For Your Tomorrow (12 page)

The third-floor room has grey walls and smells of disinfectant and medicine. A sunless north-facing window overlooks a parking lot. One side of her thin face against a pale green pillow, she sleeps; an IV pierces her arm, slowly dripping
morphine into her veins. Jeff keeps vigil at her bedside, leans in periodically to listen for her breath; he finger-combs her sparse salt-and-pepper strands of hair, the vestige of two onslaughts of chemo. She wakes, looks around the room, bewildered. She sees him sitting there, and her brown eyes soften. “Jeffy,” she sighs, “you’re here. Watching over your granny.”

He kisses her cheek, its familiar smooth softness. “I love you, Granny,” he says. She smiles, as her eyelids droop. And she drifts back again, pulled by Morpheus into her fathomless inner world. He’s there, as she slips silently through the thin veil, to a land from whence she returns no more. She never liked goodbyes.

On the last day of September, the Indian-summer sun warms the flat rocks at Fanjoy’s Point where Jeff spends all day writing her eulogy. He feels her in the wind, a soothing presence hovering over the waves, lifting the weight lodged in his heart, so he can express in words what is inexpressible. How can the world go on without her in it? He thinks about the synchronicity of her dying on September 28 at exactly the same time as Pierre Trudeau. How fitting it is that she be accompanied
through the unknown, remembered gate
by this Canadian hero—a mother of three daughters and a father of three sons, each leaving a legacy of love and service in their diverse yet common ways.

As a state funeral courses over the nation’s airwaves, Alma’s loved ones gather in a small cemetery overlooking the white-capped waves of the Northumberland Strait. Jeff stands beside the black granite headstone of his
grandfather-namesake, and eulogizes about the amazing powers of his grandmother:

Jeff helps us dismantle his grandmother’s apartment, a space exuding the warmth of a life devoted to her family—every wall and table covered with photos of her ever-changing children and grandchildren, a visual chronicle of her proudest achievement. The movers arrive to clear out her furniture and the taped-up cardboard boxes filled with her belongings. We’re about to shut the door for the final time on the life that was hers when Jeff calls to us from the kitchen: “We forgot something.” Wedged between the counter and the stove is her breadboard, still floured and caked with dough.

I
T’S MID-OCTOBER
, 2000. Jeff and Russ are driving a military van through the flaming autumn woods of New England. They’re on a road trip to Virginia where Russ—Major Francis—will be working for two weeks, coordinating Canadian military personnel and vehicles for a NATO amphibious exercise off the east coast. In the sapphire skies above Interstate 95, Canada geese are honking their arrow south, so sure of their purpose and direction. During their long hours in the van—passing through Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York—Jeff questions his father about the upcoming naval exercise as well as the elite forces in the Canadian infantry and the SAS (Special Air Service), an intelligence unit.

Although the Canadian Airborne Regiment was disbanded after the Somalia affair in 1993, Russ tells him, the Canadian military still maintains specialized companies in infantry regiments. “That’s where all the exciting stuff is happening,” he says, “where all the good courses are. The skills you learn are phenomenal.” Early in his career, at thirty-one years old, Russ had tried to join the Airborne Regiment, lured by the adventure it offered. But he was denied—too old, they said.

“I guess you have to be super-fit, eh?”

“And super-committed,” Russ says. “These guys will go on a thirty-kilometre day hike during their weekend. Not because they have to—just to stay fit.”

“Cool,” Jeff grins. “Sounds like it’s more than a job—it’s a calling.” Long fascinated by the samurai class of warriors, Jeff wonders if the Canadian military’s Special Operations Forces could inspire a similar kind of dedication and self-discipline.

He tells his father that he’s been thinking about joining the military reserve as a part-time job while finishing up his Ph.D. “I’m really sick of not having any money,” he says. “And I’d like to buy a car.”

“That’s a great idea,” Russ says, smiling. “The pay is good. Once you’re trained, you can work in the summer with the regular forces and earn almost the same salary. And the armoury is just across the Commons from Williams Street.”

“I need a break from all the head work,” Jeff says. “Maybe it would help me feel more motivated about the endless reading and writing. And make me more disciplined about it,” he sighs. “I’m having a hard time staying focused.”

He has brought along his books, so he can continue reading for his comprehensive exams while his dad works. At Virginia Beach, their second-floor hotel-apartment, elevated on stilts, overlooks the blue expanse of Chesapeake Bay. Every morning, he loads his books, some snacks and a water bottle into his backpack and heads down to the ocean. In the mellow October sun, he walks for miles along the wide beach. Then, stretched out on the sand, he reads—not Foucault and the other theorists he should be studying—but a novel his dad has passed on to him: Andy McNab’s
Bravo Two Zero
, a true story of a British SAS patrol that McNab commanded during the 1991 Gulf War. He can’t put it down. While the Atlantic roars in the background and the surf pounds on the shore, Jeff is behind enemy lines in Iraq, seeking and destroying Scud launchers, facing bitter cold, attacks, captures and torture.

The first weekend, they travel to the world’s largest naval station in Norfolk, Delaware. They meet up with Jeff’s second cousin, Matthew Francis, a sailor on one of the Canadian ships in the amphibious exercise. Matt takes them on a tour of aircraft and missile carriers, submarines and frigates. The base is in a flurry of preparations for a repatriation ceremony and the arrival of President Bill Clinton. Two days ago an American ship, refuelling in the Yemeni port of Aden, was rammed by a boat loaded with explosives. The suicide attack—courtesy of Osama bin Laden’s terrorist group, Al-Qaeda—blew up the ship’s galley and killed seventeen American sailors.

The following weekend, they visit historic Yorktown,
Virginia, where the Americans routed the British in the decisive battle of the War of Independence. Jeff thinks about the American soldiers who fought to the death on this ground two centuries ago
—they changed the course of world history
. On a brochure for the Virginia Civil War Trails Historic Sites, he jots down addresses and telephone numbers of recruiting stations for the US Army, Marine Corps, and Navy—unbeknownst to his father. Just in case. In a few weeks, he will be thirty years old. Would the Canadian military deem him, too, past his prime?

When they return in early November, Jeff withdraws into the cave of his basement study. Every day he sits in his grandmother’s gold tweed La-Z-Boy rocker, cocooned in the multi-coloured woollen afghan she knit for him. A black-and-white-tuxedo kitten he’s named Ammie, his Granny Alma’s nickname, purrs on his lap. He strokes her silky fur, and thinks about Mica, continents and oceans away, teaching in South Korea. He glances over at his desk, at the teetering tower of books that he’s ignored for weeks now; an envelope with Joselyn’s handwriting nags at him. He received her letter weeks ago, describing her faltering progress with “that damned paper” and inquiring about his research and life in Halifax. But he doesn’t know how to reply, how to articulate his state of ambiguity to her—or anybody. The rain pelts against the window, muffled footsteps and voices above, then the ringing of the phone. The door opens, and his mom calls down, “It’s Sylvie on the phone.”

He picks up the receiver, listens to her cheery voice enthuse about the party tonight. “You go ahead,” he says. “I’m
not really in the mood. And I should try to get some work done. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have fun.” The disorderly pile of papers—notes for his dissertation—and the blank computer screen glare at him accusingly. But they have no power to bring him back. Fogbound on a vast grey sea, he drifts without rudder or anchor. There is no safe refuge.

The steepled Wedgwood-blue building on the corner of Windsor and Compton looks more like a church than a Buddhist temple. But the sign above the door reads Ji Jing Chan Temple. Jeff steps across the threshold into an arch-windowed foyer fragrant with sandalwood. A low chanting echoes from the other side of the inner double doors. He turns the knob slowly. A spacious room with red damask walls, brass ornaments and soft candlelight envelops him in warmth and calm. He finds an empty cushion in the circle of people seated on the hardwood floor, their eyes lowered or closed. At the front, on a carved wooden altar, a large brass Buddha statue emanates tranquility. Below it, a man in a brown robe sits cross-legged, his upturned hands resting on his knees, his shaven head reflecting the glow of the overhead lamps.

The chanting ends, a space of silence. The monk opens his eyes and smiles. “Good evening and welcome. I am Bhanti Korida.” He scans the circle, making eye contact with each person. “Tonight, and for the next four weeks, we will talk about what freedom really means, and if it is possible to be free in this complex society. We have a lot of knowledge—libraries full of books, many people with Ph.D.s or even
two Ph.D.s. We may be very learned and intellectually sophisticated, but unless we understand ourselves, our minds will always be in conflict and we will never be free.” A jolt of energy vibrates up Jeff’s spine as the sonorous accented voice resonates in the room. “We will see that freedom means understanding the self, understanding the nature of thinking, and the nature of time. This is the journey of self-knowledge.” Jeff follows the flow of the monk’s words for the next hour and is swept up in their currents of thought. He decides to travel with this guide.

He goes regularly to early morning meditation with Bhanti, and attends his classes in the evenings. He mounts the cement steps flanked by lion-like statues, opens the white double door, and enters another world—a place removed from time and expectations, a sanctuary. In this oasis of calm, he drinks in Bhanti’s words and feels replenished:

He lingers after the class to ask questions, and Bhanti invites him into a small room off the main hall—a round wooden table, four cushioned chairs, a counter with a sink, the smell of tea and cinnamon. As Bhanti fills the kettle, Jeff asks, “So
how does a Chinese-Jamaican boy, who grows up in Toronto, become a Buddhist monk?”

“In university, I had this crazy restless mind,” Bhanti laughs. “I was always worried about not achieving, about not having enough time. I had terrible anxiety about having to get a master’s degree by the time I was twenty-five, then having to get a Ph.D. in biochemistry. I was caught in this trap of fear and thinking. I did not know how to get out. So I decided to try to quiet my mind by taking meditation classes at the Buddhist temple. And here I am … ten years later.”

“Wow. That’s a radical shift. It must have taken a lot of discipline.”

“It was a matter of survival,” Bhanti says, lighting the beeswax candle in the centre of the table. “In retrospect, I was clearly on the wrong path. My head was full, but my soul was crying for nourishment.”

Jeff breathes in slowly, inhaling the scent of honey. “University doesn’t seem to satisfy me in the same way anymore. I don’t know if the emptiness is because I just lost my grandmother … but I don’t know where to go from here.”

“You seem to be at a crossroad.” Bhanti gazes into his friend’s sad eyes. “It is as if you have outgrown your familiar clothes. Your old ideals no longer fit. Perhaps it is time for shedding your skin.”

Jeff nods. “I’m thirty years old. I have no money. I’m living with my parents. But I just sit around, not doing much about it.”

“Sitting is good,” Bhanti chuckles. “I spend a lot of time just sitting. Think about the Buddha. He sat under the Bo Tree
for seven weeks before the light came on. And Mohammed, he was forty when he sat alone in that cave in Mecca. Just sat, preparing for the quest of his life. Our society pushes us to be so busy—grasping, achieving, earning. But sometimes you have to withdraw into yourself, and just be still.”