Amazing Grace (24 page)

“You listen to that crackpot,” Nan tsks. “Who appointed her the queen of advent calendars? You should stay away from that lot. They're crazier than a bag of hammers.”

“You never joined a church league?”

“Who needs the aggravation? I've never met a more judgemental bunch in my life.”

“I can't believe I'm defending the church, but they have their good points. All the money they raise is funnelled into projects for the less fortunate.”

“I was a less fortunate, and no one darkened my door when I was trying to raise Fletcher on my own. Don't get me started.”

When the phone rings I gingerly pick it up with my fingertips, trying not to glue myself to it. “Hello?”

“Hi, Gee! It's me!”

“Hello, you. What's new?”

“We're going to Florida for Christmas. Wanna come?”

“No thanks, honey, but have fun.”

“Oh, we will. Juni is coming with us.”

“Don't her parents want her home for Christmas?”

“Remember that divorce thing? The battle is still raging—she's coming with me as a not-so-subtle way of letting them know neither of them are winning.”

“Good for her. And your mother? Won't she miss you?”

“Oh, she will, but she's too sick to notice.”

“Sick?”

“She's having a baby. Isn't that gross?”

“A baby! So you'll have a half-brother or sister! How marvellous.”

“That part is cool.”

Jonathan gets on the phone and wishes us all the best for Christmas. He sounds very happy and relaxed. Whitney is living with them now, which I think is a bit hasty, but no one asked my opinion so I'll keep it to myself. When I finally get off the phone, I give a big sigh.

“I love it when they call to tell me happy news. It makes me feel like I'm surrounded by family.”

“What am I, chopped liver? I don't see any of them sitting here sacrificing their fingers for your sake.”

I lean over and kiss Nan on the forehead. “You're the best.”

“Remember that.”

Every year I buy two Christmas arrangements to put on Aunt Pearl's and Aunt Mae's graves. This year we have snow, and the graveyard looks peaceful in its white finery. Lots of snow has stayed on the fir trees, making them even more beautiful. The day is cold and crisp, with a robin's-egg-blue sky peeking from behind the clouds rushing by. I love the silence of this place. My aunts rest easy here. As I admire the pine and holly berries against their headstones, I think while this is a lovely place to be buried, I'd prefer to have my ashes scattered over my hill. Unless Fletcher already has a plot somewhere, but I doubt it. We should discuss these things, I guess. It's hard for me to believe I've weathered sixty years. Inside I'm still twenty. Aunt Mae used to say, “When I look in the mirror my mother looks back at me.”

What does my mother look like, if she's even alive? I'll never know unless Maria can tell me something. I push the thought aside quickly. I bend my knees to touch the ground in front of Aunt Pearl's marker with my gloved hand. “My loyalty will always be to you. I should have told you I loved you long before I knew you were dying. I hope you knew I did, despite my nonsense.”

Can't forget little Aunt Mae; I touch the snow where she lies too. It gives me comfort to know that these two sisters are together forever, throughout the seasons, while days turn into nights for all time. I doubt it will happen for me.

A brand-new year is upon us, and after the excitement of Christmas it's always a bit of a let-down. No more “Merry Christmas” to shout across the street. The village is in for its long winter's hibernation. Fletcher and I and our furry family spend our evenings in front of the fire. Fletch still dozes through his television programs, but he doesn't snore anymore. My new project is knitting sweaters for penguins. After an oil spill, even when penguins are cleaned off, they can still poison themselves by preening, so knitters across the world are making colourful little sweaters to try and save them from man's stupidity. I've got half of the church women doing it and we send off a parcel quite frequently. The only one who says it's hogwash is Delima.

“A sweater for a penguin? What's next? Pyjamas for polar bears?”

I'm cutting up grapefruit for breakfast one morning in February when I get a call from Jonathan.

“Mom, Grandmother died.”

“Lydia died? Oh no, I'm so sorry. I didn't know she was ill.”

“She died in her sleep. Natural causes, they said. I was wondering if you'd like to go to the funeral.”

“Yes indeed. Lydia was so kind to me. I suppose your grandfather doesn't want me there.”

“I didn't ask him one way or the other. I want you there. The service is on Friday.”

Fletcher stays to keep the home fires burning, and once more I find myself in New York, only this time I'm going without the heartache and uncertainty. Both Jonathan and Whitney pick me up, and Whitney is a completely different girl on her own turf. Bright, bubbly, and so welcoming. As long as she never comes back to a Cape Breton beach, she'll be fine.

The townhouse is adorable and the two of them are like excited kids showing me around. There's nothing like a woman's touch to bring a home alive. Linn and I have a great reunion and Juni comes tearing down the stairs with Melissa to jump into my arms. All of us sit around the dining-room table and gossip for hours while we obliterate Linn's pad Thai. She remembered I loved it.

“We should be penpals,” I tell her as I help put the dishes in the dishwasher.

“So fun! Yes!”

Lydia's funeral is held at St. Patrick's Cathedral, a magnificent church in the heart of New York City. There are hundreds of people here; the Willingdon name is well known in this part of the world. Oliver's cronies, his business associates, politicians, and even celebrities, the kind of people Lydia had such a hard time with. But I'm grateful that Jonathan and Whitney's friends are here to support him and even some of Melissa's chums show up. Deanne and Andre are also with us, and the dear woman looks quite peaky. I give her tummy a pat and tell her how pleased I am.

Oliver doesn't acknowledge anyone as he sits in the front pew; it's easy to avoid him. I don't want to upset the man. Lydia was his wife, for better or worse, and I know this must be a terrible day for him.

The ceremony is long, with communion. I don't go up to the altar but spend my time thinking about the wonderful woman I knew as my mother-in-law. Her brooch is pinned to my coat, which Jonathan noticed right away before we left the house.

The burial is private—only immediate family proceed to Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn.

Oliver doesn't speak to any of us, not even Lydia's family from California. He stands alone, not wanting anyone near him. The rest of us are on the other side of the grave. It's while I watch him there, staring at the graves of his wife and son, that I feel something let go inside. My intense hatred for him seeps away. He's an old man who's lost his entire family.

Once the last prayer is read and people begin to depart, walking slowly arm in arm, I turn to Jonathan. “Go ahead, I'll only be a moment.”

He gives me an uncertain look. “All right. We'll be in the limo.”

As I approach Oliver, he keeps his head down. Only when I stop beside Aaron's grave does he speak.

“Leave me alone.”

“I loved Lydia. She was a wonderful woman. I needed to pay my respects.”

“You have. Now leave.”

“Oliver, I want to tell you that I forgive you for taking Jonathan away from me. I need to let it go so I can move on. The night Aaron died was horrific and I realize the despair of losing your only child made you crazy.”

“No, you did that. A girl from some backwater, with no education or breeding. It was laughable.”

I look away for a moment and compose myself. “I also want to tell you that I'm sorry Aaron and I lied to you about Jonathan. It wasn't fair to any of us, least of all Jonathan himself. It was a big mistake and I regret it.”

He takes two sudden steps and gets right in my face. “You took my grandson away from me. You made him hate me. Everything I worked for, he's throwing away. My life's work is up in flames because of you.”

“You can blame me if you want to; it makes no difference to me. But let me give you some advice. Family is all there is, and you have one last crack at it. Jonathan and Whitney could have ten babies in the future. Melissa could have as many herself. You have a whole new group of people coming along that can belong to you, if you let them. Or you can live in your house alone until you die, surrounded by your stockpile of money. You should choose wisely.”

When I turn and walk away from the man who caused me such misery, my heart feels much lighter. By forgiving him, my relationship with Oliver is finally over. He can't hurt me anymore. I scramble into the limo and sit back in the seat with a sigh.

“You okay?” Jonathan asks.

“Yes.” I give his hand a squeeze.

When I get home, I'm going to call Maria.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It takes me three days to work up the nerve to call her. Fletcher promises to stay in the garage and not disturb me. Why I need to be alone, I haven't figured out yet. The poor dogs and cats are corralled in two separate rooms, all of them confused and annoyed. I place a glass of water on the table and a box of tissues. The last thing I put near the phone is the spoon I found at the compound. Not that Maria had anything to do with the tree house, but it was there when Maria and I were sisters.

My hands are shaking when I pick up the phone. What is her voice going to sound like? What if she hangs up?

“Stop it!” I yell at myself. I dial the number and it starts ringing. The wait is torture, but no one picks up. There doesn't seem to be an answering machine, either, not that I would've left a message. In my mind I see her ignoring the ringing phone because somehow she knows its me. I slam the phone down. “I don't want to talk to you either.”

Everyone is allowed out of their allotted rooms. I grab my winter jacket and march to the garage. Fletcher looks up from the hood of a car.

“She didn't answer,” I tell him.

“She's not home.”

“No, she just didn't answer. I don't need this.”

“Stop spiralling and take a deep breath.”

“I'm going for a walk.”

“Good.”

The big dogs come with me as I climb the hill to try and heal my bruised ego, which is totally ridiculous. Fletcher's right. The poor woman is probably out shopping with a friend, or she's gone to Cuba for a holiday. Just because she didn't answer the first time I tried to reach her doesn't mean she's rejected me again. Stop being a baby.

But I try several times to call over the ensuing weeks and no one answers. Jonathan checks back with the detectives and they assure him it's the right number and that a Maria Evans, formally Maria Fairchild, is living there.

Now I wish I hadn't bothered, because my mood is definitely darker.

Fletch comes in for his midday meal, a tuna salad stuffed into pita bread. Tom and Jerry rub up against his legs hoping for a flake of tuna to drop. “You should go to Toronto. Go knock on her door.”

“Why would I waste the money?”

“Because you're sad, Grace. You're sad. Do us both a favour and rip this bandage off once and for all.”

So on April 1 (so appropriate), I'm standing in front of a small non-
descript brick building in Scarborough, east of Toronto. It's rundown, almost like it's given up. Inside is not much better. The place hasn't been painted in years. What a depressing place to come home to.

Her apartment is on the second floor and as I make my way up, various smells of cooking and rotten garbage greet me. I proceed down the corridor and look for her apartment number. I hear music blaring from behind one wall and arguing behind another. There's also the faint wail of a baby crying.

“Oh, Maria. How did you end up here?”

I'm now face to face with her closed apartment door. Do I want it to open? My stomach feels sick, but I take a deep breath and knock.

Silence. I knock again and put my ear to the door. There's no sound from inside. My disappointment is deep. To keep preparing for an encounter, only to have it turn into nothing, is killing me. This is going to have to stop. I did my best. Fletcher is home waiting for me. My family is complete.

There's a noise behind me. A middle-aged man in his undershirt peeks around the edge of his door. “Are you knocking for me?”

“Sorry, no. You couldn't tell me when the lady who lives here gets home?”

“Someone said she's in the hospital.”

Unbelievably, that has never occurred to me. “Oh no. Do you know why?”

“I mind my own business. All I can tell you is that she's a drunk.” With that he slams his door shut.

“And you're an asshole!”

The rest of the day I spend on the phone, calling every hospital in the city. No one's heard of her. Tears fall off the tip of my nose as I dial. A drunk, he said. My beautiful Ave Maria, with her golden hair and lovely, creamy complexion. What godawful things happened to her? My heart might break right here in this lousy motel room.

I'm down to my last two phone numbers. Once more I explain that I'm looking for my sister, whom I understand has been admitted to hospital. I give them her name, address, and phone number and ask them to check. The girl puts me on hold. It gives me a chance to blow my nose.

She comes back on. “Yes, we have a Maria Evans from the same address listed here. She's on the fourth floor, room 410.”

“Thank you so much!”

Maria is close. It's so much to take in that I call Fletcher and tell him the news.

“I'm sorry to hear she's ill. It's a good thing you went.”

“The man from the apartment across the hall says she's a drunk.”

“Oh dear. Be careful, Grace.”

“You were the one who told me to come here!”

“Just don't jump in with both feet. Perhaps you could talk to her doctors before you introduce yourself. She may not be up to such news. Don't be hasty.”

“You're right, but I just want this over with. I'll call you tomorrow. Everything okay there?”

He chuckles.

“What?”

“Dora came over today with cold chicken and a salad, dressing on the side.”

“That was nice.”

“You've sure changed your tune.”

“Harvey is a mackerel expert. The woman is starved for normal conversation.”

My sleep is fitful, and I spend most of my time staring at the alarm clock. After all these years, I'm getting my wish, so how come it feels like I'm going to my execution?

The hospital elevator opens onto the fourth floor. My last chance to stop this. The doors start to close again, but I reach out and push them back. Once I get my bearings, I see the nurses' station on the right, halfway down the hall. That's where I head.

“Excuse me, could you tell me what room Maria Evans is in?”

The young man looks at the computer. “Room 410. She's in the far bed.”

“Thank you.”

I walk exactly how I did when I went to the compound, taking small, reluctant steps. Completely around the fourth floor. If I'd started in the opposite direction, hers would have been the first room. Doesn't matter, I needed that time to prepare.

The room is made up of curtained walls, most of which are pulled back to some degree. One of the beds is empty, but the other two have elderly women in them who are in desperate need of a hairdresser. I give them a quick nod and head to the last bed on the left. The curtain is completely around the bed, and I'm unsure if I should intrude.

“It's okay, dear,” one of the patients says. “She's in there, but she likes quiet.”

“Thank you.”

My heart pounds as I peek around the curtains and instantly I get the shock of my life. She looks like Aunt Mae. A very sick and thin Aunt Mae, but still. There's immediate relief that I know this woman after all. She looks like family.

Her eyes open as I walk towards her. “Maria?”

She doesn't respond.

“Ave Maria, it's me. It's Grace, your sister, Amazing Grace.”

I reach out to touch her hand but she pulls it away.

At this point I'm overwhelmed. “Don't you remember? I'm your sister. We haven't seen each other in a very long time.”

She tries to focus, but the effort seems too much. Her head sinks back into the pillow and she shuts her eyes.

“You're tired, I'll come back later.”

Whether she hears me or not I don't know, but I immediately leave the room and go in search of a washroom so I can lock myself in and stop hyperventilating. When I look in the mirror I'm as white as a sheet. I splash some water on my face so I don't faint, and then I sit on the john and rock back and forth.

She's so ill. I've come too late. If only I had looked for her when Jonathan told me that night on the phone. All these months wasted, and it's no one's fault but my own. How could I have been so selfish?

I'm not sure how long I'm in the washroom, but eventually someone wants to get in, so I gather myself and walk to the nurses' station. The same young male nurse is at the desk.

“Excuse me, where can I find Maria Evans's doctor? I'm her sister from out of town and I'd like to speak to him.”

“He'll be here at one. I can mention that you'd like to see him.”

“Great. Do you know where I can get a coffee?”

“We have a cafeteria on the lower level.”

In four hours I've had three extra-large cups of coffee and an overpowering urge to smoke, but instead I stuff my face with two brownies encased in cling-wrap that just happen to be by the cash register to entice the inevitable impulse buyer like me. They are delicious, more so because I haven't had a sweet in months. All I do is sit at a cafeteria table and shake my foot, trying to keep myself together.

At a quarter to one I'm at the nurses' desk once more.

“I'm here. I'll just wait outside the doors on a chair in the corridor. Please don't forget to tell him.”

“Sure thing.”

An hour and a half goes by before a clean-shaven man with a stethoscope around his neck takes a peek out those same doors. I hold my hand up and he comes over and shakes my hand before sitting himself.

“Hello, I'm Dr. Orrell. You wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes, I'm Maria Evans's sister, Grace, but we lost contact when we were girls and I've just now found her. You're not her family doctor, are you?”

“No, she doesn't have one as far as I can tell.”

“Is she dying?”

He gives me a sympathetic look. “I'm afraid so. She has stage four breast cancer.”

“Damn. It runs in our family.”

“Unfortunately, Maria was already compromised when she arrived here. It's very clear she's been an alcoholic most of her life. On top of that she also has early onset dementia.”

“Oh god, dementia's in the family as well. I'm too late, aren't I? She won't remember me, or be able to tell me anything of her life.”

“Often their long-term memory is much better than their short-term, so it might be possible for her to remember you, but as she's so ill, it's hard for her to communicate. She's here because there's nowhere else for her to go.”

“So she doesn't have a family?”

“No one has come to visit.”

“What a terrible waste. I wish there was something I could do.”

“There is. Our nurses are very busy; having a family member be able to sit with her would be a real blessing.”

“How long does she have?”

“A few weeks, perhaps. We never know.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate you filling me in.”

He shakes my hand again. “If you could let them know that you're her next of kin. There are papers to be filled out.”

“Certainly.”

I'm so drained at this point that I leave the hospital without going back to see her. I need to gather my wits about me. When I get back to my motel room, I fall on the bed and lay there until the outside street lights turn on. Then I call Fletcher and tell him that I'll stay here until she dies and bring her back with me to be buried beside Aunt Pearl and Aunt Mae.

“Do you want me to come?” says Fletcher. “I can come and stay with you, if you want.”

“No. No, I need to be with my sister, just the two of us. I want to take care of her until the end.”

“Well, don't you worry about anything. I've got it covered.”

There's nothing more wonderful than a man who takes care of everything.

Except two men who take care of everything. Jonathan calls me half an hour later.

“Mom, I'm sorry to hear about your sister.”

“It's a bitter pill. I should have reached out sooner, but I'll do my best for her now. At least she'll be with family in Cape Breton.”

“Look, I want to make things easy for you. I've booked you into a nice hotel closer to the hospital and you can collect your car rental tomorrow at the front desk.”

“But Fletcher—”

“I've spoken to Fletcher and told him I want to do this for you, and he's okay with it. Also, when it's time for you to come home, just give me the name of the funeral parlour and I'll take care of it, as well as your plane ticket.”

“You don't know what this means to me,” I manage to squeak out.

“I do know, Mom. I love you.”

My son loves me.

I'm in Toronto for the entire month of April. Every day I spend at the hospital in a chair by Maria's bed. She doesn't know who I am, but I notice after a while that she visibly relaxes when I walk in. I feed her like a baby bird and cut up fresh fruit in tiny bites to slip onto her tongue. She likes bananas the best.

The nurses know me by name and one of them will always stop and chat for a moment while attending to Maria. I've also become friends with the ladies in the other beds, but mostly I pull the curtain around my sister's bed so I can have her all to myself. She lets me hold her hand now.

I rattle on about how much she hated when I mimicked her behind her back. She'd chase me but I'd run like the wind and she'd give up. Or the time we tried to make breakfast in bed for our mom, but we spilled a glass of orange juice all over everything on the tray.

“Do you remember my friend Helen? She and I would play in the tree house.”

She tries to say something, but it's garbled.

“Yes! We were always together. I think you remember her, don't you?”

That reminds me of the pictures I brought with me, to show her my life back home, thinking maybe she'd enjoy them. So one day when she's a little clearer, but oh so weak, I prop her up with pillows all around and lean over to show her the photographs one by one.

“This is my husband, Fletcher, with our dogs. Do you see the tiny one? Her name is Beulah, and she's as saucy as anything.”