We ride the elevator in silence. Mom, I notice, has taken the time to make herself up. She wears a knee-length skirt, a light champagne-coloured blouse, and an elegant set of thin pumps that make her legs go on forever. She is even wearing lipstick. She looks like she has just come from the spa.
And, yet, I can see the blue vein at her temple pulsing as she works her jaw, grinding her teeth without sound. She does this whenever she is deep in thought, routing through a dilemma.
My mom is a woman of solutions, a logical being who believes that most problems are caused by flawed reasoning or flawed people. What problem is she solving now? Is she uptight about the lunch? About meeting Archibald? She has never cared for artists. It’s just a bunch of middle-aged lushes, I want to reassure her. Archibald hadn’t seemed in shit-disturber mode when I left to pick her up. He had been singing along to Bette Midler as he fussed with a flower arrangement and sampled the soup Maria had made for lunch. His latest book, a novel apparently, seemed to be progressing well as far as I could tell.
“This is us,” I say, as the elevator lurches to a stop. The door to Archibald’s apartment opens silent and heavy against my hand. She hesitates momentarily and peers inside, a distasteful expression on her face, as if a miasma akin to rotting sheep intestines has suddenly seeped from the innards of the apartment. All I smell are flowers and incense, slightly overpowering, but not offensive. When I look at her again, her lips are set in a grim, determined line. She exhales and then takes a long stride into the hallway.
Archibald is in the sitting area in his favourite chaise longue. His closest cronies, the Deliahs, Leo, and Rita, are seated beside him in a semicircle facing us. His palms grip the armrests of his chair as he stares regally, a ruler flanked by his obedient subjects. For a second, it feels as though we are facing a tribunal. My mother does not move any closer.
“So, this is Mom.” Archibald offers an indulgent smile and tilts his head inquisitively.
“Call me Susan. Nice to meet you,” my mother replies, not offering her hand.
Archibald gives a lazy smile. “I would get up, but my hip. Please…” He gestures to two empty chairs across from him with a flip of his hand.
“Would you like a drink? Maggie has progressed well under my tutelage … she makes a mean martini.”
“No, I’m fine.” Mom takes her seat, glancing around slightly, back erect.
I wait for drink orders like a page, but Archibald is not thirsty for once. His eyes stay on my mom. The silence drags. I uneasily take a chair. I begin to worry; he has the look of someone taking inventory.
“I don’t see the family resemblance,” he says finally, eyes sliding from Mom to me. “Aside from the hair colour, of course. But even that is subtle.”
“Maggie takes after more distant relatives,” my mom replies tonelessly. I reach up to touch my hair. It is much brassier than her fiery copper.
“Not her father?” he probes.
I swallow. “Uh—”
“A little.” Her face betrays nothing.
“And are you here on business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“But surely some business can be pleasurable? What business are you in?” he asks as if he doesn’t already know.
“I thought — nursing. I’m here for a nursing conference.”
“Oh dear,” he replies with tsk-tsk. “We will have to do our best to improve your odds, for pleasure I mean.” He raises his eyebrows and grins.
The Deliahs giggle and Leo offers a conciliatory smile. I sigh audibly in relief; things are smoothing out.
Archibald claps his hands. “Where are my manners? You must be starving. How about a little soup?”
“That would be nice,” Mom answers.
I place Archibald’s best china soup bowl on the table with a basket of buns.
“Help yourselves,” Archibald proclaims grandly from the head of the table as the others seat themselves. “We don’t stand on ceremony here. It’s just a simple luncheon. I hope you don’t mind borscht.”
“Not at all,” my mom replies, sliding into a nearby chair. She ladles mauve soup into her bowl efficiently. “It smells delicious.”
Edna passes around the buns. I butter mine.
“You must tell us about Oregon. Is it pretty country?” Archibald holds out his bowl while Dorothy serves.
“Very,” my mom answers, swallowing a mouthful of soup.
I have frequently eaten Maria’s borscht and have never been disappointed. Today, it tastes just as good, but it has a different, richer flavour, as though something has been added.
“I just love the Oregon coast,” Dorothy offers. “The beaches are so lovely.”
“Yes—” her sister echoes. “Lovely.”
“What kind of soup did you say this was?” my mom asks.
“Borscht — beets, onions, garlic … cream — not the best for the waistline, I know, but you don’t seem to have a problem in that department.”
“It’s delicious. Unusually rich.”
“That’s probably the beef.” He shrugs.
“Beef!” My mom drops her spoon suddenly and wipes her mouth with her napkin vigorously. She gulps down the contents of her water glass in three swallows, face turning pink.
“Is anything wrong?” Archibald furrows his brow, looking from Mom to me.
“Archibald. She’s a vegetarian,” I answer curtly.
“Really?”
My mom stands up from the table. “Where’s the bathroom?”
I point her in the direction.
“I told you earlier,” I reprimand. “She doesn’t eat meat.”
“It must have slipped my mind. How … unfortunate.” He continues spooning down his soup, looking less than moved.
“Since when does Maria put beef in borscht?” I add.
“When she thinks I need extra protein,” Archibald replies with a shrug.
“The soup is delicious,” Rita says between mouthfuls.
“Top notch,” contributes Leo, not bothering to look up from his bowl.
My mom returns, looking pale. They all pause uncertainly.
“I am truly sorry.” Archibald half-rises. “I must have forgotten Maggie’s instructions. She is a real carnivore. Please forgive my carelessness.”
“That’s okay,” my mom answers, taking her seat. “No harm done.”
“Would you like dessert? We have a lovely custard,” he offers graciously.
“No, I’m fine,” my mom replies.
“Oh, of course, the salad! Maggie, how could you have forgotten it?”
“Salad?” I ask, drawing a blank. “Where?”
“In the refrigerator, of course. I made it earlier. Bring it for our guest. Now.”
I dutifully retrieve a bowl of salad I hadn’t noticed before. I set the bowl down. Mom dishes some onto a side plate.
She takes a small bite of lettuce and chews as if testing.
“This should be more to your liking. Lettuce is like comfort food for vegetarians,” Archibald quips.
My mom takes another bite and then sets her fork down with a heavy sigh and says through gritted teeth, “I should have known better. But this is low, even for you.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask anxiously. I look down at the salad. It looks okay to me. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t like your lettuce now?” Archibald asks.
“The lettuce is fine.”
I poke through the salad. It appears to be your average green salad. Then, I pull out a strawberry. “Archibald! Strawberries?!”
“Yes, I believe that is a strawberry.” Archibald stares at it and then at me as if I am deranged.
“My mom is allergic to strawberries!” I explode.
“It’s okay. I don’t think I swallowed any.” My mom puts out her hand to reassure me.
“You are kidding me? Allergic!” Archibald looks appalled. “Good God!”
I narrow my eyes. I’m not buying the performance; something smells way off. In fact, it reeks. “I explicitly told you. Her throat swells up!”
“Really. It’s okay. I didn’t eat any. I’d know by now,” Mom urges.
“I am so sorry. I don’t know who thought of putting strawberries in the salad. That crazy Maria! I did tell her … but her English is so poor and she only hears what she wants to.” Archibald gives a puzzled shake of the head.
“Archibald. You made the salad,” I point out, glaring. “You just said so.” Was he trying to poison my mother? No, I had to be wrong. What could she have possibly done to him? I threw my napkin down.
“It must be all the medication I’m on. I am so sorry.” He gives a flimsy wave of his hand.
“I’ll survive,” my mom replies, no longer bothering to eat. “Though I’m not sure that was your plan.” She places her hands on the table, rising. “I think I should be going. This has been disappointingly predictable.”
What did she mean by “predictable”?
“Mom … I’m sorry—” I stand up and scowl at Archibald. “Please don’t go—” I turn to him, expecting him to say what was necessary for decorum.
“If you insist,” he says, not getting up.
“Thank you for lunch,” Mom says coldly before leaving the room.
I give Archibald a scathing glance. “Did you do this on purpose?” I whisper furiously. “Tell me right now!”
“On purpose?” Archibald tuts. “Spare me the third degree. Why on earth would I try to provoke an allergic reaction in your mother?”
I glare but say nothing.
I find her on the other side of the French doors that separate the dining room. Mom has stopped and stands with a strange expression on her face, as if noticing something for the first time on the wall across from her.
“It’s a lovely painting,” Edna calls from the table, following her gaze.
We all consider it. It is a watercolour I have admired before, of a woman and a girl facing away, holding hands, in a field of long yellow-green grass swaying as if in a breeze. He usually keeps it in his office. Had he moved it today?
“Thank you. My late wife painted it,” Archibald replies.
My mother stands before it, immobile.
I wait for her to move then nudge her arm, attempting to rouse her from her reverie. “Mom?”
She turns, swivelling on her heel. Facing Archibald down the long room, she stares at him with a look of loathing so intense that Dorothy gasps. He seems completely unruffled as he bites into a buttered bun.
“You cocksucker,” my mother whispers.
“Your point is?” he replies cheerfully.
“I think I’ll take that drink now.”
“Edna, get our guest a drink. Scotch and soda, isn’t it? You always liked things plain and simple. Starch in the sheets, ammonia in the toilet bowl, plain old kitchen knife in the back.”
I gasp. “You two know each other?”
Neither acknowledge me. We stand as if suspended in water. Edna rises and bustles around the liquor cabinet. She hands Mom a drink, which she downs in two gulps before slamming it on the table. She stares at Archibald. Everyone waits. “Where did you get it?”
“I’ve always had it.”
“All this time.”
“All this time. As you know, most were destroyed in a tragic fire,” he says lightly, a terrible glint in his eyes.
“You old bitch,” she spits.
He laughs. “Takes one to know one.”
She storms away. I follow her. I can hear chairs sliding and footsteps beside me.
“You know each other,” I say as we reach the living room. I’m trembling, the borscht sloshing in my stomach.
She casts a quick sideways glance at me and then stands, legs planted, stretching her neck the way she does when she is bracing herself for confrontation.
“How long has it been?” Archibald is close behind me, leaning in against the French doors, evidently not ready to let her leave. The others stand behind him.
“Twenty years — but who’s counting?”
“Not nearly long enough.” His voice is sharpened stone. He takes a step towards her.
“I’d kiss you, but that would require touching you,” my mother counters.
My hair is standing up on the back of my neck, trapped in the high-voltage current that passes between them. It has the force to melt plastic, break glass, burn wood, bend spoons.
Archie’s cronies file out of the dining room. Rita surveys my mother admiringly. Leo keeps his eyes downcast, pinned to his hands. Dorothy links her arm through Edna’s as if to offer moral support. I back away slowly out of an instinct for self-preservation. Nobody breathes, save Mi Tie, who has plunked down by my mother’s feet and begun purring.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your face here. But I have to hand it to you, you always did.”
“Well, I had a good teacher, didn’t I?” My mother bares her teeth slightly.
“You invited her,” I remind Archibald in a small voice. “She’s your guest.”
“It was a dare,” he says without peeling his eyes from her.
My mother turns in a semicircle, as if critically surveying the room, momentarily breaking the tension.
“So this is how you live,” she says. “I was expecting something a little less ordinary.”
“This from the queen of the hospital corner.”
“And you would know a queen.”
Archibald’s eyes narrow until they are slits.
“We should really be going,” Edna pipes up. “This is for family.”
“Family?” I repeat.
She avoids my gaze and scurries past Archibald and my mom, followed by Dorothy, Rita, and Leo, who pauses and squeezes my arm slightly.
“Want to get some fresh air, Maggie?” he says.
“No thanks,” I say tersely. My feet are glued to the spot. It’s like watching a car accident, unsure of what the aftermath will be. My mother and Archibald stand as though caught in a duel.
“You’ve changed your hair,” Archibald observes.
“And you’ve gotten old.”
“But my teeth are still razor sharp.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“What is going on?!” I ask, but again go unanswered.
“You should be horsewhipped—” she says, her hands clenching and unclenching as she turns her stare back to the picture.
“Was that a question?” he interrupts.
“—for hiding that painting all these years!”
“It belongs to me. And it was her best work.”
“She wanted me to have it!” She struggles to control her voice.
“She never told me that.”
“She never told you a lot of things. Because you were elsewhere,” she counters.
“And I guess you’re an expert on marriage and commitment?” he retorts. “Didn’t your devoted husband remove himself to a different continent?”
“At least I understand the general concept. She was always an afterthought for you.”
“And what was she to you?” he throws back.
“Who?” I interrupt. “Who are you talking about? Answer me!”
My mother looks at me as if just now remembering I am there. “Your grandmother.”
Archibald glances at me, too, as though noticing me for the first time. I stare between them. I have never noticed how similar their eyes are. Two sets of blue eyes, one light and one slightly darker, fixed on me.
“My grandmother?”
“Yes, my mother and Archibald’s former…”
“Wife,” Archibald finishes impatiently.
“But that would mean…”
“That Archibald is my father. And your grandfather. That’s right. I’m sorry to tell you like this, but it’s the truth. The ugly truth.”
“You have to give it to the girl. She is as naïve as they come. All this time, and she had absolutely no idea.” Archibald lets out a maniacal laugh.
I sink into the couch, winded. My mind feels bloated and helpless. This can’t be right. I had not been working for my grandfather all this time. I could not be related to Archibald! “But how … how is that possible?!”
“If you can’t figure that out, then you really are hopeless,” Archibald says dryly. “Now I know why you sent her to me. You wanted me to repair your useless job of parenting. At least you had that sense.” He is a snake now, slithering.
But my mother isn’t running. “I sent her to you because I thought she was ready. To make up her own mind.”
“About what?” I ask, again forgotten.
“Even I can see the girl is an emotional orphan, likeable enough, but her few good qualities are in spite of you,” he says as if I’m not there.
“And you are an expert judge of character?”
“At least I have character.”
She snorts. “You are bloodless.”
“And you are a bloodsucking, heartless cunt.”
“Stop it, both of you!” I yell. “Stop this right now!” They look like two gladiators ready to fight to the death. I turn to my mother. “You told me he was dead. You said my grandfather was dead. Why … why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know,” my mother says. “I guess I wanted to give you time to get used to the disappointment of having him as your only other surviving relation. Let’s face it. He’s not exactly grandfather material. I hoped he had changed. I hoped he would grow some redeemable qualities. At least mellow with time if not gain a conscience. I was wrong.”
“And I see you are as heartless as ever.”
“And you! You knew all along?” I demand of Archibald.
“Yes,” Archibald says, irritated. “I knew all along. It was our arrangement.” He turns to my mother. “It was almost bearable talking to you over the phone. I was curious to see if I could stomach your offspring. Luckily, you are almost nothing alike. She seems to be artistic. She paints, you know.”
So he knew I had been painting.
“But I knew you were just using her to get to me. Because of your guilt. Did I mention I’ve written you out of the will?” Archibald says.
“Oh, Archibald, surely you can hit harder than that? You’ve gone soft. Like your weak old body.”
He looks to me. “Did you know your mother was responsible for your grandmother’s death?” I can barely keep up.
“What? You’re lying—” I jump to my mother’s defence.
“You can’t still believe that,” she says.
“It was you, you who drove her to it.” His voice is low, a creaky whisper. “And then, after everything, you sent her back. There of all places. No wonder she ended it.”
“They could have helped her. If anyone is to blame, it’s you.”
“And what set her off in the first place?”
“It wasn’t my fault. I never knew she would go that far.”
“Oh, daughter, you were always so good at denial. Why do you think your husband left you? Not just because you weren’t any good in the sack.” He grins cruelly.
“You are a horror show.”
“Why did you come here, then? Surely it wasn’t for the entertainment.”
“I don’t know … I thought … I thought…” My mother’s face shows her turmoil.
“I knew all I had to do was wait and you would come prancing in here. And the second I saw you, I knew you hadn’t changed. Still hiding from the truth. But like a whiny little child desperate for forgiveness in spite of everything.”
“And whose truth is that?” Mom asks. “Yours? That truth could drive a person insane. Insane.”
Archibald’s face reddens and then blanches. Whatever she had said had really hit a nerve. “This is your last chance to atone.”
She takes a step back, her face a maze of confusion, uncertainty, and finally anger. “Atone? To you? I don’t think so.”
“So be it. You will never have anything of hers. Not now. Not as long as I live.” He pronounces this as if it is an edict, final and unshakable. “And I will never see you again.”
“Well, looking at you, I’d say time was running thin.”
I gasp. Archibald flinches as if slapped.
Even my mom looks momentarily shocked at what she said, but then she stiffens again. “And who will forgive you, I wonder? I hope you rot in hell.”
“I’ll see you there.” He revels in the threat.
My mother takes one last longing glance at the picture as if willing it off the wall, but her attempt at telekinesis fails. It stays where it is, a gentle landscape, a moment of family affection, caught on canvas. Painted by my grandmother. Was she somewhere watching all of this in dismay, like me?
My mom turns towards me, her eyes flickering to my face. I look at her blankly. I am numb with shock. Everything I had understood about my family has been uprooted and spilled at my feet in a manner of minutes. And the room still vibrates with the massive tremors of all the lies. She has lied by omission. He has lied because he is good at it. They both claim to be protectors of the truth. But the truth is gone, buried like my grandmother.
And somehow Archibald and I are family. We share DNA. Common blood flows through our ventricles. The thought makes me nauseous. I instinctively turn away from her. She seems to understand that I am beyond reach. I hear her walk to the front door and shut it behind her. I slump to the couch and sit motionless, head in my hands. My brain is on spin cycle, tumbling in endless circles.
Archibald collapses into a nearby chair. The meeting has taken its toll. His face looks grey and spent. He looks older than I have ever seen him.
Grandfather. I test the word inside my head.
He looks at me then, as if I had called him, as if he had read my thoughts. And I swear something like sadness falls across his face. And something else lingers there, a passing shadow fading in the cold, sun-streaked day: regret.
She opens the door wordlessly. Her skirt and blouse are now rumpled, and she has removed her shoes. I have spent the last four hours wandering the streets, leaving Archibald to his own devices, whatever they might be. I walked across the bridge, through dense fir tree–lined streets, and finally wound my way to her hotel room. So many questions had been raised. Now, she owed me concrete answers.
She lights a cigarette and sits in a chair in the corner of the room. I don’t remember the last time I saw her smoke. She sits there silently, smoking, staring out the window at the wispy clouds, her feet tucked beneath her. She looks young and vulnerable.
“Smoking will kill you,” I say.
She smiles wryly, her eyes heavy and smeared with mascara. “Everything will kill you one way or the other.”
On my way to see her, I had felt angry, like a betrayed child. But standing here, I am protective. That she had suffered is only too obvious. I feel a flash of pity. And then my stomach churns. Why did she have to lie? Why couldn’t she have just told me the truth?
“That went well,” she says. How had I never noticed how easily sarcasm came to her? It made her his daughter if I ever had doubt.
“What were you expecting?” I ask.
“I don’t know. We talked on the phone, like he said, and things seemed … under control. And you deserved to know who he really was. I couldn’t let you go on believing he was just some old author with a bad hip and a bad attitude.”
“You told me he was dead.”
“I know, and he was to me, for a long time. But I made the mistake of thinking twenty years could change a person. Most people it would, but not Archibald. Nope. I guess after your father left, it was in my mind that he was always there as a last resort. A way for you to have more … history. I wanted to give you two a chance.”
“I can understand how you would want to hold back that we were related … but letting me find out like that? Mom … it was just … awful.”
“It was a mistake. I am so sorry.” She has wound her gold necklace around her finger so tightly the tip has turned white.
“So tell me about her,” I urge. “My grandmother. For real.”
“Your grandmother was an artist, a painter.” She looks at me, as if that explained everything. “She was talented, creative, even successful. Yes, she was successful. But she could be melancholy. And she and Archibald were, well, as you must know now, less than ideally matched. Anyway, she died in a car accident, like I said…”
“You are going way too fast. Back up!”
She sighs. “After Archibald left her, which was inevitable, she spiralled into a depression. I talked her into committing herself, into getting some professional help. But when he found out, he objected violently. He just showed up and signed her out. He was not a fan of modern-day psychiatry, to say the least.” She speaks in a flat voice, as though she has rehearsed this in her head for years.
“She seemed okay at first. And I had you. And your father of course. You were just a toddler. I was busy with my day-to-day life. And one day … she just disappeared. There was no warning. No goodbye. She was just gone without a trace, gone for months. When I found her, she was destitute, sick, living in a hole, a hotel on skid row. She had changed so much. Her hair was falling out, she hadn’t washed in months, she was … barely recognizable. I convinced her to come home with me.” She hesitates. Her eyes have a haunted look.
“Did she? Come home?” I press.
“Yes, but she was … sick. So, I talked her into returning to the hospital. I promised her that if she went, Archibald would visit her there. He was waiting for her there. I made it up. All of it. None of it was true. He was off cavorting with his latest flame. Not answering his phone. But she finally agreed to go … on one condition, she would drive herself there, and we would come with her. She wouldn’t go alone. And I was desperate. I agreed. I never should have.”
“And?”
She exhales. “And then she drove off the road. Off a cliff.”
“With us in the car,” I finish. “With us in the car!”
“Yes.” She looks at me for the first time. It is still hard for her to say, after all these years.
So the dream had been real or at least much closer to real than I knew. “So it was true! We were there. Was it an accident?”
“She didn’t know what she was doing. She shouldn’t have been driving. It was dark. The road was narrow. She thought she saw another car. It was my mistake. A horrible misjudgment.” She lets that sink in. My own mother admitting to a lapse in judgment, a horrible lapse no less. What other lapses had she concealed from me?
“Anyway, you were fine. I had a few broken ribs. We were lucky. But she was … gone.” She pauses again, as if struggling for the right words, before finally continuing, unsatisfied. “It was a terrible time. And Archibald and I blamed each other for certain things. I thought he made a lot of bad decisions.”
“Like his affairs with other men.”
She looks down at her lap and flicks off an errant piece of ash. “Yes. Yes, there was that. Your grandmother was a sweet woman. She tried to stand by him. But when she found out, she couldn’t cope with it all.”
“But he called you a murderer. Why?”
“He blamed me for committing her in the first place, thought it drove her mad. And then, of course, for taking her back. And I blamed him for signing her out of the hospital and just pissing off, leaving me to pick up the pieces. And for … being who he is. And we had a fight, a terrible, terrible fight.”
“Like the one today?” I sit down in front of her. She averts her eyes.
“Worse. And we just … went our separate ways. We were too different to ever be able to tolerate each other without her. I’m sorry I never told you.”
“You lied all this time about the accident.”
“Yes. It was hard to decide how much to tell you, if anything.” And she is suddenly old, with saggy eyes and lines of sorrow from where she has forgotten to smile.
But I’m not letting her off so easily. “So you opted for nothing? Let me think I had made it up?”
“I wanted to protect you. You always had such an … imagination.”
“Imagination? What on earth does a frigging imagination have to do with anything? I didn’t just imagine my dreams about the accident.”
“You must have overheard me discussing it when you were young. That’s all. They couldn’t be memories. I thought I was doing the best thing for you.”
She peers at me, as if waiting for proof of something. I recognize that look. I have seen it on Archibald often enough. Did she think I would go crazy like my grandmother? Did she search me for similarities too?
“Now, you’ll need a place to stay.” She butts out her cigarette and flicks more ash off her skirt. “Why don’t you come back to Oregon with me? I have a comfortable little house. You could try the university there.” She is all business again, snapping back to hospital administrator mode. But it was the way she said try that got my hackles up.
“Oregon?” I say, throat dry with a bitterness I try to swallow down. I’m not ready to wrap this up in a neat little bow. I can’t eliminate what I’m feeling with two Aspirin and a glass of water. What had Archibald called her? Hospital Corners? “I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t think so. I don’t know what I’ll do for sure. I don’t know anything for sure — thanks to you. But I like it here. I might just stay awhile.”
She looks at me, incredulous, used to arranging my life. But I don’t want her arranging my life any more. She seems to have enough work arranging her own.
“Are you sure? I mean, it would be no trouble.”
“Mom, do you remember when you told me that I needed to be more assertive? Make better choices? Before I took the job with Archibald?” My hands ball up into fists.
“Yes, but…”
“Well, I’m doing that now. I know you can respect that. And right now, I really don’t care if you don’t. I’m not coming back with you now. Maybe not ever.”
Her shoulders slump and there is a long pause. “You aren’t done with him yet, are you?”
“Yes! No. I don’t think I am,” I struggle, fighting my rising resentment. “There may come a time when I am done with him, for good. Like you. Maybe sooner rather than later. But I am not there yet.”
She nods her head, a small child again, just a girl who was burdened with far too much. I can’t stay angry with her. Archibald as a father. What a trip that must have been.
Her voice follows me out of the room. “It will be very clear when he is done with you.”
I bang hard on his door. I need him to be home. Now. He is the only person I want to see. Not Michael. Not Archibald. Only him.
He opens the door in pyjama pants and a white T-shirt. In the turmoil of the day, I have forgotten that time has passed and that it is, in fact, night.
“Maggie.”
“Sam,” I say.
I sit curled on the sofa and tell him the story: the day’s events, my lifetime of ignorance, the birth and demise of family members, and the gnarled relationships that are left.
He says, “Wow. Archibald is your grandfather.”
“Archibald is my grandfather.”
There is a lengthy interval of silence. “Damn. I guess there are worse things.”
“Like what?” I ask.
He sits silently, trying and failing. He gestures helplessly and shakes his head.
“Exactly,” I say. And I begin to laugh, and so does he. It is the closest thing there is to a remedy.
Next morning, I pack my suitcase. I find Archibald sitting in his office, alone. I leave my suitcase at the door.
“Mom told me,” I say to his back.
“About what, pray tell?” His voice sounds the same, lightly ironic, disinterested, but when he turns to me, I see he is exhausted, dog-eared. Like he too had an epic night.
“Everything. She told me about how Grandma died. The institution. The car accident.”
“Then she didn’t tell you everything.”
“She told me enough. Enough for quite some time.”
“I take it you are decamping with her? Just like that?”
“No. I’m not leaving. I am moving out of here, though. I need to get my own apartment. Live my own life. But I would like to stay on as your assistant.”
His eyes spark. Is he relieved? Surprised? “Really?”
“Yes. For now. But I have a request and a condition.”
“Well, I’m all ears.”
“First, the request: tell me about the painting.”
“Which painting?” His attempt at coyness does not succeed.
“Archibald!”
“All right,” he sighs. “It was your grandmother’s, obviously. It is a self-portrait, of herself and your mother. When your mother was just a girl. Your mother wanted the painting, thought she was entitled to it. But as you can see, it is in my possession, where it will remain, indefinitely.”
“Where are the rest of the paintings?”
He pauses. “There was a collection that went with them, but they perished in a fire.”
“What kind of fire?”
“A house fire.”
I wait impatiently, but he does not yield. “For more details, you will have to ask your mother. I wasn’t there. Now, what is your condition?”
“Anything else you have to say about our family history, you say now. Otherwise, I want things to go on like before. I don’t want to hear anything about my mother. No insults, no innuendo, no anecdotes. Nothing. She is my mother. And I will not have her torn down.”
“Believe me, I don’t have anything to tell that you would want to hear.”
“Nothing like that for example!”
“Okay. Okay.” He holds up his hands, submissive for the briefest moment. “Are there any other rules you would like to mention?”
“No.” We stare at each other, not close to grandfather and granddaughter, but not employer and employee either.
“There is one more thing, for my part,” he says. I wait, breath held. He reaches in his desk drawer and pulls out a photo, framed in gold. It is her. I can see that right away.
“You should have it. I hardly look at it anymore.” He passes it to me as if he is anxious to get rid of it. But he has kept it in his desk all this time, in his favourite room.
I take the photo. It is an old black and white, sepia toned. In it, she is in profile, her bobbed hair falling forward. She smiles a subtle, whimsical smile. She has a kind face. And her profile looks very familiar. I had painted her from memory and photos my mother had shown me years ago, but I had come close. I turn to leave the room and then hesitate. Yesterday’s events have made me bold.
“Did you love her?” I ask.
“What?” He looks up at me blankly.
“It’s a simple question. Did you love her?” I needed to know. To continue on with him, I need at least this one fact.
He exhales long and hard. “It is anything but a simple question. Not nearly well enough, but, yes, I did.” For the time being, it’s enough.