by Gail Bowen
“I don’t know. I’ll call Kaye. Although given our last encounter, I don’t imagine she’ll be very helpful.”
When she heard my voice, Kaye was chilly, so I got straight to business. “Kaye, I need Julian’s home address. Do you have it?”
“I do, but he’s not at home.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he lives in the bungalow next door to me. I bought it when I moved in here after the accident, and I’ve let special students live there rent-free for years.”
“I didn’t know,” I said.
“There’s a lot you don’t know, Joanne.”
“Fill me in,” I said.
“No. I know how you feel about Julian,” Kaye said. “I’m not going to share his plans with you.”
“Do his plans include Taylor?” I said. “Because if they do, you should remind Julian that Taylor is fifteen years old. There are laws.”
“Perhaps,” Kaye said. “But young love will find a way.” Then, having scored her blow, Kaye hung up, leaving me sick with anger and fear.
Zack wheeled towards me. “Is she with Julian?”
“Kaye implied that, but she might have been bluffing. Zack, for years I’ve considered Kaye a friend. Certainly, I always felt she was loyal to Sally. Now I don’t know. I think Kaye’s feelings for Julian are blocking out everything else for her.”
“You mean she’s in love with him?” Zack said.
“No,” I said. “If she were, Kaye wouldn’t be encouraging his relationship with Taylor. Kaye truly has been a mentor to her students. She lost her husband and child and then she did something incredibly brave. She embraced other young people. I think she sees what she did to Julian, denying his talent, as a betrayal, and she’s trying to make amends.”
“I don’t get it,” Zack said.
“Neither do I,” I said. “But we don’t have to. We just have to deal with what’s left behind.”
Zack and I drove straight to Kaye’s. The entrance to the bungalow next door had four stairs leading to a deck – not accessible. As I walked up the driveway, I saw Kaye looking through her front window. I forced myself to wave, but she turned away. I knocked, then pounded at Julian’s door, but there was no response. When I got back into our car, I could see Kaye at her window again, watching.
For the rest of the morning, Zack and I drove to places where Taylor would have felt comfortable. Her friends in Old Lakeview were at school, but we checked their homes anyway. We also stopped by the Willy Hodgson Rec Centre where Taylor taught art to at-risk kids, UpSlideDown, April’s Place, and Peter’s vet clinic. No one had seen Taylor but everyone promised to call if she was in touch. I tried Taylor’s cell countless times. It was still turned off. Declan called us every half-hour – “Just checking in,” he said. The worry in his young voice touched my heart.
Fortified by coffee and a box of Timbits, Zack and I decided to try Julian’s house again. When I saw the black VW in the driveway, my heart leaped. To my surprise, Julian not only answered the door, he invited me in. The house was immaculate; so were Julian’s manners. He stood aside so I could enter. Taylor’s bubblegum pink toque was on the hall table. “I just made coffee,” he said. “Would you like some?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “Zack’s in the car. As you can imagine we’re both very anxious about Taylor.”
Julian’s green eyes were mesmerizing. “Taylor’s fine. She just needed time to think things through.”
“Is she here?”
“No.”
I pointed to the toque. “But she was here.”
“Taylor phoned me when her friend dropped her off at Luther. She was upset. She didn’t think she could get through the day at school, so I picked her up and we went for coffee and talked. She hadn’t slept well, so I suggested she come back here and have a nap.”
“Julian, if you have hurt Taylor—”
Julian’s voice was soft. “No matter what you believe, Jo, I’m not a monster. Taylor was very upset. I calmed her down, I stayed with her while she slept, I made her lunch, and then I took her where she wanted to go.”
“Where is she now?”
“Someplace safe. She and I had a long talk this morning. You and Zack are treating her like a child, and she’s not a child. She’s a mature artist who needs to be free to make her own decisions.”
“She’s fifteen years old, Julian.”
“Those are just numbers. The fact that she’s fifteen doesn’t bother Taylor and it doesn’t bother me.” His expression was boyishly innocent. The shapeshifter. “You’re looking a little tired, Joanne. I think it might be time for you to leave.”
“I’ll leave if you tell me where my daughter is.”
“If Taylor wants you to know, she’ll tell you. Why don’t you let her make that decision? As she told you last night, she’s made some very good decisions lately.”
I picked up Taylor’s toque and left. As soon as I was outside, I broke into a run, jumped into the car, and slammed the door. “Get me out of here before I do something illegal,” I said.
Zack started the car and we took off. “Julian says Taylor’s fine,” I said. “And we have no choice but to believe him.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She was at Julian’s house till after lunch, then he took her somewhere else. He wouldn’t tell me where. He’s in control, and he’s loving every minute. When I reminded him that Taylor is fifteen, Julian told me age is just a number.”
“Bullshit.” Zack groaned. “I don’t suppose there’s much point in trying Taylor’s cell again.”
I shook my head. “Julian made a point of telling me that it’s up to Taylor to decide when to get in touch with us. Or if to get in touch with us. He actually said if.”
“If? What the hell?” Zack said.
“I know. Apparently, Julian has convinced Taylor that whatever she needs to do to make art is justified.”
“That certainly was Sally’s credo,” Zack said.
“Yes, and every time I think about Sally’s formula for a worthwhile life, I feel sick: ‘Fuck and you’ll make great art.’ ”
Zack’s laugh was derisive. “No guy on the make has ever been handed a greater line than that.”
“And Julian is definitely on the make. He wants our daughter’s body and her talent.” I stared out the window, hoping against hope. Zack reached over and patted my hand. “Why don’t you call Debbie Haczkewicz?”
“Taylor’s only been gone half a day,” I said. “And Julian says she’s safe. I can’t see Debbie wanting to get involved with this.”
“It’s worth a try,” Zack said. “Taylor’s a fifteen-year-old girl who’s being pulled apart and doesn’t know where to turn. Debbie’s son, Leo, was older than Taylor when he reached that point, but when he needed help, I was there, and Debbie will remember that. I think she’ll do what she can – nothing major – just maybe have officers who are already on patrol keep their eyes open.”
When we called Debbie, we listed all the places where Taylor would have been comfortable. Debbie took down the information and promised to do what she could. She was kind, but she had the Lauren Treadgold murder investigation on her plate and a dozen cases that demanded her attention. When I hung up, I felt deflated.
“Zack, I’m tired of this. Let’s just go home. Maybe Taylor is there.”
She wasn’t. It was one of the longest afternoons I could remember. A dense, steady rain had started just as we came back to Halifax Street. The sky was the colour of pewter, and even with the lights on our condo was a shadowy, gloomy place. Zack and I turned on the fireplace, made tea, attempted to busy ourselves, tried not to call Taylor every five minutes, and waited tensely for the phone to ring.
In Regina in November, sunset comes shortly after five o’clock. Neither Zack nor I broached the subject, but I knew we were both waiting for the darkness to gather. Taylor had always been afraid of the dark. Wherever she was, if she was alone, it was possible
that she might get in touch.
But it was Declan who came to our door just as dusk was closing in. Taylor had called him. She was in her studio behind our old house on the creek. Julian had agreed to give her the afternoon to think things through, but he was coming at eight to pick her up, and Taylor was more confused than ever.
“Did Taylor ask you to come and get her?” Zack said.
“No,” Declan said. “She just wanted to let us know she was all right.”
Zack looked at his watch. “And Julian’s coming at eight.” He wheeled over to the closet and got his jacket and threw his satchel over the back of his chair. I was right behind him.
Our old house on the creek had lights that were timed to go on at dusk, and when we pulled into the driveway on that rainy evening they seemed like an omen of hope. Zack and I went around back to Taylor’s studio. The lights were on there too. We forced ourselves to knock and wait outside.
There was no heat in the studio, and when Taylor answered the door, she was wearing her coat and boots. I reached into my pocket, took out her toque, and handed it to her. She took it, pulled it on, and mumbled, “Thanks.”
“We’re glad to see you,” Zack said. “We were scared.”
“That’s why I called Declan,” Taylor said. She was standing in front of the north wall of her studio. The wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. The rain was coming down in sheets behind her. Taylor was five-eight, but against the wall of darkness she seemed small and vulnerable. “I knew you’d be worried,” she said. “I knew he’d let you know I was okay.”
“And you knew that we’d come,” I said.
Taylor nodded.
“Thank you for thinking of us,” Zack said.
“I think of you all the time,” Taylor said, and her voice was trembling.
My own throat closed. “Taylor, what can we do to make this better?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
For a couple of minutes, the three of us were silent, listening to the rain. Then Zack reached back for his satchel. “Taylor, there’s something I wanted to show you.”
Her brow furrowed. “If it’s something ugly about Julian, I don’t want to see it.”
“It’s nothing to do with Julian. It’s just something for you and for Joanne. It’s a surprise I put together after your birthday party at the lake.” Zack reached behind him for his satchel and pulled out his MacBook Air. “Why don’t you two get close, so we can all watch together?”
Zack balanced his MacBook on his lap and turned the sound up full blast. Suddenly, Taylor’s studio was filled with the voices of the Pogues singing their crazy, raucous, life-gulping song “Fiesta,” and we were watching a video called Taylor Throughout the Years, a rapid-fire retrospective of photos of Taylor starting with one of her blowing out the candles on her fifteenth birthday and moving backwards at breakneck speed. As the Pogues sang, image piled upon image: Taylor in her condo studio; Taylor at the old house with her cats; Taylor at Christmas giving me an illustrated version of Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to Socks”; Taylor at the lake building the inuksuit with Gracie and Isobel; Taylor standing between Zack and me on the wintry day we were married; Taylor with the bishop, the dean, and the other kids in her class on the day she was confirmed; Taylor carving a pumpkin at Halloween; Taylor holding the newborn Lena, with Madeleine proudly by her side; Taylor at age four and a half going to a birthday party wearing a frilly dress and her pyjama bottoms because they were covered in stars.
As “Fiesta” wound down, the last picture appeared on the screen. It was of Taylor the day she came to live with my children and me. The shot brought back that day to me with aching clarity. She was a silent and painfully obedient child who wouldn’t let me out of her sight. I gave her a package of crayons and a sketchbook. Then I sat down on the floor beside her. As she began to draw a dazzlingly blue butterfly, she bit her lip in concentration; her small body relaxed and for the first time I could see the girl she was. It took her two hours to finish her drawing of the butterfly. When she finished, she turned to me, her dark eyes filled with questions she was afraid to ask.
“You’re going to live with us now,” I said.
“For how long?”
“As long as you want,” I’d said. Then I’d taken a Polaroid of her with the butterfly drawing and together we put the photo in our family album.
Zack turned off his laptop. The silence among us was electric, charged with unsaid words. Finally, Taylor moved close to me and lay her head on my shoulder. “I want it to be over,” she said simply.
“It will be,” Zack said. “I can tell Julian.”
“No,” Taylor said. “He should hear it from me, but you’ll have to let me pick my own time.”
When we got back to Halifax Street, Taylor went straight to her room. After we heard her door close, I went to Zack. “What made you think of showing Taylor the video?”
“I was planning to give it to her for Christmas,” Zack said. “But tonight it hit me that what Taylor needed more than anything was a reminder of the girl she is.”
“That was brilliant,” I said.
He put his arm around my hips and squeezed. “No,” he said. “It was just damn lucky.”
CHAPTER
13
Our weekend was very quiet, and during the following days we all seemed to be in a holding pattern. Taylor went to school. Julian came over after school to pose. Taylor had dinner with us, did her homework, and went to bed. She was preoccupied and sad, but she was clearly steeling herself for the task of telling Julian, and true to our word, we had resolved to let her choose her own time.
Taylor spent most of the next Saturday in her studio, but Saturday night she went over to Margot’s to talk to Declan. When she came home, she kissed us both goodnight and said, “I’m ready. I’ll tell Julian tomorrow afternoon when he comes over to pose.”
Everyone in our province becomes a weather-watcher on Grey Cup Sunday. One of my thousand worries about Zack is that he’ll catch a cold that will develop into something more serious – sitting three and half hours in a freezing stadium being pelted by rain is the first step to pneumonia. Mosaic Stadium does not have a domed roof, but Saskatchewan has the most dedicated fans in the league, and Zack is the most dedicated of the dedicated. He and I had braved the elements many times for Riders games, but when I checked the weather forecast that morning, it appeared we were in luck. The temperature was going to be a balmy plus ten. There would be no wind or precipitation and plenty of sunshine was headed our way. Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.
Before the Cathedral’s ten-thirty service, Taylor had talked to me about the least painful way of breaking off with Julian. We agreed that the best tack was simply to tell the truth – that Taylor was too young for the kind of relationship Julian hoped for.
The prospect of causing Julian pain was eating away at her. It was eating away at me, too. Julian might have been a hustler and a manipulator, but he was also a very troubled nineteen-year-old boy, and my heart went out to him. We were all quiet on the way to the service.
Everyone at the church, including our dean, Mike Sinclair, wore the green and white garb of the Riders fan. When we took our place beside Mieka and the girls, Zack whispered, “I bet a bundle on this game. Can I pray that the Riders win?”
“No,” I said. “But you can pray that if the Riders tank today, I never find out how much money you lost.”
Zack’s expression was cherubic. The music for the processional began. Madeleine and Lena were both altar girls that morning, and as they passed us, angelic in their white robes, Zack was in his glory. It was an auspicious start to the day.
The game started at 5:00 p.m. and except for Taylor, who was going to the Wainbergs’ Grey Cup party, the game would be a full-family affair. Peter, Angus, and their respective girlfriends would be joining us at Mosaic Stadium. I was looking forward to the game, but the spectre of Julian loomed.
He arrived at the condo just after lunch. Taylor’s sessions with him could l
ast hours, but this one was over in about forty-five minutes. When he came downstairs, he walked past Zack and me like a man in a trance. I followed him to the door. “Take care of yourself, Julian,” I said. He just kept on walking.
Taylor came down soon afterwards. Her face was strained, but she seemed calm. “Well, it was awful, but I didn’t back down. I told Julian we could be friends, but it couldn’t be anything more. He offered to keep coming over until the painting was finished, but I told him it might be easier for both of us if I worked from photographs. He was really nice about letting me get all the shots I needed. I invited him to come over when the painting is finished.”
“Did that help?” I asked.
“I hope so,” Taylor said. “Julian was really upset. He said I was his only hope.”
“His only hope for what?” Zack said.
“Being someone who mattered in the art world,” Taylor said. She held out her hand. It was trembling. “I think I need to lie down for a while.”
After Taylor was out of earshot, Zack exhaled. “God, I’m glad that’s over.”
“I feel sorry for Julian.”
“So do I,” Zack said. “He has what my mother used to call ‘hurting eyes,’ but he’ll be okay. Julian’s a survivor.”
“I wish I was as sure of that as you are,” I said.
Two hours later Taylor came back downstairs dressed for the Grey Cup party: her hair was in a ponytail anchored by a green and white scrunchy, she was carrying pom-poms, and wearing a team sweater, a retro cheerleader’s skirt, bobby sox, and green and white runners. She looked the way a fifteen-year-old girl should look on her way to a football party, except that she was pale and her eyes were swollen from crying.
Zack’s face mirrored my own concern. “You don’t look like you’re in a party mood, Taylor,” I said. “Why don’t I stay home with you? I could use a quiet evening.”
“No,” she said. “You’ve been looking forward to the game, and it’s not as if I won’t know everybody at the Wainbergs. I won’t have to pretend that I’m having a blast if I’m not.”
