The Most Perfect Gift

by Hubert Furey

  The phrases were aimless and disjointed, without soul or spirit. Even to her they sounded fake and unconvincing, but she had to buy time, to see clearly where it was going. She knew it wouldn’t be as simple as that. She knew she would have to say more than words that were empty and hollow to ease the fear and devastation that clouded their faces, or to dispel the aura of foreboding and gloom that hung like a smothering cloud over the room, but there was nothing else she could say or do. She had to have time. It was all she had left. She made no reference to her husband nor to the quarrel.

  Rachel patted Moira’s shoulder reassuringly as she turned to leave, feeling like a hypocrite, trying to maintain the forced smile in the direction of the other children, but the terrible feelings were coming back, and she knew if she stayed, whatever she had accomplished by not angrily striding out the door would be undone. If she had only allayed their fears by the tiniest bit, it could carry them through until her return, and anyway, she had no other choice.

  She left hurriedly, without looking back, closing the door quickly behind her and heading directly for the car. She had no idea what she was going to do or where she was going to go. She was still overwhelmed by the impulse to flee, an impulse against which she had no power to fight, over which she seemed to have no control. It was driving her to go somewhere, to do something, anything, just to get away.

  Sitting in the car, it came to her that she was just as unprepared for this calamity as she was for the death of her son seven years before. Yet somehow she had to find the strength to cope with this one, just as she had then. She backed the car into the roadway, thankful that no other traffic was in view to impede her in any way. She didn’t want to be held back one second longer than was necessary. As she steered the automobile down the empty, snow-covered street, she hoped her spirits would quieten so she could arrange her thoughts. Driving had always relaxed her, and she expected her thinking to become clearer as she drove.

  It was not rational thinking, however, which preoccupied her as she eased the vehicle along, almost silent in the thick cover of snow on the still unplowed street. The shock had been too great and the emotions it generated too strong to allow for some easy flow of thought. She tried to become absorbed in the signs of Christmas that were everywhere in evidence on both sides of the thoroughfare—people stringing outdoor lights from ladders, dressing Christmas trees on lawns, and placing large striped candy canes and pudgy snowmen on selected spots around their houses—but she didn’t feel part of it anymore. All that flowed through her mind were images of her husband having drunken sex with a cheap barroom pickup, only days after burying their six-year-old son.

  Her imagination tortured her as she saw them embrace, kiss, make love, and laugh, scenes that should have been hers alone, never to be shared, and for the first time since she found out, she began to cry. In the privacy of the moving car, she made no effort to stem the hot, bitter tears that flowed unchecked down her cheeks. She gripped the wheel tautly, as hurt, anger, and bitterness mingled and swelled within her.

  Rachel didn’t notice the children making the huge centipede snowman, or the harsh grating sounds of the big sanding trucks, or any of the other scenes of life that vied with one another for her attention as she travelled one random street and then another, seeking some solution in endless, mindless driving. Her spirit, numbed and destroyed by disappointment and disillusionment and hurt, saw nothing to the right or left. She was conscious only of the sound of her own voice as she hurled her thoughts viciously into the confines of the interior of the moving car.

  “Christ! Twenty years of marriage, and this. Give yourself body and soul to a person who throws it back in your face like, like a vicious, wicked slap. Our child lying in the grave, and he bedding with some, some tavern tramp. And to keep it from me for seven years. Christ!”

  She pushed the button to turn on the car radio, catching the strains of “A Child is Born!” She struck the radio button harshly, shooting pain through the back of her hand and sending the button to the floor of the car, slicing the words of the carol in mid-air, returning the interior again to silence. Wasn’t there anything else on the bloody radio? Was there no escape, from tormenting memories, from pain or cheating or anything else which seemed to go to make up this hurtful, crazy world?

  Rachel was cursing viciously as she emptied her soul to the silent, passing world around her, unable to comprehend the unfairness, the injustice of a life that rewarded loyalty and devotion such as hers with a cheap, slimy affair.

  No answer came out of the stillness of the car or from the myriad sights of Christmas preparations that greeted her at every turn. She flexed her fingers over the steering wheel and looked vaguely into the afternoon. There was nothing she could do. It was destroyed, it was over. She had always said she would never go back if something like this ever happened. The marriage, the family, the beautiful life they had built together, it was all gone. Gone, like Christmas itself would soon be gone.

  “Christmas!” The word sounded harsh and bitter on her tongue. “What is it anyway but cooking and cleaning, opening presents that nobody wants, drinking cheap wine, and going to Midnight Mass because you have to, like everybody else? Then, just like that, it’s over. Sudden death—like the hockey games—and it’s all over. The people in the stores are right—it’s madness, to be endured and tolerated and gotten over with as quickly as possible.”

  All she saw in her mind now were hurried, frantic days of foolishness, followed by emptiness and loneliness and the wish that it should have been—could have been—better. Then it would be gone, and the emptiness and loneliness would drain the spirit and stay, until the mocking hope would appear again the next year, with sickening repetition. She shook the tears from her face with a violent shake of her head and cursed again, gripping the wheel vengefully.

  The flashing lights of a police car suddenly appeared in her rear-view mirror. What in the hell was wrong with him? He was too close. Christ! He’s pulling me in. Just what I need, she thought, a bloody ticket, on top of everything else.

  She watched the police officer through the side mirror as he got out of the car and walked up to her door, where he requested her licence and registration in a polite, non-threatening tone. She handed him the documents, keeping her head down to hide her tear-stained face. He perused them quietly before he addressed her, his voice concerned.

  “Mrs. Kearning! Is there something wrong?” The question caught Rachel off-guard, and she stammered in reply.

  “What do you mean?” He was still looking at her intently, his voice never losing its concern.

  “Well, I’ve been following you for almost half a mile, and I don’t think you even knew I was there. Your driving seems to be erratic, jerking the wheel, abrupt swerves, all over the road. Do you have a problem with your steering?”

  Rachel tried to be vague, looking away from him, still keeping her face from his view. “No, no. There’s nothing wrong with the car. It’s just that, well, I’ve just experienced some home problems. I need a little time to sort things out.”

  Her voice trailed off, her eyes staring blankly through the windows of the other side of the car, still trying to conceal her appearance and her emotions. The officer studied her, then his voice changed, becoming more officious, more authoritative.

  “Look, I’m not going to give you a ticket for imprudent driving or anything like that—it being Christmas and all—although I could, but I am going to give you a bit of advice. It’s not my business what’s going on in your personal life, but whatever it is, it has no place in a car with the condition this road is in.

  “The wind is coming up, the temperature is dropping, and in a very short while these streets are going to become very, very dangerous. Maybe this is no time for you to be behind the wheel. You don’t want to add a serious accident to whatever troubles you got. So I’m going to give your licence and insurance back and suggest
that you either get control of your driving or park somewhere until you settle down.”

  He handed her back the documents, holding them for a moment to ascertain by her response whether she had been listening. Rachel murmured a grateful “thank you” as she took them and returned them to her purse on the seat. She still kept her head away from him, but her voice sounded more sober, appreciative.

  “It’s okay. I’ll drive more carefully . . . find a coffee shop. Put things in perspective. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  The policeman studied her intently for a moment longer, then he touched his hat and walked quickly back to his car, pausing to glance back at Rachel one more time before he sat behind the wheel and drove away. Rachel waited until he was out of sight before putting her own car in gear and easing out once again into traffic.

  The appearance of the policeman had a sobering effect on her, and she was glad of his intervention. He was right. In the state of mind she was in, she had no business behind the wheel of a car, especially on streets in this condition. Killing herself or some child like Mikey would be a poor way out of her problems, however horrendous they might be. His presence had taken her out of herself, given her a chance to think clearly again.

  “Now if I can only find a coffee shop . . .”

  Her aimless wandering had led her into a part of town in which she hadn’t driven for years, and she could do nothing except drive along until some familiar landmark came within her view.

  She slowly eased the car around a sharp curve and looked down an almost straight stretch of road that she instantly recognized as the Mill Road, the one that she and Aaron had walked so often when they first started going together. She had no idea how she had gotten there, but as familiar scenes thrust themselves upon her at every point, memories of their courtship flooded her mind. Without consciously thinking about what she was doing, she found herself turning the car into the parking space by the little footbridge that spanned the river, feeling suddenly drawn to its simple wooden construction.

  The bridge held many memories for her. It was only a small bridge, and it seemed lost in the great mass of spruce trees, now snow-covered, which crowded both banks of the Mill river and hid the little walking trail which wound its way for miles along the bank to the Gut at the head of the harbour. People used to cross the bridge to walk the trail.

  She and Aaron never walked the trail. They would always stop on the bridge after walking the road alongside the river. Then they would just stand there for hours looking at the river, listening to the sounds of the water that wended its way through the thick groves of spruce that stretched to the Gut as far as the eye could see.

  When he thought they were alone, Aaron used to dance with her, the only music the sounds of the trees and the gurgling of the river as it swirled and played its way to the Gut. “That’s what bridges are for,” he used to say, “to dance on,” just like the old people used to do in the outports. After they danced they would laugh, and older people passing by would look at them and smile.

  She smiled in spite of herself at the memory. They were so happy then, happy just being with each other. It seemed so long ago now, when they were a young couple, before they were married and had moved to the other side of town to be closer to the university.

  Rachel had forgotten about the bridge as she lost herself in homemaking and hockey rinks and dance classes and part-time work at the hospital. She rested her head on the seat, her hands gripping the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on the wooden railing of the bridge where she and Aaron had so often leaned, totally absorbed in each other’s love.

  Suddenly she wanted to stand on the bridge again. She wanted to relive again those wonderful moments of love and trust, to find something in the memory of that beautiful past to give her strength to go on in the middle of this terrible present.

  She got out of the car, pausing only to retrieve the keys from the ignition, and slowly walked toward the spot where they had been together so often. The expectation was fleeting, however, as the warm memories she had just experienced receded before the torment of despair that again began to flood through her body, choking her with the hurt and despondency that seemed to have become a permanent part of her being.

  Rachel stood, looking at the bridge, rooted by the crushing memory of the events of the afternoon. What was the point? They would never be together like that again. She turned to leave, her heart sinking and heavy, but could not tear herself from the bridge, her only reminder now of a time and a marriage that was once so warm and beautiful.

  Something was beckoning her to move, coaxing her forward, prodding at her to stand on the bridge just one more time. Responding to an urge she seemed unable to fight, she wearily climbed the three steps to the platform of planks that spanned the river.

  There were no beautiful feelings, however. Whatever memories were supposed to awaken in her imagination had vanished into the dullness of the scene around her. The trees were dingy and uninviting, monotonous walls of black stretching down both sides of the valley, and the sounds of the river were harsh and discordant as it tumbled its way through the dirty, discoloured snow which flanked its sides, past the black, ugly rocks which protruded everywhere above its frothy surface, yellowing and stained.

  The scene was depressing and dispiriting and seemed to leer and mock her at every turn, repeating the numbing conviction again and again: “It’s over, it’s finished, it’s come to an end.”

  She tried to restrain the sobbing which sounded above the noise of the river, but her body shook, and she grasped the railing with both hands for support as she watched her happiness tear away like the river beneath her feet, away toward the emptiness of the faraway, distant horizon.

  It was over, and the thought that she’d had in the car returned, that she could never go back. She would never understand the explanations. She had given her all, and it had been thrown back in her face like the dirty river water that flowed beneath her feet, dirty like the cheap affair which had driven this unbridgeable chasm between herself and Aaron and had reduced her life to suffering and heartache and despair. All that was left now was more pain and separation and hurt.

  Rachel was becoming nauseated, and she turned to leave the bridge, her feet as heavy as her soul. She had set out to find an answer, she thought bitterly, and she would find it, in separation and divorce and courts and alimony, and all the other stuff that went with a shattered love and a broken marriage. She stood by the car thinking of the irony of it all. People had said they had such a special relationship. Now, after such a beautiful life together, they, of all people, would break up and separate exactly like all the other couples. This was the stuff of television and movies and cheap romance novels. In real life it was savage and vicious and barbarous and just tore people apart.

  * * * * *

  Then she saw the church. It had to be a new church, because it had not been there when she and Aaron used to come to the bridge twenty years ago. She would have passed it had she continued driving, hidden as it was by a thick grove of the spruce and pine which seemed to be everywhere in this part of town.

  The building was small, very modern in appearance, with a high sloping roof that almost came down to the ground. It was still early afternoon, and there was nobody around except an older couple who were bringing in some small fir trees, probably to stand around the crib, as she had seen people do in her grandmother’s church in the outports.

  As the door closed behind them, the church seemed to beckon her, and she felt drawn to obey the invitation. It had not been the first time. The memory of other troubled years came to her mind, those terrible three years in high school. She had come to a church, exactly as she was doing now. It had been another one of those horrific fights with her mother, and she had stormed out of the house, cursing and slamming doors as she went. She remembered her mother’s voice following her. “Go tell it to God, my dear!
Go tell it to God. He’s the only one with the patience to listen to you now.”

  Rachel remembered laughing back at her mother, but she had done just what she said. She had gone to a church, the old stone cathedral down on Long Street, and she had sat in a pew for a long time, pouring out her heart and soul, and somehow, she had come through it all.

  But that had been when she was a teenager. The silly little things that were so heartbreaking then couldn’t touch what she was facing now. Anyway, what was God going to do—wipe out the past or take away her memory or something? She thrust her hands in her pockets and walked to the door, her thoughts still heavy, her spirit still sinking. She hesitated before entering, but something kept driving her onward, and she forced her way through the big panelled doors.

  Inside, she felt the old feelings return, the feelings with which she had been familiar as a child, conjured up by the seemingly unchanging sights and sounds of the church’s interior: the little red tabernacle lamp, the vigil lights in front of the altar flickering silently—emitting a quiet, warm, gently reassuring glow, exactly as she had expected. The whole building seemed to radiate peace.

  She walked up the side aisle, not wanting to attract attention from the couple who were busily arranging the trees around the outside of the plywood crib. They looked briefly in her direction but immediately returned their attention to the crib, obviously unconcerned about what to them was simply another afternoon visitor to the church. She acknowledged their presence with a quick smile and sat in a side pew, folding her hands in a prayerful gesture and fixing her eyes on the figure of Christ which hung just above the tabernacle on the centre altar.