“I should be asking you that question.”
She raised her shoulders, a hint of a smile that seemed to say, Oh, I’m done for, the question is barely worth asking, followed by another smile, this one courageous; she wouldn’t accept me pitying her. “You think this time is the right one, for you, Quebeckers?”
The Quebec referendum on sovereignty, live on television. She was about to die and was thinking about politics. I said, not knowing what to answer, “I don’t know, I hear it’s tight.”
“So, it was a good idea to vote by … how do you say it in French again?”
“Par anticipation,” Jack said.
“Right. That way, before dying, I might change the course of things. So that we stay together.”
Why did she insist on speaking to me in French in the state she was in? Even I was tongue-tied in French, words coming to me slowly.
My throat tightened. She coughed, a wheeze to break your heart. Jack came nearer to her, and wet her withered lips with a small moist sponge, before she fell into somnolence again, the effect of morphine, no doubt.
Seeing her so fragile, so close to the end, a wave of guilt overcame me, whose origins I couldn’t pinpoint. Guilty for what? For having been the one who burned the last bridge. Forgetting, here and now before such sadness, that there had been a reason for it, yes, a reason.
“Can you stay … just a little longer.…?” Slowly, she opened her eyes. “Do you know where I wish I could be now? Do you remember.…?”
Her unfocused eyes staring off in the distance, perhaps remembering her parents’ great wooden house, in Métis Beach, the happy childhood she had before she became a young woman to be married off. The unforgettable summers, from St. Jean Baptiste Day to Labour Day, long days in the sun and the tennis courts and the sea in small dinghies, wind in their sails. Campfires and roasted marshmallows, scary stories the kids told each other while the adults drank inside. The films shown on Thursday evenings at the clubhouse, classics with Marlon Brando, Vivien Leigh, James Dean, and Natalie Wood. Cokes sipped on the deck of Little Miami, the incredible view you had there when the sun set. The long drives on winding roads, hair in the wind, in one of the Tees boys’ sports car — though Gail had never had any affection for the “trouble-makers, deadheads, and daddy’s boys who thought they could do what they wanted.” Carefree days, a summer camp, where the young ones in Métis Beach had nothing to do but have fun, and ignore the responsibilities they would later acquire, when they became lawyers and businessmen, while we, in the French Village, would continue to work hard, bending passively to the whims of our parents, waiting without illusions for the monotonous life that was preordained.
Gail moved slowly, as Jack looked on. She lolled, almost as if nodding, and Jack helped her up in her bed, placing a pillow against her back. Shoulders bent, he left the room and returned immediately with a burly young man, reddish brown hair, my height. A nervous type, briefcase under his arm. Gail’s face brightened. Who was this man? A mastodon, really, at least two hundred and fifty pounds. He walked towards me and offered me a moist hand, as Gail introduced us in such a hushed voice we could barely understand, “Romain, this is Len Albiston … Len, Romain Carrier.…” Then Jack took over, and gave an embarrassed, hazy explanation — Len was a reporter, he worked for the Calgary Herald; he was in Montreal to cover the Quebec referendum.…
All well and good, but what was he doing in this hospital room? Why introduce him to me now?
Gail seemed to have read my thoughts. She spoke, her voice barely audible, “I know, Romain … It’s a strange moment.…” Len’s face reddened so suddenly that I began thinking unpleasant thoughts.
Suddenly tense, I said, “Gail?”’ Then turning towards Jack, “What does all this mean?”
Jack raised his shoulders, helpless. “Be patient. She’ll explain.”
After, I couldn’t remember how it was told to me. Gail had become animated all of a sudden, a sort of miracle, her eyes full of life, her voice energized. Len had stood in the corner of the room, shooting anxious glances at the television, raising the sound a little. He had an article to write for the next morning, and it was late, past ten, in strange and painful circumstances, but he was a professional, a conscientious journalist who was the pride of his … mother?
“My son, Romain. Our son. Summer of ’62.”
Len’s cheeks burned. This young man who seemed to have no connection to me, my son? My heart beating, I was too stunned to speak, too shaken to know whether I should even speak. Gail? What did you just say?
She gave Len a relieved look, and her face softened with a glow of serene resignation that the dying have when all of life’s files are finally closed. You see, Len. It’s done, it’s done.
What was I supposed to say to that? Wonderful! Or, Come here, my boy!
Embarrassed, Len looked at his watch, then went through his pockets and pulled his wallet out, from which appeared a card, his business card. He handed it to me, hands shaking. He had to leave and make his way to the Yes camp’s headquarters before the speeches, before the results. He went to Gail, took both her hands and kissed her on her forehead, the sort of kiss that people who love each other give. He seemed to know, somehow, that she wouldn’t be there anymore when he was done with his article. He was overflowing with emotion, tears in his eyes, the way he took Jack in his arms and, finally, the way he shook my hand, saying that he’d like to see me again, for lunch, maybe, but not now because he was so busy and he had to return to Calgary, but maybe in a few weeks. He’d come to L.A. if I wanted him to. And that was that. He took his raincoat, put his briefcase under his arm, and walked out.
I took my head in my hands. Why had she hidden this from me for all these years? Yes, why, Gail?
The strange vitality that had filled her was gone. Sudden pain contorted her face. Worried, Jack pressed a button that alerted a young nurse. Another dose of morphine, and the lines in Gail’s face were soothed.
On the television, talking heads babbled away. Then, shouts of joy from one side of the question — the game was over.
Through the window, day would come soon, autumn light would illuminate the city. Montreal, a battleground, its streets filled with election signs like so many abandoned flags.
A weary feeling overtook me — the love of my youth had died, and I was the father of a complete stranger.
6
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Romain. Are you okay?”
“Yes, Ann.”
“Are you coming home today?”
“No. Tell Matt and Dick they can do what they want.”
“What they want? You’re joking, right? Are you sure you’re okay? Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t be alone. I know you. Why don’t you come back to L.A. this afternoon?”
“I need to … understand.”
“What?”
“To rest.… Jack and I, well, we kept a vigil for Gail, all night.”
“Oh, Romain! It must have been terrible.”
“Give me a day or two, okay?”
“A day or two? But … why? I’m worried Romain, worried for you.”
“Don’t be. It’s just shock, is all. I’ll call you back, okay?”
She sighed. “Okay, but please, take care of yourself.…”
“I love you, Ann.”
And, of course, I said nothing about Len.
I was exhausted. After five