Praise for The Glenwood Treasure:
“The Glenwood Treasure has suggestions of the late Timothy Findley and more than a hint of the old Nancy Drew mysteries. But, given the strength of this book, it seems more fitting to drop the comparisons and allow Moritsugu her own place on the literary landscape.”
~ The Globe and Mail
“Kim Moritsugu is a witty social observer and the book deftly blends a comedy of manners into the mystery.”
~ Toronto Star
“A cozy read … Moritsugu is a good writer with an appealing central character that will awaken the inner girl in all of us.”
~ National Post
Praise for Old Flames:
“Delightful … it sings … the first person narrative creates an intimacy between the reader and the characters, who lift off the page and become old friends.”
~ The Globe and Mail
“Like her protagonists, Moritsugu’s writing style is neighbourly and clever … a breezy enjoyable read … a poignant reflection of the choices we make.”
~ Montreal Gazette
THE RESTORATION OF
Emily
~ a novel ~
Kim Moritsugu
Copyright © Kim Moritsugu, 2006
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the
prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from
Access Copyright.
Editor: Barry Jowett
Copy-editor: Jennifer Gallant
Design: Jennifer Scott
Printer: Webcom
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Moritsugu, Kim, 1954-
The restoration of Emily / Kim Moritsugu.
ISBN 10: 1-55002-606-2
ISBN 13: 978-1-55002-606-1
I. Title.
PS8576.O72R48 2006 C813′.54 C2006-900528-1
1 2 3 4 5 10 09 08 07 06
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit pro gram, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book.
The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any
references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on recycled paper.
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“If you can’t say anything good about someone, sit here right by me.”
— Alice Roosevelt Longworth, 1884–1980
~ CHAPTER ONE ~
My first fun appointment of the fun-filled day ahead is at 9:30 a.m., to see a specialist about some sharp pains I’ve had for months in my right arm. When my GP diagnosed the problem as an ordinary affliction with the prosaic name “frozen shoulder,” I was tempted to go on ignoring the jabs of hurt, avoid using the arm for anything strenuous, and wait for time’s healing power (and/or my body’s ever more glacially paced self-healing capabilities) to make the problem go away. But the pain has become worse instead of better, has begun to wake me at night, and is making me crankier than my normal, pain-free, non-sleep-deprived cranky self. Hence the visit to the rheumatologist, about whose curative abilities I am skeptical, since, in my experience, competence is rare.
My suspicions are not allayed when the doctor turns out to be markedly younger than I am. In her late thirties, I’d guess, from the bags under her eyes, the faded bloom of youth on her skin. She addresses me by my first name, Emily (better that than the sort of formality I’ve disliked since childhood), introduces herself as Joan rather than as Dr. Anything, and takes my history.
She expresses no surprise upon hearing my birth year, does not exclaim that I look younger than my age, a line I have become accustomed to and, I’m afraid, quite fond of, from my regular doctor, a wrinkled woman in her sixties who I fear is losing her memory and mind, because I am, have been since I turned forty. Though how funny is it (not) that I never think my GP feeble when she declares my blood pressure that of a young woman or tells me I’m lucky I inherited the skin gene from my father’s side and not my mother’s, because fair complexions go old so fast, look at hers.
Dr. Joan asks my occupation, and when I tell her, says, “An architect? Have you designed anything famous?”
I have an urge to lay claim to a set of Mies van der Rohe skyscrapers downtown, or to a Frank Lloyd Wright house in Michigan, or to the Red House in Kent. My anti-authoritarian impulse — because she didn’t say I looked young? Sheesh — is to jolt her, to disturb her calm the way the occasional obstreperous client does mine. But I hold back, and when her polite smile seems to invite more detail, I say, “I restore old houses.”
She shares that she lives in a loft-style condo in the meat packing district, an area filled with arty boutiques and funky restaurants built within smelling range of abattoirs. She has no affinity for old houses, in other words. Good. We are both relieved to return to the matter at hand. At arm. She says, “You’ve had pain in your shoulder how long?”
“Six months.”
“Show me where.”
I point to the outside of my bicep.
She frowns. “Have you taken any anti-inflammatory drugs? What about physiotherapy?”
I tell her that the drugs didn’t work and that I did physio for three months but saw little improvement. Which is why I’m here. That and because my fourteen-year-old son, Jesse, has started to do a maddening but accurate imitation of me clutching my arm and wincing whenever I ask him to help me execute a routine action I can no longer accomplish painlessly, like opening a door or reaching a bowl down from a shelf.
In the examining room, I don a tasteful but still humiliating blue striped hospital gown so that Dr. Joan can run a knitting needle up the sole of my foot (my foot curls like a snail), and tap me hard on each knee with a hammer. My legs jerk