The next time I saw Tucker, we were riding the rails to Île Ste-Hélène on a gorgeous Saturday morning in August. I'd been trying not to think about what he'd said about me being the one, but it was kind of like the elephant in the room, or in this case, on the subway. I admit I was wearing the same board shorts he'd admired at the resident orientation meeting, dark red with red and white hibiscus inset along the waist and outer thighs. They showed a lot of leg. He'd smiled when he saw them. I blushed.
"I like the notebook," he said as the metro clattered against its tracks.
I rested said spiral-bound notebook on my lap. "Well, as a 'detective doctor,' it behooves me to take notes." I tried not to notice his thigh, which he kept a careful two inches away from mine. It felt sort of like a date with Tucker, but we were on our way to see where Laura Lee had died and perhaps been murdered.
"What's wrong with your smart phone?"
I exhaled and looked at him. He knew my current cell was a crappy pay-as-you-go phone. It works, but it takes ages to text on the number pad, let alone take notes.
"You should get a new one."
"Look who's talking." Tucker had gone swimming and drenched his pretty little Blackberry while he was horsing around with his friends.
"Hey, I took the battery out and put it in rice. It should be okay after five days."
I rolled my eyes. "My old-school phone is better than no phone. But even if I could afford a tablet, I like pen and ink. I might do some drawing today." I'd tucked my camera in my purse, but sketching the scene seemed like something a detective might do. I worked my pen into the spiral of the notebook.
"Can you draw?" he asked.
I laughed and shook my head. "Nah. I even tried lessons."
"Maybe that could be my department, then. I'm not bad."
I raised my left eyebrow.
"Seriously. Can I have your book?"
I handed it over. He pulled the pen out of the spiral ring, narrowed his eyes at my face, and started sketching on the first page.
"Wait a minute!"
"Shh. The artiste is at work."
I subsided, trying to catch glimpses of the work-in-progress.
"Quit moving around. Can't you just read the metro ads or something?"
"Sure, I'm dying to know about hair loss."
"Good."
I never realized how excruciating it could be to pose for a drawing. He wasn't even making me sit still, but I was curious and impatient, and couldn't figure out how to hold my face, let alone my body. Why was I wearing shorts again? What if, with his artist's eye, he dappled in cellulite on my thighs or sketched the stretch marks on my knees?
But I was flattered, too. No one had ever drawn me before. How did he see me?
Maybe it all was a big joke and he was putting the finishing touches on a smiley face.
Basically, I was torturing myself. In a nifty writing book, Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg talked about "fighting the tofu," this sort of useless struggle against yourself. Hello, tofu. So I crossed my arms, tapped my foot, and stared at everyone else on the metro. Much better than the ads.
It was relatively empty on a Saturday morning, but there was a mom with an infant. The kid was babbling to himself, "Ar ar ar ar ar, ayaaaaaa," and trying to stand up in her lap and leave greasy fingerprints on the window, all at the same time. The mom smiled, but she looked tired.
The electronic sign flashed and the recorded woman's voice said, "PROCHAÎNE ARRÊT, BERRI-UQAM."
Tucker shut the notebook. "That's us."
"Yeah." I knew that we had to switch over to the yellow line and hit the island, but there was a question in my voice. I reached for the notebook.
He gave me a slash of a smile. "I'll show you later."
"When you're done?"
"Kind of."
What kind of answer was that? But he was already gesturing me to the door and grabbing my hand to lead me to the Longueil line. He rubbed his thumb along the back of my hand as if he'd done it before, many times.
When we stepped out of the station, my hand tightened on Tucker's. He squeezed back, but he didn't say anything as he pushed open the Plexiglas door for us.
Sunlight met my eyes. I squinted and shielded them. I hadn't understood why she'd come all the way here for a morning constitutional, but now I had an inkling. Since the metro stopped on Île Ste-Hélène, one of two islands in the channel of the St. Lawrence river, we were just across from the old port. We could see mighty old ships as long as a city block or two, rusted, but still awe-inspiring for landlubbers like me. That was a whole world in itself.
Beyond the port, I saw the brick and concrete-and-glass buildings of downtown Montreal. A hop on the subway and you could admire the hustle from a distance, while surrounded by grass, trees, and some cool structures unto themselves.
My favourite was the Biosphere. I like round things, and here was a giant sphere built out of metal struts, for no purpose I could tell; but if I rollerbladed past it every day, it would make me smile.
Then my gaze fell on the benches just outside the station. Laura probably donned her blades here, tightening the straps, testing them out on the grey paving stones. I imagined her tucking her shoes into a backpack and tightening the elastic on her pony tail before setting off for her usual a.m. exercise, on an August morning, just like any other.
Except it had been raining. So there were probably even fewer people about at 5:30 a.m. And the paving stones would have been a little more slippery, so maybe she bent her head against the rain, or her vision was slightly obscured by her hood.
Just as we stepped off Île Ste-Hélène, I saw a beige, rectangular contemporary art statue with indentations that made me think of grinning teeth.
Tucker snorted. "It looks like a dentist's model."
"I think so, too." Then I fell silent. It seemed sacrilegious to joke around and today that statue felt more creepy than funny.
We crossed a road with a 30 km/h sign. We could have followed it toward La Ronde, an amusement park, or probably a dozen other attractions, but we were headed to Île Notre-Dame, a kind of sister island connected by a bridge. The bridge where Laura was killed.
We had to pause for a car. I let go of Tucker's hand. From here, I could see where she had died. My teeth clenched. I took a deep breath and inhaled exhaust fumes. Then I marched toward the bridge.
Tucker kept stride with me. "She was heading to Île Notre-Dame, right? So she could blade on the Formula One track?" Montreal hosts the international race car circuit in July, but for the rest of the year, bladers and walkers and whoever else take over the track.
I shook my head. "That's what some of the media said, but she was hit from behind. The police thought she was coming back across the bridge between the islands after she'd already bladed.. Whoever hit her was coming from Notre-Dame. She didn't see them coming."
I paused at our end of the bridge, the north side. There was a little booth where a guard could sit, as well as a wrought-iron gate rolled back to let cars through. My heart lifted. "Hey. Look. Was a guard here?"
Tucker shook his head. "I think they only have guards when there's an event, so they can charge fifty bucks for parking."
"Right." So that was why police report hadn't mentioned a guard. Not too much call for parking in the early morning hours. "I wonder why she took the metro instead of driving?"
Tucker shrugged. "She may not even have had a car. A lot of residents don't."
Another thing I found odd, although endearing, about Montreal is that many people don't own the ubiquitous four-wheeled machines the rest of us are addicted to. So many people talk the talk about the environment. Not many do anything about it.
And then I did what I'd been dreading. I set foot on the bridge.
There wasn't much to see. Two lanes, one each way for cars, with a pedestrian lane on the west side. No proper barrier between cars and people, just black posts circled with reflective tape. I shook the first post. It was a rolled plastic tube barely bolted down. Any adult could rip this off, let alone a car. I bit my lip and raised my eyes to the bridge itself.
The sides were made out of concrete Jersey barriers, the same as on construction sites, but lined up with no gap between them. They were topped by some sort of vertical-barred metal railing. Altogether, the bridge was at least as high as my shoulder, with no easy way to climb up and escape.
If I'd been on blades, with a car coming at me, I'd have to see it, reach up, try and drag myself above car height by the strength of my arms alone while my wheels slipped on the concrete—no deal.
I could try and blade away from the car, but again, not likely.
"Back then, they didn't have these barriers," said Tucker, pointing at the plastic poles. They only put these in since Laura died and Mrs. Lee, uh, insisted."
It wasn't much of a barrier, but it was certainly better than nothing.
The bridge wasn't long, maybe 40 feet across. At just about the midpoint, someone had drawn a small black cross on the concrete. I raised my finger to it, but dropped my hand before I made contact.
Instead, I peered over the edge into the St. Lawrence River. It was muddy brown today, even though the current was flowing swiftly. I'd say it was a thirty-foot drop, although I'm not good at estimating distances. Jumping into the river was probably better than being hit by a car, but I wasn't sure how deep or cold it was in August, and it would be damn hard to swim in rollerblades.
I heard a couple arguing in French behind us. We moved aside for them and their little dog. I pretended to read the plaque describing river vegetation adapting to changing water levels, but I couldn't concentrate.
A pack of cyclists passed us, so we stepped up our pace to the other side of the bridge, onto Île Notre-Dame. There was an empty guard house here, too, as well as a matching gate. Some mounted signs described the many events scheduled over the summer, from concerts to cross-country races.
Tucker gestured at the smoothly paved track which stretched far in the distance. We fell into step, breathing the fresh air. He took my hand again and I let him. I felt a little better experiencing where she had lived instead of where she had died.
Still, I said, "I wonder why they didn't put up a plaque for her."
"Couldn't tell you."
"I wonder if it was because Mrs. Lee was such a pain in the ass. Did you know she held a one-woman vigil here, holding a sign saying, 'Who killed my daughter?' in both official languages?"
Tucker smiled and shook his head.
We kept walking. The sun beat down on our heads. Uh oh. Black hair absorbs a lot of heat, and I don't need face wrinkles. I tugged Tucker off to the side and pulled a navy Tilley hat out of my bag while some cyclists passed us. Tucker burst out laughing.
"Why, you like skin cancer?" I asked.
"Yeah, love it. By the way, most of the damage is done before you're 18."
"Actually, that's a myth. Only about a quarter of your sun exposure is done as a minor. I'll send you the reference. And by the way, I need my book back to make notes." I held out my hand.
He tucked it under his arm. "You'll cheat."
"Trrrrust me, I'm a doctor," I drawled, channeling the creepy doc from the Simpsons.
"Well, as long as you're a doctor, I'll count on your ethics to stay away from the first section for now."
"What, you're going to claim a third of my book?"
"Uh huh. You can take notes and I'll sketch here and there. Not just you. I can draw the bridge, the track, the Olympic basin. Whatever you want."
I gazed at him with new respect. "Thanks." As a non-artist, it hadn't occurred to me.
"You're welcome."
"I brought a camera, but you can do the diagrams. Do you mind sketching the bridge?"
While he did that, I took some pictures, including one of him. The sun turned his hair into a near-white halo. He'd left out the gel this morning, for once. He was wearing a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and light khaki pants, despite the heat. He looked how I'd imagine JFK Jr. (alive, natch)—a preppy, well-tailored young man, handsome enough to break your heart and make you think it was worth it.
Tucker closed his book and beckoned over a tubby guy. "Excuse me, sir. Would you mind taking our picture? No, facing the Formula One track, if that's okay. Yeah. Awesome."
And so our day was immortalized in a photo, him looking gorgeous and casual, me smiling despite my acute awareness of his hand burning my hip through my board shorts.