Mating for Life (25 page)

“What should we do?”

“I don't think we can do anything right now. Except be
there for her, I guess, when it all falls apart. That's what Helen said. I don't know if Fiona will even let us offer our support, but what else is there to offer her?”

“That sounds bleak.”

“Yeah.” Ilsa seemed distracted. “Things falling apart—it's scary, right? But I've been thinking lately . . . maybe you can try to put things back together eventually in a way that might make everything look more . . .” But she didn't finish her sentence. She looked back down into the water, at Bea. “She's pretty cute. Does she look like her dad?”

Liane wiped some bubbles away from Bea's left cheek. “Not at all. Like her mother. But she has his smile.”

13

Raccoon
(Procyon lotor
)

Raccoons used to live mostly in forests, but have now adapted to urban life. During the mating season, males restlessly roam in search of females and attempt to court them during the three- to four-day period when conception is possible. These encounters often occur at central meeting places. Copulation, including foreplay, can last more than an hour and is repeated over a few nights. According to studies, about one-third of all female raccoons mate with more than one male during this time.

A
fter Laurence came to pick up Beatrice—he was, as Ilsa had expected, handsome and sweet and kind and he and Liane were clearly madly in love, but Ilsa still felt skeptical, and it made her feel sad that it appeared she simply didn't or couldn't believe in love anymore, not even for her little sister, for whom she wanted it more than anything—Liane suggested a nap before they went out again, shopping and for dinner. Ilsa said she was fine, that she wanted to go for a walk and get reacquainted with the city and figured Liane was probably as acquainted with it as she wanted to be at this point. They arranged to meet at their favorite shop on Queen Street in an hour.

The sun had emerged and the biting wind had calmed, so
it was milder than it had been earlier. Ilsa thought perhaps she would get a tea and sit in the park, but she passed the tea shop, and the park, too. She realized she was walking toward a spire she could see in the distance. When she got to the church, she stopped in front of it.
CONFESSION: SATURDAY AFTERNOON,
the sign out front read. She wondered if there would be a line, if she would have to stand in a shuffling crowd with all the other sinners, like she and her father had had to do at the cathedral in Montreal.

But there was no one in there. She walked toward the confessional booth and opened the door, trying to act like she knew what she was doing. Strangely, she
did
feel like she knew, by some sort of instinct. “Come in, my child,” said a male voice.

She hesitated, then entered the booth and made the sign of the cross, thinking she had probably gotten the order wrong. She stood for a moment, adjusting to the dim light. Then she knelt.

“Um . . . bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been . . . many years since my last confession. I'm sorry,” she added.

“But you were baptized and confirmed into the Catholic Church, my child?” She nodded, then realized that because she was kneeling he couldn't see her.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I was.”
I
have now lied to a priest
.

“Perhaps you should sit. You might be more comfortable.”

She sat and could now see his eyes through the screen. She looked away from them.

“Have you performed an examination of conscience?”

“No.”

“There are sheets by the door, you can get one on your way out. It will make it easier for next time.”

Next time.
“I . . . think I should just get started. I'm guilty of . . . I coveted, Father. I coveted my sister's husband, first of all, and I would have blown up her life if I could have,
ruined it all just to make it my own. And knowing this makes me feel so horribly guilty, especially seeing her as she is now, so completely wrecked. I—
I
would have done that to her. I'm her sister, and I wanted to do that to her because I thought I wanted what she had. Except now I do have it, and I don't want it at all.”

“My child—”

She ignored him and kept speaking. “And also, I committed adultery, Father. I committed adultery and I . . . and I lied. To my husband. To everyone. And I . . .” Her throat felt like it was closing. She wondered if this was what a panic attack felt like. “I became pregnant with another man's child, and I told my husband it was
his
child, and he was so happy,
so
happy . . . despite everything, he was happy. He said it was maybe what we needed, but I knew it wasn't. I knew a baby was never going to save our marriage, but still. I loved this baby because it was mine, and that's what you do. You love your babies. Because your mistakes aren't
their
fault. Right?” She was crying now. “Shit,” she said. Then, “Sorry. Oh, God. Oh,
no.
Fuck.” This was not going well. She swallowed hard.

“My child—” the priest began again, and Ilsa knew she was doing this all wrong, that the jig was up, that you probably weren't supposed to get into specifics, that this priest probably didn't want to know any of the sordid details of her life, and also that you were definitely not supposed to swear and take the Lord's name in vain while in a confessional booth. But she had gone too far now, so she pressed forward again. “I went to an appointment, to one of my prenatal appointments, and I found out, while my husband was sitting right there beside me, that the baby had a genetic defect. A serious one. They said that from the looks of things it wasn't meant to be, and that it would resolve itself on its own.” Resolve itself. That's exactly what the doctor had said. And Ilsa had realized that maybe she was supposed to feel relieved.
She didn't. A few days later, the “resolution” came. Ilsa had thought she might die from the pain. Michael had banged on the door of the bathroom. “Let me in!” he had shouted. “Let me in! It's my baby, too. I need to be there for you.”
No, it's not!
she had wanted to scream.
No, it's not, and I deserve to suffer alone!
She hadn't, though. She had stood, dripped blood across the bathroom floor, opened the door, and let him in. Later, he had asked Sylvie to stay for the weekend and he had taken care of her, made her tea and toast and held her while she cried, even though he had no idea why she was really crying.

Lincoln's child. Gone. And she shouldn't have been surprised because Lincoln had already had a severely disabled son. This was something Jane had told Ilsa, that night at the party. Apparently one of her acquaintances, someone in her book club or something, was close to Lincoln's wife and had told everyone about how the one child the couple had had was born with a rare defect that left him in pain for most of his life, and dead before he turned eight. It had all happened years before. “Sad,” Ilsa had said, but she had been so detached from anything except her immediate need at the time that she had felt very little interest. Apparently Lincoln's wife, Rebecca, had wanted to try for more children, but Lincoln refused, Jane had told her. Ilsa now realized, of course, that maybe he'd known, instinctively, that the genetic variant was his and was destined to repeat itself.

“I am a flawed, horrible person,” Ilsa said to the priest.

“My child, we are all flawed. We are all imperfect. We have all fallen from grace.” There was something in his voice that was very tired, and very pitying, and she didn't like it.

“Some of us more spectacularly than others,” she said. “Because even after all this, even after all I've been through and put other people through, I still can't stop thinking about . . . I still think about other men sometimes, I still think about
betraying my husband again, I still feel like if I don't, I'll never be happy, like if I stay with him I'll die of starvation.”

The priest was silent. She thought perhaps he might offer her advice, but he didn't. He said, “You should now make the Act of Contrition,” and she said, “I don't know it,” and he said, “Repeat after me.”

O my God, I am heartily sorry

for having offended you,

and I detest all my sins

because of your just punishment,

but most of all because they offend you, my God,

who are all good and deserving of my love.

I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace,

to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin.

“Have you ended this adulterous relationship?”

“Yes.”
Did I have a choice? Was it even a relationship?

“Have you considered the seriousness of your sin, the effect it might have on your husband, children if you have them?”

“Yes. I think about it every day.”

“In order to truly achieve absolution, you need to tell your husband about your sins against your marriage. You need to ask for his forgiveness and you need to move forward, together. If he needs help accepting it, you can bring him to me. We can make an appointment for marital counseling through the church.”

She was silent.

“Are you sorry for these sins, and all the sins of your life?”

She hesitated.
All the sins of your life.
“Yes, Father.”

He gave her a prescribed number of Our Fathers and Hail Marys. He told her to attend daily mass. He said, “God, the Father of Mercies, through the death and resurrection of his
Son, has reconciled the world to himself, and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God grant you pardon and peace. And I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

She said, “Amen.” And then he slid the screen shut.

“It's that simple,” her father had said.

It's not simple at all, Dad.

But at least she had told
someone.
And maybe, just maybe, she would never have to repeat this story again.

• • •

Ilsa and Liane went for dinner at a wine bar.

“Did things get better?” Liane asked her. “With you and Michael? After the summer, and . . . and everything?”

“Somewhat,” Ilsa said. “I dealt with it, anyway. It's not going to happen again.”

“You mean, something like what happened with Lincoln?”

“Yeah. That.”

“And what is it that happened, exactly? You
can
tell me, you know. I'm sorry I was so judgmental at the cottage. I don't want you to think you can't talk to me. You can tell me anything.”

“I know. I know that. But there's nothing to tell. It wasn't anything with Lincoln. Heavy petting. Some dirty texts.” She tried to smile, then looked down into the red wine in her glass, part of a flight they'd ordered. She drank it all down in a large gulp.

“Since when do you text?” Liane asked.

“Yeah. I know. Since when? Since never. It wasn't worth changing who I was, so I ended it.”

“And you're okay, you and Michael?”

“Sure. As okay as we can be maybe, at least for now. But yes. We are.”

“Does it bother you that I'm always going on about how in love I am with Laurence, when you're . . .”

“When I'm what? When I'm seven years into a marriage, and not exactly thrilled with it? It's normal, Li. I'll get past it. We're in a slump. We'll survive. Marriages can have bad years, and then things turn around. It's the way it is.”

Liane put down her fork. “Really? Do you think that's what happens to everyone? That they end up in slumps that last that long? I mean, even Fiona and Tim—look at
them
. Is it really just what happens?”

“I don't know, Liane. I can't speak for everyone. But our family doesn't seem to be doing so well with relationships right now. Maybe Helen was right.”

“I don't want her to be right. I did think she might be, when I was with Adam, but then I met Laurence, and now I think if you just meet the right person—” She stopped. “I'm sorry. That's not fair, for me to insinuate that Michael isn't the right person.”

“He isn't,” Ilsa said. “The reality is, we're not perfect for each other, not like you and Laurence are. But we still got married, and we still had children, and so . . .”
We're obligated,
was what she had wanted to say, but it seemed too sad to say aloud.

“Can I ask you something? Do you think there's any hope at all that Laurence and I can stay like this forever? Deeply in love and happy with each other, even despite everything, the complications of his life, these
realities
you're talking about?”

“Do you want me to be honest?”

“Of course I want you to be honest!”

“No. I don't think you can stay happy
like this
forever. I think new relationships are happy, and then they change. I think you two are great together, but I also think no matter what, love's first blush is really mostly about hormones.” Ilsa realized she sounded harsh. She realized she shouldn't have asked if her sister wanted her to be honest, that she should
have just lied and said,
Yes, of course you're going to live happily ever after
. She should not have even hinted that there was a chance, years down the road, that Liane's eyes would have lost the light they had in them now, and that she could be sitting at another restaurant, saying something to Ilsa like,
I thought it would be different, I thought he was someone else, that I was someone else
.

You have to stop projecting onto her. You're not being fair,
she told herself.

“Maybe we should go out dancing after this,” Ilsa said. “Or listen to some live music. Or both. Have some
fun
. No more talk about love for a bit, okay?” Liane agreed, and they started talking about other things, and after dinner they took a taxi to the Dakota Tavern on Ossington, where a bluegrass band was playing. Liane found them a place to stand and Ilsa went to get drinks. She was feeling buzzed from the wine. As she walked through the room she experienced a familiar feeling. She knew her movements were followed by male stares. She knew there was possibility, that anything could happen. Her heart started to beat a little faster.
I just want to kiss someone,
she realized.
I don't want sex, I don't want to do what I did with Lincoln. But maybe just one little kiss, just a moment of feeling unknown and yet connected to someone who is completely new to me.
She had always loved that, the way it felt to kiss someone new.
Why?
Because, she realized. Because opening herself up in small ways had helped her make the space to create art. Because being with Michael had started to shrink her.