After River

by Donna Milner

  How do I tell the son that I will meet in a few short hours that this is his legacy?

  I turn away. The plaintive call follows me as I retreat. At the front door, I stop abruptly. I whirl around and cross the foyer once again. In the living room I stare down at the apparition that is now nothing more than an empty husk with eyes.

  ‘I am not Elizabeth-Ann,’ I say in a voice that is surprisingly calm. ‘I am Natalie Ward. Remember me Mr Ryan? Mr Mayor? I am the milkman’s daughter. I am the girl you raped in the gravel pit thirty-five years ago.’

  Behind me I hear Elizabeth-Ann’s sudden intake of breath, but I can’t stop now. All the black poison I have kept inside boils to the surface. It spills out like vomit with my words. There is not a flicker of understanding in the milky eyes below me, but I don’t care. These are words I need to say. ‘You think you took something from me? You think you got away with it? Well, you took nothing.’

  I don’t tell him what I thought I had come to tell him. That I have something to show for that night of terror. That I am about to meet the son who he will never, ever, know. A son he will never see, never even understand exists. Because he no longer exists himself. I lean down and whisper directly into his ear. ‘You’re nothing.’

  I turn away, shaken, weak, but somehow purged. Like the old gravel pit, the fear I have lived with, run from for so long, begins to disappear.

  Elizabeth-Ann follows me to the front door. ‘You too?’ she says, her voice flat. ‘I should have known. I’m sorry.’ ‘Yeah, we’re all sorry,’ I say walking out.

  Out on the porch I turn back to her and search her face. ‘After all he did to you,’ I ask, ‘why? Why are you here? Why are you looking after him?’

  Her face is blank. She shrugs. ‘He’s my father.’

  Chapter Fifty

  JENNY AND I rush down the narrow hallway of the Alpine Inn. ‘I can’t believe I fell asleep,’ I say as we hurry down the stairs.

  ‘You needed it,’ Jenny pushes through the front door and out into the autumn sunshine.

  I feel like the world is spinning again. Everything is happening so fast. I was completely drained when I returned to my room after confronting Mr Ryan. Drained, but already beginning to feel the healing balm of letting go. I showered and changed, then lay down on the bed for just a moment. It was three o’clock when I woke to Jenny’s knocking.

  ‘They’re here,’ she said breathlessly when I answered the door. ‘Boyer called from the Gold Mountain Motel. He’s bringing Gavin over to the hospital now while his daughter has a nap.’

  After the hospital doors close behind us, Jenny asks, ‘Do you want to wait in my office or up in Gram’s room?’

  I follow her across the foyer toward the stairs. The main floor of St Helena’s is quiet, mostly reception and offices now. It still has the chapel. I stop before the wide oak doors. ‘I want to wait in here.’

  Jenny turns with a questioning look. ‘Oh, okay,’ realizing I mean the chapel. ‘Do you want me to wait with you?’

  ‘No, I need a few moments to myself. Will you bring him here? I’d like to meet him alone first.’

  ‘Of course,’ she smiles. ‘I understand.’

  She reaches out to take me in her arms. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply as she hugs me. And just like her grandmother, Jenny hangs onto the hug far longer than expected. And I melt into it.

  The inside of the hospital chapel is narrow and dark. It smells of wood, musty with time, and aged linseed oil. The heavy door closes slowly behind me. I stand for a moment and let my eyes adjust to the light. At the front of the room votive candles illuminate a crucifix above the altar. I sit down in one of the two wooden pews. While I wait I let my eyes wander up to the cross, to the blue alabaster statue of Mary, to the candle flames dancing at her feet. Once again I feel a surge of envy for my mother’s faith; for the strength she has found in her religion, her church. The church I turned my back on years ago. Still, I pray to whatever no-name God, whatever power in the universe, will listen.

  Please, please, don’t let him look like Gerald Ryan.

  The flickering candles cast shadows on the wall while I beg a God I do not believe in for this favour.

  I feel, rather than hear, the sound of the oak door moving behind me. My heart begins to race. I turn around, in slow motion it seems, as light spills into the room.

  And he is there. His darkened form silhouetted in the doorway.

  I stand up on trembling legs as he begins to move towards me. Neither of us speaks while he approaches. I don’t know what to say – hello seems so inadequate. The door silently closes behind him, and he is lost in darkness for a moment. Then suddenly he stands before me. I search his face as the candlelight exposes his features.

  And my prayers are answered.

  The dark eyes reflecting back at me, Ward eyes, smile with a familiarity that only family can recognize. In those eyes I see my father and Morgan. The fair skin, the brown hair, widow’s peak, even the flash of perfect teeth as he attempts a nervous smile, all have passed down from his grandfather.

  An ember of radiant warmth begins to grow in my chest. It spills through my body, filling an empty space, a space I did not know existed until now. And nothing else matters. Nothing except that this is my child, my son, and the longing for him that I had denied is now filled with love. Where, or who, he came from means nothing compared to this.

  He lifts his right hand and offers it to me. ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘I’m Gavin.’

  And I hear that voice!

  My legs turn to liquid and my knees buckle. He reaches out to catch me. With his arm under my elbow he helps guide me back to the pew. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks as I slump down.

  The voice! There’s no mistaking the voice. The memory of a sun-filled summer day floods through me. The familiar voice fills the musty air of the room with the same music, the same magic that River’s voice had on that long-ago day.

  I nod, not trusting my own voice for the moment. He takes my shaking hands in his while he waits patiently for me to recover. I search his face for any signs of resentment directed at a mother who would give him up at birth. There is nothing but a gentle concern there. With a bitter-sweet acceptance, I feel the full impact of sadness for the circumstances that kept us apart all this time. ‘They told me you were dead, stillborn,’ I finally say.

  ‘Yes I know.’

  I can’t drink in enough of him as he quietly answers my flood of queries about his life. I listen in wonder at the magic of his voice as he talks about growing up in West Vancouver. I am relieved to hear about his childhood, about the parents who raised him, who were responsible for this beautiful young man in front of me.

  ‘I’m not looking to replace them,’ he says with candid sincerity. ‘They’ve been wonderful to me and I love them both very much. They always encouraged me to find my birth family. But I never really felt the need to. And I always believed that my birth mother must have given me up for a good reason. I didn’t want to impose on her – on your – life. But when Molly was born, my wife, Cathy, and I began to wonder about my genetic background. Cathy encouraged me to search for my birth parents. That led to my conversation with Boyer a few days ago. He explained the circumstances of my birth. When he told me about your mother, my grandmother, being so ill, I began to feel an urgency to come. Fortunately, I have access to a small plane. And the weather forecast was good for the next few days. So, well, here I am.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say in wonder. ‘Here you are.’

  The guttering candles burn down as we talk on. I hear the pride in his voice when he talks about his daughter, Molly. Then my heart fills with warmth as he refers to her as, ‘your granddaughter’.

  Before we get up to leave he says, ‘I don’t know exactly what to call you.’

  ‘Natalie would do just fine for now,’ I tell him as he helps me to my feet. ‘Can you do that?’

  His right eyebrow lifts with the same lopsided grin as hi
s grandfather, a grin that once entranced so many Atwood housewives.

  ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Natalie.’

  And it comes off his lips like a forgotten melody.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Nettie

  GUS STANDS BESIDE her bed. She strains to see his handsome face. It’s the face of the young Gus Ward she had fallen in love with on a snowy winter day of her youth. The one in whose eyes she had seen her future, her family.

  ‘Have you come to take me home?’ she asks.

  But her daughter’s voice answers, ‘Mom, are you awake?’

  Nettie remembers that Natalie was sitting at her bedside, holding her hand, before she fell asleep. Now her daughter stands next to this apparition, this phantom of her dead husband. Nettie expects him to disappear with her sleep, but he stays. His ghost is as stubborn as he was.

  ‘This is Gavin, Mom,’ Natalie is saying. ‘My son. Your grandson.’

  ‘Gavin,’ Nettie repeats. She smiles. She wants to touch him, to make sure he is real. She reaches towards him. He takes her hand in his. She pulls him closer to search his face. Such a beautiful face. The face of his grandfather. And yet, and yet, behind those dark eyes she sees the gentleness of his father, and the determination of his mother. This is Natalie’s son. Nettie would have known him anywhere. His familiar voice erases the sound she denied the night of his birth. The tiny haunting cry fades, and dies.

  She caresses his cheek. ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she says.

  Boyer and his partner Stanley appear on the other side of her bed. Jenny and Nick stand nearby. Behind them, Carl and Morgan and Ruth enter the room. Nettie’s prayers have been answered. Her family, everyone, is here.

  She holds tight to her grandson’s hand. She will not let go, even while he is meeting the rest of his family. She has missed his entire life, and now will only have time for goodbye.

  ‘I want to go home now,’ she tells Boyer as he leans to kiss her. ‘It’s time for my family to all come home.’

  Boyer looks across the bed to Natalie.

  Nettie sees the unspoken question in his eyes. She turns to her daughter.

  ‘Yes,’ Natalie smiles back at her brother. ‘Let’s go home.’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  THE TELEPHONE ON the other end of the line rings four times. I prepare to leave a message on the answering machine when I hear Vern’s voice.

  ‘Natalie?’ he says out of breath, as if he has run to grab the phone.

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’ I sink down in the paisley chair by the bed. My packed suitcase waits beside me.

  Next door at the hospital, Boyer, along with Jenny and Nick, are making arrangements to bring Mom home in the ambulance. Boyer’s partner, Stanley, has taken Gavin back to the motel and is now waiting downstairs to drive me out to the farm. Later this afternoon, after Molly finishes her nap, Boyer will bring Gavin and his family out for dinner.

  Gavin’s daughter! My granddaughter! I still can’t believe I have a granddaughter.

  I am still reeling from the emotional reunion in my mother’s hospital room. The awkwardness of the hushed introductions were overshadowed by Mom’s request to be taken home. We all knew what that meant.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ Vern asks.

  So much has happened since I last heard my husband’s voice, since I watched him disappear into the morning fog at the Prince George bus station. Was that really only yesterday morning? So much has changed. There are so many things to tell him, so many things I want to say. It’s hard to know where to start.

  ‘Can you come?’ I ask. ‘I want you to meet her, to meet my family.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. The relief in his voice carries over the static. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, yes, I am,’ I tell him. ‘I just need you.’

  ‘I’ll wrap things up here and leave tonight.’

  I give him directions to the farm. ‘South Valley Road is not hard to find once you’ve found Atwood,’ I tell him. ‘Just follow it until you come to the end of the road.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he says.

  ‘Hurry.’

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  WE PULL INTO the farmyard and park by the yard gate in front of the house. ‘I thought you and Boyer might build yourselves a new home like the ones in your subdivision,’ I say to Stanley perhaps a little too heartily.

  He glances at me quickly from the corner of his eye, but my question is sincere. He smiles. ‘No. None of those new houses have the charm of this old place.’

  We stroll together up the path to the front porch and I notice the changes have kept that charm. The siding, windows, and trim are all new. The house looks straighter, stronger.

  Inside the enclosed porch a gleaming new front-load washer and dryer have been built into designer cabinets. Wide windows stretch across the back wall, looking into the modernized kitchen.

  Before I go upstairs Stanley proudly shows me the rest of the renovations. An addition – a new master bedroom with bathroom – now stands where the rose garden once grew. The sunroom at the back of the house has been turned into a suite for Mom. A hospital bed, placed to overlook the back field, is ready and waiting for her.

  Upstairs my bedroom looks the same, only smaller. In my memory, the room I grew up in was much larger. The linoleum floor and the floral wallpaper are unchanged. But even though I have grown no taller since the last time I was here, I feel like a giant invading the space of a child.

  I set my suitcase down by the dresser and stand gazing out the window. Yellow poplar leaves drift onto the paved road. The barn has been updated too and painted, but otherwise the view is unchanged. I have a sudden urge to lift the window and climb out on to the roof. Only time stops me. Time and a few stiff joints.

  Soon they will all come up this familiar road. The first time our entire family has been together in this house – together anywhere-since my dad died.

  Downstairs everything is quiet. Stanley is the only other person in the house for the moment. And even though this is the first time I have spent any time with Boyer’s life partner, I know that he is as much a part of our family as Ruth is. During the drive to the farm in his pick-up truck, I wondered aloud why I had never met him when we were kids.

  ‘Well,’ he told me, his green eyes crinkling into a smile, ‘I was in university by the time you recited your poem about my father and grandfather.’

  ‘Boyer’s poem,’ I laughed. ‘You heard about that?’

  ‘I was there.’

  I remember the auburn-haired boy talking to Boyer in the gymnasium that night. That hair has faded to a strawberry blond but there is still a boyish look to the rounded face.

  ‘I was home for Christmas and went to the school that night with Dad. He loved Christmas concerts. I wasn’t much of a fan then, but I do remember the poem. My father loved it.’

  And I like this man, I thought as we shared a memory.

  ‘I did come out here a few years later,’ he added tentatively, ‘during the search for River.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that you and your father came to help. I didn’t see you. I didn’t see much during that time.’

  I turn from my bedroom window at the sound of footsteps in the hall. Stanley pokes his head in my door.

  ‘Can I show you something?’ he asks as he beckons me to follow him. We make our way up the new hardwood stairs to the attic.

  As unchanged as my room is, this one, Boyer’s old nest, is unrecognizable. The narrow space has been converted into a study. The bottom half of the sloped walls are still lined with books, but now they are all neatly organized on maple bookshelves. A bay window with a cushioned window seat has replaced the tiny Pearson window that once looked out at the familiar view of fields and mountains.

  The fading sunlight comes down through the slanted skylight. It shines down on the wall at the end of the room. The only flat wall in the attic. The framed arrangement hanging above the desk gets my attention. I look closer. Ea
ch picture frame holds a magazine or newspaper clipping. The entire wall is covered with clippings of my articles, stories and book reviews.

  Someone – Boyer – has carefully mounted and displayed a history of my career. Even my very first article, published by the newspaper where I worked selling advertising, is there.

  Stanley sits himself down on the chair in front of the desk. He watches while I study the display. After a few moments he slides open a drawer and pulls out a file-folder thick with papers. Without a word he hands it to me. Inside, I find reams of handwritten poetry. Boyer’s poetry. I sit down on the daybed and read through some of them while he waits.

  ‘These are beautiful,’ I say as I take them in. ‘Beautiful. I’m so glad he kept writing.’

  ‘He misses you, Natalie,’ Stanley says quietly.

  I look up at him, ‘And I miss him too.’ I force a reply, trying to keep my voice from breaking. Oh, if he only knew how much I miss my brother. I feel his absence from my life every day, as if a part of me is missing. I carry on constant imaginary conversations with him, but each time I see his face the words I want to say die on my lips. I swallow. ‘I can’t believe he saved all these old pieces,’ I wave at the wall display.

  ‘He’s so proud of you,’ Stanley says.

  I search his face with my eyes. It’s the face of a kind man. The creases of time etched around his eyes show only concern.

  ‘It was because of Boyer that I became a journalist, you know,’ I tell him. ‘He was the first one to pay me by the word.’ I picture the jar of pennies on the windowsill in my bedroom. ‘I get a bit more than a penny a word now.’ I laugh. ‘Not much though!’ Even to me my laugh sounds forced.

  ‘Are you ever going to forgive him?’ Stanley asks. His words startle me. This is the same question that Mom asked me only a few hours ago. Boyer? Me forgive Boyer?

  ‘Forgive him for what?’ I ask.

  Stanley’s gentle eyes hold mine, but he says nothing.