by Vicki Delany
A baby boy was born to Nathanial and Maria in the spring of 1785, but it was blue and thin and its breath came in ragged gasps; it hadn’t lived a week before being buried in a tiny homemade coffin in a piece of land hastily cleared to provide a small cemetery. No preacher was in the area, so Nathanial himself mumbled the words over a simple cross made of green wood while his family and Maggie watched. Maggie stood beside the grave, her arm around little Emily, and wondered how many more would be laid to rest beside the infant.
Nathanial and his sons planted wheat between the stumps of mighty trees they’d felled the previous year, and Maggie began a vegetable garden in the rocky soil. She planted turnips, kale, Indian corn, peas, potatoes, and pumpkin. In a corner she put in a few of the herbs that Fiona in New York had taught her to use to liven up her cooking: some rosemary and mint. Beyond the little circle of the homestead clinging to the shores of the great lake, the forest loomed thick and dark and foreboding. They’d almost lost young Caleb, who’d gotten lost searching for the wandering cow. He, and the cow, spent a cold fearful night in the deep woods before stumbling onto the lakefront and following it to a neighboring farm.
A widower by the name of Rudolph Mann owned the plot three over. He had six sons and thus, because families got extra land for their children, had the potential to become one of the more prosperous in the area. Mr. Mann and his sons were ferociously hard workers but, as everyone knew, no matter how many sons there might be the family needed someone to do women’s work. Rudolph been a tenant farmer in Pennsylvania and was happy and proud to now have a sizable holding of his own. Land for his sons to inherit. Land on which generations still to come would grow and prosper.
The new settlers, many with no experience living in the countryside, never mind the wilderness, were dependent on each other and, with few exceptions, were close. The experienced farmers among them were quick to give a helping hand or the benefit of their advice to the struggling new ones. Rudolph Mann came regularly to the Macgregor place with an offer of advice or assistance. He’d doff his cap politely to Maria and Maggie, and one hot summer’s day, his face as red as the cardinal watching them from the branch of an oak, he dared to ask Maggie if she’d care to go for a stroll.
Rudolph was not a good-looking man, and he was considerably older than Maggie. His English was poor, his manners were rough, and his words few. He was not Hamish. But he had a nice smile and a kind heart, and his sons were always unfailingly polite.
He would soon ask Nathanial for Maggie’s hand, she was sure. After their wedding, she’d give him her earrings. They had been a gift from Hamish, and were, she sometimes thought, more important to her than life itself. But she would use them as Hamish would have wanted her to, to make a new life for herself.
And any children she and Rudolph might have.
She was twenty-eight years old but there was still plenty of time to have more children. The first son would be named Hamish.
Maggie Macgregor and Rudolph Mann stood on the shore of the lake, so vast they could not see the other side. The reflection of the sun on the brilliant blue water was painful to their eyes. There was no wind and the surface of the lake lay still and calm. White birds circled above the water, screeching to their fellows, and a family of ducks paddled by staying close to the shore. Maggie’s dress clung to the small of her back and sweat gathered under her thick hair.
Rudolph shifted from one foot to another. He took off his cap and twisted it in his big, scarred hands. He’d gone to some trouble to clean up this morning, she’d noticed, and most of the dirt was gone from beneath his fingernails. She hid a smile, waiting for him to speak.
“Mrs. Macgregor,” he said at last. He paused and cleared his throat.
“Yes,” she said.
A raft, rough logs looped together, rounded the point bearing two men and a mangy dog. The men lifted their caps. The dog seemed to be enjoying the cruise.
“Mrs. Macgregor,” Rudolph repeated when the craft had passed.
“There you are.” Caleb, the eldest of Nathanial and Maria’s surviving children, came out of the trees. He walked across the rock toward them. “You shouldn’t disappear like that, Maggie.”
“I have scarcely disappeared,” she replied. “As you have found me.” She was technically this boy’s father’s cousin’s wife, and thus deserving of the respect shown to an older family member. However, the boys, like their parents, had come to regard Maggie as more of a servant than a relation, and usually spoke to her as such.
“Pa sent me to look for you. You’ve chores to do at home. Today’s washing day, you know.”
“I am aware of that, Caleb. I’ll be along shortly.”
Caleb stood his ground. Rudolph shifted from one foot to another, and then he put his cap back on his head and said, “I’ll be back to my own chores. Can we walk another day, Mrs. Macgregor?”
“I would like that, thank you.”
“When she’s finished her work,” Caleb said. He turned and walked away, leaving Maggie to follow. She hiked her skirts to keep the hem out of the water lapping at the edges of the rocks. The settlers erected their buildings close to the lake, as there were no roads, and their acres ran in a long strip through the dense forest.
“Caleb,” Maggie called after him. He stopped and waited for her. “That was rude of you. Mr. Mann and I were engaged in a private conversation.”
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry, Maggie. But Pa told me to fetch you right away.”
The big vat of water placed over an open fire in the yard had not even come to the boil. Marie was sitting in her chair beside the pile of laundry, shelling peas. She watched Maggie approach with narrow eyes. “I’d like a cup of tea.”
“So would I,” Maggie said.
Nathanial learned against the rail fence surrounding the vegetable garden, erected to keep deer from the tender plants. He watched Maggie, but said nothing.
She felt his eyes on her back as she went into the house. She would have to make the tea. No one else would.
It was July, and the bounty of the farm and the forest was providing welcoming food. For supper that evening, Maggie roasted rabbits the boys had trapped, and served the meat with little round potatoes and bright green peas picked fresh from her own garden. She’d even made a pie with brilliant red berries she and Emily had collected by the bucketful at the edge of the forest. Maggie had learned to bake in Fiona’s kitchen in New York, where they made pies sweetened with expensive sugar for customers who could afford to pay. This crust was tough and lumpy, the berries sweetened with a touch of honey, but the family dove in with enthusiasm.
Nathanial got up from the table with a grunt. “Going out for a bit,” he said to his wife. And he left.
The men rarely socialized with their neighbors in spring or summer. The working day was long and hard, and most wanted nothing to do after supper but to go bed to rest up for another day that would be exactly the same as every other.
Maggie boiled water over the fire, not much caring what Nathanial did with his evenings. She washed up the dishes, and took the dirty water outside to throw under the trees.
It was July and it took a long time for night to fall. Maggie stood in the clearing, enjoying the quiet of the dusk, as soft and warm as a black velvet robe she had owned long ago. Pricks of light began to appear, first one, then three, then many lights, quick as a blink, darting amongst the vegetables, flittering between the branches of the trees. Emily chased them, her braid streaming behind, arms outstretched, laughing. The lights danced around her and try as she might she could never catch one. Fireflies, one of the most delightful things Maggie had ever known.
The next morning, the new calf was gone and when Maggie came across its bellowing, searching mother and ran to tell Nathanial, he said he’d sold it and she was to mind her own business.
Rudolph Mann
did not call on Maggie again.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I’d never before had a doctor who made house calls. Definitely not one who just dropped in to see if I needed anything.
I’d been in the greenhouse, placing eggs into cartons for CSA delivery and to put in the shop fridge, when I heard a car drive up. I stuck my head out and saw Doctor Mansour picking her way across the lawn to the side door.
She turned and waved at my call. She was dressed in a linen navy suit, the skirt cut precisely at her knees, the jacket perfectly ironed, the white silk blouse underneath as crisp as a newly made hotel bed. Her shoes were sexy strappy sandals with stiletto heels. No wonder she was having trouble navigating Joanne’s patchy weedy lawn.
“You look nice,” I said, walking out of the greenhouse to greet her.
She made a face. “Business meeting in Toronto. I have to look the part. Can’t wait to get back into scrubs.”
“If you’re looking to buy eggs, I have lots.”
She smiled. “I was thinking about you as I drove back from Toronto and thought I’d stop by and check up. You missed your appointment on Monday.”
Monday. When the police took my sister in for questioning and Gary Wolfe practically accused me of murder. I had other things on my mind that day.
“Sorry. You were thinking about me?”
“I had a breakfast meeting with one of my former colleagues—thus the attire. He’s an old guy and a stickler for dressing the part. I brought up your case. No names, of course. I hope you don’t mind, but I did want to get another other opinion. I’ve been out of the loop, neurologically speaking, for some time.”
As we talked we gravitated toward the house. “Would you like something to drink? Tea, juice?”
“Tea would be nice.”
I set about filling the kettle and laying out the tea things while the doctor settled herself at the table.
“Did your friend tell you anything, about me? I mean, my ‘case’,” I wiggled my fingers in the air.
“Little I didn’t already know. Time is the great healer. He always says that. How have you been?” She slipped off her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair.
I poured boiling water into the tea pot. “Good.”
“He also says that total honesty between patient and doctor is another great healer.”
I made myself busy. I hadn’t told anyone about the visions I’d been having, the hallucinations. Quite simply, I was afraid to. I had suffered physical damage to my brain which required extensive surgery. All of which, as Rebecca’s mentor believed, took time to heal. But hallucinations were another matter.
That was crossing over into mental illness territory and I most certainly did not intend to go there.
Just an overactive imagination. I’d led a busy life, full of excitement, new experiences, responsibility, even times of constant danger. Now my mind was finding itself with nothing much to do. Bored, it was taking what I’d been learning about the Loyalists and the earliest residents in this house and turned it into some sort of a mental play for my amusement.
I smiled at Doctor Mansour, pleased with my reasoning.
“He reminded me that it’s sometimes difficult for patients with brain injuries, such as yourself, when the people around them don’t truly understand. I suspect that’s happening to you.”
I shrugged.
“You look good; you look perfectly normal. Your hair’s obviously shorter than you might normally wear it, but it’s growing back, covering up the scars in your scalp. It can be difficult for people to understand that you are ill, very ill, when they can’t see any visible wounds. Easy for them to suspect you’re not as sick as you make out.”
“We’re doing fine,” I said. I changed the subject. “I heard you had some trouble at the hospital recently.”
“I did?”
“A patient refused to let you treat her. Does that happen often?”
“Not often. But more than I’d like.” She held up one arm. We both studied the smooth brown skin. “Either people of this color are uneducated—despite our qualifications—or terrorists going to inject them with some sort of slow-acting poison. Take your pick.” She stirred a generous amount of sugar into her tea.
“What are you doing here anyway?”
A flash of anger crossed her face. “What am I doing here? I was born here. In a hospital in Mississauga. I’m as Canadian as you are, Hannah. My parents came from Egypt in the early ’50s. We’re not even Muslim. We’re Coptic Christians. Is that good enough for you?”
“Whoa, Nelly! Your family origins are no interest to me. Unless they were United Empire Loyalists, which is something I’ve been learning about lately. I meant, what are you doing here in Prince Edward County, a bit of a backwater medically speaking, working in the ER? You’re a neurologist. Doctor Singh, who referred me to you, said you were at the top of that distinguished group. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. I’m curious that’s all. I am a journalist, remember, and I’d have thought that as my doctor you’d be pleased I was showing some signs of my profession.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled into her tea. “Looks like I was more upset by that incident at the hospital than I thought. You’d be surprised how often I get asked where I’m from. Mississauga, I say, and they usually look surprised. I’m here, working in Emerg, because I need a break. I was with Doctors without Borders for a couple of years. In Africa.”
“Tough.”
“Yes. I was in South Sudan during the civil war, then in Congo for a while. Too many heads split open with machetes. Too many deliberate amputations. Too many women raped so many times they’ll never function normally again.” She sighed. “Children. Little children. Too much.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
We drank our tea in silence. Outside it was a fabulous Ontario summer’s day. Hot sun, blue sky, soft breeze, crops growing. Inside, death and despair had slipped in.
“A friend of mine from med school was working here and when she went on maternity leave I thought it would give me a chance to sort out what I want to do with my life.”
“And has it?”
“No. My husband wants me to return to Toronto. We’re separated; he wants to get back together. I just don’t know.”
“Is he a doctor also?”
“Orthopedic surgeon. We’ve been together since first day at university. He’s lost the passion for the job. He’s still a good doctor, a great surgeon, but patients are like things to him now. He might as well be a motor mechanic. Me, I still feel their pain.
“Good heavens! What am I saying! I came to see you because you missed our appointment and wanted to check up on you, and now I’m confessing as if you’re my psychiatrist. Is that why you make such a good journalist?”
I grinned at her. “Yup.”
“I’d better get going. I’m on this afternoon, and,” she touched the collar of her immaculate white shirt, “this is not something I want to be wearing when some kid comes in with a nosebleed that won’t let up.”
We walked together out to her car. It was a fancy red thing, slung low to the ground, paint glistening in the sun, convertible top down, white leather seats.
“Nice wheels,” I said.
“My one indulgence in life. Thanks for the tea, Hannah. I enjoyed talking to you.”
“I did, too.” And I had. It would be nice to have a friend out here.
***
Black Beauty tossed her head and stamped her feet. Lily stroked the horse’s soft velvet nose. “Come on, girl,” she said. I had hold of Tigger’s bridle and followed Lily and her horse into the barn. The scent of fresh straw and ammonia and aging wood. Lily led Beauty into her stall and came back for Tigger. I turned on the tap and filled the water trough from a hose while Lily poured the nightly tr
eat of oats into the feeding pails. The horses lowered their big heads and began to munch. As they ate, their powerful muscles twitched to get rid of settling flies. A scrawny barn cat, as orange as a Halloween pumpkin, climbed a bale of hay and began washing its whiskers. I waited at the barn door for Lily, who said good night to her animals and gave them and their surroundings one last affectionate look before closing the doors. We walked slowly across the yard. A length of straw was trapped in her braid. I pulled it loose and let my hand rest on her shoulder.
We’d had a barbeque for dinner, and the scent of hot coals and roasting meat lingered over the yard in the long summer twilight. A mosquito buzzed around my ear, and I waved my hand in the air. A soft wind stirred the leaves of the maple trees, and a dove cooed from atop a telephone wire. The setting sun turned the clouds shades of baby blue and pink and the fields glowed with the last lingering light. Jake tossed a ball to Charlie, while Joanne stood on the deck watching them, a wine glass in her hand.
A wave of contentment washed over me. It had been a long time since I’d felt this well. Even when I was healthy and whole, the job was everything in my life, leaving little time to relax and enjoy my surroundings and think about all that was good.
Hila’s funeral had been today. We had not gone. Muslims bury their dead as soon as possible. The police had released the body yesterday, after the autopsy and further investigations. Whatever that meant. The Harrisons then contacted the small Islamic community in Belleville and the job was done.
I’d been invited, but Rebecca Mansour had advised against attending. The press of people, the emotion. I said I’d risk it, and she said, with considerable frankness, did I want to collapse and take the attention away from Hila, where it belonged?
