A wave of depression almost swept me out into the vast sea of despair that sits just beyond my consciousness. I’d been outmanoeuvred by an overgrown Cabbage Patch doll. Maybe it really was time to leave. Just as the undertow was about to drag me into open water I reached out, flipped open one of the files, and scanned the contents. It was a mess, with the most recent correspondence dated over two months ago. I flipped quickly through the other files. Same thing. It was nice to know that I could still depend on Bob for at least some things. By now, he had moved on to other pressing items, specifically, the merits of mocha java over Colombian for our staff coffee machine.
“Oh, Bob,” I interrupted, raising my index finger. “Did you receive these files recently?”
Bob looked up, annoyed. He fixed me with a stern look, then dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “I can’t remember the exact date. Not long ago.”
Why didn’t I believe him. He tried to get back to the agenda — clarification of the new rules governing sugar and milk privileges — but I didn’t let him.
“Gosh,” I said, loud enough to draw attention to myself. I had one of the files open in front of me, and as I slowly turned the pages, I punctuated each new page with a surprised murmur of disappointment. “Oh, my! Goodness, how did that happen? That’s just not possible. And how will we deal with this?” All eyes were on me. When I was good and ready I shook my head sadly and looked up at Bob. “Somebody really screwed up in the director general’s office. These files have been sitting on someone’s desk for at least six weeks. That’s why they have impossible deadlines.” I looked meaningfully around the room. “Well, I don’t think we should take this, do you?”
“No way.”
“Not again”
“Bloody DG. We always take the blame.”
I could see the sweat beading on Bob’s upper lip. “Just get them done. ASAP!”
“Oh, I will.” I paused for effect. “But I’ll also send an e-mail to you, with a cc to the director general, confirming the date that I received the files. Just so that our group isn’t blamed for any delays.”
People around the table nodded in agreement. Bob’s face had gone an unbecoming shade of red, and his lips were a tense and quivering line in what passed for his chin.
“We’ll discuss it after the meeting. My office.” “Excellent,” I said, and closed the files in front of me. I was going to skewer the bastard.
The meeting droned on. I tuned out, not really caring about the latest memo from the DG or a circular from Treasury Board. I did perk up when Bob finally turned to Duncan.
“So, Duncan, it doesn’t look like you have a lot on your plate these days.” Bob was almost snickering as he took in the empty table in front of Duncan.
Duncan is tall and thin with an Alan Alda sort of natty look: simple wool sweaters with matching wool or corduroy pants. Today it looked like he, too, was playing cat and mouse, with Mr. Cabbage Patch definitely cast as the rodent. However, like many rodents, Bob seemed blissfully unaware of his place in the food chain.
Duncan smiled. “Sort of looks that way, doesn’t it.”
“Why, that’s wonderful, just dandy, because I have an urgent file here, international involvement, politically sensitive, high security clearance required, big money — and it involves a trip to scenic Vancouver. It’s yours!” He could hardly contain his glee. “Everything’s booked. You leave for Vancouver tonight.”
If there had been an eighth dwarf named Nasty he would have looked just like Bob at that moment. Duncan is a single father with two kids under the age of six. Travel for him is a logistical and emotional nightmare, and damn near impossible on such short notice. But Duncan was unflappable.
“I don’t think so, Bob.” He paused, as if seriously considering the proposal, then shook his head. “Nope: definitely not in my stars this week.”
Bob shot to his feet. “Are you refusing a project? You’ll be disciplined. Possibly suspended. It’ll go on your record.”
“I’m not refusing a project, Bob. I’m refusing to work for you.”
“What do you mean by that? You can’t refuse to work for me.”
Duncan rose unhurriedly from his chair. “I have another job, and I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me because I have a lot of loose ends to pull together by the end of the day.”
Bob’s first reaction was delight, but an instant later reality set in, that being that he would have to cover for Duncan on such short notice. “You can’t just walk out of here. You need to give two weeks notice.”
Duncan looked innocent. “But I start two weeks’ vacation tomorrow. You approved it last month.”
Bob is administratively challenged, and the idea that he might remember signing a vacation request a month ago was farcical. Bob glared at Duncan, who shrugged slightly and headed for the door. I, of course, couldn’t hold myself back.
“Congratulations, Duncan. What’s the new job?”
He stopped, turned, and made an obvious effort — unsuccessful — to keep a straight face. “Special Science Advisor to the Minister of Industry.”
Everyone in the conference room gasped. Except me. It must have been the tension because, try as I might to stop it, a grin spread across my face. We all knew that Bob had applied for that job.
I didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll take the job in Vancouver,” I said, plucking the file from where it lay in front of Duncan’s recently vacated spot. This job was a plum: a successful outcome might even catapult me out from under Bob. I pushed the biotechnology files back into the centre of the table, gathered up my things, and stood.
“I’m sure your other highly competent staff members can handle these… how did you describe them? Simple and straightforward investigations.” I glanced down at the new file and read the label: International Network for Pacific Salmon Population Dynamics. I almost laughed out loud.
“Perfect,” I said in Bob’s direction.
chapter two
Back in my office I took a few minutes to gloat. I imagined myself returning triumphant from Vancouver to a new fifth-floor corner office with a teak desk and credenza. I was just about to sink into my imaginary leatherette chair when my mind, unbidden, flew back to Vancouver and began to make its way down 12th Avenue toward the dismal east end. I could feel my stomach twitch as we hovered past the elementary school, the derelict yard, the swings dangling askew.
The house was down a side street, white clapboard and looking abandoned. As my mind pulled me toward it, willing me to open the door, to step inside, I felt myself numb. I hadn’t thought about my mother in months, and her intrusion into my life was unwelcome.
I jerked my chair forward and caught sight of the file sitting innocently on my desk. I grabbed for it, flipped it open, and focused all my attention on it, forcing the past to recede. Work, I have always found, is the most potent antidote to memory.
The first thing that caught my attention was the appearance of the file. It was way too trim and neat for a project with high security clearance, especially one involving Pacific salmon. Since these animals migrate across international borders, the Network had to involve research partners from Japan, Russia, and the United States. With that amount of bureaucracy the file should have been bloated with back-and-forth correspondence, directives, and memos, the foreplay of an investigation, but the only thing inside was a single, neatly bound sheaf of paper that was maybe a hundred pages long.
I picked it up and fanned through it. There were letters, some newspaper clippings, grant applications, curriculum vitae, and the printout of a very inadequate reference