Uncharted

by Graeme Connell

  “She left a few minutes ago,” one woman says.

  “She talked with the librarian,” says another.

  “I think she was very upset,” adds the third.

  Brewster glowers at them, mutters a thank-you, shoulders his folio case and heads out.

  “You’d think he’d return his coffee mug.”

  “Typical, man. Just leaves it for someone else.”

  “It wouldn’t have hurt him to put it on the dirty dishes trolley,” agrees the third.

  #

  Rain keeps Brewster indoors the next couple of days. He broods a good deal as he selects and edits his pictures, comparing his files with Melanie’s notebook.

  #

  “You’ve hurt me, and I no longer want to be involved with the project—or you.”

  Clotilde shuts the door, leaving Brewster standing on the doorstep in the rain. He stares at the door, half expecting it to open again. He shuffles the package in his hands, opens the mailbox and drops it in. Sheltered under his red-and-white golf umbrella, he stands beside his car, looking back. The door remains firmly closed.

  Perhaps she’ll come round once she gets the peace offering, he thinks. It was a spur-of-the-moment thought he’d had while buying a fresh supply of birdseed for his backyard feeder. The dinner-plate-sized stained glass window hanging of a chickadee had instant appeal, and he recalled the many times he’d stood in the park, watching and hoping to capture the perfect picture of the ubiquitous chirping chickadee. He included a “Gee, I’m sorry” card he’d created.

  What to do? he thinks. Maybe the folks at the park will be able to keep Clotilde in the project. Maybe, just maybe. Most of all he wants to know where he can find a striped coralroot. It’s already July, and the chances of finding the plant are growing slimmer by the day.

  #

  “Well, look what the rain brought in,” Louise says as Brewster once again crashes into the wrong door at the park offices. “We had a meeting this morning and were talking about you, Clotilde and the project. We wondered how everything is coming along.”

  “Well it was going okay,” Brewster says. “But I’ve gone and messed up the whole thing. The other day, I quarrelled with her when she suggested we use a non-park picture of the striped coralroot. She’s walked out and now refuses to have anything to do with me. Says she is no longer associated with the project because I have hurt her. She shut the door in my face.”

  Louise looks at him.

  “Yes, I know,” he says. “I was a bit blunt when I got up and walked away from her. We were at the library when things got the better of me. I probably embarrassed her as well.”

  “She’s a lovely and talented artist,” Louise said. “Have you apologized?”

  “Yes. Well, I just went over to her place. As I said, she shut the door in my face. I left a small gift and written apology in her mailbox.”

  “Brewster, first off, I’m glad you came and told us so we can work out how to recover the situation,” Louise says. “We cannot get involved in your differences; only you two can sort them out. My concern is bringing the book to fruition. As we have discussed earlier, we need to be assured that we can have everything finalized by the end of August—that’s the drawings, the pictures and the text. We have people working on our side on that too.”

  “I understand,” says Brewster. “I’m sorry this has happened. It’s my whole attitude that caused the problem. I acted like a pouty schoolboy and should have known better.”

  “Put it this way,” she says. “Where are you at as far as the photographs are concerned? It’s not all that essential that you and Clotilde actually work alongside each other. It’s simply a matter of each knowing what the other is doing and how that interface works with our environmental group handling the script. Any chance that we might just have 99 pictures?”

  “No. The blow-up came about because I insisted that we must have a park picture of the striped coralroot. I’d say I’m about 90 percent complete. At last count, I had about 90-plus individual flowers finalized. I have all the flowers except the striped coralroot. It is the only one outstanding, and it was the one flower in which Melanie was most interested. I’m determined to find it and photograph it right here in the park. To me, it’s the key.

  “Sounds good, Brewster. We’re keen to make this happen. I’ll personally connect with Clotilde to gauge her progress,” Louise says. “She can work with us. Technically, this is a park project and will be a park guide. We have to keep our eyes on the big picture. I’ll ask around to see if anyone has seen the coralroot. I’ve not heard it mentioned by the flora volunteers.” She looks at him.

  “Tell me, Louise,” he says. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I just hope this is a temporary wrinkle,” she says. “You’re a successful businessman, Brewster. I’m sure you know what to do and can appreciate that we will not get involved in a squabble. Let me have the pictures as arranged. From the material you two have submitted to date, I can tell you it is an awesome project, and the book will be a major asset in our ecological work here. I’ll work on how to bring it all together.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  From enthusiasm and excitement to utter sadness. Clotilde is perturbed by Brewster’s behaviour. “How could he say that?” she says to Bebo. “Those things about me being deaf? Just like a lot of people think: deaf and stupid go together.”

  She tears as she realizes that what she thought might trigger a lasting botanical art career has been crushed. The question of how to get published looms large. She vows to withdraw completely from the wildflower project; her drawings will not form part of any book. “There will be no ‘Created by Brewster and Melanie McWhirtle, with drawings by Clotilde Chiasson.’ Never, jamais, jamais.”

  Bebo looks up at her from his comfortable spot in her lap. She wriggles the little dog’s ears and resolves to recover and move on with the same strength and purpose she’s applied to her many life changes. Brewster’s peace offering and apology doesn’t cut it. The double hurt is she genuinely fell for him—felt more than a warm connection as they worked together. Now his true colours show. The stained-glass chickadee is lovely and thoughtful, she concedes, but he can have it back. Each time she sees it against the window, she’ll be reminded of his very public outburst. She wraps it up and puts it aside in her studio.

  The book and the benefits that might result from her exposure is now a bust.

  “Oh, Maman, what shall I do? There’s nothing to keep me in Calgary now. Maybe I should take Cousin Ruth up on her advice and move to Cape Breton.”

  The trees wave their green branches at her as she gazes out, thinking of her many enjoyable holidays and the extended vacations there. But her parents were always with her and they bridged communication gaps in the extended family. To her knowledge, no one in the town signs. Maybe when she gets there, Ruth will pick it up. But which family? Her mother’s Acadian heritage around Cheticamp on the west coast of Cape Breton, or her father’s Mi’kmaq heritage at the Membertou First Nation at Sydney?

  “You and Papa were always my inspiration,” she says, looking at a photo of her parents on the nearby bookcase. “I loved the way you looked at each other in your everyday romance. That’s what I thought would happen to me and Pierre. We had a fairy-tale meeting just like you did, when you found each other at the Nova Scotia Eastern Institute of Technology in Sydney. Just two ordinary people, Papa learning heavy equipment operation, and Maman learning secretarial.”

  Clotilde pauses and thinks about the possible raised eyebrows of the Mi’kmaq and Acadian romance. Perhaps it was different out there. Once they graduated, they married with the full support of their families. For a time, her dad worked in the fishery at Cheticamp because employment in the coal mines was sketchy at best. It was a period of great change, and she thought about her parents packing up and heading to the unknown west, where they’d heard
good things about high-paying work in the Fort McMurray oil sands. In spite of the hardships, the burgeoning community at the confluence of the Clearwater and Athabasca rivers became their delight and life, especially when Clotilde entered their lives.

  Camping in the surrounding wilderness, canoeing on the rivers, fishing and hunting were parts of her parents’ adventure. Her dad worked in the oil sands, and her mom eventually found work as a typesetter at the new daily newspaper in Fort McMurray.

  Clotilde enjoyed her out-of-school hours as a candystriper at the local regional hospital, graduated from high school and entered the nursing program at the University of Alberta. Filled with the same sense of adventure as her parents, Clotilde recalls the excitement she had finding employment at a Calgary hospital. That was where she met Pierre, an up-and-coming young lawyer who’d moved west from his native Montreal. He’d turned up in Emergency one evening with a broken leg from a climbing mishap.

  “I wish you were around now, Pierre,” she says. “It was good with Maman et Papa here. Now it’s an empty house, a daily struggle. She always knew she’d be alone one day, but did it have to come so fast? Cancer took her dad after a four-year battle, and she was there to care for him in spite of her deafness. Mama went suddenly, just a year ago and a year after her beloved Papa. “A broken heart, un coeur brise.” Now her high expectations for her art have evaporated. She trusted Brewster, liked him, liked being around him, wanted to be near him. She felt as though she was falling in love with him, like when she first met Pierre.

  “Why am I deaf?” she asks Bebo. “You are my ears now. We’re a great pair.” She reaches for the pet bristle brush on the coffee table and sits on the floor. “Let’s groom these knots out of the way.”

  “Toujours avoir confiance en Dieu,” “Always trust in God,” was a favourite expression of her parents whenever they saw her spirits drop, especially with the heartache of saying goodbye to her husband and then her son. She appreciated her parents’ willingness to pack up, sell up and quit their well-paying jobs in Fort McMurray just to be with her and help her through the new challenges of life in a silent world.

  “There’s no need to argue with God or to question Him, ma petite,” her mother had said. “You are who you are, a wonderful creation and our awesome capable, confident and creative daughter who’s always given 110 percent. Ne perds jamais ca, do not lose that.”

  Bebo dances around and playfully tries to nip the brush as she drags it through the fur on his back. “Come on, now. See how nice you look.” She lets the dog go and watches him dash around the room, shake and playfully run some more. “Are you smiling?” she says as she gets up from the floor, pleased that the distraction has helped to distance her from the closed art folio.

  “Enough, Bebo,” she says to the little dog at her feet. “Time for action. Let’s go for a walk—on va se promener.” Bebo acts pleased and sits quietly as Clotilde dresses him for work in his red service coat. She will avoid the park and their usual walk, and she suggests to Bebo that they head for the Inglewood Bird Sanctuary for a pleasant walk along the pathways. She doesn’t want to go anywhere near the subject of the artwork, which has been her focus for a couple of years.

  Brewster has ruined that activity.

  She’s eager for a walk in the quiet sanctuary bordering the Bow River. But why is the car park so empty on this warm, cloudless day? One look through barrier fencing tells her why. The recent floods have had a major impact on the area, and the oasis has become a catchall for all the floodwater junk, including a kitchen sink. Viewing platforms and bridges have become muddied barriers and captured driftwood and debris for overworked city crews to clean up.

  “Looks like we’re out of luck on that walk today, Bebo,” she says. “It’s going to take a couple of years for that to be cleaned up.”

  Bebo has not been out and around people lately; she’s been too engrossed in her work. A quick diversion to the Chinook Mall will benefit her four-legged friend. Clotilde’s taken aback at the number of young people walking around. These folks should be outside somewhere, soaking up the all-too-brief season of sunlight and warmth, with fresh air. She remembers her own days at the same age: pickup ball games in the school grounds and sports fields, hiking or biking along pathways and through new neighbourhoods, camping at the lake or even tanning in the backyard with a good book. There were never enough hours in the day to volunteer, be with friends and take part in church group youth activities.

  Ah, well. Each generation has its own culture, she rationalizes, hoping that the activities of today lead to productive and enjoyable lives in adulthood. She had the benefit of growing up in a small city in spite of the rapid growth brought on by the mushrooming oil sand industries. In those days, the city grew at a faster rate than the amenities, housing and infrastructure could cope with. Clotilde reflects on the painful decision to let her son grow up with his father. Overall it was a good decision because Ben loved the outdoors, the mountains and his sport, reflecting his dad’s interests.

  In the crowded bookstore, Bebo constantly attracts dog lovers young and old, wanting to know why he’s wearing a little red coat with pockets. She asks people not to pet him because he’s working, and she explains that the pockets contain his licence and registration as a service dog. Most people don’t know about dogs assisting the deaf. The little fellow is well-trained, and as she searches the bookshelves, he sits quietly at her feet, alert to surrounding activity.

  Her online reading group suggested she might enjoy the novel Finding Dermot because it deals with changes a family was forced to make to overcome adversity. It’s not on the shelf, but a happy staffer greets her, finds the book in the computer catalogue and agrees to order a copy for her.

  She browses the photography and art books to look at flowers. She’s smiles as she compares the quality of her work against internationally known artists. She regrets her rash decision to pull out of the project with Brewster and the park. Maybe she can reconsider this one opportunity to have her work published and recognized. She can work directly with the park, maybe, and not be associated with Brewster.

  When will he get over his wife’s death? She has an inkling of his pain from the loss of both her parents, but c’est très triste—15 months, and he still doesn’t know which side is up. She empathizes with his sad and tragic position, sure that somewhere down deep, he is a good man.

  “Perhaps he’ll find himself one day, Bebo, and learn how to put his grief in perspective. As mama said, Toujours avoir confiance en Dieu—always trust in God,”

  #

  Patients and visitors watch as she and Bebo enter the hospital. She smiles at them as she passes through the sliding glass doors into the main lobby and heads toward her friends at the admitting office.

  “Clotilde and Bebo!” Edie, the charge nurse, hurries to them with a cheerful welcome. Even after all these years, Clotilde has a fondness for the familiarity of the hospital where she’d worked. She misses her nursing. “If you have time, Clotilde we have a man up in the heart ward who’s deaf, and I’m sure he’d like to meet you and have a chat. He’s a wee bit lonely by himself,” Edie says.

  Clotilde acquaints herself with the patient and then heads to the ward with Bebo, now quite comfortable with the hospital from their many visits. “Hello, Mr. Shaver,” she signs. “My name is Clotilde, and I used to be a nurse here.”

  Joe Shaver’s face lights up like a Christmas tree, and he answers in sign. A couple of ward staff stand in the doorway and watch the silent, animated conversation.

  “I think we should learn to do that,” one nurse says as they return to the nursing station. “There’s a definite need here. I wonder if they teach that somewhere?”

  Joe reveals that he’s close to 70 and gets Clotilde to talk about herself. He’s a bit of a rascal, and with a twinkle in his eye, he asks why she doesn’t have a fella. “You’re a looker—a real looker,” he signs. �
��If I was young, I’d be after you in a flash.”

  “Oh, boy, you are a charmer. I did meet a man, and he’s hearing, but we got off to a bad start. I do like him—well I did once. He was getting used to me until just the other day, when he blew up at me because I had an idea he didn’t agree with. Something to do with his wife, who was killed in an accident.”

  She enjoys their chat in sign and tells him she’ll be back in a couple of days to see how he’s doing.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he signs. “I’ll be outta here in a day or two. My wife will pick me up. She’s deaf too, but we get along famously. Been 25 years now. Before that, we both hid in our deafness. So you get your fella—go get him. Don’t hide like we did all those years.”

  Joe tells how he met his wife at the Spruce Meadows equestrian facility. “We met by chance one championship weekend. I couldn’t make myself understood at a food booth and was getting frustrated, so she stepped up and was able to get my order across to the server.”

  “Hey, I came in here to cheer you up,” she signs with a laugh. “Here you are, giving me a lecture on romance!”

  Clotilde turns to leave, and Bebo steers her around the doctor as he enters. He looks at her, and Joe signs for her to stay. She begins to tell the doctor she’s deaf and a nurse, but he smiles, looks straight at her and says the folk at the nursing station told him she was there. She signs for Joe as the doctor talks about what happens next with his heart condition. Joe is cleared to go home the next day.

  #

  Clotilde curls up in bed with her book, but the lines run together, and she finds it difficult to concentrate on what she is reading. Her thoughts are very much around what Joe said to her: “Go get him. I’m sure he feels bad. You need a fella. Don’t be like us and hide away. Look at what we missed.”

  Perhaps Brewster will find himself one day, she thinks. Perhaps he will be able to put his grief in perspective. But could he ever love again after experiencing the close intimacy and connection he obviously had with his wife?