What's Left Behind

by Gail Bowen

  Every detail was perfect, but earlier in the week I had watched Zack tear apart my oldest friend in court, and that evening at the reception before the dinner a woman who’d drunk not wisely but well told me Zack would dump me the way he’d dumped the scores of other women he’d taken to his bed. It was too much. Suddenly, in a suite designed for lovers, we became strangers.

  Zack knew I was backing away, but he never shied away from facts. “You’re finished with me, aren’t you?” he said, and his voice was rough with emotion.

  When I saw the misery in his eyes, the words formed themselves. “No matter what happens, I will never be finished with you,” I said.

  “Then it’s time we got married,” he said simply, and I agreed. We had known each other for five months.

  On the flight back from Saskatoon the next morning, Zack pored through real estate listings until he found what he believed was the house for us. By noon, we’d put in an offer. When Charlie McCudden, the contractor who did the retrofitting, asked us to give him our vision of the new house in one sentence, Zack said what we wanted was a solid family house because we were a solid family.

  Remembering that moment, I walked down the incline that led from the levee to our old street. I had always said it was kismet that led Zack to choose a house on the creek that I had cherished throughout most of my adult life. When I came closer to the old place, I saw that kismet had struck again. The house was for sale.

  I pulled out my cell and dialled the number on the sign. The realtor’s name was Amber MacLeod, and her phone rang at least a half-dozen times before she picked up, sounding groggy. I glanced at my watch. It was six o’clock in the morning. I apologized and asked her not to sell the property until we’d talked. She said she’d meet me at the house at six-thirty. Then I called Zack. He was still at the lake, but he was there in half an hour.

  Amber MacLeod was a woman of an indeterminate age who had the dimpled prettiness and bubbly exuberance of the actress Betty White. I had told her that Zack and I had owned the house before, and we might be interested in living in it again. From that small kernel of information, she had apparently spun a romantic narrative. When Zack asked if we could go through the house on our own, she clapped her hands in delight. “Of course,” she said. “Rekindling old memories. Love truly is lovelier the second time around. My husband always says that the worst days of our marriage are better than the best days of his life as a single man.”

  When we were on one side of the door and Amber was on the other, Zack grinned. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “I told Amber we’d lived here before. I guess she assumed we’d gone our separate ways and were giving it another try.”

  Zack’s face was grave as he took my hand. “Jo, is that what we’re doing?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “All I know is that I love you more today than I did the day we met, and when I saw the For Sale sign on the house, I knew it was time to move back.”

  Zack held his arms out to me. “In that case, let’s have a quick smooch and tell Amber this house is off the market.”

  Preparing for our move went relatively smoothly. Zack had used his portable access ramp the day we visited the house with Amber MacLeod. We needed to get permanent accessibility ramps installed, but that was hardly a big job. Luckily, the doctor to whom we’d sold the house and from whom we’d bought it back had changed nothing structurally and very little cosmetically. Even the lavender de Provence paint Zack and I had chosen was still on the walls of our bedroom.

  Zack, Taylor, and I were not starting at square one, but we weren’t far off. Our condo had belonged to Margot’s husband, Leland, before he moved in with Margot. Everything in it, right down to the tea towels, had been chosen by Leland’s decorator. The entire east half of our house on the creek had been destroyed by an explosion; everything that was left in the intact half was so badly smoke damaged it was unsalvageable. I’d kept the file folder with the notes, contact information, and samples we’d used when we’d had the house retrofitted and again when we had it rebuilt, so I was able to order much of what we needed by phone.

  There were enough lazy, hazy days of summer with Zack, the kids, and the dogs to please even me. At Madeleine and Lena’s request, Mieka kept Milo up to date about their diving progress. From Tallahassee, he watched Mieka’s videos of the girls’ dives and sent critiques. The first time they dived off the high board, Milo sent them matching charm bracelets with moonstones, the state gem of Florida. Taylor kept in touch with Milo by text. When Taylor sent Milo a message saying that she’d named her new ginger kitten “Bob Marley,” his answer was one word: “Sweet.” All three girls seemed to view Milo as a cherished older brother, and that pleased me.

  Madeleine, Lena, and I continued to monitor our garden closely. By August we faced the fact that our carrots had been a bust, but we had a bumper crop of tomatoes, and Zack said the tiny tomatoes he loved were the sweetest he’d ever tasted. Michael found a rental not far from the Webers’s cottage and he and Bridie had a quiet summer at the lake. The Qu’Appelle Valley was a good fit for them, so Michael put his house in Regina up for sale and bought a place in Fort Qu’Appelle. Bridie would start kindergarten in September, and he wanted a fresh start for her and for him.

  Change was in the air for us all. I had dreaded telling Margot that we were moving away from Halifax Street. She and I had become as close as sisters, but after I broke the news and we shed a few tears and noted that our families would still be just ten minutes away from each other, Margot floated an idea that made a lot of sense. She pointed out that Brock’s condo on the third floor was small, and that if he moved in across the hall from her, he’d be closer to the children, have extra space, and still retain his privacy.

  When Margot told me Brock had been enthusiastic about the idea, her smile was puckish. “It turns out I may be getting two new neighbours. Brock and Derek are talking about moving in together. I’m a girl from Wadena, Saskatchewan. Having the biological father of my son living across the hall with his boyfriend was never quite in my life plan. But we can make this work. Besides, Derek can do magic tricks.”

  Colin Crawford Kilbourn and Charlie Crawford Kilbourn were born on September 27, my fifty-ninth birthday. They were healthy little boys with Maisie’s springy copper curls and lankiness, Peter’s sculpted features and equanimity, and my green eyes. In my grandmother’s phrase, we were all foolishly fond of Colin and Charlie.

  The contractor who had worked on our house was doing the renovations at the farm too, and true to his word he was bringing the project in on time and on budget. The main floor of the Crawford Kilbourn house was now fully accessible; the bathrooms, kitchen, and family room were finished. Most importantly, the nursery and Maisie and Peter’s bedroom were ready for the Crawford Kilbourn family the day they came home from the hospital.

  They had painted the boys’ nursery a warm, lemony yellow; the room contained two of everything, and Taylor’s paintings of Lee’s heritage birds were hung where Colin and Charlie could see them from their cribs. Maisie loved the idea that the boys would awaken every morning to the vivid beauty of Blue Andalusians, scarlet-combed Langshans, Swedish Flower Hens, Ridley Bronze Turkeys, and pink-billed Aylesbury ducks.

  Maisie had asked Taylor to make a painting from the photograph of Lee lying in the field listening to the wind singing through the grass. At first Taylor had been reluctant because she was afraid she would be unable to capture the joy on Lee’s young face. But Maisie promised Taylor she would be content with whatever Taylor did. It was not an easy painting, and it took Taylor much of the month of July to get it right.

  In my opinion, and Zack’s, it was Taylor’s best work. Maisie agreed, but she found it difficult to look at the painting without breaking down, and she asked Zack, Taylor, and me to take it until she was ready. When we moved into the house on the creek, Zack and I hung the painting in our bedroom on a wall that caught the morning sun. On warm days, we could leave open the doors t
o the deck and hear the creek murmur as we looked at Lee’s face.

  At family dinners, Maisie always made her way to our bedroom to see the painting. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Peter, sometimes with one or both of her sons, she’d disappear into our room, stay until she found what she had gone to Lee for, and then come out and join the rest of us.

  When Taylor was working on a painting, she seemed always to gather strange and arcane knowledge about the world that informed her work. The creative process was a mystery to me, and I never quite knew whether Taylor found the information or the information found her.

  One day at the lake after she’d spent the morning working on Lee’s portrait, Taylor came down to the beach where Zack and I were watching the girls practise their dives. Her eyes shone and her cheeks were pink with excitement. “Did you know that the Sami reindeer herders believe that nature has powerful restorative powers?” she asked. “They say that whenever you’re lost in life, you simply have to put your ear to the earth and listen to her heart.”

  I never really came to know Lee well as an adult, but over the coming months, I would grow very close to the child in the painting. Many times when I felt lost, the girl with the coppery curls going every which way and the gold-flecked eyes filled with wonder led me to the answers I needed.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to:

  Kendra Ward, my editor, who asked all the hard questions and guided me gently but firmly to answers.

  Ellen Seligman for her friendship and for making it possible for Kendra Ward to continue as my editor until What’s Left Behind was ready for the next step.

  Heather Sangster for being an invaluable member of the writer/editor/copy editor troika.

  Ashley Dunn for always being the best and the shiniest!

  Rick Mitchell, retired Staff Sergeant in Charge of Major Crimes Section, Regina Police Service, for reading the manuscript at a very early stage and supplying much-needed encouragement and information.

  Barbara Weller, LICSW, for sharing her experiences in treating children who have suffered psychological traumas.

  Najma Kazmi, md, for being everything a family physician should be.

  Wayne Chau, BSP, for his knowledge, his humour, and his friendship.

  Ryan B. Eidness, MD and athlete, for knowing the value of the personal best.

  Hildy Bowen, Brett Bell, Max Bowen, Carrie Bowen, and Nathaniel Bowen for their endless patience, support, and love.

  Kai Langen, Madeleine Bowen-Diaz, Lena Bowen-Diaz, Chesney Langen Bell, Ben Bowen-Bell, Peyton Bowen, and Lexi Bowen, who fill me with joy every second of every day.

  Ted, my love of forty-seven years, who makes everything possible.

  Our bouvier, Esme, who finally made it into the pages of one of my books. I hope I did you justice, Ezzy.