After River

by Donna Milner

  In the morning sunshine, I pulled River’s journal from my jacket.

  Earlier I had taken it, along with the folder of poems, and gone to search for Boyer. I found him at his desk in the attic room. I knocked on the open door. When he turned to me, I held up the folder.

  ‘Stanley let me read these,’ I said. ‘They’re incredible. They really should be published. Can I show them to my editor?’

  Boyer smiled and took the outstretched folder from my hand. ‘Oh, I think one writer in the family might be enough.’

  ‘I’m just a glorified reporter,’ I said. I pointed to his folder. ‘Those are the words of a writer.’

  Before Boyer could answer, I held up the journal. ‘And so is this,’ I told him. ‘I found it in the room above the dairy. It’s River’s last journal. I think you should read it. His words explain what I should have told you about the night he and I were together.’

  ‘Natalie,’ Boyer’s voice is gentle as he opened the drawer to file the folder. ‘I don’t need to read it. I came to terms with all that a long time ago.’ Then he turned to me. ‘The problem was we all thought River was perfect,’ he added. ‘But, like the rest of us, he was human. With flaws and frailties. I forgave him, and myself, a lifetime ago. Give the journal to Gavin. It will help him understand who his father was.’

  I hesitated. ‘Yes, I intend to, but I just wonder if he really needs to know all this?’

  ‘If I’ve learned one thing,’ Boyer said, ‘it’s that secrets cause more damage than truth. Give it to him Natalie. He’ll understand. He can handle it.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’re right.’ I turned to leave. ‘He’s a beautiful young man,’ Boyer called after me. I stood in the doorway and smiled. ‘Yes, he is, isn’t he? He looks so much like Dad and Morgan, doesn’t he?’

  ‘No, Natalie,’ Boyer said. ‘He looks just like you.’

  ‘This is for you,’ I said when I handed the journal to Gavin at the late. ‘It was your father’s.’

  The few short pages would tell him more about who his father was than any of us ever could. It’s all there, in River’s own words: his beliefs, his dreams, his sacrifices, and his loves. All of it told with the honesty that was River.

  As Gavin took the journal it fell open in his hands. ‘That’s your father,’ I said when he pulled out the photograph.

  He carefully unfolded the old black and white picture. ‘Which one?’

  I looked down at the two beautiful young faces. I had forgotten how much alike they were.

  It was easier to fall asleep with Vern by my side last night. He pulled into the farmyard before noon yesterday, had driven straight through. He made it in time to meet Gavin and his family before they left.

  Beside me Vern stirs in his sleep. His body presses closer to mine. Yesterday afternoon, after he arrived, after he met Gavin, I led him to my mother’s room. I thought she was asleep but her eyelids lifted when I made a hushed introduction to Carl, who was sitting at her bedside.

  ‘Mom, this is Vern,’ I whispered and pulled him closer to her. He leaned down so she could see him.

  She looked up into his face and smiled. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, her voice barely audible. ‘You’re the one.’

  Her lids closed and her face softened, became younger somehow, as she drifted off.

  It was easy to see that my mother was now at peace. She did not struggle against the inevitable. ‘I’m ready,’ she had told me last night.

  Father Mac had come and gone. Mom would leave this world with the grace that had carried her through her life. In the end, she told me, she had what she prayed for, all her children and their families, finally together, in this house filled with memories.

  Last night and yesterday we all took turns sitting with her, each of us cherishing the moments we knew could be our last with her.

  As Vern and I sat together beside Mom’s bed, I began to tell him my family’s story. I watched my mother’s face as I talked, convinced that even in her morphine-induced sleep she could hear each word.

  After Vern and I went upstairs, he held me in his arms in the dark of my room and listened patiently while I told him more. Tomorrow I will begin to tell him the rest. All of it.

  All day yesterday I watched him talking and joking with my brothers as if he had known them for years. How easily he fits in. I thought and felt a tug of remorse at having waited so long for him to know them.

  Yesterday afternoon, while Ruth sat with Mom, the rest of us gathered around Boyer’s Jeep before Stanley drove Gavin and his family to the airport. Vern and I stood arm in arm while Gavin belted Molly into her car seat.

  Before he got into the Jeep, Gavin turned and asked me, ‘Do you ever get down to Vancouver?’

  ‘Vern and I drive down for a few days once or twice a year.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’ll visit us sometime in West Vancouver when you’re down,’ he offered.

  Vern squeezed my shoulder.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ I said. ‘And perhaps someday you’ll come up to Prince George.’

  ‘I’m sure we will,’ he smiled. ‘And when we’re there, maybe you’ll let me take you and Vern flying.’

  I saw the quick sideways glance pass between Jenny and Nick. Morgan and Carl each gave a choked laugh. I felt Vern hold his breath before I returned his squeeze. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Maybe I’ll do just that.’

  *

  Downstairs the piano music continues. Like a lullaby the notes carry me to the edges of sleep. But the familiar song tugs at chords of memory and pulls me back. I know that song. It’s the same one my mother used to play for me when I was a child.

  Who could possibly be downstairs playing that old melody? Surely it can’t be Mom. She can’t have found the strength to leave her bed. But whoever is playing the piano now plays exactly as she had, with the same inflection, the same tempo, and the same love, as if the song was once again being played for me alone.

  Lying in the bed of my youth, I wonder if I am imagining the music. Is memory that strong?

  I ease myself out from under Vern’s arm. Enveloped in darkness, I find my way into the hallway, and then down the eighteen steps that I still know by heart. I feel for the doorknob at the bottom of the stairway and open the door. Like a sleepwalker, I follow the music. Soft and haunting, the familiar melody lures me through the kitchen and into the parlour.

  The gooseneck piano lamp shines down on the ivory keys below. Scarred hands move fluently across them. I lean against the doorway and watch my brother at the piano. I had no idea that Boyer could play, but then he’s had plenty of years to learn, and she’s had plenty of time to teach him.

  The door to the sunroom is closed. Through the glass I see that the nightlight is turned off. The room is dark, quiet. No hiss from the oxygen tank rises over the gentle strains of the music that plays my mother home. I don’t have to be told. And I don’t try to hold back the tears that well up.

  I wish I could say that the last words my mother spoke to me had been enlightening, or a profound revelation. But I can’t. I thought she was talking in her sleep as I leaned close to kiss her good night when Boyer came in to sit with her a few hours ago. I barely heard her. Her final words to me, the words I will take with me into the rest of my life, were simple – and they were enough.

  ‘Life is messy, Natalie,’ she whispered from the fading fringe of consciousness, ‘but it all comes out in the wash.’

  The last notes of ‘Love Me Tender’ hang in the air now as Boyer finishes playing. From upstairs comes the sound of stirring. Soon the rest of the family will join us. And we will begin the process of sharing our grief. This time we will do it together.

  At the piano, Boyer slowly turns around on the bench and his eyes find mine. For the first time I see, not the scars, but my brother’s beautiful face. And I do not look away. I will never look away again.

  A half-smile forms on his lips, but reaches beyond. It reaches up to his liquid blue eyes. Those eyes are the soul of my m
other, in the face of my brother. There is so much I want to say, to tell him. And I will. But not now.

  Now I smile back at him and say, ‘I’ve always loved that song.’

  ‘I know,’ he says.

  Epilogue

  Atwood Weekly September 30, 2004

  Monument to American Draft-Dodgers Sparks

  Cross-Border Controversy.

  Nelson City Council has passed a resolution to announce its non-involvement in the proposed memorial to Vietnam War resisters.

  This small West Kootenay town, until now better known for its pristine surroundings and alpine ski slopes, has become the recipient of insults and threats of boycott from enraged Americans.

  The privately-funded monument was conceived to pay tribute to the approx. 120,000 Americans who fled to Canada between 1964 and 1977. The proposed bronze sculpture would depict two Canadians holding out their hands in welcome to an American draft-dodger.

  ‘This will mark the courageous legacy of Vietnam War resisters and the Canadians who helped them resettle in this country during that tumultuous era,’ an organizer of the project said.

  Since the announcement, the city of Nelson has been blasted with a deluge of e-mail from outraged Americans promising to boycott the area. One enraged writer from Knoxville, Iowa called Canada a country of ‘cowards’, and wrote, ‘We are smarter than you are, tougher than you are, and we will kick your inbred asses.’

  The national commander of the Veterans of Foreign Wars, John Furgess, has urged President Bush to express his displeasure over the proposed memorial, calling it a ‘tribute to cowards’.

  Not all communications were negative. Many writers expressed encouragement for a monument to men of peace, and drew parallels between the Vietnam War and the current events in Iraq.

  Project organizer Isaac Romano said in a press release Monday that for now the project was on hold.

  In a separate press release the city of Nelson distanced itself from the issue. ‘The city’s involvement,’ said one council member, ‘would spell certain economic disaster for members of our local business community that trade with or rely on American tourist dollars.’

  A warm April wind drifts north across the Canada/US border. A gentle air stream lifts and carries it through the forests and valleys of the Cascade Mountains. In the town of Atwood, a swirling dust devil topples a child’s empty milk container. The child watches unconcerned as the small plastic bottle is carried away, turning end on end, across the schoolyard.

  The wind rises and changes direction. It blows south again, swirls around mountainsides, through trees and meadows, until it touches down on a small alpine lake. The still water begins to ripple as the wind skates across the surface. Leaves rustle in the tree at the water’s edge. White apple blossoms lift and swirl, then fall gently towards the ground. Like snow they land upon the heads and shoulders of the brother and sister standing hand in hand beneath the branches. At their feet, at the base of the tree, is a newly-laid bronze plaque. The raised letters read:

  IN MEMORY OF RICHARD ADAM JORDAN

  ‘RIVER’

  1946–1968

  AND GREAT IS THE MAN WITH THE SWORD UNDRAWN’

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to acknowledge the many people who have shared this journey with me. To those who were with me from the beginning and those I have met along the way. I extend my deep gratitude. In particular my dear friends Verena Berger and Joyce Aaltonen who were there from the very first tentative steps. Thank you both for patiently reading or listening to draft after draft and then having the grace to call it a privilege.

  Thanks also to my daughter Tanya LaFond, son Aaron Drake, sister Diane Jonas, mother Gloria Jonas, as well as Kim Corless, and Leanne Schultz. You all in your own way helped to keep me on the path that would lead me to the door of Gregory and Company. My thanks to all the good people there who welcomed me in, especially Jane Gregory, and Emma Dunford. Thank you Emma for reading your slush pile and for your positive and professional guidance through the edits.

  Finally, to my husband Tom Milner, who first opened the door and outed this closet writer. Thank you for your unwavering faith and encouragement. I love you. You are my constant beacon home.

  Donna Milner

  About the Author

  DONNA JONAS MILNER used to work in real estate until her husband encouraged her to start writing. Now she cannot imagine doing anything else. After River has been published in Canada, the US, the UK, France, Germany, Italy, Serbia, Greece and Holland. Donna Milner lives in British Columbia with her husband.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Copyright

  After River

  Copyright © 2008 by Donna Milner.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition © SEPTEMBER 2010 ISBN: 978-1-443-40183-8

  Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, by arrangement with Quercus.

  FIRST CANADIAN EDITION

  2 lines from “The Death of the Hired Hand” from The Poetry of Robert Frost edited by Edward Connery Lathem, published by Jonathan Cape. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Ltd.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Milner, Donna, 1946–

  After River : a novel / Donna Milner.—Canadian ed.

  I. Title.

  PS8626.1457A64 2008 C813′.6 C2007-906571-6

  RRD 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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