The Nesting Dolls (9 page)

Our family had endured tree-decorating nights when our tempers were as snarled as the strings of lights. The mood the year before had been close to perfect until we hung the last ornament, flicked on the lights, and Pantera, responding to some dark atavistic impulse buried deep in his mastiff psyche, took a run at the tree, knocked it to the ground, attacked it, then streaked to the basement and refused to come upstairs for three days. This Christmas the tree-trimming was without incident, and there were some Hallmark moments: Declan, his dreads tied back with hemp twine, carefully examining each of the ornaments that held a picture of Taylor before he handed it to her so she could place it on the tree; Lena and Maddy suspending all the sparkliest ornaments from branches at their level, so that the lower third of the tree glittered as bright as a showgirl’s
fan and the upper two-thirds were bare; Zack, his chair at a safe distance from the tree, his fingers looped through Pantera’s collar, murmuring reassurances to his dog.

The one moment of real tension was short-lived. When Madeleine and Lena reached a noisy standoff about whose toilet-paper-roll angel would have pride of place as the tree-topper, Peter jammed the angels together on the top branch, where they perched, listing slightly, their silver doily wings mashed and their twin maniacal smiles reminding us all that Christmas is a time of sisterhood and lunacy.

Zack led Pantera to our bedroom and shut him in, safe from human folly, before we lit the tree. After we turned on the lights, Zack took photos of the tree on his BlackBerry and sent them to Angus who was studying for exams in Saskatoon. Angus texted back a one-word sentence: “Coooooooooool.” After handing around Angus’s text of praise for our handiwork, Zack pushed his chair to the piano and played “Round Midnight” – not because the Thelonius Monk standard was seasonal, but because I loved it. After that, it was request time. Lena asked for “Puff, the Magic Dragon,” and when Puff had slipped into his cave for the last time, Mieka and her daughters sang along as Zack played “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” Peter’s girlfriend, Dacia, the self-described daughter of old hippies, did what the daughter of old hippies do. She pulled out her guitar and sang “Scarborough Fair” in a voice that was as powerful as it was sweet.

“Hard act to follow, but I’m convinced there’s yet more talent in the audience,” Zack said. “If there are no volunteers, I’m doing my Barry Manilow medley.”

Taylor touched Declan’s arm. The touch was enough. Declan went to Dacia, whispered a word in her ear, and she handed him her guitar. Without prelude, he began to play Green Day’s “Time of Your Life,” first with poignant resignation, then with a fierce snarling anger. It was a riveting
performance, but it also revealed Declan’s pain, and as he handed the guitar back to Dacia, there was an awkward silence in the room.

Pete’s girlfriend smoothed the raw edges. “You do realize how good you are?” she said.

Declan’s smile was heartbreaking. “I realize exactly how good I am,” he said. “And I know I’m not good enough.” He held out his hand to Taylor. “Time for me to take off,” he said.

Taylor’s hand was in Declan’s as he thanked us and said good night. Except for Peter, we were a family of talkers, but after Taylor walked Declan to the front door, it seemed that none of us had anything to say.

Lena saved the moment. Out of nowhere she snagged some lines from her favourite story and began reciting in her fluty little-girl voice. “ ‘Today is gone. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one.’ ” She turned to her sister. “There’s more, but I can’t remember.”

Maddy sighed. “ ’every day, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.’ ”

Soothed by Dr. Seuss, we began packing the empty ornament boxes in the storage bins and carrying them out to the garage. Ready or not, another Christmas was underway.

Like all people in a deep and passionate relationship, my life was shadowed by five words that Zack and I had uttered on our wedding day without a second thought: “Till death do us part.” When Zack was seven, a drunk driver fumbling for his cigarette lighter had failed to see him crossing the street on his way to baseball practice. The drunk’s momentary distraction meant that three thousand pounds of steel hit Zack’s sinewy young body, ripping it apart and leaving him a paraplegic with a host of physical problems that worsened with age. My husband always said that he had chosen law because it was a sedentary profession, but it could also be a deadly one. Trial law was high stakes, and the hours and pressures were punishing. The average time between a lawyer’s first court appearance and his or her first heart attack was twenty years. This was not a statistic that encouraged me.

During the early months of our marriage our most serious quarrels had centred on Zack’s determination to shut me out when his body betrayed him and my determination not to be shut out. There were some compromises. I convinced him that caring for one another’s bodies could be a sensual
pleasure, so we swam together and rubbed one another down and massaged each other until the knots disappeared. Zack also worked at home as much as he could, but despite his promises to cut back, his hours were long, and there were mornings when after his customary five hours of sleep, he awoke grey and drawn.

This morning was one of them, but I had long since learned not to comment. By the time the dogs and I got back from our run, Zack had showered, made the porridge and coffee, poured the juice, and placed the local paper beside my plate. I put my arms around him. “You are a scarily handsome guy,” I said. “Why don’t we have breakfast and go back to bed after Taylor leaves for school?”

“Can’t. Got to get my client ready for court. Besides, I have a feeling the phone will be ringing soon. Check out the paper.”

The picture of Abby Michaels on the front page was the one Zack had taken at the concert Saturday afternoon, but it had been cropped and blown up, so that her broad expanse of forehead and piercing eyes dominated the page. The headline was stark: “
MOTHER MISSING.”

Zack sipped his coffee. “See what you think of the story.”

I read it through. “Standard journalism,” I said. “The five W’s and one H with no answers to
why
and
how
and a deliberate obfuscation of who. Do you see something sinister there?”

Zack removed his reading glasses. “Nothing sinister. On the contrary, the press are cooperating with the police. Abby Michaels reads the paper. We know that because she showed up at Luther for the concert. You’ll notice that all the references in the story are generic.”

I skimmed the story again. “The baby was handed over to ‘a student’ and is now in the custody of ‘an area family.’ ” I looked at Zack. “So you think this story is calculated to bring Abby Michaels out of hiding.”

“I do.”

“Do you think it will work?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed. “We live in hope,” he said. “If Abby comes forward, she can be hospitalized, and if they can find the right doctor and the right meds, she’ll have a second chance.”

“But you don’t think it’s going to happen.”

Zack shook his head. “After twenty-four hours, the odds aren’t great, and I’ve learned not to play long shots.”

Zack’s BlackBerry rang just as he was ladling out the porridge. I answered. It was Delia. “Can he call you back?” I said. “We’re just about to eat.”

“Nothing important,” she said. “I’ll talk to him later.”

“Everyone make it through the night okay?”

“Jacob almost slept through. Noah wasn’t able to find a baby monitor, so Isobel moved that inflatable mattress the kids use for sleepovers into Jacob’s room. When Noah went in this morning, Jacob was curled up in Isobel’s arms, and they were both sound asleep.”

I glanced at the picture of Abby Michaels on the front page and felt my throat close. Wherever she was, her night must have been an agony.

Delia’s voice was insistent. “Jo, are you there?”

“Sorry, just woolgathering.”

“That’s an odd expression,” she said. “Anyway, would you mind telling Zack I’m going to work at home today?”

“I’ll pass along the message,” I said. “And, Delia, I’m glad things are going well.”

After I rang off, Zack pulled his chair up to the table. “You don’t look glad,” he said.

“It’s hard not to think about what Abby Michaels is going through,” I said.

“Somebody always loses,” Zack said, and his voice was heavy. “Should we call Taylor for breakfast?”

I looked at my watch. “Let her sleep. It’s early, and the buses will be a nightmare. I’ll drive her to school.”

“And you’re not quite ready to put on your game face.”

“That too,” I said. “By the way, Delia’s working at home today.”

“For the first time in living memory,” he said. “Well, good for her.”

“For wanting to be with Jacob?”

“Yes, and for being smart enough to establish that she stayed home with her grandson on his first day in her care.”

When we’d finished eating, Zack turned down a second cup of coffee. “I have to get a move on,” he said. “Why don’t you keep me company while I get dressed?”

As always, Zack had laid out his clothes the night before. He picked up a pair of silk briefs. “So what’s on your agenda?”

“I’m going up to the university,” I said. “I told my first-year students I’d be in my office this morning in case they had any questions about the exam. I don’t imagine I’ll have many customers, but I’ll be able to get some marking out of the way. And this afternoon I’m having tea with the Brokaws.”

Zack grimaced. “Better you than me,” he said. “Although I’m not going to be having much fun either. The sentencing decision in the road-racing case is at hand, so this morning my client and I will be in court listening to victims’ impact statements.”

I shuddered. “I can’t imagine losing someone I loved and then standing up in court and telling everybody how much that person meant to me.”

“You’re not alone. Everyone sitting in that courtroom will be wishing they were somewhere else.”

“Do the statements do any good?”

Zack shrugged. “Well, there are two schools of thought. Proponents say the statements give judges information they wouldn’t normally have and keep victims from feeling they’ve
been left out of the process. Theoretically, the statements also make offenders appreciate the pain they’ve caused.”

“But you don’t believe that?”

“No. I think the statements just cause everybody grief and raise false expectations for the victims. And defence lawyers share a dirty little secret. We know that 99 per cent of offenders just don’t give a shit. They leave tire tracks on the backs of everyone who’s ever been unlucky enough to care about them, and they never look back. The other 1 per cent, and I would include my client in this small group, are already filled with guilt about what they’ve done. They don’t need to sit in court and have coals heaped upon their head. So my job this morning is to desensitize Jeremy to what he’s going to hear in court.”

“How do you do that?”

“By sitting him down and making him listen while one of our students or admin assistants reads the victim impact statements until Jeremy learns to react appropriately.”

“With contrition and remorse.”

“And without disintegrating.”

“Granted everything I know about the case comes from the media,” I said, “but the consensus seems to be that Jeremy Sawchuk is responsible for the death of another eighteen-year-old boy. Maybe a little suffering is in order.”

Zack raised an eyebrow. “Lucky for me you’re not the judge. You’re the gentlest person I know – if you think Jeremy should get the thumbscrews for what he did, I’m in more trouble than I realized. All I have is the fact that the boy Jeremy killed was his best friend and that he’s suffering.”

“I guess the counter-argument would be that at least Jeremy is alive to suffer,” I said.

“And I’ve got nothing to throw at that one,” Zack said. “All I can do is hope that the judge handing down the sentence sees the whole picture. Jeremy has had a rough life but
he’s done his best to stay afloat. He attends school regularly, maintains a B-minus average – which for a kid like Jeremy is the equivalent of being in Phi Beta Kappa. He’s worked his entire life to keep himself fed and clothed because his parents’ interests run more to drugs than child care. Before the night of the accident, Jeremy had never been involved in anything that could be construed as risky behaviour. He made a mistake. My job is to see that one mistake doesn’t ruin the rest of his life.”

“Are you going to use that line from your speech at the wheelchair athletes’ barbecue last fall?”

Zack moved his chair in front of the mirror and began knotting his tie. “There were a lot of lines in that speech – too many if I remember correctly. I cut it short when I noticed my audience’s attention had drifted from me to the unopened cases of Molson’s.”

“The line I’m thinking of came before the attention drifted. It was something about all of us having to live larger than the pain that’s been done to us or the pain that we’ve caused others.”

Zack tightened the knot on his tie and caught my eye in the mirror. “Do you think that would work?”

“I think it’s worth a shot,” I said. “I also think it’s true.”

Usually, Taylor, Gracie, and Isobel met at the bus stop and travelled to school together, but when I called Blake Falconer and the Wainbergs, we agreed that this might not be the morning to rely on public transit. Taylor and I set out in the car, grateful that the wind had finally stopped howling. Shrouded in fresh snow, the city had the silence that comes after a winter storm. Our house was close to Albert Street, one of the city’s main arteries, but the Falconers lived several blocks in, and Gracie, with the athlete’s passion for challenge, had volunteered to hike down to Albert Street to
meet us. While we waited, Taylor filled me in on the salient events of her life that morning. Declan had texted twice and phoned once. He’d had a great time last night and he’d invited Taylor to a party New Year’s Eve. She’d also had a call from the Animal Friends Group she belonged to, asking if Taylor could feed the colonies of feral cats in the warehouse district and behind Scarth Street Mall, because the flu had knocked out the scheduled volunteers.