from me as you could the first time I passed out on you.”
“By then I’d had a lot more experience with my drunken friends. Besides, I loved you.” He kissed me softly on the forehead.
We were standing side-by-side, a
rms around each other, looking out the window toward the heights of Vancouver. Beyond, the snow-capped mountains sparkled against the blue sky with only a few clouds to remind us of the rain of the last two days. An aqua-cab bobbed toward us as if saying hello before scooting past. Behind us, Cloë groaned. I turned in time to see her resettling into a new position before sinking deeper into sleep.
“Your sister had a rough childhood and now she’s going through another terrible time.”
“Don’t get me wrong. Mom wasn’t always drunk. She would go through periods of heavy drinking and then for whatever reason she’d stop and go for months without taking a drop. At the time I wasn’t sure what triggered the episodes. Only later did I learn that Dad liked his bit of flesh on the side.”
“That can make any woman drink.”
“As I said, the man was a bastard. But Mom was a terrific mother when she wasn’t drinking. So you can’t really say Cloë had a terrible childhood. She was Dad’s little princess and could do no wrong. I think she became rather spoiled because of it. But she did vow to never drink like her mother, so I’m surprised by this.”
“You’re not entirely an angel yourself. How’s your head treating you this morning?”
He rolled his eyes and grinned. “I’m trying to ignore it.”
“Maybe the unravelling of your sister’s marriage got her started … like the demise of mine got me drinking.”
“I know I’m being harsh with her. But hell, Meg, I can’t forget how she tried keeping me from my share of Mom’s money. Her talk of family is nonsense. She didn’t think me family back then.”
“Family relationships are never easy.” I hugged him close and kissed him gently. “Your sister needs you. If you could try to put your anger aside this once and help her, I think it would go a long way in your own healing.”
He held me tightly for several long minutes, before breaking away.
“I’ll try,” he said.
Nineteen
We left Eric’s sister asleep on the couch. Although Eric felt we should take her home after we finished eating, I persuaded him otherwise. Knowing she was afraid to be alone, I worried that she would continue her binge in the emptiness of her townhouse.
Yesterday we’d discussed exploring Stanley Park and having dinner after at the Asian fusion restaurant Matt had recommended. Instead, Eric went to the market to buy supplies for dinner, while I enjoyed a surprisingly warm sun on the roof terrace. We didn’t dare leave his sister alone, worried that she might do something unpredictable on waking up in a strange place.
She awoke while we were sitting at the dining room table enjoying the cioppino Eric had painstakingly prepared. We’d turned off the lights and were letting candlelight and the lights of Vancouver filtering through the wall of windows set the mood for the evening. To add to the romance, a fire crackled in the fireplace separating the living room from the dining room.
And very romantic it was until a pale face appeared out of the gloom. I let out a faint gasp before realizing it was Eric’s sister. Apologetic for causing us so much trouble, she joined us for dinner. But she ate little and spoke little. Before the end of the dinner, her eyes were closing. So I guided her upstairs to one of the empty bedrooms where I helped her out of her clothes and tucked her in for the night. Eric and I continued to enjoy the rest of our meal, particularly the salmon berry torte he’d found in a tiny out-of-the-way bakery, until we too gave in to sleep and headed upstairs.
I was deep into a dream about being chased by a monster salmon when I awoke with a start. Not sure what had wakened me, I lay in bed listening. Eric continued to sleep. I could hear waves lapping against the houseboat and the distant drone of cars passing over the bridge. Laughter drifted in from nearby. But none of these sounds would’ve wakened me. Then I heard the tinkle, a very quiet, gentle tinkle, but a tinkle nonetheless, coming from downstairs.
I slipped on my moccasins, wrapped my kimono around me tightly, and threw on the pashmina. I padded along the hall toward the stairs, glancing into Cloë’s room as I passed. It was empty. I found her in the living room sitting in the dark with a blanket wrapped around her in a winged-back chair she’d pulled up to the window. Her hand held a glass filled with Eric’s scotch and a single ice cube that chimed when she brought it to her lips.
I shoved the chair’s twin beside her and wished I had a blanket too. It was chilly. Only dying embers remained in the fireplace. I debated throwing on another log, but figuring I’d soon be back in bed, I sat with my legs tucked under me and my pashmina spread over like a blanket for warmth.
“I always knew Matt had a better view than I did,” she said, continuing to stare at the reflection of the city lights rippling across the water. “I like being this close to the water. Maybe I’ll get a houseboat. But then I’d miss my garden.” She sipped the scotch slowly. “An Islay scotch isn’t bad. But I much prefer a Speyside.”
So why are you drinking it? I wanted to ask, but instead I said “How are you feeling?”
She raised the glass and jiggled it with another clink. “The perfect remedy for a hangover.”
“I know. I’ve been there. I used to add a splash of cognac to my coffee. Eventually it became a splash of coffee in my cognac.”
She chortled.
“I stopped, and so can you.”
“But I don’t want to.” Her glass jingled again as she raised it to her lips. “Besides, I’m not an alcoholic. I can stop anytime.”
“That’s what I kept telling myself.”
Clouds had descended since we’d gone to bed. The skyscrapers were disappearing. I thought I heard the distant sound of a foghorn in the bay beyond the bridge. The city lights grew dimmer. The night closed around us until the opaqueness swallowed our view. Still, we continued to stare out the window.
“The … the police are going to release Allistair … tomorrow. I was supposed to go to the funeral home this afternoon to make arrangements. But … well, you know what happened….”
“Is that what starting you drinking?”
She murmured, “I suppose.” The glass tinkled as she took another sip. “I’ll have to make another appointment.” I felt her eyes turn toward me. “Can … can you come with me? I … I can’t do it alone.”
“We’ll both come with you.”
She reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”
“What about your ex, Allistair’s father? He should be helping you with this.”
She sighed. “He had to go to Hong Kong. Some big important meeting … But he said he’d be back for the funeral.”
“Is that the story of your marriage?”
“Yeah, I guess. But I didn’t leave him.” She paused. “He left me.” She laughed bitterly. “The usual boring story — another woman.”
“If it’s any comfort, that’s what ended my first marriage.”
We giggled together.
“I hope you cleaned him out,” I said.
“How do you think I can afford my townhouse, my BMW, and my clothes?” She laughed so loudly I worried she’d wake up Eric.
“He’s got more money than he’ll ever need. The least he can do is give some of it to me and his son.” But as she said these last words, she suddenly realized that Allistair no longer needed it. Her laughter changed to sobs.
I placed my hand on hers while she cried, expecting Eric to emerge at any moment. But he didn’t, which was par for the course. I was the one who woke up at the merest sound and agonized over whether I should crawl out of bed and check it out, while Eric slept on like Rip Van Winkle.
After her weeping subsided, I invited her to join me for a mug of hot chocolate. I expected her to refuse, but she followed me into the kitchen, leaving the empty tumbler behind. I hoped it meant she’d stopped drinking, at least for the moment. But when I passed her the steaming mug of hot chocolate, she poured in the last of Eric’s Lagavulin.
“This’ll keep me warm.” She placed her hands around the hot mug and gently blew
on the scalding milk before gingerly taking a sip.
With the blanket clutched around her and my shawl around me, we returned to the living room and resumed our vigil of the murky darkness.
The hot chocolate felt soothingly warm. “Tell me about Allistair. He sounds like he was a good kid.”
“He was all a mother could ask for.”
For the next hour, she told me about her son as only a loving mother could, from his first baby teeth to his high school graduation, when he was voted by his class to be its valedictorian. Although he didn’t have the stamina because of his weak heart to play hockey or other team sports, he loved sailing and was a member of the Kitsilano Yacht Club, where he raced his lightning and often won. Apparently, he had a bedroom wall of ribbons and trophies to show for it. If she’d had any problems or difficulties with Allistair, she didn’t mention them, nor would she. This was a time to remember only the good. I found it curious that she made little mention of his aboriginal roots or his plan to reclaim them, though she brought up her disappointment again in his desire to be a carver instead of a lawyer. He’d even been considering dropping out of university, but she said she’d stopped that.
She finished by saying, “So much promise … and now … now he’s dead.”
I clasped her hand, waiting for the tears. Instead she said, “I’ve made a sorry mess of my life.” She paused. “Allistair was the one bright spot in it. If there is one thing I’m going to do, it’s to make damn sure the bastard who killed him pays for it.” She slammed her empty mug down on the windowsill.
“I’m with you on that. Do you know if the police have any leads, any suspects?”
“Just the guy who stole his totem pole. Apparently they found Ernest’s truck abandoned in a field in the Richmond area, minus the pole of course.”
Silver Totem of Shame Page 8
