Moondance (38 page)

“Yes, I think so.”

“Maybe later. Not now. Let’s ask how can you best use this time? Pick a card.”

“I’ve never seen this one.”

“Ooooohhhhh, this is a wonderful card. Have you wanted to take a trip somewhere different, somewhere you’ve never been? This is the card of long-distance travel. See the man crossing the ocean? This is about taking some time to yourself, leaving all your problems behind.”

“Travel to Singapore? Daniel won’t return my calls, maybe I should just show up —”

“Okay, let’s ask. Should you travel to Singapore at this time to confront Daniel? Pick a card.”

“No. This is a very clear no. That’s not to say that you don’t need to talk in order to finish it, but now isn’t the time.”

“Why is he being such an idiot?”

“Okay, one more card, then I suggest we move on from Daniel. What don’t we know about Daniel? Pick a card.” Althea stared at the Queen sitting on the throne, a round pentacle, with a five-pointed star sitting on her lap. Michelle’s voice was soft.

“Is there someone else?” Althea’s heart pounded.

“I don’t know.” That wasn’t true.

“This says it’s about money. Status.”

“Maybe someone from work. She comes from money.” Her anger with him returned. Couldn’t even break it off, just disappeared. Chickenshit.

“I’m beating a dead horse, aren’t I?”

“I’m sorry sweetie. Let’s ask about the real reason you’re here today, why this is happening, forget all this drama and men and work stuff, pick a card for
you
. Ahhhhh ... You know this one, don’t you.

“The Hanged Man.”

“It’s about Pisces, which as you know, also happens to be your moon. Read this for me please.” Michelle handed her a well-worn book.

chapter 61

The present

EACH SOFT, RHYTHMIC TICKING of the grandfather clock brought her a step closer to consciousness, the quiet spaces between cradling
the moon, a round lake, a child’s playground and Sophie, her long scarf trailing
. Except for the nightlight glowing on the far wall, it was dark. Her face didn’t feel hot anymore. As she got out of bed, her knee knocked her bedside table, and she heard a thump. Groping on the floor, she found her journal, and a silver pen cool, nestled in its pages.

She squinted as she turned on the light at the side of her bed, and hunched over to flip through the journal. She observed her own hand writing, scrolling up at various angles, short bursts, non-linear, sometimes overlapping. This was the way she wrote when she felt really connected, as if the words fell from the sky onto the tip of her pen. She didn’t remember writing most of this. That happened sometimes. She had the urge to sit down at her computer and transcribe what she had written, take it further.

Her stomach was growling. She supposed this was a good sign. She stared at the contents of her fridge, bare except for a large glass bowl half-filled with Sophie’s herbed chicken soup. Princess rubbed against her legs. She shut the door of the fridge and fed Princess. She logged on to her email and as it loaded up, she checked her phone messages, scrawling them on a list in front of her.

Peter — 10:00 or 11:00 a.m. Fri? Ref by Aryal

Monica and sis want to split, ref by i

c — 3:30 af1220 m

c&m — visiting s this weekend — no change

She returned to her email. She had 120 messages. She deleted the ones that were spam. She clicked on one with Subject: Confirming post-grad workshop. She typed quickly —

Yes, I’ll be there. I’m getting over the flu. Many things

converging right now — I think I know why I created this. More later. Have two appointments next week that I’d

like to talk to you about first. I’ll call when I stop sniffling. Love, ab

She clicked on the email from Celia, Subject Line: Itinerary. She typed her response, paused and deleted what she had written. Best not to share too much right now. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do yet.
Tuesday
.

She re-wrote the email to Celia, keeping it short, and sent it off, a wave of sadness and regret coming over her, suspended, gentle, as if a fog had lifted revealing a gently flowing stream. She held on to that feeling, moved into it, and turned to her journal. Her eyes fluttered up, and she wrote
thank you thank you thank you
. Then she stopped. Ten minutes later, she put the journal away, frustrated.

Tuesday
. Just imagine. What she might say. How it might feel.
Will
feel.

Butterflies danced.

chapter 62

Three years before

SEVEN DAYS AFTER SEEING Michelle, Althea walked to the post-office and mailed a letter to Daniel. Her hands were shaking as she applied the postage, and when the clerk took it away, she fought the urge to take it back.

The next day, she flew to France to visit Celia and Tomas who lived in Fontainebleau, forty-five minutes outside of Paris. They were in the process of renovating a stone cottage. Althea stayed on a surprisingly comfortable futon in a window-lined room they used as a studio. Celia took a few days off. One day, she gave her a tour of the area. Another day, they went into Paris.

After that, Celia and Tomas worked, and she spent time walking, biking, going on day trips, preferring to stay in the country. Following Celia’s hand-written map, she cycled past the Fontainebleau palace and continued further, until she found a path close to the riverbank. It was cool today, with a drizzle of rain, and the sky was a soft white. There was no one in sight. She spotted an enormous tree, with a bench beside it, and she walked her bike over. She sat on the grass staring out at the river, the air moving softly, cool droplets of water touching her face.

She removed her journal, its pages bright and pristine. She touched a page with her pen.
What is this?
She wrote.
What is my life?
Kevin’s face, his eyes wide, when he realized she knew. George’s unshakable gall and her pliant surrender to him. Daniel’s calculated precision and
the illusions that she created about him. All of them a part of her, but
not with her. All of them choosing something else. She felt the self-pity rising up. So be it.

She began to write.

Stream-of-consciousness, monologue, dream fragments, righteous speeches of indignation to those she knew, and others she did not, words of anger, confrontation, questioning. Some of her words were muddled and confused. Others were angry and bitter. Some were desperately sad. Some held a spark of clarity there for a moment, then gone. She wrote until her heart was empty and her hand was sore. As she wrote, her fingers clenched her pen and she pictured her heart like two doors opening. Not wanting to feel what she was feeling, the doors wanted desperately to close. She envisioned holding the doors open against the strain. When it became too much for her, she collapsed forward in tears.

The rain fell harder. The grey sky draped like a billowy shadow over the moon. It hurt too much to do this. She wrote one more word, circling it:
Why?
Fighting the rain and the rising wind, she cycled hard up the winding hills through toward Celia’s stone cottage, intending to retreat into the glass-lined studio to cry herself to sleep. In the quiet of Celia and Tomas’ home, the French doors cast shadows on the wooden floors. She took off her wet shoes and socks. In the alcove that functioned as Celia’s office, she used their phone to pick up her messages.
Daniel would have received her letter by now
.

Writing the letter to Daniel had been difficult. Perhaps because she knew that this time, she would send it. She expressed her hurt and her frustration, describing how she had tried to contact him, what she knew, what she suspected. In the end she expressed her acceptance. “I wish you could have told me, given me the chance to understand,” she wrote. “I love you. I wish you well always.”

There were no messages from Daniel. She experienced a twinge of nervousness, of disappointment. There were two hang-ups and one message from George, which she re-played before she deleted it. Just as well she wasn’t at home to get that message. In this state of mind, she wasn’t sure what she would have done.

She wandered through the living room. On either side of the stone fireplace were two walls lined with books and travel photographs. A pressure on her forehead spread over her face, slowing her movement. She smelled the faint whiff of a pipe and stopped. In the next room, Celia’s kitchen clock ticked. She turned to face the bookshelves.

She ran her fingers over the books with newfound curiosity — old and new, books on business, art history, photography, philosophy, psychology, comparative religion, healing, yoga and spirituality. Since her undergraduate studies at the University of Toronto, books had become functional, used for research, not pleasure. She pulled out the ones she was drawn to. Her curiosity grew. As she flipped through their pages, her mind sparked and flashed.

Soon, more than a dozen books sat in a precarious pile beside Celia’s wrought iron coffee table. She could hear the rain intensifying on the panes of glass in the studio. She liked the sound. Picking a book from the top of the pile, she moved there and began to read.

Four hours later, a key clicked in the front door and she heard footsteps. She put down her book. Celia ambled in, carrying groceries. Tomas was close behind.

“Hey, sorry we’re late. Did you have a good day? Before it rained at least?”

“Yes, biked out by the riverside. Didn’t mind the rain.”

“I thought we’d eat in tonight — okay with you?” Celia moved toward their kitchen. Tomas followed. He winked at her. “Bought some port we can try tonight.” Tomas was the same height as Celia, and slight, with walnut eyes and straight, Asian hair. Althea liked him. He was kind, intelligent and humorous.

That night, they drank wine and ate in Celia’s small, square dining room, with two windows framing the green expanse of their yard. After dinner, they moved to the living room, and Tomas poured three small glasses of port.

“This one is a tawny. The other one we’ll try is a vintage,” Tomas said, while Celia served a plate of sliced cantaloupe, kiwi and local cheeses.

They drank port. Celia and Tomas shared their before and after pictures of their renovations. They also announced that Tomas had just accepted a teaching engagement at INSEAD, known as the Harvard of Europe. Happily, the INSEAD campus was conveniently located ten minutes away from their Fontainebleau home.

At two in the morning, Althea went to bed. The rain had stopped. The moon shone through the studio’s windows. She stepped into their back yard, which was open and wide and surrounded by thick brush, and overgrown grass. A stone table with two small stone benches sat in the clearing with three empty wine glasses, left from two nights before. The stone felt cool and moist under her feet. She looked at the moon, bright, waxing.
You look the same over here
, she whispered.
How ’bout that
.

The next morning, Althea got up with Celia and Tomas. She showered, and poured herself an espresso. Outside, the sun was suspended in a partially cloudy sky and it was clearing. It would be a great day for a walk. Sipping espresso, she examined a map of the area, planning her day. Maybe a local castle. Maybe the Fontainebleau palace. Maybe Paris. Or maybe the riverside again, in the sunshine.

After Celia and Tomas left, she ate a hardboiled egg, and some fruit and cheese leftover from the previous night, and returned to the studio to dress. On the way in, she tripped, hitting her toe on something solid. A burgundy knapsack sat on the floor beside her unmade futon. She opened the sack, which was filled with the books she had chosen. On a piece of notepaper, she recognized Celia’s handwriting.

Yours for as long as you want them. Love C

chapter 63

The present

ALTHEA LEANED OVER THE countertop and added to the long list on her notepad. She knew Sophie would approve. Walking in a circle, she picked up her coat, threw her burgundy knapsack over her shoulder, and put the list in her purse. The phone rang. She glanced at the number. It was from overseas.

“Hi,” she said, checking the contents of her knapsack for her cell phone.

“Hi. You knew it was me?” Daniel’s voice was light, chuckling. He sounded close.

“Oh hi. No, actually I thought it was Celia. How are you?”

“Business is great. I’m in the Paris office this week. Just made Principal.”

“Good for you. Listen, I’d like to chat, but I’m on my way out.”

“That’s okay. I just wanted to say hi.”

“Francis is good?”

“We’re still talking, in counseling now. It’s been hard since she lost the baby. I wasn’t sure if I was ready, and she’s still angry about that.”

“Listen, if you want to talk, call me later today or tomorrow, okay? I really have to run right now —”

“Okay. I will. Thanks Althea. You’re one of the few people that I can talk to.” He paused. “I’m going to be in New York soon, maybe I could fly to Toronto for a weekend.” In the two years they had dated, Daniel had never visited Toronto. He thought that Toronto was a poor man’s New York. Althea knew he’d never make the trip.