The Nesting Dolls (6 page)

No matter the season, Delia limited the colours in her wardrobe to black and white. That morning she was wearing a black ski jacket, a black wool cloche pulled down over her ears, and a black-and-white-striped wool scarf wound many times around her neck. She yanked off her hat, liberating her wiry salt-and-pepper hair. As always, several of Delia’s curls, obeying their own law of kinetic energy, sprang over her forehead. She ignored them, unwound her scarf, and handed it to me.

I hung it over a hook inside the closet. “Nice scarf,” I said.

“Check out the tension in the stitches. I made it while I was trying to quit smoking.” She pulled a pack of Benson and Hedges from her bag. “Not that it worked, of course.”

“You got a scarf out of it,” I said.

Delia cocked an eyebrow. “Zack’s been good for you – loosened you up. Where is he anyway?”

“Getting dressed. Come in and have some coffee while I get breakfast started.”

Delia had the faint lines around her eyes and mouth most of us have after fifty, but her skin was taut and the cold air had made it glow. In her invariable weekend outfit of oversized turtleneck, chinos, and thick socks, she looked, at first glance, like a teenager who had added silver highlights to her hair on a whim.

When Zack came in, he wheeled his chair close to her. “Whatever it is, Dee, we can handle it. Have you eaten?”

Delia shook her head. Zack gestured to the table. “Then sit down and have some breakfast. We can talk afterwards.”

I set a place for Delia, poured coffee and juice, and, when the porridge was ready, Zack spooned it into our bowls. Obedient as a well-schooled child, Delia ate what had been put in front of her. When she was through, she took her bowl to the sink, rinsed it, and returned to her chair. “The police called. The baby – his name, incidentally, is Jacob David Michaels – is fine. In fact he’s more than fine. They’ve weighed him, measured him, and tested him, and he’s healthy and responsive – perfect. There was an envelope addressed to me tucked under the lining of his baby seat. It contained Jacob’s birth certificate: his mother’s name is listed as Abigail Margaret Michaels; the name of the father is blank. There was a sheet with Jacob’s medical history and a booklet with his vaccination record.”

“Very thorough,” Zack said.

Delia gave him a wan smile. “Very,” she said. “There was also a note to me, stating that it was the mother’s wish that I have full custody of Jacob, and that as a lawyer, I would know the procedures necessary to ensure that custody. The note was signed ‘Abby Michaels.’ ”

“You two might find it easier to talk about this alone,” I said. I picked up my coffee. “I haven’t read the paper yet. I’ll be in the family room if you need me.”

Delia shook her head. “No, stay – please. This is going to come out anyway, and when it does, I’ll need all the help I can get.”

I sat back down.

Like all good trial lawyers, Delia knew how to create a gripping narrative, and her first sentence was dynamite.

“The year I clerked at the Supreme Court, I got pregnant.” Her eyes darted between Zack and me. “I’ll spare you the need to ask the burning question. I didn’t get an abortion because by the time it dawned on me that I was pregnant, I was well into the second trimester.” She shrugged. “I know it sounds like something out of a tabloid but there was a lot going on for me that year. I’d never lived outside Saskatchewan, and when I was at the College of Law I was cocooned with the Winners’ Circle. Suddenly I was in Ottawa, passing powerful people in the corridors, and working for Theo Brokaw. Apart from you, Zack, he was the only person I’d ever met who was smarter than me.”

When Zack smirked, Delia’s glance was withering. “That’s nothing to preen about,” she said. “It’s just a fact. Anyway, clerking at the Supreme Court was heady stuff – highly competitive. We were always working late – trying to out-dazzle one another.” She smiled at the memory. “But we were also young and hormonal … ”

“And you met somebody,” Zack said.

Delia tilted her chin defiantly. “I met a lot of ‘some-bodies,’ ” she said.

The look Zack gave his partner was challenging. “That doesn’t sound like you, Dee.”

“Don’t push it, Zack,” Delia said, and her voice was steely. “I mean it. Let it go.”

Zack shrugged. “You’re the client.”

She tried a smile and softened her tone. “Come on. Cast your mind back. You remember the syndrome. You’re always at the office; you’re not getting enough sleep; it occurs to you that you’re missing out on life, so you decide to have a few drinks with the nearest warm body and you end up having sex. Usually it’s just like scratching an itch – a relief with no permanent after-effects.”

Zack’s frown deepened. He wasn’t buying Delia’s story,
but he was willing to play along. “But this time there
was
something permanent,” he said.

Delia’s small chest heaved. “Yes, this time there were consequences, although it took me a long time to be aware of them. My menstrual cycle had always been erratic. I was running every morning, so I didn’t put on much weight. And then one day I felt something inside me move. I went to an ob/gyn in Ottawa who told me I was five months’ pregnant. She couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been not to read the symptoms. Anyway, I had the baby in Ottawa, signed the appropriate papers, came home to Saskatchewan, and started studying for my bar exams. Being back with the Winners’ Circle was like sliding into my old skin.”

“Did you alert the men who might have fathered the child?” Zack said.

Delia shook her head. “There was no point. The doctor assured me the baby was healthy, and the agency said they had a long list of good families waiting for an infant. It was a closed chapter.”

“But it’s open now,” Zack said.

“Yes,” Delia said, “and not because I want it to be.” Her fingers touched the pack of cigarettes in front of her as if for reassurance, then she opened her bag and removed the printout of an e-mail exchange. She handed it to Zack. “This arrived in my e-mail on November 22 – two weeks ago today,” she said.

Zack slipped on his reading glasses and began to read. Delia fiddled with her cigarette package until I went to the cupboard, took down an ashtray, and put it in front of her. She mouthed the word “thanks” and lit up. Zack slid the printout to me.

Considering the subject of the note, the tone was cool.

I handed the paper back to Delia. “Did you get in touch with her?” I asked.

Delia nodded. “My doctor was on holidays for a few days. When he returned he gave me a précis of everything medically relevant that had come to light in the years since the baby was born. I sent the notes to Abby Michaels on November 30.”

Zack leaned forward in his chair. “What did you tell Ms. Michaels about her biological father?”

“The same thing I told you,” Delia said tightly. “I told her that during the period when I might have been impregnated I was sexually active, and I couldn’t identify her biological father. I wished her well, and said that if she required any further information, she should feel free to get in touch.”

“Did she?” Zack asked.

“She called that day I was in the car with Joanne. She identified herself. Then she said, ‘You’ll have to live with what you’ve done,’ and hung up.”

“Did that make sense to you?” Zack asked.

“No, because I’d done everything she asked me to do. Zack, none of this makes sense. You saw her e-mail to me. Two weeks ago, Abby Michaels was rational and in charge of her life. She wanted medical information, and I supplied it. Friday, she phones, pronounces judgment on me, and hangs up before I can ask her to explain; then yesterday she hands her child over to Isobel and says he belongs with me. What happened?”

“One possibility is postpartum psychosis,” Zack said.

Remembering Zack’s account of the woman who threw her baby from the bridge, my throat tightened, but Delia was cool. “I’ve had a couple of those cases,” she said. “According to my reading, the onset of the disorder is usually quite soon after birth. Jacob is six months old, and the woman who wrote that e-mail didn’t sound as if she was suffering from anything. She was absolutely lucid.”

“But she wasn’t lucid yesterday when she gave her baby to Isobel and said the child belonged with you,” Zack said. “Whatever’s going on, Dee, time is not our friend. The sooner you talk to the cops, the better. If anything happens to Abby Michaels because we screwed up, neither of us is going to be happy.”

Delia inhaled deeply and blew a smoke ring. “Okay, call your friend the Inspector – and tell her I’m Abby Michaels’s birth mother, and I want Jacob with me until they find her.”

Zack shot her a hard look. “You’re sure about this, Dee?”

Delia met his gaze. “I’m sure,” she said. For the first time, her voice faltered. “Jacob is family, Zack.”

Zack nodded. “In that case, I’ll call Debbie Haczkewicz and get the ball rolling.”

Zack was still on his cell with Debbie when the phone in the kitchen rang. The woman’s voice was patrician and assured. “Joanne, this is Myra Brokaw. I know it’s early to
call, but I’m anxious to discuss Theo’s participation in the Supreme Court special.”

“Myra, I’m sorry. This isn’t a good time,” I said.

When she heard Myra Brokaw’s name, Delia’s attention shifted to me.

“Will there ever be a good time?” Myra said. Her words came rapidly. “I’ve given our situation a great deal of thought, and I believe I’ve come up with a plan that will work for us all. Will you at least come for tea and hear me out?”

“It’s the end of term,” I said. “And it’s a busy time of year. Can I check my calendar and call you back?”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Myra said. “I’ll look forward to your call.”

Zack and I hung up simultaneously. We exchanged glances. “You first,” I said.

“The Inspector is on her way over,” Zack said. “Your turn.”

“I need your silver tongue,” I said. “Myra Brokaw has invited me to tea so we can discuss Justice Brokaw’s participation in our show.”

Zack winced. “Ouch.”

“What show?” Delia asked.

“Nation
TV
is enamoured of those Issues for Dummies shows I’ve been working on. They’re cheap, they’re Canadian content, and they fill up airtime. The network’s been talking about branching out – getting experts to explain some of the institutions that govern the lives of ordinary Canadians.”

Delia frowned. “And Myra wants to involve Theo? My God, what’s the matter with her? Why would she expose him that way?”

“I take it he didn’t improve after we left yesterday.”

“No, he couldn’t seem to get past the fact that I wasn’t the young woman who’d clerked for him,” Delia said. “He and Myra stayed for about an hour yesterday afternoon. It was awkward. Theo kept staring at me and shaking his
head. He seems to drift in and out.” There was real sadness in Delia’s voice. “He told me he was working on a book, but when I asked about the subject matter, he seemed confused. The next minute he was all excited because his papa was baking poppy seed bread and he’d promised him a slice before bed. He couldn’t remember my name. He kept calling me ‘that clever girl.’ He’d turn to Myra and whisper, ‘You remember her – that clever girl.’ And she’d nod and smile and say, ‘Of course.’ ”

“Had you met Myra before yesterday?” I asked.

“There was some kind of reception they had for the students the year I was clerking, but that was it.”

“Do you think Myra brought Theo back to Regina to hide him away?” I asked.

The smoke from her cigarette drifted around Delia’s face, obscuring her expression. “Probably. Revealing that her legal giant has feet of clay certainly wouldn’t be in Myra’s best interests. She’s invested her life in him. My guess is she’s just protecting her investment.”

Inspector Debbie Haczkewicz was a tall and powerfully built woman, with a smile that was as disarming as it was rare. Like most defence lawyers, Zack wasn’t a big fan of the boys and girls in blue, but he and Debbie got along. When her eighteen-year-old son, Leo, was paralyzed in a motorcycle accident, Zack had, initially at Debbie’s request, shown up at the rehabilitation hospital every day for a month, ducking Leo’s punches, insults, and the business end of his catheter until Leo was ready to talk and to listen. Inspector Haczkewicz hadn’t forgotten the favour.

When the Inspector arrived, we moved to the family room. I offered coffee, but Debbie waved me off. “Thanks, but I gather from what Zack says we should move quickly on this.”

Delia handed the inspector the copy of Abby’s e-mail and repeated the story she told us. When Delia said she was unable to remember the names of the men who might have fathered her child, Inspector Haczkewicz’s eyes were questioning, but she didn’t press the point. Twenty-seven years is a long time and, as Delia emphasized repeatedly, the sexual encounters had been casual. Having satisfied herself
that Delia’s memory on that point was a dry well, Inspector Haczkewicz moved along.

Zack had no difficulty convincing her to authorize a search for a missing person. Although there was no evidence of foul play, Abby Michaels’s actions revealed a woman whose state of mind was fragile, and Debbie Haczkewicz had seen enough frozen bodies to know what a prairie winter can do to the vulnerable.