Extensions (28 page)

I parked on the street and walked back. In the foyer I was relieved to see Mrs. Read sitting in one of the easy chairs waiting for her friend to pick her up for their weekly bridge game. Some things hadn't changed. She said she hoped I was coming back soon.

My mailbox was stuffed, since neither Dad nor I had been here for a week or so. Hydro bill, fundraising address labels, pizza coupons, early Christmas and late birthday cards. I opened the one with familiar handwriting. “Happy Holidays to you and your dad. Ray.” What was he up to? Had he broken up with Blondie? I hadn't answered his coffee invitation and had not bothered to ask anyone at work if there were changes in the Crown Counsel office. I pressed the elevator button. The door opened on another friendly face coming up from the basement. The manager, Nick Shotenski, obviously held no grudges about my many calls over minor things, his favourite being the stuck bulb in the oven and the broken base left in the socket of the bathroom fixture. It gave him a chance to repeat his favourite line: How many cops does it take to change a light bulb? One, but only if she knows a Ukrainian.

I got off at the seventh floor while he proceeded to the penthouse with his toolbox. When I turned the key and pushed my apartment door open, I expected a breath of stale, stuffy air but was surprised by a pleasant, almost fragrant inhalation. It smelled like a mixture of Sara's satiny Noxzema cream and her favourite perfume, Je Reviens. I knew it was neither, but I also knew — thanks to Lonnie's brother Hank — that unaccountable currents somehow rearranged air particles and maybe this was one of those occurrences. I walked through my three rooms, none as dismal as I had imagined. Under the sink I found a plastic bag for my letters and left with the feeling that I still did have a life at this address.

Back in the car, I looked at my watch. Dad would have skipped his supper hour and be waiting to eat with me and hear about my exam. Sure enough, he had a deli lasagna warming in the oven, and when he saw my paper, he brought out the sherry and two glasses.

“If I do as well as I think on the exam and with the mark from your paper and this one, I might end up with a decent grade. These courses could get to be a habit.”

“Why not?” said Dad, prouder than proud, lifting his glass in a toast. “By the way, Janetta called and would like us to go to Nanaimo for Christmas. I told her we had made reservations at the Sylvia for Christmas dinner. That we wanted to keep it quiet this year. And Gail called. She wants you to phone her.”

Gail and I had been playing phone tag since my birthday. “It's too late now for Saskatchewan.”

“She said she would be up late — at a meeting. You're to call whenever you get in.”

I flopped on the sofa with the phone and dialled her number. She sounded out of breath. “Just got in from a long-winded committee. But I've got interesting news for you about that photo from the Mingus family.”

“What is it?”

“I spoke to Howard Mingus and he said his father is the one you should talk to. He lives in Medicine Hat in seniors housing close to his daughter, Howard's sister. Here's his phone number — his name is Wendell Mingus.”

I wrote it down as we spoke. “So what's the interesting part?”

“You'll find out. Call him tomorrow.”

“Not even a hint? Torturer.”

“I'm too tired at the moment. But as I mentioned to your dad, we want you both to come for Christmas dinner at my parents' place.”

“Thanks, but we've made a date at the Sylvia.” People were kind, but I was not up to being part of someone else's Christmas. Mom always made a stylish production out of the holiday and Dad and I agreed not even to put up a tree for ourselves, let alone be reminded somewhere else.

“Okay, but the offer still stands. And it's not an offer, but a command for you to spend New Year's Eve with Monty and me, whatever we end up doing. Unless you have a heavy date, that is.”

I gave an “as if” snort. “That's a deal.”

“It's minus forty with the wind chill here. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to everything about Vancouver.”

“Have a good sleep. And thanks for the non-information.” We hung up.

Dad was singing along to “Memories Are Made Of This” on the radio when I told him of a possible clue to the photo. He shrugged.

My eyes were closing even before I got into bed. The pillow under my head felt like a cloud carrying me away to a sunny university campus lined with good-looking men holding out their cards.

“MR. WENDELL MINGUS? This is Arabella Dryvynsydes calling from Vancouver. My friend Gail Pelletier in Willow Point spoke to your son Howard and he told her you might be able to give me some information. About a photo I bought from your family at a garage sale.”

Wendell Mingus' voice held warmth but not age. “Yes, Howard called and told me of your interest. I believe the picture you have is one of my mother and her twin sister as little girls.”

“Your mother?”

“My mother Janet.”

“What was her sister's name?”

“It was Sara. But she died very young.”

The blood left my head and began racing through my body. “Sara didn't die, Mr. Mingus. She was my grandmother. She believed Janet had died as a little girl.”

From the pause at the other end, I guessed Gail had found out the revelation from Howard, but had not told him any more than she told me. “Mercy, what a piece of news you're giving me.”

“Likewise.” Just then I heard someone call “hello” in the background.

“My daughter Gloria has just come in to help me pack. How I'd like to talk more about this. Wait a minute — you're in Vancouver?”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow I'm flying to Victoria to spend Christmas with another daughter and I have an hour stopover in Abbotsford. You anywhere close to that airport?”

“Just tell me when.”

“Gloria is driving me to Calgary for the 5
PM
flight and I arrive in Abbotsford at the same time. Time change, you know.”

“We'll be there. Dad and I will be the two tallest in the terminal.”

“And I'll be wearing a brown leather jacket. A bit fancy for an old farmer like me, but my kids bought it for me to travel. See you tomorrow.” The Abbotsford airport was small enough to find Wendell Mingus easily, both from his description and from the process of elimination.

The bulk of the passengers departed quickly, leaving only about ten for the connecting flight to Victoria. Dad was first to spot his cousin. I was struck by a resemblance as they offered their hands to each other. Same headshape — elongated at the back — and body language as they bowed slightly when shaking hands in a cordial, almost shy manner. There was also a similar softness in their grey eyes. Dad had a definite edge in height from the Dryvynsydes, but he could finally relinquish his title of biggest ears in the family. And Wendell dominated in hand size: two big rough paws — Gail would have liked them — one sporting only three fingers and a thumb. His face was sun-lined from a life in the field against Dad's white studious one. I gave Wendell Mingus a hug.

We took a cluster of four seats, one for Wendell's carry-on. “Where do we start?” he asked.

“How about the end?” I suggested. “When did Janet die?”

“2000. She was ninety.”

“Same as Sara,” I said in disbelief. “Date?”

“September 8. She had been failing for a few years with a heart condition and just got weaker and weaker. Mother died in hospital and it was a relief in the end.”

“Mother hung on until October 2,” Dad said, correcting himself to Sara in case Wendell mixed up their mothers, “but I think it was early September that we took her in with pneumonia. Do you remember, Bella?”

“I do. In fact, it was September 8, because I remember phoning Gail for her birthday from the hospital. I told Gail we were afraid she wouldn't make it,” adding for Wendell's benefit, “Gail's my friend in Willow Point who called your son.” How Sara would have loved this cosmic connection in death with her sister.

Dad carried on, “But Mother recovered enough to go back home and she died peacefully of a heart attack a couple of weeks later. Sitting in her favourite chair with her cat and a book on her lap. The perfect exit.”

Even my big frame didn't offer enough skin surface to produce the goosebumps necessary for this picture. Two complete strangers referring to Mother so casually when these women had shared the same womb. The only encounter more moving would have been watching Sara and Janet find each other. If life cheated those two out of such a meeting, it was now connecting these men before all memories of them were erased. As Wendell began to share his, I had a brief flare-up of possessiveness when he mentioned Jane, the same as I'd had when Jane mentioned baby Sara in her letter. My great-grandmother belonged to me.

“So I guess you know their mother Jane died of influenza when the girls were eight. Mother was sent to Victoria to live with her Uncle Gomer and Aunt Thelma, and her sister was given to another aunt and uncle in Ladysmith — I can't think of their names…”

“Uncle Thomas and Aunt Lizzie,” Dad provided as Wendell resumed: “Well, Mother said Sara had died a year later.”

Dad slapped his forehead. “How could that have happened? Sara believed the same thing about Janet.”

“Mother — Janet — must have heard it from her uncle or aunt. She had no cause for doubt, so we never discussed it much. She wasn't one to question things anyway.”

“Sara told us Aunt Lizzie ran into Thelma somewhere and she gave her the news that Janet had died of another wave of influenza a year later.”

“Well, Mother wasn't much of a talker,” Wendell went on, “but she did tell me once that she never got over her mother's death. Even worse was being separated from her twin sister right after. She said her mother Jane was a saintly woman, hardworking, gentle, and kind. Even when their father was drunk, she never screamed and yelled at him like some miners' wives. She would just take her girls into the sewing room and pull the curtain. Mother said her sister Sara was the lively one, always bouncing and chattering, but they were never more than a room away from each other until after their mother died. She spoke only once about that scene and it was right after my father died. She said as hard as it was to lose such a good husband, nothing could ever come close to the shock of losing her mother and sister at the same time.”

My arms tingled again from hearing Sara's identical words in my head — “an inoculation against all future suffering.”

“When my daughter Gloria asked Mother about it later, she told her that some things are best left alone. She never brought it up again. I guess I was the only one who heard about her mother's last days — unless she told Mona when they were together, but Mona isn't the type to show any interest.”

“Mona?”

“Mona's my younger sister.” He raised his eyebrows. “Now that I think of it, her full name is Sara Monica, but Dad came up with Mona. Anyways, Mona took Mother to live with her in Calgary after Dad died. She's a nurse and lives on her own.”

Dad, the historian, wanted to put things in order. “I think we need some background. Where did your parents meet?”

“When farming got bad in the late twenties, my dad — Matt Mingus — left Willow Point to look for work on Vancouver Island. Found a job outside Victoria at the Bamberton cement plant. Took Mona and me there once to show us where it used to be — across the inlet from Butchart Gardens. Not too far away Mother was working as a chambermaid at the Goldstream Hotel. She was only sixteen, but she'd had three years' work experience at a dry goods store that belonged to her Aunt Thelma's family. Funny, how it was my dad told me all this stuff. Mother never liked to talk about those days, maybe because courting seemed too personal. Or maybe because she just didn't like to talk.

“Anyways, Dad couldn't understand a young girl never taking a day off from cleaning because she didn't want to go back home. When he asked her Uncle Gomer for her hand, he found out why. Constant bickering went on between him and his wife, mainly on account of Uncle Gomer's laziness. He always had some health reason why he couldn't work. Dad said if you wanted someone more opposite to Uncle Gomer it was Mother. You couldn't get her to
stop
working; she was always cooking, cleaning or sewing. After Mother and Dad got married the cement dust got too much for him and he tried logging in a place called Little Saskatchewan. Men who couldn't make a go of it on the prairies ended up out there. Mona and I were both born there on the island. But that too dried up and his dad needed his help back home in Willow Point. It was just before the war and he escaped conscription by providing essential foodstuffs.”