After a dazed supper of scrambled eggs and toast, Margaret tucked Meg into Daphne’s bed, which was where she liked to be, making her promise to sleep. Someone turned the television on and, one by one, Patrick and Neil drove all the cars uptown to gas them up and run them through the carwash. Just before eleven, Daphne and the girls went out to sleep at Paul and Andy’s, to check on things as much as anything because Krissy had decided to stay at the hospital overnight with Andy, sleeping if she had to on one of the plastic couches in the waiting room. The others went out to the golf course motel because there wasn’t room for everyone any more and because Rebecca, Patrick and Mary’s youngest and only daughter, was afraid of Meg at the best of times.
The next morning Patrick and Neil took Andy’s mother into Sarnia to get Andy from the hospital. When Margaret called, the hospital had told her today or tomorrow, depending on what she was going home to, whether there would be any help at home. They hadn’t mentioned clothes and Margaret didn’t think of clothes until Patrick had backed out of the driveway and was halfway down the street, too late. She had told Patrick and Neil to bring Andy back to her, that her mother should stay too, maybe on the McKellars’ rollaway. She was sure of just two things: that Andy’s kids would need her help in ways no one could begin to anticipate, and that Andy would be strong enough to give it to them only if she was cared for herself.
Krissy had sat awake all night beside her sedated mother. In the morning, when she sensed the others coming into the room behind her, she stood up and walked straight into Patrick’s arms. She told them a nurse had given Andy another shot of something at midnight and that she had finally fallen asleep around two. They had just made her wake up. A breakfast tray sat untouched on the table at the foot of the bed and she was supposed to be getting another sponge bath. Andy was curled on her side, dressed to go home in her bloody clothes, shivering.
Neil half carried his mother from the wheelchair to the car, and making his way through the heavy city traffic, Patrick told them that Margaret wanted Andy there, that Andy’s mother was to come too, that he hoped this would be all right.
Murray and Daphne had volunteered to make the airport run. Murray had been able to tell her at the kitchen table how wonderful Maggie and Jill were, because this was something he could say in front of anyone, but as soon as they were in the car and belted up he said it again. “You are doing such a job.”
“They are wonderful in themselves,” Daphne told him. “It’s possible that you and I don’t even matter all that much.”
They were both in a stupor. Murray took the old highway because he said they had lots of time and this was a chance to get a few minutes away from it. They didn’t talk for miles and then Daphne told him that every time she looked down at her hands they were clenched. “My palms are sliced with fingernail marks,” she said, examining her opens hands. “These extra little curving moon lines cutting across the normal lines, what are they called?” She did know the names. “The heart line,” she said. “The head line. The health line. The life line. The fate line.”
Murray reached over to lay his free hand in her lap and she took it, touched her fingers to the warm, soft pad of skin on the back of his hand, lifted them away, waited a hard few seconds and then touched the skin again, over and over again giving herself the pleasure of his existence. Anyone seeing this, she thought, even from a distance, would recognize it as love. Easy love.
But sometimes, most often those times when the bully guilt dislocated her ease, she wondered if the thing she had always been after, and still wanted, even now when she had no earthly use for it, was semen. Only his, but still, only semen. For a long time, from the first time, she had been able to feel her cervix moving in pleasure, the knowledge sent to her every time from just behind, just beyond the sweet delirium, and because she’d wanted an image of this mystery, a miniature image that might be worn in a gold locket, she had imagined a small, hidden, happy muscle yawning open like the mouth of a fish. But recently she’d seen a documentary, a film of a woman in orgasm, the woman on her back in some lab, the minuscule camera and light carefully inserted, this for the sake of science, of knowledge, and she had seen that it was not at all as she’d imagined. The cervix was not like
a fish. It dips down into the pool of semen, again and again, like a small, thirsty dove.
They hadn’t been together for three years. Two months before he married Kate, Murray had told her, in a rehearsed, controlled phone call, that it had to be over. He’d explained that while he probably could continue on alone, he didn’t want to, not any more. He needed someone who was ready to sign on full-time.
A trusting soul, she’d thought, listening. Could this be what you want? What you’ve found somewhere?
He told her he thought he might have fallen in love. It felt like that.
He had tried something similar once or twice before, when it wasn’t true, hoping with his practised lies to shake her loose. But this time it was, true.
As she’d listened to him tell the truth, Daphne had recognized the change immediately. He had given himself away because the other times there had been a trace of bravado, a whiff of threat in his voice, and this time there was only a dull regret, only the quiet retreat of a man who had made up his mind.
“Then I guess we go on,” she’d said, saving herself, “slightly altered.” She was sitting at her window overlooking the muddy Thames, with Maggie in school and Jill at her knees offering one of her storybooks. “This can’t come as a big shock to me. You have been more than generous. All this time you’ve been generous.” She waited for him to speak but he evidently wanted her to say something more. “What about this for a plan,” she said. “We go straight to remembering the best of it. Full bolt. No detours.” Still he didn’t speak. “And of course the girls,” she said. “They’re yours. No games will be played there.”
Murray had not been surprised that her control was absolute, that she didn’t even ask who it was he thought he loved. He knew she wouldn’t fight for him. She didn’t have to fight for him. He didn’t push for any kind of guarantee about Maggie and Jill because Daphne did not waver, she did not say things she didn’t mean. Her promises were few and far between, but they were kept. And he didn’t ask what she would do, who she might find for herself,
because if he’d asked, she would have said only that he was not to worry, she would be all right. And so, as easily as that, it was done. Twenty years, done.
When they turned onto the airport road, she was holding his large hand completely in her own two smaller hands. “I like Kate a lot,” she said. “Everyone seems to.” She was quiet again for a minute, thinking of a way to convince him. “I’ve been trying to figure out why whenever she sits down at the table, the kids come alive for her, every one of them. I’ve decided it’s because she doesn’t make them nervous. She makes them the opposite of nervous.”
“I’ve named the girls in my will,” Murray said.
“Your will?” she asked. “Is something wrong?” She was staring at his hand in her lap, as if its strength had deceived her. “You’re not sick?”
“No,” he said. “I’m fine. It’s just a normal update.”
She lifted his hand to her mouth, briefly rested her lips on his warm skin. “Does Kate know about this will thing?”
“Yes,” he said. “I told her it was because they have no father and I have no children. It’s fine with her. She has quite a bit of money of her own. And a very good pension plan with the university. She’s been there for almost twenty years.”
“Will you tell them?” she asked.
“We should maybe let it wait,” he said. He slowed to make the turn into the airport parking lot. “And I want to sell you the house,” he said.
“The house in town?” she asked. “I don’t live in town.”
“It’s been rented out. You could continue to rent it out.”
“Even so,” she said, “I don’t really have the money. I haven’t been able to save very much. Sweet-shit-all is how you might describe what I have been able to save.”
“The price would be negligible,” he said. “A dollar, just to make it a legal sale. Patrick is going to send you the documents for your signature, the deed of land.”
“And we tell no one?” she asked.
“We tell no one now,” he said.
“All right,” she said. She reached into her satchel for her wallet,
got out a soft one-dollar bill, and tucked it into his pants pocket. “I love that house,” she said. “Maybe I’ll retire there. I could grow roses in my dotage and give them to people. Buckets of fresh-cut roses from the odd, old woman who lives alone in that big house with the wraparound porch. Who wears earmuffs and high heels and overalls. Whose nails are too long.”
“Or you could live an ordinary life there,” he said. “Another option.”
When they approached the terminal they could see Sarah and Stephen waiting with their bags at the pick-up curb. Stephen already had his suit on, he had apparently worn it on the plane from Montreal. As she was getting into the car Sarah told them she’d been able to make an earlier connection at Pearson because the flight from Vancouver had got in a bit ahead of schedule, so she and Stephen had waited together in the coffee shop. She said she had called the house from Toronto but the line was busy. Except for her eyes, which were without make-up shadowed and puffy, she looked fit and healthy and strong. She was wearing a dark green maternity jogging suit, the material stretched taut over her high, broad belly. Daphne was a bit surprised at the jogging suit because Sarah had always been a disciplined, slightly flashy dresser. She would not normally have been caught dead in this outfit, not in public.
They put her in the front seat with Murray for the ride home. Stephen rode in the back with Daphne, his head turned toward the passing outskirts of the city, the small industries, the packaging plants, the car dealerships. Sarah didn’t break down until they were on the highway, after they had answered some of her questions.
Paul had been fifteen when Sarah was born and four years later he was married and gone out to the farm, but of all of them he had been the one closest to her in age. Before Andy married Paul, before her own kids were born, she had pretty much taken over with Sarah, dressing her up in little sunsuits, taking her out to the lake on her days off to play in the sand with bright plastic pails and serving spoons from the kitchen drawer, colouring with her at the kitchen table, cutting out paper dolls from one of Daphne’s old books.
Daphne guessed that Sarah was remembering some of this. She stopped talking to let her remember in peace.
Mary and Kate had gone back over to the house to stay with Meg while the others went in to the airport because Margaret had to get some sleep and Bill was still in very bad shape, it was all he could do to stand up from his bed and get to the bathroom. The two of them switched off, took turns, one of them lying down with Meg up in Daphne’s bed while the other answered the kitchen door. Mary didn’t recognize many of the men and women who arrived carrying gifts of food but she bluffed it through, claimed to remember meeting them somewhere when it was suggested that she had. The people who stood at the door had the advantage of course.
Kate wasn’t expected to recognize anyone because she and Murray had not been married very long. She was understood to be the second wife, a wife who wouldn’t know much. But she was not unfamiliar with the gestures, the nature of the gestures, the men slowly shaking their heads, saying almost nothing, the casseroles in their hands wrapped thickly in newspaper, still warm from someone’s oven, the pies and all the desserts recognizably made from scratch because the women who sent them were careful to send only the very best ingredients, the very best effort.
Although her parents had moved to Oakville after she and her sister left for university, which turned out to be for good, Kate had grown up this way, in Dresden, a town not far away and almost this small. Her great-great-great-grandparents had been brought up north just a few months before the Civil War, when slaves were pouring across the border. Dresden was where they’d ended that trip, where they’d built their lives. As she took the warm dishes into her hands she watched the friends and neighbours stare briefly and discreetly at her pink upturned palms.
Meg could not be consoled. Margaret had said she was to be kept at home, that she was not to be taken back into London before the funeral, that they should be able to calm her down somehow. But Meg could not or would not sleep. She was wide awake crying for days and nights running. She could not cry herself out.
After Andy was settled into the boys’ room, quiet and clearly
needing quiet, Neil and Carol tried to take Meg home with them but she wouldn’t stay, Neil had to get dressed in the middle of the night to bring her back to Andy. Margaret waited up with Meg until dawn and then she called the doctor at the clinic and asked him please to prescribe the biggest belt of whatever he had in his arsenal because it simply could not go on. One of the two new druggists, a young East Indian with a red Mustang and large, calm eyes who had been in town long enough to know that he should come to the back door at a time like this, brought the prescription over himself and Meg took the first capsules standing at the sink, asking as he handed them to her with a glass of water why was she the only one, why was she always the only one?
After the druggist left, Kate, whose field was chemistry, lifted the capsules to read the prescription and then Krissy said that she would do it. When the funeral was behind them she would arrange to take her holiday time and go back into the group home with Meg and stay there with her for as long as it took.
Although most of the flowers had been sent to the funeral home, a few plants, mostly mums, were delivered to the house and there were already over a hundred sympathy cards. Meg, who was calmed by mid-morning and sluggish, decided that she should be the one to open the cards and with her fine-boned, beautiful hands she opened and arranged them in larger and larger circles on the dining-room table. She took great care with this, did not swear or punch herself when one card knocked another over.