by Gail Bowen
When Margot and Declan came over to pick Taylor up, Declan took me aside. “Did she tell him?” When I nodded, relief washed over his young face.
As always, Margot looked smashing. She had draped a Roughriders scarf around the neck of her white sweater, and her green pregnancy leggings showcased her gorgeous legs.
“That’s a great outfit,” I said. “You’re certainly not leaving it in the locker room.”
Margot grinned. “I came to play.”
“And you’re giving it 110 per cent,” Zack said. “Three football clichés in a row – nowhere near the world record. Sadly, it’s time for us to hit the road. Traffic to Mosaic is going to be murder.” He turned to Taylor. “Not too late to change your mind,” he said. “Just say the word, and your mum and I will stay home with you.”
Taylor kissed the top of his head. “Dad, you’ve been talking about this game for weeks. Go. Have a good time. I’ll be fine.”
Zack looked dubious. “Okay, but if you need us, you know where we are.”
It was a great afternoon. The Montreal Alouettes and the Riders were evenly matched. Both sides made spectacular plays; both made serious mental mistakes; and both took bone-headed penalties. The Riders won in the last twenty seconds of the game, and, as they say, the crowd went wild. Stoked by popcorn and soft drinks, Madeleine and Lena had been remarkably patient, but as they joined in the high-fiving, I knew that they were celebrating both the Riders victory and the fact that the game was finally over.
Everybody was going back to Mieka’s for dinner, but Zack and I asked for a rain check. We were both worried about Taylor. We knew how deeply she had been wounded by the situation with Julian, and we wanted to be at home if she needed us.
It took us forever to get back to Halifax Street. On our way to the car, we ran into a dozen people we knew, all of whom wanted to talk about the game. When we got into the Volvo, Zack snapped his seatbelt and then fumbled around in his jacket. “Shit. I must have left my phone at home. Can I borrow yours?”
“I never take my bag to the game. Just one more thing to lose. Is it urgent?”
“No, I was just going to call a buddy of mine in Montreal and gloat.”
“Nice,” I said.
When we finally turned onto Halifax Street, an ambulance was just pulling away from our building, siren shrieking, lights flashing. My mind raced. “That can’t be for Margot,” I said. “If there was a problem, someone would have called us.”
“If we’d had our phones with us,” Zack said.
“Right,” I said. “If we’d had our phones with us.” I pulled into the twenty-minute zone at the front of the building. “What do you want to do?”
Zack was already reaching into the back seat for his wheel chair. “Go upstairs and see if there are any messages,” he said.
Zack’s mind was still on Margot. As the elevator doors closed, he turned to me. “If the baby’s born now, will she be all right?”
“Margot’s due on Christmas Day, so it will be an eight-month baby. The odds are certainly in her favour, but full-term is always preferable.”
Zack took my hand. “I’m glad we went to church this morning.”
“Me, too,” I said.
When we got off the elevator, the hall was quiet. I knocked on Margot’s door, but there was no answer.
As soon as I unlocked the door to our condo, the dogs were upon us. Willie and Pantera were always eager greeters, but that afternoon they were frantic. Zack bent to comfort Pantera and I stroked Willie. “Calm down,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
But even as I cooed reassurance, I knew nothing was fine. There were boot marks on the hardwood downstairs, a ficus on the landing had been knocked over, and the pot had broken, spilling soil and leaves on the stairs.
“What the hell?” Zack said.
I called Taylor’s name, but my voice echoed hollowly through the empty house. As I tore up the stairs, trying to sidestep dirt and shards of pottery, the dogs were at my heels. I called them off, but even to my own ears, my commands sounded thin and unconvincing. Zack positioned his wheelchair at the bottom of the stairs. When I reached the second floor, I smelled the blood before I saw it. At first, all I saw was a red smear in the hall. I was terrified, but I forced myself to continue towards Taylor’s studio. I stared through the open door and saw a pool of blood on the floor in front of Taylor’s easel. The room began to swim around me. I bent, put my hands on my knees, and tried to take deep breaths. The sickly-sweet smell I inhaled turned my stomach. Willie and Pantera pressed themselves against my legs.
I shouted at them to get out of the studio and slammed the door. I seldom raised my voice to the dogs and the shock sent them running towards Zack.
Zack had always had the power to soothe me, but when I got to the landing and saw the fear in his face, my knees turned to water. I clung to the banister, and finally I made my way to him. “Something’s happened,” I said. “There’s blood in Taylor’s studio, but she’s not there.”
“If she was in that ambulance, we have to get to the hospital,” Zack said, and his voice was authoritative.
“We don’t know which hospital they’ve taken her to,” I said.
Zack had already grabbed his cell from the table. It was obvious his call had gone to voicemail. “Vince, it’s Zack. Joanne and I just came home from the game. An ambulance was pulling away from our building, and we’re afraid Taylor’s been hurt. We don’t know what hospital she’d be taken to. If we call the hospitals, we’ll just get jacked around. Can you find out where she is?”
While we waited for Vince to call back, Zack and I held on to each other wordlessly. When the phone rang, we both froze. Zack’s face was grey when he picked up, but as he listened to Vince the colour seemed to flow back into his cheeks. “Thank God,” he said. “Okay, we’ll meet you in emergency at the General.”
He took my hand. “It’s not Taylor,” he said. “The injured person was male, but when he was admitted, there was a girl with him. That’s all Vince could tell me.”
Regina General was only minutes from our house. Zack drove, and locked in our own thoughts, we were silent until we arrived in the ER. Easily 90 per cent of the wounded in the waiting room were wearing Roughriders garb. The room was a sea of green, but the celebration was over. Alcohol and adrenalin had taken their toll, and reality was setting in.
Vince was waiting for us. “Follow me,” he said. He pushed through double doors and down a corridor where cubicle curtains separated patients on hospital beds waiting for further treatment. He stopped at the last cubicle in the hall. “I won’t come in with you,” he said. “This is an awkward situation. Julian is the patient. He apparently entered your condo this afternoon and slit his wrists.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“He lost a lot of blood. Taylor and Declan did the right things. Taylor called 911 and Declan ripped up an old shirt and made tourniquets, but I don’t know. If you need me, someone on staff will have me paged.”
“Can we go in?”
“Yes. It would be probably be wise to get Taylor home.”
I pulled the curtain so Zack could push his wheelchair in. Taylor was covered in blood. When she saw Zack, she collapsed into his arms. Declan was beside her, also bloodied. Julian was on the bed, hooked up to the machines that measure our mortality. Under the clinically bright light, Julian’s always pale face was alabaster. He was alarmingly still. A nurse entered the room behind us. “Are you his parents?”
“No, that’s our daughter. Julian is a … a friend.”
The nurse was brusque. “There are far too many of you in here now, but if any of you can help with next of kin, we’d appreciate it. On the card in his wallet Julian lists his emergency contact as Kaye Russell. He included Ms. Russell’s telephone number, but when we tried it the operator said the line is disconnected.”
“May I see the number?” I said.
The nurse copied it from Julian’s chart onto a piece of scrap
paper and handed it to me. I scanned it. “The last digit in the number is wrong,” I said. “The number here is 7. It should be 1.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Now you can all clear out.”
Taylor went over and touched Julian’s hand. “He’s so cold,” she said. “Is he going to live?” Her voice was small and scared and when the nurse responded, her tone was kind. “Your boyfriend’s young and that’s a plus. Is there a relative we can get in touch with?”
Taylor shook her head.
“There are none,” Zack said. He took a business card from his wallet and handed it to the nurse. “I’m a lawyer. You can call me if you need a signature.”
The corridor throbbed with the muted sounds of suffering and fear. As the four of us pushed through the double doors to the waiting room, no one paid us any mind. Taylor and Declan looked a mess, and Zack was in a wheelchair. We were clearly fellow sufferers. When we got to the door, I turned to Declan. “Have you talked to Margot?”
“No. And she’ll be worried. I said I’d call and tell her how Taylor was doing.”
My arm tightened on Taylor’s shoulders. “You weren’t feeling well?”
Taylor shook her head. “I was upset about Julian. I thought the party would help, but it didn’t, so Declan took me home.” Her voice was a whisper. “If Declan hadn’t been there …”
The thought, rife with possibilities, hung in the air. “Let’s just be grateful Declan was there,” Zack said, and his tone, firm and convincing, put an end to speculation.
Our family doctor, Henry Chan, once told me that when an accident involving a number of people arrives in the ER, the directive is always the same: “Salvage what you can.”
That night, we tried to salvage what we could. Margot was waiting for us when we got back to Halifax Street. Silent, she shepherded us into her condo. Zack stayed in the hall to wait for the police; I led Taylor down to the guest bathroom to shower, and Declan went upstairs to shower there.
When Zack came inside, Margot pointed to her liquor cabinet. “Help yourself,” she said.
“Thanks,” Zack said. “Ms. Shreve, what would you say to a martini?”
“I’d say, ‘Where have you been all my life?’ ” The situation was beyond terrible, but exchanging the lines of our old joke was comforting. Zack made our drinks, poured Margot a ginger ale, and the three of us went into the living room.
Zack took a large sip of his drink and sighed. “Well, let’s see. The police wanted to talk to Taylor and Declan, but I said no dice till tomorrow. They’re checking out the condo now.”
Margot frowned. “The police don’t suspect foul play, do they?”
“No,” Zack said. “Julian knew what he was doing. Apparently, he’d kept the security card for the condo Taylor gave him when they were working together. He came equipped with a box-cutter. He slit both wrists.”
“Was there a note?”
Zack didn’t have a chance to answer. At that moment, Taylor came down the hall. She was wearing a white terry towel robe, and she had a towel tied round her hair. She looked frail but better. Zack held out his arms to her, and she went to him. “How’s it going?” he said.
Taylor’s face was buried in Zack’s neck and her voice was muffled. “Not good.”
When Declan came downstairs, he opened a beer for himself and a soft drink for Taylor and joined us in the living room. Small talk was impossible, and for a few minutes we sat around, occasionally glancing at one another like guests at a bad party.
Finally, Taylor broke the silence. “I want to talk about it,” she said. Her voice was flat. “After we left the Wainbergs, I kind of fell apart. When we got back here, Declan came into our place with me. He said I should go up and get into bed, and he’d stay downstairs and watch the post-game shows until you came home.
“When I went upstairs, the door to my studio was open and I saw Julian. He was lying on the floor. He has a robe that he wears when he’s not posing.” She touched the sleeve of her own robe. “It was soaked with blood. I guess I screamed. I got down on the floor to see if Julian was still breathing, but I couldn’t tell. Then Declan was there. I called 911 and Declan ripped up a shirt and tried to stop the blood.”
“It didn’t do any good,” Declan said bleakly.
Like Taylor, Zack and I were not eager to spend the night in our condo. Margot offered us her guest bedrooms. When I went across to get toiletries and clothing for us all, the police were just leaving.
A young female officer addressed me. “Taylor Shreve is your daughter?”
“Yes, but we don’t want you questioning her tonight. She’s talked to us about finding Julian. I can tell you that much.”
“That would be a start.” She pulled out her notebook and I relayed Taylor’s account.
“Poor kid,” she said.
“Poor all of them,” I said.
She nodded.
When I got back to Margot’s, there was a semblance of normal life. The television was on – still post-game talk. Live reports from the Green Mile and of the crowds downtown.
“I tried to order pizza,” Margot said. “The Copper Kettle said there’d be a three-hour wait.”
I opened the fridge. “How would everybody feel about bacon and eggs?”
No one said no, so I pulled out the frying pan.
——
Zack and I sat with Taylor until she was asleep. I was glad our bedroom was next to hers so we’d be able to hear her if she awoke in the night. I hadn’t thought that way in years. As he turned down his side of the bed, Zack said, “God, what a day.”
“One good thing about this day is that it’s over,” I said.
Then my phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Kaye Russell. I picked up and my ear was seared by the terrible primal mourn of a woman keening. There was nothing to do but listen and wait.
When Kaye was, at last, able to form words, the toxicity of her rage tore at me. “Julian’s dead. Taylor did this,” she said. “Like mother, like daughter. Sally destroyed people. Taylor’s just like her – using people – then throwing them away. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how Sally treated you. She was a selfish bitch and the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”
I’d had enough. “Kaye, I’m going to hang up now,” I said. “We’ll talk later.”
When I hung up, Kaye was sobbing.
Zack and I spent the next few minutes lying side by side staring at the unfamiliar ceiling. Finally, I broke the silence: “Julian’s dead and his suicide has driven Kaye over the edge. She hates Sally and she hates Taylor. I know Kaye has suffered, but so has Taylor. I don’t want Kaye anywhere near our daughter, Zack. After we tell her about Julian tomorrow morning, I think we should go to the lake.”
“Fine with me,” Zack said. “I’ve got a couple of meetings, but nothing I can’t handle by Skype. The grand opening of April’s Place isn’t till Friday. Apart from that, I can do everything from Lawyers’ Bay.”
“Good,” I said. “We have to deal with some things before we go. Taylor and Declan have to give statements to the police. I’d like Henry Chan to check Taylor out, and I should call the school and arrange for homework assignments.”
“You’ve covered the bases,” Zack said. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The horror of Julian’s death seemed to hit us both at the same time. “God, this is terrible, isn’t it?” he said.
“It is,” I said. “But we can’t let this destroy Taylor’s life, Zack. We have to get her through.”
The next morning Zack and I waited till we heard Taylor stirring, and then we went to her. We’d brought Willie and Pantera and Taylor’s cats over to Margot’s, and Taylor was in bed stroking Bruce and Benny. One look at our faces and her lips began to quiver. “Julian didn’t make it, did he?”
“No,” I said. “He didn’t. He died last night.”
Taylor didn’t cry, but she seemed to shrink into her robe. “It’s my fault,” she said.
“That’s not true,” Z
ack said and his voice was steely. “Julian made a decision. It was the wrong decision, but it can’t be changed. Your mother and I are very sorry that Julian is dead – believe me, we really are sorry, but, Taylor, Julian’s death was not your fault. He died by his own hand.”
Taylor nodded. “He was always so alone. It’s terrible to think that he was alone last night.”
“He wasn’t alone,” I said. “Kaye Russell was with him.”
“She loved Julian,” Taylor said. Her eyes had been downcast, now she raised them to me. “Do you think I should call her?”
“No,” I said. “And, Taylor, if Kaye tries to call you, don’t talk to her. She’s very angry right now.”
“At me?”
“At everybody.”
Taylor had a studio at the lake, and determined to complete the painting of Julian, she created a schedule for herself. She rose early, finished her schoolwork, and then went to her studio, coming back to the cottage only to eat or make tea. It was difficult to read her mood. She was quiet, but Taylor was often quiet when she was absorbed in making art.
Zack and I had our routine, too. In the mornings we walked the dogs and took care of Racette-Hunter business. After lunch we had a nap, took another walk, then worked again till it was time to get dinner ready. Every night just before bed, we sat down together and at Taylor’s request we listened to the Pogues “Fiesta” and watched Taylor Throughout the Years. She never explained the significance the ritual had for her, but it appeared to give her comfort.
We were living day by day, and it seemed to be working, but at the end of the week a new and ugly possibility had presented itself. When the police searched Julian’s home after his death, they’d found a suicide note, buried under a pile of art magazines in his basement. It read, I did it for you. Short and sweet.
Debbie Haczkewicz had good cop instincts and the wording of Julian’s suicide note had troubled her. There’d been no salutation and no signature – just five words: I did it for you. And the note had been hidden. Debbie’s reasoning was sound. If Julian were leaving a message for Taylor, why would he have deliberately put the note in a place where she was unlikely to find it?
