Extensions (3 page)

WHEN I GOT BACK TO MY APARTMENT in Vancouver, there was a message waiting. “Bella, hope you had a good trip. Call when you get in. Love, Dad.”

My father so seldom phoned for fear of disturbing me, that he signed off on my answering service as if he were writing a letter. In response to this rare occasion, I called immediately.

“Hi, Dad. Everything okay?”

His Hello voice lifted. “Fine, fine. How's Gail?”

“Doing well. They send their love.”

“Monty? Does he like his new posting?”

“Their town is small and remote, but they're making the most of it, the way they always do.”

“You must be tired. You on the early shift tomorrow?”

“No, I'm not really tired at all. Do you want me to come over?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. I probably should not have bothered you with that message, but your Aunt Janetta had a heart attack. She's okay, so don't worry. I thought I might go over to Nanaimo on the weekend to see her. I don't imagine you have the time off.”

I wondered lately how a man in full command of a large school for twenty-five years could be so hesitant and apologetic. Since my mother's death, he made me think of a collapsed drawstring bag, requiring someone to tighten the straps to give him a purpose again. I had to remind myself he was ten years older than Mom, and a surprise blow like that would leave anyone close to eighty helpless. “As a matter of fact, I do have Sunday off and I'll be happy to go over with you. How is Janetta?”

“Still in hospital, but Lawrence said she is recovering steadily. Well, thanks. I'll let you get back to your unpacking now.”

“Bye, Dad.”

Unlike my parents, I did not require absolute order, so the notion of unpacking my suitcase before I needed the items inside had not occurred to me. I thought about Aunt Janetta instead. Considering the fact she was Dad's only sibling, we did not see much of her and her family.

Mom planned the few get-togethers we had when I was young, and they were always on the island. The only time I remember seeing Janetta in our home in Vancouver was after Sara's funeral, and then Mom's. She and Uncle Lawrence and their two sons and wives were all in attendance for those. Aunt Janetta was nice enough in her reserved way, but I could never get over the letdown of her looking just like Sara but not acting like her. Not fair of me, because no one acted like Sara.

Sara had named her daughter after her lost twin Janet, who was named after their mother Jane. I thank my mother for insisting on my name — awkward and old-fashioned as Arabella is in its full form — or Dad might have tried to wring out one more version. He admitted later he had Janine in mind. He argued that Arabella was too long for Dryvynsydes, having been stuck with a mouthful himself all his life. He pointed out that Llewellyn Dryvynsydes contained only one “y” fewer than that long Welsh place name with fifty-eight letters. And if it were spelled the Welsh way, “Llewyllyn” or “Llywyllyn,” it would have been tied or had even more. From what Sara could recall of her eight-year-old sister, Janetta had carried on the name in a fitting manner. Janet was always quiet and careful, Sara said —
she
was the defiant one who spoke her mind.

I thought of the picture and fished it out of my handbag. The wide-eyed curiosity of the floppy-bowed twin did contrast with the stoic look on the face of the girl with the neat bow. Or was I just imagining this now, thinking about Sara and the two Jane derivatives? And what was the original Jane like? I would have to look for that picture to see how far off I was. A quick survey of my sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment told me it wasn't here.

Being at Gail's confirmed how much of a homemaker she was and I wasn't. Within minutes of her arrival anywhere, she surrounded her family with pottery, candles, pictures, cushions, fluffy quilts. On the contrary, I realized I had gone for the prison-cell look. Why else had I chosen the striped mattress ticking sofa from Ikea years ago? And the block end tables to go with it? My one item of elegance was Sara's gold brocade love seat I had claimed when her apartment was dismantled. Janetta had taken a few things and Dad had her Queen Anne chair in their little den.

Three posters hung on my living room wall — Serengeti zebras (more stripes),
Cats
(the first big musical Mom took me to as a teenager), and a colourful Caribana poster I had picked up in Toronto when I went there once with Ray for a law conference. In my bedroom I displayed my photo collection — Mom, Dad, Gail and family, my graduation, party shots with friends making faces. Those were the trappings of my present life. All my other belongings, including the photo from Sara, had been left in the family home, which Dad still occupied. Was I poised all these years to move back?

I realized I had lied to Dad: I was exhausted. I had also lied to Gail. Ray Kelsey was still an open wound. The dumpee often said it wasn't the breakup itself that hurt, it was the way the dumper handled it, yet I had never heard anyone complimented on his breaking-up skills. As if there could be an easy way to receive such news. I remembered Ray picking me up from my shift to take me to a bar in downtown Vancouver, but beyond driving out of the detachment parking lot, the evening was a blank. I could not really say how he handled it. I do know that later in the elevator going back to my apartment, I could not understand how the other passenger — a teenager with a baseball cap — could stand there so calmly when the entire world had suddenly become a disaster zone. Why wasn't someone screaming for help?

And then when my mother's relentless encouragement had almost convinced me there was a reason to keep on living, she dropped dead. So I had probably averaged three or four hours of sleep a night for the past nine months, not enough when it comes to cuffing a two-hundred-pound guy who doesn't want to be cuffed. Especially the one last week who decided to take all his clothes off in his car before surrendering. A delicate procedure, to say the least. And one where there was no question of back or front cuffs. I fell into bed hoping to feel functional by 4:30
AM
.

Strange dreams filled the night. I was in uniform in a coal mine to protect two little girls in frilly dresses from disaster. While we waited for the cage to come down the shaft to take us out, thunder from collapsing tunnels raged around us. The lively twin became quiet and curious, ready for adventure. The quiet one began wailing because she was getting coal dust on her best dress. Their faces then turned black, and although I knew it was from soot, I also knew it was permanent. I woke up feeling powerless and full of terror because I realized we would not get out of there. As haunting and disturbing as it was for the rest of the day, the dream served a purpose: everything at work was lessened by comparison. While taking statements at two domestics, and from a hype with stolen goods, flashes of that mine scene kept coming back to me. The trouble at hand seemed almost refreshing. Even Jake, the most annoying person on our watch, made only one reference to his Volvo and abstained from his contempt for domestic vehicles when we went for breakfast. All of us felt sorry for anyone Jake stopped who was driving a Dodge or Chev. He believed they should be given a ticket for stupidity.

My four twelve-hour shifts went quickly. Sleep, work, supper with Dad twice at Wendy's on Cambie and Broadway — his kitchen since Mom died. No more upsetting dreams. I wanted that picture, but was resisting the memories that would come from the search. When I pulled up in front of the house early Sunday morning, I was verging on rested. Dad was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, always ready an hour early.

“The ferry leaves at eight forty-five,” he said, opening the door of my little Mazda before I came to a complete halt. He had given me that information at least once each of the past four days.

“We'll make it with time to spare, Dad.” I sped away, screeching my tires, partly to make a point and partly because sometimes off-duty, I got unexpected impulses to act like the people I arrest.

“Did you have breakfast?”

“I'm fine.”

“I brought you an egg and some toast.” Carefully he unwrapped a paper napkin from the pocket of his jacket and handed me a peeled boiled egg. He opened another napkin, which I spread across my capri pants and set the buttered toast on it. He had taken over where Mom left off trying to change my habit of not eating for three hours after I got up. I nodded thanks and pointed to the two travel mugs of coffee in the holder. “Yours is in front.”

As anticipated, we were first in line at the ferry and had forty-five minutes to walk around the parking lot. Once on board, I calmed down. When you drive all day for a living, it's a break to have someone else at the helm. Dad suggested we walk around the deck. We watched the Gulf Islands loom and recede, the sea breeze bringing new light and colour to Dad's face, causing his nose to drip. It was as if his island bloodline surfaced when he got close to Nanaimo, even though he was a born and bred prairie boy until he moved to Vancouver in his late teens. I took a tissue from the pocket of my pants and handed it to him. I always kept a supply for my own chronic nasal drip, which I had inherited from him, and he from his mother.

“When did you last speak to Janetta?”

“Easter maybe. And Canada Day. She called to see how I was doing.”

“She isn't much for keeping in touch, is she?”

“No worse than I am. When your grandmother was alive, she was the pipeline to both families. She did such a good job we never learned to do it for ourselves.”

“Sara's been gone for seven years.”

“In other words, Janetta never felt totally comfortable with your mother. She intimidated her or something, though I don't think your mother intended it that way.” Dad had a habit of starting explanations with “in other words” even before he had offered any on the subject.

“A lot of people are intimidated in the presence of perfection. I know I was at times. Especially as a teenager.”

Dad grinned wistfully. “She couldn't help herself. We would never have lasted if I had tried to match those standards of hers, so I decided early that I had to be my own lackadaisical self.”

“Hardly. Don't forget you're the one who
did
last.”

A gull groomed itself on the railing next to us. “The only one in my family who could hold a candle to your mother's drive and passions was your grandmother. Whatever she had got diluted in Janetta and me.”

Dad was slipping into his cozy cove of inadequacy. “Some people accomplish just as much as others, only not with the same intensity. Sara is remembered as the flamboyant one, but that doesn't mean she outdid Grandpa never missing a day of fifty years working at the bank.” I then switched to diversion tactics, as I had seen Gail do with Clancy when he had his mind set on something hazardous or unnecessary. “Do you remember that picture of Sara and her sister as little girls?”

“Vaguely.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Probably in one of those boxes in the bedroom closet. Your mother looked after those things.”

That's what I thought. The memory corner.

I brought two more coffees from the cafeteria and by the time we finished them, we were pulling into Departure Bay. A wave of vertigo hit me as we descended the steel staircase to the vehicle deck and I grabbed Dad's arm for balance until we reached my car. I hoped it wasn't a killer headache coming along for the ride, because they often struck when I was supposed to be relaxed. We drove off the ramp onto roads unknown to me, but Dad said he knew how to get to Uncle Lawrence's house, and in his usual prepared fashion, held a Nanaimo street map as backup. He had called his brother-in-law to say which ferry we would be taking, and the front door opened the minute we pulled up to the neat green and white bungalow. I had a hazy recollection of the place when I was last here as a teenager, but a family room and extra bedroom had been added, changing the shape of the house.

Uncle Lawrence met us on the front steps. He was a short, bald, pudgy man who laughed too quickly and too long to have a real sense of humour. He shook Dad's hand and went to shake mine before I gave him a polite hug, squeezing another laugh out of him like an accordion. “Doug and Lenny were here yesterday with their families. Too bad you missed them.”

“Lenny too?” I asked, immediately regretting I had shown my preference for one of his sons. Lenny piloted small planes out of Prince George and had an easy way about him. Besides Dad, he was the only relative on either side who made me feel short. Doug was foreman of a sawmill in Campbell River and a replica of his father, so by standing here talking to Uncle Lawrence I had not missed seeing Doug. Because Mom and Dad had waited almost ten years for my arrival, I was much younger than all my cousins — a grand total of four. Doug and Lenny were in their forties, and the two daughters of Mom's older sister were more like fifty. They each had families and successful careers as a lawyer and bank manager in Toronto. Of course.