22.

LAST NIGHT, THE HALF-MOON was bright enough to light up my bedroom. I reread the card from the wake to remind myself how lucky I am. Then, I opened the copy of Under Tongue that Nicole Brossard gave me the night of her reading, careful not to break the spine. The book is out of print and I briefly considered surprising Wanda with it, but I’ve selfishly kept it for myself. I rubbed the smooth embossed circle on the book cover and fell asleep.

Simone has been back in town twice since the week of the memorial. She’s going to Montreal next week on municipal business, and she invited me to go with her. Had I accepted, she would have extended her stay a couple of days, for pleasure.

I was tempted. As Wanda said, life is short. But for me, it’s still too soon.

“Don’t worry,” said Simone. “There’s no hurry. The best is always worth waiting for.”

And there was something else: Her term on council is up soon, and she’s received a very attractive job offer in our city that she’s seriously considering. She’s debating whether to run again for council or take the new job.

“We have a lot to talk about,” she said. “I’ll call when I get back.”

Meanwhile, I’ve found a place in a cheaper part of town, a small apartment I can afford on my own, so I’ll be moving at the end of the month.

Or who knows? Maybe I’ll move to Winnipeg, perhaps begin a genealogical search at the St. Boniface Historical Society.

MY MOTHER JUST CALLED. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Remembrance Day.”

“And I hope you’re remembering your father. This is the date of his death.” I had forgotten.

Then, my mother starts in again about the number “eleven” and all the negative associations it carries. She goes on to decry the decline of moral values in our society, which brings her to the death of that woman that was in all the papers.

“Imagine her abandoning her son like that. No wonder that poor man was driven over the edge like that.”

I decide to do what Wanda has urged me to do all these years: Be direct and let the shit hit the fan.

“Listen, Mom,” I say. “I’m just like that woman.”

“Marguerite, what a terrible thing to joke about.”

“It’s not a joke, Mom. I’m lesbian, just like her. The reason I left Dan was to be with Wanda.”

My mother hesitates for only a few seconds.

“Your father would’ve got the joke,” she says. “He had a much better sense of humour than me.”

“But Mom, I’m not joking. I love women. I love them, and not just as friends. I’m lesbian, Mom.”

“You take after him, you know, ever since you were a little girl. Always joking, always teasing. But you know what? Your father always knew when to stop.”

“Mom, for the past seven years, I’ve been living with another woman in a house with one double bed. You saw it with your very own eyes.”

“Don’t be silly dear. You have a bed in the basement too.”

“A single bed in the guest room. Wanda and I haven’t been just housemates all this time. We’ve been lovers. Wanda was my lover. Until a couple of months ago, we were sleeping together in the same bed.”

“There, you see? You’re obviously not doing it anymore. You may have been a little mixed-up for a while, but now you’re back to normal. I know my daughter. After all, I’m not your mother for nothing.”

You can’t will someone to know something she refuses to know.

I think of Reverend Rosie’s final words at the memorial service.

“All of us are hurting right now, but if there’s one thing we must remember it’s that if death separates us physically from those we love, it does not have the power to separate us from love itself. Indeed, the reality of death makes us more sensitive to those who are alive. Go in peace, my friends, and love one another while you can.”

And just now, a chorus of birds, just like that first morning on the lanai in Maui, when, for a few moments, the world seemed as it should be.