“I think one day, just like Sleeping Beauty, you’re going to wake up and face life square on. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for you.” She hunched forward and spoke quietly, forcefully. “You’ve so much going on, my friend, and you have no idea.”
“Will that be all?”
I looked up. Our waitress was standing between us, scribbling on the bill. She was staring over our heads through the plate glass window that captured the bustle of Bank Street.
“Yes, that’s all for now,” Fiona said as she reached out for the check and smiled at me. “It’s time we put on our winter coats and got back into the fray.”
When everything else in my life seemed out of my control, I could rely on my skill as a plastic surgeon to give me a feeling of competence and even peace. It was no surprise then, when the rhytidectomy went without complication. I’d opted for a local anesthetic, and our thirty-five year old reporter would be going home to spend the night sleeping it off at home with a tube for drainage behind her ear. I left her resting in the post-op room after leaving instructions with the nurses and went to the 13 ward to check on another patient who’d had a tummy tuck the day before. She’d spend one more night in the hospital before release. I was pleased to see they’d removed her intravenous drip and that she was sitting up, sipping on some broth.
Seven o’clock found me backing my silver Ford Taurus out of the reserved doctors’ parking to head to our New Edinborough home. I was tired but relatively happy with the day. A recent dusting of snow gave the city a softened, new-world patina caught in the glare of my headlights and the myriad lights of the city. The snow’s whiteness lifted my spirits, and I was suddenly looking forward to a night in with Sam. I knew I’d been out of sorts and withdrawn lately, and we needed to connect. Hopefully, he’d have defrosted one of the many packets of frozen meals and started supper by the time I got home. We’d eat in front of the fireplace in the back room and listen to a classical recording from his extensive collection. He’d mentioned buying a rare Mozart recording that he wanted me to hear.
I took the long way, turning north along the canal past the University of Ottawa. I enjoyed this route, and it let me clear my head. By the Rideau Centre, I stopped at a red light and reached for my cellphone. I looked at the brown copper roof of the Chateau Laurier and its castle-like towers as I checked my messages. Two waiting. I played the first. Sam’s resonant voice saying goodbye filled my ear, and I felt my spirits plunge. I’d forgotten he was heading to New York. He would be in the air now, likely sipping on a Scotch and soda and reading the paper. That meant I’d be having supper alone again.
The light changed, and I dropped the cellphone into my open purse. The second message would wait. I crossed Rideau Street and travelled north on Sussex, past the bustle of the Byward Market and the spired glass magnificence of the art gallery. I turned right and entered my neighborhood, passing the treed grounds of the Governor General’s residence, the extensive property hemmed in by a black iron fence. One more right turn onto our street and the welcome sight of our driveway. I parked and stepped out of the car. The tire marks from Sam’s Land Rover were filled with snow. He’d been gone a long time. I lifted my head and looked at our two-storey red brick house, set back from the street and nestled in behind conical cedar bushes and lilac trees, now encased in clumps of snow. Its narrow frontage kept it unassuming, hiding its spacious rooms, rich oak floors and high ceilings. I shivered in my wool coat and hurried up the stone walkway, careful not to slip on patches of ice hidden by the thin snow cover. The porch light was on a timer, as was the lamp on the post closer to the driveway. They lit my way through the early darkness of the chilly February evening.
The first thing I did was run a hot bath. I’d been chilled by the day and soaked for half an hour, letting the Jacuzzi jets pulsate away all the tension from my neck and shoulders. By the time I dressed in flannel pajamas and a housecoat, my stomach was rumbling, and I hurried downstairs to the kitchen.
I heated up a packet of leftover stew from the freezer and poured a glass of pinot noir the colour of crushed rubies. The house was cool, and I settled in front of the gas fireplace in the backroom to warm up. Instead of classical music, I put Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” on our antiquated turntable and relaxed into his voice. The wind had picked up, and I could hear it battering the house and rattling down the chimney. Gusts of snow blew past the windows and danced in the lights placed about the backyard. Halfway through my meal, I remembered the phone message that I hadn’t listened to. I took a forkful of food and pushed myself to my feet from where I sat in front of the coffee table. I waited until I was sitting once again in front of my meal before retrieving the saved message. It was a moment before I could place my sister-in-law’s voice. Hysteria had sharpened Claire’s usually level voice, and I felt prickles of fear rippling along my skin.
“Maja? Maja,” a deep breath, “this isn’t good news. I don’t know how to tell you... It’s your father. He was found dead in his backyard a few hours ago. They think...they think he may have been murdered. They’ve taken Jonas in for questioning.” Another deep breath mixed with a sob. “Maja...call me as soon as you can.”
I had to listen to the message three times before the words finally sunk in. Dad was gone. Part of me rejoiced. Take that, you old bugger. I knew you’d get what’s coming to you one day, but it took a hell of a long time. Another part of me wanted to cry. I lifted my eyes to my ghostly reflection in the patio door. Jonas needed me. The wall I’d so carefully erected around my past was about to come tumbling down. I raised my cellphone again with a shaking hand and dialed Jonas’s home number. Claire picked up on the first ring.
“This is so terrible. I just saw your dad, and he was looking fine.”
“He left the hospital on his own?”
“Yes. Apparently before lunch. Are you coming? Jonas needs you.”
“I’m...of course.”
“Thank God, Maja. I can’t talk now. Someone’s at the door.
“I’ll call you when I get in.”
“I’ll tell Jonas.”
The first Northwest Airlines flight I could make was six a.m. with stops in Detroit and Minneapolis. If the weather cooperated, we’d be touching down in Duluth a few minutes after noon. I booked a window seat and went in search of my suitcase.
By one o’clock the following afternoon, I was wending my way in a rented Chevy Cavalier up Highway 61, heading north through Minnesota towards the Canadian border. The snow was deep and mounded along the sides of the road, covering the rock outcroppings and lying heavy on the branches of fir and spruce. At Two Harbors, I pulled off the highway for a rest stop at Betty’s Pies and bought a large cup of bitter coffee in a Styrofoam cup, and on the spur of the moment, a strawberry rhubarb pie to bring to Jonas’s. The coffee warmed my hand through my thin glove, and I took small sips as I walked through the snow to my car in the parking lot. While I’d been inside, a layer of snow had covered the car, and I swiped at the back and side windows to clear enough away to see, snow crunching under my boots as I circled the car. Even as I settled myself in the front seat, thick flakes had recovered the cleaned surfaces. I turned the heater on high and flicked on the windshield wipers. They thump-thumped against the glass and left icy streaks in their wake. Driving would be slow going for the last leg of my journey.
I’d called Claire from the Duluth Airport. The phone had woken her from an exhausted sleep, but she reported that Jonas was on his way home from the police station. The police had questioned him off and on for most of the night but couldn’t come up with enough evidence to charge him. Her voice had been worried but relieved at the same time. She said Jonas