by Gail Bowen
And so, when the table and all its chairs were gleaming, my daughter and I threw out our rags, put the tin of wax back in the cupboard, washed our hands, and turned on the DVD player.
We started with the scenes that Zack and I had watched – of Sally and Des Love at the beach.
Taylor was transfixed. She was holding the remote and as Sally and Des bent towards each other to smooth the roof of a castle, Taylor hit Pause. “I didn’t know that my grandfather and Sally looked so much alike.”
“Except for your hair colour, you look like both of them,” I said. “And you move your body the way they did – confident and graceful.”
Taylor’s eyes were still fixed on the screen. “I used to make sand villages like that when I was little,” Taylor said. “Remember that cottage on Long Lake we rented for a month every summer?”
“I do,” I said. “And I remember your villages. You were never content with just a pail and shovel. You had to have all that paraphernalia Sally and your grandfather had.”
“There was no way I could know that Sally and my grandfather needed all that stuff for their villages, too.”
“Maybe it was in your DNA,” I said. “All I know is that you were insistent, so we got you what you needed. Angus used to say you could have opened your own construction company with the equipment you had.”
“You always helped me build,” she said.
“I did,” I said. “Of course, I wasn’t as good as your grandfather and Sally.”
“But you were there,” Taylor said. She hit Play and watched as Ben and I joined Nina for lunch. When Nina dumped the goblets of pansies that had been at her husband and daughter’s places, the venom in Nina’s eyes was unmistakable and Taylor cringed. “Why did Nina hate her own daughter?” she asked.
“She was jealous,” I said. “She was jealous of Sally’s talent and her beauty and of the fact that your grandfather and Sally had a bond that didn’t include her.”
Gradually the shape of our lives was returning to normal. Taylor had gone back to school and was working again with the Kids at Risk program in the inner city. Except for some grumbling about Declan’s hovering, Taylor seemed to be adjusting.
Most mornings, Zack and I drove her into the city, then took care of our separate tasks. I had hoped Zack’s ardour for civic politics would have waned, but he had formed a top-secret advisory committee to explore the possibility of him running for a mayor. In Regina, top-secret means that pretty much everyone in the city knows what’s going on within a week. I was getting plenty of phone calls: 50 per cent offered support; 50 per cent suggested I take Zack out behind the woodpile and slap him around until he came to his senses. Once again, the ground was shifting under my feet.
——
Every night we made time to watch two or three segments of one of the DVDS. Many of the outtakes from the summer of the sandcastles were fun. Sally and me swimming out to the raft with the indefatigable old yellow hound dog that had followed Des home one day and never left. Ben trying to conduct an interview with Sally about her art and Sally responding with monosyllabic answers until she and Ben both started laughing and gave up. Sally and me waterskiing, showing off for the camera and taking some spectacular falls.
Lighthearted moments, but then came a scene that prefigured the darkness that was to come. Nina and Des Love were hosting a dinner party on the deck of their cottage. The sun was setting and the sky and the lake were on fire. The table was set with Nina’s usual cleverness – hurricane lamps; a vintage sandpail filled with a summer bouquet of pale pink roses, lavender, and delphinium; a scattering of seashells on the pale blue cloth. The men were in sports shirts and pressed slacks; the women wore sleeveless dresses with silky full-length skirts that undulated with each step they took.
It was the kind of dress-up affair Nina favoured, and she was gorgeous in a gown the colour of seafoam, but all eyes were on Sally, deeply tanned, without makeup, her blond hair in the kind of loose ponytail only the young can carry off. She had pulled a chair up to the table to talk about a Monet exhibit she and Des had seen the week before in Chicago. As she talked about the violent beauty of the brushstrokes in Monet’s haystacks, Sally’s long arms cut through the air, unconsciously mimicking the painter’s movements. When her hand hit a glass of red wine at the place next to her, the wine splashed Sally’s T-shirt and Nina’s pretty tablecloth. Sally leapt up in mock horror. “Well, I guess I’m banished,” she said, laughing. Des smiled at her fondly. “Nonsense. You’re the life of this party. Sit back down and tell us about Monet’s brushstrokes.”
The camaraderie between father and daughter was unmistakable; so was the hatred in Nina’s eyes. She remained poised, but as she gazed at the daughter who had ruined her perfect party, Nina’s loathing was manifest.
But then we came to an interview Ben Bendure had done with Sally a year later. She was sitting on a couch with Izak Levin, the forty-five-year-old art critic to whom she had turned after Des’s death. Sally’s untamed hair had been smartly cut, her outfit was boho chic, she was smoking a cigarette, and her eyes had lost their sparkle. Ben had moved the camera close, and when Taylor saw the change in her mother, she leaned forward. “Pause the tape,” she said.
Zack did and Taylor turned to me. “How old was she there?” Taylor said.
“About fourteen,” I said.
“And the man with her was her lover.”
“Yes,” I said.
“She doesn’t look like herself any more,” Taylor said. “What happened to her?”
“Not long after that evening where Sally knocked over the wine at Nina’s party, everything went wrong,” I said. “Des had a stroke that paralyzed his right side. He was right-handed.”
Taylor touched her own right arm reflexively. “He couldn’t make art,” she said.
“No, he couldn’t. He was an immensely physical man and suddenly his life seemed to be over.”
“So he didn’t want to live any more?” Taylor said.
Zack’s eyes met mine, and he nodded imperceptibly, indicating it was time for the truth. “That was Nina’s explanation,” I said. “She told everyone that Des wanted to die and that he had decided to take her and Sally with him. There was poison in Des and Nina’s cocktails and in Sally’s soft drink. Nina’s story turned out to be a lie. Nina was the one who’d poisoned the drinks, but Sally had no way of knowing that. Des Love had been the centre of Sally’s world, and till the day she died, she believed he had tried to kill her.”
“Is that why Sally didn’t stay with anyone very long?” Taylor asked.
“I’d never made the connection before,” I said. “But you’re probably right. You saw how much Sally loved Des. When Des died, something in Sally broke. For the rest of her life she was searching for someone who could make her whole again.”
Emotion always went straight to Taylor’s mouth, just as it did to Sally’s, and I could see from the quiver of her lips that she was struggling. “That’s why she had sex with all those people,” Taylor said. “But it never worked for her.”
“No,” I said. “It never worked.”
The image of the girl with the smart haircut, the cigarette, and the lifeless eyes stared out at us from the television screen. Taylor went up to the screen and traced her mother’s features with her finger. “I’m so sorry” she said. “I wish it could have been different for you. I wish you could have had what I have.”
Taylor had begun to lay her ghosts, and so had I. In allowing Taylor and me to see that Sally had lived the only life she was capable of living, Ben Bendure had given us a great gift, and when I called to thank him for the outtakes, I told him so.
We moved back to Halifax Street on December 20, Taylor’s last day of classes. Students were dismissed at noon on the last day, so the three of us had lunch at a vegetarian place close to Luther and then came home. I had been nervous about how Taylor would react to moving back into the condo, but a coat of paint and some furniture rearranging can work wonders.<
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Mieka and the girls and Margot and Declan were bringing supper at six, so Zack, Taylor, and I had the entire afternoon to get used to our refurbished digs. Zack and I had dropped the animals by after we took Taylor to school, so when our daughter walked into her new bedroom, her cats, Bruce and Benny, were already curled up on her bed. Their timing couldn’t have been better. Cats in arms, Taylor began sizing up her room and the changes we’d made in the other guest bedroom so she could use it as a place to watch TV or use her computer.
Not surprisingly, Taylor hesitated about going upstairs. Several times I noticed her casting her eyes towards the second floor, but she gave the stairs a wide berth. “If you want, I can go up there with you,” I said finally.
She shook her head. “You’re not going to be able to come up with me every time. I might as well get it over with.” As she approached the stairs her stride was determined, but she climbed slowly and when she reached the landing, she stopped and looked down at me. After a beat, she turned, squared her shoulders, and went up to her old studio.
She stayed there for a long time. When she came down again, she moved towards Zack and me. “Well, I did it,” she said.
“Next time will be easier,” Zack said.
“I hope so,” Taylor said. She brightened. “I like the colour you chose for your bedroom.”
“It’s called Tuscan pear,” I said. “We thought it would be nice to wake up to.”
She nodded approval. “You have a lot of wall space. Why don’t you get some of Sally’s paintings out of storage and ask Darrell to hang them for you? If you want, I can help you choose.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Zack said. “Guess it’s our turn to investigate the upstairs, Ms. Shreve.” He wheeled towards the bottom of the stairs and glared at the stair lift for his chair. “You know I hate these fucking things,” he said under his breath.
“I know,” I said. “I also know you’d crawl over broken glass for Taylor.”
Zack transferred his body onto the chair of the stairlift and up we went. Zack’s old wheelchair was waiting on the second floor. Taylor’s studio was now our bedroom. The lights were low and the room was warm with welcome. Zack had never complained about feeling cramped in the bedroom downstairs, but as he wheeled around our new room he seemed pleased. “We can make this work, Jo.”
“You mean our lives, or the fucking stairlift?”
He chuckled. “Our lives. The jury’s still out on the fucking stairlift.”
When we returned to the main floor, Taylor was in the dining area, gazing thoughtfully at Two Painters. “I know this is your painting, Jo, but I’ve been thinking about this space.” Her arm swept the area between her and Sally. “There’s too much of it. Sally and I don’t even seem to be in the same world. I’ve been looking at some of Desmond Love’s work on the Internet – I’d like to put in something like one of his abstracts – bright and joyous. I could prop it against an easel between Sally and me.” She turned to face me. “What do you think?”
For the first time in weeks, my enthusiasm was unforced. “I think that’s a terrific idea,” I said.
Margot went into labour in the middle of the night, just as the first day of winter was beginning. I was her labour coach, and Zack was my ride, so Declan would stay with Taylor in our condo until we got home. Margot had a difficult time. At 11:00 a.m. her ob-gyn decided to do a Caesarean.
When he left the room to consult with the anesthesiologist, Margot groaned and grabbed my hand. “Is it too late to change my mind?”
“About the Caesarean?”
“About the whole thing.” She grunted. “God, I sound like an animal.”
“Grunting’s good,” I said. “Moving a baby down the birth canal and out into the world is hard work.”
Margot’s honey blond hair was dark with sweat and she was clearly exhausted. “I can’t take any more of this,” she said. “Where the hell is that anesthesiologist?” Suddenly her eyes opened very wide. “It’s coming. Get the doctor, and – did I imagine it or did you tell me Zack is here?
“I told him I thought you were close an hour ago,” I said. “He’s in the waiting room.”
“Get him,” Margot said. “I want him in here to see there’s something I can do that he can’t.” She groaned. “Quick.”
We made it back just in time. As the baby crowned, Margot made a sound that began as a moan and ended in a scream. Zack was visibly alarmed. “It’s okay,” I told him. “The worst is over. Now comes the good part.” The doctor tilted the baby down to release her highest shoulder, then the second shoulder appeared and the baby slid out. When she gave a healthy cry, Zack beamed and gave Margot a thumbs-up. “You win,” he said. “That was nothing short of amazing. Now I’m getting out of here.”
Alexandra Joanne Hunter, who would be known as Lexi, was a strong and beautiful girl, nine pounds, ten ounces; twenty-two inches long, and blond and fair-skinned like Margot. She was born at 11:11 a.m., the precise moment when the winter solstice occurred. Margot was tired and hungry, but as Lexi latched on to her breast, her face was serene. “Look at that girl. She knows exactly what she needs and she goes after it.”
“Just like her mother,” I said.
“And her father,” Margot said.
“With genes like that, Lexi will be unbeatable,” I said. “Time for you to get to know each other.” I kissed Margot and Lexi. “Sleep well, Lexi,” I said. “You have a whole world to discover.”
When the elevator stopped at our floor, the owner of Crocus and Ivy, a local shop that sold high-end children’s wear, wheeled out an old-fashioned pram filled with cozy clothing, gifts for the winter solstice baby. A photographer followed close behind, ready to snap pictures of the event.
As Zack and I got into the elevator, we were joined by two nurses. One appeared to be in late middle age; the other was younger, perhaps in her mid-twenties. Both wore the cheerful teddy-bear print uniforms of the obstetrics nursing staff. The women were chatting with the weary intimacy of workers who’ve shared a long shift.
“Our winter solstice baby was certainly born under a lucky star,” the younger woman said. “Her mother is Margot Hunter. She owns some big international company.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t seem fair that her baby’s the one who gets that gorgeous carriage and all the goodies.”
The older nurse chuckled. “My grandma had a record that she played over and over again. All I can remember is the opening. ‘Them that’s got shall get and them that’s not shall lose.’ ” Truer words were never spoken.”
The younger nurse nodded. “I was on duty when last year’s winter solstice baby was born. He was fetal alcohol syndrome.”
Zack and I followed the two nurses out. The lighting on the floor of the Mother-Baby units had been muted, but the overheads on the main floor were pitilessly bright. When we reached the front doors, Zack looked at me and his brow furrowed. “You’ve lost your glow,” he said.
“So have you,” I said. “But it’s time to put on our game faces and head for home. We have a daughter waiting.”
When we got back to Halifax Street, Taylor was asleep on the couch, covered with a quilt. Declan was sitting beside her. He stood when he heard us come through the door. “How are Margot and Lexi?” he said.
We kept our voices low. “Perfect in every way,” I said. “You can see for yourself tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks for staying with Taylor,” Zack said.
“Margot said if I saw her giving birth it would freak us both out and she’d never have any grandchildren. Anyway, I’m always happy to be with Taylor.”
“How are you doing?” I said. “We haven’t really had a chance to talk lately.”
“I’m fine. And Taylor’s going to be fine, too.” His voice was filled with hope. “It’s going to take a while, but Taylor and I have plenty of time. This morning I figured out that Lexi will live to see the beginning of the twenty-second century. That’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”
“M
ega cool,” Zack said. He held out his hand. Declan shook it and held on. He had tears in his eyes. “I miss my dad,” he said.
“So do I,” Zack said.
After Declan left, I bent to smooth Taylor’s hair. “I’d better get our girl into bed. She was probably awake until dawn.”
“Why don’t we wait awhile?” Zack said. “Taylor’s comfortable where she is, and you’re still upset about that old Billie Holiday line.”
“ ‘Them that’s got shall get?’ ” I said. “I didn’t realize that was Billie Holiday.”
“ ‘God Bless the Child,’ ” Zack said. “I’ve got it on my playlist if you want to hear it.”
“I’m depressed enough,” I said.
“That’s when you’re supposed to listen to the blues,” Zack said. “Let’s give it a shot. We have a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator, we have a roof garden, and we still have our coats on. Let’s go up, check out the city, and listen to Billie.”
“Why not?” I said. I took down the champagne flutes, and Zack picked up his MP3 player and the champagne. The dogs, sensing good times ahead, raced to the door.
The day we stepped into was cold and grey. The evergreens wintering on the roof garden had been decorated with red ribbon, and as we moved towards the edge of the garden Zack and I puffed little clouds of breath. Somewhere the safety alarm of a car blared, then stopped.
Zack loved dramatic moments, and few moments are more dramatic than popping the cork on a bottle of champagne. He opened the bottle and poured some into the flutes I was holding. The contents of one of the glasses overflowed onto my mitten.
“Hey, suck that mitten,” Zack said. “A client sent the champagne, and it’s the good stuff.”
“You’re such a classy guy,” I said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Zack said. “So what shall we drink to?”
“How about to those we’ve lost and those we’ve gained,” I said.
“That seems to cover it,” Zack said, and his voice was husky with emotion.
