Burden of Memory

by Vicki Delany

  Elaine feared the worst the moment she reached Moira, now silently slipping underneath the waves. An old woman, a fragile heart. But she grabbed and pulled and screamed nonetheless, hoping that by force of will, if nothing else, she could pour life back into the limp old body.

  She kicked out, talking to Moira, telling her to stay strong, moving towards the shore. Slow but steady. She didn’t have a hope of lifting her burden onto the rocks.

  As if in a dream, strong arms took the weight from her, and gentle strokes guided Elaine back to shore, where she was pulled up and out of the lake.

  She shook water out of her eyes and saw Lizzie on the rocks, bent over the barely twitching figure that had been passed up to her, her head moving rhythmically over the tiny body, the fair ponytail bobbing up and down with a life of its own.

  Onlookers gathered around, watching, stunned into immobility. Kyle and Alan clambered out of the water, pushing a sodden Ophelia ahead of them.

  Moira coughed and spat and vomited a stomach full of Lake Muskoka onto Lizzie’s ample lap. Lizzie grinned in delight. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Moira.”

  Hamlet and Ophelia crawled to either side of their mistress and licked her face in joy.

  Ruth burst into tears.

  A cheer died in Elaine’s throat. Megan! She grabbed Alan’s dripping sleeve. “Megan went in as well.”

  Charles, Maeve, Amber, and Phoebe came stumbling down the flagstone walk, dressed in a wild assortment of traveling clothes and nightwear.

  Charles heard his wife’s name. “Megan. What do you mean, she went in? Went in where? Where is Megan?”

  This time Kyle hit the water first, closely followed by Alan. They floundered around, unable to see anything. Visibility in this lake ended a few inches down.

  Amber turned on her heels and fled back into the cottage. Phoebe dove into the lake, her bright yellow flannel Winnie-the-Pooh shortie pajamas flaring out around her as they greedily soaked up the water. She touched Kyle’s shoulder, pointed down, and dove.

  On the shore, Moira vomited up another stomach full of lake. “What, what?” She was confused but struggled to sit up, pushing ineffectively at the arms around her, not sure if they were restraining her or comforting her.

  “There, there. It’s all right,” Ruth said. “Let Lizzie and me help you up to the house. Please…Moira. You need to be warmed, to rest.”

  Loving arms lifted Moira to her feet and settled her into her chair.

  “Megan. Where is Megan?” She grabbed Ruth’s arm, as she felt herself being pushed up the path to the cottage.

  “Don’t worry about that now, dear. Just rest.”

  ***

  It was a long time before Phoebe, Kyle, and Alan found Megan floating under the dark waters. They knew it was useless, she had been down too long, but once they had her, Phoebe began CPR immediately. Kyle guiding, Phoebe breathing in a steady rhythm, they reached the shore as the piercing siren of an ambulance echoed over the calm lakes.

  Capable arms pulled Megan out of the water. The cold body was laid on the rocks and the mechanical process of CPR continued, without response. Paramedics and a stretcher arrived. A paramedic took over CPR, as they wrapped Megan in thick blankets and carried her to the ambulance. Charles, his thin face etched with shock and despair, looking every day, and more, of his age, stumbled to keep up.

  Phoebe, Elaine, Kyle, and Alan huddled together by the waterside, listening to the sound of the ambulance as it began the long return journey to the hospital in Bracebridge, the siren screaming. The earlier mist had burned off completely and a weak, but valiant, autumn sun shone in a cloudless azure sky heralding one of the last of the pleasant fall days before winter once again had this land in her unforgiving grip.

  They staggered up the hill to the cottage. Dripping wet, shivering with cold, overwhelmed by shock.

  Without a word, Alan reached out and gathered Elaine into his arms. She collapsed wordlessly into his embrace. Their bodies melded into a chill, damp blob, which still managed to be so wonderfully comfortable.

  Cold, wet, but secure, Elaine mechanically put one foot in front of the other and allowed Alan to lead her up the path. She hadn’t known it was possible to be so cold. If her teeth kept on chattering like this they would surely drill a hole right through her skull.

  Amber and Lizzie met them at the door, armed with thick blankets. Alan kissed Elaine’s hair and held her close before allowing Lizzie to guide Kyle and him upstairs. Amber took charge of Elaine and Phoebe.

  Amber pushed the two women into Elaine’s room, the closest, and ran to start the shower. When the water was hot and steam filled the bathroom, she helped them strip off the outer layer of their miserable clothes and guided them into the spray, like helpless infants. They stood under the jet of hot water, Elaine clad in bra and panties, Phoebe in her pajamas, soaking up the warmth.

  “Aren’t you quite the extra from Night of the Living Dead,” Phoebe said, at long last. “Hope I don’t look half as bad.”

  Elaine laughed, a laugh owing more to hysteria than mirth. But soon they were hugging each other and alternately laughing and sobbing.

  Amber pulled back the shower door. “Undies off. No time for false modesty here. Take it all off, ladies.”

  They complied.

  When Elaine and Phoebe emerged, feeling almost like human beings once again, Amber was standing in the steam, thick yellow towels held out in front of her. Elaine remembered when she was ten years old, and being cared for by her mother during a mild bout of the flu. All that attention, and a day off school, too. Wonderful.

  Amber had searched under Elaine’s pillow and found a neatly folded set of pink flannel pajamas, teddy bears cavorting on fluffy white clouds. Meekly following instructions, Elaine dried herself off and pulled on the pajamas. Slippers and a terrycloth robe followed. Amber then went through a similar ritual with Phoebe. As Phoebe’s pajamas were lying in a sodden heap on the floor of Elaine’s bathroom, Amber produced a maroon sweat suit.

  Dry and warm at last, they were anxious to get downstairs.

  The stunned survivors had gathered in the kitchen. Lizzie had the fireplace roaring and coffee and hot cocoa brewing by the time Amber, Phoebe, and Elaine arrived.

  Kyle and Alan, showered and dressed in an assortment of warm clothes, gripped mugs of steaming coffee. Alan’s woolen sweater and sweat pants were so small on the tall black man that Kyle resembled a boy who had grown out of his wardrobe overnight.

  Maeve sat in the scarred old rocking chair by the hearth. As she rocked she hummed a song lightly under her breath. Her cloudy eyes looked at a horizon very far away.

  A timid knock on the kitchen door, and Lizzie rushed to admit Rachel and Karen.

  “We heard a siren,” Rachel said. “What’s happened?”

  Kyle reached her in one step and gathered her to his chest. “There’s been an accident,” he said.

  She pulled back. “What kind of an accident? Why are you dressed in that ridiculous getup? And your hair is all wet.”

  “Is it Moira? Has something happened?” Karen asked.

  “Moira’s all right,” Lizzie said. “Ruth is with her. She was in the lake. Elaine pulled her out. I’d better get a pot of tea upstairs. Make sure they’re all right. Will you help me, Karen?”

  “Of course.”

  Elaine looked around the room. The kitchen, large as it was, was packed to overflowing. Family, friends, neighbors, and staff were either sitting stoically at the great oak table or milling aimlessly about. Ophelia had been toweled off and she and Hamlet were lying on blankets under the table. For once, they lay quietly.

  Alan threw a smile at Elaine that had her still-chilled heart warming rapidly in her chest. She thought of her teddy-bear dotted pajama legs sticking out from under her shabby robe, and her unbrushed hair standing up in frizzy curls.

  “They took Grandma to the hospital,” Phoebe said. “Granddad has gone with her. We haven’t heard anything yet.” />
  “What in heaven’s name was Moira doing going for a swim, anyway?” Maeve said from her chair in the corner. She rocked so rhythmically, it was almost hypnotizing. “She hasn’t been in the lake for near on twenty years or more. Nor have I. Not quite suitable for a respectable woman’s dignity, I have always maintained. The swimming costumes they have these days. How strange that she’d decide to go for a swim today of all days.”

  They stared at her in disbelief.

  “But my sister did always tend to be a mite unconventional.”

  The sharp ring of the phone cut through the tension in the room. Everyone jumped. They looked at each other, no one wanting to pick up the instrument and hear what they all knew would be terrible news. On the fourth ring, Alan grabbed it. He faced the wall, his back to the room; shoulders hunched, head down, making a cave of his body. He said nothing but “Hello” followed by a few murmurs. He placed the phone back in the cradle, straightened his shoulders and turned to face them.

  “That was Charles. Megan was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.”

  “Oh, God,” Kyle exclaimed.

  Rachel fell into a chair. “How terrible.”

  Alan threw another log onto the fire, which didn’t need one. Expressionless, Phoebe opened the cookie tin and arranged treats onto a tray. Maeve hummed quietly to herself as she continued to rock.

  Watching them reminded Elaine of one of Moira’s stories. A trip to London spent mostly in the tunnels under the city, while wave after wave of German bombers pounded the city above. She had talked about the expressionless features on people’s faces, women trying to be brave, holding back the tears, their children gripped tightly in their arms, forced laughter, and unconscious generosity as bits of food and drink and comfort passed between strangers thrown together.

  “Charles wants me to bring the car.” Alan looked at Elaine. “Will you be all right?”

  She smiled, feeling all warm and cozy inside, and not from her proximity to the fireplace. “I’m fine. Thank you. You go and help Charles. I’m sure he needs you.”

  “If you’re sure, Elaine?”

  “I’ll walk out with you.”

  They reached the kitchen door as Lizzie and Karen returned. “Moira’s sleeping,” Lizzie told them. “But Ruth’s sitting with her. We’ve called her doctor and he’s on his way. She wants to see you, Elaine. She asked Ruth to fetch you. But she’s asleep now. Ruth’ll let you know when she’s awake.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “What happened, Elaine?” Alan took her hand as they walked down the long, dark corridor. They passed his painting, secure in its place amongst the Canadian masters. Elaine smiled at it fondly. It looked even more beautiful than the first time she’d seen it, if that were possible. She would ask him, someday, what lay behind it. The painting was so emotional, there had to be a story there. As they passed the staircase, she could feel the force of Augustus’ disapproval digging into her back. She suspected that he was scandalized that a woman of such a lowly position would have the audacity to pass up the son of a prominent Muskoka family. She couldn’t see them, the portraits were behind her, but she imagined that if she turned around Elizabeth would have winked.

  She pulled her mind back to the question. “They were arguing. Moira accused Megan of killing Donna Smithton, setting the fire, and trying to kill her by smothering her as she slept. Megan didn’t deny it. Oh, God, Alan, she pushed Moira into the lake. Her own sister. I saw it. It wasn’t an accident, although Megan claimed that Donna’s death was an accident. One she didn’t do anything to prevent. But I don’t understand. Why would she do that? They’re sisters. And they’re so old.” Huge, warm teardrops fell silently down her cheeks. Her chest heaved and her body felt as if it would break in two.

  Alan gathered her into his arms and stroked her back. She buried her wet face into his chest. “I don’t understand, either,” he said. “We probably never will. But it’s over. You’re all right. Moira’s all right.”

  “But Megan’s dead.”

  “So she is. But from what you’ve said, I think she brought it on herself. Don’t you?” He reached under her chin and tilted her head back. With his forefinger, he wiped a single tear from her face. “Let it all sort itself out, Elaine. You did what you had to do and you did it well. That’s all that counts.”

  She tried to smile, to regain that brief moment of feeling loved and cared for. “Do you think so?”

  “I do. But now I have to go. As Lizzie would say, ’is lordship awaits ’is carriage. If it was only his lordship, I’d say forget him, I want to be here—with you, Elaine. But it isn’t. It’s a tired old man who has just lost his wife of fifty or more years.”

  Elaine finished the smile. “You’re right. But come back.”

  “I will.”

  Alan pressed his lips to the top of her curly blond head.

  ***

  For the rest of the day the household moved through a Jules Verne underwater world, floating beneath the surface, without focus. Lizzie prepared colossal quantities of sandwiches and gallons of tea for which only Dave seemed to have sufficient appetite. Elaine and Phoebe slept most of the day away, their dreams drenched in cold lake water, viewed through sightless, staring old eyes. Charles returned from the hospital and shut himself in the library. The TV blared at full volume from behind the closed door. After depositing Charles at the front door, into Phoebe’s competent hands, Alan went straight to the woodpile and spent the day chopping more wood than they would need for the rest of the winter. He told no one of what they had said to each other on the trip home.

  Early in the evening, while Elaine was sitting at her computer struggling to type up a cheerful e-mail to her brothers, one full of platitudes about the progress she was making on the memoirs and the beauties of a Muskoka autumn, Phoebe hammered on the door.

  “Charles wants to talk to us all. The drawing room in fifteen minutes.”

  “He won’t want me there. I’m not family.”

  “He told me specifically to ask you.”

  They were all gathered in the drawing room by the time Elaine arrived. Alan wasn’t wearing his smart black suit with the red cummerbund, only a tired pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. He sat in the brown leather chair in pride of place in front of the fire, next to Moira in her wheelchair. The elderly Miss Madison’s face was drawn with grief; she had aged ten years since the morning. But she forced a smile for Elaine and patted the couch on the other side of her, inviting Elaine to sit.

  Ruth, standing behind Moira’s chair, nodded at Elaine, and the edges of her mouth turned up a fraction.

  “Please, help yourself, Elaine.” Ever the host, no matter the circumstances, Charles gestured to the line of open bottles on the small table.

  She poured a glass of red wine. Not really wanting it, but suspecting that she might shortly be looking for an artificial source of strength.

  Alan stood as she approached the offered seat and kissed her lightly on the cheek. They gripped hands, for just a moment. Moira gave them a soft smile, a smile so wise and knowing it brought her aged face back to life.

  “Where’s Maeve?” Elaine asked, simply for something to say. Reluctantly, she let go of Alan’s hand and settled into the chair.

  “Resting,” Moira said. “We’ve obtained a private nurse for her. She’ll be going home tomorrow.”

  Charles cleared his throat. “Not to sound too much like a cliché, but you are probably all wondering why I have gathered you here.” His thin face was tightly drawn, the skin so diaphanous the bones were nearly visible. The strain showed in every line of his face. Seeking some degree of courage in the traditions of his youth, he had dressed to the nines—gray trousers ironed to a knifepoint, crisp white shirt, navy blue blazer, and smart gray tie.

  “When I returned from the hospital this afternoon—” he stopped to take a long sip of water— “I spoke to Moira.” He nodded at his sister-in-law. “For a long time. A conversation we should have had many
, many years ago. She—we—decided that you all deserve to hear the story.”

  “Megan.” His voice broke on the name, but he swallowed heavily and continued. He remained dry-eyed. “Megan was acting only in my interests, as she saw them. However mistaken she might have been, she was determined to protect my reputation until the last.” Again he raised the glass to his mouth. It was empty. Lizzie rushed for a jug of water.

  Charles gave her a slight smile as she poured. “I told Moira this afternoon about my great shame, the burden I have lived with my entire life. I’m going to tell it to you now. Megan wanted to protect my story at all costs. If she’d confided in me, I would’ve told her that it no longer matters. Most of my contemporaries are long dead, my life coming to a comfortable end. But the truth will out, as indeed it must.”

  “Ironically,” Moira interrupted, “I knew nothing about this. ‘The guilty run where no one pursuith.’ What an apt phrase. All these long years Megan thought I knew Charles’ heavy secret, and she lived in fear that I’d reveal it. When I announced my intention of writing my memoirs, and then hired Donna Smithton to assist me, she feared that the time had come. Had I but known how frightened she was, I would have assured her that I have no interest in dredging up the riddles of the past, and certainly not in spreading muck and gossip. After all, my memoirs are about me. Not the doings of my family.”

  She took a deep breath. “This all came to pass because I simply didn’t know, although I do now. Even as she…confronted me…down on the dock, I thought she was referring to something else. How terribly sad. As Charles has said, who would care, so many years later?”

  Charles took a deep breath, and a swallow of brandy, which sat in a beautiful cut-glass snifter on the table beside him, for an ounce of courage. Then he spoke.

  Chapter Forty-four

  It was an incredibly hot day in early September 1944. The Italian campaign was vitally important in keeping German divisions occupied that otherwise would be in France, where the battle towards Germany itself was underway. “The soft underbelly of Europe,” Winston Churchill called Italy. The Canadians were part of Operation Olive, whether after the trees or the woman’s name I never did find out. I remember the dust most of all. It was soft and white, like fresh powdered snow, and could lie three to four inches deep on the ground. Some of the men from the Northern climes would try to fool themselves that it was snow, for a few seconds at any rate. The morale in our sector was high that day; we all hoped that the Italian campaign was almost over. And surely Germany would then fall quickly.