The Nesting Dolls

by Gail Bowen

  “We’re fine,” I said.

  “We won’t stay long here,” Nadine said. Her hair was centre-parted in a good mid-length cut. She wore no makeup, but she didn’t need any. She led us into the room on the left. “Don’t worry about your boots,” she said. “These rugs have endured a great deal over the years.” She shrugged. “As you can see, this house has been well lived in.”

  The wood in the living room gleamed and the plants in the windows were thriving, but the fabric on the furniture was worn and faded. There were books everywhere. Over the fireplace was a family portrait. Delia was drawn to it immediately. Hugh Michaels was a bald, rumpled-looking man with grey eyes, heavy brows, and the quarter-smile of the ironist; his wife, tanned and blonde, had the sleepily content smile of a woman who revelled in the sensual. The eyes of both parents were on Abby, who stood in front of them, pale, intense, and impatient.

  “I could look at that painting forever,” Nadine said softly. “It is so like them. Abby was fourteen. The artist wanted her to put on a dress, but she refused. Peggy insisted on wearing her garden hat and having a cigarette in her hand because she was never without a cigarette. And Hugh, of course, wore his invariable four-in-hand tie and three-piece suit.”

  “Abby looks just like Isobel,” Zack said. “Same hair. Same eyes. Same focus.”

  I turned to Nadine. “Isobel is Delia’s daughter. She’s the same age as Abby was in that painting.”

  Nadine’s voice was dreamy. “Abby had a very happy life with them,” she said. “I thought you’d like to see that.”

  Delia’s lips tightened. “I’ve seen enough,” she said.

  Nadine raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to look at the rest of the house? Abby’s old room is filled with things that were important to her – things that I know she wanted Jacob to cherish some day.”

  Delia’s headshake was violent. “No.”

  Zack turned his chair to face Nadine. His voice was gentle. “Was there anything special you wanted to show us?”

  Nadine nodded. “There’s a spot by the river that Abby loved. We talked about taking Jacob there next summer and letting him paddle in the water. Abby and I spent hours there, swimming and doing homework and reading and dreaming.” She smiled at the memory. “It’s a magical place for a child.”

  Delia turned away sharply. “I forgot something in the car,” she said, and she walked out. When we heard the door slam, Zack pointed his chair towards the hall. “I’ll talk to her,” he said.

  I waited as Nadine put on her jacket and boots. “Delia’s not easy with emotions,” I said.

  Nadine’s voice was jagged. “Is she capable of love?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Nadine knotted her scarf. “I never knew with Abby either,” she said bleakly. “But I loved enough for both of us.” She pulled her knitted cap down over her ears and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 8

  When Nadine and I left the house, Zack and Delia were waiting by the car we’d rented from the agency in Port Hope. As soon as we joined them, Delia reached inside her purse and took out a ring. “You should have this,” she said, handing the ring to Nadine. “It was in Abby’s hotel room. The police agreed that there was no need to hold onto it.”

  Nadine’s eyes were wide. “She wasn’t wearing it when… ”

  “No,” Delia said. “She wasn’t.”

  Nadine removed her mitten and slid the ring onto the third finger of her left hand. The twin of the ring, a white-gold Celtic band, was already there. “Thank you,” she said and then she turned towards the woods.

  Despite her own pain, Nadine was solicitous of Zack. She dropped back to talk to him. “There’s a path that’s wide enough for your chair, but I can’t guarantee its condition.”

  “I’ll make it,” Zack said, and then he coughed. “Allergic to country air,” he muttered.

  Nadine set off along the path and led us into the woods. The terrain was rough, but she moved confidently, with the muscular grace and power of a woman at home in her own body. “This is virgin land,” she said. “The trees you’re looking at have been here forever. In the spring the ferns grow so quickly it seems like a trick. On the hottest day, it’s cool here because the trees block the sun.”

  The land sloped towards the river. It hadn’t been cold enough for the forest floor to freeze and the ground under my feet was spongy. It was also strewn with fallen branches and exposed roots. Zack hated me to push his chair but there were places where we had no alternative. Finally, we arrived at the water. Downriver, partially hidden by trees, was a cabin. Nadine gestured towards it. “That’s where we spent most of our time. It’s simple, but we were happy there.”

  She moved towards the river, gathered some fallen cedar branches, and dropped to her knees. She turned to face us. “Would you like to join me? We don’t have to say anything – just watch the water and think of her for a few minutes.”

  Delia and I joined Nadine, and Zack pushed his chair closer. Nadine rocked back on her heels. “So many people read poems at the memorial service. My mind was a blur, but I remember hearing a poem by Raymond Carver about feeling beloved on this earth.” Nadine’s eyes sought Delia’s. “There wasn’t a moment of Abby’s life when she didn’t feel beloved on this earth. It helps me to know that.” She prayed silently for a minute, then made the sign of the cross and looked at Delia. “Would you like to say something?”

  Delia’s face was a mask. “What can I say? I never knew her.”

  Nadine stood and wiped her hands on her jeans. “In that case, would you like to join me at the cabin for a drink?”

  Delia didn’t answer. Zack eyed his partner anxiously, then turned to me. “You and Nadine go ahead. We’ll be along.”

  I caught his eye. “That wind is raw.”

  “I’ll be all right,” he said.

  The cabin was square and solidly built with large windows, and a glassed-in porch overlooking the river. The front door was unlocked and when Nadine opened it we were met with a wave of warmth from a Franklin stove in the corner. Nadine took my coat. “Do you like Scotch?” she asked.

  I nodded. As a host, she was charmingly awkward – shakily splashing the Scotch into the glasses, discovering one glass had too much and the other too little and attempting to even out the levels by pouring from one glass to the other. Finally, she handed me the glass with the most and smiled ruefully. “Abby always took care of the drinks,” she said. She motioned me to a chair by the stove, pulled her own chair close, and raised her glass. “To absent friends,” she said.

  “To absent friends,” I repeated. I gazed around the room. The walls were bright with quilts, and abstracts. Two desks were placed side by side in front of a large window with a dramatic view of the river. A closed laptop and a bud vase with a single white rose were on one desk; on the other was a stack of essays.

  “The marking never ends, does it?” I said.

  Nadine glanced at me with interest. “You’re a teacher?”

  “I teach political science at the university.”

  Nadine’s face brightened. “Political science was Abby’s field. She just finished her Ph.D. dissertation last year.”

  “I happened upon Abby’s name in a student’s bibliography, so I Googled her dissertation,” I said. “The abstract was excellent.”

  “Everything Abby did was ‘excellent’,” Nadine said. “She was exceptional in every way. She was also very easy to love.”

  “I gathered that from your reference to the poem by Raymond Carver,” I said. “When I get home I’ll look it up. That line about feeling beloved on this earth is beautiful.”

  “It is,” Nadine agreed. “And perhaps that was all any of us needed to hear at the service for Abby. I didn’t speak. There was so much I wanted to say, but my mind was blank.” She smiled thinly. “Abby would have done better. She would have delayed the ceremony until she found the perfect words.”

  “That sounds like Delia.”

&n
bsp; “They’re very much alike, aren’t they? Not just in their appearance, but in their guardedness. Do you think that’s why they don’t let anyone in?” Nadine said. “Because they can’t risk revealing an imperfection?”

  “Abby didn’t let you in?”

  Nadine met my gaze. “I wanted more. I was content with what I had.”

  “It’s the same with Delia’s husband,” I said.

  Nadine swirled the amber liquid in her glass. She and I had both ended up with stiff drinks; hers remained untouched. “In a perfect world, Delia’s husband and I could commiserate. But this world is far from perfect.” Nadine picked up her glass, knocked back her drink, and shuddered. “I’m not a Scotch drinker. We kept the Glenfiddich for Hugh, but if ever there was a time to begin drinking Scotch, this is it.” Her eyes were watering, and I handed her a tissue. She gave me a small smile. “I wish you and I were on the same side.”

  “So do I,” I said. I sipped my drink. “Nadine, you know this will get ugly. Your life will be exposed.”

  She shrugged. “The fact that I’m a lesbian? That’s hardly a secret.”

  “Not that. I was thinking of what a lawyer will do with the fact that you left Abby when she became pregnant. That period in your life will have to be explained if this ends up in court.”

  “So you know about that,” Nadine said. I nodded. She closed her eyes as if to erase the memory. “I made a mistake. Out of my own stupidity and insecurity and fear, I made a mistake. I thought if there was a child, she would love me less.” Nadine stood abruptly, her hands balled into fists at her side. “But it didn’t happen. The period after we were reconciled was the best time in our lives. The last months of the pregnancy, the birth, watching Jacob grow – it was so good – so very, very good.”

  “What went wrong?”

  Nadine walked to the window overlooking the river and stared at the rushing water. The view appeared to bring her a measure of peace or at least of weary acceptance. “You know the facts,” she said. “The accident. The deaths of Hugh and Peggy. The discovery that she was adopted. But we withstood those blows. We were grieving, but we were also looking forward, making plans; then everything fell apart because… ” I could almost hear the click of self-censure. “Who knows why such things happen?” she said, then she picked up my empty glass. “May I refresh your drink?”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I should go.”

  Nadine picked up the two glasses she’d set out for Zack and Delia. “You don’t think they’re going to come?”

  “Apparently not,” I said. I made no attempt to disguise my irritation.

  “I’ll walk you back,” Nadine said, but she didn’t move towards the door. Instead she extended her forefinger to stroke the petals of the rose on Abby’s desk. Her hand lingered.

  Her reluctance to leave the room where she had been happy with the woman she loved touched me. I took a step towards her. “Nadine, I know my husband and Delia haven’t been fair to you, but they’re good people. Could you give them another chance?”

  “To reject me?” She shrugged. “Well, it wouldn’t be my first rejection.”

  She handed me my jacket, and took her own off the hook. As we walked towards the main house, she was silent. Zack and Delia were waiting in the car: Zack in the passenger seat in front, Delia in back. When Zack spotted us, he rolled down the window, but Delia stared straight ahead.

  As we approached, the only sound was the crunch of our boots on the gravel. “Joanne has suggested a policy of détente,” Nadine said. “Shall we try again? We all want what’s best for Jacob.”

  Delia turned away.

  “Perhaps the time isn’t right,” Zack said quickly.

  Nadine’s hazel eyes took their measure of her two adversaries. “What are you afraid of?” she said, and she seemed to be speaking as much to herself as to them.

  She put her arms around me. The gesture was more than social. “Thank you for staying behind,” she said softly.

  The drive back to town was tense. When Zack touched my arm, I made no effort to control my anger. “What is the matter with you?” I said. “That woman just went through the most painful experience of her life. She invited us into her home because she thought she and Delia might be able to help one another through their grief. And don’t even think about using your wheelchair as an excuse. We could have managed.”

  “I was the one who refused to go,” Delia said. “In cases like these, emotions can muddy the waters. Zack and I understand that.”

  “Thank you for the lesson,” I said. “Delia, exactly how many cases ‘like this’ have you handled? Cases where a woman, whom her mother gave up twenty-seven years earlier, leaves her lover, gives her baby to someone who for all intents and purposes is a stranger, and then is raped and murdered?”

  Zack’s voice was low but insistent. “Why don’t we just park this discussion for a while? Things are being said that are best -”

  Delia leaned forward. “Maybe some things need to be said. I was under the impression that I came to Port Hope to learn about my daughter, but Nadine Perrault has an agenda.”

  “Delia, you have an agenda too,” I said.

  “To get custody of Jacob,” she said. “Which is exactly what his mother wanted. Sitting around grieving with Nadine Perrault wouldn’t have advanced our case. In fact, it might well have undercut it.”

  I glared at my husband. “Is that the way you feel?”

  He exhaled. “Jesus, Jo. Let it go.”

  I pulled into a parking spot in the lot behind the Lantern Inn, jumped out of the car, and slammed the door. “My pleasure,” I said, then I ran from him.

  Zack and I didn’t quarrel often. Once, after an angry day in which every word was a weapon, and every silence a bludgeon, Zack said something that became a touchstone for us. The morning had started well. On my run, I’d spotted a pair of American avocets, and Zack and I agreed to return to the spot after dinner to see if the birds were still there. Life and tempers intervened, and by dusk, we were raw. Like all lovers, we knew where to stick the knife. Zack hated silence and throughout dinner I’d responded to his overtures with monosyllables. Finally – exasperated – he pounded the table. “If an actuary were here,” he said, “she could produce a table that would give us an idea of how much time we have left together before we die. It’s not long enough, Jo. Let’s go see the fucking avocets.”

  When Zack followed me into our room at the Lantern Inn, he shrugged off his jacket, then headed straight for the bed, lifted himself out of his chair, and lay down. For a man who slept five hours a night whether he needed it or not, it was an uncharacteristic move, and it scared me. I went to him. “Time to remember the avocets?” I said.

  He turned his head to face me. “Boy, is it ever. This has been a lousy day, and having you pissed off at me has been the cherry on the cheesecake.” He started coughing.

  “Can I get you anything?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  I kicked off my shoes. “Well, at least I can keep you company,” I said.

  “I don’t want to give you whatever it is I’m getting,” he said.

  “Our relationship is hardly platonic,” I said. “If I’m going to get what you have, I’ve already got it.”

  I lay down beside him, and took his hand. It was warm. “You have a fever.”

  “It’s just the nearness of you.”

  “Maybe so,” I said. “But I’m still going to buy some Aspirin and juice before the stores close.” I swung out of bed.

  Zack groaned. “You can’t leave now. You just got here.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. “Put on your pyjamas and get into bed where it’s warm. We’ll light a fire and have dinner in our room. See if we can head off that bug.”

  Watson’s Guardian Drugs was crowded. It was the season for colds and flu, so everything I needed had been gathered into one convenient location. Humidifiers were on sale. Buying one for a single night was an extravagance, but Zack’s pa
raplegia meant he was vulnerable to attack from secondary infections, so I didn’t hesitate. As I made my way to the checkout counter, I spotted a rack of newspapers. The lead story of the Northumberland News was Abby Michaels’s memorial service, so I added a copy to my shopping cart and headed for the checkout line.

  I took my place behind two ladies with silver sausage curls, sparkly Christmas corsages, lips red as holly berries, and gossip to share.

  “There’s something so sad about the funeral of a young person, isn’t there, Eileen?” the one closer to me said.

  “It was a memorial service, Doris,” her companion replied. “The body’s still out west. So this was just a gathering of friends.”

  “Well, body or no body, it was very sad. I remember those girls walking down Walton Street together in their school uniforms. They were inseparable, Eileen. Whatever could have happened?”

  “Doris, women like that are very emotional.”

  “You mean… sapphites?”

  “No, Doris, I mean the French. That Nadine Perrault is French, you know. Still, they make good neighbours.”

  “The French?”

  “No, Doris, sapphites. The two who moved in next to me have transformed that old rose garden.” She paused. “I wonder how they do it.”

  “Hard pruning and organic food,” answered Doris.

  Eileen leaned in to her friend and whispered, “I was talking about how sapphites have sex.”

  Doris’s chuckle was lusty. “I know you were.”

  When I got back to our room, the gas fireplace was on, and Zack was in his robe warming himself in front of it. I filled the humidifier, handed my husband the Aspirin, a glass of water, a bottle of orange juice, and a box of tissues, and told him what I’d learned about sapphite love, hard pruning, and organic food.