It came upon a midnight clear when the majesty of the heavens made me feel so small yet immense at the same time. To know I was part of this vast creation, one average person in a population of eight-point-one-billion people. A person of value. An individual with talents.
The stillness of the night a lesson for my soul. Be quiet and breathe in. Let the peace quiet my anxieties instead of listening to the fuss of the holidays and letting it stoke my worries. Perfect place settings, hospital corners on beds, dust-free surfaces do not matter in the grand scheme of things. My days on this earth will be too limited by comparison, I shouldn’t waste a single one.
Away from city lights, in Ontario’s pristine north the sky opens. Thousands of stars, each a mere pinpoint of light laid out in constellations, and beyond them clusters of white, pink and blue. Each star a tiny sun. Each a reminder of that great star two thousand years ago, the Star of the East. The star that led three wisemen from the east to worship a two-year-old boy. The future prince of peace.
Recently the Star of the East was thought to be an alignment of Saturn, Jupiter and the moon, which only adds to the grandeur. The night sky is amazing. Sailors sail by it, lost folks use it to get their bearings, and it’s said stars guide birds on their migrations.
The mysterious heavens are the next frontier. Space exploration and settlement a dream of many scientists and adventures. We’ve already polluted our earth and the skies above; do we need to fill the heavens with our earthly junk too? Let us leave the precious metals on our precious moon. A network of internet satellites nothing more than earthly vanity. Communication needs to be savoured, not circulated at lightening speed. We managed simply fine up until now. It worries me to think what will happen when those satellites become obsolete. I doubt they will be brought back to earth and recycled. Recently, astronomers have complained that these manmade objects are already interfering with our view of the night sky, blocking the light of stars. They have dimmed something so regal.
Let me breathe in the night air. Let the sparkling heavens still me. The plane quietly blinking across the horizon is a travel wish. The peace of flying through the night a sigh. The early morning sun a glow on the eastern horizon and the same sun a smudge on the western horizon. Our little blue planet a speck in the universe.
Clear midnight skies are full of promise while a cloudy, misty night dampens the spirits. The soul cannot soar. It searches for the warmth of a woodstove and artificial light for guidance. Cocooning in the shelter of manmade walls.
Every evening, I part the blinds and look for stars. My telescope set to capture comets. As I snuggle under blankets, it comforting to have the stars above winking at me.
Sources for story ideas can be found everywhere. As a way to jumpstart our group’s creativity, I thought ‘filling out’ the stories behind obituaries might be a good place to begin. Some were local people, but most were found online. I Googled a few key words like military, immigrant, beloved, humour, and found ten beautiful people who had excelled at life. From there I erased all names, funeral homes and hospitals, leaving blank spaces to fill in with our made-up names.
I encouraged the group to do a bit of research into the history of what was left in our outlines. A woman who fled Eastern Europe, a mother growing up in the south, a Winnipeg orphan and so on. Life was to be added back into our obituary outline.
The results speak for themselves. A journalist meeting a famous Canadian on a kibbutz, a doctor who dedicated his life to restoring sight around the world, a train aficionado ruled by his tomato harvest, a young ambulance driver who met the love of her life in a time of war, and a young woman rescuing her boyfriend from his mother’s claws.
Obituary Stories
Obituary Memory (Madeleine Horton)
Sand was whipping around the bus as Randy Kerr prepared to board. She reminded herself through the stark light that fitfully shone through the sand, that she had wanted an adventure. Her plan, if she had a plan, seemed more and more absurd.
She could see through the shadowy windows the outline of many figures. The bus was nearly full. A couple of soldiers, clearly late comers, stepped back to allow her to board. She stood at the front, quickly glancing at the passengers and the two empty seats at the front. No one would think it strange if she moved to the back and sat in one of the two seats with a single passenger.
She had been here in Israel before. Twelve years ago when she was still an idealistic younger journalist. She had scored a much desired assignment to write a long article on kibbutz life. It had probably been the piece that really ignited her career and set off the stream of prestigious awards that followed. She was here now for a different reason. She had felt for some time that she was coasting, taking cosy domestic assignments, being paid to stay in posh hotels and given unquestioned expense accounts. After all, she was Miranda ‘Randy’ Kerr.
This would change everything. A war had started. The Yom Kippur War they were calling it and she had a scoop. Leonard Cohen was here secretly to entertain troops. That was the payoff from keeping in touch for all these years. A tip from a friend in a kibbutz, a call to the commander the friend knew and here she was boarding a troop bus to the camp Cohen was going to.
Her plan, if she had a plan, was to wander around the camp. If questioned she would show her press credentials and use the chutzpah she hoped she still possessed. She stood at the front of the bus. She was the only woman. No one stared up at her. With her loose beige shirt and baggy cargo pants and long hair tucked under a floppy sun hat, she drew no approving glances. And the dozen more years on her face, middle-aged, she reflected. She knew at once where she would sit. She couldn’t believe her luck.
“I had forgotten the sandstorms. Maybe because I was at a kibbutz, indoors a lot.” She sat down. “Will the sand affect your guitar playing?” she said with no introduction and the presumption she knew who he was.
She had already heard he had called a soldier his brother, cementing his ties to the tribe. It was all they talked about at the kibbutz.
“I called a man my brother,” he said, as if he were reading her thoughts. “He wept and grasped my hands. ‘You, you understand us’ he said. I told him we are all brothers, I have many brothers, across many borders. His hand went limp and fell from mine. I’m not sure why I am here. Forge a bond with those like me….” He looked at her, “May you find what you seek.”
Randy sat in the silence for a long time. This alone could make a sensational piece. More came as she free floated from topic to topic without the questioning she’d heard he abhorred. Later she watched him sing surrounded by men, no stage, no barriers. Such good details for a story.
He was not on the bus she took back. In her room, she jotted quick notes for her story. “I am here and not here.” She thought of his crushed identity, never really to have a tribe, a people. The true artist, always the outsider. And herself, an undercover scavenger gnawing on his torment. She grasped her notes and tore them up.
Obituary Project (Cathy Sartor)
October 22, 1921 – October 7, 2023 – Doctor John Alexander Campbell
A routine “turn around the sun” ended abruptly after 102 rotations which was a goal achieved by “Doc. J” as he loved to be called. He would be especially pleased to know that his passing coincided with the Canadian Thanksgiving weekend of October 7, 2023. John’s mother was a Canadian at birth and she launched the family tradition of celebrating both Canadian and American Thanksgivings which John celebrated throughout his life.
Enjoying life to the fullest and in the face of challenge was a preference John embraced wholeheartedly. His partner in life for seventy-four years was his awesome wife Matty who supported him during his academic years while qulifiying to practice optometry. John and Matty met when they were high school students in Hudson, New York.
John was the devoted father and father-in-law of Neil and Shirley Smith, Robert and Mary Brown, Douglas and Margaret Matthews and Ronald. Adored grandfather of Jacob, Cameron, and Lara. Dear brother of Michael and the late Mary Jones, and brother- in-law of the late Ronald and the late Elizabeth Hewitt, brother of the late James and Johanna Caughlin. Cherished uncle of Peter, Susan, Camilla, the late Judith, and the late Teresa.
In recent years, his love of jazz sustained him while in palliative care. Born in 1921, Jazz was ingrained in his upbringing and throughout his young adult years. Performers like Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong influenced his love of jazz from a very early age. He and Matty enjoyed years of wintering in Palm Springs where he riffed and jammed with many jazz performers that he met during his extensive travels. During his winters in Palm Springs with Matty at his side, Dr. John continued to enjoy and fine tune his jazz repertoire. Sadly, Matty predeceased John. Following her passing and in his remaining years he was able to maintain his well-being and enthusiasm for life by sharing his love of music with fellow long term care friends.
Jazz was not Dr. J’s only passion. Dr. J’s career passion to provide eye care followed him into retirement. With the conclusion of his practice of Optometry, he volunteered travelling into remote areas of Canada providing support and diagnostic eye care for residents living in remote Canadian locations. He was especially proud of his work with ORBIS. Over the past four decades, ORBIS the Flying Eye Hospital has flown world-class professionalsto provideeye care in over 95 countries and has been a call-to-action for better eye care around the world. Wherever ORBIS lands, specialists raise awareness, create change, and ralley support from local governments, global organizations, and philanthropists in an effort to contribute to the global fight of ending “avoidable blindness” particularly in children. (can.orbis.org) John’s enthusiasm and determination to engage will be missed by all who knew him, those he diagnosed and those who may have benefited from his expertise and connections.
The family wishes to thank his wonderful caregivers, Mary, Matthew, Danielle, James, and William for their years of compassion and loving care. Their dedication touched us profoundly. The family is also very grateful to the Palliative Care Unit at the St. Joseph’s Hospital. Funeral service took place from St Peter’s Basilica on Monday, October 9th 2023 at 2pm.
Obituary Reflection (Catherine Campbell)
Obituary – Henry Nichols – Sept 22, 1946 – Nov 19, 2022
It is with great sadness that we announce the death of Henry Nichols on Nov 19, 2022 after a two year battle with cancer. Henry is survived by his loving wife Thea and his sons Brendan (Leslie), Jeffrey (Rachel), Derek (Laura) and daughter Deirdre (John) as well as his loving grandchildren Francis, Serena, Elsa, Daniel, Stephen, Indra, David and Richard. Henry was predeceased by his parents, Andrew and Emily. He was born and raised in Richmond, attended Vancouver College and graduated from UBC. His love of travel began with a backpacking trip through Europe and the Middle East in 1969. Henry was a great provider for his children and coached many of their sports teams – football, baseball, lacrosse and soccer. He began working in Prince Rupert Pulp Mill’s technical department as well as serving in production, marketing, management in various other BC mills.
After retirement, Henry and Thea pursued a life of travel visiting 138+ countries in all seven continents. Travel also comprised of train trips in South Africa, Zimbabwe, Egypt, Morocco, Peru, Europe, India, China and Mongolia. His passion was collecting model trains especially those made for the Canadian market culminating in a published book. He also loved to work in his vegetable garden each year providing great crops for the family. We would never leave on vacation until the tomatoes were harvested!
A Mass of Christian Burial will be held at St. Mark’s. Rest in peace, Henry.
Reflection on a life
Rest in peace, Henry.
Rest would certainly seem to be needed. Filling a couple of paragraphs with a lifetime of activity. Can’t help but look at the selfless presentation and question how it was possible.
I had known Henry in his younger years – ironically he got involved in smuggling. Perhaps that unmentioned past is reflective of his fondness for travel.
Although I hadn’t spent a lot of time with him over recent years I remember his joie de vivre with fondness. Then he packed up and headed out west.
So I headed to googling several of the details in his obituary. Only Henry’s name shows up (not his wife or family) – reflects the uniqueness of his life’s passions.
Henry and Thea certainly didn’t have reservations about a big family and that aspect of the obituary suggests a real family-based life. Let me work it out – Henry’s travel started in 1969. A typical backpacking post university jaunt – 23 years old. Then back to British Columbia to marry, work, coach multiple sports. I am going to assume he retired at 65. And I am going to assume that his children were born in the 1970’s, grew up, went to university, married and produced grandchildren in short order. During this period Henry seems to have taken up gardening (and provided generously) and developed a passion for model trains. He had the time to write a book. I have a friend who is infected with that train passion. It is an intensely time-consuming activity. Without writing a book.
Given his focus was Canadian trains it is surprising all the travel references are elsewhere. Train trips were still a focus. Planning and organizing a series of tours through Zimbabwe and South Africa to see the falls and safaris is time consuming not to mention the actual trips.
All the other locations mentioned for the travel are stand alone. Exotic. Add them up though and the total is a long way from 138 countries on seven continents. Maybe cruising – no suggestion he and Thea chose that mode of travel.
It doesn’t feel credible.
Impose the growing season of tomatoes, the social and sports activities of children and grand-children Henry and Thea must have spent zero time at home during some key events in the years.
Who was this obituary written for or by? No intimate anecdotes about activities with his family, friends, workmates. No memories of coaching the sports teams – winners or losers. Was it written by a grandchild impressed by ticking off the numbers and not missing a relationship with his/her grandfather.
Perhaps the absence of reflections on a deceased’s personality, uniqueness, is common in obituaries. It is uncomfortable to dwell on the loss. But it reads like a Wikipedia post. Cold. Unreflective. No recognition of the deceased’s personal essence.
I don’t care about 138 countries and harvesting tomatoes. I remember the young, vibrant Henry. Laughing over a glass of wine. Talking about the backpacking adventures. Making his friends feel special.
That Henry – rest in peace.
Obituary (Diane Chartrand)
NAMES FOR OBIT 8 WRITING
OBIT PERSON-
Amelia Brook Kirk
HUSBAND-
Noah Kirk
CHILDREN-
Sadie (Daughter) and Christoper (Son)
GRANDMOTHER OF-
Tilly, Pearson, Arthur, Petunia, and Elroy
PREDECEASED BY-
Husband: Noah -Sister: Mazzie – Brothers: Max, Donald, Stuart, Allen, David, Nathan, and Michael
OBIT SCENE FOR AMELIA
A year before her passing, Amelia contacted her remaining family members and asked them to come to the house for a special dinner. She wanted to show them a secret she had been keeping. Amelia just got several copies of the memoir she recently published. She wanted to read portions of it to them.
Amelia selected specific sections and marked each one with a sticky note. Her children Sadie and Christoper knew some of how she had met their father, but Amelia and Noah never talked about their lives in England before and during the war.
In the memoir, Amelia revealed her entire life, starting with growing up in England with her older sister Mazzie and her seven brothers Max, Donald, Stuart, Allen David, and Nathan, who always were her protectors since she was the baby of the family.
There are sections telling about the painful times during the war and her work as an ambulance driver while serving in the Women’s Auxiliary Force of the RAF. Her job was how she met the wonderful man she married in 1946.
Amelia wanted them to each have a copy and read about her life, but she needed to tell them about a special time for her that created the family they have become. It was time her children and grandchildren knew how she had met Noah that terrible day.
After everyone had taken their assigned place at the nursing home dining room table, Amelia brought in a box and set it in the middle of the table, taking her book off the top and sitting down.
“I’ve summoned you all here for a surprise. In my hand is a copy of my memoir that I published. Before giving you each a copy, I need to read a section to all of you.”
“Mom,” said Sadie. “You wrote a book? How did you hide this from us?”
“I had a lot of help from the staff who typed it up for me and helped to get it up to the publishing site.”
Amelia opened the book to the page she had marked. “For years, a story was told about how I met my beloved husband Noah, the father to Sadie and Christoper and grandfather to the rest of you. That tale wasn’t completely true.”
“What are you saying, Mom,” said Christoper.
“Your father and I didn’t want to revisit that terrible time during the war, but now, since I’ve put it in the book for the world to know, I thought it was only fair that you hear it first from me.”
The room was so quiet you could hear the rain hitting the two windows next to the table. Amelia looked around the room and began to read.
As the sound of guns and explosions could be heard, I drove my ambulance to a location given to me. I found a young man lying on the ground with a lot of blood flowing from his chest area. My assistant and I did what we could to stop the bleeding. We loaded the young man into the back of the vehicle and drove at high speed to the field hospital a few miles away. For some reason, I couldn’t leave this patient and waited to see if he’d make it or not…..
Obituary – Lila and the Ladder (Marian Bron)
Process: I first googled Ooltewah, Tennessee to find out its history and if anything, interesting had happened that would affect my character’s life. It was a Union stronghold during the civil war which I found interesting since it was in the traditional south. Her parents are mentioned but not her late husband’s, only a sister-in-law. That gave me a reason for her elopement in October of 1960. I made her the descendant of a rebel, something her mother-in-law could hold against her family. From there I had fun.
The twelve-foot wooden ladder I had lugged from my parent’s house thudded against the second-story windowsill of a white clapboard house two streets over, making more noise than wanted. Wesley Freichuk had always been a sound sleeper, his mother not so much. My luck she would find me standing beneath her pride-and-joy’s bedroom window in the middle of the night and spoil my plans. Squatting next to the leafless lilac bushes beneath the kitchen window, I waited until I was sure she hadn’t heard me.
Wesley’s very manhood needed saving. If Mrs. Freichuk had her way, those apron strings of hers would never be cut. Especially for the likes of me, the great-great-granddaughter of a rebel. But I loved Wesley, and he loved me, so there was no way ancient hostilities were going to ruin my happiness. His sister Melinda liked to joke that those strings were tied tight around her brother’s neck. He couldn’t breathe without his mother’s say so. Mrs. Freichuk was a force to be reckoned with, and I was up to the task.
The Freichuk house was locked tighter than Fort Knox. There were no spare keys hidden under flowerpots, especially since flowers were sentimental wastes of money according to Mrs. Freichuk, and no windows cracked open to catch the mountain breeze. Since no lights came on, I started my climb up my father’s rickety ladder, avoiding the rotten third rung. The seventh rung was also a bit punky. I stood on the tenth and tapped on Wesley’s window.
He slept on.
I tapped a bit louder.
Still, he slept on.
The window wouldn’t budge. Knowing, Mrs. Freichuk she had nailed her son’s window shut to preserve his chastity. No gold-digging princesses were going to get at her boy and ruin his virtue.
I tapped louder yet.
The window one room over flew open. I pressed myself against the wall.
“Lila?” Melinda whispered. “What the blazes are you doing?”
“Shh!” I whispered, finger to my lips, almost losing my balance. “Your mother will hear you.”
She shook her head and shut her window. Moments later, Wesley’s window opened.
“The dope’s still asleep.” She tip-toed to his bed and plugged his nose.
His eyes whipped open in a panic. He looked from his sister to me at the window. Melinda put a finger to her lips. He nodded in understanding.
“You are crazy,” was all he said as he started to dress. He filled a paper sack with clean underwear and socks. The family’s only suitcase was in Mrs. Freichuk’s bedroom closet.
Before her brother could climb out the window, Melinda said, “Wait.” She slid from the room and came back moment’s later with the keys to her brand-new Chevy Bel Air. “Don’t scratch it and don’t eat in it.”
“Thanks Sis,” Wesley said as he pocketed the keys and kissed her cheek.
The seventh rung snapped under his weight, and he crashed through six and five on his way down to four.
“Shh!” Melinda and I hissed in unison.
He rolled his eyes and reached for the third rung with his foot. He crashed to the ground, taking two lilac branches with him.
He dusted himself off. “Who knew eloping with you would be so dangerous? I take it that is the reason for all this subterfuge?”
Social conventions dictate a polite opening sentence. I’d ask how you are but I don’t care. You are still here, have been for quite a long time in fact, so I know how you are. Persistent, annoying, ever-present, relentless.
It’s time we parted ways. I need the sense of accomplishment that comes with finishing a story, a chapter or even a well-written paragraph. I need to lose myself in a fictional creation, another life that isn’t mine. I need the escape.
You see the sameness of life is getting to me and you are to blame. I miss those productive two hours surrounded by books, sitting at my old secretary desk. The one I spent a summer refinishing in my teens. A desk that connects me to my youth and more stories.
To be fair, writer’s block, you aren’t completely to blame. My insecurities are part of the problem. In capital letters they scream, “YOU SUCK! YOU’RE NOT A REAL WRITER!” But I write, therefore I am. So there. I may not have the ten-thousand hours or whatever is needed to perfect a skill, however I am getting there.
Let me throw myself into a good story. Let me create. Let me cry and giggle as I write. Don’t block me with your presence. Scram, get lost, let me be.
I am a storyteller. I come from storytellers. It’s in my genes. It’s who I am.
I’d ask you to go bug someone else but I don’t wish you on anyone. Disappear, vanish. Don’t take the high road, just get lost!
Wait on second thought, I know where you can go. There’s a guy named Donald down in the U.S. that I’d like you to visit.
No Sunday shopping. No if and or buts. No Sunday shopping period. But the chocolate cupboard was empty and I needed chocolate. To say needed was a bit dramatic but I can always blame hormones. Still, no Sunday shopping or as the expression went in the circles I grew up in: niet op Sondag. Translation is obvious: not on Sunday.
But chocolate. Nice dark rich velvety chocolate. I am geographically far enough removed from my old circle that if I slipped into the local grocery market I won’t meet anyone I know. Of course, God would know but He’s the one who gave me these hormones. Sacrilegious but I can always give the homeless man at the corner a toonie as penance.
The store was busy. Niet op Sondag wasn’t a thing in this neighbourhood. Shelves were being stocks, carts filled, cash registered rattled, grocery trolleys squeaked. The grocery store was hopping.
I quickly filled my basket with dark European chocolate, brownies for good measure, a couple of candy bars, and a jug of chocolate milk then headed for the cash register.
The lady ahead of me pulled away and I stepped ahead.
“Hello,” said the cashier. “Do you need any bags? My reply was cut off.
“Stop what you’re doing. Give me the chocolate.” The woman behind me had her gun pointed at my heart.
Her hair was a tangled mess, stuck to a giant piece of bright pink bubble-gum mid-forehead. The pungent odor of baby vomit wafted around her. Her socks didn’t match and the plaid shirt she wore was inside out.
“Don’t mess with me,” she waved the gun. “Give it to me.” It wasn’t the loss of carefully chosen hormonal chocolate that worried me. It was the teenager behind her filming us. In an hour two hormonal women would be viral. Niet op Sonday wouldn’t be a secret anymore.
Bartlett handed me a sword. A strange thing to be handed at eight in the morning, but then this wasn’t unusual for him. Besides, it matched the get-up he was wearing. A suit of armour.
“I need your help,” he said. “Your family’s life depends on it.”
“My family’s?” I asked. The last communique from my mother and brother was about the chocolate covered crickets my brother was eating in Mexico. All was well in the world as far as I knew.
“Yes,” he replied. His tone suggesting that I should have expected it. “The sorcerer has cast a spell.”
He pushed past me and made his way towards the kitchen.
“Barlett,” I called trailing after him. “What are you talking about? Sorcerer?”
“Salt. Lots of it.” He grabbed the mostly full box from my pantry. “Stand still.”
He poured a circle of salt around me and tossed the empty box onto the counter.
“Don’t move until the threat has been neutralized.” He reached in and took the sword back from me. “You should be safe.”
“Isn’t a salt circle used for demons not sorcerers?”
His jaw dropped; his eyes went wide. “Right. Sorry. But it can’t hurt.”
He headed for the front door.
“Barlett,” I called after him. “What is going on? Is my mother okay? Do I have to warn my brother.”
“Too late. He—” an ominous weight added to he “—knows where they are.”
I stepped out of the salt circle. “This is ridiculous.”
It was obvious one of his role-playing games had gotten out of hand. He had slipped from reality into make believe.
“Go home Bartlett,” I ordered him. “Get some sleep.”
With a creak of a squeaky knee hinge he turned and opened the front door.
“Eek!” he shrieked.
A cloud of smoke, crackling with lightening, had settled on my front stoop. A mythical sorcerer, complete with peaked hat and midnight black robes stepped forward.“Is this the wench?” he asked the trembling Bartlett.
I ran into Theo Barneveld at the Large-Mart. He caught me by surprise when he backed into the parking spot next to mine. The last I’d seen of him was high school graduation. It had been good riddance to him and his cronies. If I had been smart I would have stayed in my car. Maintain the invisibility I’d worked so hard at cultivating in school. But, it has been thirty years, he was an adult now and so was I.
He did a double take when I stepped out of the car.
“Theo Barneveld, right?” I’d asked him. “We went to grade school and high school together.”
I should have stayed invisible. His mother called him Teddy and he was anything but. More python, hyena or even crocodile. A predator, not a stuffed bear. The insolent sneer was the same, the words out of his mouth just as hurtful.
I should have stayed invisible.
He had not matured. He was still a bully, and the thing with invisibility and keeping one’s mouth shut is that anger grows and grows with each barb, every injustice. Until it explodes. I didn’t know it was lying dormant just below the skin and had been all this time. Covid stress hadn’t helped.
I punched him, punched him for my fifteen-year-old self and four years of hell. Right in the temple. I aimed for his nose but he turned at the last second. Dear Diary, it was horrible. He crumpled in on himself, his back smacking against his van as he slid to the ground into the snow and slush.
I had killed him with a single punch. Me! I had killed a man. I didn’t know what to do. Large-Mart has cameras all over their parking lot and they had me on tape murdering a man.
A distance of three feet separated our two vehicles and the nearest camera was two aisles over, so the chances of them recording everything was slim. Dear Diary, I’m not proud of what I did. Self preservation kicked in. Now was not the time for invisibility. I screamed and I screamed until people came running and crowding around.
“He grabbed me,” I lied, sobbing into my hands. I sold it for all it was worth. “So I hit him and I didn’t mean to hurt him but I was scared and he collapsed and now… please call an ambulance.”
So dear Diary, I had to go to the police station. Spent the rest of the day there giving my statement. But they believed me. Seems Teddy Barneveld, adolescent bully, had a record. He’d gone from terrorizing those around him on the school bus to assaulting women and getting into fights. I was free to go home.
Another email from Uncle Harrison’s lawyer popped up in my inbox. It was the eighth one. What did I want to do with the canal boat that my late uncle had left me? Uncle Harrison wasn’t really an uncle. He had been one of my late mother’s many paramours.
I didn’t want a boat. I had enough on the go. I would rather he had sold the thing when he was alive and had given me the money instead. With three growing kids all under the age of ten, I had my hands full. On top of that there was a global pandemic, and I was homeschooling, plus playing full time secretary to a husband who had made his home office of my kitchen table. I didn’t need a boat.
Roni the five-year-old glued to the TV, wiped her perpetually runny nose on the sleeve of her new jumper. Horace, the eight-year-old, was making flies. He was obsessed with fishing. Something he couldn’t do in December. Gloria sat with her phone, somewhere out of sight. Surrounding all this domesticity was a house that needed repainting, a tree that need trimming, a van that needed replacing.
This time the lawyer had included pictures of the boat. It was dark green with red and blue trim. Much like the tree that had to be decorated. It slept eight. Full kitchen and a tank full of gas.
The husband paced back and forth, wheeling and dealing with a computer screen. Roni sniffed and wiped, and Horace dropped another completed fly into his fishing kit. From somewhere in the depts of the house Gloria huffed. All the boat needed has a couple of strings of fairy lights and it would do.
“Pack your bags,” I declared. “We’re going on an adventure.”
Roni sniffed.
Husband stared.
Horace squinted.
Gloria groaned, “Seriously, mother. Christmas is two days away.”
“Exactly, Christmas Vac-cay! Time for a change of scenery,” I shouted at the unseen Gloria.
Roni, with tears in her eyes, asked, “But what about Santa? He won’t know where we are?”
“Nonsense, Santa knows where every kid is. He has Santa GPS on every one of them.”
The car was packed in under two hours. Roni had her tablet, Husband his laptop, Horace his box of fly making feathers, and Gloria hid in the back.
We stood on the dock in the unseasonably warm weather. There was no snow or ice. Uncle Harrison’s boat was the only one left in the water. All the others had been dry docked for the winter. It didn’t matter, it would provide us with a physically distanced vacation. We’d deal with dry docking afterwards.
“But mommy.” Roni tugged at my sleeve. “Santa won’t find me. It’s a boat. It doesn’t have a chimney.”
“Husband, the box with rope lights please.” I climbed up on the roof of the boat and carefully laid out the lights.
“Take Roni back up to the parking lot, Husband.”
When they were back up top, I turned the lights on.
Sabine always wore black. Along with the opera length cigarette holder perpetually in her hand, it was her trademark. If one ignored the wild carrot coloured hair leaping around her pale face in untamed abandon, one would say she was classy. The hair, along with the constantly flashing green eyes, eyes that were angry and agitated, and not filled with youthful passion like our peers, kept her from achieving any status among our classmates. Like me, the foreigner, she was relegated to the rank of wannabee.
Seeing her dressed in a form hugging deep forest green cocktail dress, her hair smoothed into a respectable chignon at the nape of the neck and her eyes resting on my face as I approached the door of her building for our study session, was a shock. This was not Sabine the student I knew.
I had come over from Canada in September to study French literature in the City of Lights for a year at the Sorbonne. A flight home for Christmas had been out of the question. While the bedsit I rented was affordable, it was the not being able to cook for myself that had blown my budget. If I wanted to finish my year abroad, I had to make some heavy handed changes. Mooching meals off Sabine twice a week was a start. Her snacks were not the chips and grease-filled treats of my high school and early university days. They were meals in themselves. Cheeses, raw vegetables, grapes and berries, spicy sausages when she received a package from home, and never anything fattening. I’d lost more than my freshman fifteen, pounds I had doubled second year, by the end of December. Unbelievably, I was almost back to my fourteen-year-old weight. The clothes I’d brought from home hung on me, but I couldn’t afford new ones. Unfortunate considering I was living in the fashion capitol of the world, so with needle and thread, I took in what I could. Forever marked as the uncouth American.
“Cherie,” Sabine said as she locked the door behind her. “I forgot I have an appointment. Can we do this tomorrow?”
A long black car idled at the curb. Its liveried driver stood with his hand on the rear passenger door.
“Sure, I guess, we have a week,” I replied as I followed her to the car.
“Mademoiselle,” the driver nodded, opening the door.
Sabine slid gracefully from sight. “I’ll text.”
The driver closed the door and with a quick nod he turned on his heels, rounded the car and got in. The black car and Sabine disappeared around the corner.
No longer wowed by the ever present subway music, I made my way home. A long night alone in a box of a room all I had to look forward to. Like the sycamores outside my window it had lost its colour. What was once cute was now a cage. The peeling wallpaper no longer historic and the water stained ceiling decrepit. I had wanted to spend the evening in Sabine’s apartment not just for the food. It was elegant. It was classy. It was truly Parisian. How she could afford it was a secret she kept. In late October, I had spent a weekend with her at her parent’s house near Dijon and knew they were not rich. Like me, they stretched every Euro as far as it would go. Sabine wouldn’t know how to stretch a Euro if it was made of elastic.
Part 2 – Sabine
Blonde sunshine. Big North American blonde upbeat sunshine. It was annoying. She’s old enough to know life isn’t like that. Regardless, I smiled a smile of welcome as I let her into my apartment. Doing what I do, these last two years I’ve become a master at faking it. This friendship was no different.
Of course, it had its benefits. Despite not being a native speaker, she was smart. She knew how to write and because she read word by word, she was an excellent editor. Collaborating with her was never a mistake. It was an academic contact worth nurturing and, by extension, feeding. Her eyes lit up at the appetizers I had set out on my kitchen table. Ava didn’t think I noticed the literal hunger in her eyes. She thought she was playing it cool. Her face was too open and her heart too trusting. Those without scruples could easily take advantage of her.
We sat down and began studying. Ava discreetly eating almost everything on the table in front of her. But she wasn’t focussed today, not like most days. There was a question hanging over the table that she wasn’t asking. Her eyes kept travelling around the lovely apartment I had been allowed to live in.
Finally, I asked, “Cherie, what is it?”
She blushed. “It’s none of my business.”
It probably wasn’t, but I urged her to continue.
“This,” she said, a sweep of her hand taking in our surroundings. “Your apartment. It’s not like our other classmates’ apartments.”
I shrugged.
“How do you afford it?” Her big innocent blue eyes widened as she waited for my answer.
I settled back into my chair. “I’m frugal. My parents taught me how to stretch a Euro.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe it. They live nothing like this.” Her eyes settled on a signed print hanging over the fireplace. One of only twelve and a gift from a client. “How do you afford to live like this?”
Madame would love her. She was always on the look out for girls to book. She especially liked long-limbed blonde Americans, but I wasn’t going to share. As the oldest of five, I’ve done enough sharing in my twenty-three years. This side gig paid for the schooling I had waited far too long for, and it was mine alone. Besides, Ava didn’t have what it took to be one of Madame’s girls. Like I said, she was too open.
I shrugged again. “Student loans from a generous banker.”
Ava’s eyes narrowed. “But the dress and the limo last night? What was that about?”
It had been an unfortunate mistake. She was not supposed to see the car and driver or the dress. For years the cultivated persona was my shield and she saw behind it. Today I was back in my student uniform, but it didn’t protect me from her questions. She had glimpsed my private second persona.
“An uncle called for me, a well do-to uncle so I had to dress up. He took me out to dinner.” I leaned forward. “I would appreciate it if you told no one about it. My reputation, you know. The other students don’t need to know.”
Her eyes narrowed as she sat back. “I didn’t think you cared what others thought of you?”
I shrugged again. “I do, to a degree. They are my peers.”
Ava’s eyes swung around the room. Taking in the furnishings and artwork Madame had provided.
It was her turn to lean forward as she whispered, “Are you a prostitute?”
“Don’t be foolish.” Prostitute was so bourgeoisie.
Bernie bent to wipe the dust from the toe of his loafer, squashing the bouquet of flowers in his arms against his chest.
“Darn,” he muttered as he pulled two broken stems out and dropped them down a sewer grate. He’d picked the bouquet just for her, his wife of six years. Twenty-four perfect pink roses from their garden; flowers that were just as beautiful she was. He settled his glasses squarely on his nose and opened the door to his wife’s medical practice. Today was her anniversary; she’d hung out her shingle for the first time ten years ago.
As Bernie stepped up to the intake window, Carly, the receptionist, glanced at the nurse standing behind her. The nurse bit her lip and turned away.
He passed the bouquet over the counter. “Can you give these to my wife and tell her I’m here?”
Carly took the flowers and looked back for the nurse, who had disappeared, then glanced from the flowers to the man in front of her and back down at the roses, a shiny black beetle crawling out of a blossom as she did. She picked it off, dropped it on the floor, grinding it beneath her heel. “Um,” she quickly checked over her shoulder before continuing, “She’s not here.”
“Where is she? I made her a lunch. It’s her anniversary, you know?”
“The thing is, Mr. Patterson.”The young receptionist set the flowers on the counter beside her and dropped into her chair, swivelling around to face him. “The thing is she doesn’t work here anymore. She sold the practice three weeks ago. Didn’t you know?”
Bernie’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Impossible. She leaves every morning with her medical bag.” He put the paper lunch sack on the counter next to the flowers.
“She hasn’t been here in three weeks.”
“But she loves her job. She’s been singing when she leaves the house. Are you sure? Go check, right now.” He shook his finger, as he pointed down the hall towards the examination rooms. “She’s got to be here.”
“No, Mr. Patterson. She doesn’t work here anymore.” Carly picked up the roses and handed them back to Bernie.
He waved them away. “But she loves it. She’s never looked better. She’s been glowing when she comes home. She’s happy here.”
“Sorry. She wasn’t happy here.”
“But where is she then? She comes home with money, lots of it.” Frowning, Bernie scratched his head. Dollar bills, mostly singles, some twos and occasionally a ten or a twenty, went into the cookie jar every night when she got home. Come to think of it, that’s not how she used to get paid. He looked up at the receptionist. “Do you know where she’s working now?”
The nurse stepped back into the room.
“Mr. Patterson,” she said. “Someone saw her downtown. Standing on a street corner, kitty-corner to the bank and by the way she was dressed, she’s not a doctor anymore.”
Bernie went as pale as his wife’s duty coat, the one he now remembered had still been hanging on the back of their bedroom door this morning after she’d left. He sank onto the nearest chair. “A street corner? Do you mean she’s a—” He couldn’t finish the thought.
Carly and the nurse both nodded.
It explained so much—the rouge stained cheeks, the blood-red lips, the unexplained bit of white goo on her ear, the odd smell of latex, and the candy-apple red dyed hair. Bernie tore from the building, his heart thumping as he raced down the street, not stopping until he faced the woman he thought he knew, standing on her street corner. He couldn’t see her face blanch at the sight of him beneath the white face paint.
She peered up at him from beneath her mop of Raggedy Anne curls. “You found me.” She honked her enormous bugle-shaped clown horn and pulled a latex balloon out of her medical bag. Snapping it, she asked, “Balloon poodle?”
Mirror, mirror. What if your mirror started talking to you? What might the mirror say
The new lightbulb made a huge difference. Unfortunately. Every wrinkle, gaping pore and that childhood chicken pox scar, all visible.
“Shoot!” I cried. “A zit at my age. Where did that come from?”
An answering snort came from behind the mirror. “Where do you think? Did you really need those three pieces of chocolate cake and bottle of soda? The way you eat, it’s a surprise you don’t look like a pizza.”
I stepped out of the bathroom and peered into the next room. No one was there.
Back in front of the mirror, I poked at the pimple.
“Leave it alone. You want it to get infected?”
Again, no one was in the next room.
“Honey,” I heard from the bathroom. “You think only Evil Queens in Disney movies have talking mirrors?”
I peered at the silvered piece of glass. All I saw was me and a giant zit.
“Most of us talk,” the mirror said.
I tapped the glass and said, “This must be some kind of joke.”
“Talking mirrors are as real as that giant red Mount Vesuvius wannabe on your forehead.”
Taking a step back, I gave my head a shake. Just my luck I’d get the mirror with attitude.
“So, does that mean I can ask you who the fairest in all the land is?” I asked.
“It ain’t you honey. You don’t even crack the top one-hundred.”
“That’s a little harsh,” I replied.
“Is it?” the mirror snapped. “Wait until you hear what your bathroom scale has to say.”
