It was only when I entered my old bedroom that I felt I finally was home. Nothing had changed. Even my dusty collection of stuffed animals continued to flop on the top shelf of my bookcase. On the wall hung my Branksome Hall graduation diploma that Mother had insisted on framing beside a faded poster from a Neil Young concert, which I’d ripped from a telephone pole as a dare in Grade Ten.
I had spent a lot of time in this cozy L-shaped room with its slanted ceilings, which stood at the end of the long hall on the third floor, where all Harris children were relegated. Although after my marriage to Gareth Mother had offered me a more spacious, more adult room on the second floor, I had refused to take it. This room had become my oasis, my sanctuary from life’s pressures.
Besides, I hadn’t wanted to sleep in this house with Gareth, and I never did during our thirteen years of living together. I only returned to this room after I’d run away from him. But Mother’s relentless chastising eventually drove me to Three Deer Point. She blamed me for the marriage breakup, insisting it was a wife’s duty to stick by her husband’s side no matter what. As for the broken arm he’d given me, along with the bruises and black eye, her only comment had been, “these things happen.”
I smiled at my old photographs filling up one of the end walls. I used to derive a lot of enjoyment from photography. In fact, in the early years of my marriage, I’d even thought of doing it professionally until Gareth pummelled the desire away with his barrage of criticism. But as I perused these pictures of Canada’s great outdoors, I felt they were as good as any I’d seen in travel magazines and calendars.
Maybe I should take it up again. I’d felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment at having captured the ethereal beauty of a wildflower or the magic of a still lake at sunrise. In fact, I recognized a couple of lake and forest scenes taken during my many stays at Three Deer Point when Aunt Aggie still lived there.
But enough of this useless musing. It would get me nowhere. I hadn’t come all this way to reminisce. Although I wouldn’t be able to learn more about these letters until Mother returned home, I could at least get my call to the Iqaluit police over with.
A week ago, after my sister’s car had sped out of sight, I’d phoned but was told to call back in a week’s time when the constable in charge of the missing airplane files had returned from leave.
Fortunately, Corporal Reilly was back and in the office when I called this time. After listening to my request for information on the submerged plane, he replied in a brusque, almost impatient voice, “Give me your e-mail, and I’ll send you our press release on it.”
“I’m afraid I want a little more than a press release,” I replied rather testily.
“Why should I provide you with any more information than what’s been sent to the other journalists? Besides, the press release pretty well sums up all we know to date.”
“Because I’m not a journalist. This plane may very well be my father’s that went missing in 1973.”
“Whoops. Sorry. I’ve been getting a lot of calls from the southern press on this. Even had some from Europe. Just assumed you were another one. Who did you say your father was?”
“Sutton Harris. I’m wanting to know if it’s possible that this could be his plane.”
“Let me see. That’s the one that disappeared between Tasilik and Iqaluit, right?”
“Are you familiar with it?”
“Yeah, I’ve read the file. I wish I could be more definitive, but at this point in the investigation, we aren’t able to establish the plane’s identity. Christ, we don’t even know if the sighting was accurate. Could’ve been a rock, even a whale for all we know. Unfortunately, we can’t verify until the ice is gone, which won’t be for another couple of months.”
“Do you think this could be his plane?”
“It’s possible. But this sighting has to be at least three hundred kilometres from what would’ve been its direct flight path between Tasilik and Iqaluit.”
“Maybe bad weather, instrument problems, whatever, caused the pilot to stray off course, and he ended up crashing at this spot.”
“Anything’s possible. But from my experience, it’s highly unlikely a pilot would veer that far off course.”
“So you’re fairly certain it’s the Greenland flight mentioned in the newspaper article.”
“Yes, ma’am. The purported crash site is only twenty-thirty kilometres off that charter’s filed flight plan.”
“I guess you’re right, but the reason for my call is that someone has been sending my mother letters from Iqaluit that suggest this is my father’s plane. In fact, the letters even say that my father is still alive, which is ridiculous.”
“That’s gotta be someone’s idea of a sick joke. Even if he did survive a plane crash, the brutal conditions in that area, hell, anywhere in this godforsaken north, would’ve killed him. You gotta realize, winter is still going strong in April, which I believe is when your father’s flight went missing, eh? And this crash site has gotta be a few hundred kilometres from the nearest community. So there is no way in hell he would’ve made it.”
He paused while I heard him drink something. “But say by some miracle he did, then sometime over the last thirty or more years, his presence would’ve come to our attention. Not too many whites up here we don’t know about. But his file’s still open, which means he’s most likely dead—we just haven’t found the body.”
“And we, his family, would also know if he had survived, because he’d be with us.” I felt I had to add the obvious, which he’d forgotten to mention.
“Yeah…of course. Any idea who sent the letters?”
“Unfortunately, they’re not signed, and there’s no return address.”
“Then it’s just someone wanting to make trouble. We get a lot of that here.”
“You mean anonymous letters.”
“No, people making trouble. Not much to do up here. People get bored. The sender probably saw the newspaper article and thought he could make a quick buck out of it.”
“They haven’t asked for money.”
“Not yet. Look, if you want I can look into these letters for you and find out who sent them. Shouldn’t be too difficult. We’re a pretty small community up here and everyone knows everyone’s business.”
“Thanks. Since they were addressed to my mother, I’ll check with her before I send you copies. You mentioned that you won’t be able to check out this plane for another couple of months.”
“That’s right, not until the ice is mostly gone in Davis Strait, which is usually about mid-July. That’s the earliest we’ll be able to get a salvage boat out to the site along with the divers. But given this here global warming I suppose it could be sooner.”
“When you have a date, could you let me know. I want to be there.”
“Don’t see why you’d want to go to the expense. Even if it proves to be your father’s plane, doubt there would be much to see…” He paused, then cleared his throat as if embarrassed. “By that I mean given the length of time the plane has been in the water, it’s highly unlikely there’ll be any readily identifiable remains.”
“You mean his body.”
“Hmpf, yes, ma’am. So no point in you coming up. If it proves to be your father’s plane, only way we’ll be able to identify the body is through DNA analysis, which is handled by our guys in Ottawa. Just as easy for them to get a comparison sample from you at your home as up here.”
I hung up feeling disappointed. Although I’d initially had reservations about flying to Iqaluit, the chance to visit Canada’s most northerly capital was starting to intrigue me. But Corporal Reilly had a point. My presence wouldn’t add anything to their identification. Besides, I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to see my father as a collection of bones, and Reilly was better equipped to find the sender of those letters than I was. No, a trip north made little sense.
I walked back downstairs in search of a cup of tea to tide me over until dinner and to find out when Mother would be returning. When I reached the front foyer, I heard the postman putting the mail in the outside box. Trying to be helpful, I retrieved an assortment of envelopes and magazines and headed down the hall to the kitchen.
While the rest of house appeared to have changed little from my last visit, apart from the odd new art item or two, the kitchen was another matter. Mother had been on a spending spree. Gone were the knotty pine cupboards I’d known since a child, the white Melamine counters and pale yellow appliances. So too the racks of gleaming copper pots and the hanging ceiling lights with their copper shades. Instead the large room, aglow with pot lighting, had been upgraded to the crisp efficient modernity of the twenty-first century.
It now sported what seemed like miles of black granite counters and acres of rich cherry wood cupboards with the appliances discreetly hidden amongst them. Only a six-burner gas stove top was visible. All the other appliances were hidden behind the cherry veneer, so too the pots. I was amazed that Mother would go to such expense when I’d never known her to express any interest in food preparation, let alone spend time in what she considered the cook’s domain. But when I saw the fancy Italian espresso machine complete with coffee grinder and an automatic frother, I knew Jean had been the influence. Mother drank only tea.
Hannah was sitting in the wide bay window drinking regular coffee at the one item in the room that hadn’t been replaced, an old pine table that dated back to my grandfather’s day. Obviously someone had put her foot down. And I had a pretty good idea who.
Hannah stiffened and placed her cup carefully back down on the saucer. She tucked a stray strand of grey-blonde hair into her bun. “Can I help you, Miss Margaret?”
I had the distinct feeling that she wasn’t used to her realm being infiltrated. I didn’t know Hannah. The last housekeeper I remembered was Caroline, a large buxom grandmotherly type who loved nothing better than to prop her varicose veined legs on a chair at this very same table and watch the soaps on TV. I would sometimes join her. Although a new and larger TV stood on a cherry wood corner stand, it was turned off.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just wondering if you knew when my mother would be coming home.”
“Akbar is to pick her up at six thirty. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
“Margaret, is that you come home?” cried out a voice.
I turned around to see the short, wiry figure of Shelley emerge from the pantry, hefting a bag of potatoes in her strong but work-chafed hands. She dropped them onto an inlaid chopping board of a centre island and ran over to me.
“Here let me have a look at you, lass.” Her smile added more wrinkles to her beaming face. “A little more meat on those bones, otherwise still the same little Maggie who used to steal my chocolate chip cookies.”
I hugged her back. Shelley had been the cook since as far back as I could remember. She had to be well over sixty but appeared as spry as ever. “It’s great to see you. You don’t happen to have a batch of those cookies around, do you?”
She chortled, pulling out a tin box from a cupboard and loading the cookies onto a platter. “Fresh made this morning. When your mum told me you’d be coming, I knew you’d be wantin’ some. Might as well have a cuppa, too.” She poured me a cup from the teapot standing at the other end of the table from Hannah. “Sit yourself down and tell me all about yourself, while I make supper.”
It was then I noticed the mail in my hand. “Hannah, here’s today’s mail.” I placed it on the table in front of her. As I did so, a large brown envelope slipped out with the address in a hand I immediately recognized. I snatched it up to confirm the postmark. Iqaluit. Mother had been sent another letter.