Chapter Eighteen

Maris closed the book of stories and put it on the bedside table. She thought of the woman, Sophie, in the story she had just read, and how the circumstances of her life had apparently driven her mad. She wondered if such a woman had really existed, and, if so, what had really happened to her. Surely Moresby had based his stories on things he had heard or seen in his travels. The story was written eighty years ago and Maris wondered if the same thing could happen today. Although the physical hardship was no longer there, the emotional devastation of a woman losing her husband and then her child, and in a foreign country at that, would still be almost unbearable: enough to drive one over the edge into madness.

Maris got out of bed and pulled the trunk Peter had left her out of the cupboard. The story had reminded her of something and now she knew what it was. The paintings. The series of small paintings of Chinese women that she hadn’t given much thought to, except to wonder why Peter had kept them and then left them to her. She picked up one of the pictures and looked at the face of the young Chinese woman, no more than a girl really. Her eyes were cast down to one side, a gesture that conveyed sadness, shame, and defeat. Her skin was as pale as her hair was dark, and her full, sensuous lips were painted as red as blood. Was she a prostitute like in the story?

Why hadn’t Peter left her a letter or something explaining what this strange collection of artifacts meant? Was she meant to figure it out for herself, or had he intended to do it but died before he could? Maddening, she thought. He’s left me a mystery. Two mysteries, she reminded herself. There’s still the one about who killed him. And according to Dinah, the police were no nearer to a solution than when she’d left Singapore.

The following morning, Maris hiked up one of the nearby hills to do some sketching. After a couple of hours, she looked at what she had done. Then she looked around at the glorious landscape surrounding her, not even two kilometres from her mother’s house. Somehow she had rendered its magnificence in charcoal but without the colour that truly defined it. Doesn’t say a thing, she thought, except that whoever’s drawn it lacks imagination and passion. Maybe I should try portraits, like AS. Maybe that’s the way out of this hole I’ve fallen into. But no, faces weren’t her language; she knew that much. She had to find her way back into the world of colour, to the language she knew so well and spoke so fluently. Or, at least, had at one time. Without that vocabulary, she was no artist; she was mute. And if she couldn’t find it in the splendour of British Columbia, where could she find it?

Inside myself, she realized, not in what I’m looking at. I have to fix whatever’s broken inside myself.

“Maybe this would be a good time to think about having a baby,” said Spirit.

Maris stared at her mother. “Do you have any idea how unrealistic that is?” she said.

“No more unrealistic than packing up a few things and heading to Singapore without knowing what you’d find there.”

“A slight difference,” said Maris. “I only had to worry about myself. I didn’t have another human being depending on me for its very life, which is what a child would be.”

“That’s not the way to look at it,” said Spirit. “If you think about it in those terms, you’ll scare yourself away from the idea every time.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this. A child is a living, breathing human being that would die without constant care. How am I supposed to do that when I can barely take care of myself?”

“Maybe that’s why you need to have something or someone needier than yourself to think about. Maybe you’re too hung up on yourself, too self-absorbed, and that’s part of the problem.”

“Oh, yeah, what a great idea. Bring a child into the world and see if it will jolt me out of my self-absorption.” Maris shook her head. “And what if it doesn’t? What happens to the child? Are you going to take it off my hands?”

“Maris,” sighed her mother, “you think too much. Having a child is natural and fulfilling. You’ll find dimensions to yourself you never knew existed. Yes, a child complicates your life, and maybe that’s too overwhelming to contemplate right now. But I want you to listen to your heart and not dismiss the idea because it looks too difficult. A child is more than difficulty and complications. A child is joy and renewal and hope: all things that are lacking in your life.”

“I’m not ready,” said Maris.

“Okay,” said Spirit. “I just had to say it.”