Mating for Life (31 page)

“You could never live in this filth.”

“Maybe
you'd
have to move in with me then.”

“Fiona,” Ilsa began. She sighed and clasped her hands together, almost as though she were about to pray. “You and Tim . . . you
will
get through this.” She closed her eyes now. “He's such a good man,” she said. “I know he kept a huge secret from you, but I'm sure it was so hard for him. And also—and also, there's something I should tell you. Maybe it will help you understand just how loyal he is, how good he is. There was this one night—”

But Fiona interrupted her. “Don't, Ilsa. It was so long ago. Just leave it, okay?”

Ilsa opened her eyes wide. “
You knew
?
”

“Of course I knew. Tim told me that very night. But his honesty with me, at least under some circumstances, is not really the point anymore. A good man he might be, but I'm not sure either of us is good enough to reconcile at this point.”

“You have to do everything in your power, Fiona,” Ilsa said, her voice very soft.

“But why me? Why do I have to be the champion of our marriage? Why can't it be
him
?”

Ilsa shook her head. “Because he's not as strong as you are. No one is.”

Fiona looked back down at the stack of envelopes. She blinked quickly. She tried to be as strong as her sister thought she was. “You know, just because you feel guilty is no reason for you to be squatting in your studio—”

“I'm not squatting!” Ilsa interrupted.

“Whatever it is. I'm just saying, you really don't need to punish yourself anymore. You should get a place to live, a place for Ani and Xavier to visit.”

Ilsa didn't say anything.

“I'm sure Tim would kill me for saying this, but—well, you really should be getting a lawyer. I can help you if you want. Because Michael might be my husband's best friend, but . . . you're my sister.”

Ilsa touched Fiona's hand again, squeezing it quickly. Then they cleaned the studio together.

• • •

Later, Fiona would think that it always seemed to be when she was out gardening that the really awful calls came in. Although, so far in her life, she had only had one phone call she considered truly awful. After this afternoon, two.

“Hello?”

“Fiona. It's Liane. Something has happened. To Beck. A boating accident. He's hurt. They're airlifting him to SickKids Hospital now. You and Tim need to—you need to come. Right away. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” Liane was crying.

• • •

How did they get to Toronto? There must have been planes and cars involved, but as Fiona walked toward the front entrance of the hospital, the logistics of how she got there were completely lost to her. She walked faster, ahead of Tim. She looked back at her husband and said, “Tim. I need to run. I need to see the boys, right now.”

“Then run,” Tim said, his voice weary. He was walking slowly, like the trip there had aged him, like he was the injured one. “I'll catch up.”

She knew that what she should have done was walk into the hospital at her husband's side. She knew that her son was in surgery, that she wouldn't be able to see him, that there was absolutely nothing she could do, but she still ran. Cole needed her. Eliot needed her.
Eliot. Oh, Eliot. What will become of you now? What if Beck doesn't
— She silenced the thought by running faster.

She found them, eventually, in a waiting room on the sixth floor.

“Where's Tim?” someone asked, she wasn't sure who.

“He's coming,” she said. “He's right behind me.”

And then Helen stepped forward, stepped between her and her two boys, who were sitting, staring ahead, appearing to be in shock, which they probably were.
Oh, boys. Oh, my boys. Oh, my god.
The pain she felt nearly knocked her backward with its force. She now understood why people said they were brought to their knees by something.

“I'm sorry,” Helen was saying. “Fiona, I'm so, so sorry.”

“My god, is he . . . gone?” Pain, pain, pain everywhere. How was she still standing?

“No,
no,
” Helen said. “That's not what I meant. I meant I'm sorry because it's my fault, all my fault. Getting the stupid boat, not watching them carefully enough. I'm so sorry.”

Fiona stood staring at her mother, taking her in.
It's my fault.
And it was true, there was probably a time Fiona would have blamed Helen completely, for this, for everything. But now she said, “Of course it's not your fault, Mom. Please don't blame yourself.” And she allowed her mother to hold her and hug her the way she desperately wanted to hug her sons, because she understood that that was what her mother needed. And also because this was what she needed from her mother. When she knew it was enough for both of them, she moved across the room to her boys.

“Boys,” she whispered. “Boys. It's going to be okay. Mommy's here.” And they both stood and pressed against her. “It's not your fault,” she said to both of them. “It's not your fault, either. Got it?”

• • •

Tim arrived and they spoke with a nurse. Beck's doctor wasn't available, of course, because he was performing the surgery. The words Fiona remembered the nurse saying:
head injury, brain trauma, small hemorrhage
.
Small,
the nurse said again. Fiona had no concept of what the diameter meant.
Hopeful,
the nurse said. Well, she said something other than “hopeful,” she must have put the word into a sentence, something like, “The doctors are very hopeful,” but Fiona was having trouble processing the words the woman was saying because she knew that somewhere in the hospital her son was lying on a gurney, and his skull was open and vulnerable to the world instead of closed and protected the way it should be, and his brain was bleeding and they were trying to stop it. Small, big, it didn't
matter, there was a hemorrhage, and they were trying to stop it, but they might not be able to, or they might do damage in the process, which meant she could lose her boy in other ways even if she didn't lose him completely.

What made it more painful was that everyone seemed to think it was his or her fault, and it wasn't. It wasn't Eliot's fault, even though he had been driving the boat. And it wasn't Cole's fault, even though he had been somewhere else, and had whispered to her that if only he had been with his brother, this wouldn't have happened. And it wasn't Helen's fault, for getting the boat in the first place.

It was Fiona's fault, because she had become so wrapped up in her own life she had forgotten about them, she had left them alone to make the bad choices that children, and teenage boys especially, were wont to make.

She closed her eyes. She pressed her lips together. But she couldn't stop the tears, and realized she didn't want to.
If he survives, I'll do anything,
she said, and realized she was praying. She couldn't remember the last time she had prayed.
Dear God, please help me. Please help my son. Please be with those doctors, please guide their hands. Please be with us all. Please be with Tim. Please help me.
Funny, she thought to herself, her thoughts growing a little less blurry.
So many of us say we don't believe in God, but we do. When the chips are down, we do. We get right in the foxhole.
Dear God, please be with my son. Please help him. Please save him. Please save all of us.

• • •

The nurse had said the surgery was going to take another six hours at least. Six hours. Fiona didn't know if she could bear it, but what choice did she have?

They sat in the waiting room. They drank tea. They did not eat. The boys were silent, but every ten minutes or so she would reach for one of their hands. And then finally Cole
said, “I need to go for a walk. Come on, Eliot, let's go.” And he looked at Fiona, and then at Tim. “Is that okay?” her little boy said. “Of course,” Tim said, and Fiona realized she had said “Of course” at the same time, and that Tim was reaching for his wallet and handing them both what seemed like way too much money. “Get yourselves some food, when was the last time you ate?” This was usually her department.

The nurse had suggested going for walks, even getting outside for air, but Fiona didn't see how she could possibly leave the hospital. What if something happened and she wasn't there?

Still, after twenty minutes with the boys still gone, she realized she needed to walk, too. “I think I need to get a little air as well,” she said, and stood. No one offered to go with her, but she knew this wasn't because they didn't want to. They were waiting for her to ask for company. She didn't.

She took the elevator down and ended up in the main lobby, where she had been, hours that had felt like days, before. She saw the Starbucks and went to stand in the line.

Maybe I'll get a muffin.

But halfway through the lineup, she realized she didn't want a muffin. There was a lump in her throat she knew she would be unable to swallow over. And she didn't want to stand still.

She walked toward the front doors of the hospital and out into the sunlight. She continued to the street and stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the hospital.
Somewhere, in there, lies my son. Inside there is my family. Somewhere, my other two sons are walking, or sitting, or talking, or not talking. Somewhere in there, something small is bleeding, and they're trying to stop it.

She turned away from the hospital. She looked at her watch. Three more hours. She started to walk. She was surprised by the fact that Toronto still felt like home, by the way the CN tower quickly became a landmark, a beacon, by the
way the familiar buildings seemed to hold her, to keep her from stumbling or falling to the ground and screaming up at the sky. She passed the other hospitals, Mount Sinai, Women's College, and she thought,
There are other people in those hospitals, other families, other children, other people dying, or not dying, or being born, or not being born.

She headed down University. She turned right on Queen. She walked past the stores, the bars, the restaurants, the street musicians. She did not process what had changed and what had not since the last time she had been in the city. She turned left on Spadina.

Eventually she got to the bridge. She stopped, stood at the edge, looked down at the train tracks, then across and toward the lake. A haze hung over it. A plane was descending to land on the airport on the island. For a moment she felt panicked that she was so far away from the hospital. She looked at her watch. Two and a half more hours. She kept watching the plane until it disappeared from sight. Then she watched the white shapes of the seagulls, feathers shining in the sun, flying up, down, around, over. They seemed beautiful from afar, even though she knew they weren't.

Finally, she called Tim. He answered right away. “Fiona. Where are you? Are you okay?”

“Has there been any word?”

“No. Nothing.”

She swallowed over the lump. “Do you remember when we lived here, and do you remember when there was the blackout, when I still worked at the school and you worked on Bay Street, and . . . do you remember all the phones were out, and I didn't have a cell phone, and we had no way to reach each other?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what we decided that night, by candlelight, when we finally did make it home to each other?
Remember what you told me? You said we needed to have a disaster plan, as a family. I think you were still thinking about 9/11. You said, ‘If something bad ever happens, get the boys and go to the bridge at Spadina and Front.' Remember? And I said . . . I said, ‘Something bad, like what, like the end of the world?' And you said, ‘Yes, if it's the end of the world, go there, and I'll come find you.'”

Silence. And then Tim said, “Yes. I remember that.”

“Well, I'm there. It's the end of the world, and I'm on that bridge. Will you please come find me?”

She waited. He did come, and when he did, they hesitated, but then they reached for each other. She started to sob, not caring what the people walking past them might think.
It's the end of the world,
she wanted to say to a girl who looked askance at them as she tapped at the screen of her cell phone.
It's the end of the world, you should go be with the person you love
. Instead, she buried her face in her husband's shoulder. When she didn't think she could cry anymore, she lifted her head.

“When all this is over, when Beck is recovering . . .” she said, keeping her voice firm, because he
would
recover, there was no other option. “When things have settled a little, we should sit the boys down and we should tell them everything together. We should even tell them who their asshole of a grandfather is. They might get a kick out of that, right?” She laughed in the way only a person who has just been sobbing can laugh. Tim laughed, too. She had told him about her father, during therapy, and he had marveled over how many of the band's albums were in the house, yet Fiona had never said anything. “And then . . . you should invite her to come stay with us for a while. Samira. Invite her here. It's the right thing to do. ”

Tim reached for her again. The embrace was different this time. “Thank you,” he whispered. She could still feel it
between them, everything that had been said and done, all the ways in which they had taken each other for granted, all the hurt and resentment. But the flow had stopped. The hemorrhaging was over. Maybe they would never be the same again, but they would survive this. She would champion her marriage and she would succeed, because Fiona did not fail.

17

Black Vulture
(
Coragyps atratus
)

Black vultures discourage infidelity. In fact, all nearby vultures attack any vulture caught philandering. These creatures do mate for life in the social sense of living together in pairs, but they rarely stay strictly faithful, and many males often end up raising offspring who are not their own, sometimes unwittingly.

H
i, it's me! I have news,” Liane said.

“You're getting married. You're pregnant.”

“Nope. Laurence and I are
not
getting married. We're going to live in sin forever.”

Ilsa laughed. “Well, then. Congratulations on your nonengagement.”

“Thank you very much. Would you like to hear our reasons?”

“Of course.”

“There's really only one main reason: because we want to wake up next to each other every day for the rest of our lives and know that we're there because we want to be, not because we have to be. And because we don't want the girls to think that marriage is the only option, that you have to do it out of duty, that you have to contractually tie yourself to someone in order for love to mean anything.”

“Very progressive.”

“Well, I do spend most of my time at a university. All those young minds must be rubbing off on me.”

“You sound like Helen, by the way.”

“Indeed. The waking up beside each other because we want to is a direct Helen quote. She's become very good at giving advice lately. Anyway, Fiona says you're having a show. At Patrick Francis's gallery in New York. And that it opens next Saturday. And I want you to know I'm coming. Me and Laurence, and Isabel, too, who is, apparently, sort of eager to see Cole. Isn't that cute? She'd also really like to see Beck, to make absolutely certain that he is, as Fiona and Tim say he is, making a full recovery. To be honest, I'd like to see that for myself as well.”

“You should definitely come see Beck—he's doing great. But you don't have to go to the trouble of coming to my opening, it's just a small show at a gallery no one's ever heard of.”

“It's
your s
how. And I've heard of the gallery.”

“That's because we went to school with Patrick.”

“Ilsa, of course I'm going to come! I want to support you.”

“Okay, but you should know, this isn't really like any art I've ever done before.”

“Exciting! I can't wait to see it.”

Later, Ilsa hung up the phone and stood in the middle of her studio, now her home. The room contained a single bed with a wrought-iron frame that she'd found at an antique store, and the furniture that had been at her studio before—two barstools, a shorter stool that she sat on in front of canvases, a drafting table. The armoire that had housed her old paintings and letters now housed her clothes and shoes; the shelves that had held painting supplies and detritus in general now housed books, necessities; and her art supplies lived on shelves she'd affixed to the walls and secretly believed
would probably one day come crashing down because she had never had to install anything before.

Ilsa looked at her watch. She still had a few minutes before she had to leave to pick Ani up from school, as she did each day now. She'd take her home for lunch, where Xavier would be waiting with the nanny. Home as in her old home, but no longer her actual home. Some days she knew she had made the right decision, and other days she couldn't believe that she had done this terrible thing.

It's not forever. One day I'll have a home to share with my daughter and son.
So far, Ani and Xavier seemed to be adjusting all right to the change. If anything, they saw Ilsa more. Ilsa painted—or attempted to paint; she was still having trouble and her latest show actually had nothing to do with painting—in the mornings and evenings, and spent her afternoons with Ani and Xavier. Sometimes she'd give the kids dinner and then leave when Michael got home. She and Michael were always cordial to each other. Sometimes she stayed and fell asleep on the couch if he was going to be late, or slept over when he was traveling on business.

It was a strange arrangement, but it was working. Or at least it wasn't spectacularly
not
working. And one day, things would change. She didn't know how, but they would. Didn't they always? It was the one thing you could count on in life.

I should probably clean up
. The studio was messy again; when Fiona visited, she always brought her cleaning supplies. Ilsa crossed the room and picked up a stack of books. Old journals, things she had taken out of drawers, looked at, and never put back. Maybe, if she cleaned up more often, she'd be able to bring herself to show her children where she lived. But she grew distracted, as she did every time she tried to clean. She opened the cover of one of the journals. It was red leather with a fishnet pattern embossed on the front. The entry she glanced at was from the cottage, two summers
before. She'd been reading a Violet Trefusis biography. She remembered she'd been struck by the lines she read, which she'd recorded in her journal:

Heaven preserve us from all the sleek and dowdy virtues, such as punctuality, conscientiousness, fidelity and smugness! What great man was ever constant? What great queen was ever faithful? Novelty is the very essence of genius and will always be. If I were to die tomorrow, think how I should have lived!

She shook her head. She had indeed decided to
live,
to shirk all those “sleek and dowdy” virtues, and it had very nearly destroyed her. Did she regret it? She still wasn't sure. What surprised her was how lonely she felt sometimes, when all she had craved was the space to be who she was. It also surprised her that there were times when she thought of Lincoln and felt an ache that wasn't hatred or anger. She had practically sacrificed her ­marriage for him before deciding to sacrifice it simply for herself. She had carried and lost his child. It seemed strange to her that he was not in her life, not even on the periphery. She never saw him and Fiona never spoke of him. She supposed she could ask, but couldn't bring herself to do that. And what would Fiona say?
Yes, he still exists. Yes, he is still in this world. No, he has never asked about you
. Time would heal it. That was one thing you could be certain of in life. At least, she hoped.

• • •

“Hi, Ani!”

Ilsa looked up from lining up her purchases on the black conveyor belt at the organic supermarket close to the house: rice milk, elderflower water, arugula, mushrooms, berries, a maple-flavored candy for Ani, who was standing behind her
and who had patiently endured her mother's wandering up and down the aisles and coming up nearly empty. Michael was working late that night and she was making dinner for the children.

Ani was looking at the woman shyly. “Hi,” Ilsa said, a question in her voice. The woman had olive skin, aquiline features, and curly hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She was skinny and tall. Something about her lithe shape suggested boundless energy, even though she was standing still.

“I'm Tabitha,” said the woman, smiling at Ilsa with closed lips.

“Ilsa,” said Ilsa, not smiling at all even though she was certain she was supposed to.

“We did meet, back when you first moved into the neighborhood. I stopped by. We live on the corner of Oak Leaf and Elm.” The woman said this proudly. Ilsa knew she was supposed to be impressed. Those were the two most desirable streets in the neighborhood, she had heard someone say once. Maybe
this
woman, when they had supposedly met.

“We had coffee. Your daughter had just been born. You kept her in her carrier the whole time.” The woman let out a short laugh and Ilsa felt embarrassed. Those days had been a blur. She didn't remember Tabitha, but she did remember the carrier. It was a sling, actually, a complicated one that came with a DVD and made Ilsa cry several times, as she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, searching for clues. Once she got it to work and tucked Ani into it and Ani stopped crying and settled her downy head on Ilsa's aching chest, Ilsa wouldn't take her out until she absolutely had to. And this woman said she had stopped by. Had coffee. Ilsa shook her head slightly. No. She didn't remember. “I'm sorry . . .”

“Hi, Ani,” the woman said again, smiling and nodding encouragingly at Ani. Ani looked up at her mother. Ilsa didn't nod or encourage.

“My daughter, Georgie, is in Ani's class. They adore each other. Ani is all Georgie talks about.”

“Right,” Ilsa said. “Of course. Georgie.”

“They're best friends,” Tabitha said, talking to Ilsa but looking at Ani, still smiling and nodding. “She'll be so sad she wasn't with me today when we ran into you!” She turned to Ilsa. “She's at home with her father and brothers right now. Mommy's afternoon out!”

“Mmm, wow, grocery shopping,” Ilsa said, and realized after she said it that she might have sounded sarcastic.

“We should plan a playdate,” said the woman. She was pulling out her wallet. She handed Ilsa a card. “Here. Get in touch. Wednesdays are usually perfect for us. You?” Now Ilsa glanced at Ani and saw something like hope in her eyes. Ilsa took the card.

“Thank you,” Ilsa said, looking down at the card.
Tabitha Woods,
the card read.
Rugrat Wrangler
.

Tabitha laughed that short laugh again. “Aren't they hilarious? One of my mom friends got them for me as a joke, but they're actually quite useful for setting up playdates.”

Ilsa thought for a second about her own childhood, about all the traveling, the summers at the cottage. How, when they were home, Helen welcomed all the neighborhood children in and let her own children run house to house. It felt like they had complete freedom, that she and Liane could run all over the neighborhood if they wanted to, hide between the houses, come home when the streetlights came on. She suddenly hated the term
playdate
. But Ani. Ani wanted this. And it wasn't the kind of world anymore where you could just let your children run free.

The cashier had started ringing up her purchases. “Nice to meet you,” Ilsa said, and pocketed the card, while Tabitha gave her a strange look.
Right. We already met.

“Bye, Ani!” the woman said brightly.

Ani didn't say anything back and Ilsa thought maybe she was supposed to admonish her, say something like,
Say goodbye to the nice lady, Ani
. But she didn't, and Tabitha left and Ilsa paid for her purchases, took her daughter's hand, and walked home with her. “I love you, Ani,” Ilsa said when they were halfway there.

“I love you, too,” Ani said, and squeezed her hand. “Look!” She pointed up to the sky. “The pretty birds!” They were vultures, which Ilsa secretly always found slightly terrifying. But Ani always pointed them out and exclaimed over them when she saw them flying over a wooded area close to the house.

“Yes, the pretty birds. Do you want to have a playdate with Georgia?”

“Georgie. Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to sleep at our house again, every night, soon?”

What if I'm wrong? What if this is the wrong thing, not the right thing? What if she's not going to see this as me having integrity, but instead as me tearing her life apart when she was only four?

“No,” Ilsa finally said. “No, I don't think I am.” Saying it didn't hurt as much as the moment
before
saying it had. “But I'm always going to see you, every day, and I'm always going to love you, always, always, always . . . and one day soon I'll have my own house, and you can come there, and maybe sometimes . . .” She realized she was saying too much. She squeezed Ani's hand again and hoped she wouldn't ask more questions. She didn't. They walked in silence. But Ilsa thought maybe it wasn't a sad silence. She thought maybe it was a hopeful one.

• • •

Ilsa was surprised at how full the gallery was the night of her show's opening. She had been nervous, almost debilitatingly so, had imagined no one coming at all, an empty room, just her and Patrick, her sensing his disappointment and feeling it mix with her shame, not only at the poor showing, but at what she had tried to pawn off as art.
You didn't even pick up a brush. All you did was cut, paste, shellac. Ani could have done it.

Her whole family was there: Fiona and Tim hand in hand, Tim smiling and kind, without any bitterness underlying his words, no accusation in his eyes indicating that he held it against her that she had left his best friend; Beck, looking almost healed, only with shorter hair, a scar you could see when he turned his head, and a slightly chastened expression; Cole, handsome and proud with young Isabel beside him; Samira, Tim's daughter; Ilsa was very nearly over saying it, but it still gave her a tiny little shock every time—with her long, caramel-colored hair and eyes that were like Tim's and mouth that was like someone else's; Laurence and Liane, Beatrice between them in a black and red dress with crinoline under the skirt, staring at the artwork, wide-eyed. (“Pretty,” Ilsa had heard her say, and tried not to feel embarrassed that Beatrice was pointing to a small square of paper decoupaged to the page that was, in fact, Ilsa's breast.) But in addition to her family, there were also dozens and dozens of others, some friends, some fellow artists, and some people, many people, she didn't even know. She felt warmth in the buzz of conversation. Plus, Patrick had told her that one lone woman, slowly traversing the room with a thoughtful but not unimpressed expression, was an art critic for the
Village Voice
.

A few moments later, Helen arrived and began to walk around the room, stopping respectfully in front of each piece before approaching Ilsa with two glasses of champagne. “I already knew this, and I'm sure I've told you this before, but here it is again: you're brilliant.”